“Daddy?” Chloe said.
“Hmm?”
“Are we ever going to be a family again?”
Oh, fine, I thought. It was Les Misérables, Wimbley style, Act 99.
“We are a family, Chloe. What do you mean?”
“I mean, are we going to live here now? And what happens when Momma comes back? Do we have to go back to the other house and live with her? And is she ever coming back?”
“Of course, she’s coming back in just days, week after next I think, and when she does we’ll have to see how it plays out.”
In two weeks? I thought. Oh, great.
“Honey,” I said, “I think what your daddy is saying is that you don’t have to worry because the grown-ups are going to do whatever is in your best interest. All right?”
She nodded and shoved a huge forkful of food into her mouth. I was reminded that I wanted to discuss gluttony with her, too, but sadly, this wasn’t the appropriate moment. “Now. Would anyone like anything else? More coffee, Trip?” I dabbed the sides of my mouth carefully with my napkin and placed it on the table. I was channeling Lavinia again.
“No. Thanks.”
“So, are you going into the office today?”
“No, I thought since Owen’s arriving around two, that I would pick him up in Charleston and then—”
“Good thought. I could use your help and his with planning the memorial service.”
“May I please be excused, Aunt Caroline?”
“Of course you may.” All hail the spirit of Emily Post. “Just put your dishes in the sink, okay?”
“Sure!” There was a terrible clank as Chloe dropped the dishes in the sink and they banged against the porcelain. Another issue to be discussed. “Thank you for breakfast,” she said, and skipped out of the room. I sighed and my inner bitch retreated for a moment.
“She can be such a precious child, Trip.”
“Yeah, right. You think those manners are for real?”
“Trip? Darlin’? It’s a far better thing to be a disingenuous little twit than it is to tell your elders to stuff it. I much prefer insincerity to vulgarity. Don’t you?”
“I suppose.” Finally he cracked a smile of amusement, but it faded in his next breath. “So what’s up for today?”
I gave him the litany of tasks and he said, “Look, why don’t I clean up the kitchen and you call that crazy sumbitch? I can’t take him today.”
“Reverend Moore?”
He nodded.
“Deal. But, Trip?”
“What?”
“He speaks well of you.”
I giggled then but Trip looked at me as though this was not the time for humor of any sort. And it would never be again.
I pitched camp at the desk in Trip’s den and began making phone calls. I reached Reverend Moore’s voice mail.
“Reverend Moore? This is Caroline Wimbley Levine calling. We have had a tragic loss in our family and I’m hoping you are available to conduct a memorial service at our chapel this Saturday? Please call me back at . . .”
I had barely replaced the receiver in its cradle when the phone rang. It was the good reverend himself. Did he screen his calls? Well, clergy got their share of crazies, so I couldn’t be critical if he did.
“Ms. Levine? How wonderful to hear your voice! It’s been such a long time! I don’t mean that as a criticism. No, no! Never! I’m so sorry for your loss. Please tell me how I may be of help to your wonderful family. I think of your beautiful mother every day. Every day.”
Our man of the cloth was taking insincere to new heights. I rolled my eyes without the benefit of an audience and gave him the particulars. He was genuinely shocked and saddened to hear that this had been the most unlucky fate of our Rusty, he said. He actually had known her and had nothing but the nicest things to say.
“These things are sometimes unfathomable to me,” he said, “and I am forced to remind myself that the Bible says in Romans, Chapter 8:28, that all things work together for the good of God.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking, Is he kidding or what? No matter what I had said to Chloe, I always had a hard time believing that a young person’s death was ever God’s will. Maybe he was massaging the interpretation? “So, then, will we see you on Saturday?”
“Of course! Now, would you like to choose music and will there be family members who would perhaps like to offer a reading from the Bible?”
I told him that I would get back to him about those things and I thanked him. So he wasn’t Thomas Aquinas. He meant well, I thought.
I called Miss Sweetie next.
“I still can hardly believe what has happened, Caroline. How’s Trip doing?”
“I can’t either. Trip? Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t think he’s doing so well. He is really, really sad. I mean, to the point of barely functioning.”
“Well, maybe he just needs a day or two. You know, it’s a lot to process. His whole life is turned upside down again. Thank goodness he has you, Caroline.”
“Well, I hope you’re right,” I said. “Rusty’s brother is flying in today. Owen. Trip’s driving down to Charleston to pick him up. Maybe I’ll go with him because we also have to stop by McAlister’s to pick out memorial cards and to finalize the obituary.”
“Oh, my dear! It’s all so, so terribly sad. And, now tell me, how are the girls doing? Do you think it might be a good diversion for them to spend a day with me and learn about the strawberry business?”
“Miss Sweetie? That’s a splendid idea! I mean, we have to find something for these girls to do this summer or we’ll all lose our minds. But today? They’re still sleeping and I’m very concerned about getting Saturday organized.”
“Well, then, just tell me what I can do . . .”
She generously offered to provide all the desserts, little bites that people could pick up without cutlery.
“You don’t want to be picking up forks from all over your yard for the next six months, do you? People are well meaning but way out, you know. You’ll be finding forks in the azaleas come Christmas!”
“No doubt. You know, maybe I could send the older girls over to you to help you bake for Saturday? What do you think?”
“Definitely! I just hired a woman named Lynn Brook from the school system—she teaches first grade, I think. Anyway, she’s marvelous and she’s heading up our new internship program this summer. Oh! Did I tell you that Bobby Mack called?”
“No, you didn’t. And I will ask the girls about that. Let’s see what they think. What did Bobby Mack say?”
“Well, I knew you had your hands full and all with the graduation and everything, so I sent him a case of that strawberry-pomegranate jam last week? He loved it! He’s using it on ribs and roasts and everything in sight and he’s taking the whole inventory off our hands! Isn’t that the best news?”
“Yes! That’s great! Does he know about Rusty? He liked her so much. We used to have dinner, just the four of us, all the time.”
“Don’t worry, Caroline. I’ll be sure he knows. Is there anyone else you’d like me to call?”
“No. Gosh, you know what? I don’t know. I’m having trouble thinking all this through. I just hope we don’t forget anyone . . .”
When we hung up I went looking for Trip and couldn’t find him anywhere. Chloe was back in the den in front of the television.
“Don’t you think you’ve watched enough television for a while, honey? You’re going to ruin your eyes.”
She looked up at me and crossed her eyes as hard as she could and then broke into a fit of giggles. I was not amused.
“Humph. You’d better be careful, they’ll get stuck like that. If you see your father, please tell him I’m looking for him.”
Maybe he was out on the river or who knew? I decided I would go pull up his bed and get his towels to throw in the wash. His door was closed. I opened it a few inches and saw the outline of his body under the covers. He had gone back to bed. This was not good. I closed the
door and wondered what to do about it and decided to leave him alone for a while. Maybe he hadn’t slept well and just wanted to catch a nap before driving to Charleston. That was probably it. But a little voice inside my head that sounded an awful lot like Miss Lavinia said, The man’s grieving. Let him have his time of grief. But don’t leave him to his own devices for too long.
It was true. What if Trip took his comfort in the company of Jack Daniel’s and went on a bender? That was just about the last thing we needed.
It was barely ten o’clock. I decided to go back to my house and see how Millie was progressing. She was still in the kitchen.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“I’m not sure I did anyone a lick of good.”
I told Millie everything that had happened and she said, “Humph. That Linnie needs somebody to tan her hide.”
“You can say that again. Wait! I thought you didn’t approve of that!”
“I’m making an exception. Know what? You’d bess go down to Charleston with your brother and you drive the car. He sounds like he might be too distracted. You know, we don’t need another tragedy around here.”
What had she seen in her head now?
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too. I’m kind of worried about him, Millie. I’ve never seen him like this. And those girls are lying in bed, good for nothing, and Chloe is watching television too much . . .”
“We gone pray for him, Caroline, we gone pray like mad this time.”
“Well, we sure have a lot to do before Saturday. I guess I can use Mother’s roses for flowers. The gardens are in bloom but I don’t want to strip them bare, you know?”
“I think there will be plenty. Now, if Miss Sweetie gone do all the sweets, then I gone do all the savories. I’ll make ham biscuits and pickled shrimp, and iffin that Bobby Mack can send us a pork shoulder, I can make shredded-pork sandwiches on soft rolls. How’s that sound?”
“That sounds perfect. I’ll help you. I think all that plus a few cases of champagne and white wine and we’re on our way.”
“And booze, of course. Better check to see what we’ve got.”
“I’ll do it,” I said, and made a mental note.
“I just talked to Jenkins. He’s been down to the chapel since the crack of dawn, cleaning, cleaning. Raking the ground to get rid of twigs and to level it a little bit. He’s got two men with him putting the ‘amen job’ on all the brass fittings and so on. And he says he’s got them stained-glass windows so clean you can count the hairs on Saint Peter’s head. You got to get me another picture of Miss Lavinia, you know.”
“It’s on my list.”
“Good. Now, where’d I put those silver party trays? You know they gots to be all blue with tarnish. Ain’t used ’em since Christmas . . .”
Millie was thoroughly occupied in a conversation with herself. I went upstairs with the intention of waking Eric. On the way home I’d had the thought that perhaps a few hours fishing with Trip might do them both a lot of good.
My mind returned to the plans. Should I rent a piano for the chapel? Impossible. What about a chamber group? Or just a harp? Given the logistics, violins and flute or cello were probably better than trying to push and pull a harp up that hill. I had to make more calls. And I needed chairs but how many?
“Eric?” I said softly, and opened his door. He was on the phone.
“Who are you talking to?” I mouthed.
“Dad,” he whispered to me, covering the mouth of the phone with his hand. “I’m talking to Dad. What? Oh, sure . . . he wants to talk to you.”
Oh, great, I thought. Just what I need. Paging Ms. Levine! Dr. Pathetic on line one!
“Sure,” I said evenly, and took the receiver. “Richard?”
“Caroline! What a shock this is! Terrible! Simply terrible! How’s Trip managing?”
“Not so well right now, but you know, the wound is still fresh.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I imagine it must have been rather a trauma to pay a visit to the morgue. Vile business, all that. Body pulled out of a cubby in a wall on a stainless-steel tray like an unbaked loaf of bread. I’m sure she had no color. Was she very cut up? Very bloody? Dear God! Must’ve been awful for you, too.”
“It wasn’t great. I’d rather have been at a Bob Ellis shoe sale, that’s for sure.” Did he actually want the gory details? “These things are more explicit on Law & Order, I’d say.”
“Well, do you have Trip’s number? I’d like to give him a call. You know, offer my condolences.”
“Sure,” I said, and gave it to him. “So, you’re well?”
“I’m okay, I suppose. You know, still putting one foot in front of the other and making it from Monday to Monday. You?”
“Well, that’s good. Me? Oh, I’m fine. Just this horrible loss . . . it’s a lot to cope with. You know, Frances Mae is away . . .”
“Oh? Where is she?”
“Um, she’s receiving a little counseling out in California on the virtues of sobriety.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, my! Was this precipitated by her usual theatrics?”
“You don’t want to know.” Did he really think I was going to tell him everything as though we were two old friends gossiping over the hedgerow? I didn’t think so. Why did he set my nerves on edge? The mere sound of his voice was enough to get me going. “Anyway, we have her four girls, and now with Rusty gone, I imagine a lot of their care will fall to me. They’re not going to be too happy about that.”
“Ah! I can see it all now! You are gearing up for a hot Lowcountry summer?”
“Oh, Richard . . . you’re such an ass.”
“Thank you, my dear. And you are still my treasure.”
“Thank you,” I said. Suddenly I wanted to beat a hole in the wall with the receiver of the telephone while he was still on the line, crack his skull via Verizon.
“Well, let me call him and see if I can help him get through this.”
“Great. That would be great. Thanks. Take care.”
I handed the phone back to Eric, smiled like Miss Lavinia, and left him to finish his conversation with his father. My ex-husband. Whom I had been completely freaking insane to marry.
I spent the rest of the morning doing all the things that needed to be done. It was Millie who pointed out that McAlister-Smith’s would be glad to come out here on Saturday and oversee the service.
“They got chairs, tents, something to put down in case the ground is wet, and everything else you need. It’s what they do, ’eah?”
“Yes, but I don’t want those ugly metal chairs, you know? I want something elegant, you know, like ballroom chairs? Is that too over-the-top?”
“Not to me.” Millie stopped, put her hands on her hips, and looked at me. “What are you trying to do here? Control the whole world? Girl? They can probably get ballroom chairs for you. Ask them! Then it’s one less thing for you to worry about. They can get them dropped off, placed in position, picked up. You don’t need all this fool mess to be worrying about!” Then she dropped her hands and smiled. “Sorry. I just . . .”
“You’re right, Millie. You are actually one hundred percent right. I’ll ask them.”
“Good! Now, do you remember where we put up the punch bowl? I’ve been looking high and low . . .”
I e-mailed the addition for Rusty’s obituary after a conversation with one of McAlister-Smith’s directors, who was very, very helpful. Yes, they could acquire all the walnut-finished ballroom chairs with tan leather seats that we needed. And of course, they would put up a twenty-by-twenty tent just in case of foul weather. And did we want a guest book? A podium to hold it? Pens? Everything was decided by phone, fax, and e-mail, even the urn, and I was so relieved. The last place I wanted to take Trip was to the funeral home. It would be bad enough for him on Saturday when they delivered Rusty’s ashes to the chapel.
Two o’clock came around faster than I thought it would and the next thing I knew I w
as driving with Trip to the airport to pick up Owen.
“Let’s take my car,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m the oldest and you have to do what I say. Besides, I need gas.”
“Fine,” he said, and climbed in.
We drove to the end of Parker’s Ferry Road and turned right onto Highway 17. Trip was silent. I thought, Well, okay, he’ll talk when he wants to, but the silence went on for so long it became very unsettling.
“So, Trip?”
“What?”
“Feel like talking?”
“What is there to say? I never loved anyone in my life like I loved Rusty, and I lost her. In the space of a few seconds she was here on earth and then she was gone. Poof! Just like that. If one person tells me it was God’s will, I’m gonna hammer them.”
“I sure don’t think it was God’s will. Not for a second. And I don’t think it’s karma either.”
“Explain it to me, then, because I just keep telling myself it doesn’t make any sense. It makes no sense at all.”
“It depends on your view of the world, you see?” I gave him a quick glance and he was looking out the window. “Look, we’re going to start with some very basic Western Christian assumptions, okay?”
“Such as?”
“There’s God and there’s the devil. There’s heaven and there’s hell. Are we okay with that?”
“Whatever. Okay.”
“Okay. So, there’s God’s work on the grand scale—nature, humanity, and all the good stuff on earth and in the heavens.”
“Where are we going here?”
“Hang with me for a few minutes, Mr. ADHD. So? Ever since we were little children, we were told that we’re here to love and serve God, right?”
“Yep.”
“Then there’s free will. This tragedy is where free will comes in and the devil gets fat. Free will is the enemy here. Say you’re driving an eighteen-wheeler and you get a text from your girlfriend’s friend to say she saw your woman cheating on you in a bar last night.”
Lowcountry Summer Page 24
