Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes
Page 20

“She looks good, so good I almost didn’t recognize her.”
I almost laughed, but my side was already sore. I didn’t need any more bruises.
As the evening went on, I discovered that visitations are all about lying. Momma never looked so good, both physically and in personality, as she did dead. We heard how wonderful, kind, clever, and generous she was, adjectives no one in their right mind would have used a week ago. People patted our arms, our hands, and one old coot actually tried to pat my behind. We got hugs, advice and offers of food. I say we, but it was really Violet. Most people talked to Violet, either outright ignoring me or staring at me, fearful. I suspected a good number of them thought I hid a rolling pin in the folds of my skirt, ready to whip it out at any moment and start bashing heads in.
While Violet greeted our guests, playing the perfect hostess, I listened to the people who stood in front of the casket.
“They must have some amazin’ morticians here. I heard her whole face was smashed in, but you can’t even tell.”
“She got what was comin’ to her. She was a mean old witch.”
“That youngest girl of Agnes’ has never been right in the head. I ain’t surprised one bit. I just hope the police have the sense to lock her up before she starts murderin’ the whole town.”
In a room full of people, I never felt so alone. Tears burned my eyes and I wondered how much longer this would last but knew it was nowhere close to being over. Half of Henryetta showed up to see what they thought I’d done. Just when I was about to bolt, I saw Joe, standing two people back in line, wearing a pair of khaki pants and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. While everyone else’s eyes were focused on the casket, his gaze was on me. His mouth lifted into a small smile.
I thought he would never reach us. The woman in front of him went on and on about the wonderful pies Momma had made the last few years. I bit my lower lip to keep from telling her those were my pies, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Let Momma go out in a pie-blazing glory.
Joe shook Violet’s hand. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Violet gave him a curt thank-you, obviously still blaming him for something, the act itself a mystery.
Joe moved in front of me and allowed the person behind him to approach Violet. Grasping my hand, he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Rose.” He took a deep breath. “And I’m equally sorry for the other night. Still friends?”
He was serious. He thought we were friends. Although I knew I shouldn’t, I smiled. “I’d like that.”
“How are you holding up?”
Tears filled my eyes. “I’m okay.” It was then I realized he was still holding my hand.
“Are you sure?”
I turned to the side and put my back to Violet and the person with her. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I glanced to the line of people next to the casket. “They all think I did this, Joe. The whole town thinks I murdered my own Momma. No one will talk to me, they just ignore me. They’re all afraid I’m goin’ to start runnin’ around the room killin’ everyone.” Tears fell down my cheeks and I wiped them off with the back of my free hand.
“I’m sure they’re not thinkin’ that.”
“Joe, I heard ‘em.”
Joe rubbed my arm and to my dismay, I started to cry harder. He leaned over to Violet. “I’m goin’ to take her out to get some air. I’ll bring her right back.”
Violet didn’t look pleased, but even she had to admit my presence wouldn't be missed.
Aunt Bessie watched Joe lead me out of the room, her eyes lighting up. The visitors cast sneers in my direction. If lynchings were still legal in Fenton County, I knew there’d be a big public execution tonight, bonfire included.
Joe led me down a hall and out a back door. The sun had begun to set, hanging close to the horizon, the sky lit up in a pink splendor. We stood in silence, side by side against the brick wall, while I had a good cry. My tears unlocking the dam to my sadness over Momma’s death. When my tears slowed, Joe held up a box of tissues.
I laughed. “Where did you get those?” I pulled several out and patted my face.
“I swiped them off a table. Figured you might need some.”
I blew my nose, the noise interrupting the chirping crickets and slamming car doors. “Momma hated parties.”
“I guess visitations are kind of like parties.”
“Momma hated most everythin’. I know I shouldn’t say it, but it’s true.”
Joe dug the toe of his loafer into the crack of the sidewalk. “Some people think they need to make the newly deceased look like a saint and ignore all the bad parts of them. But I always thought the bad parts were just as much part of them as the good. Nobody’s perfect. We shouldn't try to remember them that way.”
We stood in silence until Joe said, “I’m sure she didn't hate everything. She loved you and your sister.”
I twisted my mouth into a sad smile and turned my face toward him. “And there you would be wrong. My Momma hated me.”
“I’m sure you thought so at times.”
I faced the sunset, the sun dipping lower, almost touching the earth. I wished I could disappear with it.
“No, Joe. She did.” Of course, he would want to know why. What mother could possibly hate her child without a reason? But I’d finally found a friend. He said we were friends. I wasn't willing to lose him just yet.