The Sow's Ear

by E. Joan Sims

  “Did you ever see anything so lovely?” he sighed.

  “Look. I’m the wrong person to answer that question. I still haven’t gotten over her calling Leonard a rude and disgusting lout this morning. If you have any pull at all, Horatio, please make her let up on my meal ticket. Her constant carping is getting old.”

  “My dear, if I had any leverage at all, she’d have been Mrs. Horatio Raleigh ten years ago instead of just the last three glorious months.” He turned and smiled before he eased out of the Bentley. “Looks like we’ll both have to exercise more patience.”

  “Humph!” But I was smiling, and more than a little jealous. I sat in the car and watched the spring return to my old friend’s step as he headed down to the berry patch. How I missed having someone in my own life who could heal my heart and salve my soul like that. And then I caught sight of Cassie peering up out of the brambles, hoisting a big bucket triumphantly over her head, and my own spirits lifted a notch or two. Nothing like a sweet daughter and a bowl of raspberry cobbler to correct a slight hitch in the universe.

  Mother made the cobbler the old fashioned way—a simple, yet rich sheet of pastry layered with berries cooked in sugar until they bordered on bursting, then topped with heavy sweet whipped cream flavored with vanilla. This had been a day for silences and dessert was no exception. No one spoke until the last incredible bite had been consumed, and then we all spoke at once.

  “My lord, that was good,” declared Horatio. “Anna, dear, you have surpassed yourself.”

  “And what about me?” grinned Cassie. “Don’t I get some credit? Brambles, briars, thorns—does that ring a bell?”

  “The absolutely the best berries ever, Cass. I’ll remember you next time I look in the mirror and watch my derriere spreading.”

  The evening was perfect. We took our coffee out to the patio where we sat under a blanket of sparkling heavenly lights, enjoying the peace and quiet at the end of a stressful day.

  And then I had to go and ruin it.

  “How’s the diminutive Doc, Cassie? Has he walked under any good cows lately?”

  “Oh! Mom! You’re so…you’re so infuriating!” And she stomped off to the house without another word.

  “Damn.”

  “Well, what did you expect, dear?”

  “It was just a joke. But he is really short. She can’t deny that,” I snorted indelicately. “And besides, they look silly together.”

  “So did Sonny and Sherry, and look how successful they were.”

  “Yeah, until they got a divorce, and he skied into a tree,” I shot back, ignoring her gaffe.

  The next morning I got up at the crack of dawn, anxious to take our photographs apart with my fancy software. I was chomping at the bit, but had promised Horatio on the way back from Nashville that I would wait for him to begin working.

  Since his retirement, Horatio had forgotten the meaning of the phrase, “bright and early,” so I convinced Mother, who was an early riser herself, to encourage that distinguished gentleman to have an early breakfast. She used the excuse of a surplus of Cassie’s delicious hand-picked raspberries to tempt him, not realizing that the mere pleasure of her company was more than enough.

  I helped her set the table on the back porch while we waited for him to shower and shave. I even dared the wet grass to pluck a few roses for the centerpiece. Just as I was putting the finishing touch on the flower arrangement, Cassie hurried out on her way to breakfast with her new boyfriend. She flashed me a perky little smile and took the wind out of my sails by referring to her date as petite-dejeuner before I had the chance.

  I was contemplating the disastrous possibility of elfin grandchildren with British accents, an insatiable taste for treacle and a house full of budgies, when Horatio came out on the porch.

  “What’s bothering our lovely author this morning?” he crooned as he winked at my mother. “Could it be that her fickle little chick is showing more than the usual interest in our new veterinarian?”

  “Yeah, all right,” I answered sourly. “Now’s your chance to make some smart comment about “all creatures great and small,” then maybe we can eat.” I flounced back to the kitchen, stumbling awkwardly on the trailing belt of my housecoat as I returned with the butter. “Rats!” I murmured. The morning wasn’t turning out like I had expected at all.

  And to make matters worse, Horatio appeared to be in no mood to abandon the breakfast table. After finishing his mammoth meal of shirred eggs, country ham, raspberries with cream, and homemade biscuits—he drank cup after cup of coffee and made calf eyes at an openly flirtatious Anna Howard Sterling until I thought I was going to scream.

  Finally, after they had ignored my presence for a full forty-five minutes, I could endure no more. “Well,” I quipped nastily. “I’m about as necessary as a pyramid roofer. I’ll put this stuff away when you’re done, Mother—or maybe just leave it out since it’s so close to suppertime. Meanwhile, I’ll throw on some jeans and get to work on those photographs.” I cleared my throat loudly. “Is that okay with you, Horatio?”

  “Right you are, Paisley, dear. Be there in a moment,” he grinned. “Soon as Anna and I finish our coffee.”

  A nice hot shower went a long way to curing my bad mood, but once again the fates frowned when they gave me a “mommy dearest” moment with some wire coat hangers. Vowing to change dry cleaners, I shrugged into an overly starched cotton shirt and stiff jeans and made my way into the library. Horatio found me slapping down the billowing cotton front of my blouse when he joined me.

  “Paisley, you never fail to provide an amusing moment,” he observed with a chuckle.

  “Delighted to be of service,” I snapped. “At least I’m good for something.”

  “A mite piqued because Cassandra has shut you out of this romance of hers?”

  “No! Well, yes,” I amended. Then groaned, “She usually gives me some hint of what’s going on. I never pry,” I hastened to assure him, “but she always waxes poetic in the beginning. You know, “he’s so wonderful—he hung the moon—blah, blah romantic crap, ad nausium.”

  “But this time it’s different.”

  “Yes,” I moaned. “Do you think that means it’s serious? I mean, I love the Queen and all, and you know how I feel about scones and Earl Grey, but the idea of Cassie marrying someone from another country and going there to live…”

  “You did it,” he reminded me bluntly.

  “I know. That’s why I’m so worried.”

  “And he’s short.”

  “Oh, forget short! He could have four left feet for all I care, just so he wants to live in Rowan Springs.”

  Horatio sat down in the big leather chair in front of the fireplace where he was accustomed to warming his toes in the winter, and began the process of readying his pipe for a smoke.

  “Do you mind, my dear?” he asked, holding it aloft.

  “Umm,” I grunted. He knew I loved the smell of his fancy imported tobacco.

  “I’ve been observing this particular Romeo and Juliet with some interest,” he confided. “And if it makes you feel any better, my conclusion is that your daughter has another agenda.”

  “But what?”

  “That particular point has eluded me,” he confessed. “Now where are those photographs?”

  Chapter Eight

  The clever little gizmos inside my fancy new computer worked their magic as we sat back and watched. Following the idiot-proof instructions on the screen, in no time at all the photographs I had taken against Horatio’s wishes appeared.

  We zoomed in and examined each and every angle with no results until it occurred to me to reverse the images so we could have a mirror view without the mirror.

  “Nineteen and fifty-four!” we shouted in triumphant unison.

  “What does that mean, Horatio?”

  “Damned if I know,” he whispered the unaccustomed profanity.

  “And that does so look like initials!”

  “I can’t argue that
with you now, my dear. And I’m truly sorry I didn’t take you more seriously when we had a chance to call this matter to someone else’s attention.”

  “Let that be a lesson,” I teased. “Treat Paisley More Seriously 101.”

  “And lesson number two could be: uncover the face of the body when taking photographs so it can be identified.”

  “Oh, jeez, that’s going to be a problem, isn’t it?”

  “’Fraid so, my dear. Even if those scars provide the evidence that could clear Billy Arlequin’s name, we can’t prove they belong to Millicent. These pictures could be of anyone, as far as the law is concerned. Only you and I know that it really is Madame Grazziani’s corpse.”

  “Isn’t that enough? Couldn’t we testify to that? I have no problem swearing it was her. So can you.”

  “I can,” he amended. “You had no business being there in the first place. Remember that little point if you want me to stay in business. A very lucrative business,” he added under his breath.

  “No,” he decided, shaking his head, “you will have to stay in the background on this one, Paisley. And even so, I don’t know how it will look when I offer up these photographs. Most people are very particular about the way they want their dearly departed treated. I would imagine that the possibility of a little postmortem slide show would be high on their list of irreverent behavior.”

  “What do you care? You’re out of it, for the most part, that is.”

  He gave me a stern and reproachful look. “I’ll give you the benefit of believing there was no disrespect intended in your remarks, but I’ll also remind you that this is a family business. I love my nephew. I don’t mind what happens to me, but I could never allow a blemish on the family name for his sake.” He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, his brow creased in a frown, as he decided, “No, we’ll just have to think of another way to clear Billy.”

  Horatio’s verdict signaled an end to his interest in my photographs of Millicent’s abdomen. Out of respect for his company, I turned away from the computer and followed his desultory conversation for a few minutes until Mother, much to our combined relief, interrupted.

  “I’m taking a little drive down to the lake,” she announced gaily. “Anyone want to tag along? Paisley? Horatio?”

  That sprightly gentleman was up and out the door before you could say, “Hey, I thought he was almost seventy!”

  I waved energetically as they drove down the drive, then immediately turned back with renewed enthusiasm to my computer. Now that Horatio was gone, I could indulge in whatever fantasy I wished. The marks on Milly’s tummy were game pieces on my own personal Scrabble board. As long as I didn’t have a dissenting audience, they could spell out any word I cared to speculate upon.

  I started with the area around the umbilicus where I remembered seeing an “m” or possibly a “w.” And there they were again—barely visible as they edged up out of a fold in her wrinkled old skin. Unfortunately, both my hands had been occupied with the little disposable camera, and I hadn’t been able to pull the flesh taut enough to reveal more. I cursed softly and then smiled, realizing that this was what I liked, a puzzle that was truly tough. Anything else would have been disappointing and lost my interest in a heartbeat.

  I zoomed in closer and copied the image, then using the copy, I began to extend the lines and tweak the angles—hoping they would make sense. After several tries, I came up with at least two, maybe three, possibilities—all involving various combinations of “m’s,” and “n’s,” “w’s” and the certainty of the number, “1954.” Crossing my fingers, and assuming the number corresponded to a year, I decided that my next stop should be the archives of the George P. Whitherspoon Public Library.

  Mother was right. It was a lovely almost fall day. For a brief moment, I entertained the possibility of heading down to the lake and tracking them down for an early supper at Fox Trot Charlie’s Marina, but the memory of their simpering, lovey-dovey conversation at breakfast was enough to quell my appetite. Let them have their privacy, I decided. For all I knew, they might be doing more than conversing.

  Cursing old love, as well as young love, and the lack of love in between for me, I climbed in my car and drove downtown.

  The librarian was a pleasant young woman with pretty auburn hair and a brilliant smile. Trudy Shaw was one of those people who are lucky in their vocation. She truly loved books. I found her on her hands and knees energetically cleaning out the bottom shelves in the Reference Room.

  “Need some help?”

  “Hi, Paisley. Nope. I’m making room for a brand spankin’ new set of encyclopedia. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “How come?” I knew the library was always on the losing end of the city’s budget cuts. Their so-called Reference Room had been a joke for years.

  “Millicent Grazzini!” she declared, her face beaming. “She left us enough money for six new computer stations, too. Isn’t that wonderful? And just to think, the last time she was in here I yelled at her for tearing out pages from one of the new magazines. The dear old thing!” Trudy sat back on her heels, and dusted off her sleeves as she sighed, “I feel really guilty about it now. I had no idea she loved the written word as much as I do.”

  “You should see her stomach.”

  “What’s that, Paisley?”

  “Er, nothing. Trudy, I need to get to the archives.

  “You know where the keys are. Have at it. Just follow the drill and put everything back where you got it.”

  I left her to cleaning and made my way to the older wing of the building. When I was a little girl, this was the entire library: ten stacks of very old, and very moldy books—all donated by folks who no longer wanted them. There had been no “library fund” and everything had been bought with support from the various women’s clubs who kept a very close watch on what was allowed on those hallowed shelves. It had been my first experience with censorship. I remembered with amusement my outrage at not being able to find certain authors’ works in the library because they were “tacky Yankees with dirty mouths.”

  It was at least ten degrees cooler in the basement—and musty. As I pushed aside stacks of journals and old ledgers, dust motes floated up in the air like sleepy fairies awakened from a long nap and my nose began to twitch and tickle.

  My goal was over against the outside wall—three ancient metal cabinets whose creaky drawers held the microfiche files of old newspapers; but getting there wasn’t easy. Trudy hadn’t been as diligent with her cleaning down here in the archives. There were stacks of boxes and cartons on the floor, and I cursed and stumbled in the gloom as I picked my way through the mess.

  I found what I wanted after several tries, but the cabinets were old and full to the brim. The weight of the drawers made pulling them out difficult and getting them back in place was well nigh impossible. I was glad no one could hear me because my curses took on a very colorful note when I broke a nail and skinned a knuckle.

  Finally, I took my hard earned prize—a stack of microfiche at least a foot high—back to one of the old wooden tables. I blew the dust off one side and set them down carefully in what I hoped was the correct order. Of course, the entire exercise was ruined as I tugged the plastic cover off the reader and knocked the whole stack of files off on the floor in the process.

  By the time I had picked everything up, cleaned off a chair, turned on the machine, and waited for it to warm up, I was worn out and ready to go home. My hands were filthy, I was sweating profusely, and my nose itched like crazy. I rubbed it carefully against my shoulder, trying to avoid getting my face as dirty as the rest of me, but finally had to give in and scratch.

  The dust I had stirred up began to settle—mostly in my throat—and I coughed and sneezed while the old reading machine hemmed and hawed into life. I chuckled, thinking we sounded like twins in our noisy discomfort. The machine sounded even worse than I did, and when the little green ready light blinked on I was somewhat surprised that the ancient thing still worked.


  Since I had no idea what I was looking for, my research soon took on an air of resigned desperation. For an hour or two, I poured over the old newspaper pages, working the slide lever back and forth, up and down; hoping something in the dizzying display would catch my eye. The stack of film descended rapidly, and I was halfway through it when the headache began.

  I had managed to ignore the scratchy throat and the stuffed up nose—the dirt and dust, and the certainty of more insects than just the errant silverfish I had seen scurrying into the corner, but the pounding between my eyes was too painful to dismiss. I turned away from the machine, lay my head down, and closed my eyes.

  After a moment or two the pain and the dizziness receded, but I remained where I was—too tired and bored to resume my task.

  The faint sounds of life in Rowan Springs seeped through the cracks in the old windows high above me. Long ago someone had painted over the glass to keep curious passersby from peering into the dusty recesses of the library, and only a faint glow from what was a bright sunny day outside came through.

  I heard a car horn in the distance, a child’s shrill and angry cry, and then the carillon from the Presbyterian Church spire as it pealed out the half hour. Two women laughed as they walked past the library, their high heels clicking smartly on the sidewalk, and then silence as I nodded off.

  I awoke hours, or minutes later—I had no idea how much time had elapsed. It was too dark to read my watch. The light on the other side of the windows was considerably dimmer and the bulb on the microfiche machine had burned out. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I had no idea where the switch for overhead light was.

  I stood up, creaking and cracking joints and muscles still sore from my tennis match with Mother, and stumbled around looking for the light switch. As the room grew darker, I decided to abandon my search and find the way out before it was too late to see anything.

  I had gotten turned around when I first came down the stairs and it took me a minute or two to find them again. I was hungry now as well as tired, and the old wooden steps seemed even steeper. I was more than ready for a nice warm bath and a patio session complete with soft music, a plate of Mother’s goodies, and a chilled glass of Australian.