A Penny Urned

by Tamar Myers

  “Follow me.”

  We followed Lougee through a house that made her hairdo seem neat. I mean, who am I to judge, but one can at least put away dirty dishes when expecting clients, can’t one? And what were panties doing on the living room floor?

  The cat kennel appeared to have been made by converting a screened back porch. It consisted of six compartments, three on either side of the door. Each compartment was approximately three feet wide, three feet deep, and four feet high. The main floor was concrete slab, but halfway up the back wall of each cubicle was a carpet-covered sleeping shelf. The doors were metal with wide mesh screen. There was a full water dish and what appeared to be fresh cat food. Above all, and much to my great relief, the cattery was clean.

  Five of the six cages were occupied, and their inhabitants regarded us with baleful muteness. Dmitri was still on a roll, so he hissed dutifully at each in turn.

  “The house sits so that each cage gets a little morning sun,” Lougee said, reading my mind.

  I kissed Dmitri. “You see, dear, it isn’t so bad.”

  “And each cat gets an hour turn-out in the common walkway here, if they want. Most prefer to stay in their quarters.”

  Quarters? Now that was a generous use of the word! Still, I had seen worse, and beggars can’t be choosers.

  I lowered my precious to the floor. “Mama will be back soon, dear. Just two night-nights and my snuggle bunny will be back in his own widdle bed.”

  Lord only knows why it is that folks like me talk human baby talk to a feline with a walnut-size brain. But there you have it.

  Now, I’m not claiming that Dmitri understood my words of comfort, but he did feel confident enough to wiggle free from my grip and gingerly inspect the cage. This he did by sniffing. I waited patiently while his nose led him on the grand tour, confident that he would at least return to say good-bye. But when my youngest and hairiest child reached the far side of the box, he leaped up to the sleeping shelf, flopped over on his side, and proceeded to glare at me.

  And that’s how I left him, burning holes in my back with his yellow-green peepers.

  Mama and I stopped for a bite of fast food, McDonald’s I think, but then went straight to the hotel. We were both exhausted, and besides, we wanted first claim on the bed. Neither of us was surprised to find that C.J. and Wynnell were still somewhere out on the town. I won the coin toss and the privilege of sleeping at the edge of the bed.

  At exactly ten minutes after midnight—I looked at the bedside clock—the door opened, and our friends tiptoed in. One or both of the ladies smelled like a brewery. No doubt they’d switched from cola early in the evening. At any rate, they made very little sound getting into bed but once there immediately began snoring like the drunks they were.

  I put up with the double assault of auditory and olfactory abuse for about a minute, and then quite wisely sought the couch. Ashley, bless her golden-red tresses, had been unable to come up with a rollaway but had made sure we were amply supplied with sheets, pillows, and extra blankets. There may not be many perks to being my size, but being able to stretch out, with room to spare, on a hotel couch is one of them. No doubt I had the best sleep of all of us. Lord knows, I was going to need it.

  5

  My plan was to grab a toasted bagel in the City Market and walk to Dewayne Kimbro’s office. Mama was still in bed, snoring it up with C.J. and Wynnell, and early morning, if I’m awake, is my favorite time to be alone.

  But when I got to City Market, I stumbled into a wonderful place called Seasons and had an Eggs Benedict breakfast served with champagne. The bubbly seemed particularly appropriate, given the means of my cousin’s demise, but rest assured, I did not drink to the point of inebriation. In fact, given my rather compact frame, I never drink more than a glass of anything.

  Nonetheless, it was a warm spring day, the sun was shining and the air filled with the sounds of sparrows, mocking birds, and several thousand tourists. Every azalea bush in town was blazing with color, and every deciduous tree and shrub shimmered in a haze of bright, fresh green. In short, it felt good to be alive. After breakfast I practically bounced my way over to the Kimbro building. One more sip of champagne and I would have skipped, that’s for sure. The only thing standing between reality and perfection was the absence of Greg Washburn, my gentleman friend.

  My appointment was for nine, and that’s when I arrived. In fact, I got there a little early, so on Mama’s behalf checked out the Courtney Bouchard Modeling Agency. I was told by a receptionist with a thick German accent, who was built like a panzer, that they did indeed handle male models—under the age of twelve. I had better luck at the International Pecan Praline Export Company, where a receptionist with a soft southern accent, built like the Hindenburg, foisted several fistfuls of free pralines on me. Fortunately I’d forgotten to tuck my hairbrush in my purse that morning and had extra room.

  I knocked on the door of Kimbro, Rathbun & Cohen. No answer. I knocked again, louder. I was about to try the knob when the door opened and I found myself face to chest with the pudgy man in the white suit and tie Mama had tried to pick up the day before. He was still wearing the same suit, by the way. I could tell by a fleck of orange on his left lapel. He may have been wearing the same blue shirt, but I can’t swear to it. His sparse hair was still plastered to his pate, and he was still wearing bottle-thick glasses. Yup, it was definitely the same man.

  “Miss Timberlake?” he asked almost casually. His breath smelled of curry.

  “Yes, sir. I’m here to see Mr. Kimbro. A Mr. Dewayne Kimbro.”

  “That would be me.”

  We shook hands.

  “We sort of met yesterday,” I said.

  He said nothing. Perhaps his eyes were asking for more, and I just couldn’t see it through the thick lenses.

  “My mama almost ran into you on the sidewalk yesterday afternoon. Not in a car, of course, but on foot.”

  Again nothing.

  “You seemed to be in a hurry to get someplace.”

  He shrugged. “Miss Timberlake, won’t you please come in?”

  I followed him into a reception area that had been obviously abandoned. The desk was clear save for a bulbless lamp and an upside-down wastebasket. There was no chair. On the wall behind the desk was last year’s calendar.

  To either side of the desk was a door, and I followed him to the left into a room only slightly better furnished. He gestured at a vintage wooden chair with sweat-stained armrests. I took the seat. His chair behind the desk was black leather, but a short strip of electrical tape placed diagonally across the back was the sure sign of a tear.

  “It isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said.

  I nodded, surprisingly at a loss for words.

  “I’ve been thinking of retiring anyway. Got a nice little fishing boat down by Tybee Island. Creek side. Ever since Cohen quit to join his brother-in-law’s firm in Atlanta—well, it just doesn’t make sense to break in a new partner at my age.”

  “And Rathbun?”

  “Never was a Rathbun. That was Mama’s maiden name. Did it for her.”

  “I see.”

  “She was a Yankee from Ohio,” he added, almost as a confession.

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Well, Miss Timberlake, shall we get down to business?”

  “By all means.”

  He flipped open a manila folder. “As you know, your aunt, Miss Lula Mae Wiggins, left her entire estate to you. It—”

  “Excuse me, sir. I hate to be picky, but Lula Mae was not my aunt. She was some sort of a cousin. Second or third, I think. Throw in a couple of ‘removeds.’”

  He shook his head carefully and slowly, so as not to disturb his coiffure. “No, ma’am. It says right here Miss Lula Mae Wiggins was your father’s sister.”

  “Where? May I see that?”

  Dewayne Kimbro passed me photocopies of several handwritten pages. “These are yours to keep.”

  I read the first paragraph.
Not trusting my eyes, nor the effects of one glass of champagne, I reread it. It read the same.

  I, Lula Mae Wiggins, being of sound body and mind, do hereby leave my entire estate, and all my worldly belongings, to my niece Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake, daughter of my late brother, Clarence Rufus Wiggins III, originally of Atlanta.

  “But this can’t be! Daddy didn’t have a sister. He was an only child!”

  Dewayne Kimbro pushed the heavy glasses up and massaged his eyes with sausage fingers. “Ma’am, your father was Clarence Rufus Wiggins III, originally of Atlanta, was he not?”

  “Well, actually Daddy was born in Madison, Georgia, but he grew up in Atlanta. After the war and after college, he moved to Rock Hill, South Carolina.”

  “And you are Abigail Louise Wiggins Timberlake, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir. Timberlake is my married name. I only kept it because of the kids.”

  “Well, ma’am, then I believe we have established that it is you mentioned in this will. Shall we continue?”

  He read the entire document aloud, and I followed along. Well, to be honest, I touched base every couple of paragraphs. The rest of the time my mind bounced all over the place, wanting to think about anything other than the fact that Daddy, and Mama too, had lied to me my entire life. Unless—I mean, maybe even they didn’t know! Stranger things have happened, believe you me. Just watch the Jerry Springer show.

  When he was through reading, Dewayne Kimbro folded his massive hands. “Are there any questions?”

  “No, sir—well, maybe just one. Is this document legal?”

  The glasses fell back into place. “Ma’am?”

  “Well, it’s that part about her being my aunt. Let’s say I’m the right Abigail Timberlake but she really isn’t my father’s sister, do I still inherit everything mentioned in there?”

  “Ma’am, let me get this straight. Is it your intent to prove that you are not the party mentioned in this document?”

  “No, sir. But what if I get all this stuff, and then someone proves later that they are the niece to whom Lula Mae is referring. What then?”

  For the first time he smiled. “It is my professional opinion that were this to be the case, your ownership would still stand. In many instances, and I believe this to be one of them, possession is indeed nine-tenths of the law.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The smile receded. “Ma’am, your aunt appointed me executor of her will, and that is what I intend to do. You are, however, are free to seek counsel elsewhere.”

  “No, no, I believe you! It’s just that I’m still having a difficult time believing Daddy had a sister.”

  He nodded, eager to get on. Perhaps he had a date with the dust bunnies under his desk.

  “Ma’am,” he said, opening a side drawer in his desk, “your aunt wanted you to have this.”

  He handed me a cheap plastic bust about four inches tall. It was bubble-gum pink with a rose felt base. I took it to be the bust of a composer, perhaps Franz Schubert. Maybe Beethoven. All those men look alike to me with their long hair and grim expressions. At any rate, it was hideously ugly, and I promptly dropped it in the cavernous maw of my purse. With any luck I would never see it again.

  “And here are keys to your aunt’s house. This is the key to her safety deposit box. And this”—he handed me a slip of paper—“is the mortuary that handled her cremation and where her cremains currently reside. You have to go there in person and sign a release. You can, of course, make arrangements with the mortuary to inter the cremains there or do with them what you wish. They are yours to keep.”

  I grimaced.

  He appeared to grimace back, although perhaps it was just a distortion of his lenses. “Ma’am, when your aunt made out her will, she left a vase—an urn, I guess you would call it—with me. She made a verbal request that you deliver the urn in person to the mortuary.” He rubbed his eyes again. “Since you could not be immediately located, I took the liberty of delivering the urn myself. I trust that will not have been a problem.”

  “No problem at all.”

  “Good. Any questions?”

  Yes, I thought. How does a hard-working, clean-living, law-abiding citizen suddenly find herself in possession of the ashes of an aunt she never knew existed? What guarantee did I have that tomorrow something even more bizarre wouldn’t turn up in my life? Perhaps Mama would reveal she was really an alien from outer space or that I was the love child of Clark Gable. Now, the latter I would have been willing to believe.

  “No, I think you’ve covered everything,” I said.

  “Well, if you think of anything, feel free to give me a call.” He started shuffling papers as if I wasn’t even there.

  I practically ran all the way back to the Heritage, and I wasn’t wearing running shoes, either, but sandals—seasonally correct sandals that were off-white. The only chance I had to catch my breath was in the elevator up to our floor. Wouldn’t you know it, I’d forgotten my key card and had to knock. At any rate, I was still panting when Mama opened the door.

  She was wearing a lavender silk robe that trailed behind her like a royal train. It obviously belonged to C.J. or Wynnell.

  “Oh, it’s only you.”

  I stepped inside. “Who were you expecting? Prince Charles?”

  “Well, I was hoping for someone named Bjorn. Or Sven. I’ve heard the Swedes give the best massages.”

  I staggered over to the couch and collapsed. “Massages?” I gasped. Not from surprise but from exertion. Nothing Mama could do would shock me.

  “Well, I must have gotten whiplash from that horrible fright I got last night in front of the cemetery. So I called the concierge and asked her to send up a masseur.”

  “And they have one on staff?”

  “No. But you know I don’t take no for an answer, don’t you, dear? Beverly finally said she’d see what she could do.”

  “I see. Where are C.J. and Wynnell?”

  “They both have hangovers, but they’re out doing the tourist thing. Can you believe that? Wynnell wanted to take the Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil Tour, and C.J. wanted to visit the Juliette Gordon Low Birthplace. She wanted to protest.”

  “Protest?”

  Mama nodded. “C.J. claims her great-great-granny Ledbetter back in Shelby started an organization of farm girls in the eighteen hundreds and called it the Girl Sprouts of America. She says Miss Low stole that name when she started the Girl Scouts. According to C.J., her granny’s group fell apart then, and so did her granny. The Ledbetters have never been the same since.”

  “C.J.’s four-wheel drive is definitely missing a tire,” I said kindly. “So, Mama, until blond and buff gets here, why don’t I give you a massage?”

  Mama grimaced. “You?”

  “Sure, Mama. Greg says I have magic fingers. Why don’t you come over and sit beside me, and I’ll give you my special neck rub. In no time at all you’ll feel like a different person.”

  “That’s very nice of you, dear, but I couldn’t take advantage of my own flesh and blood.”

  “Mama, I insist!”

  “Oh, all right.” She sounded as enthusiastic as my ex-husband Buford used to sound when I would suggest we turn off the television and go to bed early. Of course, unbeknownst to me, by then he was already tuning in to Tweetie.

  “Now, sit right here beside me,” I said, “but turn so your back is toward me.”

  Mama reluctantly did as she was bid, and I put my hands around her neck. “I’m afraid you’re going have to remove the necklace, Mama.”

  “I could never do that!”

  “Okay, I’ll try and be real careful. But you can be glad I’m not Sven. Those big Swedish hands of his might have—well, you could be on your hands and knees right now looking for pearls.”

  “Oh, my! I hadn’t thought of that.”

  I smiled to myself. “Now, Mama, while I rub your neck, you and I are going to have us a little chat.”

  “That’s ni
ce, dear. Have you been attending the church of your choice?”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t have to be the Episcopal church, dear. Catholic, Methodist, even Baptist. Why I always said—”

  “Mama! We are not going to be talking about my spiritual life. We are going to be talking about the aunt I never knew I had.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. Your Aunt Marilyn held you in her arms the day you were born. And you just saw her Christmas.”

  “Not her, Mama. My other aunt.”

  “Why, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” I felt Mama’s neck stiffen under my fingertips.

  “My Aunt Lulu Mae,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, that aunt,” Mama said, just as innocently as you please.

  6

  I dug my nails into the base of Mama’s neck.

  “That feels good,” Mama crooned.

  “It isn’t supposed to. Now, spill it, Mama. Why did you lie about Lula Mae? Why did you say she was Daddy’s cousin, and not his sister?”

  “Well, dear, there some things one just doesn’t talk about.”

  “Like what? She was my aunt!” I dug so deep, I swear I could feel her pelvic bones.

  Mama’s sigh was one of pleasure. “Abby, you don’t think I’m prejudiced, do you?”

  I did and I didn’t. I have gay friends, Rob and Bob—the Rob-Bobs, I call them—and Mama is very fond of them. Rob happens to be Jewish, and Mama has no problems with that either. Nor do I think she has a problem with race. My shop assistant, Irene Cheng, is Chinese-American, and Mama adores her. We both have peripheral friends who are African-American. We even have tall friends.

  On the other hand, Mama hates to see women over thirty in shorts, and gum-chewers drive her right up the wall. No need to say more about people who wear white out of season.

  “You don’t appear to have any major prejudices,” I conceded. “What does this have to do with Aunt Lula Mae?”

  “Well, dear, you have to realize this was a long time ago. Back then even the armed forces were segregated. Why, even in Rock Hill we had separate public facilities for whites and coloreds—that’s what we called black people in those days.”