Hung Out to Die

by Sharon Short

  Then there were two people I hadn’t met yet—Uncle Fenwick and Aunt Nora, I guessed, from descriptions Sally had given me. They’d never had kids. Aunt Nora was a thin, birdlike woman, who twitched and had a long, wattled neck, buggy eyes, and a teased-up tuft of hair for her do, giving her an unfortunate resemblance to the appliquéd turkeys on her sweater. Uncle Fenwick was paunchy, balding, dressed in a nice pale blue Oxford shirt, and looked as though he’d really like to stab something—or someone—with his fork.

  Maybe, I thought, his twin brother, right next to him. Daddy. Fit and handsome in an expensive-looking gray suit, sporting a gold watch and cuff links, and a tanning-booth tan. He was balding in exactly the same pattern as Uncle Fenwick, but he hadn’t tried to disguise it with an extreme comb-over or hide the gray with coloring. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed and looked distinguished.

  Next to him was a woman. Mama. Matching shade of tan, a honey-blond coif, artfully done makeup, long perfect red nails, and a knit teal suit with cream trim and gold anchor buttons.

  They no more resembled what I’d have envisioned my parents to be like than the him-and-her Pilgrims with the orange candles in their heads. Not that I’d actually wasted any time envisioning my parents. I’d always thought of Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace as my parents, in spirit anyway, and besides, I’d always somehow known that my birth parents were never coming back.

  And yet—here they were. And they were staring at me, along with all the other relatives I just described (except, of course, Sally and her siblings who were, lucky them, in the kitchen).

  What could I say? I opened my mouth, hoping something reasonable would come out, when Sally popped out of the kitchen, carrying a plate.

  “Josie!” she cried. “You okay? You came to and seemed fine, but you said you wanted to rest. I was getting right worried about you! But here, I’ve saved you a plate.”

  I grinned at her gratefully, but my smile quickly faded as she sat the plate between my daddy and Uncle Fenwick. Until then, I hadn’t noticed the chair wedged between their seats.

  My parents stood up. The perfect couple. The perfect parents—at least in the looks department—as if I’d gone to a rent-a-parent shop and said, them! I’ll take that elegant pair who looks so nice and wealthy and sophisticated . . . never mind that I don’t resemble them at all in style or fashion or . . .

  But did I see a bit of my eyes in Daddy’s flashing blue gaze?

  A bit of my smile in Mama’s soft grin?

  “Well, do look at her, Henry! Why our baby girl’s just all grown up!” Mama exclaimed, breaking my brief moment of reverie.

  What was with the “our baby girl’s grown up” line? That was the kind of thing doting parents said when their child returned from, say, a semester at college, or a job across the country. Of course I’d grown up! What did they think had happened to me in the two-plus decades since they’d seen me?

  I was about to grab my plate and zip around through the living room to the kitchen, when they both moved at once, and somehow embraced me in a sandwich hug.

  “Awww, ain’t that sweet?” I heard Mamaw snuffling, even as I gasped for breath between my parents, nearly overcome by Mama’s patchouli fragrance and Daddy’s aftershave, which didn’t smell at all like Lava Soap. “It’s just so great to have the whole family together—well, except Billy, of course—all my sons back together for the first time in years! It’s such a nice surprise!”

  I frowned. There was just something too glib about how Mamaw said that last sentence. Had she been surprised by my parents’ return . . . really?

  “Now, now, let the girl go,” Sally was saying. “Let her eat!”

  And so I found myself, a few seconds later, staring at a plate heaped with Thanksgiving food, sitting between Daddy and Uncle Fenwick, and across from Mama and Aunt Nora, and realizing that everyone else was on pumpkin pie and whipped cream.

  “We’ll wait for you to get started, Josie,” Mamaw urged. “Right, everyone?”

  Uncle Fenwick, who sat across from me, had a forkful of pumpkin pie just to his lips. He dropped the fork with a clatter back on his plate. Aunt Nora jumped, and one of the turkeys on her sweater suddenly lit up. I stared at her chest. I hadn’t noticed before, but the largest turkey, right in the center, had tiny lights—red, yellow, and orange—around the feathers.

  I felt light-headed again. “Oh, no, that’s okay,” I said.

  The table went quiet again.

  “No one ever argues with Mamaw Toadfern,” said cousin Fern, hmmphing.

  Unfortunately for her, she said it just as Sally was scooching along behind her, back to the kitchen to check on her kids, who were hollering something about one of their cousins drinking all the Big Fizz Cola. Sally swatted Fern on top of the head. “Well, Josie’s just now rejoined the family, so cut her some slack,” Sally said. Then she looked at me. “Eat,” she said.

  I started to cut into my turkey. Unfortunately, my place was right where two tables came together unevenly, and I didn’t have enough space on either side for my plate. So as I cut . . . and cut some more . . . well, sawed, really . . . into the turkey . . . my plate wobbled up and down. My mashed potatoes and gravy slid dangerously to the edge of my plate as I kept sawing turkey.

  “I reckon it’s a little dry this year,” Mamaw sighed.

  She was right, I thought, as I finally finished cutting a piece and started chewing. This turkey was drier than the construction paper turkeys gracing the center of the table—and probably less tasty. If I could get down this bite, maybe I could dip the next one into gravy . . .

  “Oh, no it’s perfectly fine,” said Aunt Nora. “I didn’t even need gravy on mine.”

  So no dipping the turkey into gravy to moisten it up. I chewed. Everyone stared at me. Oh, Lord. They were awaiting their pumpkin pie, and I had a whole mound of food to plow through!

  I chewed some more. The lump of turkey in my mouth seemed to get bigger . . . and drier. Mamaw smiled at me encouragingly.

  I smiled—mouth closed, of course—and kept chewing. Now Uncle Fenwick, across the table from me, got a knowing look on his face. Aunt Nora started fiddling with a feather of the turkey on her sweater. The wattle of the turkey on her sweater flashed red. The turkey in my mouth seemed to just get bigger.

  Mama gazed at me. “Look, dear,” she said to Daddy. “Josie has my hair. The texture, at least. Not the style.”

  “But she has my eyes,” he said, proudly.

  I suddenly felt like I was two.

  I stared straight ahead. That didn’t help, because I was staring right into the turkey carcass.

  “It was a beauty,” Mamaw said. It took me a second to realize she was talking to me, about the turkey. “I always boil down the carcass, for soup. And save the wishbone, for two people I pick to pull. Whoever gets the longest piece gets a wish.”

  I looked at Mamaw. This description of her plans for the poor turkey’s carcass wasn’t helping me. I kept chewing, chewing, chewing. Mamaw’s smile took a downturn toward grimness.

  I had to swallow. Did any of these people know the Heimlich, I wondered? Would any of them use it on me if I choked on Mamaw’s turkey?

  Finally, I swallowed. I smiled at Mamaw. “Excellent,” I said. “Best turkey I ever had.”

  Several folks, looking relieved, started on pie.

  She grinned, obviously pleased. “Well, finish that up and you can have seconds!”

  I managed not to groan as I eyed my plate. The cranberry salad looked moist. Maybe that would wet my throat enough so that I could take another bite of Mamaw’s dry turkey. That would be better than immediately gulping down half the water in my glass.

  I took a bite of the cranberry salad. Hmm. This was actually good. A mixture of Jell-O, cranberries, pecan bits . . .

  “Any boyfriends I should know about?”

  I looked at my daddy. Had he really just asked that? He was grinning at me, apparently eager for the answer.

  “Actually, I
’m dating a professor. He’s quite a catch,” I said, with a preening tone.

  Fern harrumphed. My face went hot. What had Sally said about me . . . and my rocky relationship with Owen . . . to our only other girl cousin? Not that I could imagine her confiding in Fern, but . . .

  “Really. So where is he? I ought to meet this fella, if you’re so serious about him,” Daddy said.

  What? Who was he to make such a comment?

  Mamaw giggled. Everyone else ate pumpkin pie quietly. The silence grew uncomfortable.

  “He’s out of town on business,” I finally said.

  “Now, Henry, don’t be ridiculous,” Mama said.

  Thank you, I thought. At least one of my parents was apparently going to be sensible about this whole, awkward reunion . . .

  “She doesn’t need to get saddled down with a man at her age. She has plenty of time for that. She should focus on developing a career,” she said. “Sell off that old laundromat.”

  I bristled. “I like my laundromat,” I said. “It provides a steady enough income for me, a service for the community . . .”

  “Oh, you don’t have to be nice just because my big brother once owned it,” Mama said, in a pooh-poohing tone. “It’s time you sold that place—let people drive up to Masonville to do their wash like I used to do—have a real career.”

  “I do have a real career,” I said, through gritted teeth. What was this? I’d skipped from age two right into the they-nag-you-because-they-care part my friends complained about. “I’m a stain expert.”

  Now Fern giggled. Her mother, Aunt Suzy, elbowed her, into silence.

  “I am,” I said defensively. “I even have a monthly column in the local paper, which is going weekly throughout southern Ohio soon.”

  Oh, crap. Now, why had I said that? I hadn’t really agreed to that. And yet, here I was, trying to show off in front of the Toadferns, just like I’d tried to show off in front of Rachel Burkette at Sandy’s Restaurant.

  Sally popped her head through the entry. “I heard that,” she said. “It’s a great idea, isn’t it, everyone?”

  There were uncomfortable murmurs of agreement. Sally popped back into the kitchen.

  “Well, maybe that will be enough to get you out of this backwater and somewhere important,” Daddy said. “No offense, of course, to everyone who’s stayed around here.”

  He grinned across the table at Uncle Fenwick, who glared at him.

  “I like it here,” I said. “You may have forgotten, but my cousin Guy Foersthoefel lives in a residential home near here . . .”

  “It’s nice to see,” said Uncle Fenwick, wiping his mouth with exaggerated care, so hard that the paper napkin started to shred, “that amazingly enough the loyalty gene didn’t skip Josie, after all.”

  “Still feeling loyal to the plumbing business?” Daddy asked.

  “I’ve done well enough for myself. We have a nice house up in Masonville,” Uncle Fenwick said stiffly.

  “Wow. Sticking it out in the plumbing business got you all the way up to Masonville. Guess you don’t remember the days when you said you couldn’t wait to see the world and have some adventures,” Daddy said.

  Aunt Nora coughed nervously. Uncle Fenwick tossed his paper napkin dangerously close to the female Pilgrim candleholder. “You can’t even get through one hour—after we haven’t seen you for how many years—without starting. You always did think you were better than me!”

  “Now, Fenwick, you shouldn’t hold it against your brother that he’s finally successful, financially. You look like you’re doing well enough.” Mama reached across the table and patted his arm, dropping her head slightly to look up at him from under her thick, dark eyelashes. “In fact I’d say you’re still a fine figure of a man . . .”

  “May!” Daddy snapped.

  Mama snatched her hand back, but still smiled flirtatiously at Uncle Fenwick, who turned red.

  Aunt Nora moaned and grabbed Uncle Fenwick’s arm where Mama had touched him. “Please, no . . .”

  Mamaw frowned at Mama, who just shrugged and stopped smiling. I lifted an eyebrow. Hmm. This was interesting. Apparently, there was some history I didn’t know about.

  I took another bite of the delicious cranberry salad. Better to concentrate on that, I thought. Something about it was different . . . that wasn’t, couldn’t be . . . bourbon in there, could it? In any case, it was yummy . . .

  A loud snore startled me. I looked down at the end of the table and saw that Uncle Otis, still tilting back dangerously in his chair, had fallen asleep, his mouth hanging open.

  “My dear Billy’s not here,” said Aunt Suzy, her voice trembling.

  “Thank God,” said Bennie. “He’d probably embarrass us all.” He scowled. “Just like he did in school.”

  His mother, Suzy, burst into tears. “I miss Billy!” she wailed.

  “At least you have kids,” Aunt Nora said. “We were never able to have any.” She looked at Uncle Fenwick, as if perhaps this was his fault.

  I forked up some potatoes and nearly toppled the plate on the wobbly seam between the two tables. The second the potatoes hit my tongue, I nearly blanched. They were oversalted and underwhipped. Stick to the cranberry sauce.

  “Now, dear, it was the Lord’s will,” Uncle Randolph said. “Everyone, perhaps we should have another prayer to calm us down. We need to settle our minds for the Lord’s second coming. The time is upon us, I fear, considering the news from the Middle East . . .”

  “Randy, you haven’t changed a bit,” Daddy said, laughing. “You always were so pompously righteous . . .”

  “And we should think you’ve changed?” Uncle Fenwick said. “You and May—all fancied up as if you’re successful—”

  “That’s because we are, dear,” said Mama, again with a flirtatious tone.

  Uncle Fenwick turned even redder. “Oh really? You’re successful now? Prove it!”

  “Quite simple,” said Daddy, calmly. “We came back not just to reunite with our dear family—” he gestured to us all.

  Fern rolled her eyes. Her husband Roger looked at her desperately. “You said it wouldn’t be like this this year,” he hissed. Their son, Albert . . . he would be my first cousin once removed, I calculated quickly . . . started hiccuping and whining to go into the kitchen with the other kids. I didn’t blame him.

  I lifted my other eyebrow, and took another bite of the heavenly cranberry salad. What had I been missing all these years?

  “You know, a little prayer would have gone a long way to help you and Fenwick with your terrible sin of fighting,” Uncle Randolph said. “You two always thought you could get away with everything and when you couldn’t, you’d just blame each other.”

  Uncle Otis suddenly jolted awake as his chair started to tip too far back. “Is there a fight going on?” Uncle Otis rubbed his eyes, and looked confused.

  “Go back to sleep, Daddy,” Sally hollered from the kitchen. “And stop tilting your chair.”

  Uncle Otis just shrugged, tilted back again, and closed his eyes.

  “Is he drunk?” Aunt Suzy whispered to her husband. She nervously took a sip of her iced sweet tea.

  “Of course not,” Sally called, sounding annoyed.

  I grinned. Good old Sally. She had the loyalty gene in spades, too.

  “We came back,” Mama said, as if that line of conversation hadn’t been hopelessly derailed, “for a business proposition.”

  “Oh, right, like the two of you would have any money for such a thing,” Uncle Fenwick said.

  Daddy lifted his eyebrows. Now I knew where I got that gesture. I immediately lowered mine. “And I suppose you’re getting rich, cleaning out other people’s potties?”

  “Yes,” Mama said, raising her voice. “We’re going to buy the old orphanage!”

  I gasped, and looked at her. The Mason County Children’s Home, just on the other side of the Burkettes’ acreage, had sat empty for years. And now, my parents were going to purchase it?

&
nbsp; “At least I’ve worked hard for a living! You thief!” Uncle Fenwick hollered at Daddy. “You were supposed to share!”

  Huh? What was that all about? Everyone else—except Mama, Daddy, and Aunt Nora—looked confused, too.

  Aunt Nora moaned, clutched at her throat. Her chest turkey’s gobble flashed red again.

  “FleaMart. It’s the latest concept in flea market marketing,” said Mama, somewhat weakly. I could tell she’d meant her announcement to be triumphant, and was more than a little annoyed that the fight between Daddy and Uncle Fenwick was ruining her grand announcement. “And Henry and I came up with it. Instead of the standard flea market, organized by vendor, you have departments, organized by type of flea market find. All the antique lamps in the lighting fixtures department, for example, or the linens in the linens department. Vendors bring their items to us, sell them to us at a reduced price, and we do any refurbishing needed, and re-sell. We have investors and our first FleaMart down in Benton, Arkansas, and it’s been quite successful, so when we learned through our real estate broker that the old orphanage was up for sale, we jumped at the chance.”

  I stared at Mama, horrified. About a quarter of the businesses in Paradise are antique stores. And some of the owners are my best customers, and friends. I help them get old linens and vintage clothing stain-free for re-sale. This FleaMart could easily put them out of business.

  “You’re . . . you’re the ones who are trying to buy the old orphanage?” I asked.

  “We learned about the opportunity from our real estate broker, who also happens to be from here. Rachel Burkette.”