The Undertaker's Daughter (15 page)

“You can keep that,” she said to me.

“Thanks, I’ll take it to school and show it to everybody.”

“What’d she say, Frank?”

My father said to me softly, “Remember to speak up.”

“Thank you, Miss Agnes,” I screamed. This was exhausting.

She led me around the table to the hearth, a great stone fireplace where the original black cauldron from the pre–Civil War era hung heavily in the air. The hearth explained the brick walls in the passageway: this room was once separate from the house—it was the cookhouse from where the slaves of this mansion prepared meals for their master.

Tonight, ghosts and goblins, suspended from the chimney, attached to almost invisible strings, danced around the cauldron. Life-size paper witches stood in the hearth. The crones looked as if they were stirring a brew in the kettle. This grand effort was an eerie display of everything I thought Halloween could be.

Miss Agnes and I shouted at each other in short conversation as she thrust unusual objects in my hand and explained their origins; all the while she calculated my attention and interest.

“Are you going trick-or-treating tonight?” she bellowed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What will you be?”

“A witch.”

“A what?”

“A witch,” I yelled.

Miss Agnes turned to my father. “What did she say?”

“She’s going to dress up like a witch.” He was yelling, too.

“Oh, well then, honey, let me show you something.”

She moved toward the corner of the hearth and I saw it before she touched it. It was a broom. Not a firm, yellow straw broom like the one Belle used, but a scraggly-looking thing. The handle was crooked and made of a naked piece of wood.

“One of my farmers made it for me.” She held it up for me to see.

I was speechless. She looked too witchlike for me to respond.

My father began to laugh. Miss Agnes looked puzzled. He leaned over closer to her ear. “I think she thinks you may hop on it for a ride tonight.”

“What? Oh!” She cackled loudly.

I saw a side of my father I hadn’t seen since his mother was alive. He held Miss Agnes in such high regard that his personality receded into the mellow light of the kitchen. The respectful stance that he reserved for grieving families was magnified for this lady
in red. He seemed to anticipate her movements. She was at ease with his attention, comfortable with his deference to her. I thought of my mother and her nervous fussiness about this evening. The easygoing relationship between Miss Agnes and my father held a light to the wall of tension that sometimes existed between my parents. There were no screaming matches, no slamming doors, but instead, an absence of lightheartedness that ended in silence between them and penetrated a house that already lay under a blanket of quiet. It felt as if there might have been something wrong, some large thing askew, but I couldn’t imagine what, which left me confused and wondering.

I turned to look at the rest of the kitchen. From the tall ceiling hung an old shade with a solitary bulb. The walls were clean, but a faded, dull yellow. The kitchen had no oven or stove; only a small, one-burner hot plate rested on the counter next to a porcelain sink from which ancient taps sprouted. The refrigerator was old and hummed in a distressed way. What? No biscuits in the oven? No chicken frying on the stove? No pies set out to cool? What kind of kitchen was this? I imagined it without the drama of goblins and the brightness of the orange pumpkins. I thought that it might be a sad and neglected kitchen, for Miss Agnes never cooked a day in her life and no one ever shared her table. It didn’t occur to me that she might prefer the solitude.

My father removed the prettily wrapped gift from his jacket pocket and gave it to me to give to her. So began the tradition.

Miss Agnes and I would exchange gifts whenever we met. My mother stocked a supply of red linen handkerchiefs; my father picked up bits of red jewelry, a pin or a bracelet whenever he came across them. These I would present to her proudly, as if I had thought of them myself. In turn she gave me a collection of gifts over the years, items that I hoarded and placed around me
until they were battered and threadbare, or until it was too embarrassing to admit an attachment. A doll, a ruby birthstone ring, a dress, a book; the mementos reminded me of her, as if I needed a single thing more than her image.

When we said our good-byes and spoke of promises to meet again, my father told her he would be back later to help her with the visitors. The rest of the house was closed off tonight, and he would stand guard over the door that led to the treasures in her mansion.

In the safety of the car, for I didn’t want my words trailing through the Halloween night air, I asked him what had been worrying me all night. “Good Lord, Daddy. Where did you find her? And does she own some farmers or something?”

“They own each other.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I had other questions, too. “Was she drunk?”

He looked at me oddly. “How would you know if she was? Have you ever seen anyone drunk?”

“On TV. Red Skelton plays a drunk.”

“No, he doesn’t, he plays a bum.”

“Lucy got drunk on Vitameatavegamin.”

“Miss Agnes was not drunk.”

“Is she married?”

“Nope.”

“Does she live in that big old house by herself?”

“Yep.”

“Isn’t she afraid?”

He laughed. “No, Miss Agnes isn’t afraid of much of anything, except maybe getting old. The next time she wants to see you, I’ll take you to her office.”

Miss Agnes and I held standing dates on our birthdays and holidays, and at other times she regularly called for me whenever
it took her fancy. My father always accompanied me, and if there was an explanation as to why she insisted upon my presence to the exclusion of my siblings’, I would never hear it. Another unspoken agreement was set: Miss Agnes was to be my Miss Havisham. A formal, yet special relationship between the two of us was formed, and for whatever reason, my father and mother and Miss Agnes all quietly agreed on this.

In an effort to please him, I never complained about the nerve-wracking, shouty meetings. I gave her hours of my best behavior without much fuss, for despite her rather gruff exterior I knew she didn’t mean to be intimidating—and eventually I found her infinitely fascinating. Her work encroached upon a man’s world in her wildly unique way. Something about observing her was deeply satisfying. I was still at an age where most of my time was spent in the company of adults. Totty, Belle, and the Shroud Lady were to some degree self-sufficient women. But I’d never met anyone like Miss Agnes, someone who despite her hardship had triumphed without sacrificing her individuality. In only a few years I would draw strength from their examples when it was my turn to make difficult decisions.

More than anyone else, an undertaker must act as a referee to family feuds. People don’t seem to misbehave in front of their pastor, or even their lawyer. They tend to hold it together for their reputations’ sake in the company of other professionals. But when it comes to death, all bets are off.

In one corner is the wife of the deceased, who is separated from her husband, and in another corner is the girlfriend, who has been living with the deceased for the last year or two. One of an undertaker’s duties is to know the law. The law states the wife is legally entitled to arrange the funeral as she sees fit and even to bar entry to the funeral home to those who are unwanted. But angry, hurt, and grieving people don’t care one damn about the law. They come flying out of their corners, fighting, unleashing emotions that have been pent up for years, decorum out the window.

When Honey Pratt died, all hell broke loose. Her daughters had stifled most of their jealousy and dislike for one another to stay in their mother’s good graces. But now, the big vat of ill will and emotions that had simmered for years had boiled over. The Pratt sisters were at each other’s throats. They sat in the funeral-home office with their father between them. Mr. Pratt, a widower for less than eight hours, made a Herculean effort to prevent a full-blown catfight.

It began in the casket room.

“She’d want the blue one,” said Jessie.

“Are you out of your mind? Mama hated that color of blue, and anyway, her favorite color was pink,” said Myrna.

“Girls, she told me she wanted white. That’s what she’s going to get.”

“White is boring. We can’t put her in a white casket. She’s too pale. Unless Mr. Mayfield here is going to give her a tan or something,” Jessie snorted.

“How dare you say something like that! I swear, you’re as ignorant as the day is long. Don’t you have any respect for Daddy’s feelings?” Myrna was near tears.

“Well you’re a fine one to talk about Daddy’s feelings.”

“Jessie, Myrna, that’s enough. White, Mr. Mayfield, we’ll take the white one, please.”

My father escorted them back to his office. He quickly changed the subject to funeral music, hoping that the casket selection was final. These were the type of people who would go back and forth, calling in the middle of the night to say, no, it’s the blue one we want. He wanted to avoid moving Honey from casket to casket, tugged back and forth between the whims of the quarreling sisters. He used the most soothing voice he could muster to discuss music and flowers.

Under her breath Jessie broke the sisters’ silence. “She meant for me to have them.”

“No, she didn’t, they’re mine,” Myrna said.

“Sorry, Mr. Mayfield.” Mr. Pratt turned to the women. “This is not the time or place. Stop acting like you’re twelve years old.”

Both sisters were easily in their thirties.

“Mama told me before you were ever born that all her jewelry would be mine someday,” said Jessie.

“Exactly. Before I was born, but not after. You know she meant for us to split it. And I’m taking that cameo, that’s mine.”

My father let them quibble for a short time, then calmly shuffled a few papers, cleared his throat, and told them that they had just a few more details to attend and then they could go home and rest. Rest seemed to be the magic word, and as if he were Rip van Winkle, he led them through the remaining funeral arrangements.

Later that day while upstairs with his Alka-Seltzer, he relayed these events to my mother.

“Do you think that’s the end of it, or do you think there’s more to come?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Honey didn’t leave a will, so I don’t know how they’re going to sort it all out. I’d be embarrassed if my girls ever behaved like that in public. They’ll be back in a couple of hours to bring her clothes. I hope they don’t rip them to shreds before I can get my hands on them.”

The Pratts came bustling through the door later that afternoon in a wind of fury. Myrna’s and Jessie’s faces were blotchy red messes, and Mr. Pratt’s jaw was set like a stony profile on Mount Rushmore.

“I’ve made a decision, Mr. Mayfield.” He opened a paper bag from the Kroger grocery store and presented a jewelry box to my father. “I want you to put this in Honey’s casket. Will you do that for me?”

Myrna’s and Jessie’s bulging eyes followed the box, and when it left their father’s hands, the girls crumbled.

My father, who felt he’d been handed a time bomb, nevertheless handled the object of contention with firm hands. “Yes, of course,” he made a point of saying, “whatever you want. It’s your decision.” He avoided the sisters’ glares.

“You can’t do that! That’s mine!”

“No, it’s mine!”

Mr. Pratt turned on his daughters with the wrath of a man who’d withstood years of bitterness between them. “I am sick to death! Do you hear me? Sick to death of you two and your god-awful quarrels. If your poor mama could see you. Now shut up! Shut up, the both of you!”

The next day they arrived for the private viewing before the doors were open to the public. My father prepared for the worst. He gave the family plenty of time and space, stepped out of the chapel to leave them to it. There were no screams, hardly a whimper.

Mr. Pratt stepped away and found my father in the foyer. “She
looks real good, Mr. Mayfield. Thank you. And I apologize. I can’t control those girls, never could.”

“Well, Mr. Pratt, I’ve got three girls of my own. It’s a terrible time for you, so don’t think another thing about it. As long as you’re pleased with everything, then forget the rest.”

It seemed Myrna and Jessie dressed for the funeral in competition with one another, each in long, flowing skirts, dark navy, frilly blouses, and matching high heels. The funeral service went without a hitch. The Pratt sisters sat dry-eyed and motionless as the preacher spoke of Honey’s charity work and her love for her community. As if they had X-ray vision, they directed their searing gaze toward the foot of the casket where the box of jewels lay concealed at Honey’s feet.

After the service ended, the family traditionally walked by the casket to say their last good-bye before the casket was closed. The congregation remained seated as my father led the Pratts to the casket, and just as he thought they would make it to the cemetery unscathed, Jessie raised her arm to her forehead and fell to the floor in a badly acted faint. The crowd gasped. Myrna threw her pocketbook down, lifted her floor-length skirt, and straddled her sister. She grabbed Jessie by the collar of her blouse and reared back and slapped her in the face.

“Get up from there, damnit, we don’t have time for this!”

As my father moved toward the hellcats, Mr. Pratt reached for Myrna. Jessie rolled over and sat up. The sisters brushed themselves off and the men ushered them out of the chapel as if nothing extraordinary had occurred.