Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (14 page)

I would've sat on the floor if I'd thought I could get to my feet again without the help of Lillian or a crane. The floor would've been the ideal place to spread out the papers I had to go through and sort, but I didn't want to chance having to call for help when I finished.

So I cleared the top of the large desk in the library and began sifting through piles of papers, pages torn from magazines, envelopes, sheets of notes and scribbles, recipes, and folders with more papers. It's a caution what we tend to hold on to and cram into drawers, thinking that we might someday need that very thing. And we never do. So somebody ends up having to go through the accumulation and separate the valuable from the trash.

I determined right then that as soon as I was through with Mattie's things, I would go through my own accumulation so that somebody else—who? Sam? Hazel Marie?—wouldn't be saddled with the job.

Just as I found an insurance policy that I couldn't make head nor tail of, the phone rang. I answered before Lillian could get it in the kitchen and was pleased to hear Etta Mae's voice.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Julia,” she said, and before she continued, I quickly assured her that she wasn't.

“It's good to hear from you, Etta Mae, and I'm glad to have a break. You're not disturbing me at all.”

“Well,” she went on, as I detected a hint of hesitancy in her
words, “I didn't know who else to call, 'cause, see, I think I have a problem and I was hoping you could maybe help.”

“I can certainly try, but I'm sorry you're having a problem. What is it?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “It's a little hard to explain on the phone. I kinda have to tell what led up to it, so I was wondering if you'd have time for me to come by for a few minutes? Maybe tomorrow? Or I could take you out for lunch if you have time.”

“I'd love to go to lunch with you, Etta Mae, but we might be pushed for time. I have a funeral to go to at two, and to be sure it doesn't turn into a carnival sideshow, I should be there by one. Why don't you drop by in the morning? I'll be here doing just what I'm doing now—sorting and clearing out.”

We decided that around ten would suit us both, and I returned to going through Mattie's papers. Finding an insurance policy had given me a lift—maybe it meant money would be coming in, which I could disburse without having to scrounge for nickels and dimes to meet Mattie's inflated ideas of what she was leaving behind. I set the policy aside to take to Mr. Sitton, checked the time on my watch, and saw that I'd soon have to stop to check on Helen and Diane—not that I didn't trust them to lock the door when they left, but I wanted to make sure. Then I'd have to get ready for the visitation, have some supper somewhere in between, and in general be pushed to get everything done.

When the doorbell rang, I listened as Lillian answered it, then heard LuAnne's voice in the hall coming toward the library. I stood up and started toward the door just as she sailed in, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex.

“Oh, Julia,” she said, collapsing on the sofa. “I am simply a mess, and I had to come talk to you. I know we have to get ready to go to the visitation—I set the time too early, but they told me it was the usual time, so I went with six o'clock. But, anyway, I just needed to talk to you.”

Lillian stood in the doorway, looking troubled. “Y'all want some tea? Or something?”

“I don't think so, Lillian,” I said, then walked over to her. “If you're planning to go to the visitation, just leave everything, and Sam and I will fix our plates. As for Mrs. Conover, she won't be long.”

“No'm,” Lillian whispered. “I got Latisha to see to this evenin', so I won't be goin'. And the onliest time Miss Mattie talk to me was when she tole me my chicken salat be better with Duke's 'stead of Hellman's. She won't care if I don't go, 'cause I'm still using Hellman's.”

“I'm glad you are. Your chicken salad is the best in town, and everybody knows it. But you run on home now, and I'll see you in the morning.”

Turning back to LuAnne, who was wiping her face, I sat down beside her. “What's wrong, LuAnne?”

“Oh, Julia,” she said, then had to stop for a sob or two. “It's just hit me all at once. I've been so busy arranging everything. . . .” She stopped and looked at me through weeping eyes. “Did you know you have to
pay
to have your obituary in the paper? I didn't, but thank goodness the funeral home had included it on their bill, so Mattie had already paid it. But when I thought of Mattie paying for her
own
death notice—who knows how long ago—it just got to me so bad. And I thought of how often I'd
resented
her—having to pick her up every time I turned around, and having to manhandle that walker of hers into the car. And, Julia, she was always so cranky, like she was entitled or something, but now, now the poor old thing is gone, and I'm, well, I'm
grieving
.”

“Oh, LuAnne,” I said, moved in spite of myself, “I think we all feel that way. She wasn't the easiest person to be around, and that's the truth.”

“Well, still,” she said, blotting away the tears, “I wish I'd been kinder, more understanding, or something. And, Julia, I apologize to you, too, for giving you such a hard time about the funeral. I think I've been grieving ever since she passed and just didn't realize it. Instead of crying, I've just gotten harder and harder to get along with.” She managed a strangled laugh. “If I'm not careful, I'll turn out just like Mattie herself.”

We both looked at each other, the same thought blooming in our minds. “You think. . . ?” I started.

“I do!” LuAnne said, her tears instantly drying up. “Oh, my goodness, Mattie must've had some great and awful grief in her life, and it finally turned her into a plain, ole, ill-tempered crab. That's it, Julia! I'll bet that's it.”

“Could be,” I said, thinking of a young soldier moldering in his grave, as well as that convict somewhere in Mattie's past, to say nothing of a sloshing flask in her pocketbook. I didn't dare mention a thing to LuAnne—right at that moment, anyway. Furthermore, I'd have to think hard before revealing any of it to her at any time.

But at the same moment, I began to look forward to meeting Andrew F. Cobb and learning more about Mattie Freeman. I hate to admit this, but Mattie had become much more interesting now that she was gone than when she'd been with us.

But having designated LuAnne the funeral director, I had to tell her about Mattie's self-proclaimed, recently arrived relative. “Mr. Sitton told him about the visitation, so we should be on the lookout for him. He'll probably be the only person none of us knows.” Except, I mentally added, the mechanic who kept Mattie's car on the road.

“Why,” LuAnne said brightly, “it's almost like a romance novel. A strange man shows up just as his dearly beloved aunt or whatever has passed on, and now he'll have to prove who he is. Although,” she said, frowning, “it's usually a beautiful young woman who gets there just a little too late. Anyway, what're you going to do about him?”

“Not one thing. Mr. Sitton is in the process of checking him out, then we'll go from there. But, LuAnne, I do want to thank you for handling the visitation and the funeral and for dealing with the funeral home. I know it hasn't been easy for you, but it's been a tremendous help to me.”

“Oh, that's all right. I haven't minded. Besides, now I'll know what to do when I have to do it again. Leonard is a good bit older
than I am, you know. But, listen,” she said, getting to her feet, “it's getting late and we have to be there before anybody else. You and I will be the receiving line, so make sure you're there early.”

We walked toward the door, and just as we reached it, LuAnne turned to me. “Oh, I almost forgot. I had the church put in the service bulletin that a reception would be held here at your house right after the interment. You don't mind, do you? I mean, your house is more central than anybody else's, and I've asked several people to bring food over in the morning, so it shouldn't be too much of a problem. And I'll be helping, of course.”

Well, what could I say? She had it all arranged and announced except for one minor thing—informing the hostess. I just nodded my agreement and, after seeing LuAnne on her way, went to the kitchen to warn Lillian that we would be receiving mourners after the funeral.

Then I went back to the library but was in no frame of mind to continue sorting through the piles of papers. LuAnne's belated sadness had gotten to me, and I realized that I, too, had barely given a passing thought to Mattie's passing, other than to moan about what she'd passed along for me to do. So I took a few moments to regret that I had not cultivated her friendship, had not taken the time to really know her. For one thing, if I had, I might've learned something about her family. Namely, if she had any.

_______

Sam and I quickly ate the supper that Lillian had left, got dressed, ran by Mattie's apartment to check the door—it was locked—then hurried to the Good Shepherd Funeral Home. It was going to be an interesting two hours—not only did I have to be a gracious greeter in the receiving line, I had to watch for a strange man purporting to be an heir who wanted no part of Mattie's estate—which I didn't believe for an instant—but also be available to Pastor Ledbetter, who was expecting to have a word or two with me before the visitation was over. And on top of all of that,
LuAnne had gotten her way about an open casket, so I'd have to look at least once.

“Sam,” I said, taking his arm as we walked from the parking lot to the funeral home, “I'm telling you right now, I do not want an open casket when my time comes.”

He smiled and pressed my arm to his side. “That's a long time off, sweetheart, and I hope I'm not around to make that decision.”

After thinking about it for a few minutes, I decided that his response didn't make me feel one bit better.

The visitors who attended the visitation held for Mattie—who, unfortunately was open to all who wanted to view her—made a skimpy but steady line for an hour and a half. Several small groups continued to linger in the viewing room, taking advantage of the sofas and chairs placed around the walls and talking in quiet tones. Flower arrangements, ordered by Mattie's acquaintances and delivered by florists, were on all the tables and a few had been set on the floor beside the casket.

By the time the line was beginning to thin out, my feet and back were killing me. Standing for that long was not as easy as it once was, but LuAnne and I had shaken hands with each visitor and received condolences as if we were Mattie's survivors.

Almost all the members of the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class had presented themselves, as they did for every member who predeceased the rest of us. And so did Pastor Ledbetter and his wife, Emma Sue, who was dripping with tears. Emma Sue was a sensitive soul and she cried at the least little thing. The funeral of someone she'd known for years made her a veritable fountain.

As Pastor Ledbetter shook my hand, he whispered, “As soon as you can take a break, we'll talk.”

I nodded and reached for the next hand, mentioning as I did that the visitors' book should be signed. Who it would go to, I didn't know, as Mattie had no family to treasure it. Unless you
counted the unconfirmed upstart who'd recently paid a call to her attorney.

Several members of the garden club and most of the book club members signed the visitors' book, then came through the line, quickly shook our hands, glanced into the casket—though some averted their eyes as they passed—and moved on out.

It struck me more than once that our group of friends was a mannerly and respectful one—they did what was properly called for in spite of their personal feelings. And it also struck me as painfully sad that Mattie seemed to have had no one who truly grieved for her—other than LuAnne, who had apparently gotten it out of her system and was now enjoying the social hour. But, as it's said, we reap what we sow, and I determined to be a better friend to those for whom I cared. I mean, I wanted to be
mourned
when I passed, which I had no intention of doing anytime soon, but you never know.

“Miz Murdoch?” A soft, slow drawl drew my attention from Pierce Adams, the church organist, who was passing from my hand to LuAnne's on his way to the casket.

“Yes, how do you do?” I turned and immediately knew that I was face-to-face with the stranger who'd been in Mr. Sitton's office claiming a far-fetched kinship to Mattie. Thinking that he shared no apparent physical genes with Mattie, I took him in from head to foot. He was a short, slight man with hardly any heft to him and blond from the thinning hair on the top of his head to the full mustache above his lip—his only obvious similarity to Mattie, only hers had been black. The man was sunburned from his scalp and peeling nose to the calloused hand that shook mine. He had a shy smile full of large teeth and the corners of both eyes revealed white crow's-feet deep enough to account for at least forty—maybe fifty—years out in the sun.

In a room half filled with men in suits or dark sports jackets, he stood out. He was wearing some sort of long-sleeved brown-and-white-checked shirt with a brown knit tie, for which the best I could say was that at least it was a tie. Khaki pants that were not
permanent press and scuffed shoes finished his funeral attire. I could picture him getting ready in what Mr. Sitton had described as the two-wheeled trailer in which he'd been living for some time. Maybe he'd done the best that could be done, so I tried not to be critical until he turned his head and I saw the curl of a ponytail clasped by an Indian-looking beaded band.

“Fine, doin' fine,” he said, responding to my conventional greeting. Then he ducked his head, gave me an ingratiating smile in a shy way, and said, “You prob'bly don't know me, but I'm Andrew Cobb, Aunt Mattie's great-nephew. I sure am sorry I didn't get here in time to get to know her. But from the looks of the crowd here, she had lots of friends.”

Actually, the crowd was sparse, but perhaps he'd not been to many visitations.

“Yes, Mattie was well loved,” I lied, as one does under the circumstances. “I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Cobb. Mr. Sitton told me that you were in town.”

“Yes, ma'am. Fine man, real fine. He mentioned you, so I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other pretty soon.”

That didn't sound good.

“I started to stop by this morning,” he went on in his soft drawl, “but figgered you'd be busy. Just ridin' around, don't you know, an' wanted to see where Aunt Mattie lived—real nice place. Real nice.”

“Oh? Mr. Sitton gave you the address?”

He smiled a lazy smile. “She was in the phone book.”

“Yes, of course. LuAnne,” I said, disconcerted enough to pass him along, “this is Mr. Cobb. And, Mr. Cobb, this is Mrs. Conover, a dear friend of Mattie's.” Then I turned to the next in line. But the presence of Mr. Cobb had put me off my stride, and I continued to think of him even as I kept up my end of the receiving line.

The man made me uncomfortable—I wasn't sure why, other than the fact that he'd made it his business to find out where Mattie had lived, and he smiled more than necessary. But he
didn't look intimidating; just the opposite, in fact. He put me in mind of a country boy—even though he was far from boyhood and that beaded band said
hippie
—because, perhaps, he was so rawboned and weather-beaten. And seemingly ill at ease in the soft-toned, middle-class attempt at a comforting milieu for grieving families.

And maybe also he made me uncomfortable because I was Mattie's gatekeeper, so to speak, and it was my job to keep what little she had safe, especially from strangers with unknown bloodlines.

I didn't want him asking questions of me. Questions like, when would it be convenient to look through Mattie's apartment? Or, may I have a copy of her will? Or, what about copies of the death certificate? Death certificates were important, I'd learned, as they gave access to bank accounts, insurance policies, and a number of other things that I wanted to keep to myself until we knew exactly who he was.

So I decided, as I shook another hand, that I'd defer all questions that he posed to Mr. Sitton and keep everything entrusted to me to myself alone—until otherwise notified and in spite of his pleasant enough manner.

_______

Just as there was a gap in the line and I looked for the nearest unoccupied chair, Pastor Ledbetter slid up beside me.

“Let's walk out in the hall,” he said in a low voice. Then to LuAnne, “Hold the fort for a few minutes, will you? Church business. We'll be right back.”

He took my arm and walked me out into the hall of the funeral home and back to the end of it, as far from the entrance to the viewing room as he could get without risking an intrusion into someone else's visitation.

“Miss Julia,” the pastor said, his large frame looming over me as I took a step back. “I understand that Miss Mattie remembered the church in her will, and I want to tell you that it is an answer to prayer. I just praised the Lord when I heard about it.”

Yes, and I knew from whom he'd heard it. LuAnne was the only one I'd even hinted to about what was in Mattie's will. I should've known better.

“Well, Pastor,” I began, taking a deep breath to explain the dilemma of trying to follow Mattie's wishes with nothing to follow them with. He cut me off.

“You just don't know,” he went on, his face glowing with anticipation, “what a serendipitous occasion this is. Why, the deacons had just given us the bad news that the air-conditioning unit in the church had about seen its last days. To replace it, we'd have to raise funds from the congregation or go into debt, which I am loath to do. So to learn that Miss Mattie is coming to the rescue, so to speak, well, it's lifted a load from my mind.” He paused, but before I could even begin to deflate his expectations, he went on again.

“Now here we are at the beginning of summer when the heat is already putting a tremendous strain on the old unit. It's going to quit on us any day now. Think what it's going to be like in the middle of August if we're without any cooling at all. So, I'm wondering how long it will take for the will to go through probate. See,” he said, lowering his voice to take me into his confidence, “if we know the money's coming in, oh, say, in the next few weeks, we can go ahead and contract for a new unit. Maybe even arrange to make a small down payment which the church can handle, then to pay it off in full as soon as you hand us a check. I'm sure Mattie was generous enough to foresee the problem—she complained about the church being too hot the last Sunday she was with us.”

I was so taken aback that when I opened my mouth I wasn't sure what was going to come out. He didn't give me a chance to find out.

“Well,” he said with a little laugh, “of course, I may be counting too heavily on Miss Mattie. I expect we should determine if her gift is enough to cover an air-conditioning unit. They're quite expensive—thousands of dollars—you know. Have to have a lot
of BTUs to cool an area the size of our church. But she loved the church, and I feel sure that she would not be niggardly.”

“Well, Pastor,” I began again, knowing full well that he wanted to know the exact amount that would be coming to the church. “It's like this: Mattie certainly showed her love of the church by leaving what one would hope to be a sizable amount to it. The problem, however, is twofold: she specifically designated how it was to be spent, and secondly, she . . .”

“Oh, I'm sure we can get around that,” he said, not in the least unsettled by Mattie's desires. “If she had known the emergency situation we're now in, I'm sure she would've wanted to help.”

I took a step to the side to get out of the corner he'd backed me into and said, “I will have to consult her attorney about that. I'm not at all sure that funds designated for one thing can be transferred at will to something else. I'll keep you informed, but now I have to get back to the receiving line.”

And I slipped past him and headed for the visitation room, where a discussion of Mattie's bequests couldn't be held.

I was wrong. The very next person who walked up to the receiving line was Callie Armstrong, a good-natured soul with a house full of children. She took my hand and, with a mischievous look, whispered, “I hear we're all in line for a windfall. And thank goodness for it, because all five of my crew need new shoes.”

As soon as she walked on, I leaned over and did some whispering of my own. “LuAnne,” I said, “I am never going to tell you another thing for as long as I live.”