The Funeral Dress

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

  When Curtis wasn’t looking, Leona wrapped a lace-trimmed nightgown and matching robe in brown paper and hid it in the very bottom of the box between the cans of Spam and Blue Lake green beans. Curtis would never think it appropriate giving such an intimate gift to a stranger, especially inside a church box. But Leona figured every woman needed to feel pretty every so often, even if it was in the dark of night.

  Christmas had been a sad time in Leona’s house growing up. She was only eight years old when her daddy died in the mines along with nine other men from Cullen and Whitwell on December twenty-first. She and her mama were making Christmas cards out of red and green construction paper when a knock came at the door. She remembered her mama collapsing at the feet of the dark-suited official from the Tennessee Mining Company when he delivered the news. The company man apologized for her loss, said he spoke on behalf of everyone at Tennessee Mining. He gave her a meager check and a week to gather her things. Another miner and his family were set to move in the first of the year.

  Leona was convinced her daddy left his family shackled to this valley, bound by poverty or weariness or fear. She wasn’t really sure which it was, but she watched her mother raise three children, taking in wash and sewing from women she didn’t know. They never had much for Christmas, other than a skirt or dress her mama had stitched together from scraps. But what saddened Leona most was that her mama never had a present of her own, other than what her three children had assembled from the school’s supply of craft sticks and glue. Leona grew up determined to find more out of living than filling her babies’ stomachs on hoe cakes and white beans, but nothing had worked out like she planned.

  “You got the ham in there?” Curtis pulled a plastic comb from his rear pocket and stretched back in the reclining chair.

  “It’s right here.”

  “Who’s it going to?” Curtis asked as he combed his thinning hair, careful to work the part on the right side of his head.

  “Nolan Bullard and his wife.”

  “Nolan Bullard found someone to marry?” Curtis asked.

  “Yep.” Leona shook her head. “About a year ago. A pretty young thing from over in Whitwell somewhere.”

  “Bet he told her some more tall tale to get her to say ‘I do.’ ”

  “Curtis Lane, you’re calling Nolan Bullard a liar,” Leona said and laughed.

  “Well, even the Lord knows there ain’t any other way he could get a woman to marry him.”

  Leona placed her hands on her hips and laughed some more. “Hey, go on and get out of here and quit wasting your time jawboning with me. You said you were going to cut down a tree for the trailer an hour ago. We’re never going to get this box delivered by dark if you don’t get on with it.”

  “I thought you might want to go with me?” Curtis pushed himself up from the chair.

  Leona shook her head. “You ask me that every year, and every year I tell you the same thing. No, I don’t want to go hunting for a tree. I got enough to do. Go on.”

  Curtis slipped his hands in his pants pockets. “I doubt we’ll have time to decorate it tonight.”

  “Those skinny things you bring in here ain’t hardly worth decorating. Can’t fit a decent-sized tree in this room.”

  Curtis pulled on his wool jacket. “I don’t need to get one, Ona, if you don’t want me to.”

  Leona had once loved to walk with Curtis into the woods. He scouted for the perfect tree while she hunted for pinecones. The big ones were her favorites. She’d dip the tips of their woody scales into glue and roll them in different colors of glitter. She hung them on the tree, giving thought to where she placed each one. The glitter sparkled against the strand of white lights Curtis wrapped around the tree’s branches.

  But Leona didn’t care much about decorating the trailer anymore. She said it was a waste of her time. Surely Curtis could see she had enough to do without trimming a tree or making other silly decorations, especially with no one there to admire it all but the two of them.

  “Maybe next Christmas, Ona. Maybe we’ll be in our house by then, and you can pick the tallest cedar on Old Lick.” He pointed above his head and stared at his hand as if he was admiring his imaginary tree.

  “Hush up, Curtis. I’m tired of that talk,” Leona snapped, her mood changing fast.

  Curtis’s smile faded. He opened the door and stared out at the woods.

  “First Baptist is using real live animals in the nativity this year. They hadn’t done that since I was six years old.” Curtis placed his hand at his hip, indicating the little boy he once was. “One of the sheep got spooked and ran off with baby Jesus in his mouth, ran all the way to Pine Mountain.”

  “Curtis Lane, I wouldn’t be lying about the baby Jesus,” Leona said.

  “I ain’t. But it was a good thing the live baby Jesus come down with a fever earlier in the day. They ended up putting a baby doll in the manger instead.”

  “You’re pulling my leg,” Leona said and opened the oven to check on her gingerbread.

  “I ain’t.” Curtis smiled big. “Some say that goat’s still living up there, tending to that little baby doll like it was his own. You listen real close on a quiet night and you can hear him baying on the other side of the valley.”

  Leona waved her hand. “Go on. Get out of here.”

  Curtis buttoned his coat and looked back at his wife. “You want to go by and take a look at the nativity? I mean after we deliver the box?”

  Leona pounded her fist on the windowpane. “I hate them old crows. Shoo. Go on now,” she said to the birds pecking at the remnants of a dead possum or squirrel a few feet from the trailer’s end. “Where’s my pretty redbird?” she asked, her voice falling and rising as if she was calling an old friend to come pay her a visit.

  Curtis stepped outside, and the door swung shut behind him.

  Leona finished up the box, even tucking a new bottle of Jergens lotion she had bought for herself between the cans of green beans and the pineapple upside-down cake. She left the box ready on the kitchen floor for Curtis to carry and hurried into the bedroom to change her clothes smeared with butter and flour from her long day of cooking.

  Later inside the truck, Curtis pointed to the band of thickening clouds settling across the valley. “Looks like we might have a white Christmas, Ona,” he said. Leona said nothing as she spied the small cedar resting against the trailer as the truck lurched into reverse.

  A long silence drifted between them as Curtis steered the truck down Old Lick Mountain. As the road straightened near the bottom, he licked his lips and pushed his nose into the air. “I can’t take it much longer. Hmm. Hmm. That bread smells mighty good. When do we get ours, Ona?”

  “Not till we get home. Need to do our good deed first.”

  Curtis pressed harder on the pedal and crouched behind the wheel like he was taking off for the moon. Leona screamed, and Curtis slowed the truck. He grinned big and patted his wife’s knee.

  “That ain’t funny, Curtis,” Leona gasped, holding her hand to her chest.

  “Sorry, sweetie. Just having a little fun.”

  “I told you I ain’t in the right mind for that kind of fun.”

  “I’m sorry. Where we headed anyway? Last I heard Nolan was living in a rented room on Cloverdale Loop. Surely he didn’t take his new bride over there.”

  “No, he’s moved into some old shack in Red Chert,” Leona answered and pointed ahead with her finger as if Curtis did not know the way. “Easter said it was at the very back of the holler. And then to the right some.”

  “Nolan’s a stubborn old mule. What makes you think he’s going to take this box?” Curtis asked.

  “His young bride. At least I hope he’s thinking about his wife this time of year. This one time of year.”

  Curtis grunted.

  “Okay. I’m hoping he won’t be there.”

  Curtis accelerated and steered the pickup on through town. He paused before turning left onto Red Chert Road. “You’re a good woman,
Leona,” he said as he pulled onto the gravel and dirt road. He placed his hand on Leona’s knee and kept it there as they wound their way deeper into the holler.

  “You think that’s it?” Curtis asked and nodded toward the house sitting back from the road. A long tail of smoke rose from a metal pipe pitched a few feet above a rusted tin roof. Any other time of year, the dwelling might not have been visible, but the winter’s cold had left the wooded lot naked and the house in plain sight. Pieces of tar paper tacked to its plywood sides flapped in the wind and left the house looking as though it was shaking from the cold.

  “I guess so,” Leona answered. “You forget sometimes that somebody’s always worse off.”

  Curtis nodded and guided the truck through a patch of thick mud. A bank of low cedars scratched the sides of the pickup as he maneuvered farther down the narrow drive. A dog ran toward them, barking and lunging at the truck’s rolling tires.

  “Don’t hit him,” Leona said, pointing to the animal looking more like a skeleton wrapped in a loose hairy coat than a family pet.

  “He’ll get out the way,” Curtis reassured her. “Poor thing, wonder when he was fed last. Sit tight while I take the box to the door.” Curtis dipped his hand into the box. “You got a bone in there by any chance, Ona?”

  Leona tugged on Curtis’s sleeve. “You ain’t funny. Listen, you be careful around that mangy thing. Something that hungry might take a bite out of even your scrawny leg.” She rolled down her window and leaned forward, keeping a close watch on Curtis as he walked toward the house.

  Curtis carried the box in one hand and with the other swatted at the dog trotting behind him, nipping at his every step. The dog circled Curtis as he knocked on the door and waited for an answer. Curtis looked back at Leona, who motioned for him to try again. With a tight fist, he knocked harder.

  “Hello. Anyone home?” he called. “Curtis Lane here, from Cullen Church of Christ.” Curtis waited a minute and knocked again. “Got a Christmas box for you. If you want, I can leave it right here outside the door.”

  Leona waved at Curtis and pointed at the dog.

  “Sure hate for some animal to get into it is the only thing,” Curtis said, raising his voice. “Maybe I can put it here on top of this refrigerator.” He looked to Leona for further direction. She held up her hands, unsure of what to do next.

  As he turned to walk away, the door opened, only a sliver at first, and then wide enough to reveal a young woman full with child. Her bare, skinny legs were visible beneath a thin cotton dress, and she yanked on a sweater too small for her swollen body. Her hair hung wild and loose from a bun pinned to the back of her head. Her eyes were deep-set and her cheeks, hollow. She looked more ghostlike than human, more child than adult, but Leona fixed her stare on the woman’s pregnant belly instead.

  It had been nearly five years since Curtis, Jr., died in Leona’s arms, and Curtis’s promises of another child had never come true. Every month she watched for her bleeding to stop, but every month, her bleeding came, regular and steady. She said nothing to Curtis of her hopes and disappointments, but she was growing afraid the Lord might never trust her with another baby. Dr. Greer told her it had nothing to do with trust. Her uterus was fierce or angry. She couldn’t remember exactly what he called it, but she knew what it meant.

  Leona had grown so tired of the disappointment and wondered if that was why she found herself avoiding her husband’s arms these days. She spoke shortly too often and her temper flared whenever Curtis wanted to take her to bed and love her like he had when they were newlyweds. The only reason Leona went along with him most times was the lingering hope that another baby would take root inside her. All she knew was she’d never have a family of her own.

  Curtis said something to the pregnant girl standing there in front of him, and she opened the door a little wider. He took the box from the top of the refrigerator and disappeared inside. He was only gone a moment, and then he stepped back to the porch. He tipped his hat, and the young woman scooted backward into the darkened house. The dog sat by the front door and watched Curtis as he walked to the truck.

  Snow fell on his shoulders, and he held his hands open wide and smiled at Leona. A single tear ran down Leona’s cheek, but she wiped it dry before Curtis could see.

  EMMALEE

  RED CHERT

  The rain came shortly after Nolan left the house, striking hard against the metal roof. Comforting at first, the noise grew deafening as the storm strengthened and settled between the walls of the holler. What remained of the tar paper nailed to the house’s exterior offered little protection from the wet weather, and the plywood cladding turned a full shade darker as the heavy rains persisted.

  Emmalee was tired and worn out, but the preacher’s visit had left her shaky and too anxious to sleep. Besides, she was eager to get back to Old Lick and start on Leona’s dress. She didn’t have much time if she was going to have it ready for Mr. Fulton by Sunday. She wanted it perfect.

  Emmalee paced the length of her room, staring at what was once a pea-sized hole in her right boot that had spread wide across the toe. She figured she walked near a mile in these boots just this morning waiting for Nolan to return with the pickup. She walked to the window, but there was no sign of him.

  She peeked into the front room and called his name even though she knew he was not there. His cot was empty, and the fire in the stove had burned out during the night. The room smelled of ash and stale greens and onions. There was no coffee warming, and her father’s bottle was sitting empty on the table. There hadn’t been much in it last Emmalee saw it, but what was there was now gone. Emmalee lifted the blanket covering the front window and crept about the house as she had when she was a little girl, worried Nolan might be watching from nearby, hidden on the wooded slope.

  He used to hide out there often, especially when Mrs. Cain came from the county welfare office to check on Emmalee’s condition. She would stand firm outside the door waiting for Nolan to answer. She threatened to wait all day if need be. “I see your truck, Nolan Bullard. You’d come out and show your face if you were a real man.” Emmalee sat crouched behind the door while Mrs. Cain hurled more threats and pounded on the door.

  “Nolan Bullard, quit playing these games with me. I know you’re in there. Don’t make me go back to town and get the sheriff. I’ll do it. You know I will.”

  Emmalee had grown scared then and opened the door. Mrs. Cain’s talk had thundered so big that Emmalee expected to find a giant standing in front of her, not a wrinkled woman who stood no bigger than a child and looked as though she might blow away in a strong gust of wind. She held a sack full of groceries in her hands and wore a sweet expression.

  “Hello, Emmalee. How are you?” Mrs. Cain asked, her voice much softer. Emmalee was surprised this woman knew her name. “Your daddy here?” she asked and pushed her way into the house, her pretty pink dress swaying back and forth when she talked.

  Emmalee looked toward the mountain.

  “All right then.” Mrs. Cain set the groceries on the Formica-topped table along with a stack of coupons. “Your daddy can use these like money at the grocery store in town as long as he’s not spending them on cigarettes or beer. So there’s no reason not to have some decent food in this house.”

  Mrs. Cain rapped the lid of a large jar filled with collards and chicken necks. “Is this all you got to eat, honey, this jar of greens? Lord, no telling how long that slop’s been sitting there.” Mrs. Cain muttered something to herself and tipped the grocery sack in front of Emmalee. “There’s a package of clean panties in the bottom of the bag. Matching undershirts, too. Those are just for you. Mrs. Tate, your teacher, said you might be needing them.” Mrs. Cain held Emmalee’s chin in her hand. “I’ll be back to check on you,” she had said with a sad face and walked out the door, tossing orders for Nolan in the air, her voice growing shrill and high-pitched. “You got to take care of this child, you hear me, Nolan Bullard? And for crying out loud, wash her clothes.�
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  Nolan had responded by throwing the coupons in the stove and taking his belt to Emmalee’s bottom. Emmalee could feel the sting of the leather all these years later as she pulled a couple of dry biscuits from a tin box and tied them in a yellow cloth. She groused around the kitchen until she found a piece of cured ham Nolan must have missed. She untied the cloth’s knot and added the salty meat to her pack. Emmalee hadn’t eaten much since Leona died, and the baby drained her of what little she had. This morning she was feeling hungry and weak, leaving her hands shaking even when she slipped them inside her jeans pockets.

  Emmalee buttoned her coat and went to fetch the baby, who was starting to fidget. She feared Kelly would want to suckle, and her breasts were more red and tender than before. Lately, she found herself growing angry every time the baby wanted to feed. She had hoped Doris Cain would come to the house all these years later and check on Kelly Faye, maybe bring some store-bought formula and a couple of bottles. Emmalee heard the county did that sort of thing. Perhaps she had come, and Nolan had sent her away, too, like he had Runt and Mettie. Emmalee swaddled the baby tight in the pink crocheted blanket and hurried out the front door with her food sack looped around her wrist.

  The rain was falling lightly, and another thick, white mist had settled among the treetops. The last of the fall’s orange and red leaves, brilliant in their death, had dropped to the ground and were awaiting their slow, fertile burial. A lone rosette of shepherd’s purse poked its flowery head through the fall’s debris. Any other day, Emmalee would have stopped to admire its lobed leaves and delicate white blossoms, an unexpected spot of color during these colder months. But she walked on, cautious not to kick the leaves with the tips of her boots, something she had loved to do as a little girl. She did not want Nolan spotting her tracks. If he came home sober, he would follow her path down the muddy drive and onto the road winding its way toward the foot of the holler. She shifted the baby to her other arm and walked on down Red Chert Road. A wood thrush grew persistent in his morning song, and Emmalee focused on his warbled notes and the full rests falling between them as she walked on toward her uncle’s house.