A Place at the Table (41 page)

Nanny Rose bends down to pick up Gunther. I doubt he’s allowed in the sanctuary, but it’s too hot to leave him outside. His little brain would cook in no time.

The church is packed. As I expected, Nanny Rose and I are the only white people in here. As we walk toward the viewing line, I notice that there are no hymnals tucked into the backs of the pews. No Bibles either. At All Saints there are kneelers beneath each pew, but of course Baptists don’t use those. There is a portrait of a black man in a white suit hanging behind the altar. At first I think the portrait is a rendering of a black Jesus, which I think is just wonderful, but as we move up in the viewing line I’m able to make out the lettering below the portrait, which reads “Pastor Williams.”

There must be over a hundred people packed into this church. I have no idea who any of them might be. Sandy never spoke about her home life. I probably should have asked her about it, but I was always more comfortable having a business relationship with her. To tell the truth, I felt guilty having a black housekeeper. I felt as if I were holding a string that connected me to my mother and grandmother (both of whom had black maids), all the way back to the wives of slave owners. Maybe it is silly, but I’ve always felt more comfortable having Faye, who is white, clean for me, even though Faye comes with her own set of problems and Sandy was the much better worker of the two.

The woman directly in front of us in the viewing line wears a blue hat with a white polka-dot band. She turns to look at us, and I detect a flicker of surprise on her face. I don’t know if she’s surprised because we are white or because of Gunther.

“Can you believe that no-good preacher hasn’t showed up yet?” she asks.

Nanny Rose sticks out her free hand. “I’m Mrs. John Henry Parker Senior,” she says. “And this is Gunther.”

The woman looks at me, confused. “Gunther?” she asks.

“No, ma’am,” I say, smiling. “I’m Louise Parker, Mrs. Parker’s daughter-in-law.” I point at the dog. “That’s Gunther.”

“Lord have mercy,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Evelyn Brown, and that sure is the tiniest dog I’ve ever seen.”

Gunther bares his teeth and starts barking at Mrs. Brown. Nanny Rose quickly slaps his nose.

“Bad boy!” she says. “You’ll have to excuse him. He is just distraught over Sandy’s passing.”

“Have mercy,” says Mrs. Brown. “That dog must have liked Sandy a lot more than Sandy liked it.”

We edge closer and closer to her coffin. I remind myself not to touch Sandy’s face. Ever since I was a little girl and I went to my great-grandmother’s funeral, I have had a compulsive urge to touch the dead. I don’t know why. It’s almost as if I can’t believe the flesh will be cold instead of warm and I just want to feel it for myself. Some people, I’m sure, find it morbid to view the body after death, but I find it greatly comforting. It’s just so obvious that the person—his or her spirit—is no longer present. It makes me wonder if there is indeed a place the spirit might go.

There is a stir in the church. I turn around and look at the entrance and see that the man whom I recognize from the portrait behind the altar is making his way down the center aisle of the church. Pastor Williams has finally arrived. The viewing line starts to move faster and faster until Mrs. Brown is saying a prayer over Sandy’s body, and then it is our turn.

I take Nanny Rose by the hand and we walk to Sandy’s coffin, stand next to it, and peer over its edge. Obviously I expect to see Sandy in it—or rather, the shell of her—wearing her best dress and curly wig.

Only, our Sandy isn’t in the coffin. In her place is a petite black man wearing a dark brown suit, a mustard yellow shirt, and a slightly darker yellow tie. Attached to the tie is a small metal pin shaped like a peacock.

“Why, we must be at the wrong viewing,” says Nanny Rose, but it is too late. I have looked closer and realized that no, we are at the right funeral. Placed in Sandy’s hand is a pink leather Bible, just the Gospels, with her—his—name stamped on it in gold. The Bible was a present from Nanny Rose for Sandy’s sixty-fifth birthday. Nanny Rose gave Caroline one just like it.

I make a quick decision. “You’re right,” I say. “This isn’t Sandy. Let’s go.”

But no, Nanny Rose is peering into the coffin and reading the engraving on the front of Sandy’s Bible.

She begins to shake her head. Gunther struggles in her arms, trying to get to Sandy, barking like crazy. I feel every eye in the church on our backs.

“I don’t understand,” says Nanny Rose. She is too confused to shush Gunther. “I gave Sandy that Bible.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, “I recognize it.”

Gunther is barking again and again at Sandy, and I surprise myself by reaching over and slapping his nose myself.

Nanny Rose clutches my forearm. “Louise,” she says, her voice cracking, “that
is
Sandy.” She lets go of my arm and points an accusing finger at the dead man’s head. “That
man
is Sandy. My Sandy was a black man!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Hush now, people are watching us.”

Nanny Rose’s eyes fill with panic. “Louise, that man helped me into my girdle! That black man helped me into my girdle!”

She hands me Gunther, who is still barking his head off, rolls her eyes toward heaven, and faints to the floor.

Also by Susan Rebecca White

A Soft Place to Land

Bound South

Touchstone

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Susan Rebecca White

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Touchstone hardcover edition June 2013

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

White, Susan Rebecca.

A place at the table / Susan Rebecca White. — First Touchstone hardcover edition.

   pages cm

“A Touchstone book.”

I. Title.

PS3623.H57896P58 2013

813'.6—dc23

2012049547

ISBN 978-1-4516-0887-8

ISBN 978-1-4516-0894-6 (ebook)