The Queen of Sleepy Eye (6 page)

I scraped at the meatloaf's blackened glaze. The telephone rang. Not one of those friendly Princess-phone rings, but an irascible alarm. I ran to the chapel window to see if Mrs. Clancy was still within shouting distance. The postman waved from the mailbox. I dropped the drape and returned to the kitchen just in time to be startled by the ringing telephone again.

The mortician had returned to the basement to prepare Miss Bigelow by doing things my imagination constructed without consent. The last thing I needed was another death call. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks. Through my teeth, I said, “I hate my mother.” The telephone rang again. Yet another reason to envy Lizzy Bennet. True, she endures interminable teas in the company of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but she is never startled at the sound of a telephone announcing a dearly departed.

Briiing!

“Aren't you going to answer that?” A young girl with a pointed chin and a pouf of lemonade hair stood with her nose to the screen
door. A wire basket full of eggs sat by her bare feet. The girl was young, maybe ten, no older than twelve.

I wiped the tears from my face. “It's impolite to answer a phone too soon,” I said. “You should always let it ring at least three times.”

The telephone trilled again.

The girl opened the door and carried her egg basket to the counter beside the refrigerator. A smudge of dirt from the screen darkened the tip of her nose. “Says who?”

I wavered between shooing her outside and demonstrating my superior knowledge of the world. “All the magazines,” I said, and the phone rang for what seemed like the zillionth time. Though the snot in my nose distorted my words, I said with more confidence that I owned, “There, I can answer the phone now.”

Under the girl's watchful gaze, I forgot the Clancy and Sons official greeting. “Hello?”

On the other end of the phone line, a woman coughed to clear her throat. Still, she spoke haltingly with a voice rubbed raw from crying. “Is–is Georgia there?”

“Who is it?” asked the pixie-faced girl.

I held the handset to my chest. “She wants to talk to Georgia.”

“She means Mrs. Clancy.”

“I know that,” I said, but I'd forgotten.
Who called adults by their
first names?

The girl said, “Tell her Georgia will call her as soon as you gather the needed information.”

I obeyed the girl.

“My Arthur, he's gone,” said the woman on the phone. “I need someone to come pick him up. He passed in his sleep, the dear man. I've never slept alone, not in the whole sixty-two years we've been married.”

The girl, who only came to my shoulder, pressed the list of questions I was supposed to ask into my hands. She stood on tiptoe and leaned in, putting her ear next to mine at the receiver. Her hair smelled of rosemary. I laid the list on the counter and scribbled the answers. “Where do you live, ma'am? I'll send someone right out.”

She gave me her address and said, “Thank you for your kindness.”

The dial tone hummed in my ear.

The girl said, “You better call Georgia.”

“No, I think I'll call H first.”

The girl opened the refrigerator. She picked our eggs out of the egg tray and tossed them in the trash.

“Hey!” I said, tethered to the telephone.

“The first dozen are free,” she said, loading eggs the color of sand and moss into the refrigerator. “I collected these fresh this morning. If you don't think they're the finest eggs you ever ate, I'll bring you a dozen store-bought eggs to replace them tomorrow.” She looked up from her work and smiled. “I've promised that to lots of people, but I've never had to replace one egg.”

The girl wore a peasant blouse cinched tightly at the neck and wrists, but still the blouse hung to her knees over a pair of baggy pants hemmed with a chain of embroidered daisies. A hippie girl? The last thing I needed was a know-it-all hippie feeding me bad information and filling the refrigerator with rotten eggs. As the telephone at H's house rang, I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. “I didn't ask the lady's name.”

“That was Leoti Masterson,” the girl said. “She's been tending her sick husband for as long as I can remember. Cancer of some kind.”

I scowled at the girl, aggravated by her composure, and because she knew the lady's name. How dumb was that?

The girl shrugged and turned for the door. “I listen is all.”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “What's your name?”

“Feather.”

“Is that an Indian name?”

“Huh?”

“You know, like Black Kettle or Crazy Horse, something like that.”

“Oh that. I have a birth certificate name same as you, but I keep that name secret. It has nothing to do with who I am. Once my parents saw how good I was with the hens, they named me Feather. My annoying twin brothers are Mule and Frog, and you can probably guess why once you meet them. Sometimes I think their names should be Good-bye and Long-Gone. The baby just has his birth certificate name—so far.”

* * *

H STOPPED THE hearse in front of a two-story house with a swooning front porch and weathered siding. White geraniums planted in a rusted bucket sat by the front door. From around the side of the house, a dog as big as a pony charged the frail fence with bared teeth. I stepped behind H who offered his hand to the dog.

“Barlow, don't make me look bad in front of the lady.” At the sound of H's voice, Barlow rolled onto his back. H leaned over the fence to rub the dog's spotted belly. “He's blind and dumber than a post, but he won't let strangers inside the fence.” He patted the dog's belly. “Good boy.”

H offered a dog biscuit to Barlow as he opened the gate. “It pays to be prepared.”

“You got another one of those biscuits?”

“It'll cost you,” he said, winking.

I pushed past H to the front door. From inside, a woman as
tenuous as a newly hatched chick pushed open the screen. She spoke to H. “I called Will and George to help you carry Arthur out, dear. Do you think I should call anyone else?”

H extended his hand to Mrs. Masterson, and she stepped into his embrace.

“I'm already lost without him.”

H patted her shoulder. “There, there now Mrs. Masterson.”

She backed out of his embrace to blot her tears with a hankie. She looked down and flinched with surprise. “Look at me. I can't even decide what to wear.” She clutched her robe to her neck and combed her hair with her fingers. She said, “Arthur and I met at a dance. He paid every boy on my dance card two bits so he could dance with me all night. I fell in love with him long before the last waltz.”

I would have too.
“I'm so sorry—”

“Do you know the time?” she asked, looking from me to H.

H popped his pocket watch open. “It's 2:30, ma'am.”

Mrs. Masterson sighed. “Oh dear, it's almost time for tea.” Her eyes had gone sleepy. H and I exchanged glances.

“Mrs. Masterson?” H prodded.

She blinked and that seemed to restart her motor.

“Can you take us to Dr. Masterson?” he asked.

“Yes, come on in. He's still in bed.”

H pulled back the many blankets covering Mr. Masterson one by one as if peeling an onion. When he lifted the sheet, I swallowed down a gasp.

H said, “Ma'am, you can call Willie and George. I can handle this myself.” H sent me to the hearse for a sheet and told me to leave the gurney by the tailgate. “I can carry him down.”

By the time I returned to the couple's bedroom, H had buttoned Dr. Masterson's pajamas and run a comb through his hair. The
oxygen mask had left a red mark that cut deep into Dr. Masterson's nose and circled his chin. “Would you like some time with him before I carry him downstairs?” H asked.

Mrs. Masterson studied her husband's face. “That would be lovely.”

H and I stepped into the hall. Photographs of babies and wedding couples and graduates hung all along the wall. In a sepia photograph, a stoic couple stood like mannequins before a painted backdrop, the groom sitting in a carved wooden chair, the bride standing slightly behind him with her hand on his shoulder. His head was blurred as if he couldn't resist taking a peek at his bride. Although the bride's face was solemn, the corners of her eyes smiled in response. I motioned for H to look at the photograph. He raised his eyebrows to indicate he had no idea why I would draw his attention to such a thing. To be fair, not many males would connect the photograph to the Mastersons. The apple-faced couple in the photograph sat erect. Now Mrs. Masterson's skin hung from her bent frame, and Dr. Masterson, well, his disheveled pajamas had revealed legs as narrow as my wrist. But if I were Mrs. Masterson, I would have hung my wedding photo in the very same place, just outside the bedroom where I could look at it and remember what I'd once been and to remember my husband in better days.

From the bedroom, Mrs. Masterson expelled a sob. “Oh, Arthur, what am I to do?”

H raised his hand to stop me from returning to the bedroom. He whispered, “Give her a minute. She'll be okay.”

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, my way of giving the Mastersons the privacy they deserved. When Mrs. Masterson spoke again, her voice was breathy with wonderment. I can't explain what happened next. I never asked her about what I heard. It was a one-sided
conversation, like I was listening to someone talk on the phone. What Mrs. Masterson heard, I couldn't say.

“Oh my,” she said. “Oh my, you're here.

“Why not?

“You've seen the Master?

“Arthur, how about our Abigail? Have you seen her?

“She did? That's wonderful, just wonderful.

“What kinds of things are you learning, dear?”

H and I exchanged looks. I felt awkward listening in on such an intimate conversation. To busy my mind, I imagined the groom in the photograph carrying his bride over the threshold, the walls freshly painted, the floors polished to a sheen, and the smell of lilacs rather than mildew welcoming the newlyweds. And I imagined cherub-fat babies fingering dandelions in the grass while Mrs. Masterson hung the laundry. Those babies would now be in their sixties. Had they heard about their father's death? I squeezed my eyes tight to hold the tears, but that proved futile. Before wiping them away, I looked at H. Tears streamed down his cheeks too. He dug in his pocket for a hankie for me and wiped his own tears on his sleeve.

“Arthur,” Mrs. Masterson said, sounding alarmed yet pleased, “have you come for me?

“Why not, darling? Why not? You look wonderful, and here I am still in my nightgown.

“But I'm so old, dear. Oh, please, take me with you.

“Don't tease me, Arthur.

“Yes, yes, I know. You're right. I will serve Him. I promise. Yes.” The bedsprings complained under her weight. “Good-bye, my darling. Good-bye.”

I mouthed to H,
Now?

He shook his head.

Mrs. Masterson stepped into the hallway. “I'm ready for you to take him now.”

H wrapped Mr. Masterson in the white sheet, tenderly rolling him to his side to straighten his pajamas and crossing his arms over his chest. H left the man's face exposed until the last. He looked to Mrs. Masterson who nodded her approval before he closed the flaps over her husband's face.

“He's not in there anymore,” she said.

Mrs. Masterson stood on the porch while H loaded Dr. Masterson into the hearse. H returned to her to say something I couldn't hear. We drove in silence until we left the pastures and farmland behind.

“What happened back there?” I asked.

“I have no idea, but whatever she saw or heard, the conversation was only for her. We should keep this to ourselves, don't you think?”

I agreed, but I knew I would tell Lauren, but not on a postcard like I usually wrote to save pennies. I didn't want Myron, the postal clerk, spreading Mrs. Masterson's story to all of his customers.

Two dimples pocked H's cheeks as he talked about lifting weights in the Mastersons' shed and how he ran to the top of Ragged Mountain Road to prepare for football try-outs in August. Somehow, the vision of H huffing and puffing and sweating sullied the mystery of what we had just witnessed.

“Not now, H. Okay?”

* * *

CHARLES MOBERLY, THE mortician, slathered Miracle Whip on each bite of his meatloaf sandwich.

“Would you care for some more milk?” I asked.

He swallowed a bite of sandwich and dabbed his mouth with the napkin he kept in his lap. “Thank you. Yes, that would be nice.”

Charles looked like the kind of man you would want for a substitute teacher, soft and gullible. By the end of the hour, not one student would be left in class. His eyes were small gray marbles behind large wire-rimmed glasses, a surprising fashion-conscious choice for a man who wore white shirts with, quite honestly, the ugliest tie ever made. He had already insisted I call him Charles, a true softy.

“Are you sure your sandwich isn't too dry?” I asked. “I could use less oatmeal next time.”

He worked his tongue over his teeth, and his Adam's apple bounced as he downed the glass of milk. “Nope, I like my meatloaf on the dry side.” When I poured him a third glass of milk, he invited me to join him at the table. If I'd known he was going to yammer about mortuary stuff, I would have told him the oven needed cleaning. For my lack of forethought, Charles rewarded me with a blow by blow of the improvements he'd made to Clancy and Sons.

“Before Mrs. Clancy agreed to build a ramp that allowed bodies to be wheeled directly into the basement preparation area, three men were required, four if the deceased was a large man, to heft the body through the trapdoor in the hallway. Once the body was on the ramp, it slid to a bumper-like stop I fashioned from a one-by-ten board and a piano hinge. That sure made my end of the job a bit easier.”