The Rosewood Casket (17 page)

“Times do. People don’t, so easy.” Stallard wasn’t looking at him. He was looking out over the valley, toward the white house under the maples and the little cluster of tombstones on an adjoining hill.

“Let’s be honest about this. You’re not getting any younger, and farming is no life for your daughter—a single woman alone. You’ve had a run of bad luck, and the tax man is breathing down your neck. I’m only offering you a way out. Three hundred dollars an acre. Cash.”

J. Z. Stallard didn’t like strangers much, and because of his dislike, he was always careful to be absolutely courteous to them at all times, because quarrels are a form of intimacy. He waited a few moments, as if to consider Whitescarver’s offer. Finally—with infinite courtesy—he said, “It’s kind of you to make the offer, Mr. Whitescarver, but I just can’t see my way clear to do it. I know I’ve had bad luck the past couple of years, but the county people have been right understanding about my difficulties, and I believe I can hang on until things get better.”

To an outsider, the speech might have sounded tentative or even grateful, but Frank Whitescarver knew better. Trailer trash running him off their property with a shotgun would have been no less adamant than J. Z. Stallard with his quiet refusal of a rock-bottom offer. Frank had been prepared to dicker further; maybe to offer to throw in a little brick rancher in town to sweeten the deal, but he could see that such gambits would be useless. J. Z. Stallard had the same stubborn set of jaw as his daughter.

Frank would have to resort to other means now, and, Lord, he hated to do it. He didn’t like bad feelings any more than Stallard did, but business was business.

*   *   *

The three Stargill women hurried down out of the attic, carrying piles of old clothes and baby things. They hadn’t finished the sorting yet, but since they had to come down anyhow to meet the visitor, they decided to save themselves a trip later by bringing down the garments they had chosen for the quilted coffin lining.

Kayla had ushered the old woman into the parlor, and now she was sitting beside her on the sofa, talking about mountain lions, but the old woman didn’t seem to be paying much attention. She sat expressionless, holding a wooden box in her lap, while Kayla prattled on and helped herself to cookies from the plate on the coffee table.

Lilah Rose Stargill set down the stack of clothes she was carrying, and advanced to meet the visitor. “Now don’t get up,” she said, smiling. “I’m Mr. Stargill’s daughter-in-law Lilah, and this is Garrett’s wife Debba—” She nodded toward the small, colorless woman in the brown print dress. “And this is Kelley. I see you’ve already met her daughter.”

Nora Bonesteel nodded. “You keep an eye on her,” she said to Kelley. “Farms can be dangerous places for little folks.”

“I will. Would y’all excuse me?” Kelley, mindful of the lack of introduction, however gracefully covered, beckoned for Kayla to come with her into the kitchen. “Wouldn’t you like some milk to go with that fistful of cookies?”

The old woman turned to the two Stargill wives, now seated in chairs facing her. “You won’t remember me. We met years ago, in church one Christmas. I am Nora Bonesteel.”

Lilah’s smile wavered for a moment, an indication that she indeed had heard of Nora Bonesteel, but she hurried on. “It’s a real kindness for you to come and call on us. Mr. Stargill lived here all his life, of course, but we’re just complete strangers here. Hardly know a soul. And you brought cookies, too?”

“Mr. Stargill isn’t dead yet,” said Debba. She blushed as the other two turned to look at her. “I thought you might have heard he was,” she muttered. She leaned back into the protective blinders of the wing chair, intending to contribute nothing else to the discussion.

“No,” said Nora Bonesteel. “I know he’s lingering in the hospital.” She paused as if there had been more to say.

“We’re hoping for the best,” said Lilah. She thought of mentioning her angel, but something about the old woman’s solemnity made her decide against bringing it up. “Meanwhile, he’s got a nice private room, and we called for a bouquet of carnations to be delivered up there today.”

“He’s likely to go suddenly,” Nora told her.

“Oh, we mustn’t be pessimists. He’s old, but—”

“He’s likely to go suddenly,” Nora Bonesteel said again. “And I wanted to see that the family had this before—before the burial arrangements were made.” She ran her hands along the smooth surface of the box lid. The box was old: a dark, reddish wood about a foot high and eighteen inches wide. It looked homemade, but carefully crafted, with doweled joints, rounded corners, and filigreed brass fittings. The hand-rubbed linseed finish had been kept shiny with beeswax, polished over the years until the wood glowed with the mellow luster of age.

“The box?” asked Lilah. “It’s real thoughtful of you to bring it back. I know the boys will be tickled to have it.” Bewilderment colored her voice. This conversation was not going the way Lilah expected condolence calls to run, but she responded gamely, while she tried to think of a way to get the conversation back along conventional social lines. Debba was no help. The puny little thing just sat there looking like a stuffed goose, letting her do all the talking. Lilah wished Kelley would come back in. The girl might be living in sin with Charles Martin, but at least she made herself useful. “What fancy woodwork there is on that box. I never saw the like. Did Mr. Stargill make the box?”

“He did. A long time ago.”

“Well, you’re ever so thoughtful to return it.” Lilah hoped the subject could be dismissed at that. By now she had realized that the old woman before her was the same dark-haired beauty featured in the family photo albums. Those cheekbones hadn’t changed in half a century, and the eyes were as dark and clear as they had ever been. This was the girl that Randall had loved before he married Clarsie. What in God’s name could she be bringing the family now? Love letters? What would the boys think of that? She knew what Robert Lee would think, and she decided that nothing in creation could persuade her to let him know about it. There wasn’t enough Maalox in Tennessee to get Robert Lee through such an ordeal.

She took the box from the old woman, surprised by the weight of it, and set it on the floor beside the sofa. “You know, we’re just so glad you came by,” she said brightly. “Because we had a question about something we’re supposed to be doing for the wake—if, Lord forbid, it comes to that. Mr. Stargill has left us a whole list of written instructions about his burial—”

“He’ll want this buried with him,” said Nora Bonesteel.

Lilah’s smile wavered. “This box?” The conversation always kept coming back to that damned box. She was beginning to think this old lady was not right in the head, but as a charitable woman with an angel as a personal adviser, Lilah felt that it was her duty to persevere. “You think Mr. Stargill would want this box of his laid to rest with him?”

“What’s in it. The box unopened would be best.” Nora Bonesteel stood up. “I have to get back now. But I had to bring you the box. Randall wanted it done.”

“Wait!” Lilah called after her. “We need to ask you about a scripture cake. He wants one.”

Nora Bonesteel turned to look at her. “That can wait,” she said. “I have to go now.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Debba, as the woman walked away.

Lilah walked with Nora Bonesteel as far as the front door, thanking her in jumbled sentences for the cookies and the visit—pleasantries that went unanswered. She stood smiling on the door stoop, and waved the visitor away down the path. When Lilah closed the door, she leaned against it and let out a sigh. “Great crown I reckon,” she said. “If that wasn’t awkward!”

Debba frowned. “She was quiet, but she seemed okay to me. What was awkward about it?”

Kelley came back into the room and picked up the stack of baby clothes. “Kayla’s gone back out to play. I expect we ought to wash these out before we use them. They have a musty smell. Ivory Snow or Woolite, do y’all think?”

“Of course, you two wouldn’t know,” said Lilah, ignoring the laundry question, and sinking back down on the sofa. “But
that
was Mr. Stargill’s old girlfriend, from years ago. The one I told you about, that was in the snapshot album. I hardly knew what to say to her. And she kept harping on that wooden box until I thought I would scream. I mean, it’s a little late for romantic gestures, I would have thought. They’re over seventy, for heaven’s sake. I’m surprised she even remembers who Randall is.”

Kelley smiled. “I think you’re making a big deal over nothing,” she said. “Why, they broke up before World War II. I know people back home who invite ex-wives to parties—much less old sweethearts. In a small town, you can’t afford to ignore all the people you’ve fallen out with, or they’ll be nobody left to talk to.”

“Still, don’t you think it was odd that she showed up here with that box, about as full of the social graces as a frozen turtle, and asked that it be
buried
with him?”

“Is that what she came for?” Kelley shrugged. “Sentimental, maybe. Too bad more people don’t take love that seriously these days.”

“What’s in the box?” asked Debba.

*   *   *

The woodshop was a small, unpainted room partitioned off at the back of the barn. It could be reached via an outside door that led into the barnyard, or through a makeshift door of hammered boards that led into the main interior of the barn. One dirt-encrusted pane of handblown glass let the light in, and an electric bulb dangling from a cord in the center of the room provided artificial light. The worktables were handmade from scrap pine, and the rows of shelves, laden with paint cans and jars of rusting nails, had been assembled with two-by-fours and plywood. An assortment of old hand tools hung from pegs on the wall next to the window.

Randall Stargill’s four sons had managed to haul the rosewood lumber down from the barn loft one piece at a time, and, considerably dirtier than when they started, they had stacked it again near the door, and carried one board into the old woodshop in the back of the barn to test it with their father’s old hand tools.

“Should have packed old clothes,” said Robert Lee, whose gray polyester pants had a tear at the knees. “I always did ruin pants legs in this barn.”

“I guess I can kiss these jeans good-bye,” said Charles Martin, trying to brush caked dirt from the legs of his Levis with one grimy hand.

“I thought you rich country singers only wore a pair of jeans once anyhow,” said Garrett.

“Naw, we’re into recycling.” He grinned at his older brother and gave him a mock salute. “It’s the American way, Major.”

“You two stop fighting,” said Robert Lee, fanning dust motes away from his face. His eyes were watering, and he stifled a cough with his fist. “Look at the state of this place. It’s ankle-deep in dust. We have enough work to do without having you two bickering with each other every five minutes. Maybe Daddy has some old clothes in his wardrobe that we could wear for working.”

“It’s like we’re turning into kids again,” said Clayt. “Us arguing, and you bossing us around, Robert Lee.”

“All right,” said Garrett. “Let’s get to work, then. That’ll keep us off each other’s nerves.” He picked up a hand planer and blew the dust off it. Its steel blade had darkened with age, but the oak handle with spiral hand grips was still a polished golden brown. Randall Stargill had taken care of his tools, almost to the end of his life. “I know we have to clean things up before we really get started, but I just wanted to try a test piece here,” Garrett said. “Set that board up on the table over there.” He tested the blade of the planer with his thumb, and, satisfied that it held an edge, he bent over the rosewood plank and raked the planer against the surface of the wood. Barely a scratch appeared in the wake of his blade.

“I was afraid of that,” said Clayt, bending over to inspect the results. “This lumber is about the hardest wood you’d ever want to work with. Takes a long time to grow, ages to season, and good luck trying to plane it! No wonder Grandaddy gave up trying to build anything with it, and let it sit up there in the barn loft.”

“Well, it’s too good to let go to waste,” said Robert Lee. “And it’ll make a fine coffin, even if it takes a lot of work from all of us to get it done.”

“Do we have enough wood for a coffin?” asked Charles Martin. “I’d hate to put a lot of work into this, and then come up short, and have to buy one from a funeral home anyhow.”

Clayt took a retractable metal tape measure out of his pocket, and tossed it to his brother. “Here! Go find out how many board feet we’ve got to work with. I’ll figure out how many feet we’re going to need. Anybody got a pen?”

Garrett handed him a ballpoint and a deposit slip torn out of his checkbook. “You can write on that. We need to know what measurements we want for height and width of the shoulders.” He looked at his brothers. “I’d say Charles Martin comes closest to Daddy in build, wouldn’t you, Clayt? You’re too tall and Robert is too fat.”

Clayt smiled. “You want me to measure Charlie?”

“Sure. It’ll be close enough. Unless you want to ride over to the hospital, and run the tape over Daddy.”

Clayt walked away. “Come here, Charlie!” he called into the darkness of the barn. “I need you and the tape measure both.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Robert Lee, who had been poking around in drawers, looking for more tools.

Garrett shrugged. “Clean this place up, I guess. Wood dust will make you sick enough, without adding all the rest of the dirt in here. There’s a broom over there in the corner.”

“With my dust allergies?” Robert Lee shuddered. “I’d be sicker than Daddy if I tried to stir up dust in here. I’ll have to get a mask before I can work on the coffin with you.”

Clayt joined them, jotting down notes on the back of the deposit slip. “He can run errands, can’t he, Garrett?”

“Suits me. What kind of errands?”

“More groceries, for one thing. You all still eat like teenagers. And we’ll need hardware for the coffin. Maybe a brass nameplate from Things Remembered in Johnson City. You got another deposit slip? I’ll make a list. Here are Charlie’s measurements, by the way. He didn’t care at all for being the model, either.”