Homefires (29 page)

Today, the same melodious utterances spilled from my throat and lips as had gushed forth that day following the miraculous migraine-healing, accompanied by the same incredible tranquility and strength. And I knew, as before, the source.

The Comforter.

God had, after all, kept His promise.

After a quick shower, I dressed, then asked Anne to accompany me to the funeral home. This morning was to be my time alone with my daughter and I wanted every moment to count. Never before nor since has my mind had such clarity. Decisions came without hesitation.

A fresh long-stemmed red rose replaced yesterday’s. I carefully placed the discarded one in tissue, hoping to dry and treat it.
How I wanted to keep it
. I brushed her hair and the thick blonde tendrils curled softly toward her face. How many times I’d performed this act, knowing every contour of the precious little head.

I touched each familiar feature...soft, slightly tilted nose, smooth forehead with high, perfectly arched brows, long lashes fanning over satiny, finely contoured cheeks with a tiny beauty mark just to the right of her nose. Just above the short feminine chin, beautiful full lips suggested a pink rosebud. I leaned to gently kiss them and to nestle my cheek against hers for one last time. It felt cool, yet soft as velvet, and held not a trace of
strangeness and I realized death did not alter the fact of
her
. She was forever Krissie. My Krissie.

How I cherish those last moments of solitude with my daughter.

Anne hovered nearby, not in the least intrusive, weeping, wrestling with her own grief. She drove me back to the parsonage around noon, where driveway and lawn bulged with upstate cars. I was astonished that over a hundred friends and relatives made the five-hour trek.

Honoring our wishes, Krissie’s send-off to Heaven couldn’t have been more celebratory. Even Gene, after a moment’s breakdown, gave a happy eulogy that brought both laughter and tears to the packed gathering, which, after filling all pews and standing lined around sanctuary walls, spilled over into Sunday School rooms to listen over the intercom.

Julian’s medley of Krissie favorites was punctuated by the silent weeping of school classmates – her honorary escort – and teenagers who’d adored the shy, friendly Krissie, as well as youth who’d played and worshipped with the happy little blonde. Then, Pastor Cheshire, now aging and a bit stooped, shared marvelous little anecdotes from Krissie’s and Heather’s early romps and then comforted us with favorite, sustaining Bible verses.

Hand-in-hand, Kirk and I led the entourage from the sanctuary, across the verdant lawn to the white sandy path that led to a newly opened gravesite. We heard the organ playing familiar strains from
Safe in the Arms of Jesus.
Warm succor flushed through me, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Neecy?”

I swiped away tears and turned from the mound of flowers covering the new resting-place. The crowd now scattered and meandered about, distinctly reluctant to disperse. In the lingering, I felt profound love. The voice addressing me was familiar –

I squinted up into familiar features. The eyes, half-mooned, clued me.

“Moose?”

Huge arms folded me into a bear hug and I felt the bigboned, six-footer begin to tremble violently. “I-I’m so s-sorry, Neecy – ” He burst into weeping, his arms squeezing me.

I snuffled along with him as he rode the waves, patting his shoulder and rocking to and fro, until the trembling subsided. I disentangled myself and gazed up into his face, now elongated somewhat because he was at least fifty pounds lighter than I’d ever seen him.

“Moose McElrath. My goodness – how did you know?”

“Saw it in the paper – ’bout the accident.”

I knew accounts of the tragedy were in upstate papers, as well as local ones. “You came all this way down – ”

“I’m in Charleston now – in the Air Force. Been in for the last ten years. Just got transferred here four months ago.” He pulled out a white handkerchief and blew his nose soundly, then refolded and returned it to his hind pocket. “Didn’t know ya’ll was down here till I saw the newspaper headlines. God, Neecy – ” His eyes puddled again and he looked off, biting his bottom lip till it turned white.

I took his hand, still big with fingers like sausages. I felt the calluses on their tips and squeezed them. “Ah, Moose. Your coming is so –
special.
” He shuffled his feet, still gazing off, blinking rapidly. “Have you spoken to Kirk yet?”

“Naw.” He snuffled loudly, shrugged his wide shoulders, and shifted from one foot to the other. “He’s tied up with folks who’ve drove so far, I thought I’d wait till – ”

“Crap.” I took his arm firmly and pulled him along through the gathering to where Kirk stood, his face haggard and intent as he grappled to focus on Pastor Cheshire’s kind words.

Both men turned at our approach. “Look who’s here, Kirk.”

Kirk peered for a moment then exhaled audibly. “Oh my goodness,
Moose.
” Then they were hugging and Moose let loose again, crying brokenly. Kirk silently wept with our old friend, allowing Moose’s grief to buttress his own.

We insisted Moose return to the parsonage with us and stay awhile. The house swelled with relatives, friends and church folk, but the atmosphere was appropriately subdued. Betty, Kirk’s mom, had driven down that day with Mitzi and Randolph Scott for the funeral. Kirk, drawn in so many
directions at once, spent little time with his mother and siblings, but I hugged Betty – still gaunt and haunt-eyed in widowhood – and thanked her for being there for Kirk.

Trish and Anne moved quietly in the background, answering the phone and exchanging pleasantries with guests. Later, church ladies brought covered dishes and served dinner to the remaining family and upstate visitors. Kirk talked quietly with Moose as I said endless goodbyes at the door and in the driveway.

MawMaw and Papa hugged me bye just as dusk settled over the sandhills. “Be careful,” I cautioned because MawMaw had divulged that Papa now suffered from a bit of night blindness.

“Aww,” Papa’s beefy hand flicked away my concern, “I can see all right. Don’t you worry none, Neecy.”

For once, MawMaw held her tongue and didn’t argue the point. Teary-eyed, she waved until they were out of sight. I went back inside where I trekked to the bathroom and while relieving myself, spied Krissie’s pink toothbrush lying on the vanity, again experiencing the
wham
of loss, of her absence.
My little shadow....
I quickly returned to the den, where my gaze sought Heather, who huddled in the dining room with Dixie and Jaclyn Beauregard, who’d dropped by after the services. Jaclyn rose and came to hug me and lingered in my embrace for long moments as we shared our common sorrow. I said soothing words to her, knowing how she had adored her brother Zach and knowing how difficult this time was for her family.

Then I returned to the den, lowering myself beside Kirk on the harvest brown sofa and immediately felt Toby plop down next to me. I smiled at him and he snuggled against me.
He’s tired.
I’d seen little of him during the past two days, except glimpses coming and going. He mostly played outside with church kids except for sporadic little interludes, like now. He’d shown little to no reaction to what was happening. I figured that, inevitably, he would grieve.

“Moose tells me he’s got something going with a pretty young thing,” Kirk said quietly, winking at Moose, who blushed but shot me his half-mooned-eyes grin.

“Oh? Who?” I asked, curious. “From here?”

Moose looked away for a long moment, the smile fading. “Ahh – she’s not from here, but she lives here now.”

“Where does she work?” Kirk asked, as nosy as I.

“She – ah – she’s kinda in show business,” Moose replied, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“We-e-ell,” I slanted him an impressed look, “A singer? Actress?”

“Uhh,” Moose’s neck turkeyed and his shoulders rolled over a couple of times, as if his shirt was too tight. “She’s – actually,” he resolutely looked me in the eye, “she’s a dancer.”

“Aha.” That gave me pause. What exactly was my friend Moose getting into?

“So how long have you been here?” Kirk promptly switched subjects and Toby whispered in my ear that he would like a piece of Betsy Clemmon’s Texas Chocolate Cake.

As I made my escape from Moose’s news and sliced my son’s fudgy portion of dessert, I experienced mixed emotions. I was relieved that Toby lent me continuity during this time but was puzzled at his non-involvement in what was going on around him.

I tried to eat a small piece of the cake, but it turned to sawdust in my mouth. Toby’s plate was clean when he rushed off to greet Bobby Clemmons, whose parents Fred and Betsy talked quietly with Dad and Anne before heading my way. Trish offered me coffee, which I accepted to make her feel better. I glanced again at Toby, who took his friend’s hand and eagerly tugged him to his room to show him something.

I sighed.
He’s so young. Will he remember her?

Will I remember her?
Fear spliced through me and propelled me to my feet. What a thought – of course, I wouldn’t forget Krissie. I took my cup to the sink and began vigorously washing it and searching for others to assault. “Sis,” Trish’s hand gently grasped my shoulder. “Don’t. Come sit down.”

She knew. My sister knew that, when cornered, I always attacked clutter.

Woodenly, I allowed her to lead me away from the sink but not from the idea now gyrating in my head.
Krissie, Krissie...why did you have to go and die?

“Come on, honey,” Kirk coaxed, “It’ll do you good. Moose wants us to meet Roxie. It’s all he talks about.” He sat down beside me on the sofa and tweaked my chin. “It’d be fun.”

I stared dully at him, with my feet curled up under me and an unopened magazine on my lap. “I don’t feel like it. Okay, Kirk?
”
Rarely had I ever denied my husband’s requests, until recently. “I’m sure
Roxie
is a barrel of laughs but – ” I cut him a weary, wry glance.

“Neecy,” Kirk scolded softly. “That doesn’t even
sound
like you.”

I looked away, slightly repentant but too numb to appreciate fully any wisdom at that precise moment. Roxie was an ‘exotic’ dancer, quote Moose – who, by trying to upgrade his girl’s status from ‘burlesque’ to ‘exotic’ only worsened it.

“She doesn’t sound like Moose’s type, much less
mine.
” I laid my head back and closed my eyes, giving in to the apathy swathing me day and night, draining me, leaving me limp and uncaring of life, exhausted by late afternoon by living, emotionally,
years
in the space of short hours. A week and a half had passed since my family and friends departed, leaving us to fend on our own. And with their departure, my initial drive, fueled by Krissie’s faith in me, fizzled.