Death in Living Gray

by John Clayton

  ***

  But Jack Senior beat me to it. He was dancing a jig across the kitchen floor, opening the refrigerator, cutting the rind off whole wheat bread, adding Virginia ham and butter on some, cucumbers and mayonnaise on others. It was like some obscure neural connection found out what it was for after fifty years of false starts.

  I delivered the first round of tea in Victoria’s silver-plated DAR service and returned to put on water for a second round, all the while thinking that it was over—I could relax for the rest of the day, maybe spend it in the bathtub—when suddenly I was in the air, horizontal, swinging around like a top with hands gripping my waist. A quick look was all I dared. Jack Senior was spinning me like a rag doll—like he used to do before we were married. But of course that was thirty pounds ago.

  And suddenly I came down spinning across the room and we were laughing and never once mentioning poor Uncle George Ebenton, true Southern gentlepersons that we both were. Then I heard Jack Senior say “and your mother can stay and play the piano.

  “Stay where?” I asked.

  “Honestly, you haven’t listened to a word,” Jack Senior said. I’ve figured out how to save the old manor house and get rich in the process.”

  My head suddenly stopped spinning, but I couldn’t say anything before he continued, “We can turn the house into a restaurant/lounge, and your mother can entertain like she used to. We can have most of the dining area in the basement. Instead of rebuilding the floor, we can just enlarge the hole and have a balcony running around where the first floor was. We can put a piano lounge in one of the first floor rooms on the other side of the hall.”

  “Your mother owns the house,” I cautioned, comprehending enough of the one-sided conversation to know that I had to grasp for negatives.

  “I think she’ll come around,” he said with a grin, forbearing to mention the nature of Uncle George Ebenton’s demise.

  “Are you planning to have Jezebel as part of the business too?” I asked as sharply as I could without being really nasty.

  “Well, yes. Why not? She doesn’t have a job since The River Bend Restaurant fell into the creek.” Jack Senior had lost a little of the panache now that he had come to the delicate part; he was searching for the right words.

  I was annoyed, but Jezebel had tried to help me when she could, and she had lost her business. So I temporarily let him off the hook with a practical question. “What about the boys on Friday night?”

  “We’ll keep a switch for the piano microphone by the bar and if they get noisy we can just let your Mother talk. We’ll only turn her off if they shut up or leave.”

  “Who’ll pay for start-up?” I asked.

  “Delilah has some insurance money for stock and we can probably transfer the liquor license, and the big old square grand piano was in the front part of the restaurant that didn’t get washed away and they found the stove almost intact about a mile downstream, and…” Jack Senior hesitated for a second wind. “It’s just that we couldn’t pay for any new furniture right now and you’ve got all those tractor and combine parts out behind the barn. I’m sure Henry Adams and Stuart would help you and not get paid for a while. Then when we’re up and running, we could pay you twice what the furniture’s worth.”

  He didn’t seem to grasp that I got about two thousand dollars for just one little sofa from that junk out back. That would be well over a hundred thousand to furnish his lounge. Jack Senior hadn’t seen that much money in a long time. But it was not the time to run him down. So I took a different form of counteroffensive—making a proposal that he would have to turn down. “I think Jezebel’s would be a good name, don’t you?” I said, then realized before it was completely out that it wasn’t good enough. I’d just been had—by my own mouth.

  “If that’s what it takes,” Jack Senior said, grinning, “we’re agreed. The name recognition will certainly help.” He was shaking my hand formally, so I couldn’t back out without losing face.

  It was just stupid, though. What were we going to eat for the next three months? The returned bail money would help some, but then there would be real expenses for the steeple. I was trying to figure out how to renege without seeming to, when there was a tapping on the door.

  ***

  Which I opened to confront Weevil Tuttle carrying a rug slung over his shoulder. Behind him, Tillie and Tattie were straining to look around his bulk into the kitchen. “We came to tell you that Young Timothy got that old china cabinet and left us a thousand dollars cash,” Tattie started.

  “Fell for it, hook, line, and sinker,” Tillie continued.

  “Cousin Doris is as happy as sin.”

  “But we’re thinking about not giving her a third,” they both laughed.

  I was happy too, pointing out that we’d really put one over on him, since he had had the expertise to recognize the old white milk paint cupboard as an authentic antique.

  “Oh, that weren’t old,” Tillie said.

  “No, Daddy did that the year before he died, back in 1980,” Tattie explained.

  “He made it to keep his corn-squeezings in. Wanted it to look nice for his customers.”

  “Used some old boards and nails his own granddaddy had left out in the barn. For paint, he just used some slaked lime and Spanish whiting that was out there, too. Had to buy some new linseed oil and ’course he had to get his skimmed milk from the supermarket since Old Bossie was already dead by then. Built it and painted it himself.”

  “But it looked so rough and splotchy.” I was looking back and forth between them trying to keep track.

  “Oh, that was because Daddy was mostly blind and couldn’t see what he was doing,” Tillie said.

  Tattie said, “I offered to do it for him.”

  “But he was afraid he’d of had to raise her allowance—at least for one month,” Tillie said.

  “So he did it himself,” Tattie finished.

  And I was thinking how much happier I’d be if my country kitchen had a milk-paint cupboard built by a half-blind bootlegger to house his corn-squeezings and impress his customers in 1980, rather than an unprovenanced cupboard done by somebody’s unknown ancestor in 1880. But you couldn’t go and tell people how it was really made, because there’s this modern fetish with antique authenticity. They probably wouldn’t get any enjoyment from it if they knew the truth.

  ***

  I was marking up two victories for the Tuttle sisters when Weevil coughed, shuffled a bit, and wiggled the rug over his shoulder, turning our attention in his direction.

  “We really do thank you a lot for what you already done,” Tillie jumped in, turning from laughing to serious. “But today’s the day you promised to have Double X’s coffin finished.”

  “We got some late strawberries from over at U-Pick-Em Farm,” Tattie explained, “an’ there’s no room left in the refrigerator.”

  Damn… double damn. I’d forgotten and here they were and there was nothing to do but punt—but Henry was in attendance and there was a built-in crowd of mourners and two preachers. So I took the cold bundle from Weevil, suggesting to Jack Senior that he take the ladies out to the parlor for some tea and snacks and whatever else they might want, nodding in Weevil’s direction. “Oh, and ask Henry if he could quietly come out to the barn and help put the top on the casket,” I said as I stepped back to let them in the door.

  ***

  “There’s no top.” Henry said, standing in the doorway, looking around. “In fact, there’s no casket. At least, none that I can see.”

  “Of course there isn’t,” I said. “I’ve been too busy keeping out of jail.” I was up on top of a pile at the back of the barn, throwing down pieces of tractor fender—although I couldn’t remember which one was the Tuttles—blue I seemed to remember. They probably wouldn’t recognize anything but the color. “Get the welder cranked up, Henry. Please.”

  But Henry had already taken his coat off and was pulling the tanks out into the center of the floor. It took about fifteen mi
nutes to get the box done, complete with a stylized gargoyle on each corner not unlike what we were doing for the steeple. Then it took another fifteen minutes for the quick-drying acrylic paint on the welded seams to get to the point where we could handle it gingerly. Henry used the interim to fill it with water to make sure that all the seams were tight.

  “For a dog?” I ventured, but Henry said a dog’s body was a holy vessel, just like a human’s, and besides we didn’t have to hurry because Double X was still pretty cool from the refrigerator. When he was finished, I carefully folded the rug in the bottom and put the dog on top, with his head lying down on his outstretched paws as if he were asleep.

  Henry and I carried the casket through the kitchen into the living room, where I could see Jack Senior holding forth about the glories of living in Mason County—this not being the appropriate forum to discuss opening a tavern in the old manor house.

  After setting the casket down on the coffee table, I sidled up to the ministers, apologizing for interrupting the Reverend Goodenough’s long-winded agreement with Jack Senior that indeed Mason County was the best place on earth to raise kids and live the country clean life. I asked if either minister would care to say a few words over Double X to console the family and friends.

  Agreeing to split the duties, Pastor Beckett gave a little sermon on friendship across all creeds, races and species, and Reverend Goodenough talked about the sacred place of dogs in the development of Mason County. Then Jack Senior sat down to our old spinet, which had gotten sadly out of tune since the kids had stopped taking lessons, and played one verse of “Onward Christian Soldiers,” the only hymn that was likely to be known by most of the people present. Everybody stood, with Jack Senior booming the lead, until he was almost drowned out by a strong alto. Victoria was in the doorway singing, a big tear running down her cheek. To my knowledge she had never missed a funeral in Mason County—large or small, friend or foe—and she certainly wasn’t going to let the disclosure of the circumstances of Uncle George Ebenton’s demise break her record.

  ***

  Henry Adams and Weevil carried the casket out of the house, heading toward Weevil’s police pickup for the trip to the Tuttles’ side yard flower garden. The only problem was that the back of the truck was still filled to overflowing with sandbags awaiting the next flood. So I suggested to Jack Senior that he should go get my van.

  Two minutes later, the old tractor that he had been using in the absence of his car puttered around the corner of the house. “I thought it would be more appropriate,” he said. I thought about a top speed that was not quite fifteen miles an hour, and winced. Well, it was only five miles or so to Ornery Springs, the sun was out, it was a beautiful spring day, and Tillie and Tattie were beaming. I had to admit that Jack Senior always got the Mason County social requirements just right.

  Henry and Weevil tied the casket on the right rear fender, trying to leave it open for the trip. But they couldn’t get the top to stay up. Henry was closing it when Stuart rode up on his bicycle, took the cover in his left hand, and held it up. “I’ll do it,” he said.

  At last, the procession was ready to start out, with Sheriff Overhouse leading, his lights flashing but no siren, just like he does for real funerals; he was followed by Jack Senior on the tractor, and then the Tuttles in the police truck with Weevil driving, then Pastor Beckett with the Adamses, and lastly the Reverend Goodenough with Victoria. I was thanking goodness there had been no time for Victoria to call her DAR bridge cronies to make a real do of it, when there, stopping on the road across from the driveway, was Sarah Reilly’s Volvo station wagon, carrying not only herself, but Ruby Dixon and Virginia Goodenough. So, according to Mason County protocol, Virginia Goodenough hopped out to join her husband, and Victoria went up to ride with Sarah.

  I was shaking my head in disbelief as Victoria passed on the way to the Volvo. She slowed down. “I declare, Prudence, cheer up. Funerals are for the living. The dead are already spoken for.” She started to move on, and then came back a step. “Besides, this is probably the last family funeral the Tuttle sisters will get to attend when one of them isn’t the object of the ceremony. That is, unless they let Weevil start carrying a gun again.” Dropping an arm on my shoulder, she smiled through her tears and was gone.

  So I was turning to see what car had room for me, when Jack Senior took my arm and pulled me up onto the left fender of the tractor. I didn’t feel much like bouncing my butt, but I figured it was about as close to an apology from Jack Senior as I was ever to get, so I settled down as the procession turned out into the road.

  ***

  Two miles into the trip, I could make out, across a newly green cornfield, Hank Cooper’s truck careening down a road at right angles to ours. And a split second later I could see it was being chased by an old Chrysler convertible with Jezebel herself at the wheel. The convertible had a searing gash of rust down one side. I turned a little toward Jack Senior, who answered the unasked question. “Her car was washed away in the flood, so I lent her mine after it was fixed.”

  An answer of sorts. I turned back to watch the pursuit across the landscape, wondering what Hank had done now. But as we drew abreast of the crossroads, both vehicles were sitting quietly. Hank Cooper and three of his drinking buddies hopped out of the cab and four more men clambered down from the back of the truck, which was left with about six hounds—all probably descendants of Double X. Jezebel and four other of the good ol’ boys were getting out of the Chrysler. Weevil must have made a call, too. I was expecting some kind of trouble as Lou Overhouse had to slow down for the crowd. But they waved at the sheriff as he passed, apparently holding no grudges about him breaking up the fracas at the Jukebox that morning—they were probably all out on bail awaiting a court session to assess them for damages and give them a stern warning about brawling in public. As we drew even with the group, they removed their caps and waited respectfully until the casket had passed. Then each one stepped up to say a word into the passenger side window of the police pickup before hopping back into the vehicles and joining the end of the procession.

  I turned to look ahead. The honeysuckle was effusing a sweet odor masking almost completely the manure that had been laid on the fields in the early spring. The June sun bounced and danced on the road. A breeze barely rippled through the mild temperature. It was a great day to be alive. Or to be buried. I looked over at Double X. Stuart was still peddling along, holding the top up, letting the dog benefit from the day. I wondered if Uncle George Ebenton would fare as well. He was wounded defending Mason County and he must have been respected since he’d been elected lieutenant. Of course, nobody thought to check about his military rank when the body was found. Even around here, when a Southerner said someone was a major or colonel, the normal but unstated assumption was that he was a private caught up in something bigger than he understood and then elevated later to the status of hero.

  Uncle George would probably get a respectful burial—only as an unknown soldier, because none of the women in his family could deal with the fact that he’d failed to do his duty. Even Mason County’s biggest womanizer, Old Oilhead, and its greatest philanderer, my own husband, had risked their lives to help me when the chips were down. But there had to be more to an honorable life than that. Except maybe there wasn’t. All the heroes had been ineffectual in the final analysis and even my brave little foray into postmodern tractor-part sculpture had been stillborn. So much for accomplishment as a measure of anything. I switched to concentrating on the weather, which, today, didn’t need any human action to reach a state of accomplished perfection.

  As the Tuttle farm came into view, old Joshua Larkin wobbled on his one crutch out into the road. Jack Senior slowed down a bit to let him get around and look into Double X’s coffin.

  “Looks just like him. It shorely does,” Joshua said as he shuffled along next to Stuart. He shifted his gaze up at the two of us on the tractor. “Who made the casket?” he asked.

  “I did,” I a
nswered, and then corrected myself. “Henry Adams and I made it.”

  “Well, it shore is pretty. It’s just about the prettiest piece of fabricated metalwork that I ever did see. Leastwise, here in Mason County,” he said, before limping back to speak to the Tuttles; and then to be pulled by the work-roughened hands of a couple of good ol’ boys into the back of Hank Cooper’s pickup truck.

  Author’s Note:

  George Mason, George III, the ithyphallic Egyptian god Min, the 101st Airborne Division participation in Vietnam (the eagle-head patch in case you forgot), the War Between the States, the election of officers below general in the Confederate Army, Chancellorsville, Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg, General Robert E. Lee and his horse Traveler are well-known historical characters or occasions. Arlington County, Dulles Airport, Danville, the Shenandoah River, Front Royal, Baltimore, and Washington are names of current locations in and around Virginia and nearby Maryland. All the other events and names in the story are fictitious with the exception of William B. (Sambo) Short, “the tallest man in Company E,” the Ebenezer Greys of the 56th Virginia Infantry Regiment. Sambo Short was captured during Pickett’s Charge and died of scorbutus at the Chester Pennsylvania Hospital on September 8, 1863, although he did write in one of his last letters to his wife Barbara that the Yankee doctors and ladies were being good to him. I used his name because I liked it, and trust that I have done him no disservice.