The Queen of Sleepy Eye (8 page)

When I was in second grade, Santa Claus arrived at my school with a bagful of books wrapped in red and green tissue paper. As I climbed onto Santa's knee, he said, “You're Amy, aren't you? I've been watching you, and you've been very, very good. I see you reading at the library and in school and at home. Is there a book you would like for Christmas?”

“Do I have to share it with anyone?”

“Not if you don't want to.”

“Let me think about this.” I slid down from his lap, so the other students could have their book wishes fulfilled by Santa. The boys asked for books about baseball and rockets. At least the girls knew the titles of books, like
The Adventures of Peter Rabbit
and
Goldilocks and the Three Bears
. Still, their childish choices embarrassed me. Did they want Santa to think they were stupid? For me, I agonized over asking for one of the new books I'd fingered in the library or for a tried-and-true classic.

I tugged on Santa's sleeve. “I've made my decision:
Little Women
by Louisa May Alcott.”

Santa cleared his throat. “That's an awfully big book for a little girl like you. Couldn't I interest you in
Madeline's Christmas
or
Kitty's
Big Day
? They have lots of pretty pictures. You like kitties, don't you?”

The man behind the white beard couldn't be Santa Claus. Someone who knew me as well as Santa would never offer me a picture book about an annoying little girl. And what would make a big day for a cat? A day without a hairball?

Santa scratched his beard. All around me, my classmates ripped wrapping from their books and pushed them aside for one of Mrs. Ferguson's cupcakes with red and green sprinkles. I took pity on the poor man whom the teacher had pressed into playing Santa. He'd done an okay job. He knew to
ho-ho-ho
and pat his belly. I took
Madeline's Christmas
home, still wrapped, and placed it under our Christmas tree.

Sitting on the bathtub, I watched Mom apply her makeup for her night out with Bonnie. True, Mom wasn't Santa Claus, but I faced a similar dilemma with her. I'd adored Mom like I'd adored Santa Claus. I had considered her a super mom, always prettier and more fashionable than the moms of my friends, always game for a party, and always a source of intrigue. But the gig was up, her cover blown. Honestly, she was barely tolerable. I wasn't sure when the change had started, but even money was on our recent pilgrimage through Nebraska. No other landscape provided more time to enumerate her flaws, even while reading
People
magazine. Easier to pinpoint was the culmination of the process—the moment she'd handed over her crushed cigarette butt.

Now that Mom was a mere mortal, what was I going to do with her? For leaving me alone to face Miss Bigelow's mourners, I would loathe her until I went to bed. After all, I wanted to be spiteful, not tumble from God's grace.

Do I have to love her?

I'd memorized a boatload of verses about love in Sunday school. “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.” “Love one another.” “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” And, oh yeah, “Honor your father and mother.” Never had my inclinations and God's admonitions been at greater odds. Only he could fix her.

Mom loved to be considered more friend than mother, so I said to her, “Please come with me to church on Sunday. Don't make me sit alone with Mrs. Clancy.”

She turned from her reflection, sheathing her mascara wand and frowning. “I thought we made a pinkie pledge, Amy. No come-to-Jesus sermons until my death bed.”

“Oh no, that's not what I agreed to. Besides, I saw you and some guy out my window last night. I figure the pinkie pledges are null and void after all.”

Mom's face flushed. “You saw that?” She shook the tube of mascara at me. “Listen to me, little lady. I won't have you spying on me or pestering me every other minute to accept Jesus as my personal Lord and whatever. Do you hear me?”

“But he loves you. He died for you.”

She turned back to the mirror to coat her lashes with mascara. “That's just dandy, but I need a man with skin on. This is a tough old world, and I could use some help.”

“Jesus will help you.”

“This conversation is over, Amelia.”

Mom only called me Amelia when she neared the verge of blowing like Mount Vesuvius. That didn't stop me, because I did love her. Picturing her wading through a lake of fire started me crying. “I don't want you to go to hell!”

“Amy, I'm warning you. I don't want to talk about this.” She shrugged. “Sure, I'll spend some time in purgatory, but I've been a good person, better than most who go to church every week. Save your tears for them.”

“Mom, Jesus already suffered for your sins. What's the point of purgatory?”

“Amelia, don't say another word. Go read one of your books or watch television. I'm in no mood to hear one of your sermons.”

I left to prepare for Miss Bigelow's viewing, feeling worse for having tried to share Christ's love with Mom than if I'd continued loathing her.

* * *

FIVE WOMEN AS gnarled as driftwood shuffled into the chapel, some with walkers, others walking with such caution that I moved closer in case they fell. They smelled of mentholated lozenges and joint ointment with a generous dousing of rose water. Each woman signed her name in the guest book, taking roughly the time it took Thomas Jefferson to pen the entire Declaration of Independence. The fifth lady struggled to return the pen to its stand, so I asked to see it.

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “This is the wrong pen.”

She smiled and toddled off to the reposing room to join the other ladies, shaking their heads and
tsk-tsk
ing over Miss Bigelow. One of the women came out after a cursory look at Miss Bigelow. She used
her cane like a third leg, jutting it out before her and shuffling to catch up, not unlike an inchworm moving along a branch. I moved my foot to avoid being jabbed by her cane.

“Where's the coffee and cookies?” she asked, looking around the chapel before meeting my gaze with her verdigris eyes. “There's always coffee and cookies at a proper viewing.”

I scanned the viewing checklist. “I'm sorry. Cookies aren't on my list. Are you hungry? I could make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“No coffee? No cookies? The
idea
.” She returned to the reposing room, dragging the cane behind her. “There aren't any refreshments, girls. Let's go.”

As if Custer had sounded the retreat, the women left the funeral home to shuffle toward the Alpenglow Rest Home van parked at the end of the sidewalk. Once the van was out of sight, I sat with my back to the opened double doors of the reposing room, reading
Pride and
Prejudice
for the second time that week. The only light in the room, as per Mrs. Clancy's instructions, was the light of the podium lamp, where visitors signed in, and a lamp shining down on Miss Bigelow's face. A truck stopped at the end of the sidewalk, and I laid the book face down inside the organ stool. The truck revved and made a U-turn. I retrieved the book. After an hour, more or less, of tucking the book away every time a vehicle drove by—mostly trucks with mud-spattered fenders and radios blaring country-western music— I kicked off my shoes and moved to where I could see at a glance if vehicles actually parked in front of the funeral home. Viewings lasted from five o'clock to eight o'clock.

Two hours to go.

When my Snoopy watch—another “gift” from Lauren—read eight, or as near to eight as I could determine when reading paws
rather than hands, I stepped with reticence out of Lizzy Bennet's orchestrated life and back into mine. It was time to close down shop on Miss Bigelow's viewing. Her brothers hadn't bothered to attend. I couldn't tell you if I was relieved or angry about that.

I wiped my hands on my dress and ran a finger down the checklist Mrs. Clancy had typed for me. I clutched the clipboard to my chest and prayed, “Father, forgive me for hating my mother just now and for calling the Bigelow brothers something unkind, even though I didn't say it out loud. And please, oh please, give me courage to face what I'm about to do. Amen.”

Lock the door.

Check.

Turn off the porch light.

Check.

Set the guest book and pen on Mrs. Clancy's desk.

Check.

Close the casket.

Oh boy.

I stood at the threshold of the reposing room to observe Miss Bigelow from a distance. Her face hung like a tablecloth over her features, making nothing but a fold of her mouth that extended to the flap of her ear. No wonder the ladies of Alpenglow Rest Home had stayed for such a short time. Keeping my eyes on her rumpled eyelids, I walked noiselessly over the deep-pile rug toward Miss Bigelow. Something more amazing than lifeless eyelids popping open happened as I stood over her: My curiosity outpaced my fear.

Miss Bigelow lay among tucks of white satin in the pine casket the brothers had chosen for her. I supposed they had chosen the threadbare cotton dress she wore too. Typical. A brown amoeba of a stain soiled the shelf of her motionless bosom.

“Jesus will dress you in white,” I whispered.

I tugged the bodice of her dress in place to cover her bra strap. I leaned closer. “If heaven is the heaven I think it is, you won't have to wear a bra either.” I pulled at the elastic band of my own bra.

Miss Bigelow's hands sheltered her heart. She wore no rings. No fingernail polish. Her yellowed nails were cut to the quick. In death, the skin of her hands looked like gloves that were much too large. Calluses. Scars. Scratches. The heavy powder Bonnie had used to enliven her skin tone clung to her body hair, making her seem out of focus. I'd planned on closing the casket while turning off the light, only to bolt to my bedroom. Instead, I used a tissue to blot the excess rouge from Miss Bigelow's checks and straightened the bows of her shoelaces.

From the bottom drawer of my dresser, I retrieved the padded envelope that held Lauren's gifts and spilled the contents onto the bed. Five pairs of hoop earrings. A tube of Elizabeth Arden lipstick. A pair of owl-eye sunglasses. A rhinestone-and-pearl brooch.
Perfect.
Pinned onto Miss Bigelow's dress, the brooch covered the stain completely.

“Jesus will clothe you in his righteousness, better than any wedding dress you could have worn here on earth. He'll throw you a wedding feast. You won't have to cook, and if your dress gets dirty he'll give you a new one.”

I closed the casket and switched off the light. In my bedroom I read
P & P.
I found myself impatient with Lizzy.
Come on, Lizzy,
Mr. Darcy is crazy about you. He bailed your sister out of trouble and
betrayed his own conscience to do so. Get off your high horse. Take it all
back. Kiss him, already.

* * *

I LOCKED THE bedroom door, pulled the shade, and stood in front of the bureau's mirror in Mom's lacy black slip, the closest thing to an
evening gown in the house. The fabric puckered where Mom's breasts strained the fabric. The lacy hem hovered six inches above my knees, the shapeliest part of my legs. Mom's tiara slid on my head every time I moved.

I counted the tracks of the LP and set the needle down on “My Man” from the
Funny Girl
soundtrack. With the first note out of Barbra Streisand's mouth, I raised the hairbrush microphone, and I was Miss Streisand's understudy performing on opening night. The entire student body from Gilbertsville High School sat in the audience, drop-jawed and envious. The thunderous applause of the audience assured me that my performance as Fanny Brice had disappointed no one. But in reality, in my dream reality at least, I sang for one man and one man only—Cliff Taylor. Captain of the varsity basketball team. Lead of the senior play. President of my youth group. Tall. Broad-shouldered yet slim. A curve of mahogany hair fell across his forehead. Sure, he had been Dixie's boyfriend since ninth grade, and yes, he gave her a promise ring at prom, which, of course, I didn't attend. What did his past devotion to Dixie mean that night? Absolutely nothing. He smiled approvingly as I belted out the ballad.

I fell across the bed. “How pathetic can I be?”

I inventoried the very short list of boys I'd known whom I'd had half a chance of kissing. There was Ronnie, a really nice guy, polite and attentive. His father owned the bakery in Gilbertsville. Ronnie ate most of the stale donuts himself. He huffed and puffed his way through the school halls. The girls stepped aside, making faces like they had swallowed a bug. Ronnie saw them, I was sure, so I'd agreed to be his lab partner in biology. Even though he had skinned the frog for me, kissing him was out of the question. Doug was the most athletic of the bunch, but clusters of hot pimples
covered his face and he constantly played with the coins in his pocket. One night, Jerry, a senior when I was only a sophomore, asked to walk me home from youth group. He had memorized whole chapters of Scripture and wanted to be a missionary along the Amazon in Brazil. As our footsteps tapped on the sidewalk, I tried to picture myself living where people picked lice from each other's hair. Who would have the patience to blaze a trail through my dense locks? Worrying had turned out to be a waste of time. As we sat on the curb in front of my house he said, “I've been thinking about you a lot, and I was really considering liking you as more than a friend, but God told me you weren't the one for me.”

I said my prayers on my knees that night, but still, I'd never been kissed.

The record player's needle
scritch, scritch, scritch
ed against the label. I lifted the record from the turntable to read the label. “I'd Rather be Blue”? Faulty logic. “People”?
Oh, please.
“Don't Rain on My Parade”? Too triumphant. Too singular.