The truck’s engine fought the steep climb, spitting fumes and coughing hard. Emmalee looked quick at the baby who was kicking her feet and lifting her arms in the air. She shifted the truck into a lower gear and pushed the accelerator to the floorboard. She thumped the gearshift. The truck climbed higher, obeying Emmalee as she guided it through one hairpin turn and then another. The road grew rougher as she neared its top, and she tightened her grip on the wheel, trying to avoid the deep ruts and the slim shoulder.
Two wooden crosses stood in the ground to the left of the road, already placed there earlier in the morning to mark the very spot where Leona and Curtis flew off the mountain and fell headlong into a dark November night. These were painted white and much larger than the ones Emmalee made of twigs. Red and yellow carnations were scattered among the crosses and the rock and mud. Emmalee wondered who had done this, who had cared enough to memorialize Curtis and Leona this way. Her eyes grew wet again as she pictured Leona’s face, stricken with fear as the pickup left the road.
Emmalee idled the truck and bowed her head toward her chest as if praying for a winged angel to come and guide her the rest of the way there. Her straight brown hair masked her eyes. She had seen Leona’s bloodied face at Fulton’s, and she had stared at her without growing sick or lightheaded. But at the sight of these crosses, Emmalee felt hopeless, abandoned, maybe even orphaned.
If Leona were alive, she would be tending to the baby. She would have told Emmalee to rest while she fed Kelly Faye her bottle and rocked her to sleep. And when Emmalee woke from her own nap, she would have found Leona cooking dinner with Curtis sitting nearby, maybe reading the evening paper or holding the baby on his lap. Now this was all gone, and Emmalee wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve. The truck rattled as it climbed a little higher.
The fog lay heavier in patches on the top of Old Lick. Emmalee had watched these white clouds blanket the mountains around her many times in the winter months, keeping the sun from shining on the people who lived there. She eased to a full stop before heading deeper into the marshmallow-white sky. She sucked another tearful sob back down her throat and shifted the truck into a higher gear. She counted each mile and searched for the fork in the road Mr. Fulton had drawn on the back of the envelope. The fog thinned in places, and Emmalee found her way. She turned sharply into the drive marked by a black mailbox painted with large white letters that read LANE.
As she straightened the wheel, the tires spun in place, kicking up pine needles and wet leaves before grabbing onto a patch of drier ground. The engine roared and the truck lurched forward. Emmalee bounced on the seat. She eased her foot off the accelerator and then pressed a bit harder. The truck barreled on into the fog.
She spied enough road in front of her to steady the truck in the middle of the gravel path. Emmalee knew it made no sense but she felt as though she was headed home even though she had never been there. She slammed her foot against the brake when the fog suddenly thickened. Her head jerked forward, and the cardboard cradle fell against the dash. The baby screamed a shrill bitter cry, and the truck pinged and moaned.
“Oh shit,” she said. “Shh, baby. Hush up.” Emmalee was desperate to soothe the newborn with a few frantic words, but the baby hollered louder, her tiny fists clenched tight and her legs pulled to her stomach.
“Shh, baby,” she said and pulled the baby onto her lap. Kelly’s tiny heart beat fast, and her skin was hot to the touch. Emmalee was sick of the baby’s crying and tired of her own. She tapped the accelerator and the truck eased a few feet farther. The sky’s white cover had thinned even more, and she quickly spotted the trailer’s aluminum frame. She shifted the truck into park and hugged the baby on her lap. Kelly’s cries had softened, and Emmalee lingered there behind the steering wheel waiting for her own nerves to calm.
Suddenly, the trailer door slammed shut, the jarring sound ringing loud across the clearing. Emmalee jerked straight up to find a tall man dressed in a dark suit rushing down the porch steps. He hurried toward a long black sedan left at the far end of the trailer. Emmalee placed the baby back in the cardboard cradle, not once taking her eyes off the car she had seen at Tennewa nearly every day.
Mr. Clayton must have come to Old Lick to pay his respects. Maybe he figured family might have gathered in the trailer, and he owed them a personal visit. After all, Leona had worked at Tennewa too many years for him not to come. Surely he did this sort of thing for all of his employees, an official farewell for a career of dedicated service. Emmalee had never heard the other women talk about him doing that, but it must be so. That’s right. That’s all it was.
Mr. Clayton ducked his head and slid into his car. He raised his coat’s collar about his neck and pulled away from Leona’s home, navigating his sedan far from the pickup idling in place.
“No,” Emmalee reassured herself. “It ain’t so. It just ain’t so.” She sat behind the wheel of the truck till the sound of the car had faded down the drive. Then she sat a while longer, glancing in the rearview mirror for any sign of Mr. Clayton’s return. When the fog lifted in earnest, her heart beat more steadily.
For the first time, she could see Leona’s trailer perched there on the bluff like a giant blue bird ready to take flight and soar above the valley’s floor. The pale grass was trimmed around its aluminum skirting, and a neat pile of fresh-cut wood was stacked off to the side. The land around it was not cluttered with other people’s garbage. It was open and broad.
With the cardboard cradle in her arms, Emmalee eased from the seat and walked past a concrete pig standing stiff in the cold like a swinish sentry. One ear was missing and his snout was badly chipped, but it looked as though he had once held flowers in his back. Emmalee admired this bit of whimsy set outside Leona’s home. She steadied the box on her knee while she pulled on the hair blowing across her eyes, trying to rid her thoughts of Mr. Clayton.
Emmalee climbed the wooden stoop leading to the trailer’s door, the baby held quiet in her arms. “Leona,” she called across the clearing. “Miss Leona?” She waited for an answer, but nothing came. She thought she might be better at talking to the dead after all these years with her mama gone.
“Leona,” she called once more and turned the knob, not needing the key stuffed in her pocket.
The lamp on the table set just inside the door was already lit and cast a warm glow about the room. Emmalee moved slowly into Leona’s home and set the box holding her baby on the carpeted floor next to the brown reclining chair. “There you go,” she said and stepped to the table where a vase of white carnations and roses sat wedged between a sewing machine and yards of a thick crimson fabric.
Emmalee fingered one of the flowers with her left hand as she unbuttoned her coat with the other, believing it was Mr. Clayton who had placed such a beautiful arrangement there. Then she stroked the fabric piled high on the table. She studied the different shapes and the pinned seams but could not make sense of it and could not imagine sewing anything so large. Whatever Leona had been making, it was surely a hundred times bigger than the collars they had stitched at the factory.
Emmalee glanced at the baby and noticed a pair of reading glasses balanced on the recliner’s arm. She figured these belonged to Curtis, and she pictured him sitting in his chair, browsing the morning paper. Curtis’s face was always kind—fuller than her father’s and with warm blue eyes not dulled with age and drink. When he stopped by the factory to bring Leona her lunch, he would hesitate by her chair, like a teenaged boy hoping to steal a kiss. Maybe it was there, inside the trailer, that Leona talked sugary to him. Maybe there she kissed him on the cheek and told him she loved him. Emmalee rubbed her hand across the back of Curtis’s chair.
Leona’s home was both cluttered and ordered at once. And every piece in it, even the scraps of fabric scattered under the wooden table, told something of her friend’s story. Cast-iron skillets, paperback books, a boxed set of checkers, a leather-bound Bible, and a pair of sewing scissors with handles shaped like a bird’s
head—all looked like treasures to Emmalee. She took it all in and ambled on into the kitchen.
Dishes were piled in the sink, and potato peelings were stuffed about the drain. Leona had left in a rush. Emmalee was certain of that. She had known Leona to wash her coffee mug every afternoon before quitting the factory, wiping it dry with such a thoroughness that Emmalee knew leaving the day’s dirty dishes in the sink was not something she had done by choice. Emmalee spotted an empty glass on the counter and turned the faucet. She rinsed the glass and filled it. She drank it fast and filled it again.
The trailer groaned, and the walls shimmied as the wind gusted over the bluff. The sudden movement did not scare Emmalee. She felt as safe there as if she were held in a tightly woven nest. There, she felt Leona was close by.
Emmalee knelt by the cardboard cradle. She gently rocked the box, encouraging Kelly into a deeper sleep. “You got nothing to fuss about. Get to sleep and let me be,” Emmalee said soft but firm. She stood and tugged on her jeans. She walked into the narrow hall leading to the back of the trailer. She studied the large photograph hanging on the wall. She stared at Leona and Curtis but could not take her eyes off the baby boy, lying peaceful on a satin sheet.
At Tennewa, Leona never bragged about children or showed off pictures of grandbabies like the other women did. She retreated from conversations when the others commenced such talk, claiming she was behind on her bundles. Easter said Leona had a baby a long time ago, but he had died only hours after coming into this world. She said his death was rough on Leona and she had never been the same, never able to pick herself up and move on.
Emmalee had never dared ask Leona about her son when she was living, somehow never thinking he was real. Now this photograph both startled and mesmerized her, and she searched for the smallest gestures on this boy’s face—a faint smile, a slight dimple. She looked for a misplaced hair or a curled fist, pursed lips or furrowed brow.
“Have you found your baby yet?” Emmalee asked a much younger Leona sitting proud behind the glass, her husband standing tall behind her. Leona’s complexion looked pale, but her mouth was painted a deep shade of pink, a hint of vanity Emmalee had never seen. Her eyes were dazed and her expression was blank. Emmalee knew the baby in the picture was dead, that Mr. Fulton had only made him look real. “I hope you found him.”
Emmalee turned to a closed door behind her, placing an open palm on the wood panel as if she was checking for a heartbeat. She hesitated and then opened it far enough to see a bed, covered with a white spread, sitting in the corner of the room. A rocking chair was placed at a slight angle next to it and held a baby’s pink blanket and a doll made of cloth. A white dresser, its top wiped clean, was pushed against the opposite wall, and hanging above the dresser was a picture of a rabbit dressed in a blue coat. He held a watering can in his hand.
A crib stood on the other side of the dresser, almost behind the door. It was stained a dark brown and was prepared with sheets and blankets of varying shades of pink. At one end, a stuffed bear sat smiling back at Emmalee. And hanging from the crib’s rail was a cloth bag filled with diapers, disposable ones that would not need washing out in the yard. Emmalee tiptoed into the room and pulled a diaper out of the bag. She held it to her nose. It smelled like soap.
Leona had readied this room for her and Kelly Faye. Everything had been done for them, and Leona’s hands had touched everything in it. Emmalee inched backward and closed the door. She wanted to keep the room this way, just as Leona had left it. She brushed her cheeks dry. She did not have time for all this crying, Emmalee told herself.
She scooted farther down the hallway and into the bedroom at the end of the trailer. A bigger bed sat underneath a narrow, high-set window. A chenille cover lay rumpled across the mattress, and a hairbrush looked out of place on the foot of the bed. A larger window set in the wall to the right framed a view of the bluff’s edge, and Emmalee wondered what it must be like to wake to such a big sky.
An oak dresser underneath the window left little space. Bobby pins were spread across the dresser’s top. A bottle of lotion, a jar of loose face powder, and a swatch of yellow fabric were shoved to the back below an oak-framed mirror hanging low on the wall. A small photograph, set in a gold frame, sat among the other clutter. The picture was of a baby, the very same one Emmalee had seen in the hallway, only here he was by himself, his head resting on a satin pillow.
Emmalee thought the room was cozy and warm, and she pictured Curtis and Leona sidling through the tight spaces, bumping into each other and stopping to hug or maybe shoo each other away. If there was a dress suitable for burying, Emmalee figured it would be here. She squeezed past the bed to a narrow closet. A couple of skirts, three pairs of blue jeans, a half dozen housedresses from the factory, four or five plaid flannel shirts surely belonging to Curtis, as well as three heavy cotton work shirts and a man’s winter coat were all packed inside. She did not see a suit of any kind, but a couple pairs of work boots and one pair of terry-cloth slippers were strewn across the closet floor.
Emmalee sifted through Leona’s clothes, but found nothing fancier than a pleated skirt and a matching blouse. She wondered if she had missed something and lifted a blue housecoat off its hanger. The sound of a car’s engine pulling close in the drive quickly drew Emmalee’s attention back to the front of the trailer. She tripped over the foot of the bed as she raced to the curtained window next to the front door. She looked out at the gravel drive as she reminded herself she had every right to be there. Mr. Fulton said so. Yet she felt like a child caught doing something wrong. She patted the key in her jeans pocket.
A woman dressed in an olive-colored suit stood beside a deep blue sedan. Her figure was slender. Her neck, her nose, every feature looked thin and perfect. Her hair was a brilliant blond, swept into a ponytail dropping gracefully down her back. A green satin ribbon was tied neatly in her hair.
The woman stared at the trailer, walked a little closer and stared some more, as if she was looking for something that was not there. Emmalee opened the door, startling the woman climbing the front steps.
“Oh, Lord, you scared me!” the woman said, holding her manicured hand across her chest. “I was not expecting, well, you.” The woman took a deep breath and grabbed the handrail. “I’m looking for Leona. Is she here?”
Emmalee shook her head.
“Are you her daughter?”
Emmalee stared straight ahead, the housedress hanging over her arm.
“Who are you?”
“Nobody you know,” Emmalee said.
“All right.” The woman’s expression turned cross and her voice harsh. “Leona was supposed to have my slipcovers ready and sitting in a box by the door first thing this morning. I don’t see them anywhere.” The woman pointed at the ground. “I got a little delayed, but I did try calling. More than once. No answer. I assumed she was at her factory job. Bottom line, I don’t see my slipcovers.”
The woman stared at Emmalee, and a silence lingered between them.
“Leona ain’t here.”
The woman shook her head. “Yes, I see that. But I almost killed myself getting up this mountain in this weather. Leona promised to have my slipcovers ready.”
“I don’t know anything about slipcovers.”
“Look, young lady. I made it very clear my slipcovers must be ready this morning. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. You understand me? This morning. I can’t be chasing Leona around when I’ve got a dinner party to prepare for.”
Emmalee stood firm in the doorway and glanced at the red fabric on the table to her left. “Like I said, she ain’t here.”
Emmalee did not care for this woman who looked only a few years older yet insisted on talking to her as if she was a child. She did not bother to tell her Leona was dead and that she had left this world in a horrifying manner only a few hours ago. She knew this woman in her pretty green suit did not care about the seamstress she had hired to do her work. Her only concern was these slipcovers she prattl
ed on about, still lying in pieces needing Leona’s hand to give them structure and shape.
“Well, that’s great. Just great.” The woman shoved her gloved hands onto her hips. “When you see Leona next, you tell her I am not coming back up this mountain. She promised these slipcovers would be ready, and she is going to have to get them to me. Today.”
Emmalee picked at her thumb.
“Listen here, I will not be recommending her to any of my friends. My dinner party is tomorrow night, and she has left me in a terrible bind. I cannot entertain my husband’s associates without those slipcovers. Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know where she’s gone?”
“Don’t know for sure.”
“Who are you anyway?”
Emmalee only stared at the woman.
“Fine,” the woman said. “Be sure and tell Leona to call Mrs. Brooks the minute she returns. Can you do that much? Are you going to write this down so you don’t forget?” The woman tapped the point of her shoe on the top of the wooden stoop. “I’d feel better if I saw you write this down.”
“Ain’t got a pencil.”
Emmalee shut the door and fastened the lock. She watched the woman stalk to her car, her high heels sticking in the damp ground.
As she backed into the trailer, Emmalee tripped across a pair of canvas loafers. She had not noticed them there before, and something struck her sad about these shoes waiting for Leona’s return. Emmalee felt emotion bubbling up again. She hurriedly placed the shoes side by side where she had found them, in case Leona came looking for them in the middle of the night. Then she sat on the metal folding chair in front of Leona’s sewing machine. She scooted close to the table as she had at Tennewa as though she were preparing for a day’s work.
Silver lettering across the machine’s black casing spelled ATLAS deluxe, the name shining brightly under the warm lamplight. This was a much smaller machine than those at the factory, but Emmalee wondered how many hours Leona had sat in this very place, her foot pushing the floor pedal, her fingers spinning and slowing the hand wheel. How many hours had she sat there at the end of another long shift at Tennewa? What all had she made guiding the needle through countless yards of fabric—shirts for Curtis, the drapes hanging there on the window, slipcovers for other women who stood there at her door, demanding and angry, gowns and blankets for Kelly Faye? This old machine knew Leona’s story better than anyone.
The Funeral Dress Page 10
