The Rosewood Casket (27 page)

Lilah looked at her. The girl looked like a peeled grape with her lank hair, her lashless eyes, and her bloodless lips. “Well, you’re young yet,” she said kindly, because Rudy disapproved of needless unpleasantry. “I’m always afraid that the world would just rise up and throw me overboard like Jonah himself if I didn’t make an effort to look presentable.” She smiled at the others and hurried out of the room, before the debate on cosmetics could continue.

Kelley looked at Debba Stargill and shrugged. “Who are we to argue with her? She’s been married for thirty years at least. I think I’ll go put on some lipstick.”

Debba Stargill stayed at the breakfast table, because she didn’t really feel like primping. She was finishing the last of the coffee when the little girl appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She was already dressed in tiny blue jeans and an Opryland sweatshirt. “Where’s my momma?” she asked. She did not ask to be fed. Debba Stargill was not the sort of person children imposed on.

“In her bedroom, I think,” said Debba. As an afterthought she added grudgingly, “Can I get you anything?”

Kayla had already opened the refrigerator, and was helping herself to strawberry jam and a bowl of grapes. “This’ll do,” she said, reaching for the plastic wrapper containing the bread. “I’m used to getting my own breakfast.” She dipped the butter knife into the jam jar, and began to smear a slice of bread. “You all gonna be sewing again today?”

“Yes. We’re just getting ready to begin. Would you like to watch television? I guess we could work somewhere else.” Debba didn’t sound happy about the prospect. She didn’t have any children, and she wasn’t sure how to talk to them, so she treated them with careful politeness as if they were tuxedoed waiters in a restaurant she could barely afford.

“That’s okay,” said Kayla with bread-stuffed cheeks. “I’m going outside to play. It’s kinda neat up here. I saw a rabbit yesterday. And Clayt’s been telling me a lot about birds.”

“Well, that’s nice,” said Debba, “but you need to be careful out there. A little girl could get hurt in those woods. And if you see any strangers out there, you run right back, you hear?”

Kayla nodded. “Sure,” she said, as she stuffed a sprig of grapes into the pocket of her jeans. “Tell Momma I’m gone.”

*   *   *

Frank Whitescarver had lapsed into silence. Now he was looking out the window of the patrol car, studying the blur of landscape with a practiced eye. Spencer Arrowood had answered all his attempts at small talk with monosyllables, and finally with silence, as he pretended to concentrate on the road. Frank could tell that the sheriff didn’t want to be on this errand, and he especially didn’t want company, but that was too bad. Maybe it wasn’t pleasant to put people off their land, but it had to be done, and there was no point in the sheriff sulking about it, because it was his sworn duty to uphold all the laws, not just the ones he approved of. Frank gave up trying to talk to him though. He concentrated on the scenery—you never know what you might find, even on a road you’ve driven a hundred times.

The road climbed, and circled the ridges, offering glimpses of the valley, and an occasional clump of early wildflowers brightening the road ahead. Not far now. Frank straightened up. “The turnoff is a dirt road up here to the right,” he said. “Do you know it, Sheriff?”

“Yeah.” Spencer Arrowood’s lips tightened. “I played basketball in high school with Tate Stallard. I used to take him home after games sometimes. He was a good friend.”

“I remember him,” Frank nodded. “He didn’t come back from Southeast Asia, did he? We lost a lot of good fellas over there. Yep. Might have been different if he’d lived.”

Spencer swung the patrol car into the gravel turnoff by the mailbox marked “Stallard.” Up the steep drive, he could see clabbered clouds in blue haze, wreathed by maple trees as old as the century. As they reached the crest of the hill, the white frame house came into view, in need of a coat of paint, but proud and sturdy against the hills.

“It’s a likely spot, isn’t it?” said Frank.

“It is now,” said Spencer.

“They’re home. I see J. Z. Stallard’s truck parked there beside the barn. Do you want me to stay in the car while you serve the papers?”

Spencer took a long, hard look at his passenger. “You do that,” he said.

“Of course, if you need me to do any explaining, you just give me the high sign, and I’ll be right there to help you out.”

The sheriff stopped the car next to the house, collected the papers, and got out, slamming the door as hard as he ever had. He helloed the house. “Are you there, J. Z.? I need to have a word with you.” A sudden movement beside the barn made him turn. He saw two figures emerge from the building, and stand in shadow. He waved, but they stood where they were.

Spencer’s fingers touched the leather of his holster—a habit with him when the situation got touchy, but he managed a tight smile and began to walk toward the Stallards. He had known them all his life.

*   *   *

Lilah Stargill settled down on the living room sofa with the squares of the quilted coffin lining in her lap. “I guess we can get started now,” she said. “Shall we keep doing like we have been? Kelley cut, while Debba and I sew?”

“Fine with me,” said Kelley. “But we’re down to just a couple more squares from Mrs. Stargill’s wedding suit. We need to pick something else to cut up.”

“Have we used something from each one of the boys?” Lilah ran her fingers along the length of cloth. “Baby blanket, wedding outfit, Eye-talian shawl…”

“What else can we use?” asked Debba. “Something from the boys now? Did all of ’em bring a necktie? That would work.”

“I don’t know,” said Kelley. “I only packed one tie for Charles Martin, and it’s a real silk one from Italy. I don’t know about cutting it up.”

Debba nodded. “Garrett’s is a special one, too. I mean, it doesn’t look fancy. It’s just a regular army issue necktie, but he’s real superstitious about it. He thinks it brings him luck.”

“I wonder if Clayt even owns a tie,” Lilah mused.

“Neckties are all well and good,” said Kelley, “but the boys might need them for the funeral, and, besides, ties don’t contain a lot of material. We’ve got more than half this liner to sew yet, and we’re running out of things to put in it.”

“I guess we could go through the old trunks again. See if we can figure out which pieces belonged to Mr. Stargill’s parents.” Debba shrugged. “Maybe we should just choose pretty fabrics. We’re pushed for time, aren’t we?”

“What about a piece of cloth from Nora Bonesteel?” asked Kelley.

“Oh, honey, they weren’t married,” said Lilah. “That wouldn’t be right.”

“Well, what of that?” said Kelley. “Charles Martin and I aren’t married, either, but I think—I’d like to think—”

“Well, hon. You never know how a man feels about you unless he’s willing to make it legal.”

Kelley’s eyes narrowed. “Judging from the number of married men that have hit on me, I’d say being legally joined is no guarantee, either. At least I know Charles Martin stays with me voluntarily.”

Lilah gave the younger woman a pitying smile, but she did not reply. No point in telling her that even with the best will in the world, men need a little enforcing of the “voluntary” as the years roll on. If Kelley and Charlie stayed together long enough, she would learn.

“What about part of Mr. Stargill’s military uniform?” Debba suggested. “I know Garrett would want part of it used, if it was him. Well, of course, Garrett wants to be buried in uniform, but you know what I mean. Men set a store by it.”

“It’s their equivalent of a wedding dress,” said Lilah, nodding. “We’ll have a look for it. Anything else? The bedspread? Tablecloth?”

“The doily from on top of the television,” said Debba. The others stared at her, and she said, “
Well
—I mean, you know—he must have stared at that thing sixteen hours a day. He hardly ever looked away from it when we came to see him. I guess he loved that television as much as he did his kinfolk.”

“He wasn’t much on showing affection,” Lilah admitted. “I remember when Dwayne died. Why, I’ve seen people take on more about losing a dog than he did with his own son lying dead down in Florida. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t care. He just wasn’t one to carry on about his feelings.”

“Is that what your angel says?” Kelley’s feelings still rankled from the marriage discussion.

“No. Rudy hasn’t expressed any opinion about Daddy Stargill or the coffin lining. He’s not one to gossip about other folks. He makes me walk chalk, and that’s all he seems to care about. I haven’t heard from him today.”

Kelley and Debba exchanged glances. Kelley shrugged. “Well, this isn’t getting the work done. I guess I’ll go to the attic, and see what else we can use. I’m bringing down anything pretty I find. We’re running out of time for symbolism, ladies.”

*   *   *

Spencer Arrowood was walking up the hill toward the Stallards’ barn. He wished he could talk reassuringly to the shadowed figures, but he was too far away to make them hear. He had some Social Services numbers on a card in his wallet, and he’d mention them if he thought the Stallards would listen, but he was betting they wouldn’t hear of taking charity. Maybe he should have come prepared with some alternatives—a place to stay, or an offer of help from the church—but Whitescarver had sprung this thing on him before he had a chance to think it through. Well, they had a week to pack up and get out. Maybe by then he could come up with something that their pride would allow them to accept.

He glanced back once when he heard a car door slam. Frank Whitescarver had climbed out of the patrol car, and was trailing him, his red face glistening in the mild sunshine. Spencer quickened his pace. The unpleasant task that lay before him would only be made more difficult by the presence of the developer. He didn’t want the Stallards shamed by having the eviction papers served in front of the man who was taking their land.

It seemed to take him forever to walk up that hill to the burned-out barn, but although he was sorting through soothing phrases in his mind, he was unable to think of anything that might comfort the Stallards. This task was as unfamiliar as it was unpleasant. As sheriff he had now and again been called upon to evict indigent ne’er-do-wells from the trailer park, but never one of the old families from land they’d held longer than anybody could remember. He’d rather evict the most cantankerous knife-wielding drunk from a rusty trailer than to politely ask a man like J. Z. Stallard to leave. Spencer knew that both his deputies, LeDonne and Martha Ayers, would feel otherwise about it, and perhaps that was why he had to do this himself.

He was close enough now. He could see J. Z. Stallard in his faded gray work clothes, looking as solemn and dignified as ever a deacon had looked in church. He did not smile or hold out his hand, but his expression was not one of anger. Spencer thought he looked hurt, or perhaps ashamed. Well, that made two of them.

“Hello, Mr. Stallard,” he said gently. He stopped a couple of feet from the older man. He didn’t want this to feel like an arrest for either of them. “I guess you know what I’ve come about. I have some papers to serve.”

J. Z. Stallard hung his head. “It’s my fault, I reckon,” he said. “I never did like asking anybody for help. There might have been some kind of government farm aid we’d have qualified for, or an extension we could have got, but I never could beg. I never could.”

“It’s not begging,” said Spencer, with more conviction than he felt. “It’s your tax money. If they give it out to other people in need, why shouldn’t they hand some of it back to you?”

J. Z. Stallard shook his head—at the offer of help or at the whole idea of the government? Spencer didn’t know. He said, “Mr. Whitescarver down there has bought your farm in a tax sale. It’s all legal, and he has the documentation, if you’d like to see it. You might want an attorney to look it over. I can recommend one, if you’d like.”

The old man shook his head, and Spencer hurried on, “Anyhow, he’s the new owner, and he says he’d like to take possession of the property in one week. Now, I know that’s real short notice, Mr. Stallard, and there may be steps that you can take to delay the actual transfer, but right now, my sad duty is to notify you—”

“We’re not moving.” Dovey Stallard came out of the shadows of the barn, and stood a few feet behind her father, watching the sheriff with the wary look of a cornered felon. She was bundled up in a shabby coat of imitation sheepskin, scowling. She was ten feet from him, but she didn’t appear much older than Spencer remembered. There were circles under her eyes, though, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept much lately. He wanted to tell her that he had been a friend of her brother Tate, but she glared at him, eyes narrowed, as if it were his fault that this thing had happened. It would do no good, he knew, to remind her that he only enforced the laws; he did not make them. People in pain needed to hate somebody, and the sheriff was that somebody often enough, but he never got used to it.

“Miss Stallard,” he said. “You must have heard what I told your father. I’m awful sorry it has to be this way.”

“It’s not fair!” said Dovey with tears in her voice. “This is our farm! It isn’t right that some greedy old toad should put us off our land so he can get rich carving it into lots to make playhouses for city people.”

“I don’t disagree with you,” said Spencer, “but there’s not a lot either one of us can do about it.”

“You gonna throw us out of here yourself, are you? Put our furniture out by the mailbox?”

“You won’t make me do that,” he said. He couldn’t look at her.

J. Z. Stallard was silent now. It was Dovey who fought for the land.

“If you’re not willing to throw us bodily into the road, then you’d better leave,” she said. Her jaw was set, and her lips had tightened to a thin, bloodless line. “And you can take that bastard with you.”

Spencer turned and saw that Frank Whitescarver was puffing up the hill, still about sixty feet away, but smiling at the three of them, and motioning for them to come forward. Spencer didn’t want to referee a shouting match between the realtor and a distraught young woman. “Excuse me,” he said to the Stallards. “Let me go and speak to Mr. Whitescarver.” He hurried down the hill, and blocked the man’s path. “What do you think you’re doing?”