by Deborah Smith, Sandra Chastain, Donna Ball, Debra Dixon, Nancy Knight, Virginia Ellis
Salters know how to get even with Bigelows. At least, that’s what I told myself.
In a moment of post-childbirth, drug-induced sentimentality, I named our beautiful little boy John Willingham Bigelow, Junior. When John, Senior arrived to see him, I said, “I woke up in a stupor and realized I’d named him after you. Too late to change it. I plan to call him Willie. Hope you’re happy.”
“I’d be happy if you’ll quit pretending you have any talent as a writer, and you and Willie come home with me.”
“Where I can pretend you and I love each other?”
I hurt him as badly as he hurt me, that day. From then on, he never asked me to come home again. I never offered, either. But there’s a problem with a proud attitude—you can’t eat it and you can’t spend it. And there comes a time when you put dreams away and accept the truth. I loved my child, and he needed his father. Every time John came to visit or Willie came home from visiting John in Georgia, Willie moped for weeks. I knew what I had to do. What I owed Willie.
When my mother died five years ago and left me her house next door to Great Aunt Livvy in Mossy Creek, I gave up my meager living as a reporter for the Village Crier in San Francisco and came home. It wasn’t an auspicious return. I was broke, and jobs for unsuccessful writers were in short supply in Mossy Creek. I had a son to support. John had always been generous with money for Willie, but I never used a penny of it for myself.
Miss Mitty Anglin, the elderly owner and publisher of the Mossy Creek Gazette back then, was happy to give me a job as a reporter. But Miss Mitty’s idea of a big paycheck was twenty hours a week at minimum wage, with a free Gazette subscription thrown in. So there I was, scratching out a living at the newspaper, wincing every time somebody chortled at my lowly return. When Miss Mitty retired, she offered to sell the paper to me. I couldn’t believe it. She wanted such a ridiculously low price that even I could afford to buy it, if I could get a small business loan.
I went over to Mossy Creek Savings and Loan with a knot in my stomach and true humility in my soul. I had no collateral, no cash for a down payment, and a history of late credit card payments. I knew it was hopeless, but I had to try. Not expecting anything but a polite rejection, I laid out a big presentation about how I’d manage the newspaper and make a profit if the savings and loan would just give me a break.
Damned if they didn’t give me the loan.
I was stunned. And thrilled. I was able to buy new printing equipment and hire Katie Bell, who runs the office, sells advertising, and writes her own column. I write editorials and cover the hard news in town. I added Jess Crane, part-time, to cover sports and men’s features, and I’ve got several teenage interns who write up the garden clubs and other fluffy community stories. Plus every cranky old timer in town gets to write a column regularly, and those who don’t write columns keep the letters’ page filled with rants and loony commentary. I don’t kid myself that the Gazette offers great journalism, but with Jess and the interns covering every local person in eye-popping detail and Katie dishing up funny gossip in her weekly column, The Bellringer, we’ve managed to triple our subscription numbers and line up a dependable base of advertisers. Every smart editor knows that name-dropping gossip and outrageous editorial pages guarantee a readership. And I’m nothing if not smart.
So I’ve been happy enough in the five years since we came home, and Willie is thriving, though he lives two lives. John takes him down to Bigelow every other weekend, where he dresses in crisp khakis and golf shirts and is known as—drum roll, please—John Willingham, Junior. Back up in Mossy Creek with his Great Aunt Livvy and me, he’s still plain Willie, a good kid, grinning and sloppy. I let him wear a fake nose ring once, and I thought John’s mother would have me arrested. “He’s only thirteen,” I told her. “He’s a Bigelow,” she retorted, as if that nixed his teenage dreams.
But Great Aunt Livvy and I see his baggy warm-up pants and untied Reeboks simply as innocent signs of Salter creative rebellion. “Just like you, at that age, Susan,” Great Aunt Livvy says, her false teeth clucking in appropriate disdain as she tries unsuccessfully to hide her pride.
There’s only one thing I try to keep from Willie: The Salter preoccupation with death. Every morning Great Aunt Livvy prepares her bowl of cornflakes and takes it to her tiny breakfast table, where she listens to our local radio station WMOS air its morning Bereavement Report. That means they announce who died, of what, and when the funeral will take place. My aunt measures her life by days of survival. “If I don’t hear my name, I start plannin’ lunch,” Great Aunt Livvy says.
So far, I’d managed to avoid this fascinating family hobby. But then our cousin Hattie Almond, down in Yonder, died peacefully in her sleep at eighty-nine. It was the first week of December, the weather cold and clear. When a neighbor went by Hattie’s little farm cottage to take her a pan of biscuits and a bowl of sawmill gravy, he found her Christmas tree lit in the living room and Hattie dead in bed.
Great Aunt Livvy called out her side window to me as I was leaving for work. I’d already waved Willie off to the county school bus. Great Aunt Livvy cupped her hands around her mouth. “Susan, you have to carry me down to Yonder. The radio says Cousin Hattie’s dead, and she hadn’t even put up her mistletoe yet.”
“How did the radio know that?”
“Now, don’t you change the subject. Have some respect.”
I nodded. We both bowed our heads for a few seconds. Hattie Almond was the sister of Granddaddy Salter’s aunt by marriage, meaning no blood kin to us. But that made no difference to Great Aunt Livvy. As far as she was concerned, Hattie was a Salter, period. I felt bad suddenly for not visiting Cousin Hattie more often. Yonder is just southeast of Mossy Creek, but its only excuse for existence is the store at the crossroads and the best trout fishing spot in the area. It once won itself a spot in a commercial naming RC Colas and Moon Pies as the fishermen’s meal of choice.
“Do we have to go to Yonder right away?” I asked. “She’s already dead. Unless you think she’s joking, I don’t know what you can do about it.”
“Hattie planned her whole funeral. She liked a good celebration. We just have to see to the details.”
“Can’t I drop you off and come back by Hattie’s house later? I have to lay out the paper, and now I have to write an obituary. If the paper doesn’t get out, I don’t get paid by the advertisers. You know this is the week of the Christmas manger sale at the Feed and Seed store and Hamilton’s is running their annual pre-Christmas blowout. Besides, you don’t really need me at Hattie’s. I’d just mope around.”
“Honey, I know you’ve hated funerals ever since your daddy died when you were little, but just try to think of ‘em as parties for the living. Hurry up. I’ve got to get back in time to make a chicken pie and a congealed salad.” She sounded almost merry, her false teeth tap-dancing in time with her list of funeral foods. “Hattie always said that congealed salad is old fashioned, but I say if the cook down at Mama’s All You Can Eat Café would put it on the menu she’d see her profits go up. I’ll probably unthaw a pound cake too. You can say you made it, so you won’t show up empty handed.”
“Everybody knows I can’t cook.”
“Well, I’ll tell ‘em it’s a Christmas miracle.”
“Listen, I’ll take you to Cousin Hattie’s, but I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. No use a grown woman actin’ like a fool over dead folks. Time to grow up and get on with the living, Susan.”
I sighed. There was no stopping my daddy’s aunt and her long experience with death. Great Aunt Livvy was the only girl in her generation of the Salter family. She’d outlived her brothers, nephews and nieces, and so the fewer kin she had to remember, the more she honored them. I hadn’t yet told her about my recent letters to Victoria Salter Stanhope. I knew Great Aunt Livvy would want to get on the first plane to England, and neither of us had that kind of money in our savings accounts. Katie Bell was sworn to secrecy and given the task of helping me hid
e our British Salter, for now. At least Victoria Stanhope had escaped what I’ve darkly named The Salter Women’s Call to Bereavement.
“You promised your mama you’d look after me and be kindly to me in my old age,” Great Aunt Livvy prodded. “And do whatever I want.”
I squinted at her. “Mama’s will said you promised her you’d look after me.”
“I’m old. I get my wish first.”
I sighed and gave in. An hour later, I found myself meeting with the minister of the Yonder Faith and Forgiveness Baptist Church, whether I wanted to or not. “First,” Great Aunt Livvy told him, “we have to arrange for the people who will sit up with the body. Hattie left a list.”
“Body sitters?” I spouted.
“It’s a matter of respect,” the elderly mister explained. “Of course, I still like the way we did it in the old days. When I was a boy, the body was displayed at home. Sitting up then was so much more personal.”
I’d heard enough funeral stories to know the only reason Mossy Creekites wanted to sit with the body at home was so they could privately share a little moonshine and be close enough to the kitchen to eat from all the platters of food brought in by the neighbors, but I said nothing. There was no arguing with Great Aunt Livvy.
“She left a list of music, too,” Livvy said. “She wanted it loud.”
The minister nodded happily. The congregation of Faith and Forgiveness believed in making joyful noises. If you asked their neighbors, the tone-deaf congregation probably sounded more like a joyful attempt to scare crows out of a cornfield. I’d heard rumors they accompanied their gospel music with a piano, horns, guitars and a tambourine—all off-key.
Unfortunately, Cousin Hattie’s sitting-up list was twenty-five years old. She’d already outlived all the sitters, including her pallbearers, most of her respectful mourners and her immediate family. No matter, the minister assured us, God would send what Hattie needed. I hoped so. Otherwise, I pictured Great Aunt Livvy, Willie and me rolling the casket into the church with one hand and shaking a tambourine with the other.
With my hope of making the newspaper’s weekly deadline rapidly disappearing, I called Katie Bell and told her to do whatever it took to start laying out the paper without me, then drove Great Aunt Livvy over to Hattie’s house. To my surprise, the house—a small square brown cottage that had last seen paint after the Big War—closely resembled an anthill that cold December afternoon. God had provided an army of short, plump women in print dresses, who were cleaning furiously, and tall, white-haired women with big bosoms, who rearranged the furniture to accommodate the folding chairs brought in by the funeral home in anticipation of the visitors and family who would surely come.
I could have told them that Livvy and I were all the family left. I didn’t argue, but I knew none of my friends would be trekking to Yonder for the food or the moonshine. And I had no intention of inviting John. I couldn’t imagine him in the Faith and Forgiveness Baptist Church. His Rolex watch would stop from shock.
Hattie’s services were scheduled for two o’clock on the coming Friday. The three-day delay was to allow plenty of time for friends and family to arrive. My suggestion—that even if there were family and friends they were not coming by horse and buggy—went unnoticed.
“Of course, lots of folks will come,” Great Aunt Livvy said, her lips stretched thin with shock at my newest cavalier observation. “People in the mountains understand about respect.”
Respect I can take, up to a point. It was the tradition and the next day’s Bereavement Report that reared back and kicked me in the heart. “Murial Bigelow died last night,” Great Aunt Livvy yelled out her window as I headed for my car that frosty morning. Murial Bigelow was John’s grandmother. I stood there feeling bad about Murial for a minute, then began to brighten, I’m ashamed to admit. Why? Because Bigelows don’t believe in sitting ups or sitting withs or gospel singings. Too many festivities. Interferes with their golf schedules. Grandmother Murial’s services would be quick and easy.
I called John. He told me the funeral was set for two days hence, at eleven a.m. He asked me to come and bring Willie. “Of course we’ll be there,” I said, a little wounded. “Murial is Willie’s great-grandmother. He liked her. And so did I.”
“You never admitted it.”
“I should have. I’m sorry.”
There was a quiet pause over the phone. Then, “You and Willie come to her house early, and we’ll drive to the church together. After all, we should look like a family in times of trouble. Present a united front.”
“Keep up appearances.”
“Suzy, it’s not that,” he said wearily. “Look, if you need anything for yourself, use my account at Hamilton’s. I mean, I know you don’t own many nice dresses, and your money’s short.” He added quickly, as if he realized I might take offense, “A lot of potential advertisers for the Gazette will be at the funeral.”
“I’m not going to Grandmother Murial’s funeral to scope out business, John.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I just know that you buy nice clothes for John, Jr. but not for yourself.” He hesitated. “I bet you still have the dress you wore when I proposed to you fourteen years ago.”
The one he was referring to was a little black number that hit me about thigh high and swished when I walked. It was a dinner-dancing-and-to-bed dress. I haven’t worn it since the night John proposed, but it’s still hanging in the back of my closet. I evaded his question. “I’ll get a decent dress to wear. I don’t need any help, but thank you. Willie and I will see you at Murial’s house.”
I rushed to the newspaper office in Mossy Creek. Now I had to get the paper out, attend two funeral services a day apart, and write two obituaries—one for cousin Hattie in Yonder, whose friends would send her off with a Hallelujah Band and a sheet cake that said Say Hello to Jesus, and another for Grandmother Murial in Bigelow, where the food would be catered by servants wearing tuxedos and bow ties, and the music would be provided by a string quartet.
Late that afternoon, I dragged myself home. Willie had hung a homemade Christmas wreath on our front door. He’d made it out of old light bulbs painted green. I smiled. “I’m up with this, homeboy,” I said, doing my best imitation of a hip-hopper.
“Word,” he answered solemnly, which in hip-hop meant he agreed.
Great Aunt Livvy was waiting in my living room with her coat on. I drove her and Willie down to Hattie’s house. As we helped Great Aunt Livvy make her way across the stubbly brown grass of the cottage yard, she began listing chores. “We still have to pick out Hattie’s coffin at the Mossy Creek Funeral Home, choose the flowers, and settle on the music. I think she’d like Shall We Gather At the River. Oh, and you have to call her insurance agent about her burial policy.” Great Aunt Livvy was willing to contribute her management skills to anyone’s funeral, but so far as the expenses were concerned, dead people were on their own.
I gaped at her. “I thought Hattie had all these details planned out.”
“I lied. She liked planning Christmas better. But on a happy note, Hattie’s neighbors will provide the church coffee pot and keep a running account of the food donated so that we can write thank-you notes.”
I groaned. As we stepped up on the porch, Willie stared inside. “Mom, why are all these people sitting around Cousin Hattie’s house eating and drinking and smoking?”
“They’re here to show their respect,” Great Aunt Livvy interjected, beaming. “Just wait until you see the viewing. I bet she’ll have at least fifty people peering at her.”
I groaned, again. Could there possibly be fifty other people as fixated on funerals as Great Aunt Livvy?
I soon learned that I had underestimated the compassion of Mossy Creekites. I shouldn’t have. I was related to a prime example of Mossy Creekite philosophy—Great Aunt Livvy. She had once organized a thousand people from Bigelow County for the funeral of a child whose anonymous body had been found along a back road. “People come together over the
dead,” she always told me. “That’s the gift the dead give to the living.”
The next day, between errands, I bought Willie a new suit at Hamilton’s and got a dress for myself by bartering advertising credit with Robert Walker, the department store’s president. Robert sent flowers to both Hattie and Murial’s homes. So did Ida Walker. Amos Royden scheduled Mutt Bottoms to direct traffic outside Faith and Forgiveness’s little chapel. Michael Conners hung a Celtic cross in the window of his pub with a black bit of paper ribbon tied around it. And on and on. I got teary.
I took Willie over to see Rainey at Goldilocks’ Hair, Nail and Tanning Salon, and she gave us both a nice trim. I paid for Willie’s haircut but, as usual, struck a deal with Rainey for credit on her advertising account, too. Rainey had already put a sign in the window that her shop would be closed for Hattie’s funeral. Rainey understood proper bereavement, too.
I decided I’d leave Great Aunt Livvy at Hattie’s on Thursday to visit the sitting-with crowd, then Willie and I would head down to Bigelow for Grandmother Murial’s funeral. But I should have known Great Aunt Livvy would never miss a good passing. This was a double-header.
“I’m not missing Murial Bigelow’s funeral,” she declared. “We’ll go, say our consolations, then come back to Yonder for the viewing of Hattie’s body.”
Great Aunt Livvy practically trembled with excited tradition. I sighed.
When our doorbell rang, Willie grinned and went to answer it. It was Rosie Montgomery, the cook at Mama’s All You Can Eat Café, bearing a platter of crispy fried chicken and a bowl of macaroni and cheese. “I know you won’t have time to cook,” Rosie said politely, then gave me an unexpected hug. “This food is for you, not for the funeral. I thought you were more in need than the mourners.”
