Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels (16 page)

“I’m so sorry, Spud.”

“Me, too,” he says. “But the most embarrassing part was that attached to the letter was a check for $180,000 dollars. I figured she was reimbursing me a hundred dollars for every day of our six months together. I still have the letter,” he adds.

Spud blows his nose with vigor now, as though all these years later he is still insulted by Iris’s actions. “I never cashed that check.”

“Oh, Spud,” Violet says, “love is hard no matter what the circumstances, but this sounds devastating.”

“What I want to know is why do rich people always think money is the solution for everything?” Spud asks.

“I have often wondered the same thing,” Violet says, thinking this is one thing she’ll never have personal experience with.

“Iris changed after that,” Spud begins again. “She was always proper, but never cutting. I changed too,” he adds. “I disbanded my group, and I took a full time job at the Piggly Wiggly as their butcher.” He neatly folds his handkerchief and puts it in his breast pocket. “Then years later she started coming to the Piggly Wiggly to order her exotic meats,” he continues. “I knew it was more than that. I knew she wanted to see me. To see how I was. You don’t travel across town to get something you could have delivered from anywhere in the world right to your doorstep. You don’t do that unless you want to see someone and want to let them know that you still care. Right?”

“I wish she could have told you how she truly felt,” Violet says. “We all deserve that much.”

He sighs and agrees. “I think the most hurtful thing was that she required that it be kept secret,” he says. “She was convinced our affair would ruin her.”

“What is it about the Temples that attracts so many secrets?” Violet asks.

“I know. It’s such a mess, isn’t it?” Spud says. “By the way, I saw the
Book of Secrets
once, that everybody’s talking about. Iris showed it to me. She said that whoever had that book could bring Savannah to its knees.”

“Well, I’m not so sure about bringing Savannah to its knees, but it has certainly brought Savannah to our gate.”

Spud gives a brief smile. “You know, now that I think about it, Iris mentioned that there was a second book that nobody else knew about.”

“A second book?” Violet doesn’t know if she has the stamina to withstand the fallout from more secret books.

“She didn’t say much about it,” Spud continues. “Just that it could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. Where do you think that one is?”

“I have no idea,” Violet says, and she doesn’t want to know.

Spud thanks Violet for listening, glances at his watch and says he’d better get going. They hug again and say their goodbyes.

The house returns to quiet, except for the unseen entities that offer an occasional bump and rattle. Cold air brushes past her. She rubs goose bumps on her arms.

“Is that you, Miss Temple?” Violet asks, as she looks around the kitchen. “He still loves you, you know.”

A heavy sadness descends. A sadness that feels more like Miss Temple’s than her own. She shivers again and reminds herself that she doesn’t have time to be a counselor for ghosts. At least not right now. She has a reception to prepare for.

Violet retrieves the scallops from the refrigerator and thinks again of Spud. Miss Temple’s time with him was like a
Get Out of Jail Free
card.

“Too bad you didn’t take advantage of that,” Violet says, in case the newest Temple ghost can hear her.

How would Miss Temple’s life have been different if she’d made decisions based on what her heart wanted instead of her head? How would any of our lives be different?

“This is what happens when books of secrets are more important than relationships,” she tells her deceased employer. But it seems Miss Temple is gone for now, perhaps trying to make it to the church on time for her own funeral.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rose

Mother would like this,
Rose thinks.

The street in front of the Catholic Church has been blocked off for her mother’s funeral, which promises to be well-attended. Do people want proof that the grand matriarch of Savannah is finally dead?

People gather outside to chat and some even smoke. A cacophony of smells rise from the crowd, as though every fragrance ever denied them at her mother’s insistence is being worn on the day of her funeral.

Talk of secrets is everywhere as she overhears several people suggest that this will be the end of the daily reveal in the newspaper. But isn’t that assuming her mother was responsible for them? That just doesn’t make sense. Besides, Queenie told Rose the secrets showed up in the classifieds every morning the entire time her mother was in a coma. Rose wonders if the person or persons responsible are in the crowd of mourners. She surveys the guests and decides that they all look guilty of something.

It is a very hot day, even for Savannah. The air is thick with humidity as if the clouds might burst at any moment releasing the rain. The humidity holds the scents close to the ground like a cloud of toxic waste hovering near the earth’s surface.

As Rose walks through the crowd, she receives a few nods from old family friends, who are at least pretending to mourn. Most everybody else appears to hide their glee. Inside the door of the church, Rose grabs a program and uses it to fan away the fumes. The church reeks of a hundred years of incense, which seems a docile scent compared to what is outside.

The obituary in the newspaper that morning applauded her mother’s philanthropy over the years, as well as her commitment to the betterment of Savannah. Though it is true that her mother was generous to certain organizations, to Rose it sounded like a press release written by her mother. The announcement only mentioned her brother, Edward, and spelled out in several paragraphs the Temple lineage. A lineage that made no mention of Rose and Queenie.

Rose thinks of Old Sally. Given the predominance of Temple ghosts already “stuck” in the house, Rose hopes that Old Sally is wrong about her mother’s transition being incomplete. Perhaps her mother’s spirit made a belated exit after all. Or perhaps she’s here right now.

“Rest in peace, Mother,” Rose says aloud as she enters the empty sanctuary. She wears a simple black dress and heels she pulled from her closet at home and threw in her suitcase before leaving Wyoming, an outfit she hasn’t worn in the seven years since Max’s uncle died. Ranching seldom calls for formal attire.

Rose walks down the same aisle of the church that she walked down when she and Max were married. A platinum casket with gold handles sits in front of the altar, where her father’s casket sat many years before. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t Catholic and may have preferred another church. Her mother was in charge of everything and—in her usual way—used the event to showcase the Temple family.

Should she view her mother’s body before people arrive? Rose debates this issue while Queenie and a younger priest enter the sanctuary through a side door. Wearing a black dress with a large yellow sash and a yellow hat, Queenie waves as she and the priest discuss lighting and sound as though preparing the stage for a Broadway production. They stop momentarily to reposition several containers of flowers—full of their own scent to rival the incense—that might impede the flow of traffic. Then Queenie and the priest exit stage left.

As if stepping to the edge of a precipice, Rose inches closer to view her mother in repose. The top half of the casket is open revealing a plush white lining dotted with gold stars sewn into the fabric, as though the person in the casket was a president or one of the heads of state.

A bit over the top,
Rose thinks,
but this is just the kind of thing Mother would have picked out for her exit scene.

Her mother’s lips form a stern, thin line like she is bound and determined not to rest in peace. Her makeup is minimal, something she must have specified in her funeral arrangements, and her white hair is perfectly styled the way her mother has worn it since Rose was a girl.

Rose’s mother is dressed in an elegant black dress, as if a mourner herself, and wears a double strand of pearls, the creamy white in perfect contrast to the black. Proof that you can take it with you, at least until after the service.

While viewing her mother’s body, Rose studies her like a possible portrait subject. She notes the line of her mother’s brow, the slope of her nose, her wrinkled jaw—the skin all drooping southward in a tribute to her Dixie roots.

A door opens in the back of the church and Rose jumps like she’s been caught stealing the pearls from around her mother’s neck. Queenie strolls down the aisle. Despite the sobering occasion, her eyes sparkle.

Sweet Queenie,
Rose thinks.
What would I do without you?
This moment would be much harder if it were Queenie in the casket or Old Sally. A thought which makes her feel guilty.

“How are you holding up?” Queenie asks, as she joins Rose.

“To be honest, she seems like a stranger,” Rose says.

Queenie squeezes Rose’s hand. “I doubt anyone really knew Iris,” Queenie says. “Including Iris.”

“Do you think she was ever happy, Queenie?” Rose’s voice catches on a snag of emotion.

“For a brief period years ago,” Queenie says. “But it didn’t last for long.”

“It’s like privilege robbed her of any ability to be real,” Rose says. “I wonder who she might have been without the Temple money. What might she have done if she had to venture out and forge a career?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Queenie says.

They gaze into the casket, as though peering into the vastness of the Grand Canyon. On the ranch, death is a mystery that reveals itself quite often. Nature makes sense in the way it takes care of things. The weak die. The strong survive. But it is harder to put humans into that model. She would have thought her mother too strong to die.

As Rose contemplates the meaning of life—a hazard of attending any funeral—Queenie pulls a tissue from her purse and covers her mouth overcome with emotion. Rose does her best to console her, but then realizes that Queenie isn’t weeping at all. In fact, she is doing everything she can to keep from laughing.

“What’s going on?” Rose whispers. Her eyes widen with the question. She doesn’t know whether to be alarmed or intrigued.

“Can you keep a secret?” Queenie whispers, her hand still covering her mouth.

“Of course I can,” Rose whispers back. She has been bred to keep secrets. In a way, secrets are the family business. Just ask anyone in Savannah right now. But what could be so funny on such a serious occasion?

Queenie pulls Rose toward the closed end of the casket and taps the top of the lid with a fingernail. It makes a slightly hollow sound.

“The secret’s in there,” Queenie says. Her voice remains a whisper.

Rose’s face registers her confusion. “The secret’s in Mother’s casket?”

Queenie nods. Rose’s thoughts jump to a letter or something of sentimental value. Perhaps a locket or a trinket. Or maybe the infamous
Temple Book of Secrets.
But this doesn’t make sense. Why is Queenie fighting so hard not to laugh?

“I don’t understand,” Rose whispers.

Queenie leans in to Rose and whispers back, “I put something in the casket.”

Rose studies Queenie’s face and she gives Rose a grin that can only be described as sheepish.

“Don’t be mad,” Queenie says.

“Why would I be mad?” Rose whispers.

Queenie pauses, as though weighing the consequences of her confession, and then announces: “I put a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken at your mother’s feet. Or between her knees, actually.”

Queenie’s whispered confession carries the strength of a Shakespearean actor projecting to the back row of the empty church. Her eyes glisten with tears and not tears of grief.

“You did what?” Rose says in full voice.

“I wedged a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken between your mother’s knees,” Queenie says in a quasi whisper. Then she shrugs, as though disbelieving of the news herself.

Rose’s shock slowly warms to a muffled laugh. Her face turns red and hot.

“It seems only fitting,” Queenie whispers in conclusion. “It was, after all, her favorite food. And not the least bit exotic, I might add.”

Two sets of double doors fling open in the back of the sanctuary as if orchestrated by well-trained theater ushers. The first wave of aromatic mourners enters the church. Queenie takes Rose’s arm and steers her into the family pew. Rose refuses to look at Queenie in case the glance might cause a snicker to escape. Rose anticipated her mother’s funeral might be difficult, but she never anticipated that it might be difficult for this reason. She begs Queenie to be quiet, and then grits her teeth to stop the laughter that threatens to burst past her lips into the room.

Do not laugh,
she tells herself.
Do. Not. Laugh.

Rose forces herself to think of tragic things like world hunger and puppy mills. Nothing is working. Then a more urgent problem presents itself. Rose locks her knees together to stop her bladder from releasing. She reminds herself that she is at her mother’s funeral, not the best venue for hysterical laughter or menopausal bladders.

“Are you angry with me?” Queenie asks.

Rose shakes her head. Queenie’s defiant gesture seems mild considering everything she put up with over the years. It is the element of surprise that has put Rose at risk of losing it on more than one level.

Luckily, Rose and Queenie’s squelched laughter sounds close enough to the sounds of grief that the stares they receive are out of sympathy instead of shock. The organist, soft-pedaling their grief, begins to play one of her mother’s favorite hymns,
Onward Christian Soldiers
. In response, Rose imagines an army of fried chicken legs marching off to war led by a miniature Colonel Sanders.

A snort of laughter escapes that she segues into a cough. She forces herself to count the panes in the stained glass window in the side chapel. Perhaps if she engages the mechanical side of her brain it will override her desperate need to laugh. In the meantime, the perfumes, colognes, and aftershaves of two hundred mourners—who have undoubtedly dabbed on extra portions on her mother’s behalf—consume the musty, incense-laden, flower-filled church. Refusing to go down without a fight, the aroma of fried chicken joins the other smells. The cumulative effect makes Rose’s eyes water. It also makes her nauseous, which proves the most effective tool to stopping her need to laugh.