Mourning Crisis

by Carolyn Ridder Aspenson

  I studied the dossier. Buford Lester wasn’t all that interesting, and it made me sad. Thirty-six-years old at the time of his death, a supervisor for a local moving company who drove the moving truck, but didn’t actually move the furniture or boxes due to a bad back. He did the inventory and sales, set up insurance claims, and handled customer service issues for the customers. He wasn’t an owner, but he did own his truck, though I wasn’t exactly sure how that worked, and that information wasn’t anywhere in the dossier. I made a note to search online for information on that when I got home. My phone didn’t have a good connection in the middle of the park.

  Buford’s momma divorced his daddy when he was three. Rumors say she accused Buford senior of abuse, but no one could ever or would ever corroborate those rumors, and that was okay in my book. Just the accusation was enough to skedaddle. Better safe than sorry. Senior passed away just before Buford’s tenth birthday, which he celebrated by moving from his small three-room cabin in the mountains to a trailer park with his daddy’s sister where he’s lived ever since. Only before his death he spent most nights in the bed of his truck eating microwave popcorn and watching Netflix, though the reason for that wasn’t listed in the dossier either.

  Buford Lester didn’t have much of a social life, and people picked on him for that. What he lacked in social skills though, he made up for in aggression, and when given a hard time, he took it out on skinny drunks in dive bars where moonshine sold for a buck a glass and women were free for the taking, at their choice according to interviews. I wondered who did the interviewing? The cops never arrested Buford Lester at those bars because they figured if someone was crazy enough to fight a guy like Buford Lester, they deserved what they had coming. That excluded the women, of course. Those women, if they accused someone of something improper or illegal, the cops came. Only, the women never accused Buford Lester, because when it came to women, he was proper and polite, every single time. Those women didn’t matter to Buford Lester.

  In fact, Buford Lester never touched a woman at any of those bars. They all said he was kind. They said Buford was like a big ol’ teddy bear when it came to them, and they were the reason he got into fights. He was their protector. If someone did decide to approach them disrespectfully, he made sure they changed their tune right quick, they said.

  Also, I decided to think Buford never touched those women because he wanted to wait until he found someone special, someone, like Ivy Sawyer.

  Momma dropped a teaspoon full of reduced fat pancake syrup on my single pancake.

  My single, lonely pancake.

  She didn’t even put the butter out for me.

  I’d asked for two, and could have easily made my own, but one didn’t get their own breakfast in Momma’s kitchen. Not only was it an insult, but it could also potentially bring on Momma’s wrath, which, depending on the time of the month, could be worse than God’s wrath. “What on God’s earth are you dressed like that for?”

  “I have a new job today, and it requires I dress for the part.” I held out my plate with the lonely little pancake. “And where’s my other pancake? I asked for two.”

  “You already got a job.” She ignored my pancake comment.

  “I know but this more to my liking.” I left the table, and risking my life, took my own extra pancake from the counter.

  Daddy’s eyes sparkled. He loved my independence.

  Momma snatched the butter dish from my other hand. “Doing what?”

  I grabbed it back, and she patted my shoulder then shook her head and laughed. “An acting job, Momma, and don’t worry, the temp agency is fine with it. I’ve already talked to them. They said they’ll have something for me when I’m ready.”

  She barked at Daddy to turn off the stove and bring the bacon to the table. “Hurry please, ‘fore the pancakes get cold. We should eat it all together.”

  When Momma stressed, she barked at everyone, but Daddy didn’t seem to mind. He just went with the flow. He glided over to the stove, switched it off, leaned over and grabbed hold of the bacon, swiveled around and sashayed over to the table. Once he set it down, he planted a kiss on Momma’s head and told her he loved her something awful. She giggled, and I would have sworn a cloud of stress dissolved above her.

  He whispered in her ear. “It’ll be fine, darling. Don’t you worry.”

  “I’m just worried about you, sugar.”

  “What’ll be fine?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothing, Princess. Don’t you worry about it,” Daddy said.

  They were hiding something from me, and I knew it, but I also knew when they did that, it was better left alone. When I needed to know, they’d tell me.

  Momma redirected the conversation back to my job. “What’s the theater? I thought you said none of them would hire you since you fell through that floor and all?”

  Thanks for the reminder, I thought. “It’s not exactly a play. It’s more like a living production.”

  She pushed her glasses up and rubbed her right eye. Fall allergies always bothered Momma. Her eyes, bloodshot and tired already, probably itched like crazy from the ragweed outside. I felt for her. She refused to take anything, claiming if God had wanted it any other way, he wouldn’t have made her allergic in the first place. Crazy talk, if you asked me. “What’s a living production?”

  “I’m working for a company called Exit Stage Left. They’re professional mourners. You probably don’t—”

  “You’re working for that Ruthie Colburn?” Momma pushed her plate away from her and stood. “Bobby, did you know? Did you agree to this?”

  Yikes. Momma’s mood took a sharp right turn into cranky. Nobody liked a cranky Anna Buckley.

  “Honey, Meme’s an adult, she doesn’t need to get our approval—”

  “She’s living in our home. She sure does have to get our approval. Our house, our rules. Ain’t that the way it’s always been?”

  “Momma, I don’t—”

  She wouldn’t let me finish. Stopped me with a flat palm stuck right up and in my face. “Don’t you sass me, missy. Why I have a mind to make you go out back and cut a switch right off a tree so I can take to whipping your behind right now, you hear me?” Her nostrils flared with each breath she took. In and out. In and out.

  I smelled the sweat moistening her skin, and I knew she was livid. Momma got mad. Momma got angry, but when Momma was livid, look out. My body tensed, my jaw tightened, and I sat on my hands, knowing full well if I used them to help me speak, she’d tell me to sit on them anyway. “Momma, I don’t understand. Why are you upset?”

  “Mayme, that woman is a snake in the grass. What she’s doing is dishonest as the day is long. You working for her is like saying our family is just as bad as she is.”

  “Now darlin’, that isn’t true, and you know it,” Daddy said. He stood and rubbed Momma’s back. “Many people have been comforted by the likes of her business. Besides, it’s an acting job, it doesn’t mean it’s who Meme is. She’s trying to re-establish herself as a bona fide actress, and she’s got to do what she’s got to do, and we need to let her.” He smiled in my direction. “It’s our job to support our daughter. She knows what’s right for her.”

  “Of course, you’d say that. You always thought she could be a star. I always wanted her home with us, making babies we could spoil, and now that she is, you want to set her up to leave us again.”

  And there it was. None of this had anything to do with Ruthie or Exit Stage Left or what I wanted, and everything to do with Momma and what she wanted. Me home, me having babies, and me close to Momma.

  I stood, threw my napkin on the table and huffed like a spoiled teenager. “Well, I’m sorry Momma, but maybe I don’t want to have babies. Have you ever thought about that? And if I do, Lord knows I don’t want them hanging around your cranky, bitter self.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and her hand flew to it. “How dare you talk to me like that. Especially now!”

  Visibly sweating, Daddy rubbed the ba
ck of his neck. He pulled Momma close to him as she fell into a blubbering mess of tears.

  I rushed out of the house, dressed to the hilt like a good old country girl, tears streaming down my face, not for the part I was about to play, but for breaking my momma’s heart with my harsh words—ones I didn’t even mean.

  I’d just reverted back to the terribly spoiled teenager I was when I’d been given the Mazda Tribute I’d just climbed into to head over to the funeral home. Way to be an unappreciative, self-centered adult brat, Mayme Buckley.

  3

  Situated on the outskirts of town, the funeral home rested on several acres of land with a peaceful cemetery attached. I’d never really paid attention to cemeteries and funeral homes, but I assumed they all worked that way. I wondered if they all had catchy names and if the word gardens in the title meant the plethora of flowers and greenery growing throughout the acreage or the ones left with the deceased, or if it was actually some tacky play on words intended instead for the burial of the bodies and their eventual descent into fertilizer for the land.

  That thought left me with the creepy crawlies wandering up and down my arms. I shook to get them to go away.

  Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure that actually happened. Like I said, my experience with death and all things dying was limited. I knew people were buried in caskets, so I had to assume when we died, we didn’t actually become one with the earth, but what did I know? My most significant experience with death was sophomore year biology, and the day we dissected the frog. Which, by the way, we didn’t actually complete because I’d tossed my cookies all over the poor little guy before we even started, which caused a chain reaction, and the teacher had to cancel the whole lab for the rest of the class. I ended up getting a doctor’s excuse to get out of the lab entirely, so that was as far as my dealing with the dead went.

  I had read a book or two about ghosts, but mostly I was into the witches craze, so if pressed, I might be able to whip up a hex or cast a love spell on someone, but when it came to cemeteries and the inner workings of the dead and funeral homes, I was basically clueless.

  I hadn’t considered the fact that there might be something real to the whole ghost thing, but when I walked into the funeral home, a chill ran up my spine and had the hairs on my arms standing straight up, and I was so scared for reasons I couldn’t explain, I sprinted right back out the door. Suddenly the mailroom in a health insurance company didn’t sound so dull after all. I practiced my breathing exercises as I stood facing the parking lot. “You can do it. This isn’t—”

  “Are you Ivy Sawyer?”

  I flipped around at the sound of a gentle, southern woman’s whispered voice.

  “Who?” I said totally out of character. When I realized that, I kicked my accent into high gear. “Oh, I’m...I’m sorry, yes, I’m just so...” I bowed my head and shook it. “My Buford. I can’t believe he’s dead.” I sobbed like a baby.

  “There, there, honey. I’m sorry.” She patted my shoulder.

  I nodded and thought of the day Daddy’s first hunting dog Bear died. He’d been hit by a pickup truck right outside our front door. I watched it happen. I was seven-years-old. Come to think of it, that was my first real experience with death up close and personal, and it all but destroyed me. That brought tears to my eyes. I used that memory any time I needed to cry. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Ivy.” I held my hand to my heart. “Heavens, I miss that big angry lug of love, you know?”

  Watch how thick you lay it on, Mayme, I thought.

  “Ivy, I’m Clementine James. I’m the director of Blessed Memories Memorial Gardens.” She placed her hand on my shoulder. “You have my deepest sympathies.” She handed me a tissue. “The rest of Mr. Lester’s family is already here. How about you come with me to the office, and we’ll get started?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I knew the rest of the family wasn’t many, as he’d had only an aunt, two cousins and another uncle from out of Atlanta. I doubted the uncle had come in for the arrangements, but I suspected the two cousins would be with their mother for the arrangements.

  Clementine James guided me into the building, up a short set up steps, and toward the left. I flinched when I thought a saw a shadow drift past me. Could it have been a ghost? Heavens, I needed to get my head in the game.

  Before going left, I peeked into the main room and noticed a large seating area facing a table that looked like a garden had thrown up on it. White carnations and roses in gold vases in different shapes and sizes were spread across the table. On it sat photos and knick-knacks and a large sign that said Remembering Bobby. My Daddy’s name. My heart beat faster. I had a strange feeling of what might happen in my future, and I didn’t like it.

  We walked past two more rooms, but the doors were closed. Each had signs with names and times on them. One day my parent’s names would be on signs like those. I had an overwhelming urge to rush home, hug my mother and apologize for being so sassy. She had good intentions, she just struggled in her delivery, as did I.

  Inside Clementine James’s office sat a gray-haired woman with crazy eyes that darted to me the moment I walked in. I licked my lips and blinked when I made eye contact. I didn’t want to appear nervous, but she caught me off guard. Generally, people smelled their kind, at least that’s what Daddy always said, but this woman, everyone could smell her, from across the state even. I didn’t know for sure how long it had been since she’d bathed, but I’d say at least a week. Stale cigarettes and cheap beer topped with dirt and grime with a side of bad breath filled my nasal passages and set my stomach lurching upward toward my throat. I never handled rancid stench well, even though we’d had a pet pig for a while. Those things stunk to high heaven, but this woman beat that pig hands down. I kept my lips slightly parted and breathed out of my mouth to stop myself from overwhelming my nose with her hamburger-like odor, minus the appetizing part, of course.

  Ruthie explained that sometimes the funeral home knew about the agency, but in my case, they didn’t, so entirely on my own, I rolled with the punches.

  “Ivy, this is Buford’s aunt, Alice Mableton, and her two adult children, Atticus and Boone Mableton.”

  Atticus and Boone both tipped their heads.

  Alice swatted at them. “Well, don’t just sit there. I taught you better than that. Get up and treat her proper.”

  The two men, not much older than me, stood and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  Atticus agreed.

  I sniffled. “Thank you, but it’s a tragedy for all of us.”

  Alice Mableton coughed. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Buford Lester?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did Buford ever tell you any of his final wishes?” Alice asked.

  “He didn’t have a will or nothing, so we’re not sure what he wanted,” Boone said.

  “Buford knew exactly what he wanted in the event of his death,” I said.

  “How would you know what Buford wanted?” Atticus asked.

  Boone followed up with a hard sell question. “Yeah, how?”

  I opened my purse and pulled out an envelope. “Because he wrote it all down in his wishes. I have a copy of it here, but there is also one with his attorney of record. That, of course, is the one that contacted you about me, Ms. James. I believe you’ve already been made aware of everything?” I placed the envelope on her desk and slid it over to her. “All of his wishes are listed out in there, but it’s fairly basic. A small viewing the day before the funeral. A viewing just before for those who couldn’t make it the day before, of course, and he’d like to be buried next to his pa. I believe the plot’s already been purchased. You might could check on that for me, though.”

  “It has,” Ms. James said.

  Clementine James opened the envelope, removed a smaller envelope from it and put it aside, opened the letter and placed it on her desk, giving it a quick read through. “I’ve got all of this information already, yes, from the attorney.”

  Alice Mableto
n stood and paced the room. Her agitation bled from her pores like beads of sweat. “I don’t get it. What’s this to you anyway? I never even heard of you, and all of a sudden you show up with some letter from some attorney telling us what to do with my good for nothing nephew like you’re his wife or something. Makes no sense to me.”

  “Buford may not have always been the nicest man, but he was kindhearted to me, and that’s what mattered most for me, Miss Mableton, ma’am, and with all due respect, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speak ill of my fiancée. Not here certainly, and not in front of me.”

  I noticed Clementine James run her tongue along her teeth. I wondered if she did that to stop herself from smiling. It was an actor trick I’d learned in a class I’d taken last year in New York.

  Playing a country girl with class but not quite classy wasn’t the easiest thing to pull off. I’d been tasked with taking charge by whoever hired me. I wasn’t privy to the information yet, but it was detailed out in the envelope, and once Clementine James opened it, we’d all know. Even though I’d been acting for no more than thirty minutes, the jaw-dropping, eyes wide expressions on the three faces next to me set my heart racing to find out. We all wanted to know how this woman who no one knew walked in holding the last wishes of a man that slept in his truck most of the time, spent his days ordering people around, his nights watching Netflix, and ended up dead from a wasp sting on his neck.

  Most of all, they wanted to know how he wound up engaged and died without one single person ever meeting me. Frankly, it all seemed impossible to believe, but I was determined to pull it off.

  Atticus threw the paper across the funeral director’s desk. “Unbelievable. There’s nothing in here about the truck or his money or how we’re supposed to pay for any of his funeral stuff.”

  “It’s not actually a will, Mr. Mableton,” Clementine James said. “It’s just his final wishes for his burial and such.”