The Funeral Dress Page 5

  Another knock. Nolan fumbled with the latch, and the two men exchanged a quick hello. Emmalee rolled onto her other side and pushed her bangs from her eyes. She inched to the edge of the bed and lifted her head, struggling to make sense of the conversation in the next room.

  “Listen here, there’s been an accident on the other side of the valley,” Mr. Fulton said. “Sheriff called about twenty minutes ago. A trucker from up near Manchester was hauling logs over the plateau and saw a pickup fly off the side of Old Lick. Trucker admitted he drifted out of his lane but thought he righted his rig in time.”

  Emmalee cupped her left hand over her mouth. She forced a fierce cry back down into her belly and pushed her face into the pillow. The baby squirmed against her back. Emmalee twisted toward Kelly Faye and slipped her pinkie finger in the baby’s mouth, hoping to soothe her before her crying took hold. Kelly Faye suckled her mama’s finger.

  “Who from Old Lick?” Emmalee only mouthed the words. She was frantic to know who had passed, always finding it easier knowing than wondering. But it was foolish to think it was Leona and Curtis. They weren’t the only two people who lived on that mountain, and Curtis was surely a careful driver. Besides, when a passing came sudden in the night like this, it was more often than not a teenaged driver racing too fast up and down these narrow mountain roads, chasing some fleeting thrill eluding him there in Cullen.

  Mr. Fulton cleared his throat. “That poor trucker said he won’t ever get that picture out of his head. Upset him so much he ran his own rig into a shallow ravine on the other side. Sheriff said it took three shots of whiskey to calm him down enough to talk.” Mr. Fulton’s voice grew louder with each bit of news he shared. “Rescue team’s been there most of the evening. Sissie Boyd’s headed out with the wrecker. Preacher Herd’s probably already there. Runt’s clearing trees.”

  “Shit, what’s the sheriff calling Runt for? I can handle that chain saw better than anybody in Cullen. Runt knows it too.”

  “You may not care for your brother, Nolan, but there’s nobody quicker at taking down a tree.”

  “That ain’t so.”

  “Look, Nolan, this isn’t about you. They’re not reporting any survivors. But you know the sheriff—always remains hopeful to the very end. He’s got to move fast. Get the best team together he can. And now we got to do our part.”

  Nolan shuffled toward the door.

  “I’m just glad we don’t have those heavy rains we had last week,” Mr. Fulton said.

  “Muddy as hell, ain’t it?”

  “True.” Mr. Fulton quieted another phlegmy cough. “Only other problem I see is the rescue squad’s taken the ambulance over to Chattanooga with Arbutus Spangler’s boy. His fever spiked, and he started convulsing. So if there is a survivor at this point, we might be running the hearse over to the hospital ourselves.”

  Mr. Fulton stepped a few feet further into the room, his right foot dragging across the floor. “You know something about all this reminds me of that night back in sixty-nine when those three Signal Mountain boys out riding in that brand new convertible ran right under that semi. Remember? Two of them got their heads shaved right off.” Mr. Fulton’s voice rang as light and friendly as it always did. He could talk of mangled and broken bodies all the while smiling and nodding sweet. Emmalee figured he had spent so much of his life comforting the bereft that his face and voice just got stuck in that reassuring way.

  “Give me a minute to get the fire going here,” Nolan said. “Got to keep the baby warm.” Nolan stepped outside, and Emmalee knew he had gone to steal another piece of wood from an unsuspecting table or chair he had carried home and tossed along the side of the house.

  “How is Emmalee? Sure was surprised to hear she had a baby,” Mr. Fulton asked, raising his voice.

  “Yep,” Nolan said as he returned to the stove.

  “I guess you knew Hester delivered her.” It sounded as though Mr. Fulton followed Nolan to the woodstove on the other end of the room. “She took Billy with her in case she needed help. Not sure the boy’s recovered from the sight of it yet.” Mr. Fulton laughed. “You know we haven’t run Cullen’s ambulance in more than ten years, since the county took over service, but the old-timers at the factory still call on Hester whenever there’s a womanly problem of any kind. Guess they feel more comfortable with her than one of the men from the rescue squad.” Mr. Fulton paused. “Hester said Emmalee was convinced she had the flu was all.”

  “Yeah. Thought she’d gotten fat.” Nolan tossed the fresh wood into the stove, and Emmalee could hear the fire crackle and pop. “But it wasn’t looking like there was a baby in there.”

  “Well, Hester said it was a tiny thing. Not more than five pounds. Is she growing good?”

  “Guess so. Got some lungs, that’s for damn sure.” The stove’s metal door clanked shut.

  “Saw Runt the other day,” Mr. Fulton said. “Said he brought some formula and bottles by, but you run him off. Why’d you do that, Nolan?”

  “Don’t need one damn thing from him.”

  Nolan stumbled back to his cot.

  “Sure this isn’t about Runt getting your daddy’s mill? Nolan, that was a long, long time ago. You got to do what’s right for Emmalee and the baby.”

  “She’s doing fine. Baby too.”

  Emmalee clenched her fists and sucked in another fierce cry.

  “Well, what about the daddy? Has he been around to help?”

  “Don’t know. Girl won’t say. And I ain’t seen a boy back here.”

  “Hmm. You better keep an eye on her or you’ll have a houseful before long.” Mr. Fulton walked back to the door. “I was always telling our Rachel you can’t trust a boy till he puts a ring on your finger. Of course, I tell Billy to keep away from a girl looking for you to put a ring on her finger,” Mr. Fulton said and laughed.

  Billy’s name was only a quick mention, but Emmalee repeated it in her baby’s ear. Billy had promised to marry her long before Kelly Faye was brewing deep inside her. He asked her outright, even talked about a life together. They would live in Cullen and run his daddy’s business. Said he never knew a girl so comfortable around the dead. When they could, they’d buy a house of their own, one with two stories and a big backyard. He called Emmalee beautiful and pure then.

  Emmalee had worked hard not to imagine her life married to Billy. It was foolish dreaming. But she had worked harder not to love him, even after that day he had crawled on top of her and pushed his way inside. Looking back, she understood the girl from Red Chert was only a novelty for a boy like him, not much different from the bearded lady on display at the state fair. Besides, Nolan always told her that it would take a mindless fool to fall in love with her, and Billy Fulton was a real smart boy.

  Emmalee traced the outline of her baby’s lips with her fingertip as she had once traced Billy’s before pressing her mouth against his. Even though Billy had not claimed his baby girl, he was always there now, staring back at her. Sometimes she swore this baby taunted her on purpose. The flecks of green in Kelly Faye’s eyes and her slender nose, both features stolen from the Fultons’ blood, worried Emmalee. She was afraid Mr. Fulton might see his own son in Kelly’s face soon. Or worse yet, Nolan would see it, too. And nothing good could come from these two men learning they shared a grandchild. If Nolan grew demanding and were to lose the only job he had ever performed with any consistency, he would surely blame Emmalee for that like he did most other things that left him cross.

  “Worst cases always in the dead of night. Wonder why that is, Nolan?” Mr. Fulton asked.

  “No shit.”

  “Stop that cussing, old man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t seem right—cussing and tending to the dead at once. We promise dignity at all times. From pickup to burial, always respectful. That’s what our ad in the paper says every single week, and I mean to honor those words. And you work for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d just think afte
r all these years, you’d know where I stand on that kind of talk.” Even when Mr. Fulton reprimanded Nolan, his voice sounded kind. “Come on. Sheriff’s probably waiting on us, and I want to get those bodies to the funeral home before daybreak if possible. This is not a spectator sport, and this one’s already drawing plenty of attention. Three calls came in before midnight. Hester says these people can’t get enough of a good funeral.”

  The cot squeaked and moaned, and Emmalee knew Nolan was lacing his boots, preparing for the night’s grim work. “Go on and get the hearse running,” he said. “I’ll fetch my coat and meet you out there.”

  “All right, but hurry it along. Like I said, I want to get on with it.” Mr. Fulton opened the door. “Why don’t you follow me over there in your truck. We might need it given the circumstance.” The door shut.

  “Who is it, Nolan?” Emmalee said, sitting straight up in bed. “You hear me? Who was it?”

  Nolan slid across the floor. “Sounds like a couple from Old Lick.”

  “But who? What couple?” Emmalee crawled on her knees to the end of the bed. “Nolan!”

  The door slammed closed, and the house shook. This time Emmalee’s body heaved forward as though she were going to retch. Her head grew dizzy, and she dropped back onto the bed. She reached for her baby, looking for someone, even a newborn, to comfort her.

  The hearse rolled past her window and down the drive, kicking up mud and rock in its wake. Nolan followed in the pickup. Its suspension rattled as it hit the holes washed deep by the week’s rains.

  Emmalee tried to move her arms and legs, but her body felt weighted to the bed. Tattered pieces of tar paper flapped against the sides of the plywood covering the house, and bare branches from the forsythia bush rooted outside the bedroom window scraped the panes as if begging for her attention. The baby whimpered some more, kicking her legs and straining to lift her head. Emmalee lay frozen on her back, peering through the pinpoint holes that peppered the tin roof.

  The clock read seventeen minutes past two. Emmalee pulled herself out of bed and began the long wait for her father’s return.

  LEONA

  OLD LICK

  1956

  Leona fiddled with the thin gold band on her finger. Curtis had placed it there that morning promising to love and cherish her forever. The young bride followed close behind her boyish husband, holding his hand tight, as he led her to a patch of open land flecked with purple crowned thistle and wild lettuce. She listened without interruption as he gushed about the house he promised to build her some day—a frame house, he told her, painted yellow, her favorite color.

  Curtis planned to add a wraparound porch in a year or two so Leona would have the perfect place to watch the sun set while rocking their babies that were sure to come. With his warm blue eyes, he nodded toward the laurel hell rooted among the pines and hardwoods and promised by the time they bloomed bright again she would have the home of her dreams.

  Leona stood in the spring grass and admired the new home. She watched intently as Curtis pointed with his free hand and etched into the air the tin roof he imagined. It would cost a little more, he warned her, but he wanted his bride to hear the rain falling on a summer’s night even when she was standing in the kitchen, cooking him a pot roast dinner. He winked, and she kissed him on the cheek. The blue trailer sparkling in the sun like a piece of fine crystal there on the bluff of Old Lick Mountain was only temporary, he said.

  “My wife is going to live in the prettiest house in all of Sequatchie County. Can’t you see it?” Curtis asked. The hem of Leona’s skirt lifted in the breeze, and she laughed as she pressed the fabric against her thighs. She leaned into Curtis and snuggled against his broad chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist and slipped his hands beneath her panties.

  “Yes, I do see it,” she said and fell further into Curtis’s embrace.

  Curtis pulled Leona to the ground. He yanked on her skirt and kissed her long on the mouth. Leona raised her arms above her head and closed her eyes, easing into her husband’s touch. Curtis stroked her neck with more kisses and tickled her ear with the tip of his tongue. His talk grew quiet as his arms tightened around Leona’s body. He unbuttoned her blouse and cupped her breasts against his cheek.

  “I love you,” Leona said softly, answering her husband’s caress.

  Curtis wrapped her slender body between his thighs and pushed the palms of his hands against the ground. And when he was done loving his wife, he fell back into the tall grasses by her side and kissed the tip of her nose, his rough lips tender on her smooth skin.

  Leona tugged on Curtis’s belt and cooed in his ear, “Carry me inside, Mr. Lane.”

  Curtis took her by the hand and lifted her onto her feet. A meadowlark hidden in the field’s tall grasses flew high above their heads, but its sudden flight did not startle Leona, still dazed by their lovemaking. She moaned, longing to linger there in the nest they’d shaped with their bodies. But Curtis pulled her along.

  “Keep those eyes closed,” Curtis said as he held on to Leona’s hand. With eyes closed, Leona followed in her husband’s path across the field and up three short steps. “Now keep ’em shut. I ain’t told you to open them yet.” Curtis lifted Leona into his arms. She giggled and gripped his neck. She kissed his lips, and he carried her into the trailer.

  Leona took a deep breath and held it in her lungs, savoring the scent of a home untouched.

  “I love it,” she said.

  “You ain’t even seen it yet.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Curtis laughed. “Go ahead. Take a look. I didn’t spend all that money for you to stand there and sniff.” Curtis set Leona on her feet and kissed her cheek.

  “Oh Curtis,” she said as she opened her eyes.

  Leona slipped her canvas shoes from her feet and ran her bare toes across the carpeting. She reached for the wall looking like real knotty pine and smiled. She walked deeper into the trailer and stood between low bookcases mounted to the left and right sides of the room, separating the kitchen from the rest of the living space. She already imagined the books and curios she would place there over time.

  She glided across the kitchen’s glossy white linoleum. The window above the sink allowed plenty of light. She knelt low and stroked the floor with the palm of her hand. She had never seen a kitchen gleaming like this one.

  “I love it, Curtis. I really do.” She jumped to her feet and hugged his neck. But Leona turned back to her kitchen and admired her new green refrigerator. She opened the door to find a half gallon of milk and a pound of butter already cold on the top shelf. She paused in front of the stove and looked for her reflection in its shiny top. She opened the oven door and pictured the casseroles and peach pies she would cook for her husband. She took another breath and savored the newness.

  “There’s more,” Curtis said. He took his wife’s slender hand in his and led her down the narrow hallway to the other end of the trailer.

  Leona grinned as she tiptoed behind him, stopping at the first bedroom door. Curtis admitted it was a tiny room, but Leona did not see it that way. He promised by the time their first child came along, their house would be finished and the nursery would be at least twice this size. Leona already imagined a baby sleeping sound in his crib tucked in the corner near the window. “It’s perfect,” she said and walked on behind her husband.

  “This is our room.” Curtis said. He tugged on Leona’s skirt again. She giggled as she gently pushed his hand away.

  A bed was placed against the far wall. It was made up and draped with a creamy white cover. “You done all this?” she asked while she stroked the cover with her hand.

  “All for you.”

  “Nobody’s ever been so good to me,” she said.

  Leona suddenly spotted the blue sky outside the room’s window. She crawled across the bed to get a better look. “It’s so pretty here. The valley. The sky. It’s all so beautiful,” she said and pointed out the window. She pictured herself floa
ting on a passing cloud.

  Curtis told her that on a clear day, like this one, she could see all the way to Kentucky. She leaned closer to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Kentucky bluegrass from her spot there on Old Lick.

  “Take me there someday, Curtis,” Leona said and collapsed on the bed, pulling her husband along with her. “You know my mama told me not to marry some poor boy from Old Lick. She can’t imagine anyone with any sense wanting to live way up here. Said it’s twenty minutes farther to everywhere but heaven.” Leona petted Curtis’s cheek. “Mama said only people up here are no-good fools. Are you a no-good fool, Curtis Lane?” Leona whispered in his ear. “Tell me now.”

  EMMALEE

  RED CHERT

  A band of fast-moving clouds slid in front of the moon, shrouding the Bullards’ land in darkness. But the dark did not scare Emmalee. She had grown up there at the head of the holler, when even on the brightest days, long shadows crossed the mountain’s folds.

  Wrapped in a quilt thinned with age, she raised a flashlight and cast its beam across the clearing. The neon-lit eyes of a wandering possum, spotted low beneath a patch of rhododendron, lanced the otherwise pitch-black night and reminded Emmalee she was not alone. She lowered the light and huddled on a stool under the plywood porch cover extending across the front of the house. She relaxed her shoulder against a broken-down refrigerator Nolan had hauled home before she was born. It was only good for leaning against.

  Emmalee was drawn outdoors whenever Nolan was driving for Mr. Fulton. Whether she knew the dead or not, she believed it was a somber time. And she felt comforted behind the copse of tall white oaks and pines even on a cold night like this when the trees’ branches danced above her head and the valley prepared for its winter’s sleep.

  She raised her arms above her head and stretched her back. Her spine creaked and popped as if her bones belonged to an ancient hag, not to a teenaged girl left to mother a child of her own. Her breasts hung heavy and ached from the weight of too much milk, yet she did not dare disturb the peace of her baby sleeping in the back room. She pulled the quilt up around her waist and stroked the fabric, a kaleidoscope of faded hues. She wondered if there was anything left of Cynthia Faye Bullard among these worn threads.