Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels (17 page)

A door squeaks open in the side chapel and Edward steps inside. He looks straight at Rose and gives what could be mistaken for a sneer. Suddenly, laughing is the last thing she feels like doing. Encounters with Edward always prove to be a bit harrowing. First, there was the brief, bizarre meeting in the garden and then Edward’s macabre visit to their mother’s bedroom later that afternoon.

Queenie nudges Rose and motions in Edward’s direction. Rose nods that she has seen him, too. The nub of her missing pinkie throbs.

The young priest enters from behind the altar and begins the service. According to Queenie, he has stepped in at the last minute to replace the elder priest, who has been ordered bed rest because of a mild cardiac infarction the day before. The young priest is probably thirty at best, and is a Sunday school Jesus look-alike with shoulder-length brown hair. Her mother would not be pleased.

Will he pull out a guitar and lead the mourners in Kumbaya?
As an afterthought, Rose leans into the aisle to see if he is wearing sandals. If her mother were still alive, his informality would prompt several letters to the Vatican. Long hair and guitar singing are for the lower classes. As is anything else that might hint at liveliness.

Throughout the next hour, several people from the community get up to eulogize her mother. If not for their familiar faces, Rose would think they were paid actors endorsing a product. Iris Temple was
generous to a fault
, says one.
Thoughtful,
says another.
Selfless,
says yet another. The woman described in the eulogies is not Rose’s mother. No one speaks of secrets, either, yet she imagines that’s exactly what is on everyone’s mind.

Glancing at her mother’s casket, she decides that it is ingenious product placement. Then her stomach growls. Maybe it is the smell of chicken, but she is suddenly borderline ravenous. Why didn’t she eat at the house before they left? At the time she wasn’t hungry. Now she salivates as she envisions the banana bread Violet made that Rose turned down. The current speaker looks over at her, an older gentleman wearing a bow tie. Did he hear her stomach growl?

Spud Grainger gets up to eulogize her mother and introduces himself. The name sounds familiar and Rose wonders where she’s heard it before. His dark suit is accented with a pale yellow shirt and a bow tie that looks like the wings of a monarch butterfly. He has kind eyes and seems like the type that would take in stray animals, yet paradoxically he mentions he is the head butcher at the Piggly Wiggly.

Rose nudges Queenie’s arm. “Who is he?” she whispers.

“Long story,” Queenie whispers back. “I’ll tell you later.”

Rose nods.

As Spud Grainger speaks, he stops several times to blow his nose into a white handkerchief he pulls from his jacket pocket. Of all the mourners, he is the only one who appears genuinely bereaved. Rose wishes she had known the woman he grieves.

Meanwhile, the front of the church smells more and more like a fried chicken franchise. Rose fantasizes about tiny Styrofoam containers holding mashed potatoes with gravy, as well as small white dinner rolls. It doesn’t help that Spud Grainger is going on and on about exotic meats. Her stomach growls again, louder than before. Sound carries quite well in the sanctuary. Unfortunately, smells do, too.

The reptilian part of Rose’s brain plots out different ways to scavenge food. She fantasizes about creating a diversion so that she can make her way to the altar and grab a chicken breast from between her mother’s knees. Perhaps she could do it under the guise of revealing one of the biggest Temple secrets. However, she’s not sure what that would be.

She glances at her watch. Katie, Rose’s daughter, is due in from Chicago any minute for the graveside service. Rose busies herself with worrying about the synchronization of Katie’s different flights and landings as the next speaker rises to eulogize her mother, offering more praise for the saint-like Iris Temple.

This is overkill,
Rose thinks, regretting her word choice.

Rose looks over the large crowd of Savannah’s elite gathered to pay their last respects. Some of the same people attended Rose’s wedding. She didn’t know them then and doesn’t know them now. The wealthy do this for each other. They throw parties and donate to each other’s charities and attend weddings and funerals. But other than that, they are strangers. Except these strangers, wearing Rolexes and designer fashions, seemed poised for a revolution.

The young priest steps forward to end the service, asking one final time if anyone has anything they want to say. Edward rises from the shadows and walks over to their mother’s casket. He rests a hand on the top, as if a gesture of ownership.

“Thank you for your heartfelt acknowledgment of the Temple family’s contribution to our fair city,” Edward begins, as if to remind the angry mob of their manners. His words are as polished as his shoes. He exhorts the Temple brand, reminding everyone that Savannah wouldn’t be Savannah without the Temples. And despite any hard feelings of late, because of a few unfortunate secrets, they should be grateful that it wasn’t worse. He looks at Rose as he speaks. Is he trying to remind her who is the new sovereign in the Temple clan? His hubris, like his suit, seems perfectly tailored to fit the event. His presentation would have probably made their mother proud.

The service finally over, Rose avoids Edward and steps into the first black limo she comes to outside of the church. Queenie follows, a splash of color among all the black. Rose rifles through her purse and pops three cinnamon Altoids into her mouth hoping the curiously strong mints will count as sustenance. She has a headache now.

“I’m starving,” Rose says to Queenie, her words mumbled and her mouth on fire from the mints.

“Hold on,” Queenie says. “Let me see if I have something.”

Queenie drapes her large purse across her even larger lap and pulls things out of her bag that look like they might belong to some kind of southern survival kit: lipstick, billfold, two different types of bug spray, a crumbled box of tissues, a paperback mystery, four crumpled packets of Splenda, a small roll of twine, a red Swiss army knife, and enough colorful headbands to set up a store display in the corner of the limo.

Queenie finally offers Rose a handful of orange Tic-Tacs that are loose in the bottom of her purse. Rose picks off the biggest pieces of fuzz before popping them into her mouth, along with two aspirin and the cinnamon Altoids. Her mouth puckers in disgusted satisfaction. As Queenie loads everything back into her purse, Rose chews the aspirin and Altoids, leaving only small pellets of orange Tic-Tacs to suck on.

“Edward was in rare form today,” Queenie says.

“This is an awful thing to say about my own brother, but I don’t trust him,” Rose says.

“I would worry about you more if you did,” Queenie says. She straightens her hat that nearly touches the roof of the limo.

“He always stays at the country club when he’s here,” Queenie says. “In the past few years he’s come to Savannah and not even told your mother. I would see him in town when I ran errands. I never told her, though. That would be just the thing to get your mother on the war path.”

“Why would he not tell her he’s in town?” Rose asks. She crunches the last of the Tic-Tacs.

“I don’t think he could stand to be around her,” Queenie says. “Lord knows she would test the patience of Job.”

The limo leads the procession to the graveside. At the entrance, people hold placards that say things like
Good Riddanc
e and
The Wicked Witch is Dead
. Queenie and Rose hold hands as if to fortify themselves against the scene.

“Why are they so angry?” Rose asks.

“They think she’s a snitch,” Queenie says. “They thought she was the one releasing the secrets. Now they don’t know who it is, but they’re still angry.”

The limo passes through the wrought-iron gates leading to the section of the cemetery where the ornate Temple mausoleum stands. The last time Rose was here was when they buried her father, over two decades ago.

Thick clouds gather and block the sun. Though a bit cooler, the humidity seems to be rising. Within minutes, an afternoon drizzle begins. Edward stands on the other side of the priest. Even though it is only three o’clock, his five o’clock shadow is pronounced. He seems alone, even in a crowd, which causes Rose to wonder if her brother ever gets lonely.

As far as she knows, he has lived in the same penthouse in downtown Atlanta for the last thirty years and has never married or lived with anyone. His firm specializes in helping corporations handle scandals—another form of dealing with secrets. Rose can’t even imagine the wealth he has amassed while she and Max have struggled to keep the ranch afloat. Being a Temple in the southeast can have its advantages. He probably doesn’t have to work at all, but just wants to have something to do.

Despite the rain, there are smiles on the faces of several mourners. Do they think the
Temple Book of Secrets
is being buried with her mother?
Along with a bucket of chicken, thanks to Queenie,
Rose thinks. She resists smiling.

A few minutes into the graveside service, a taxi arrives. In the distance, Rose’s daughter, Katie, gets out of the cab with another woman. They share a large rainbow pride umbrella as they approach. Rose smiles at the thought of her mother turning cartwheels in her grave as her lesbian granddaughter makes a flamboyant entrance.

Rose and Queenie part to make room for the two women on the front row. Rose notes Edward’s instant disapproval as his glare now includes raised eyebrows. As the
Kumbaya
priest leads them in prayer, Katie leans into her and Rose pulls her close. The rain increases. Rose briefly greets Katie’s latest girlfriend, Angela, a woman Rose has never met and has actually heard very little about. Angela’s hair is short, almost shaved, and she appears to be ten years older than Katie, maybe more. Multiple piercings make Rose wonder if she wants to appear younger than she is. One piercing is on the side of her nose, another through her bottom lip and yet another through her tongue. Three holes on each ear are filled with silver studs. And these are only the ones Rose can see.

How in the world did she get through airport security?
Rose wonders.

Wearing a tasteful gray dress, perhaps a little too short, Katie has even donned a bit of makeup for the occasion, making Rose think that perhaps she has some Temple blood in her after all.

Her daughter looks like a Catholic school girl in comparison to Angela, who could just as easily be dressed for an equality rally in Washington, D.C. She wears black leggings and black loafers with a pink oxford shirt, shirttail out.

She must be baking in this heat,
Rose thinks. If her mother were still alive, she would write Angela a handwritten letter to educate her about proper funeral attire.

Katie stands next to Rose, their shoulders touching. The four of them, including Queenie, now share the large colorful umbrella as the rain increases in intensity once again. All stare at the coffin posed in front of the family crypt.

Through the years, Katie has asked very few questions about Rose’s mother, and Rose hasn’t volunteered the information. Twenty-five years before, Rose moved out West with Max and started a new life. Now that the reason for her staying away is gone, will she feel the need to visit more often? She hasn’t realized how much she missed Queenie and even the old house, as well as Old Sally and Violet. Not to mention the ocean and the moisture, intent on baptizing her at every opportunity, now with rain at her mother’s funeral. Maybe the question now is how she is going to go back to Wyoming.

The various fragrances of the mourners have mellowed into a smell resembling an over-ripe banana wrapped in a magnolia blossom. As the misty rain continues to fall, the dry-eyed mourners now look a little bored. Violet stands at the back of the crowd in a red raincoat, her posture erect like a dancer. It feels generous of her to come to the funeral at all, given the stories Rose has heard about how difficult her mother was.

By the time the priest has finished his remarks, the rain has grown in intensity to a mild tropical storm. The skies open up and produce raindrops the size of small tree frogs and just as hard to avoid. Black umbrellas spring open with a touch, one after another, as if choreographed for a Gene Kelly musical. Quick, awkward handshakes are exchanged as everyone disperses for their cars. The wind grabs at their umbrellas and creates a spattering of muffled expletives from the mourners. A loud rumble of thunder accelerates their departure, as if her mother is warning them that they haven’t heard the last from her.

Rose and Queenie run for the black limo, followed by Katie and Angela. The four of them scramble into the back, laughing from the exhilaration of the run. They dry off as best they can with the box of pink tissues from Queenie’s handbag. Their funeral attire makes them look like water-logged crows. Formal introductions are made all the way around and they exchange damp handshakes. Rose has forgotten that Katie and Queenie have never met. It seems these two important women in her life should somehow already know each other.

Angela’s streaked eye-liner adds to the crow effect. Katie dabs at Angela’s rogue eye-liner, a gesture that reveals a level of intimacy that surprises Rose. She thinks back to an earlier girlfriend also named Angela, when Katie was a freshman at Smith. While home for Christmas during her freshman year, Katie announced over eggnog that she had fallen in love with her roommate—the first Angela—who at the time of the announcement was sitting in Rose and Max’s living room. Rose and Max tried not to overreact. It was Smith, after all, and this could possibly be a four-year phase. But the phase did not end after Katie graduated. After many hours of discussion about the matter, Rose and Max came to one simple conclusion: they loved Katie and wanted her to be happy and would stand by her no matter what the world thought of her lifestyle choice.

Now that Rose is getting a better look at her, the current Angela looks at least forty. According to Katie, Angela is a writer of feminist fiction and has won a Lambda Literary Award, an award Rose is embarrassed to say she has never heard of.