Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes (10 page)

Violet gasped, the sound echoing off the tiled entrance.

Aunt Bessie pressed on. “Rose looks very tasteful, very conservative. You should be happy for her.”

Violet put her hands on her hips. “What are people gonna
say
?”

“And right there is the bottom line, isn’t it, Violet? What are people goin’ to
say
?”

I couldn't believe the two women I loved most in the world were arguing. Over me no less. “Stop! Stop it the both of you!”

They turned to face me. Violet looked like she was about to give me a good throttling, then move on to Aunt Bessie.

“Violet, I’m sorry if you are unhappy with my new haircut, but I honestly had no idea what Aunt Bessie was goin’ to do to it. I thought she was givin’ me a trim. But that bein’ said,” I smiled at Aunt Bessie. “I’m not sorry she did it. I love it and I’m sorry if you don't. And perhaps the timing was bad, but you and I both know that the people in this town are goin’ to talk about me one way or the other. They always have.”

Violet looked like she was about to start spitting out carpet tacks. Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her away from our group, their heads bent together in a heated discussion.

“Rose, if I had known Violet would react this way, I never would have cut your hair.”

“Don't be sorry, Aunt Bessie, for heaven’s sake, it’s only
hair
.” But the truth was that the problem lay much deeper. I was changing and Violet didn’t like it.

Violet calmed down a little before it was time to go into a private room to wait while the mourners were seated in the sanctuary. Violet looked like she would burst out the door to escape my presence at any minute.

A few minutes after eleven o’clock, we walked to the front of the church. I offered a prayer of thanks that I didn’t fall over in my two-inch heels.

Violet remained chilly at the graveside service, but I reached over and grabbed her hand, overcome with a wave of grief. I took it as a good sign when she didn't snatch it away, instead hanging on tight. We sat next to the open grave and clung to each other as we buried our last remaining parent. We were orphans. I choked back a sob of despair. Even if Momma hadn’t been the best mother, she was still our Momma. And now we were alone.

We rode in an uncomfortable silence to the church for the traditional funeral dinner. Any good Southern Baptist knows there’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a casserole potluck, death included. I told myself if I could just make it through the dinner, then I could return to my solitude, or at least my own inner demon.

We’d made it through the funeral and graveside service without mishap; I knew it was too much to expect to make it through the dinner, as well. Two older women watched me while I stood to the side of the buffet table. I recognized them as Momma’s friends, if you could call backstabbing, busybodies friends.

Violet and Aunt Bessie made their hostess rounds while I did my best to stay out of the way. One of the women pointed to me, shaking her finger in outrage, then buried her face in their huddle. I did my best to ignore them, but they soon worked themselves into a chattering tizzy. A few moments later, they moved toward me and didn't waste any time getting to the point.

“You have some nerve showin’ up at your mother’s funeral lookin’ like that.” The ringleader pointed to my dress with a gnarly finger covered in gaudy rings. Ethel Murdock, self-appointed morality czar of Henryetta. I had no doubt that Momma and Miss Ethel spent many an hour judging the actions of the First Baptist Church members. Then they’d move on to the remaining citizens of Henryetta for good measure.

The blood rushed to my face and the all-too-familiar response to hide took over. I shook it off. It was time to stand up for myself.

“What exactly are you talkin’ about? What’s wrong with the way I look?” I asked in a shaky voice.

Miss Ethel’s eyebrows knit together and her mouth puckered as if she were about to give me a kiss. I knew there was little chance of that happening. “You’re dressed up all high and mighty. We know you never dressed like that before. You killed your own mother to get her money and you haven’t wasted any time spendin’ it, have you?” Her face turned red and splotchy. I worried Miss Ethel would have a stroke right there. I’d probably be blamed for that too.

Adrenaline surged through my blood. My chest constricted, cutting off my air supply. “How I spend my money is no concern of yours,” I choked out.

Miss Ethel picked up her cane and waved it in front of my face. “You’re not goin’ to get away with this! It’s a travesty that you’re walkin’ around free to murder some other unsuspectin’ victim!” Her words echoed throughout the fellowship hall.

Beulah Godfrey stood behind Miss Ethel, her arms crossed and lips pursed. She nodded her head in agreement.

Anger riled up in me. I had no idea where this seemly bottomless pool of rage came from, but it just kept flowing out. “Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said through gritted teeth, “but this is neither the time nor place to discuss it.”

My words enraged Miss Ethel more and she puffed up like a bantam rooster, thrusting out her chest and bobbing her head. She lifted her cane higher, swinging it around. “Don’t you talk to
me
about time and place, you
murderess
!”

Miss Ethel lost her precarious balance and swung her cane as she flailed, catching Miss Beulah on the chin. Miss Beulah shrieked and fell sideways, landing smack dab in the big pan of mashed potatoes on the buffet line. She jumped off the table as if it bit her, her face and chest covered in the creamy mixture. In her haste, she bumped a bowl of red Jell-O salad, sending it sideways off the table toward Miss Ethel. Miss Ethel screamed as she saw it coming toward her, accidently falling on her bottom as she tried to get out of the way, the bowl landing on top of her head. Red gelatin dripped down her hair and into her startled face. Miniature marshmallows clung to her tight blue-gray curls like dandelion puffs caught in a spider web.

An eerie silence descended upon the fellowship hall and everyone froze, forks halfway to their mouths. The room looked like a scene out of “Sleeping Beauty.” Nothing this good had happened at a Henryetta funeral since Elmer Wainwright fell out of his casket five years earlier.

I threw back my shoulders and lifted my chin, knowing I’d be blamed for this somehow.

Violet gave me a livid glare of
How could you
?

I turned and carefully walked out of the hall, praying I didn’t fall in my heels. About one hundred pairs of eyes watched me leave. I could have crawled under a rock and died right there and it still wouldn’t have been enough to escape.

Aunt Bessie followed me out as the room finally broke its spell with a roar of chaos. Violet remained behind. I was torn about that. I wanted my big sister to hug me and tell me it would be okay, but was fearful she’d come out and accuse me of ruining Momma’s funeral. I suddenly realized how very alone I was now. Was my independence really worth the price I was paying?

We agreed that Uncle Earl would drive me home. Aunt Bessie could stay behind and help Violet, even though I suspected Violet didn’t want her there.

We were almost home when Uncle Earl cleared his throat. “What that woman said, it wasn't right. Just remember that she doesn’t know you. You can’t change the opinions of small-minded people.” He reached over and patted my arm.

My chin quivered and I bit my lower lip. Those were the most words I’d heard Uncle Earl say in years.

Uncle Earl dropped me off at home and went back to the church. Aunt Bessie and Uncle Earl came back later and spent the night again. I tried to call Violet before I went to bed, but she didn't answer. I left a rambling message on her machine, apologizing for upsetting her and begging for her forgiveness. I hung up, afraid I lost her forever even though Aunt Bessie assured me that all she needed was time to get used to things.

The next morning when Aunt Bessie and Uncle Earl left for home, Aunt Bessie asked me to come home with her. I would have gone in a heartbeat if I hadn’t been ordered to stay in Fenton County. Besides, I had an appointment with my attorney that afternoon.

Deanna Crawfield looked much more professional on a Thursday afternoon than at two o’clock on a Sunday morning, but then again I think most people would. We sat at a conference table while she took notes on a legal pad. Deanna said the evidence was circumstantial. The cut utility lines and the busted side door were in my favor, but the fact nothing was stolen and my argument with Momma in the afternoon were not. She was surprised the police hadn't called me in for more questioning, which she saw as a bad sign. They were collecting more evidence first.

An hour later, I left feeling less than confident about my freedom. If anything, I wondered how long it would take for the Henryetta police department to show up at my door to arrest me.

On the way home, I stopped at a convenience store to buy milk. While I dug cash out of my wallet, a Wal-Mart receipt fell out onto the counter. I almost wadded it up before noticing the writing on the back.

My list.

I picked it up, staring in disbelief. In all the confusion, I’d forgotten about it.

“Do you want me to throw that away?” the clerk asked.

“No, that’s okay…” I mumbled and carefully tucked it into my wallet. I’d figure out what to do with it later.

After I got home, I decided to search for Momma’s will. I knew she had one made after Daddy died and I suspected it was in the lockbox in her bedroom closet. I couldn’t believe Violet hadn’t thought of it, but she probably figured she’d have to deal with me to read it. She never returned my phone call from the night before and she hadn’t called to check on my attorney appointment.

The dusty box was on the floor in the closet, hidden behind a stack of empty shoe boxes. Inside, I found a stack of papers and pulled them out one by one. Momma and Daddy’s marriage license. Daddy’s death certificate. The deed to the house. At the bottom was a large envelope labeled “Last Will and Testament of Agnes Gardner.” I opened the flap and pulled out a bundle of papers, all stapled together. I read the legalese, wondering if anyone really understood any of it, until I got several pages in and found Violet’s name. Bequeathed to Violet Mae Gardner Beauregard was all Momma’s money, her house and all its furnishings.

Everything
.

The room became fuzzy and I worried I’d pass out and hit my head again. I put my head between my knees, gasping for air. Had she hated me so much that she left me nothing?

When the threat of fainting faded, I sat up and reexamined the page, sure I’d misread it. But I hadn’t. Violet got everything.

I turned the page looking for my name. I found it the next page over. Rose Anne Gardner received a carved wooden box located in Momma’s closet. A wood box?

I found it in the top shelf of her closet, a small wooden trunk about fifteen inches long and eight inches wide. It reminded me of a miniature pirate’s chest with a tiny padlock holding it closed. I searched Momma’s drawers for a key, coming up with nothing. It was fairly light so I knew it couldn’t be packed with money. In fact, if I hadn’t heard a small clunking sound, I would have wondered if it held anything at all.

I stared at the grimy chest, my inheritance, and realized in the matter of only a few days I had lost everything.

Chapter Seven

After the initial shock wore off, I got up to fix myself dinner only to discover I’d left the milk out on the counter. I slid the container on the top shelf and noticed a six-pack of beer, two of the bottles gone. I bent over, hanging on the door as I peeked in and tried to figure out how they got there. Momma never allowed The Devil’s Brew in the house. Uncle Earl must have brought them and forgotten them.

I set the carton on the counter, staring at it like it was an alien pod dropped off in my fridge, about to pop out a gremlin at any moment. Because I knew something like that was bound to happen; Momma said nothing good ever came from a bottle of beer.

At the thought of Momma, my rebellion broke loose and burst out, filling me with thoughts of evilness. I pulled a beer out of the box and turned it in my hands. How could one little brown bottle be a fount of wickedness? In that moment, I decided if it was wicked, I was going to drink it. It took me nearly a full minute to figure out how to get the metal cap off and once I did, I held it in front of me.
This was it
. The moment I embraced evil. I took a big swig, then coughed and gagged, spewing out liquid like the cherub fountain in Mildred’s backyard. Thank goodness I was standing in front of the sink.

So maybe a big gulp wasn’t such a good idea.

I placed the bottle to my lips and took a tiny sip, my tongue protesting. The cold beer slid down my throat and warmed my stomach. How was that possible? Maybe it was Devil’s Brew, especially since the only explanation I could come up with was magic.

Carrying the carton in one hand and my bottle of the Fount of Wickedness in the other, I went out the front door and plopped in one of the rarely used rocking chairs on the front porch. I briefly considered what the neighbors would think. Then I decided it didn't matter. I probably wouldn’t live here much longer anyway.