by Sara Rosett
Aunt Gwen was the only one who didn’t notice how upset Aunt Christine was. “But he liked it. He wore it the very next Sunday and it goes really well with the suit.”
“He hated that tie.”
“Do you have it mixed up with—”
“No, he hated that tie,” Aunt Christine repeated. “But he wore it to be nice. Nice! He did not attend the University of Alabama and he had no interest in your slavish following of their athletic program.”
Aunt Gwen looked as if someone had slapped her. “Are you sure . . . ?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I knew him better than anyone else in this room. Don’t tell me I didn’t. I was the one who spent whole days with him.”
Aunt Gwen opened her mouth to interrupt, but there was an inflexibility in Aunt Christine’s voice that I’d never heard before. But she had been a teacher. I’m sure she had to be firm with her students. She stood, her gaze scanning the rest of the room as she continued. “Sure, the rest of you’d drop in for an hour or two. Or call to talk for a few minutes, but I was with him every day. I was the one who took him to the doctor and to the grocery store and the library. I knew what he liked and didn’t like. And he detested that tie, but he was too much of a gentleman to let you know how he felt. He’ll be buried in his favorite blue tie with the yellow stripes. I’ll take care of it now,” Aunt Christine said as she picked up her purse with trembling fingers and marched out of the room.
“Well,” Caroline said, a bit uncertainly. “I guess that’s settled.”
Aunt Gwen said, “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Uncle Kenny, usually so blustery, was uncharacteristically quiet as he said, “Let it go, honey. Christine deserves to have the last word. She’s right. She did know him best.”
Caroline looked at Bill. “Do you think someone should go with her . . . make sure she’s okay?”
After exchanging a quick glance with Mitch, I hopped up. “I’ll go,” I said, and dashed out of the room. I wanted to talk to her and this looked like the perfect opportunity to get her alone. It wasn’t always easy to have a private conversation with everyone around.
I jogged quickly down the driveway and caught up with her at her car. “Wait, Aunt Christine. Would you like some company?”
She shrugged and unlocked her small white car. I slid into the passenger seat. As she pulled out of the driveway, her hands fluttered over the steering wheel. “I really shouldn’t have said that to Gwen. I feel terrible. Oh, my.”
“I’m sure Gwen will get over it. Everyone is a little emotional right now,” I said. Aunt Gwen was the type of person who’d steamroll over people and didn’t even realize what she’d done. Creating that little scene was probably the only way to get through to her.
“Yes, but to say those things . . . I shouldn’t have.” She sighed. “They don’t understand what it’s been like taking care of him. It was so hard.” Her voice wavered and she swallowed hard. “They didn’t want to admit it, but I knew. I knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“It’s hard to put it into words,” she said slowly. “He’d changed. His mind . . . I could tell things weren’t right. And then when he started talking about Momma and his dead brother . . . well, I just knew. Here we are.” She stared at the house for a moment, then bit her lip. “I think it’s a good thing you came with me. I’m such a silly old lady. I’m nervous about going in there. Well, best to do what has to be done quickly,” she said as she shut off the car and stepped onto the gravel driveway.
She’d parked at the side of the house and we entered through the kitchen. The curtains were still drawn and in the light of day the rooms looked gloomy. She flipped on a light in the kitchen. “I suppose we’d better leave the curtains closed,” she said as she moved quickly through the living room and clicked on a table lamp for more light. “I’ll just be a moment,” she said, and disappeared down the hall to Grandpa Franklin’s room. I walked into the living room, studying Grandpa Franklin’s chair again. It still looked just the same.
Aunt Christine reappeared with a blue tie and came to stand beside me. “Makes me sad, just looking at it.” Something on the floor had caught her attention. “Now, that’s not right,” she murmured as she leaned down and straightened a stack of books on the lower shelf of the table. She picked up a magazine that had slipped between the table and chair. “And look at this. Who left this out?” She opened a small drawer in the table and froze in place.
I leaned around her shoulder and saw the drawer was a jumble of paper crammed inside. “Oh, this is all wrong,” Aunt Christine said as she pulled out several magazines and a newspaper insert with the television schedule. A remote control slipped out of the middle of the pile and thudded to the floor.
She dropped into the recliner and began to straighten the papers, her hands perfectly steady now. “This is just not right. Dad would never have a mess like this in his drawer. He was very tidy.”
I reached down and picked up the remote control. “Maybe the police messed it up during their investigation,” I said.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I was here, right at the table in the kitchen, and I watched them. I remember a nice young police lady looking around this room. She had on plastic gloves and she opened this drawer and glanced at the papers, but didn’t take anything out. They weren’t smashed into the drawer then. And he never kept the remote in there. He was very particular about where everything went.” She glanced up at me. “Of course, you know all about that.”
I put the remote control down on the tabletop and realized I’d missed something she’d said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“That you’d know something about keeping everything in its place.”
“Oh, yes. Right,” I said with a smile. Everything In Its Place was the name of my part-time organizing business. Sorting, organizing, and paying attention to detail were integral parts of my life. I looked at the remote control again. “You know, I don’t think the remote was in the drawer when Mitch and I came by here the other night.”
“No, Dad never put it in the drawer. It was always right there on the corner, so he could reach it easily.” She patted the edges of the magazines into line and replaced them. “I imagine someone could have stopped by yesterday and watched TV. Or, Kenny might have watched sports while Gwen was getting that awful tie . . . ,” she trailed off uncertainly as she looked around the room. “That’s odd,” she said. “Look at the couch cushions. They’re on backwards. They weren’t like that the other day. Would have driven Dad crazy.”
“Here, I’ll fix them,” I said, and went over to switch the cushions around so that the zippers weren’t facing out. “There. All done,” I said.
“What in the world?” Aunt Christine said. I turned and saw she was running her hands around the cushion of the recliner she’d been sitting in. “It’s been slit.”
Ellie Avery’s Tips for Preserving Family Treasures
Sort and Purge
This step may take some time, but you don’t want to think you’ve finished organizing your family photos and then find another box you’ve overlooked.
• Gather all the items you want to organize.
• Divide the items into groups such as photos, school papers, etc.
• Begin thinning at this stage, as well. Make separate piles for trash and donate.
Chapter Six
The recliner had been dissected. There was no other word for it. Someone had taken a sharp blade and very carefully slit the seams in the deep recesses of the chair—under the seat cushion and below the puffy layers that padded the back. All the cuts were small, only about the width of a hand.
I sat back on my heels and put my hands on my hips. “Why would someone slit the covers on the recliner, but be so discreet that you wouldn’t be able to tell unless you looked closely?”
“I don’t know,” Aunt Christine murmured. “It’s a good thing the couch cushions h
ad zippered covers or they’d be slit, too, I’m sure. That’s why they were turned the wrong way.” She was slowly pacing around the room, looking at bookcases. She went in the kitchen and opened cabinet doors. “Someone has been looking around. The coffee filters have been moved and some of the books aren’t in alphabetical order.”
“Grandpa Franklin always kept them in alphabetical order?”
“By author, yes.” Aunt Christine picked up the tie from the recliner and shook it at me. “I bet it was Felicity, looking for those letters. You and Mitch found her here already once. She knows where the key is. Why wouldn’t she come back? She wants those letters—thinks they’re valuable.”
Her words jogged my memory and I thought of the blond jogger who said she’d seen a red car here the night Grandpa Franklin died.
“Oh, I’m going to have to talk to her about this. We cannot have this. It’s just plain wrong.” Unlike the indignation that bordered on fury she’d shown when talking to Aunt Gwen earlier, now she seemed more annoyed than livid. “That is just like Felicity. So inconsiderate.”
“Where are the letters?” I asked as I smoothed the fabric of the seat cover back into place.
Aunt Christine ran one hand over her forehead. “I don’t know. No one knows. We tried to talk Dad into returning them to Addison McClure, but he wouldn’t. Said he’d do it later. Stubborn does not begin to describe him. It took all the persuasion I had to get him to give up his car, which seemed, at the time, to be the most important battle. Lord knows, we tried, but Dad got agitated every time the letters came up, and we decided to leave it alone. I think he liked having them—said they were a part of history and he liked that. He was a big history buff, you know. He was always telling me some odd fact. One time he told me that the White House had once been called the President’s Palace—can you imagine? Anyway, the letters didn’t seem important, but I can see that they’re going to be an issue, especially with Felicity. She’ll never let it rest.”
“Well, did he have a safety-deposit box?”
“We cleaned his deposit box out a few years ago. Transferred everything to my box. They weren’t there and I know they’re not in his desk because I do—did—his taxes. I cleaned out his desk a few weeks ago and didn’t see them.” She looked down at the tie and seemed to finally notice it. “Oh, we better get this to the funeral home,” Aunt Christine said as she moved to the door. “The locks will have to be changed. Ruining perfectly good furniture, I tell you . . .”
She continued in that vein during the drive to the funeral home and I wasn’t able to break into her monologue. She parked in front of Grisholm’s Funeral Home, which was located in a large red brick, plantation-style building with white trim and a two-story pillared portico that extended over a large circle drive. It was a modern building and it looked quite a bit like some of the houses in our neighborhood in Georgia, except for the size—it was much larger. The exterior had the same traditional architectural touches that dominated our neighborhood: dormer windows in the second story and black shutters bracketing the windows. I wasn’t sure if I found the similarity comforting or creepy.
A sign informed us that the entrance under the portico led to the chapel. We followed the arrow to the funeral home entrance at the opposite end of the building. A woman in her early twenties with heavy-framed rectangular glasses was sitting behind a desk in the black-and-white tiled entrance area. “May I help you?” she asked in tones so smooth that they were almost tranquilizing.
Aunt Christine was suddenly mute and looked a little pale.
“We need to drop this off for Franklin Avery,” I said, gesturing to the tie that Aunt Christine held.
“Of course.” The woman stood up. Two long gold necklaces swayed across her pale pink cardigan as she moved around the desk. Her face was as serene as her voice. “You must be part of the Avery family.”
Aunt Christine pressed her lips together and I could see it was an effort for her to even speak. “Yes,” she said in a barely audible voice. She swallowed and continued in a stronger voice. “I’m his daughter, Christine.”
“So nice to meet you. I’m Rosanna,” the woman said as she took the tie. “He was a lovely person. I remember him. I was in training when he came to do his prearrangement details and he was so nice. Now, let me just check . . .” She reached over the desk for her phone. After a short conversation, she turned back to us. “We’ll get this taken care of,” she said, raising the tie, “and then he’ll be in the Tranquility Room after ten o’clock.”
Aunt Christine nodded and I said, “Thank you so much. We’ll let the rest of the family know.” I guided Aunt Christine to the door. Once we were outside in the sparkling sunshine, I asked, “Would you like me to drive back?”
“No, I don’t want to go back to Bill and Caroline’s right now. I want to see him,” she said, straightening her shoulders and raising her chin.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I think I need to see him—it’s what I’m dreading, seeing him in the . . . casket. I need to see him and I’d rather do that now, alone.”
“Okay,” I said, checking my watch. “It’s nine-thirty now. Why don’t we get a cup of coffee or something and then come back.”
“Fine. Except no coffee for me—my high blood pressure, you know.”
“All right, juice then?”
I took the keys and drove until I found a Krispy Kreme and pulled into the parking lot. I ordered us two fruit smoothies. Normally, I’d jump at the chance to have one of the warm glazed donuts, but I figured the smoothies probably had enough calories and sugar in them to last us all day. At least there was no caffeine. I sat down opposite her at the table and said, “I’ve got orange or berry. Which would you like?”
“Thank you, Ellie. Orange would be wonderful.” She took a few sips, then said, “It really is an odd feeling. We’re going to bury my dad tomorrow, but when I look around, it’s a gorgeous day and people are out smiling, eating donuts, laughing, like nothing has happened. It feels unreal.”
“Yes, it is an odd contrast.” I swirled my straw around my drink and said, “Aunt Christine, can I ask you something?” I wasn’t sure if this was the best time to bring up the subject, but I didn’t think I’d have another opportunity.
She set her drink down and folded her hands on the table. Her eyes were the exact same color as her faded baby blue sweatshirt and I realized that I’d never really looked at them. They were beautiful. “Of course, dear. What is it?”
“When Mitch and I took you home after you talked to the detective, you were saying some rather strange things.”
Her gaze dropped to the table. “Yes, well, I don’t quite know what I was saying then,” she said with a feeble laugh. She glanced up at me quickly and I knew that she did remember and was hoping that I wouldn’t press her on it. She pushed a few flakes of donut glaze on the table into a pile with her fingertip. “Ellie . . . it’s hard to explain and I’d rather not go into it. It’s too difficult to talk about.”
“The only reason I’m asking is because I saw the detective who investigated the break-in and she seemed to think that someone is holding back information. She asked if my aunt had anything more to share. She must have heard you.”
Aunt Christine gave a small shrug as she concentrated on sweeping the crumbs into a napkin. “It doesn’t matter now. Best not to go into it.”
“She said the investigation could be reopened.”
“Reopened? Why?” Her gaze jerked up to meet mine and she looked scared.
“I don’t know, but she seemed to think she hadn’t gotten all the information.” I leaned forward and touched her hand. “Was there something else you didn’t tell her?”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly.
She already seemed fragile and I didn’t want to upset her any more. I paused, thinking how much more traumatic it would be for Detective Kalra to return and ask more questions. “You kept saying you were sorry and that it was your fault,” I said
gently.
She sagged back against the booth. “Oh, Ellie. I was doing fine, holding myself together, but then I looked over at his chair. It was so empty. He would never sit there again, and then I saw his glasses. It was like grief washed over me, like . . . a wave. I couldn’t stop it. I was flooded with it. I should have been there that night. It was stormy and I shouldn’t have left him alone. If I’d been there . . .”
Her distress was so genuine, so raw. I squeezed her hand and said, “Aunt Christine, you can’t know that. You could have been there and the same thing could have happened.”
Her face crumpled. “But it might have made a difference. It might have.” Tears welled in her eyes and overflowed past the crinkles at their corners.
Oh, Lord. What had I done? I’d reduced her to tears. I pulled some napkins out of the holder and realized people were staring at us. “Aunt Christine—”
“And do you know what makes it worse? I wanted the family to hire a home-care nurse so I could have more time with Roy. If I’d known Dad was only going to live a few more months, I would have spent every day with him. Every day.” She took the napkin and patted her eyes as she spoke. “I’ve been so selfish—that was why I was sorry.”
I believed she was being completely honest with me. She looked so miserable. “Aunt Christine, you did so much for him.”
“Yes,” she said, and took a ragged breath. “Yes, I did, but I was beginning to resent it and that’s wrong. It’s just plain wrong to resent your own parent.”
“You were there for him and there’s nothing wrong with wanting your own life, too.”
“I suppose,” she said, doubtfully. Her tears had stopped flowing and she wiped her eyes with the scratchy paper napkin. The aroma of warm yeast and sugar rolled out of the kitchen and engulfed us. You could probably gain weight just by breathing the air in here. Aunt Christine took another small sip from her half-full drink, then set it firmly on the table. She seemed somewhat restored to normal, except for her red eyes. She looked at her watch. “Let’s go back to Grisholm’s. It’s after ten. It’s time.”
