Hung Out to Die (7 page)

“She doesn't need to get saddled down with a man at her age. She has plenty of time for that. She should focus on developing a career,” she said. “Sell off that old laundromat.”

I bristled. “I like my laundromat,” I said. “It provides a steady enough income for me, a service for the community . . .”

“Oh, you don't have to be nice just because my big brother once owned it,” Mama said, in a pooh-poohing tone. “It's time you sold that place—let people drive up to Masonville to do their wash like I used to do—have a real career.”

“I do have a real career,” I said, through gritted teeth. What was this? I'd skipped from age two right into the they-nag-you-because-they-care part my friends complained about. “I'm a stain expert.”

Now Fern giggled. Her mother, Aunt Suzy, elbowed her, into silence.

“I am,” I said defensively. “I even have a monthly column in the local paper, which is going weekly throughout southern Ohio soon.”

Oh, crap. Now, why had I said that? I hadn't really agreed to that. And yet, here I was, trying to show off in front of the Toadferns, just like I'd tried to show off in front of Rachel Burkette at Sandy's Restaurant.

Sally popped her head through the entry. “I heard that,” she said. “It's a great idea, isn't it, everyone?”

There were uncomfortable murmurs of agreement. Sally popped back into the kitchen.

“Well, maybe that will be enough to get you out of this backwater and somewhere important,” Daddy said. “No offense, of course, to everyone who's stayed around here.”

He grinned across the table at Uncle Fenwick, who glared at him.

“I like it here,” I said. “You may have forgotten, but my cousin Guy Foersthoefel lives in a residential home near here . . .”

“It's nice to see,” said Uncle Fenwick, wiping his mouth with exaggerated care, so hard that the paper napkin started to shred, “that amazingly enough the loyalty gene didn't skip Josie, after all.”

“Still feeling loyal to the plumbing business?” Daddy asked.

“I've done well enough for myself. We have a nice house up in Masonville,” Uncle Fenwick said stiffly.

“Wow. Sticking it out in the plumbing business got you all the way up to Masonville. Guess you don't remember the days when you said you couldn't wait to see the world and have some adventures,” Daddy said.

Aunt Nora coughed nervously. Uncle Fenwick tossed his paper napkin dangerously close to the female Pilgrim candleholder. “You can't even get through one hour—after we haven't seen you for how many years—without starting. You always did think you were better than me!”

“Now, Fenwick, you shouldn't hold it against your brother that he's finally successful, financially. You look like you're doing well enough.” Mama reached across the table and patted his arm, dropping her head slightly to look up at him from under her thick, dark eyelashes. “In fact I'd say you're still a fine figure of a man . . .”

“May!” Daddy snapped.

Mama snatched her hand back, but still smiled flirtatiously at Uncle Fenwick, who turned red.

Aunt Nora moaned and grabbed Uncle Fenwick's arm where Mama had touched him. “Please, no . . .”

Mamaw frowned at Mama, who just shrugged and stopped smiling. I lifted an eyebrow. Hmm. This was interesting. Apparently, there was some history I didn't know about.

I took another bite of the delicious cranberry salad. Better to concentrate on that, I thought. Something about it was different . . . that wasn't, couldn't be . . . bourbon in there, could it? In any case, it was yummy . . .

A loud snore startled me. I looked down at the end of the table and saw that Uncle Otis, still tilting back dangerously in his chair, had fallen asleep, his mouth hanging open.

“My dear Billy's not here,” said Aunt Suzy, her voice trembling.

“Thank God,” said Bennie. “He'd probably embarrass us all.” He scowled. “Just like he did in school.”

His mother, Suzy, burst into tears. “I miss Billy!” she wailed.

“At least you have kids,” Aunt Nora said. “We were never able to have any.” She looked at Uncle Fenwick, as if perhaps this was his fault.

I forked up some potatoes and nearly toppled the plate on the wobbly seam between the two tables. The second the potatoes hit my tongue, I nearly blanched. They were oversalted and underwhipped. Stick to the cranberry sauce.

“Now, dear, it was the Lord's will,” Uncle Randolph said. “Everyone, perhaps we should have another prayer to calm us down. We need to settle our minds for the Lord's second coming. The time is upon us, I fear, considering the news from the Middle East . . .”

“Randy, you haven't changed a bit,” Daddy said, laughing. “You always were so pompously righteous . . .”

“And we should think you've changed?” Uncle Fenwick said. “You and May—all fancied up as if you're successful—”

“That's because we are, dear,” said Mama, again with a flirtatious tone.

Uncle Fenwick turned even redder. “Oh really? You're successful now? Prove it!”

“Quite simple,” said Daddy, calmly. “We came back not just to reunite with our dear family—” he gestured to us all.

Fern rolled her eyes. Her husband Roger looked at her desperately. “You said it wouldn't be like this this year,” he hissed. Their son, Albert . . . he would be my first cousin once removed, I calculated quickly . . . started hiccuping and whining to go into the kitchen with the other kids. I didn't blame him.

I lifted my other eyebrow, and took another bite of the heavenly cranberry salad. What had I been missing all these years?

“You know, a little prayer would have gone a long way to help you and Fenwick with your terrible sin of fighting,” Uncle Randolph said. “You two always thought you could get away with everything and when you couldn't, you'd just blame each other.”

Uncle Otis suddenly jolted awake as his chair started to tip too far back. “Is there a fight going on?” Uncle Otis rubbed his eyes, and looked confused.

“Go back to sleep, Daddy,” Sally hollered from the kitchen. “And stop tilting your chair.”

Uncle Otis just shrugged, tilted back again, and closed his eyes.

“Is he drunk?” Aunt Suzy whispered to her husband. She nervously took a sip of her iced sweet tea.

“Of course not,” Sally called, sounding annoyed.

I grinned. Good old Sally. She had the loyalty gene in spades, too.

“We came back,” Mama said, as if that line of conversation hadn't been hopelessly derailed, “for a business proposition.”

“Oh, right, like the two of you would have any money for such a thing,” Uncle Fenwick said.

Daddy lifted his eyebrows. Now I knew where I got that gesture. I immediately lowered mine. “And I suppose you're getting rich, cleaning out other people's potties?”

“Yes,” Mama said, raising her voice. “We're going to buy the old orphanage!”

I gasped, and looked at her. The Mason County Children's Home, just on the other side of the Burkettes' acreage, had sat empty for years. And now, my parents were going to purchase it?

“At least I've worked hard for a living! You thief!” Uncle Fenwick hollered at Daddy. “You were supposed to share!”

Huh? What was
that
all about? Everyone else—except Mama, Daddy, and Aunt Nora—looked confused, too.

Aunt Nora moaned, clutched at her throat. Her chest turkey's gobble flashed red again.

“FleaMart. It's the latest concept in flea market marketing,” said Mama, somewhat weakly. I could tell she'd meant her announcement to be triumphant, and was more than a little annoyed that the fight between Daddy and Uncle Fenwick was ruining her grand announcement. “And Henry and I came up with it. Instead of the standard flea market, organized by vendor, you have departments, organized by type of flea market find. All the antique lamps in the lighting fixtures department, for example, or the linens in the linens department. Vendors bring their items to us, sell them to us at a reduced price, and we do any refurbishing needed, and re-sell. We have investors and our first FleaMart down in Benton, Arkansas, and it's been quite successful, so when we learned through our real estate broker that the old orphanage was up for sale, we jumped at the chance.”

I stared at Mama, horrified. About a quarter of the businesses in Paradise are antique stores. And some of the owners are my best customers, and friends. I help them get old linens and vintage clothing stain-free for re-sale. This FleaMart could easily put them out of business.

“You're . . . you're the ones who are trying to buy the old orphanage?” I asked.

“We learned about the opportunity from our real estate broker, who also happens to be from here. Rachel Burkette.”

I stared in amazement. How did Rachel know my parents? Hadn't she said she lived in Atlanta . . . but Mama had just said she and Daddy had opened a FleaMart in Arkansas. Where had my parents been all these years? How had they found each other? And how had they connected up with Rachel?

But I didn't have time to ask the questions. Uncle Fenwick was saying again, this time in a low, dangerous voice, his face red, his words grating out between his teeth, “You were supposed to share, Henry . . .”

“Now, boys, don't start,” Mamaw said.

“Oh, my, this is great cranberry salad, Aunt Nora,” I said. “I'd love the recipe!”

The whole table . . . the whole house . . . went still. Even my parents stared at me in horror.

Uncle Fenwick grinned, meanly. “Like father, like daughter. Wanting to take what's not rightfully hers . . . A thief.”

“Now, Fenwick,” started Uncle Randolph. “Josie couldn't possibly know that Nora's recipe is top secret. Really, we should all pray for forgiveness. I'll lead us. Dear Lord, please shine your love down upon—”

“That's right,” said Daddy, “Josie couldn't know, could she, because you all cut her off—”

I looked at him. What? He didn't really have any right to accuse . . .

“You're the one who abandoned her!” said Uncle Fenwick.

“I really miss Billy,” cooed Aunt Suzy.

“Shut up, Mama,” said Bennie.

“That's no way to talk to our mama!” Fern said, smacking her brother in the arm.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to ask for Aunt Nora's recipe, if it's secret. It's just it's so good . . .”

Aunt Nora clutched her chest and the turkey flashed frantically. “My recipe certainly is a secret! I keep it in a bank safety box. Only Fenwick and our attorney know where the box is and I get the recipe out just once a year at Thanksgiving . . .”

I stared at her.

Sally popped out from the dining room again. “Anyone want seconds on pie?” She stared down at our end of the table, assessed the situation, and flashed me a sympathetic look. “Oh. Never mind.” Uncle Otis was still snoozing through all this, even as he tilted dangerously back in his chair. Sally gently tipped his chair so it was fully back on the floor, and retreated into the kitchen, where we heard her holler, “Manny, put Harry down! If you keep swinging him like that, you'll make him puke!”

Which should have been enough to break the tension at our end of the table, but Uncle Fenwick pointed at Daddy, and said, “I stand by what I said before. You're a thief and you took off with everything!” Now everyone looked confused. “If you'd shared like you were supposed to, I wouldn't have been stuck all these years cleaning other people's messes! I hate the plumbing business!”

Aunt Nora looked hurt. “But Fenwick, I thought you loved it. It's been good to us. It got us that nice RV . . .”

“Which he ruined!”

“You weren't looking where you were going,” Daddy said. “Just like always.”

“What?! You . . . you bastard!”

Uncle Fenwick didn't seem to realize that by calling his twin brother a bastard, he was calling himself one, too. Mamaw gasped and glowered at her sons.

“I should kill you for that! I ought to kill you,” Fenwick went on.

Daddy stood. “Think you're enough of a man to? What are you going to do . . . shoot me with your hunting rifle? Stab me with a hunting knife?”

Suddenly, he whipped something out of a pocket inside his jacket. It was a hunting knife, I realized, with a staghorn handle. The blade, which looked to be about five inches long, was thankfully covered in leather.

“I have a whole set of these vintage knives out in my sports car, which
you
hit. The knives were supposed to be gifts to all the men in the family when we go hunting tomorrow—”

“We brought vintage hankies for the ladies,” Mama piped up, but Daddy went on as if he hadn't heard her: “—but if you want to have it out now, we can, although I'm warning you, I'd be glad to cut you down dead faster than . . .”

“Really, this is
great
cranberry salad,” I half said, half hollered, desperately hoping to stop this ugliness. But I came down too hard with my spoon, just on the side of the plate that was tipped on the higher table, and turned my plate into a catapult that launched a glob of cranberry salad right onto Uncle Fenwick's chest.

The whole table went quiet again.

After a second, Aunt Nora clutched her chest, making her turkey's waddle flash red frantically. “That's . . . that's his favorite shirt . . .”

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Uncle Fenwick,” I said, meaning it. “I know how to get that out . . . I really am a stain expert . . .” I dipped my paper napkin into my water glass and reach for his chest. First, scoop off as much as possible. “Let's see . . . the cranberry's both a fruit and sugar stain . . .”

Uncle Fenwick swatted my hand away. He grabbed his own napkin, and in so doing, grabbed up one of the paper turkeys.

“Hey,” Daddy said, apparently forgetting their mutual death threats. “That one was mine! I made it in third grade!”