The Funeral Dress

by Susan Gregg Gilmore

  Runt and Mettie couldn’t have a baby of their own no matter how hard they went at it, and Emmalee figured maybe there was some truth to what Nolan said. Maybe they were fishing for hers. Nolan told her they’d steal Kelly Faye straight out if they could, but Emmalee never believed all of that. Runt had been good to her when she was little, although she never saw much of him anymore.

  The house Runt built after marrying Mettie was three times the size of Nolan’s. It sat on a low rise about a hundred yards from the main road, and his land reached all the way to the top of Pine Mountain. There was no tar paper nailed to this house, and it was painted a clean white with a sturdy porch stretching across its front. A stone path was set in the ground all the way to the broad porch steps. A large twig wreath decorated with fake birds was fastened to the door. Emmalee stood and stared up at the house and the odd little birds nesting there. She hesitated and scooted backward, suddenly unsure of what she was doing at Runt’s. She thought about turning around, running back to her father’s or maybe all the way to Old Lick.

  “Emmalee, hey girl,” Runt called from an open door.

  Emmalee jumped hearing her name but relaxed when she saw her uncle hurrying toward her, a wide grin on his face, his arms outstretched. Emmalee had not expected to find Runt home this time of day, but she imagined the rain had kept him off the mountain and away from the mill. She was relieved he was there and leaned into her uncle’s embrace. Runt wrapped his arms around her and the baby and held them close.

  “Look at you, Emmalee, a mama. My. My. You’re looking more like Cynthia Faye every time I see you,” he said.

  “I wish Mama was here,” Emmalee whispered back.

  Mettie called to Runt from inside the house, wanting to know who had come to the door. Emmalee stood quiet and looked up at her uncle.

  “Come on. Let’s get you and the baby out of this wet cold.” Runt kept his arm around his niece’s shoulder and led her inside. The house was tidy and clean and smelled like wild jasmine. Emmalee savored the sweet scent. She took another full breath and held it in her lungs. No jasmine had bloomed in this valley for months.

  “Come on in. Sit down,” Runt said and pulled her deeper into the room. A blue sofa and two cushy-looking chairs covered in a bright floral fabric consumed most of the space. The furniture looked new, like it had come straight from the store, and Emmalee hesitated to sit for fear she might dirty one of Mettie’s cushions.

  Nolan had never allowed her to visit her uncle’s house. He had warned her about coming with such venom in his eyes, Emmalee believed she was talking to a devilish haint, not her own father. Through the years, she had ignored much of what Nolan had told her about Runt and Mettie, but never this. She always feared what he would do if he found her there. Even today, her hands trembled some.

  “You look beat,” Runt said. “You okay?”

  Emmalee bounced the baby in her arms. She tried to smile, although she wasn’t sure if Runt had noticed the effort. Mettie walked into the living room and gasped. She cupped both hands over her mouth, and her eyes grew wide. “Emmalee,” she said, drawn out and kind.

  “Go on, sit,” Runt repeated. Mettie kept her hands to her mouth. She stared at Kelly Faye, and a small smile pushed its way free. With her hand, Emmalee brushed the seat of her pants and sat on the sofa as her uncle had instructed. She looked at Mettie, hoping she had done right.

  “Mettie, hon, why don’t you get Emmalee some juice?” Runt said.

  Mettie nodded. She stood a moment longer before turning for the kitchen. Emmalee and Runt didn’t speak while Mettie opened and shut cabinets and clanked glasses together in the next room. She returned a moment later with a fresh glass of apple juice and set it on the table at the end of the sofa. Emmalee adjusted the baby on her lap and held the juice to her lips. It was cool and sweet on her throat. She gulped it down. It left her stomach feeling full and a little sick, but she wanted more. Mettie offered to fetch her another glass while keeping her stare fixed on the baby in Emmalee’s arms.

  “Why you here, Em?” Runt asked. “I know this ain’t a social call. You need something? Something for the baby? Are you two all right?”

  “You know we’ve been thinking of you,” Mettie said from the kitchen. “We wanted to come down to see you. I even bought the baby a few gowns and a little pink sweater with a matching cap.” Mettie grew giddy as she described the baby’s new clothes. “You want to see them?” she asked.

  “Hang on, Mettie. I think Em has come down here for a reason. What is it, hon? What do you need?” Runt asked, his face turning serious. “You know we’ll help any way we can.” Mettie nodded as her husband spoke.

  Emmalee wished she knew what she needed most. Maybe it was someone to care for the baby, or maybe it was someone to care for her. She wasn’t sure anymore. She said nothing while Mettie inched closer to her and Kelly cradled in her arms.

  Runt had brought Mettie by her and Nolan’s house when they first married. She wouldn’t sit down on their broken-down sofa or drink or eat anything they had to offer. Mettie never let go of Runt’s hand and insisted on calling him by his God-given name, William. Nolan called her a bitch after they drove off and said nobody in town would know who in the hell William was. Emmalee never blamed Mettie for acting skittish around Nolan. She didn’t like much about her father’s house, either, and imagined it was real off-putting to a stranger. Besides, William sounded nice to her, important even. Sure as hell beat Runt.

  Emmalee was eight at the time, and she could not take her eyes off of Runt’s pretty new bride. She thought Mettie was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen; even her skin smelled pretty. She liked Mettie then. She liked her a lot. More than that, she wanted Mettie to like her, too. But Mettie never came to the house after that, and Runt quit coming unless he had work to offer Nolan.

  Emmalee drew Kelly closer to her chest and ignored Mettie’s stares. She had grown to hate her aunt through the years, but not because of all the hateful things Nolan said about her. Emmalee never believed much of that. Instead she hated Mettie for never coming back.

  “Can I hold her?” Mettie asked with a cautious tone.

  Emmalee lifted the baby to her shoulder. “She’ll be nine weeks tomorrow, fusses all the time. I guess that’s what babies do. But it gets on my last nerve sometimes.” Emmalee had never owned anything anybody else craved, and she enjoyed teasing Mettie by holding out on her. Mettie’s smile fell weak, but she did not take her eyes off the baby who was indeed starting to fuss as Emmalee had promised she would.

  “Can I? Please?” Mettie asked again.

  Again, Emmalee hesitated but then held Kelly Faye up in front of her.

  Mettie slowly lifted the baby onto her shoulder and rubbed her tiny back. She nuzzled her nose against Kelly’s neck. The baby’s cries strengthened in pitch and volume, but the noise did not fluster Mettie. She swayed back and forth, back and forth, whispering in Kelly’s ear. She patted her back with a tender hand and kissed her fuzzy head, and soon Kelly grew quiet. Mothering looked so natural for Mettie, Emmalee thought, and she had yet to birth a baby of her own.

  “She’s mighty tiny. You been feeding her good?” Mettie asked as she rocked the baby in her arms.

  “Best I can. She’s always hungry. Hard to keep up with her. Tit’s so damn sore, can’t barely stand it.”

  “I’m sure of that,” Mettie said as if she understood from her own personal experience. “Are you eating enough? You know you can’t feed her right if you’re not eating good and drinking plenty of water.”

  Emmalee shrugged her shoulders.

  Runt stared at her, and Emmalee lowered her eyes to the ground. She picked at the electrical tape that held her boot together. Mettie wore shoes with a sharp point at the toe. Emmalee imagined Mettie’s feet must hurt all the time scrunched up inside those shoes.

  “Runt,” Emmalee said, “you know Nolan would whip me good if he knew I was here. So you got to swear you won’t say a word. I mean it. Promise.
Hand on the Bible and everything. You, too, Mettie.”

  “I promise,” Runt said. “You know you can trust us both.” He reached out and patted Emmalee’s arm. “We’re sure happy to see you, hon, but I got to think you come looking for something more.”

  Emmalee wrung her hands and kept her eyes fixed on the floor, finding it easier to talk to Runt if she didn’t have to look at him straight. “There’s something I need to do, and Mr. Fulton was right. I can’t do it and care for a baby at the same time. I ain’t got no one to turn to, no one to hand her off to.”

  “Oh,” Mettie said, fast to interrupt, “we’d love to take care of Kelly if that’s what you’re wanting.” She hugged the baby tighter.

  “You can’t keep her, Mettie. I just need some help for a day or two. That’s all.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mettie said.

  “It shouldn’t take me any longer than that to get Leona’s dress done without the baby hanging on me.”

  “The dress?” Mettie asked.

  “For Leona. For burying.” Emmalee nodded. “I’m making it. Mr. Fulton said I could.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s wonderful.” Mettie paused and whispered in the baby’s ear. “And yes. We’d love to keep Kelly Faye for you. And Nolan won’t know a thing about her being here.”

  Emmalee tucked her hair behind her ear. “Never thought you’d be wanting to do me a favor.”

  Mettie’s body swayed more slowly. The baby had fallen asleep in her arms. “Why honey, I love you. I always have. You’re family.” Mettie gazed at the baby as she talked. Her smile grew bigger and her tone bright. “You are such a pretty girl. Yes, you are. We’re going to need to put you on a bottle without your mama here to feed you. Yes, we are. Yes, we are,” she cooed in the baby’s ear.

  Emmalee fidgeted watching Mettie care for Kelly Faye with such ease, but she was careful with her tongue. She needed Mettie now. “Fine with me. Bottle might do her some good. Know it’ll do me some.” Emmalee leaned back against the sofa and pushed her feet out in front of her. “I need one more thing, Runt. I need a ride to Old Lick.”

  Before leaving for Old Lick, Mettie wrapped Emmalee’s chest in strips of soft white cotton, promising the binding would leave her more comfortable while she was away from her baby girl. “You don’t want to get all clogged, so be sure to take this binding off tonight and milk those breasts good. Probably best if you could do it more often than that, but promise you’ll do it good before going to bed.” Mettie held the edge of the binding against Emmalee’s back. “That’s real important. They can get infected if you don’t. Your left one’s already feeling a tiny bit warm to the touch. Probably nothing, but keep an eye on it.”

  Mettie pulled and stretched the binding around Emmalee’s chest over and over. Emmalee stood in front of the mirror and admired her body wrapped up neat like a Christmas present. She looked smaller and flatter, more like the Emmalee she used to know. She felt mothered in Mettie’s care as her aunt’s slender fingers worked a pin into the cloth binding.

  “There, that should do it,” Mettie said as she fastened the pin closed. “If you have a hard time getting the milk to come, put some warm cloths on your chest. It’ll help. Trust me.”

  “How come you know all this?” Emmalee asked as she examined herself some more, turning to the side and drawing her hands across her breasts.

  Mettie laughed. “My mama had ten children. Surely you knew that. Figured everyone in Cullen knew that. I was the third, after my sisters Dottie and Kitty.” Mettie held up her hand as if she was counting out her siblings on her fingers. “Being the oldest girls, we three did our share of child rearing. Mama had her last at forty-nine. Two months short of her fiftieth birthday.”

  “Forty-nine,” Emmalee repeated as though she could not believe it.

  “Lord, we thought she’d never stop having babies,” Mettie said as she sat on the edge of her bed, wrapping a scrap of the binding around her wrist. “Me and my sisters were so mad at her when she told us the tenth was on its way. That was my brother Calvin. Dottie wouldn’t even talk to Mama for days. Can’t blame her really. Dottie wanted to get out of that house. Out of Cullen. She was tired of sharing everything—clothes, beds, bathroom. Even your own toothbrush was up for grabs. But more than anything, we didn’t want to raise any more of Mama’s children. We wanted lives of our own and families of our own.” Mettie kissed the baby’s head, her lips smoothing the baby’s fine hair.

  “She feels a little warm, Emmalee. She been feeling okay?”

  “I reckon. Seems fine to me. Sleeps, cries, poops, and eats. That’s about it.”

  “Probably all this blanket she’s wrapped up in is heating her up some.” Mettie loosened the knitted blanket around Kelly’s tummy. The baby stretched and curled her body.

  “I thought your daddy was rich and could pay people to do for your mama,” Emmalee said, twirling the end of her hair around her index finger.

  “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Nolan.”

  Mettie rolled her eyes. “We weren’t rich. We were comfortable. But not rich.” Mettie’s gaze got stuck in one direction as though she was lost in a memory. “You know when Mama told us she was pregnant that last time, our mouths dropped wide open. Kitty couldn’t even speak. Don’t think she said more than a word the whole day.” Mettie shook her head. “Dottie, on the other hand, started screaming at Mama and wouldn’t stop. Mama finally walked out of the house. We found her in the garden, working the ground with a broken hoe. She stayed out there till dark.”

  Emmalee and Mettie sat quiet for a moment, each staring at the other’s reflection in the mirror. When Kelly started fussing, Mettie kissed her tiny cheek. “Baby girl, we done bound your mama up. Your uncle Runt’s going to get you something to eat just as good. You’re going to have to hold on, though,” she said in a reassuring tone and rocked the baby some more.

  “Don’t take too long, Runt,” Mettie hollered into the next room, careful to hold her hand over Kelly’s ear as she spoke. “This girl’s working up some more appetite. She’s already rooting for her mama.” The baby squirmed in her arms, and Mettie stroked her back. “And get me some of those diaper pins with the little plastic ducks on the end. And two or three dozen cloth diapers. Make it three. And a couple pair of plastic pants. Go ahead and get some of those disposable diapers, too.”

  “Mettie, you want to write this down?” Runt asked.

  “Just ask Margaret for help. I haven’t bought any baby things in years and don’t know what’s out there. Hurry up.” Mettie’s voice grew with excitement. She turned to Emmalee. “You know I’d drive up there with you, Em, but I think it’s too cold to have Kelly Faye out for no good reason. She’s already pretty fussy.” Mettie jiggled the baby a little faster. “I think a warm bath might settle her down till Runt gets back.”

  Truth be told, Emmalee preferred it that way. She was eager to get to Old Lick and feared if she spent too much time with Mettie, her aunt might see clear inside her heart and find there was a part of her relieved, downright happy, to leave the baby in her care. Emmalee was tired of mothering on her own. She was tired of the baby’s fussing and of sleepless nights and of washing diapers in a bucket under the outdoor spigot in the season’s growing cold. She was worn out but had seen no escape until now.

  “Don’t matter, Mettie. I ain’t going far.”

  EMMALEE

  OLD LICK

  Emmalee stood in front of the Lanes’ trailer and waved good-bye to her uncle Runt. She lingered there, soaking up the sun’s warmth, the trailer door open wide behind her. Only as the truck’s taillights disappeared behind the wall of hardwoods and pines did Emmalee feel a pang of sadness, perhaps a regret for leaving her baby in another woman’s care.

  There was no time for thinking such thoughts, she chided herself. There was important work to be done, and she could not make a dress and tend to a baby all at once. “It’s best this way,” Emmalee said and took hold of the flimsy rail edging t
he stoop. A stinging pain radiated fast and sharp down the left side of her chest as she reached farther up the rail. Already swollen with milk, both breasts were hard to the touch. It had been too many hours since she had nursed the baby well, much longer than she had confessed to her aunt. The pain eased some, and Emmalee stepped into the trailer.

  She followed the steps worn in the green carpet, a threadbare trail leading from the door to the kitchen at the right end of the trailer. She imagined Leona had walked this very path countless times over the years to prepare her family’s meals. Foil pans of biscuits and baskets of muffins already crowded the counter, and Emmalee wondered who in their grief had brought all these gifts to the vacant trailer. It didn’t surprise her, though. People need to do for the dead in whatever way they can. Nolan told her once that nothing pulled a woman into the kitchen faster than a dead body waiting at Fulton’s. She looked out the window to see if someone else might be heading across the drive, carrying more offerings of flowers and food.

  Emmalee wiped the sink clean and swept the linoleum, tasks she had done only the day before but found satisfaction in their doing. She dried her hands on a dishtowel hanging across the refrigerator’s handle and dallied there a moment longer. She loved Leona’s kitchen with its indoor faucet and electric oven.

  Runt had packed a jar of freshly made pimento cheese and a loaf of white bread, a carton of milk, a half dozen eggs, and two cans of Vienna sausages. He told her to call if she needed anything else. He knew the Lanes had a working telephone because he had called on Curtis to help him at the mill just last week. He wrote his number on a slip of paper and handed it to Emmalee.

  “Keep this someplace you won’t lose it. And don’t worry about Kelly. Mettie’ll take real good care of her. She’s probably already got her bathed and dressed up like a baby doll if I know my wife.”