Hung Out to Die (19 page)

Mamaw looked away. “Sure. That's it.”

“Mamaw, what happened after the turkey carcass fire? After I left?”

Suddenly, she looked at me sharply. “Same thing that always happened to them—at least after they were seniors in high school. Before that, they competed in sports and school. Fenwick always managed to best your daddy. Until suddenly the most popular and beautiful girl in school fell—hard—for Henry. Then Fenwick decided he wanted May Foersthoefel, too. He kept trying to get her away, but she only wanted Henry.”

Mamaw shook her head. “Fenwick was always a rule follower. Always tried to be the best at everything. Henry couldn't keep up. Even at birth he was the smaller, weaker baby. Almost didn't make it. So Henry made up for it by being more lovable, funnier, fun loving. And May liked that. I don't think Fenwick ever quite got over that.”

“What happened last night?” I asked. The history was interesting, but I suddenly wished I hadn't left so hastily. Whatever happened after I left might help me solve Uncle Fenwick's murder.

“Like I said . . . as always, May happened. She told them both they were big babies. Told them to act like men, go take a walk or drive or something, work things out. That seemed to get their attention. Neither one's ever liked it when May was unhappy with them.

“So off they went to take a walk on the old towpath. Well, as soon as they left the house—and I have to say, they were at least trying to act like real brothers—Nora started crying and blubbering like a baby about how Fenwick had really always loved May and not her. I'm afraid Nora always was jealous of your mama.

“Then May got mad and said she wasn't going to sit around and listen to Nora whine when everyone knew that of course Fenwick loved her. May took off on a drive in that red sports car. Said she wanted to make sure it worked okay, that it just had some scratches from the run-in with Fenwick's RV. Nora stomped off to the RV and none of us saw her until, of course, Chief Worthy and you came to the house.”

Mamaw's eyes watered and she sniffled at the thought of that. “Poor Fenwick.”

I felt a surge of sympathy for her, but while she was in the mood to talk, I wanted to get all the information from her that I could. “After Mama and Aunt Nora left, what happened? How long was everyone gone?”

Mamaw snorted. “Well, of course, the women who'd stayed here cleaned up from dinner while the men watched football. I swear, I wished I'd have paid more attention to them women libbers. Every Thanksgiving, when my hands are chapping and my back's hurting, I rue the fact I used to make fun of 'em. Why, I'd just love to go into the living room and whop those lazy sons of mine upside the head, and—”

“Mamaw.”

“Oh. Right. Well, your daddy came back first. After about an hour or so. He was mad. Said of course he and Fenwick had gotten into a fight again because Fenwick was a stubborn ass.”

I lifted my eyebrows at that.

“That was a quote,” Mamaw said. She sighed. “But I'm sorry to say, though he was my son and I'm all tore up about his murder, that it's the truth. Anyway, then Henry went into the living room and watched football, too. I think he fell asleep in the easy chair.

“May came back maybe an hour after that. She and Henry left immediately, said they were tired and going to the Red Horse. We never saw Fenwick after that. Of course, we all assumed he was back with Nora in the trailer.” She sniffled, then grabbed a tissue from the box on her bedside table, and blew her nose loudly.

So after Daddy and Uncle Fenwick left, Daddy was gone an hour, Mama was gone two hours, and Aunt Nora was basically unaccounted for. Daddy could have killed him out of anger. Aunt Nora could have killed him out of jealousy, over some renewed hurt that Uncle Fenwick could have loved Mama instead of her. And Mama . . . could she have killed Uncle Fenwick, maybe over unwanted attention? Maybe while she was out driving, she saw him walking, stopped to pick him up, and killed in self-defense?

The image of Uncle Fenwick, hung up on the telegraph pole, came to me. I shuddered. Uncle Fenwick was a big man and hanging someone from a telegraph pole was no easy task. He would surely have struggled, fought back. It was hard to imagine one of the women managing to kill him—and display him—in such a way.

Come to think of it, it was hard to imagine Daddy or anyone all alone being able to do what had been done to Uncle Fenwick. But if two people had worked together . . .

“Josie, are you okay?”

“What? Oh, sure.”

“You were looking a little pale, there.”

“This has been a shock to everyone. Even to me, although I didn't know Uncle Fenwick, really.”

Mamaw smiled sadly. “My fault. I made everyone turn against you. And there's a reason for that. You see . . . May and Henry had to get married.”

“I've heard about the baby who didn't make it.”

Mamaw lifted her eyebrows, but didn't ask who had told me. “That was real hard on May and Henry. And I'm sorry to say, Henry went back to his wild ways after that. Trying to escape the pain, I guess, taking up with any floozy he could pick up at any countryside bar he stumbled into.

“May decided to get back at him by having her own affairs. They'd split up, have affairs, get back together. It tore your mama up and it made me so mad at both her and Henry. And then, May finally decided to get back at Henry in the worst way possible. By flirting with Fenwick.”

I gasped. “Oh, Lord. Don't tell me she and Uncle Fenwick . . .”

Mamaw shook her head. “It never came to that. But for a time both Fenwick and May let everyone think that they had . . . been a couple. To hurt Henry.”

“How could Uncle Fenwick do that to Aunt Nora?” I didn't like that my mama had done that to Daddy, but given the circumstances, her motives were understandable, even if her actions were not morally acceptable.

Mamaw shook her head. “His competition with his brother meant more to him than his affection for his wife. It really tore up the family. And of course, the easiest thing to do was blame May, hate her for it.”

“It's always the women who get blamed,” I said stiffly, “when it takes two. It's not like she forced Uncle Fenwick to go along with this terrible lie.”

“I know that. But I wanted to believe what I wanted to believe,” Mamaw said. “As you get older, though, it gets harder to keep up delusions like that. Anyway, for a time, we all thought when May was pregnant the second time, that it was by Fenwick.”

“When she was pregnant with me?”

Mamaw nodded. “That's what both of them wanted Henry to believe. To hurt him. But then Nora surprised everyone and showed some backbone. She left Fenwick. He was brokenhearted and begged her back and made sure everyone knew he had never really slept with May. Nora took Fenwick back. Not long after that, they discovered they couldn't have kids because Fenwick was sterile. Then Henry and May got back together—again. You know, I don't think even they know how many times they've broken up and gotten back together.”

Mamaw put her hand to my face. “You're Henry's all right. I can see him—and May—in you.”

“So Mama had me, and?”

Mamaw dropped her hand. “And she and Henry tried again, but it just didn't work. Henry disappeared all of a sudden. I blamed May. When May took off, she wasn't around for me to blame for the problems between my sons. So I took it out on you.”

Mamaw's jaw trembled. I didn't want to feel a bit sorry for her. I made my voice stiff as I asked, “So what changed your mind all of a sudden?”

“The phone call from Henry that he and May were coming back to town and wanted to join us for Thanksgiving. It was so casual. Like no one had missed them or worried about them all these years.”

“You hadn't been in touch with Daddy after he left?”

Mamaw shook her head. “Nope. And after I got off the phone with him, I suddenly realized I've been an ass, too.” She smiled at my expression. “I'm just quoting what I was thinking.”

“You wanted to blame everyone but your son for his actions.”

She sighed. “That's right. And I wanted to tell you this and . . . and apologize. And I thought you should see your parents again, and they should see you, and maybe understand how selfish they've been . . .”

I laughed, but not bitterly. My parents were a reality I had to finally deal with, but in the most important sense, they hadn't been my parents. Uncle and Aunt Foersthoefel had been.

“I don't think they've figured that out.”

Mamaw put her face to her hands. “If I had known what would happen, I'd have never let them come back—”

I sighed. I'd never be close to this woman as my grandmother. The time for that had come and gone. But, as a human being, I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. “They'd have come back, anyway. They had something to prove.”

“With FleaMart,” she said, dropping her hands, and leaning into me.

“Exactly.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes. Then Mamaw said, “You should know that Sally's been nagging me for years to get in touch with you. She's told me all along I've been an ass.”

“Another direct quote?”

Mamaw nodded. I laughed. “That sounds like Sally.”

Mamaw got another tissue and blew her nose. “She's the only one I'd take that from, you know.”

“She's a good person,” I said. “Straight shooter.”

Mamaw patted the quilt on her lap. “I wanted to tell you all this before your parents got here. That was the secret—about your parents' past—I thought you should know. And I wanted to give you this quilt. Can I give it to you now?”

I stared at the quilt in her lap. Did I want it? I had a quilt that Mamaw's mama had made for me when I was born. It had been a baby gift. Aunt Clara had told me that my paternal great-grandmother had made quilts for all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren as baby gifts. And I cherished that quilt, given as it was with a pure heart.

But did I want this other quilt? This quilt made with a sentimentality I could never share, given with guilt? I wasn't sure. It seemed rude to say no. But it didn't seem quite right to say yes, either.

“I'm not . . . can I think about . . .” I started, and Mamaw said at the same time, “If the time's ever right for you to want it . . .”

I stopped, and let her finish.

“Just let me know if you're ever ready for it,” she said. “I'll keep it here for you.”

She stood up, crossed to the closet with the quilt, and tried to put it on the top shelf, which was too high for her. I stood up and helped her get it on the shelf.

Then I tried to think about what to say to fill the suddenly awkward silence, and was saved from having to say anything by a knock on the bedroom door.

Mamaw rushed to the door and opened it, obviously also relieved to have the awkward moment broken.

In the doorway stood Aunt Nora. She looked past Mamaw to me. “I heard you were here. I'd like to talk with you, Josie.”

15

“This was Fenwick's favorite shirt,” Aunt Nora said, sniffling. “I know he'd want to be buried in it. But the cranberry stain . . .”

“I got the stain on the shirt,” I said. “I can get it out. Do you have any white vinegar?”

We were standing at the sink in her and Uncle Fenwick's kitchen. Their trailer was a thing of beauty. Top-of-the-line cabinets and counters and appliances in the kitchenette, stainless-steel fixtures, real wood paneling polished to a high sheen, leather upholstered seats and chairs. This was no run-of-the-mill trailer you'd find parked on any old Kampgrounds of America. Why, this beauty would be envied by some of the finest country and western bands.

“Vinegar?” Aunt Nora asked.

“I usually do a column about recent stains I've helped customers with,” I said. “But I thought I'd try something different. This time, my column is on all the uses of white vinegar. Two-thirds water, one-third vinegar, applied to the cranberry stain with a spray bottle or eyedropper . . . let it soak ten minutes, and then spritz with your favorite laundry enzymatic pretreatment, and the shirt should be fine.”

Aunt Nora looked skeptical, but found a small bottle of white vinegar in the kitchenette cabinet and an eyedropper in the bathroom. I treated Uncle Fenwick's shirt over the kitchen sink, and Aunt Nora watched in amazement as the stain started to disappear.

“There,” I said. “I can take it to my laundromat, wash it for you—”

Aunt Nora waved her hand toward the back of the trailer. “We have a custom-made, built-in mini washer and dryer in a special cabinet next to the bathroom. I'll just wash it here.” Her eyes teared up again. “Thank you so much for helping me. It may seem silly, but he really liked that shirt. I want him to be buried in it. If there's anything I can do to repay you . . .”

Suddenly, she sat down on the leather built-in couch, and put her hands to her face. I sat down next to her. She looked so pathetically tiny, in her dark brown pants and sweater, which was appliquéd, again, with turkeys. But these didn't flash. I guessed she'd picked more demure seasonal wear out of respect for Uncle Fenwick. Somehow, the lack of flash in these appliquéd turkeys made me sad.

There was something she could do to repay me—answer some questions. But I thought I should try to be more subtle than just start peppering her with questions. So I sat down next to her and said, “This is so lovely. Uncle Fenwick spared no expense.”

At that, Aunt Nora looked up and beamed. “Fenwick was so good to me. Top-of-the-line everything. He knew how much I loved camping.”

I've been camping. Camping is a tent, raccoons getting into your food, a sleepless night brought on by needing to pee but refusing to leave the tent to take care of business out of fear of rabid raccoons and because the storm of the century just decided to pitch a fit right where you pitched camp, and your limbs being used as an all-you-can-eat buffet by mosquitos. This trailer was more like a luxury suite on wheels.