by Robert Price
Chapter Eleven
After the limousine dropped them off at the front door of the farmhouse, Elizabeth and Jon guided Mrs. Hubbard through a small gathering of mourners and well-wishers from the town. But although the fire in the front parlor was burning and bowls of nuts and chips had been set out, that room was empty of mourners when they passed through. The large living room was also free of guests—except for two. At the far end of the room, in front of the tall window with a circular top, two disheveled old men sat in wooden chairs. They were drinking straight whisky from plastic cups. Jon had never seen them before. Mrs. Hubbard ignored them. And Elizabeth refused to acknowledge them until they spoke.
“Edward wouldn’t have liked this,” one old man said.
“Nope,” the other agreed.
“How nice that you two could make it,” Elizabeth said dryly as she and Jon continued to guide her mother into the next room, the reception room, where the chair that had been prepared for her the day before now waited by yet another fire.
“Who were they?” asked Jon when they reached the reception room.
“My brothers-in-law,” Mrs. Hubbard spoke as she sat down. “Those two, God love ’em, are so heartless, they would skin a cat alive.”
“They’re Peter and Alley Hubbard, my father’s brothers. They only show up at funerals.”
“Oh?”
“They’re bigger bastards than my father was.”
“Lizzy, not today, please.” Mrs. Hubbard settled back into the chair.
“The scum bags tried to take all our land when my father died, saying that when my parents married, my mother’s property became my father’s, and that it should stay in the family, as in their side of the family. Couple of drunks is what they are.”
“Lizzy!”
“Well, Mother, you know they are. The jackasses even hired a lawyer, saying my father willed them something that wasn’t his to begin with.”
“Oh, I remember you telling me all this.” Jon began to walk out of the room toward the kitchen.
Elizabeth widened her eyes and looked at him, expecting an explanation.
“I’m only going to check on Arnaldo—the caterer. Let him know that we’re here and see if he needs anything.”
Jon paused to look at Mrs. Hubbard, now seated in the chair by the fire. She was gazing at the picture of Tom that stood on the mantle. With her stringy gray hair pulled back into a bun and the black shawl wrapped around her hunched shoulders, cheeks sagging sadly with age and a hard life, Jon suddenly felt compassion for his mother-in-law. She was just a simple farmwoman, he thought. “Casey, can I bring you anything?”
Mrs. Hubbard thought for a moment. “A whiskey, Jon. Yes, a glass of whiskey would be nice.”
“Mother!”
“Lizzy, would you light the candle on the mantle, please? The one beside your brother.”
“I don’t know why you need whiskey. You know it doesn’t mix with your medication. Plus, you’re going to be too hot by this fire. Mother, I think—”
“Lizzy, light the candle,” Mrs. Hubbard said, cutting off her daughter.
As Elizabeth lit a match, the sound of people filling the house drifted into the small room. Mrs. Hubbard folded both hands on her lap, ready to receive her guests.
