She glanced around the room to find an optimal place for the collection but Mother had designed a space with a perfect “home” for every item in the room. The living room, however, had a shelf of commentaries that she’d always despised. Mother loved to read them in the evenings sometimes and had a habit of reading aloud a tidbit that interested her. Too often, that tidbit continued for several pages before she realized she was still reading aloud. Meanwhile Willow, grinding her teeth in frustration, had sat waiting for her mother to return to her silent reading so she could return to her own book—usually much more exciting reading.
Those commentaries soon sat on her mother’s bookshelf in her bedroom and several of her mother’s journals took their place. As much as it made sense, she felt a momentary twinge of remorse as she saw yet another change she’d made in such a short time. It seemed as though she was an invader rearranging her own home.
Thursday morning, she strolled along the highway again. The heat wouldn’t have bothered her had the humidity, combined with exertion, not been a factor. She dabbed at her forehead, neck, and underarms with a hand towel, and occasionally fanned herself with it.
This time, she tucked her hair neatly under a scarf and again, she carried a tote bag. Inside the bag were her nicest sandals, but she wore her athletic work shoes—“tennis shoes” her mother called them—but the boxes always said “athletic shoes” when they arrived.
She stopped at the familiar convenience store and entered the bathroom, feeling a little strange. This time she was the woman conducting business in town. Today, she changed her shoes, removed her scarf, and brushed out her long hair, frowning at stray curls that refused to remain tame. With a quick rinse to her face, arms, and hands, she left the restroom feeling less disheveled than she had on her previous visit.
Inside the convenience store, she purchased a bottle of water, a courtesy Mother had always paid for using the store’s restroom. As she left, the cashier smiled at her and wished her a nice day. “Thank you. I don’t think it will be though. Can you tell me where to find the mortuary? I need to speak to James Jorgensen at the Fairbury Mortuary, but I don’t know how to find it.”
Stumbling over herself in apology, the clerk directed her to Main Street and then to East Elm. “It’s at the end of the block on the right. Right in front of the cemetery. I’m—I’m sorry for your loss.”
Willow thanked her and walked the eight blocks to the mortuary, taking notice of the town as though it was the first time she’d ever seen it. She’d been to the dentist twice. His office was directly behind “the Fox,” as Mother called it. The Clinic wasn’t far from there. She’d had a tetanus booster there two years ago when she’d stepped on a nail in the barnyard. It hadn’t been rusty, but with a puncture wound, they had decided to walk to town and get the shot anyway.
She’d never visited the market or stores. Her mother liked to purchase fruit any time she was in town, but Willow had always been content to stay outside and watch the people coming and going. Other than a glance in the windows, she’d never shopped in her life, and for the first time, the idea appealed to her.
A glance at her watch was enough to hurry her along to the funeral home. Just outside the gates of the mortuary, the phone in her tote bag rang. She dug for it, eventually finding it in one of her shoes. “Yes? This is Willow Finley. Who is it?”
William Franklin’s voice sent her into an apologetic tizzy. “Oh, Mr. Franklin, I am so sorry! The mortuary called yesterday and wanted me to come right away, and I couldn’t, so I said I’d come this morning at ten o’clock. I forgot you were coming too.”
“No worries,” his soothing voice reassuring her. “I’m turning into Fairbury right now. Since you’re already in town, I’ll meet you outside in just a minute.”
She protested and suggested that she go inside so she wouldn’t be late for her appointment, but William Franklin insisted that she wait for him. “I’ve not dealt with Fairbury Mortuary, but even the most reputable companies are there to sell you as much as they can convince you that you need. Ok, I’ll talk to you in a minute. I’m turning onto Elm.”
When he arrived, William Franklin wrapped his arms around Willow and hugged her briefly. “I’m very sorry. I had a high respect for your mother. Kari was a good woman.”
Willow gave him a watery smile and nodded. “Mother always said you reminded her of her little brother. I think she thought of you as a replacement for Uncle Kyle.”
Inside, the sounds of bubbling brooks and twittering birds surrounded them. Willow glanced around the room confused until William whispered, “It’s a recording. They do it to soothe people.”
Before she could respond, James Jorgensen, built like a linebacker and with a grin too broad and happy to fit a stereotypical mortician, hurried to greet them. “Welcome. I am so sorry for your loss! Please come right in and we’ll get everything settled for you.”
William waited until Willow took her seat and then turned to James. “Can you give us a moment please? I’m here to help Miss Finley with the arrangements, and I truly don’t know what she has in mind.”
“Well I’ll be happy to show you some options—”
“Shall we step outside instead?”
James waved him back into his seat and hurried out the door, closing it behind him. William sat next to Willow and spoke candidly. “Have you ever been to a funeral, Willow?”
“No.”
Since she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, William tried again. “Did your mother ever discuss them? Did she ever state a preference or an opinion on them?”
Willow shook her head, stopped, and then nodded. “I do remember her talking about her grandmother’s funeral when she was a little girl and how her parents hadn’t been able to stop a huge expensive affair that Great Grandmother Finley would have hated. I think—I got the impression that Mother agreed that a lavish funeral was distasteful.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Do you have an opinion on cremation vs. burial?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m more familiar with burial.” She pulled another of the decorated manila envelopes from her tote bag. “I think I’d rather you look this over instead of Mr. Jorgensen. He seems nice, but you’re a friend—” Willow stumbled over her words. “—or as near to one as I have.”
William Franklin took the packet and squeezed her hand as he did. “I’m a friend, Willow. I’m honored that you would trust me with this.” He paused and added, “Since I’m a friend, and we’re both adults, you should call me Bill. Everyone else does.”
“Bill. Mother called you William.”
“She was always a little formal that way,” he agreed.
He pulled a few handwritten letters from the packet. There were addressed envelopes in it and letters for each. They all said very similar things. Kari had died, the funeral wasn’t decided as of yet, but if they wanted to come they could call the funeral home for information etc. However, the letter to Kari’s parents was different. He read it interestedly.
“Dear Grandmother and Grandfather Finley,
I write today to tell you that Mother has died. I know that she would want me to tell you as soon as possible in case you wished to say goodbye in person. There will be a funeral, but I do not know yet when or where. Please contact the Fairbury Mortuary for further information. I believe James Jorgensen is the man in charge.
I know that Mother’s disappearance and continued absence from your life must have hurt you a great deal. I am sorry for that, and I know it hurt Mother as well. However, I do hope that we can begin a regular correspondence. I would like to know that I do have some family—that I am not completely alone in the world. That must sound incredibly selfish, but it is true. I feel rather small and lost right now. Sometimes I think I’ll wake up and realize that this isn’t a terrible dream—that this is reality. Then I am afraid.
Most sincerely,
Your granddaughter,
Willow Anne Finley
Bill had never
read anything so heart wrenching. “Oh Willow—” His words were cut short when he saw the address on the envelope. “Rockland? Your grandparents live in Rockland?”
“I believe that most of my family does. There is an address for Chicago, but the rest are in Rockland or one of the other towns around the loop.”
Unable to fathom Kari’s reasoning, Bill couldn’t help but ask, “Why? Why did she keep herself shut away?”
“Do you know the circumstances of my birth?” When he shook his head, she continued. “She was raped and the father of the man who attacked her paid her to stay out of their lives and not to go to the police. Mother accepted those terms by her definition, and knowing the pressure she’d be under by family and friends, she just disappeared.”
Bill couldn’t answer. Before he found any words with which to reply, a gentle knock sounded on the door and James opened it cautiously. “Are we ready? I have another family coming in at eleven-thirty and—”
“We’re ready. We need to plan for a burial preferably on Saturday or Monday. Whichever the local minister can accommodate will do.”
James stood again. “Let’s go take a look at your coffin options then.”
Bill placed his hand gently but firmly on Willow’s arm keeping her in her seat. “That won’t be necessary. She has decided on the most basic coffin you carry.”
James pulled a brochure out of his desk drawer, pushed it across the table, and began explaining the options as well as the advantages and disadvantages to each, but Bill stopped him. “I see. We’ll have to go to Rockland then. I know that much less elaborate coffins are available there, and Miss Finley does not want an extravagant set up.”
Blustering a bit, James pulled out another brochure. “I don’t like to show this to people. We only keep one of each in stock in the back for charity cases and such. Most people are insulted if I offer them something so shabby…”
Very decisively, Willow pointed to the third coffin shown in the brochure. “Mother would have approved of that one. I’d like that.”
A million details followed, each more exasperating than the last until finally Willow stood. “I am done. I want that casket, a plot in the cemetery if we cannot get a permit to bury her on our property, and a nice minister to perform the—the whatever it’s called.” After a moment, she regained enough control to remember the word. “—funeral.” She took a deep breath and continued. “I want a prayer, Mother’s favorite scripture read, and we’ll sing ‘Our God is Alive.’”
Smiling through unshed tears, Willow nodded at Bill. “I’ll see you back at my house. I trust you for the rest of the decisions, but as far as a ceremony or whatever, that’s all I want. It’s all Mother would have wanted. I’ll pick her some of our flowers and cover the coffin with them or maybe she can hold them. Whichever. Please try to get a permit for burial at the farm.”
With that, she rushed from the building but neither man followed. They stared at one another for a moment before James Jorgensen said, “Wow. She’s going to crash hard when it hits her, but right now, wow.”
Bill glanced at the closed door and nodded. “Wow.”
Willow passed a small deli just around the corner from the mortuary. She’d never eaten in a restaurant—for that matter, she’d never eaten away from home except for their occasional picnics at the creek. Suddenly, she felt a keen desire to try restaurant food.
A line to the door of the deli dissuaded her from entering. She asked a woman going into the deli if there was a good restaurant in town and was directed to Marcello’s. Once inside, she knew she’d been sent to exactly the kind of restaurant mentioned in her favorite novels.
Stunned at the prices of the food, she quickly opened her tote and retrieved her mother’s wallet. She hadn’t counted the money from the teapot; she’d just taken a handful and left another handful for another time. Seeing a hundred dollar bill, she breathed a sigh of relief and slipped the wallet back into her purse. As she did, her phone rang sending shrill sounds reverberating around the quiet room.
“Oh, I am sorry!” she exclaimed as she struggled to find a way to turn it off. In exasperation, she slid the phone open and then shut it again disconnecting the call.
A waiter hurried to her table and asked if she’d mind setting the phone to vibrate but she pleaded for help to silence it. He showed her how to turn the phone completely off and then turn it back on again when she was out of the building. “But it’s not necessary, miss, we just ask that people put it on vibrate so as not to disturb our other diners.”
“Well, it would be rude for me to talk while eating anyway so off is better anyway.” As she spoke, she noticed several people mumbling into their phones, many with a lunch partner waiting for them to complete their call. “What is so important to discuss that you can’t wait until after you eat?” she mused aloud.
“That’s the question of the times, isn’t it? Can I get you something to drink?”
And so began her first experience in a restaurant. She asked about everything and finally settled on lemonade. At first, she chose hard lemonade, thinking it was extra sour. When she couldn’t produce identification to prove her age, a question she’d found incredibly amusing, the waiter, Brendan, said, “Sorry, we can’t serve alcoholic drinks to anyone who looks under thirty-five without identification.”
“Alcoholic! I just want nice sour lemonade! I don’t drink alcohol.”
Every lunch special sounded better than the last, until she finally said, “Choose something for me. Anything. I just don’t want anything with tuna. Tuna is for winter.”
Unable to find a suitable response for such a strange statement, Brendan suggested the chicken parmesan and scribbled on his pad when she agreed. As she waited for her meal, she picked at her salad and watched the activity at the restaurant with great interest. Business people discussed things in hushed, serious tones, often glancing at paperwork with concentrated expressions on their faces. Couples ate slowly, occasionally touching hands or even a face. Inside jokes made ordinary things seem delightful, and the scenes were very interesting to Willow.
One couple, obviously married for many years, ate in a rhythm almost synchronized. Each anticipated the other’s movement and countered it with their own. They filled unspoken requests and all without looking at one another. At one point, the couple glanced up at each other at exactly the same time and their faces lit up with a special understanding that seemed particularly precious to her. She’d never seen that kind of relationship in action. It was all so interesting and exciting.
Once Willow finished her meal, she walked up Main Street to the convenience store and entered the restroom. As she changed her shoes, she mused over the lunch, the menu, the ridiculous amount of money she’d spent for a single meal and then her heart sank.
“I forgot a tip! I knew there was something else. In books—and Mother mentioned it too I know—they always leave a tip for the waiter!”
She jerked off her tennis shoes, pulled sandals back on her feet, and hurried back to the restaurant. Outside, on the side of the building with another waiter, Brendan sipped at a bottle of soda and puffed on a cigarette. The other waiter nudged Brendan as she hurried toward them.
“Oh, I’m so glad I found you. I forgot to leave a tip. You were such a good waiter too. I’m very sorry.” She blushed, mortified at both her inexperience and her forgetfulness. “I can’t remember what is expected—I’ve never left a tip before…”
The other waiter grinned and quipped, “Well for great service, you usually leave the equivalent to half of the bill; otherwise twenty-five percent is all it’s worth.”
Brendan shoved his friend and shook his head. “Don’t listen to him. Fifteen percent is customary. Twenty at night with good service. But honestly—”
She thrust a few bills at him and smiled. “Thank you. You made my first meal at a restaurant a wonderful experience. Other waiters might not have been so kind.” She gave the man next to Brendan a knowing look and walked away.
“Thanks!” Brendan called after her, but Willow didn’t turn around. He counted a twenty-five percent tip and realized as he did that she knew exactly how much she gave him. “Wow.”
Chapter Three
Bill Franklin caught up to Willow just as she strolled up her driveway. He leaned over the passenger’s seat and opened the door for her. “Hop in.” As they drove up the long road, Bill told of the arrangements, his visit with her mother’s lawyer, and the best pastrami on rye he’d ever had.
“Maybe I should have gone to the deli. The line was almost out the door, so I went to a restaurant. Marcello’s. It was very good, and I had a very nice waiter.”
“Did you and your mother eat there often?”
“No… I’ve never been to a restaurant before—well, not that I can remember anyway.”
At her living room table, Bill showed Willow the cost of the funeral, the mortuary expenses, and made suggestions for contributions to the minister for his time. He showed her the addition he’d made to her letters with the time and date of the funeral added—Monday at one-thirty in the afternoon—and asked if he’d done what she wanted.
“Of course! It’s perfect. And the courthouse approved the permit?”
“Well, not yet, but they said that since you’re out of city limits, they can approve it as long as you own more than ten acres and bury her at least three hundred yards from your creek.”
“Oh, good. That is such a relief!”
Financial papers spread across the table in rapid succession. He showed her the balance of her investments, her bank balance, and her upcoming bills. Willow took careful notes on everything as Bill explained the source of her income and the projected outgo. “As you can see, your mother spent little of the annuity she set up to live on. Living here—growing your own food and everything—that kept costs low.”
Next, he pulled out the family records and pointed to the notarized affidavit of birth. “This, however, is going to be a problem. Your name is on these accounts, but only because they’re so old. For you to access them, you’ll need either a social security number or identification. You don’t have either, and you can’t get either one without a state certified birth certificate. I called your mother’s attorney, and she said she’d file immediately for a family court hearing to establish the fact of your birth.”
Past Forward Volume 1 Page 3
