When Will the Dead Lady Sing?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Time to walk again,” Martha ordered. “We’re almost halfway around again.”

  “Can’t we cut across the middle and go home now?”

  “Walk. You can’t stop in the middle of your story.”

  I huffed and puffed. “I should have talked faster. I’m not cut out to be a power walker.”

  Martha wasn’t the least bit compassionate. “We aren’t even power strolling. Pick up the pace and talk faster. You were saying you were beginning to fall in love.”

  “I said I was beginning to think I was in love. That’s not the same thing at all. I was walking around in a happy glow, feeling cherished.” As we rounded the end of the track and started down the other side, I was remembering how rosy life had seemed back then.

  “You’re dragging your feet again,” Martha finally said. “So what happened then?”

  I didn’t tell her about Burlin pressuring me to go to bed with him. I have limits to what I discuss with my daughters-in-law. Besides, I didn’t want to confess that the only thing that saved me was not my love for Joe Riddley but some shred of self-preservation that whispered in my ear that Burlin only wanted what he couldn’t get. I didn’t tell her about little things that had begun to annoy me, either. The way he always wanted to guess what I was thinking and know if he was right. Frequent references to his family’s importance, and a sort of expectation that Georgia owed them something because of all they’d done for the state. We were both young. Since then, he’d established himself as a politician of some integrity. I didn’t need to tarnish his reputation. Only one thing would I admit. “When I went to meet his family—”

  “He took you to meet his family? It was that serious?”

  I had managed to shock Martha, Queen of Unflappable. Another time, I might have preened. Now I was sorry I’d said a word. Who knew what she might let slip to Ridd? I backpedaled like a circus clown. “They were getting together up at their lake house to celebrate his sister’s birthday, so he invited me along.” I couldn’t resist bragging a little, though. “My sorority sisters were real impressed. One told me, ‘That house was featured in Southern Living a couple of years ago.’ I went to the public library and looked up the article, so I could say a few intelligent things to his parents about it.”

  “His daddy was a state senator, right? And his mother was an heiress, or something?”

  “They were important people,” I agreed, “but that weekend they acted like anybody else—well, like millionaires with a huge house on a lake. We all went around in casual clothes and made sandwiches together for lunch. However, they did keep looking at me funny.”

  “Like they wanted to inspect your back teeth and test your wind, to see if you were good breeding stock?” Martha grew up on a farm, too.

  “Sort of. To make things worse, Burlin’s sister Georgia, who was a year younger than me, looked like a model. She was real friendly, but so gorgeous and glamorous, I kept wanting to go back to my room to put on lipstick and check my hair. And her roommate from Agnes Scott kept asking questions like ‘Do you all ever go to class up at Georgia, or just party all the time?’ The only person I felt comfortable with besides Burlin was his little sister, Binky. She was eight, intense, and plain as mud. We went for a walk through the leaves, and she told me she hated politics and was going to become a rancher out West, where she wouldn’t have any people around for miles and miles—and she would never, ever vote. But she said I could come see her if I wanted to.”

  We laughed, then both grew solemn, because it hadn’t really been funny. Martha voiced my thoughts when she said, “Poor little thing. It’s hard to be a plain child in a beautiful family.”

  “Especially a family that talks nothing but politics morning, noon, and night. It began to really annoy me that they all presumed they had some God-given right to decide what’s best for the whole state, when anybody could see the only part of Georgia they knew a thing about was Atlanta.”

  “So you finally got your eyes opened, right?”

  “Sort of. At least, I began to cool off toward Burlin a bit. But I was trying to forget Joe Riddley, too, since he seemed to be cooling off toward me. When I came home for Thanksgiving, he worked Friday and Saturday. We didn’t do a thing the rest of the time except watch television or go for rides, and all he talked about was the store. I couldn’t talk about the Buckhead dance, Atlanta symphony concerts, or my weekend at the lake house of a state senator, so I didn’t say much, either. It was, without a doubt, the most boring, miserable Thanksgiving of my life. I considered giving up men for life and becoming a missionary to Africa.”

  Martha laughed so hard I gave her a light smack. “Hush, or you’ll have everybody on this track coming over here to see what’s funny.”

  “I was picturing you as a missionary. For your kids’ sake—and mine—I’m sure glad you didn’t. Africa is probably glad, too. But what happened to Burlin? And what got you and Pop back together?”

  I didn’t answer right away. I needed to edit the next part. I couldn’t tell Martha that Burlin bought me an enormous teddy bear for Christmas, had a shoe-repair man put a zipper in its chest, and filled the hole with a blue box holding an enormous diamond ring. “Marry me,” he’d pleaded. “I want you so bad I can’t stand it.”

  I still cringed to think about that moment. I had been surprised, shocked, and confused. Surely Burlin had noticed I was pulling back. Why would he think I would marry him? And did he really want to marry me, or did he only want to sleep with me?

  On the other hand, Joe Riddley was vanishing as a marriage prospect, and I wanted to marry somebody. Burlin was charming and fun. If I married him, I could become a lady bountiful, a patron of the arts, a terrific political wife. Should I marry him and spend my life doing good?

  I opened my mouth to say “Yes,” and found I couldn’t. So I stared at the ring and didn’t say any of the things a girl is supposed to say.

  Burlin finally laughed and gave me a hug. “Surprised? I thought you might be.”

  I thrust it back at him. “Keep it for a day or two while I think it over. Okay?” I jumped up and ran away.

  Behind me, I heard him calling, “What’s to think over?”

  I headed back to my room, praying frantically. “Help! What do I do? What should I do?”

  Since no angels showed up with an answer, I laid my problem in the laps of my best friends, who had gathered for what we called a “we aren’t going to study tonight anyway” party. Most of them equated hormones with love, and considered a glamorous future every girl’s God-given right. They squealed, giggled, jumped up and down, and assured me it was time to “get over” Joe Riddley and “do what your heart tells you is right.” One of them suggested we go celebrate.

  We drove across town in a downpour to a favorite campus dive. They spent hours discussing my wedding, down to what color my bridesmaids should wear—rose pink or yellow—and where I should go on my honeymoon. Bermuda won.

  Then a quiet girl in the corner asked, “When will you tell Joe Riddley? It’s sure hard for me to picture you without him.”

  With no warning whatsoever, I started to cry. I was a sopping, sodden mess by the time we started back to the dorm. That’s where I picked up the story for Martha.

  “Well, I’d gone out for pizza with some friends one night before Christmas break, and on our way home, a car turned in front of us. Our driver slammed on her brakes, and I hit my head so hard against the side window, I wound up in the hospital, unconscious. When I came to in the middle of the night, Joe Riddley was sitting by my bed. As soon as Daddy had called and told him about my accident, he’d driven two hours in blinding rain to get to me. When he saw that I was awake, he started saying all the things I’d been wishing he would say. Then he explained that he’d been working hard to pay for my diamond, so he could ask me to marry him. He hadn’t wanted to give me a ring attached to debt.”

  “That’s sweet,” Martha said.

  “Yeah, but I told him I didn’t care what the
ring was attached to, so long as it was attached to him. I felt like I’d come home. And that was that.”

  Sneaky woman. While I was talking, she had steered me past the finish line again and partway around a third lap. But at least she had slowed down. I started eyeing the grass on the sidelines, looking for a comfortable spot where I could collapse and spend the night. She, on the other hand, was still fresh enough to have a theory. Or so she said. “I believe that whatever age you are when you fall in love, you continue to relate that way for the rest of your life, unless something drastic happens. You and Pop fell in love when you were children—”

  “No, it was in junior high.”

  “You were still young. So you acted like teenagers until the night of your wreck, right? I’d guess that’s when you fell in love as grown-ups.”

  I told you Martha was smart. But I didn’t fill her in on any of the juicy details about all that happened that night in the hospital. Like I said, I have some limits on what I discuss with my daughters-in-law.

  My feet felt like we’d covered half the distance to California. I couldn’t talk anymore and keep walking, so I shut up. Besides, I wanted to relive that wonderful night. Unfortunately, memory is not a biddable thing. Mine jumped ahead to the next morning when, as Joe Riddley was about to go, Burlin showed up, upset because he’d heard about the accident. I asked him to fetch me a Coke, and while he was gone, I persuaded Joe Riddley to go on back to Hopemore, since I’d be coming home for Christmas in few days anyway. He gave me one last kiss and stumbled out of the room half-asleep, not suspecting a thing.

  When Burlin came back, I intended to tell him gently that I couldn’t marry him because I was going to marry Joe Riddley. He didn’t give me time. Thumping the Coke down on the night stand beside me bed, he scowled and demanded, “You love that son-of-a-gun, don’t you?” I was too astonished to do more than nod. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why did you—hell, Mackie, why didn’t you say something?”

  I burst into tears. “I didn’t know.” I rummaged around for a tissue and finally wiped my nose on a corner of the sheet. “I mean, I used to know, all my life, but I didn’t know later. I mean, I didn’t think—” By then I was blub bering and incoherant, but it was from embarrassment and shame, not indecision.

  Burlin turned and pounded the wall next to my bed, uttering a stream of language he had never used in my presence before. When my son Walker turned out to be a swearing wall pounder, I had to wonder if children can inherit traits from old boyfriends who leave an indelible print on your life.

  Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. Burlin’s back was to me, but when he turned, his face was red with anger and his eyes were full of tears. “I had such plans,” he said huskily, still scowling. “We were going places, Mackie. What can he offer that I can’t?”

  I just shook my head. None of my answers would make sense to a Bullock.

  He bent down so he could look straight into my watery eyes. “You sure? Real sure?” I nodded. “That’s it, then.” He headed to the door, then turned and uttered one small bit of spite. “You owe me a Coke. And I hope that every Christmas you’ll think of me, and how you broke my heart.” Burlin always did have a good instinct for exit lines. And I’ll confess that every Christmas season since, he has floated through my mind once or twice.

  I’d forgotten I was walking around a track with Martha until she interrupted my memories to ask, “So what’s worrying you? I mean, all that was years ago.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve never mentioned any of this to Joe Riddley. He really admires Burlin. He watches him on television, quotes some of the things he says. I don’t want him to find out that while he was faithfully slaving away to buy me a diamond, I was out with Burlin painting the town at least a deep shade of pink.” I didn’t add that Burlin made me nervous, because the buffalo on my front lawn felt like a trumpet announcing he didn’t plan to ignore me.

  “Pop could get upset,” Martha admitted. “He’s not always as steady and reliable as he used to be. Maybe this would be the perfect week for you all to rent a house at the beach.”

  “We can’t. Joe Riddley has a workday tomorrow morning at the church, and he promised Gusta we’d come to her Do in the afternoon. We both have a dinner meeting Monday night, and I have traffic court in the south of the county Thursday morning. Not to mention those blasted quarterly taxes I have to prepare. Believe me, I’ve thought about this for hours, and there’s not a way we can leave town right now. The only good news I’ve had all day is that we are finally at the end of this blasted track.”

  As we headed toward our cars, Martha reached out and felt my forehead. “No stretch of my imagination can order you to bed for a week with a fever, and it looks like there’s no way you can avoid seeing the Bullocks at least tomorrow. Maybe you ought to go ahead and tell Joe Riddley tonight that you all dated a few times. It’s been years, after all.”

  “Honesty is the best policy,” I said glumly. “But I’d rather go have a root canal.”

  When I got home, though, Joe Riddley was just coming in from work, wearing his favorite cap, a red one with YARBROUGH’S stitched on it in white. He’d gone all the way out to Dad’s BarBeQue to pick us up some supper, and he’d stopped and gotten us a video that was not a World War II movie. How could I hurt a man like that? If Burlin was going to be in Hopemore all week, I’d simply have to find ways to stay out of his path.

  It was as simple as two plus two, and I was a math major, after all.

  I failed to factor into that particular equation Burlin’s personality and a murder.

  4

  Parking was so tight for Gusta’s party Saturday that Joe Riddley left his car at the store. “You realize I’ll have to walk two blocks through this humidity in new shoes and a silk pantsuit,” I pointed out as we climbed from the car.

  He pulled down the sleeves of his best black suit and ignored my complaints. “We’d better use the alley, or somebody will ask us about bedding plants, no matter how we’re dressed.”

  A man sat on the ground with his back to our building and hands on the knees of a gray suit. He wore an old felt hat over a long gray ponytail and must have been sweltering in the heat. His nails were dirty and cracked, his hands broad with strong, stubby fingers. He was absently humming to himself, looking up at the clouds. As we approached, he shifted his head to peer at us. His face was lined from hard living and too much sun, and one of his front teeth was missing, but his smile was sunny—if a bit vacant.

  Joe Riddley stopped. “If you are hungry, fellow, go to Myrtle’s around the block, to the back door. Tell them you’d like a meal. Our church is good for dinner every day for a week.”

  “That’s nice. Real nice.” His voice was a husky whisper.

  Joe Riddley loped toward Gusta’s and I panted along beside him. He’s never figured out that I have to take three steps every time he takes two. About halfway there he said, “I never feel like I do enough for those folks. If we were real Christians, Little Bit, we’d take him home and give him a bed and a bathtub.” I couldn’t answer. I was too out of breath trying to keep up.

  Traffic was extra slow on Oglethorpe Street that afternoon. Tourists usually drove slowly to look at the string of big lovely homes with wide porches and tall white columns. What attracted attention now was the huge buffalo grazing on Gusta’s lawn. The skinny man called Sarge, again in jeans and a T-shirt, watched him lazily from under a magnolia tree.

  As we started up the walk, the buffalo lifted its head. “He’s winking at you,” Joe Riddley told me. “I owe you an apology, Little Bit. Remind me to give you one someday soon.”

  “It better be a good one.” I followed him up Gusta’s wide, shallow steps.

  On the front porch, Hubert Spence threw a cigarette into the bushes and came to greet us with a guilty look. We all knew his doctor had told him to quit smoking after his heart attack.

  Joe Riddley jerked a thumb toward the small brass sign by the door: WAINWRIGHT HOUSE ANTIQUES.
“I don’t see how Maynard gets any business with that little bitty sign. Nobody can read it from the street.”

  Hubert stuck his thumbs in his waistband to hold open his jacket and stuck out his chest. “He does most of his business over the Internet or by word of mouth. He’s not interested in hoards of tourists tramping over his fancy oriental rugs looking for bargains.”

  “How’d you get so smart?” Joe Riddley clapped his shoulder. Hubert punched his arm.

  They’d been neighbors most of their lives, growing up on adjoining farms and eventually moving back into their parents’ old homeplaces. They’d never agreed over politics, religion, or whether Georgia or Georgia Tech was the better school, but otherwise they’d been good friends. I, however, took an experimental sniff before I gave Hubert a hug and was delighted to find that living with Gusta and Pooh continued to improve his personal hygiene. He used to think deodorant was for sissies and two baths a week plenty for a man who worked indoors. Now he wore a starched shirt and a well-pressed suit, and smelled of a pleasant after-shave.

  “Looks like Maynard wouldn’t want hoards of Gusta’s guests tramping all over his carpets, either,” I told him.

  He gave me the smile of a man whose only child has done far better than the parent ever expected. “He’s rolled up the rugs. Don’t set a glass down anywhere, though, except on the little trays he’s got scattered around. He doesn’t want water circles on his furniture.”

  “I’ll set mine on the floor,” Joe Riddley assured him. “Nothing can hurt heart pine.”