The Funeral Dress (29 page)

She set a dry diaper under Kelly’s bottom and struggled to push the point of a safety pin with a yellow duck on its head through the thick cotton cloth. She had never gotten comfortable pinning a diaper, always afraid of sticking her own finger as much as she was the baby’s bottom. She wished Mettie had packed some disposable diapers like the ones she had found at Leona’s. And she wished she hadn’t left those she had back in Red Chert. Only when Kelly started to fuss did Mrs. Fulton set the wreath on the bed and snatch the pin from Emmalee’s hand.

“First of all, you keep your pins stuck in a bar of soap so they’ll glide through the diaper. That’s why you always have at least two sets of pins, one set in the diaper
and one in the soap.” She steadied her grip on the pin and held it to the diaper. “You push the point toward the back, not the front. If it comes undone, the pin’ll do less harm to the baby if the head is at the back. And like it or not, you keep your hand against the baby’s skin so she doesn’t get pricked. See any blood, it better be yours.”

Emmalee nodded.

Mrs. Fulton hurriedly removed the pin from the other side of the diaper and replaced it properly, facing toward the back. She patted the baby’s tummy and combed the baby’s hair with her fingers. “There,” she said, “I think you can finish dressing her.” Then she pointed to her watch again and reminded Emmalee the visitation would be starting soon. “It’s not necessary you come down for the whole thing. In fact, it might be best if you stayed up here and gave your daughter your full attention.”

“No, ma’am, I’m coming,” Emmalee said. “I need to feed and dress the baby first, but I’ll be down in a minute.” Emmalee rubbed her hands down the front of her blue jeans, the same pair she had worn for the past five days. They were faded and dirty, but everything else she owned was back in the holler. Her long hair was clean but hung loose and tangled about her face.

“Take your time. Take a good long time.” She smiled sweetly. “I haven’t even gotten this wreath on the door, but I have a feeling Cora Hixson is already sitting there in the living room. She never misses a one of these anymore. For somebody old and lonely like Cora, I guess this is her only entertainment.” Mrs. Fulton held the white bow to the wreath. “This’ll do fine,” she said and she walked out of the room admiring the roses.

“Mrs. Fulton,” Emmalee called after her.

“Yes.” Mrs. Fulton stood in the hallway staring back at Emmalee.

“I ain’t got nothing nice to wear.”

Mrs. Fulton examined Emmalee from head to toe. “You look fine to me,” she said, the sharp tone returning to her voice. “And by the way, do not say one word to anyone about that baby’s daddy. You understand me?” She walked on down the hall, stopping to check that Billy’s door was shut and secure.

“Fine,” Emmalee repeated. “Ain’t nothing fine.”

Emmalee stepped back into the bedroom. She slipped the plastic pants over the baby’s dry diaper and lifted her onto her shoulder. “There you go,” she said and patted the baby’s back. “You’re such a pretty thing, Kelly Faye Billy Fulton.” Emmalee laughed. “Yeah, I think that sounds perfect. Let’s tell your grandmama we’ve got a new name for you, and we’re going to have it stitched plain on a blanket like the letters on this bedspread here.” Emmalee held the baby in front of her and blew on her belly again. Kelly kicked her legs and cooed.

With a full tummy, the baby grew sleepy, and Emmalee rushed to dress her as Kelly Faye dangled in her arms like a favorite rag doll. She slipped a cotton gown trimmed with rosebuds and lace over her tiny head and placed white cotton socks on her feet. Mettie had wrapped several other new dresses in pieces of tissue and packed them inside the paper bag along with new sleepers and undershirts. Her aunt had wasted no time, Emmalee thought, making this baby her own.

Emmalee swaddled Kelly in the pink crocheted blanket Leona had made for the baby and held her in her arms. Kelly’s head flopped to the side, and Emmalee kissed her cheek before lowering her into a cradle that had once held the Fultons’ boy and girl. Kelly gurgled and offered a silly grin.

Emmalee had not stopped staring at Kelly Faye since Mr. Fulton had brought her home. It was as if she was looking at her baby for the very first time, studying every detail of her face—her heart-shaped lips, her pink-kissed cheeks, the wisps of blond hair sprouting from the top of her head. A newfound sense of pride and happiness was starting to take hold, but Emmalee worried this feeling would fade when she took Kelly back to the holler and mothered her all alone.

Emmalee sprinkled some of the baby’s sweet-smelling powder on her own skin. She tucked her blouse into her jeans and ran the brush across her head, working through tangles and knots until it hung straight and shiny. She took a thin satin ribbon from the bottom of Kelly’s bag and tied it around her hair. Emmalee wanted to look special for Leona but figured this was the best she could manage with what she had.

The muted sound of men and women greeting one another in the Fultons’ living room filtered through the floor and began to surge louder and louder. People had arrived early as Mrs. Fulton promised they would, and the stench of cigars and cigarettes already tainted the air. Undoubtedly, Cullen’s men had begun to gather on the front porch. They were likely blowing bands of smoke
into the air between moments of laughter and conversation. Emmalee had seen them sitting on the banister doing just that when walking through town.

“I guess it’s time,” she said as she took the baby in her arms.

Downstairs in the living room, Curtis and Leona rested side by side in their matching black caskets, both lined with a slick white silk. Curtis wore a navy suit with a crisp white shirt and a red tie around his neck, all things that had come from Mr. Fulton’s inventory.

Leona wore her crimson dress with the blue-and-lace trim; the bracelet of spoons on her wrist reflected the room’s low light. They both looked handsome, Emmalee thought, as if they were preparing to celebrate a special birthday or anniversary. Even Curtis looked handsome, despite the bandage on his cheek.

A black velvet curtain had been draped across the bay window behind them, something the Fultons did whenever there was a viewing in their home. Flower arrangements of every size and color covered the tables set about the house and much of the floor around the caskets. To Emmalee, it looked like a beautiful spring garden had bloomed in the Fultons’ house.

A large cross, made of yellow carnations and fixed on three stiff wire legs, sat between the two caskets. Tacked in the center of the cross was a plastic telephone, and a satin ribbon stretched from the tip of one arm to the other. There on the ribbon, printed in glitter, were two words:
Jesus Called
. It was a gift from the lapel makers and Emmalee’s favorite arrangement.

With Kelly balanced on her shoulder, Emmalee
scooted a tall stool next to Leona’s casket. Mrs. Fulton had told Emmalee the stool was always intended for the grieving spouse. But from her perch there by her friend’s side, Emmalee counted the people as they walked into the room to pay their respects. She kept a tally in her head, a full record of attendance. Seventy-eight in the first hour. Thirty-four Tennewa women in all. Emmalee imagined Leona would want to know who had come to tell her and Curtis a proper good-bye.

Emmalee knew many of the women who filed by the caskets and lingered about the living room were gossiping about her. She saw them chatting among themselves and pointing her way. But she did not budge. Instead Emmalee straightened her back and turned her gaze toward Leona. She had sat by Leona for three years at Tennewa, and she was not leaving her now.

Another hour passed. One hundred and thirty-three.

Husbands held their wives’ hands. Seamstresses whispered in one another’s ears. Most were already busy sharing their versions of the accident and special memories they had shared with Curtis and Leona. Some women cried outright, and some men wiped their eyes. Some stepped close and studied their faces. Others kept their distance, but everyone commented on Mr. Fulton’s expert work. And all sang a similar refrain: “My, my, they look real handsome
considering
 …” Then they stuttered and stammered, not sure how to best finish their poorly started compliment. “Well,
considering
everything.”

Emmalee even overheard some talk of the beautiful dress Leona was wearing while others made fun of its color.

“The Bullard girl made Leona’s dress,” one woman told her friend.

“Red, can you imagine? For a funeral? I thought Leona took in sewing, not men,” the other woman said. They both stifled a laugh. Emmalee ignored them and looked only at Leona’s face, peaceful in death. No more wounds. No more dark, sad circles under her eyes.

The preacher clutched his Bible as he passed by and thanked Emmalee for her steady sewing hand. The sheriff mumbled a few quiet words. Mr. Clayton straightened his tie and was quick to leave, his wife pushing him along from behind. Gwen Whitlow hugged Emmalee and began to sob, crying till she struggled to catch her breath. She asked Emmalee something about a cross, but the preacher led her to the sofa on the other side of the room before Emmalee could answer. They bowed their heads in prayer and spoke of Leona’s generous spirit. Emmalee had never heard Gwen compliment Leona like this.

Mrs. Fulton walked through the room every half hour, tidying the pillows and offering visitors tissues and hot coffee. She stopped and glared at Emnmalee. “Do you really need to sit so close to the body, especially with that baby in your arms? Good Lord, Emmalee, you’re not even that woman’s family.”

“I ain’t leaving.” Emmalee sat a little taller. “And if you got a problem with your grandbaby being here, then you take her.” Emmalee held the baby up.

Mrs. Fulton stepped back, careful to keep a smile on her face while she glanced about the room. She nodded at Cora sitting in the blue velvet chair placed opposite the casket, her body wedged into the narrow seat.

“Hey there,” Cora called to Emmalee. “That your baby there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How you been doing?” Cora popped a cheese wafer in her mouth.

Emmalee shrugged her shoulders.

“Being a mama ain’t easy, is it?” Cora asked and swallowed hard.

“No, ma’am, it ain’t.”

“People say the first one’s the hardest, but my third about put me in the grave.” Cora glanced at the casket. “Lord, that child was work, cried all the time, sick most of the winter. Boy turned thirty last week, and he’s still causing me to worry.”

Emmalee shifted Kelly Faye to her other shoulder. “How’d you take care of them all and work a job, Miss Cora?”

“Not much choice. Had to feed ’em. Mama helped me some, till her stroke. Then I had her to care for too.”

“I had no idea,” Emmalee said.

“Oh, I’m not so different than any other woman around here.” Cora lifted her pocketbook onto her lap. “Besides, the oldest one helped when she could. I never would let her miss a day of school though. Sometimes there was no choice but to leave a couple of them home alone.” Cora shook her head. “I never liked doing that. But they survived.”

She opened her purse and pulled out a book of pictures. “They all grown up. Got families of their own. Not a one of them lives in Cullen no more. Got two in Jasper. Alma, she’s my baby, moved down to Mississippi
and wants me to come for a while. She got a real pretty house there near Oxford.” She handed the photographs to Emmalee. “But that ain’t my home.” Cora opened her pocketbook wider and fished for a mint candy. “You going back to the factory, Emmalee?”

“I want to. Don’t got it all figured out. Don’t got no one to help with the baby and sure can’t be leaving her with Nolan.”

“Lord, no.” Cora laughed, her jowls and neck jiggling as she spoke. She set her pocketbook back on the floor. “Can I hold her?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Emmalee stepped off the stool and placed Kelly in Cora’s open arms. The old woman hummed as she lifted the child to her chest. Her large breasts hung low, and Kelly squirmed as she nestled in between them.

“Oh sweet baby, sweet baby girl.” Cora repeated these words, adding a made-up tune as she went along. Even stuffed into the velvet chair, Cora managed to rock her body from side to side and lull Kelly into a sleepy trance. Emmalee liked seeing her baby in Cora’s arms. She stared a moment longer and then opened Cora’s picture book.

Mr. Fulton appeared from behind the kitchen door. “Good evening, Mrs. Hixson. It’s good to see you here as always. I see you found yourself a baby to love on.” He hugged Cora’s shoulder as he moved through the living room. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?”

“She sure is.”

“Speaking of pretty things, did you see the dress Leona’s wearing?” Mr. Fulton walked to Emmalee and stood beside her. Emmalee grinned, surprised Mr. Fulton had drawn attention to her work.

“Prettiest dress I ever seen, and for sure the prettiest dress I ever seen on Leona. Didn’t know she’d spend a penny on anything as nice as that,” Cora said, her body swaying back and forth.

“She didn’t. Emmalee made it for her,” Mr. Fulton said.

Emmalee smiled even bigger. Mr. Fulton was always kind with his words. He reminded her of Billy in that way.

“I think we might have to hire this girl more often. Custom wear for the heavenly bound perhaps.” Mr. Fulton laughed. “There’s good money in this type of ready wear, right, Emmalee?” He leaned in to hug Emmalee. “You done good. Real good. And I know it’s not been easy.”

“Thank you.” Emmalee fixed her eyes on Leona. “Funny, you know, Leona’s got this sweet smile on her face. But when she was living, she never looked happy like this.” Emmalee smoothed Leona’s collar as if she was placing a warm iron to it one last time.

“Maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s finally happy,” Mr. Fulton said.

“I sure hope so. Hope she’s found Curtis, Jr.”

“I’m sure she has, hon,” Mr. Fulton said. “And I bet Curtis is admiring her in that red dress right about now. Just wish I had done better by him.”

Emmalee had no memory of what her mother was wearing the day she was buried, but she wished she had a nice memory like this one to carry with her. Emmalee understood she’d never shake loose the image of Cynthia Faye struggling for a last breath, her skin yellow and paper thin. That image would be seared on her thoughts forever, like a rancher’s brand on a cattle’s hindquarters. And she figured it was up to her to fill her baby’s head
with pretty thoughts, not ones that would haunt her and startle her awake at night for the rest of her life.