Witch Ball (18 page)

As mom looked at her father decades washed over her. Coincidences, hurts, battles between her parents, were probably swirling in her mind like a tornado. When she finally began to speak, the words fell out of her in a torrent of anger and pain. "I hated Ruby. I never forgave her—or Hunter!" She turned to her father. "This can't be true!" But anyone looking at her knew that she had already accepted it. Her denial was a defense that was crumbling with every second. "Dad, please tell me these are lies!"

Granpa found his voice. "Kay, I couldn't tell you. This all began when you were so young. Then, when you were old enough to understand, there was nothing to say."

Fleur tried to comfort her. She brought in a bottle of sherry and poured everyone a drink. She said
, "Kay, you have to understand. Parents have a life. They don't owe their children explanations..." (She took a big gulp from her glass.) "...except when those lives collide. When Truly got her crush on Eric, I tried to make Hyrum tell you, tell her. He refused. I hoped that the crush would play itself out. It did, this time."

Mom ran out of the house. I heard her car start.

"Do you think that did any good, Flo?" Grandpa was angry. Clementine's cheeks were wet with fat tears.

"Anyway, how did that damn fool judge know about me and Clem? He ain't
no friend of mine."

"I told you, Hyrum, he is a friend of mine. Since I moved back to town he has come to visit several times." She poured more sherry into her glass. No one else was drinking theirs. "We talk about a lot of things
—our families mostly."

Grandpa Hyrum motioned to Clementine and Eric as he stomped out the door.

Eric stood up and turned to Fleur. "So, if I had been found guilty, then the judge would have gone easy on me? Because of you?"

She nodded.

He hesitated, then grabbed her around the neck and hugged her, laying his head on her shoulder.

Cle
mentine took her hand and said, "May God bless you, dear."

They followed
Grandpa. The sun had set. This night seemed darker than usual.

"Fleur, why didn't you tell me?
You and James? I thought you hadn't seen him in years."

"Well,
Truly, that is personal."

"But, but, what happened to make him so kind to you?
And to Eric?"

"It wasn't much at all. He is married, you know. He was grateful that I didn't out him."

"Is that it?"

"That's it. In this town being gay is as wicked as being a witch. He said, 'Fleur
, everyone in town thinks you have snakes in your head; guess I have 'em, too.' You should go now. Your mother needs you."

I walked into the dark. One star blinked over
Columbus. I wished that everyone in my family would find happiness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A
t home Mom was sobbing into Dad's chest. He had one arm around her, gently rubbing her hair with his other hand. This must have been how he comforted her so many years ago.

I saw how kindly he treated her. He wasn't making jokes; that flippant attitude had evaporated. It was the way he responded to the juvenile cases, when we were in Mr. Adams' office—just a compassionate soul trying to heal a hurt.

For a second or two
, they didn't notice me. Then Dad looked up. "Sit down, Tru. This has to be very disturbing for you as well."

I sank into a chair and dropped my purse on the floor.
"I am upset. It kills me to see Mom so unhappy. I'm worried about Fleur. I'm beginning to hate all men! Eric is a bully. Grandpa is a hypocrite!"

"Well, some of those things will get better. Mom will. I don't know what to say about Eric."

Mom sat up. Her face was distorted and streaky. She held a box of tissues, and pulled out bunches at a time to blow her nose.

"Dad, Eric is so passionate about runaway slaves. How could he be that cruel to my sweet aunt?"

"That's hard to say. But I think he has a kind side. Sometimes boys just get caught up in things. It usually involves other boys. They tend to do stupid things in groups."

He held Mom's hand, giving it a little squeeze. "Eric is a product of his environment. There's a lot of prejudice around here. It was easy for them to perceive Fleur and her friends as, well, not exactly human."

I grabbed some of Mom's tissues and wiped my eyes. "I guess I get it." I didn't really "get" it, but I was beginning to have tiny flashes of understanding.

"And, Tru," Dad continued, "Eric may yet turn into a fine man."

"Yeah, like Grandpa, a genuine son of Mississippi."

Mom kept sniffling, but at lease she didn't revert back to the blubbering.

"Yes," he looked at Mom, probably not sure of her reaction, "Hyrum is a man, a flawed one, but then, most people are."

Mom sat up straighter. "Tommy, I think being unfaithful to your wife and having a secret love-child with the
colored
maid is horrendous, appalling! 'Flawed' is a bit of an understatement!"

"I can't make excuses for Hyrum," Dad told her. "Maybe you should talk to him yourself."

"No. Not now; not ever. I will never speak to my father again."

"Kay," he said with such tenderness that my heart melted, "never say 'never'."

"I love you, Dad." He was the only man I loved right now.

We sat quietly together for the rest of the evening. Reading with the TV off. Occasionally, the silence was interrupted by Mom's small snivels, but no one spoke until we all said goodnight and went to bed, exhausted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

C
olumbus became a quiet town again. We enjoyed a lovely autumn. The leaves were more vibrant this year. Brilliant reds and deep oranges blazed like flames caught in branches. Ginkgo trees in front of the courthouse made a brilliant golden backdrop to the monument honoring the Confederate War soldiers. Oaks blanketed the sidewalks and lawns with more acorns than I had ever seen. My science teacher said this meant we would probably have an unusually cold winter.

The
Dispatch
and the
Packet
went back to reporting arguments between City Council members. A bit of vandalism made the news, occasionally.

The date for Johnny Daigle's trial was set. No one thought he would get much of a sentence. The sympathy of the community was behind him. Patrick Adams would defend him. My Dad offered to help, doing some research, and anything else he could to assist.

Fleur made amends with Grandpa. It was a delicate truce. She once told me, "Hyrum is my only brother. Neither of us will be here forever." I didn't really believe her, and was confident that they would be around for many more years.

Mom, however, still refused to speak to her father. She was less forgiving than Fleur. I think it was because she understood less about how the universe works
—karma and all that stuff. Dad thought that she would get over her anger someday. I had my doubts about that. It appeared to me that she would hate him forever.

I was wrong, again. One Sunday evening,
Grandpa phoned. Dad answered. He held the receiver out to Mom. "You have to talk to him. It's very important."

I was surprised when she took the phone. She listened without responding. "Alright, I'll come now."

"He's at Fleur's house. She won't answer the door. That's not like her. I'm going because I have a key."

"I'll go with you," Dad said.

"Alright," she responded. Her voice was breathy, as if it took a lot of energy to bring up that one word. It would be easier for her with Dad there.

"I'm going, too."

"Truly, no. I don't think you should be there."

My Mom has never shown any signs of psychic ability. Now, her face was
pasty, like she was going into something she dreaded. My stomach took a twist. I swallowed hard to calm the bile in my throat.

I waited for about two hours. Mom and Dad were not answering their cell phones. The phone at Fleur's house rang and rang. I couldn't wait any longer, and decided to see what was going on.

Mom and Dad drove up just as I stepped off the porch. Their expressions were somber. They walked toward the house in slow motion, moving like they had suddenly gained a hundred pounds and their legs had trouble supporting the weight.

Dad came in and poured a glass full of gin with no ice. Mom went into the kitchen and came out with her box of wine and two glasses. She poured the wine and handed one glass to me. Her hand was trembling so much that a few drops splashed onto the sofa cushion.

"Gertrude," she said. "Our Aunt Fleur is dead."

The words pierced my chest.
"Mom, what a horrible thing to say! That's not funny. Take it back. Take it back right now!"

Dad put his arms around me with such strength that I thought he might crush me. "Truly, it looks like a heart attack. She didn't suffer."

"I have to see her! I have to go over there right now!"

"Truly, there's nothing you can do. The coroner has already taken her to the morgue. She's really gone."

 

 

 

 

 

 

G
randpa Hyrum insisted on making all the arrangements. He wouldn't let me or Mom help in any way. This made Mom horribly upset. "He better not let that old cleaning woman make any decisions," she said.

A visitation was scheduled for Tuesday, from 6:00 till 9:00 p.m., with the funeral at Memorial Funeral Home, Wednesday morning. Mom and Dad and I went to Noweta's Florist to choose the flowers for her coffin. I selected a huge arrangement of roses from a book of photos they showed us. I kept telling them to add more flowers.

"Embellish. Embellish. Embellish," I told the florist. The roses were a creamy white with wide lavender ribbons. I insisted that the ribbons hang to the floor all around. Some narrow strands of pink and blue lace were to be tied in little bows and woven into the arrangement. They promised that it would be delivered before the visitation.

Dad playfully asked if the coffin could support all that weight. But he didn't give me any trouble when they presented him with the bill. 

Tuesday afternoon, I heard Dad on the phone. He came into my room and said, "Pat Adams called. It seems that Fleur had him draw up a will recently. Apparently, she was fairly well off."

"That's nice."

"Tru, she only had two heirs, so to speak. You are one."

I wasn't sure why this would mean anything to me. Who could think of money?

"Pat says she left some to an organization named Lambda, the rest to you. She specifically earmarked enough for your college tuition."

"Okay, Dad. I want to be the first at the funeral home, so let's leave soon."

I knew that everyone would be wearing black. I also knew that Fleur would be mortified by such banality.

Mom came into my room with something wrapped in colored tissue. "Fleur made this for you. She wanted you to have it to wear to a special high school party." She held the package out to me. "I was going to save it for a happier day, but I think this is the right time."

I pushed aside the papers to reveal a taffeta blouse in the colors of a summer sunset. The fabric rustled as I slipped it over my head.

I put on a skirt with big lavender flowers growing from lime green vines. I found a plastic headband in a drawer and wound it with a string of purple beads, giving the appearance of a tiara designed by a crazy person.

When I came out of my room, Mom said, "Are you sure that is what you want to wear?"

I grabbed my purse, and she said nothing else.

Memorial Funeral Home has an entrance foyer with lots of pseudo-Victorian furniture lining the walls and floral wallpaper. The smell of flowers is suffocating. Everyone in there, including the staff, whispers all the time.

We stopped to sign the guest book outside the room. I was disappointed to see that Grandpa had her listed only as Florenz Thomas. He should have included "Fleur" on the little placard outside of the room.

I went into the low-lit space and saw the arrangement I had so lovingly designed draped across a plain brown coffin.

Inside was a man I had never seen. He was bald, dressed in a dark suit, with a white shirt and a gray tie.

I turned to my parents. "MOM! THEY HAVE AUNT FLEUR'S FLOWERS ON THE WRONG COFFIN!"

Mom and Dad peered into the coffin, obviously confused.
Grandpa was sitting alone on a settee off to one side.

"
Grandpa," I screamed, "how could this happen? Where is my aunt? You must fix this terrible mistake."

"There ain't
no mistake, little lady. Look closely."

"Oh, no," Mom said, and grabbed me. She must have thought I was going to faint.

I stared at the old man lying against the satin lining, but I just couldn't understand.

"Hyrum," Dad said. "We are closing this coffin!" He slammed it shut. The roses and ribbons vibrated.

Mom was weeping softly. "Daddy, how could you do this?"

"
'So God created man in His own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.' That is written in Genesis!" He folded his arms after he said this, and added, "It don't say nothin' about men acting like women. Men an' women only, nothin' else was created by God!" Then he said, "My brother will meet his maker as he was created."

I can't tell you much about that evening. Only a few people came: Trillian and Algonquin, Pat Adams, and two or three kids from Heritage. Some of Mom and Dad's friends came by to pay their respects; his poker buddies, her office mates, a couple of people from the church. No one stayed very long. As I predicted, everyone wore somber colors.

Dad stood by the coffin most of the evening, as if he were guarding it. He must have thought Grandpa would try to open it again. Once, Grandpa went to him and said, "Don't fret, Tommy, I'm not gonna mess with it. It's between him an' his Savior from here on."