Southern Fried Sushi (11 page)

“So how about the funeral? Who’s even doing it?” I felt confused. The family should, right? But Mom, for all practical purposes, had no family.

“Some friends from church and VSDB. We got together and agreed we’d honor her memory because she’d become so dear to us.”

“What about the arrangements? The flowers and … and … everything?” I couldn’t bring myself to say “casket,” but I knew the zeros lined up behind those price tags. A proper funeral, plus burial plot and headstone, cost thousands.

“The church and all of us took care of things, and your father sent a check.”

My father. Who did nothing but leave occasional messages on my cell phone, which I deleted immediately.

“Really.” Everything made me angry. What if I wanted a

different casket? What if I didn’t like their choices?

Well, Shiloh, you could pay for a different one, couldn’t you? I snapped silently. I was even mad at myself. But you know in your heart you wouldn’t want to spend your money on that
.

Maybe now I would.

Maybe now it’s too late.

Horrified, I looked up from my inner conversation. Was I schizophrenic? Had I followed in Mom’s footsteps without realizing it? I put my fork down, feeling shaky.

“You okay, honey?” Faye looked up from her chicken. “Too much all at once, I reckon.”

“I’m okay.” I forced a smile and rubbed my forehead, jet-lagged and exhausted. Half-awake and half-asleep. “Just need to get used to everything.”

“I guess you’d better get some shut-eye.” Faye got out her wallet to pay. “Take a warm bath when you get back to your hotel room. That’ll help ya wind down.”

She closed her purse. “Want me to pick you up t’morrow, or are ya gonna drive yourself?”

“I’ll drive. Thanks.”

Faye left me at the hotel lobby with a warm hug, and I felt a bit like I was leaving Mom behind. Almost changed my mind and went with her. But since I’d paid for my room, I said hi to Patty and took the elevator up. Parked my shoes by the door and turned on the bath water.

Tomorrow would be a big day.

I just had no idea how big.

I
awoke at 9:42 a.m., leaden-eyed. I’d overslept. The hotel radio clock had been playing country music since eight.

After dinner with Faye the night before, I’d taken a warm bath but just couldn’t seem to get sleepy. Sent some stories to Dave, texted Kyoko and Carlos. Kyoko and I chatted for a few minutes online, but Carlos’s account showed a red bar across it: offline.

As soon as I got comfortable in bed, the room vibrated. I scrambled under a doorway for protection out of habit, mistaking it for one of Japan’s famous earthquakes. But no, a midnight train rumbled past. Patty had failed to mention it.

Then another at 1:27, and another. No whistle, just the whir of tracks and wheels.

The last time I looked, the clock read 3:49, and I hadn’t slept a wink.

And it was too late now. I grabbed my stuff for the shower and flew through the bathroom, drying my hair and digging frantically through my suitcase.

I didn’t know what was appropriate to wear to a funeral for one’s mother, so I threw on an ugly black dress I’d bought at a street-side sale in Yokohama. I’d considered it a deal at fivedollars, but it was ill-fitting and too dark for my coloring. But it did the black and sorrowful job well.

I pulled on a dark-colored headband and a pair of black ballet flats then added somber makeup. I studied my black ensemble, feeling like Goth Girl from one of Kyoko’s bands.

But all the black reminded me I was indeed heading to a funeral. A good-bye. Mom’s good-bye. The thought put a damper on my already sour mood.

I grabbed a small black purse from my suitcase and shoved some stuff in it then locked my door and ran down to growl at Patty about the train. Instead of Patty I found Bobbie, an older woman with too-long hair and big bangs.

I crabbed with Bobbie about how I couldn’t sleep, how the Best Western ads didn’t show any train, and I demanded to change hotels. She promised me a room on the other side of the building, but I’d have to wait until tomorrow to move.

“Fine,” I grumbled, even though it wasn’t. I grabbed some coffee and a banana on my way out the door.

I sat in my car with the door open and sunglasses covering my puffy eyes, trying to make sense of Faye’s hand-drawn map. My mind wasn’t cooperating when she drew it, and she might as well have been playing tic-tac-toe. If I’d just written down the address, the GPS could have done the rest. But alas. Jet lag. I kicked myself for not letting her drive me to the service.

But my bad luck was just beginning.

I pulled out my international calling card, but the paper with Faye’s number was gone. I riffled through my purse and dumped it on the seat. Sorted through my credit cards and “Southern Speak” notebook, shaking it upside down. In a panic I ran back up to my hotel room, where I emptied the desk drawers and checked every pocket. Tore through my suitcase, throwing clothes on the floor.

I gripped my head in my hands, trying to focus. It must be in the car. It had to be.

I rushed back down to the Honda, door still open, and dug around on my hands and knees under the seat. Bumped my head on the steering wheel. Hit the windshield wipers by accident, and when I swiped to turn it off, turned on the car alarm.

And for all of that, nothing under the seat but a suit-coat button the rental company’s vacuum had missed.

I wearily plopped back in the seat and called information. I tried to remember Faye’s last name and groaned loudly into my hand. Snapped my phone shut in a huff. There I sat, not knowing a single soul in Staunton who could help me.

I gave a long, angry sigh and slapped the map out straighter. Now I’d have to go to a gas station and get directions, wasting more time, because I sure wasn’t talking to Bobbie again in my frame of mind.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone brushing mulch around a small tree, baseball cap pulled low. Gardener or something. He looked up at the same time, and I grabbed my map and stalked over.

“Excuse me. Can you help me?” I pulled off my sunglasses.

“Sure. You seemed a little frustrated over there. Lost?”

“Yeah. I need to get to … here.” I poked my finger at the funeral home.

His stood up and studied the map, and his eyes met mine. They were bluish-colored, or grayish, nondescript—but kind.

“I’m sorry.”

I guess my black dress did make me look like a mourner, and my mood festered by the moment. “Thanks. Do you know the street address? I could use the GPS system.”

“Sorry, I don’t. But I can tell you how to get to the funeral home. It’s out in Churchville.”

“Churchville?” I started. “You’ve been there?”

“Sure. Lots of times.” He squinted at me strangely. “You’re not from here, are you?”

“I get that all the time.” I made a face. “No. But I needed togo to Churchville anyway, so now I can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Well, as long as you’re killing birds, make them starlings.”

“Sorry?”

“Starlings. They’re little black birds.”

“Like crows?”

“Smaller.”

“Why? Do they dig in the trash here, too?”

“No, they bully the native birds out and take over. Sometimes they sit there and watch them build a whole nest before kicking them out of the tree. Or steeple. Or whatever it is they want. And they flock in the thousands—imagine the mess.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure study your birds.” I made a mental note to write
starlings
in my “Southern Speak” notebook. I’d already started the second page, thanks to Faye and Bobbie.

One corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “I try. So, Churchville. Let me see the map.”

I followed his directions, asking questions, until he drew a big circle around the funeral home. “That’s it right there, just off 42. Or Buffalo Gap Highway. But you might not see any road signs. Out there things are a little … well, less posted. People just sort of know where they are. So look for these things.” He drew in some more notes and—I’m not making this up—something like bugs with stick legs.

“What are those?” I asked, not intending to sound rude. “Roaches?”

“Those are cows. There’s a pasture here.”

“Oh.” I covered my mouth. “Okay. I’ll look for them.”

“I never promised artwork. Only directions.” He gave that slight smile again.

“No, really. I appreciate it. Thanks.”

“Sure.” He straightened his baseball cap and looked at the map again. “Just in case you get lost, though, here’s my cell phone number. I can try to talk you through wherever you are.”

He wrote it on the corner of the map.

“Thanks.” I took the map back, a spurt of honest-to-goodness gratitude springing up. I had no idea people here were so helpful, and despite my sarcasm and grumpiness, he’d just done me an enormous service. “You’ve really helped me.”

“No problem. Hope things get better for you.”

I sighed and put my sunglasses on. Now back to the funeral. Half of me wanted to go, and the other half wanted to skip the whole thing and pretend it never happened.

He called something after me.

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

I paused, fiddling with my purse strap. “I’m fine. Just have a long day ahead of me.”

He gave a sympathetic smile and turned back to his mulch. And I got in my car and headed for the last place in the world I wanted to go.

I
half-hoped I’d need to call the gardener just so I could thank him, or even just get my mind off the funeral, but he’d written perfect directions. Even the pasture, just as he’d drawn, scattered with loafing cows. At first I breezed through Staunton without noticing much—just an older small town as expected—but when the buildings began to melt into pastures and farmland, my sad heart lifted just a little.

Sloped, jagged mountains loomed blue and stalwart ahead of me, strangely comforting. They’d come with me along the Interstate like a good friend. Sort of like having Kyoko in the car, minus the cigarette smoke and snide remarks about Carlos.

Pastures gleamed brilliant green, like something out of a fantasy movie, shining in the sun and dotted with trees. Even the roadsides gleamed with color, all splashed with wildflowers and pink sweet pea vines.

The sun hid in and out of clouds, and during one darkish moment I rolled down the window and let in the summer breeze. If they could capture this fresh, clean, earthy scent, it would sell better than bottled Japanese tangerines.

I found myself in the middle of nowhere surrounded bywoods. Just as the gardener had labeled it: “Middle of nowhere.” I chuckled as I checked my map.

I turned right at a lonely intersection and passed a long, low brick school, again as indicated, smack in the middle of a giant, rolling cow pasture. Thus the cow drawings. I laughed again.

When pastures gave way to a C
HURCHVILLE
sign, I slowed the car and stared at large, blocky farmhouses from eras long gone. If I blinked, it could be 1850. Only cars, asphalt, and power lines gave us away. Which one’s Mom’s? That one with the porch falling in?

And then right in front of me stood the funeral home, already full of cars.

I felt numb, light-headed, and suddenly sick to my stomach. I parked. Sat there, unmoving, until a woman who looked like Faye hurried out to meet me.

She hugged me and sat in the passenger’s side, talking to me, and I responded, though I recall not a word of what we spoke. She held my hand. Then she put her arm around me and led me inside. And then, thankfully, the curtain of shock fell, and everything drifted into a haze.

I remember very little about the funeral. People, people, and more people filed past—none of whom struck any chord of memory in my brain. A big-haired woman crying into a handkerchief. An older African-American couple hand in hand. Families with disabled children … Mom’s students?

Flowers filled the room in fragrant bunches: lilies and yellow spider chrysanthemums. I mouthed unknown names from the cards: Stella Farmer. Covenant Baptist Church. Frank and Beulah Jackson. I wondered if Dad sent any flowers.

They’d saved a special spot for me. A program, with Mom’s picture on it. I looked at her face, so much like her in life that

I couldn’t believe she was gone. Not Mom. Not smiling like that.

The room reeked of flowers. A pastor with a kind face gave some kind of message, and people sang. I gazed at the carpet, at a spot on the wall. At the chrysanthemum-covered casket with another picture of Mom looking young and happy. I tried to understand why I sat there, all dressed in black. Why people wept into crumpled tissues.

This isn’t happening. In a few minutes I’ll wake up in Shiodome and realize I’m dreaming. A horrible, too-long dream. I’ll call Kyoko, she’ll rant about weird music and the ‘80s, and everything will go back to normal
.

People hugged me, people I didn’t know. Who are they? Why are they here? I felt sleepy, jet-lagged, and ghost-like, slipping in and out of reality.

Then somehow I saw Faye’s car ahead of mine, driving slowly down a long, curvy road in the middle of emerald forest-y trees, behind a long, black car. An iron gate opened for us from an ancient stone wall, and we followed the hearse up a tiny dirt road between rows of old headstones.