by Fran Rizer
“He sure did, but he sent me to take plates to Miss Lettie and her friend, and I’ve spilled them all over my car. Do you have enough traditional Southern New Year’s Day dinner left to make me two generous plates and separate desserts?”
“I have plenty, and I’ll dip them for you myself. Did you have your dad’s dinners in Styrofoam go trays?”
“No, plates wrapped in foil.”
“You can buy the trays at the dollar store, and they sure make carrying food easier. I buy them by the case from my supplier. I’ll give you some for future use.”
She walked back to the kitchen. I twirled my stool around to face the other customers again. I couldn’t believe she didn’t have more diners. Then I realized it was late for lunch and early for supper. A man sitting in a booth by himself caught my eye. No, not because he was that hot, though he wasn’t ugly either. He was big, not fat, but tall and broad-shouldered with fairly slim waist and hips. He leaned forward with his face close to his plate. I wondered if his vision was so poor that even with his eye glasses, he couldn’t see his food from a normal distance.
When his server brought him the ticket, he put a wrinkled ten-dollar bill on the check tray and waited for her to return. When she brought back his change, she asked, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Could I get a glass of iced tea to go?” he mumbled.
“I’ll get it for you.”
While she was gone, he carefully picked up the ones and left only the silver on the tray. Kind of cheap tipper, I thought, but he redeemed himself.
“Sorry not to be more generous,” he told the woman. “I just got hired on this morning by a pig farmer. He said starting tomorrow when his wife comes home, my meals will come with the job, but he’d been invited to dinner and a music jam this afternoon. I’ll be back here to eat again when I get paid, and I’ll tip you better then.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” the server responded. “I understand how it is. It took me a while to find this job.”
Dalmation! Pork Chop was probably the pig farmer who’d hired the man. If Daddy had known that, he would have invited the new hired hand to dinner, too.
Rizzie loaded me up with two plastic bags of food trays and I went outside. Tyrone was hosing off my floor mats. “I’m washing both of the front mats. I’ve got the passenger side so clean that I didn’t want to make your side look shabby in comparison.”
I peeked in the car. It was impossible to see where that tremendous mess had been. He put the mats back in, then carefully placed the plastic bags of food on the floor.
“Great job, Tyrone!” I said and pulled my wallet from my jeans pocket. “How much do I owe you?”
“Not a dime, not a dime,” he said. “I’m just glad I could help you out. Did you eat your share of collards and black-eyed peas today?”
“I sure did. Did you?”
“No, Rizzie threatened to kill me if I didn’t eat collards and Hoppin’ John, but I cooked myself a frozen pizza, I ate Tomato Pie, too. I love Tomato Pie even when it’s made with those tomatoes they ship into the supermarket this time of year.”
• • •
Daddy created chaos in his kitchen. I spilled a mess in my car. Neither of those could compete with the bedlam I found at Miss Lettie’s. When Miss Ellen opened the door, I could hear Miss Lettie crying. No, not crying. She wailed.
“Bad day?” I asked Miss Ellen.
“Yes, come on in. Let me take one of those bags for you. Your father must think we’ve got an army to feed over here instead of only two old ladies.”
I didn’t respond and hoped neither Miss Ellen nor Miss Lettie mentioned to Daddy that the food arrived in Styrofoam trays. Some things are better left alone, and I had a sneaky feeling that my dad was sending food to these ladies not so much to see they were fed as to impress one of them with his culinary skills.
“What’s wrong with Miss Lettie? Is she still just grieving?” I asked as I handed a sack to her.
“Lettie took it upon herself to climb up into the attic and pull down all the boxes of Junior’s toys and baby clothes. Now she’s grieving over every piece as she looks at it. Come on into the dining room and see for yourself.”
I followed Miss Ellen to a large room with an enormous oval dining table piled high with children’s clothes and toys—from infant items to tricycles and even a bicycle leaning against a wall. Miss Lettie sat at the head of the table, blubbering and occasionally yelling out her anguish.
“Lettie,” Miss Ellen said gently, “here’s Callie Parrish from Middleton’s. She knows all about mourning someone you love. Maybe she can help you get through this.”
Shih tzu! I can color a person’s hair any shade desired. I sometimes work miracles with makeup. Either way—I can use cosmetics to beautify or to create an ugly face like mine was when I went to Safe Sister. I was a good teacher before I changed professions. I can do lots of things, but I can’t counsel the grief-stricken. Otis and Odell are better at that than I am, but even they don’t get really involved in it. I did what I’ve heard my bosses do in the past—made a suggestion.
“There are several grief support groups here in St. Mary to help you get through this. I can give you a list of them if you want to come by or I can drop one in the mail to you,” I told Miss Lettie.
“No piece of paper or bunch of people can help me,” Miss Lettie sobbed. “My heart is broken. Both of my Jeffreys have left me here all alone. Look at this.” She held up a small camouflage suit that would fit a child about three years old. It was the old darker print with a lot of green like military camouflage was before the fighting moved to deserts. “My boy Jeffrey Junior wore this when he was little. Now he’ll never use any of this stuff again.”
That puzzled me. The grown, bald-headed man we’d buried wouldn’t have ever used those baby clothes and toys again even if he were alive. Maybe she meant he wouldn’t have kids to use his childhood possessions.
“I even saved his crib in the basement for my grandchildren,” she added. One minute, she talked like her son might have used his childhood things again, and the next minute, she made sense and spoke of using Jeffrey Junior’s belongings with a grandchild.
“Miss Parrish has brought us dinner, Lettie.” Ellen’s chipper voice sounded similar to one I’d used when speaking to my kindergarten students. “Let’s go into the kitchen and eat at the little table in there.” She turned to me. “Would you like to join us?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve already eaten.”
“How about a glass of tea or a cup of coffee?” Her tone was normal, but her look was pleading.
“I can’t stay long. I have to work this afternoon, but I’ll have a glass of tea.”
I remembered the kitchen from when I’d carried the Brunswick stew and food register to Miss Lettie’s, but it looked very different from then. Someone had been shopping. The counters were covered with snack foods—bags and bags of chips, cookies, and candy. Miss Ellen waved her arm at the clutter. “Lettie got confused and bought all this stuff for Junior. Said it’s stuff he begged her to buy when he was little, but she wouldn’t back then. Now she wants him to have what he wants. She didn’t remember he isn’t a little boy anymore, and he won’t be back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ellen,” Miss Lettie spoke up as she lowered herself into one of the chrome and plastic kitchen chairs. “I certainly have enough sense to know what’s happened. We buried my Jeffrey Junior the day the Lord sent that beautiful white blanket of snow in his honor. I didn’t buy all this junk. You must have.”
Ellen didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her eyes said it all.
I sat while they ate in silence. When they started on the rice pudding, I excused myself, explaining, “Oops! I’ve got to get to work.”
“Are you just on duty or did someone die?” Miss Ellen asked.
“Patsy Corley,” I answered.
“I heard about that. Do you know when the service will be?”
“Not yet.”
<
br /> • • •
I drove carefully, possibly overly cautious because I wasn’t fully over my shock and fear from when that deer leapt in front of me. Hitting a deer, a horse, or a cow can wreck a car and kill people. Most persons wouldn’t say they were happy to arrive at a funeral home, but I was. Sometimes, Middleton’s Mortuary is comforting to me. It’s beautifully furnished and decorated. When we don’t have a planning session or funeral, it’s quiet and peaceful, even when I’m working.
Odell’s door was open when I passed his office. He looked up. “Oh, you’re here already. I was about to call you. I think you’ll be surprised and pleased with how Miss Patsy looks. Try not to move her head, and most of the hair is a wig, so don’t do much styling to it, but her face looks good, and I believe Mrs. Corley will be pleased with what we’ve done, especially since she saw her after the gunshot.” He burped. “Excuse me. Too much lunch at the barbecue place.”
“Where’s Miss Patsy?”
“Otis and I put her in your workroom. Let me know if you need help. As soon as you’re finished, we’ll call Mrs. Corley and tell her she can come see her daughter. She’s already checked with us several times today.”
“Where’s Otis?” I asked.
“In the prep room.” Odell and I both knew what he was doing in there when we didn’t have a decedent needing prepping. Otis has a tanning bed in the prep room, and he uses it whenever he gets the chance. He’s invited both me and Odell to use it, but the thought of lying in there with something over my face creeps me out. Odell could care less about that bed. He’d rather eat than tan any day.
I was both pleased and surprised with the restoration Otis and Odell had performed on Miss Patsy. There really wasn’t much for me to do because one of them had already made up her face. I gave her a nice manicure, then using the lift, dressed her in the pink pantsuit and flowered blouse. I stepped back and admired her. No one could look at her and tell she’d died of a gunshot wound through her mouth and out the back of her head. She looked pretty much like she did back when Middleton’s buried her father June Bug.
I buzzed Odell and let him know that I was ready. He wheeled in the bier, and we casketed Miss Patsy without disturbing any of the work that had been done to change her mother’s memory to a better one than what she’d seen at that mobile home.
Barely back into my office, I’d just begun reading a Charlotte Hughes book when an instrumental version of “The Old Rugged Cross” played softly over the sound system, announcing that the public entrance was open.
I met the Corley family in the front hall and led them into Slumber Room A where Odell and I had placed Miss Patsy. Odell joined us. Mrs. Corley had eleven people with her. I counted them—eleven. I recognized some of them as her kids. The others might have been nieces and nephews because all of them were younger than Patsy’s mother.
Otis said, “Mrs. Corley, I think you’ll be very pleased, but I have to ask you not to touch Miss Patsy’s face. Those who want to touch her should pat her hands.”
“I understand.” Mrs. Corley turned and faced the others. “Did everyone hear that? Don’t touch Patsy anywhere except on her hands.”
Their “Yes, ma’am” was so together that it sounded like bluegrass harmony.
People ask me how I can stand to do my job—to work at a funeral home with dead bodies. The Corley family reaffirmed my satisfaction with my job. They all oohed and ahhed about how good Miss Patsy looked. At a horrific time when people face their worst fears, my work tries to give them some comfort. I was thinking about that when I remembered the Gee Three Shrimp Sliders.
I asked Otis and Mrs. Corley to step over to the side and told them about Rizzie’s offer to set up a road-side stand and serve miniature Shrimp Po Boys to the people in Patsy’s funeral procession. Mrs. Corley glowed, and Otis beamed.
“Can we have the funeral day after tomorrow?” Mrs. Corley asked. “I want to use your chapel, but have my pastor and our church organist. I called both of them before we came over here, and each of them can do the service on January third.”
“What time?” Odell asked.
“About eleven?” Mrs. Corley said. “That way we’ll be passing Gastric Gullah around noon. Tell the owner I’d like each person served a soda also.”
“Would you like to have a visitation? We could do that at ten if you like.”
“That will be fine. Do I need to go by there and pay Gastric Gullah in advance?”
“Not necessary,” Odell assured her. “We’ll pay Miss Profit and add it to your funeral bill. I’ll call her and work out the details. The insurance policy you showed me will cover everything.”
The Corley family left with what passes for smiles on the faces of people who’ve lost someone they love.
“Callie, didn’t you say you’ve got today off?” I was in no mood to answer Frankie’s question. He’d called while I was in the shower, and, thinking it might be Patel or Dean, I’d jumped out and tracked water from the bathroom to my phone on the nightstand.
“Yes, but I’m not doing anything for you today. I’m taking the day for myself. There are things I need to do, and I’ll be working tomorrow at Patsy Corley’s funeral.”
“I don’t want you to do anything for me. I want to give you something.”
“What?”
“Remember I said I’m going to school today?”
“Yes, and then you acted like a jerk and wouldn’t tell me what kind of school.”
“Well, I’ve been worried about you and Jane finding a dead body on your porch, and even before that, it seems like you get into trouble all the time.” The hair on the back of my neck hackled at that comment, but I didn’t say anything. “Well, I knew you nor Jane would want me staying overnight with you, even though I’m hoping Jane and I will wind up back together. I’ve been rigging up a hammock in the back of that old van Pa has down by the barn.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“I’m going to sleep in the hammock in your front yard, so if anybody comes to bother you or Jane, I’ll be there to protect you.”
“I don’t think Jane will like that, but I still don’t know what it has to do with school.”
“Well, I figure I need to be able to carry a gun to protect you and Jane, so I’m taking the class to get a CWP.”
“What’s that?”
“Concealed Weapon Permit. South Carolina requires a day-long class before anyone gets a permit. My friend Ralph and I signed up and paid to take the class.”
“So what does that have to do with me being off today?”
“Ralph got arrested for DUI Tuesday night. Nobody’s bailed him out, so he can’t take the class.”
“I doubt they’d let him take it with a DUI hanging over his head even if someone got him out of jail, but I still don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“The class we paid for requires ten people to be signed up or they put it off. The instructor called and said our class would be postponed unless we find someone to take Ralph’s place. It cost a hundred dollars, and Ralph says if you’ll go, you won’t have to pay him back. In fact, he said if you’d take his place, he’ll treat you to dinner one night when he’s out of jail.”
“Oh, no!” I knew Frankie’s buddy Ralph. He’d asked me out before, and I’d always declined. Adding a DUI to his previous list of accomplishments did nothing to change my mind about dating him.
“Think about it, Callie. I don’t know what you did for the day or so you were working with Wayne, but as much as you stick your nose into the sheriff’s business, it might be to your advantage to have a Concealed Weapon Permit. What else did you have planned for today?”
“I need to clean the apartment.”
“And you’d rather do that than go shooting at the indoor shooting range with everything already paid? Ralph even ordered the catered lunch, so you’ll eat free, too. Besides, you’d be doing a really big favor for your favorite brother.”
That was an outright lie.
Frankie is closest to me in age, but my favorite has always been my oldest brother John. I didn’t agree until after some real bribery in the form of Frankie promising to take down my Christmas tree and clean my apartment.
We had to be at the indoor shooting range by nine o’clock, so I told him, “If I don’t get off the telephone, I won’t be ready.”
“You have to wear pants with loops and a wide belt so the holster will fit. I’ll bring everything you need—gun, holster, and ammo.”
• • •
Frankie showed up driving the beat-up van from Daddy’s yard. I didn’t even know it would run. He’d made some efforts to turn it into a camper with a portable gas stove, an ice chest, a lantern, and that hammock he’d told me about.
When I got in, Frankie handed me a brochure. “Read this.” I began looking it over silently. “Read what we get for our money out loud,” he instructed.
“What do you mean our money? I’m not spending any.”
“I told Ralph that after you saw what a good day this will be, you might decide to reimburse him, but you don’t have to.”
“I’m not. Here’s what it says we’ll be learning: firearm construction and operation; ammunition construction, identification and ballistics; safety rules; fundamentals of firearm shooting and storage; South Carolina firearm laws and use of deadly force restrictions; range instruction and demonstrations. Then they offer assistance in filling out the application for the permit.”
“All that and free lunch. What more could you ask for on your day off? Besides, this will be a breeze for you.”
Frankie was probably right. I’d been brought up around guns in a family of hunters, and though I hadn’t been hunting since the first time I’d seen a deer killed, I enjoy target shooting.
