Who Invited the Dead Man?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Who was that feller back there?” he asked as I hefted in paper plates and plastic cups.

  “Hiram Blaine. He’s been gone four years. Just got back this week.” I put my last bag in the trunk and slammed it shut. “I wish he’d given up that alien nonsense while he was gone.”

  Charlie turned, ready to go. “If you all stop paying attention, he’ll soon give it up.”

  Maybe Charlie was right, for once. I vowed I’d start ignoring Hiram when he talked about aliens.

  Thursday, I missed seeing Gusta and Meriwether cruise into town. Joe Riddley and I were at occupational therapy, where they were trying to get him to scramble an egg. “I’ve been trying the very same thing without success for forty years,” I told the therapist after their third failure.

  Joe Riddley wasn’t cooperating one bit. “Little Bit and Clarinda do our cooking,” he raged. “I wash the dishes.”

  “Scrambling eggs teaches the brain how to sequence again,” she explained. “Each step has to be done in order.”

  “Wouldn’t washing dishes teach him the same thing?” I suggested.

  She gave me the look medical people always give dumb family members who come up with alternatives to their professional methods. “We learn to scramble eggs.”

  “Good luck.” I left them to fight it out and wandered over to physical therapy to watch Darren. He was trying to persuade a woman who’d fallen and broken her hip that she wouldn’t fall again if she walked on the parallel bars. I sat in a chair at one side admiring the way he could cajole or tease people into doing what they should. Darren handled Joe Riddley far better than I, and I’d been honing my skills nearly sixty years.

  About the time the woman took her first hesitant solo steps and Darren and I erupted into spontaneous applause, Gusta’s old black Cadillac rolled into town with Alice at the wheel and the other two in the backseat. A stack of boxes sat between them while a mountain of boxes filled the passenger seat beside Alice.

  Joe Riddley decided after therapy he wanted to go by the store for a while. “Write it in my log,” he said, handing me the book.

  “You write it,” I told him. He had so much trouble writing in those days, just writing “go to store” kept him occupied the whole trip.

  When we got there, everybody was talking about the boxes Gusta and Meriwether had brought back with them. Gusta was too stingy to buy souvenirs, and Meriwether had always been on an allowance on previous trips, so they normally returned with little more than they had taken. “It took nearly half an hour to carry everything in when they stopped by Meriwether’s house,” one of my clerks reported. “What you reckon she’s bought?”

  “I guess we’ll know soon enough,” I told her.

  Only Joe Riddley had a sensible suggestion when I mentioned it to him. “Finally found her wings,” he said in his deliberate way, settling himself more comfortably in his chair and hanging his red hat on its hook by the desk. “Feathering her nest the way she wants it.”

  Speaking of feathers, later that afternoon I ran into Hiram and Joe again—and got my first and only chance to live up to my resolution to ignore Hiram when he got hipped up about aliens.

  I needed to make a bank deposit, and Joe Riddley insisted that a clerk wheel him over and let him do it himself. I was trying to let him do anything he thought he could, and since he didn’t have to do anything more complicated than hand a locked fabric bag across the counter and wait for a receipt, I decided to let them go without me. Seemed like more practical occupational therapy for him personally than scrambling eggs. But like a mother whose child is playing in the yard alone for the first time, I stood on our sidewalk, watching until they got inside. As I was finally turning to go, Hiram came sauntering down the sidewalk. Joe rode the Yarbrough’s cap like a figure-head.

  “Not to worry,” the parrot greeted me with what looked like a shrug of his wings. “Where’s Joe?”

  I was startled, wondering if he remembered Joe Riddley. My husband always liked that parrot. They’d talk back and forth whenever Hiram came by the office, and Joe would hop off Hiram’s arm and onto Joe Riddley’s shoulder. “My namesake,” Joe Riddley called him, after Hiram allowed as how he’d actually named the parrot Joe Riddley before Helena made him shorten it to Joe. We all knew darned well the name was to spite Joe Riddley; he’d just fined Hiram for painting a purple stripe down Oglethorpe Street one night. Hiram got the parrot the very next week. Joe Riddley always acted like it was an honor to have a parrot named for him, which took the air out of Hiram’s tires.

  That afternoon, I ignored the parrot and greeted the man. “Hey, Hiram. You doin’ all right?”

  Hiram’s grin was full of crooked yellow teeth except for that one unexpected hole. He stuck out his hand, but before I could take it, he jerked it back and stuck it in his jeans pocket with a very red face. “Hey, Mizzoner. How’s the judge?”

  “If you mean Joe Riddley, he’s over at the bank. He’ll be back in a minute.”

  He shuffled his feet. “Think I could speak to him? I really hated to hear ’bout his accident. Feller who did that ought to be—”

  “If you’re about to use foul language, I don’t want to hear it,” I warned him.

  He shrugged. “Well, it oughta happen, anyway. I want to tell the judge personal-like that they’s no hard feelin’s ’bout him signin’ that warrant. He was doin’ what he had to, and I know that.” His daddy raised shiftless kids, but his mama raised polite ones.

  “You can speak to Joe Riddley in a minute. He’s just gone over to the bank.”

  “I’ll do that. I surely will.” He peered toward the bank, then gave me an anxious look from beneath the brim of his unspeakable cap. “You think you all might have some work I could do? I been workin’ steady up in Atlanta, but I ain’t found nothin’ ’round here yet.” He jerked his head back toward the corner. “Went down to the paper t’other day to see if they might need a story or two ’bout how to prepare in case of alien invasion, but that new feller—” He stopped and spat angrily into a clump of grass.

  “Not to worry. Not to worry,” Joe reminded him.

  I felt a stab of pity. It’s not always easy to come home. “You know how to use a riding mower, don’t you?”

  He nodded eagerly. “Yes, ma’am, Mizzoner!”

  “I could use somebody to mow our yard tomorrow morning. We’re having a birthday party for Joe Riddley Saturday, and I’d like everything looking nice. Could you come by early tomorrow?”

  “I sure could. Sure could.” He bobbed his head like it was going to fall off. “I’d like to do something for Hizzoner to show I bear him no malice—”

  “I leave by eight-thirty, so you’ll need to be there before then,” I warned.

  “I’ll be there before eight. I surely will. Thankee, Mizzoner. Thankee.” He stuck out his hand again, then jerked it back to his pocket before I could be so foolish as to shake it.

  “Not to worry. Not to worry,” Joe assured me.

  “You know,” Hiram continued, “that newspaper fellow, now, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s not an alien. He’s got that look in his eye.” He stopped and froze, staring across the street with his mouth wide open. “My syphilis!” Hiram clapped his hand to his mouth.

  “Don’t talk like that,” I said crossly.

  “But omigosh, Mizzoner! Look at that! An alien, sure as shootin’, and I can prove it!”

  I turned to see what he was looking at. All I saw was Oglethorpe Street busier than usual, but not because of an alien invasion. Maynard Spence was hurrying out of the bank with a bag of change, probably for his daddy’s appliance store down the block. He nearly careened into Gusta as she stumped across the sidewalk with her silver-headed cane. Gusta wasn’t looking where she was going because she was looking back at Meriwether, who was maneuvering her silver Mercedes into a legal parking space behind Gusta’s Cadillac—which was parked, as always, in the handicapped zone. Poor Alice was sitting at the wheel looking straight ahead, probably tryin
g to pretend she wasn’t there. Vern, the bank guard, jumped up and down, yelling. Our clerk was wheeling Joe Riddley out just behind Maynard, and Joe Riddley was riled up about something. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could hear the decibels.

  Slade Rutherford had parked on our side of Oglethorpe and was crossing the street, headed for the bank. He had given me a quick wave with his left hand, but his eyes were clearly on Meriwether as he hurried her way. Otis Raeburn and Pooh had come to a dead stop beside Meriwether’s car, holding up three cars behind them, because Gusta was parked in Pooh’s handicapped spot. Darren’s sunny Volkswagen sailed past in the other direction.

  A lot of people, but not one single alien. I took Charlie’s advice and ignored Hiram. “There’s Joe Riddley. You can talk to him when he gets over here. Bright and early tomorrow, now, Hiram. You won’t forget, now?”

  He shook his head. “I won’t forget. But listen—”

  I had no intention of listening to him rave about aliens. I left him standing on the sidewalk like he’d taken root.

  Would he be alive today if I’d taken the trouble to listen?

  8

  Two hundred people showed up to celebrate Joe Riddley’s birthday. I’d dubbed the event “Joe Riddley’s Coming Out Party” because my ornery husband had finally believed Darren that he could stand on his own two legs with the help of a walker. He was actually walking a few steps at a time now, gingerly as a heifer on ice.

  We were blessed with one of those glorious October Saturdays that always makes me glad to live in Middle Georgia. Poplars and dogwoods made yellow and red splashes against fuzzy dark pines. Warm, honey-thick sunlight smelled of ripe hay and musty leaves. Most folks preferred to stay outdoors, either at tables scattered under the oaks or up on the porch. Once they’d greeted Joe Riddley, some filled plates and carried them toward the band. Others took plates out under a pecan tree to watch Georgia play LSU on the television we’d set up there, or up on the front porch to cheer for Tech against Maryland.

  Renting those two televisions from Spence’s Appliance Store had been Walker’s brilliant idea, so nobody would have to miss their game. Folks take football seriously around here. I considered it a personal favor from heaven when I heard both Georgia and Tech would play out of state that weekend, so folks would be in town.

  Of course Hubert Spence, who’d lived next door to Joe Riddley all their lives, wouldn’t take a penny for the sets. “It’s good advertising,” he insisted, “but my sets have trouble picking up the University of Georgia.” Hubert and Joe Riddley would either one do anything for the other—except vote the same way or root for the same football team.

  A lot of people pitched in to make the party fun. Walker and his wife, Cindy, who grew up in a wealthy family up in Thom son and loves parties, circulated to make sure everybody was having a good time. Ridd made sure folks found the food and drink. His daughter, Bethany, drafted her cheerleading team and their boyfriends to oversee children’s games in the side yard. Walker’s Tad, nine, and Jessica, eleven, volunteered to keep the drink tubs full of cans and ice. Every time I looked up, I saw a towhead carrying drinks to the tubs. Martha, Ridd’s wife and a registered nurse, offered to stay beside Joe Riddley in case he got tired or agitated. A swarm of kitchen help, overseen by Clarinda, made sure tables in the dining room and out on the side porch stayed piled high with barbeque and buns, cole slaw, corn on the cob, potato salad, baked beans, Brunswick stew, and even platters of raw vegetables for people related to rabbits.

  I trotted between the house and yard having a good time. Once in a while, when I stopped by the kitchen to see how things were going, Clarinda handed me a bowl or platter with the order “Carry that out and fill a gap.” I have, without a doubt, the bossiest cook in Georgia.

  It was her fault I had the misfortune, around three-thirty, to carry a big platter of fresh-boiled, well-buttered corn into my dining room and catch Police Chief Muggins peering behind my Oriental screen.

  “Don’t look behind that screen,” I said crossly. “You know good and well I put it there to hide things I don’t want seen.” I had enough to do without worrying about Charlie poking his polecat nose in corners where it didn’t belong. I had set that particular screen, the biggest I had, between the oak sideboard and a corner to hide a mountain of magazines, catalogues, and junk mail I hadn’t had time to sort through in the past two months.

  Chief Muggins flung out one hand and grabbed my wrist in a way that suggested handcuffs would follow. “I can see why you wouldn’t want this seen, Judge Yarbrough, but it’s hard to keep it from being smelled.”

  I wasn’t bothered that he sounded like he’d finally caught me committing a crime. Charlie had suspected me of one thing or another since he came to town three years earlier. What annoyed me was his prying around my house when he was a guest. Mama always said you can take a boy out of the trash, but it’s a whole lot harder to take the trash out of the boy.

  And what did he mean “smelled”? Had Lulu taken advantage of an unsupervised moment that morning to drag in a dead squirrel? Worse, had she mistaken the magazines for newspaper and made an in-house deposit?

  “What are you talking about?” I snapped with little grace.

  With his free hand, Charlie moved the screen a little. “Your silent guest.”

  That’s when I saw Hiram Blaine, sprawled across my unread mail with a small black hole in his head.

  Have you ever noticed how the death of somebody you know stops your own breath for an instant? When I could finally breathe, I filled my lungs with air so ripe it made me cough. If Hiram hadn’t been in the far corner of a huge room with a tableful of pungent food, all the windows wide open, and a ceiling fan on high, people would have smelled him long before. To his usual aroma was added the smell of bodily functions that give way after death.

  Poor Hiram. He was never a lovely sight or a pleasant person, but he should have lived longer. He sprawled like a child who’s found a quiet corner after a day of hard, dirty play, and spread out for a desperately needed nap. The red Yarbrough’s cap was the cleanest thing on him.

  As my eyes wandered back to the hole in his head, a crazy thing happened. My eyes blurred and I saw Joe Riddley’s face right after he got shot. My dining room floor tilted, the walls whirled, my arms went limp. Clarinda’s corn slid off its platter and bounced around my feet. Only Charlie’s grip on my arm kept me from sliding to the floor after it.

  “MacLaren, are you ill?” Gusta’s sharp gray eyes saw me drop that corn, all the way from the throne she’d had somebody install in our big front hall so she could hold court without standing. Trust Gusta not only to see me drop that corn, but also to call public attention to the fact. I was the flower girl in her wedding and tripped, sprawling down the aisle in a fine display of ruffled drawers. She’d never forgotten, and always called attention when I was clumsy. Joe Riddley says Gusta has the memory of an elephant and the compassion of a peanut.

  Next to Gusta, Pooh fluttered in her wheelchair. “Oh Mac, your lovely Persian rug! There’s butter all over it!”

  When Gusta and Pooh spoke, every blessed soul in my dining room and front hall hushed and looked at me. I flapped my arm—the one Charlie wasn’t gripping. “I’m fine—just stumbled.” Smiling was hard. Every muscle in my face voted against it.

  “Let me help you.” Meriwether started my way. Thank goodness Gusta grabbed her with one talon and pulled her back. Meriwether looked particularly long, lean, and lovely that afternoon in a silk pantsuit that exactly matched her eyes, and I didn’t want her to see Hiram. He used to do odd jobs for her daddy when she was little, and made up knock-knock jokes that doubled her over in giggles.

  Gusta peered around. “Alice? Where’s Alice? Go pick up that corn.” She gave an imperious wave. A ray of sun came in the open door, passed through Gusta’s diamonds, and turned into little splashes of light on the far hall wall. Isn’t it amazing the things you notice when you are trying not to notice a dead body behind your dinin
g room screen?

  Alice hurried our way. Even to the party she had worn a beige skirt and a baggy white top, but at least she’d put on a bright scarf that matched the green scrunchy holding back her hair. Maybe if she lived with Gusta long enough she’d develop a sense of style.

  As she got near, she glanced toward the crack Charlie had left between the screen and the wall. I thrust my empty platter at her. “Here, honey, take this back to Clarinda in the kitchen and ask her to fill it with more corn, then take it out to the table on the porch.” We didn’t need Alice screaming the place down.

  Worried about disobeying Gusta, she looked anxiously toward the corn on the rug. “What about—”

  “Don’t bother about that old corn.” I tried to sound like having buttery corn smeared on a Persian rug was normal around our house. “Just ask Clarinda to send somebody to clean it up.” She obeyed without another word, but her hands trembled and I saw her give her employer one more anxious look. Working for Gusta can do that to people.