funeral home did not have enough handicap parking spots for all the debilitated old folks. Some of them had to be wheeled and walked back to their cars at the far end of the lot. By the time we could safely start the car, Mother had joined us, and I moved forward to pull up behind the hearse in the “next of kin” space for the trip to the cemetery. To our surprise Ernest and his wife had already parked their car there.
Mother was outraged. “Who do they think they are? Why they’re not even remotely related to William!”
I felt a stirring of uneasiness, but restrained myself from reminding her that, technically, we weren’t either.
The graveside ceremony was even shorter and more abrupt than the one at the funeral home. The priest had a taxi waiting. As soon as he declared, “Amen!” he hopped in, and away he went. The only people besides us and the Dibbers who came to the cemetery were William’s two elderly female cousins. The four came together in conversation for a few moments and then parted company. They all left without a backward glance at the open grave. None of them had shed even one little tear for the dearly departed.
Cassie sat alone on one of the six or seven folding chairs surrounding the raw dirt of the open grave. She stared forlornly at the plain metal casket. At her feet lay a spray of cheap florist greenery mixed in with some inexpensive fake carnations—the ones that florists call “cemetery silk.” It was a rare moment. Cassie was usually in motion physically and emotionally. I had forgotten how truly beautiful she was. For once she had my blessing to wear her favorite color. She had pleased me by choosing a simple black silk dress. It was one that I purchased for her college wardrobe. I had the misbegotten notion that her need for “a smart little black dress” would be the same as mine had been twenty-five years before. I helped her cut off the price tag this morning. It had hung in the closet for more than a year unworn.
Even standing as far away as I was, I could see her thick black eyelashes. Dark brown hair hung straight and shining to her shoulders. My daughter did not inherit my hazel eyes and freckles. No unruly auburn curls for her. Her hair and eyes were dark like her father’s. He used to say his baby’s hair was the color of castanos. The word always brought to mind visions of castanets. It really meant “chestnut.” That was the wood most castanets were made from. She was truly lovely, and she was still my baby even if she was eighteen.
A few feet away from her three gravediggers were lounging under a big oak tree smoking. They waited impatiently for everyone to leave so they could finish their dismal business. They had on short white cotton jackets resembling the ones supermarket clerks or butchers wear. The name of the funeral home was embroidered over the breast pocket in a bright irreverent green. Underneath their jackets they wore faded cotton work shirts, or, in the case of one man, a soiled undershirt. They all wore dirty jeans and scuffed boots.
They began to grumble among themselves. As their voices got purposefully louder and more obscene I could tell their anger was directed at Cassie because she showed no signs of moving. Foolishly, one of them flicked a cigarette butt in her direction. It landed smack in front of her and bounced off the coffin. Hair swirled around her pale face like a dark cloud as she turned quickly toward them. She glared at the men for a moment until they began to shift uneasily, then slowly wiped the tears from her eyes. She gave William’s casket a farewell caress and picked up the still smoldering cigarette. All of her sadness and grief had found a focal point, and for a brief moment I felt sorry for the men. I watched my daughter, the avenging angel, walk toward them with a sweet and terrible smile on her lips. Cassie looked carefully at their faces and decided correctly who had done the deed.
“I do believe this is yours, Sir,” she said, as she gently lifted a big dirty hand and turned the palm up. The man stared dumbly into that incredibly perfect face and gave only a slight whimper as she ground the burning cigarette out in the center of his lifeline.
Somehow we managed to get out of the cemetery alive. Considering the ugly shouts that followed us to the car, I found it to be just one more unsettling event of the day. Funerals should be peaceful occasions. So why did our attempt to say farewell to our dearly departed leave me with such a sense of foreboding?
Chapter Two
Cassie, Mother, and I drove back home to Rowan Springs in weary silence. I was thinking back to happier days when my father and grandparents were still alive. I was sure Mother and Cassie were having similar thoughts.
We were strong and hardworking folk, most of us with sound minds and strong tall bodies. We were from pioneer stock with good genes, and we had our share of good fortune. Those who passed on had mostly died in bed, simply exhausted from a long and happy life. There was, however, one great-great-grandfather who died in the arms of his buxom new wife during their wedding dance. She was his third lady, and her “buxom” held him up during the waltz. It was not until the music stopped that anyone realized his heart had also.
When Abigail died, she simply collapsed behind William as she followed him into the kitchen to make his dinner. We were told she was dead before the ambulance arrived. William had lingered in the hospital only three days after his last heart attack a week ago. “No pain,” the doctor said. “We made sure.”
So I was somber but comforted by the knowledge that William and Abigail were together again as they had been for the last forty years. And we were going home where a nice cold glass of Chardonnay awaited us.
My father had designed the patio behind our house. It sat like a compass right in the middle of the huge grassy expanse of ten acres that made up our backyard. I had placed the brightly colored mosaic of tiles in each compass point. Dad made sure they corresponded to true north, east, south, and west. In the center was a beautifully hand-painted tile with a compass rose. Under the “W” for west was a moon, and you can guess what was set in under the “E.” During the last forty years, many wonderful plans had been made and many delightful words had been spoken east of the sun and west of the moon.
On the patio this evening, Cassie was curled up like a cat on a chaise lounge. She was all cried out and seemed to have come to terms with the day’s events. I sprawled in limp exhaustion on the wide double rocker beside her. As a writer I suppose I should say something corny like “the brilliant scarlet sky swallowed the golden sun in a ravishing gulp of splendor,” but the truth is that I was, as always, simply ennobled by the beauty of the sunset. It is amazing how much you can see of nature without the intrusion of skyscrapers and industrial fumes. I was quiet, humbled by the glorious sight. So, I thought, was Cassie until she spoke.
“How much do you think William willed to Gran?”
I was truly astonished! It had never occurred to me that poor William, who lived in a 750 square foot house with threadbare carpets, would have enough of an estate to actually will anything to anyone.
“Really, Cassie! The poor old soul is not even cold yet! For God’s sake wait ‘till the dirt settles.”
“I loved William and Abigail with all my heart! You know that. But he is dead, and I do remember Granpapa saying that he was worth a fortune.”
“Honey, the way your grandfather spent money, anyone who had a hundred dollars salted away was worth a fortune! And besides.…”
She interrupted. “I know, but William did sell that land of his father’s to the coal company for at least ninety thousand. And you saw the awful way the poor old souls lived! Their refrigerator was four hundred years old, the carpet was moth eaten, and I almost fell through a hole in the kitchen floor. They surely didn’t spend that money on creature comforts.”
“I had forgotten William once had money, but that was years ago, Cassie. I can’t imagine how you remembered. You were just a baby. Anyway, they must have
