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I am wearing elephant slippers the day we get the news. The sheriff’s men come to the door to tell us my sister’s drowned in the nearby river. My mother goes stiff at first. Then quietly eases into sorrow. She drinks her clear whiskey and forgets to sleep until the doctor gives her the little round pills. When her days become blurry, I must think fast. And stand tall, even though I’m puny, just a girl.
Dirty hair. The flesh is sour-smelling white like the sheets beneath her. Mother’s got her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She won’t go to the funeral today. She’ll lie there for hours in that ratty housecoat glaring at nothing. With the whiskey glass beside her, eyes empty, her mouth’s turned down like a pansy wilting in the sun.
When the preacher comes to pay his respects, I tell him I need a ride to the church. “Mother can’t get out of the bed," I say. “She won’t move."
“Oh, dear girl."
“No, Preacher Tinsley, don’t go in there. Mother would never allow..."
“Heavens Josie, so much sorrow. We must pray."
Yes, please somebody pray.
The preacher drives like Sunday. Every day’s Sunday to him, I suppose. His wife Lucille is sitting up front. We sail by brick houses, fields and dirt roads, but my stomach’s in knots. The lucky penny’s inside my jacket though. Its shiny copper is cupped inside my hand. I rub it back and forth between my forefinger and thumb to make the warmth come. Outside a street light blinks on and off, on and off like it does not have the energy to shine anymore.
The sounds inside the church are constant soft like field crickets humming in the dark. “Shush...here comes the girl," their voices barely above a whisper. I take my seat beside Lucille. You can tell she’s been to the beauty parlor. Her shiny hair’s piled up pretty on top of her head, but mine’s a mess. I didn’t get a chance to style it before the preacher came. Lucille gives me a sideways smile and looks away but the church eyes search me. They run all over me until they find the hole in my right sock, that yellow stain on the dress, my gloomy face. I quickly suck in my breath then release it. It feels like I am spinning without a break. Preacher is going on about the life everlasting, but I can’t listen. My brain’s flying all over the room. In an instant, I see a flash of sister’s dark wavy hair and dimples. It all washes over me, and I feel a burning behind the eyes.
Goodnight. Sleep tight. Lights out.
When I step out in the clear sunlight, my body warms. A tall lady’s diamond throws light sparkles against the concrete. “Such a terrible thing," the funeral people say. Someone speaks in a hushed tone. Then poof, like black magic, the-not-so-grand mother’s among them.
The grandmother will still stick her nose in here or there and pretend she’s doing something holy since daddy ran off with another woman. The grandmother’s lavender suit’s as crisp as a new dollar bill and snug. It looks as if she’s eaten too much pecan pie. “Where’s Violet?" they ask. Then she goes on to tell the neighbor about mother. “The flu" she calls it. The grandmother picks this. It sounds better than blurry or drunk.
My mother’s mother is here too, but she’s not good in times like these. Nanny Kay gets to where she can’t hold herself up from the crying. The black veil will help hide the disappointment in her face. She will just keep to herself and cry. That’s it.
The grandmother stands quietly behind her black glasses. I follow her to the line of slick cars that await us. She slips the driving man a few bills before we step in. His back seat’s sticky and warm and clings to my legs so I won’t slide around. I make a point to fold my hands in my lap the way soap opera ladies do on the television set. I’ve always wanted to ride in one of these black cars with the tint glass, just not to a cemetery.
The grandmother’s lips move without any sound at the burial. When she hands me a tissue, I squish it hard in my fist. My sister Lilly was only a teenager but born with the sadness, blue feelings like mother. The grandmother says there’s word from the sheriff that Lilly leaped off the bridge that dark day. It makes me shudder to hear it. Why did you go throw yourself away? I need to know. I am rubbing the copper again and again in one hand tightening the tissue in the other. Why did you give up?
Lilly let the deep wild river swallow her whole.
Stay out of mother’s bedroom please. Don’t touch sister’s things, the fried pork chops go in the kitchen, is what I’d like to say to the funeral people, but the grandmother’s running the show. Her long white hands are directing guests in and out. I’ve never seen so much food: green beans, potato salad, ham, chocolate pie, baked apples, hot dinner rolls and some casserole thing.
But I can’t eat just yet. I’ve got to keep my eye on the bedroom door. Mother needs her time. “Bed rest," the doctor ordered. Tomorrow I’ll give her a sponge for washing and sprinkle powder on her sheets.
“No, you can’t go in that bedroom. The bathroom is this way. See. Here."
“Oh, you dear sweet girl," the funeral people say.
The grandmother keeps patting everybody on the sleeve. With her shoulders back and chin up, it’s like she’s hosting a glorious cocktail party. This is not a party. I want to scream at her. Mother’s sick. Nanny Kay’s sobbing. Daddy’s disappeared. Sister’s gone. Leave me be.
“And how is Violet?" a lady asks, about mother.
“She can’t get out of the bed. Violet’s got that awful flu that’s going around," the Grandmother says again. See if you fib enough, the telling will start to become a real thing in the head.
“Poor thing, we’ll pray for her."
Yes, please, all of you pray for my mother.
Everyone’s leaving our house now. At least, the kitchen is full of hot food. Mother won’t eat really. But I can open up all the windows for air, and put on a few records. Mother likes that song by the blind man with the W-O-N-D-E-R word in his name. He sings about believing in things that you don’t understand. It’s got this groove, a sound, you can move to. “You like that?" I’ll ask. And maybe there will be a part of her that won’t look through me, something could stir inside. She’ll listen and know. My mother will see that it’s me.
Angela Carlton's fiction has appeared in Storyglossia, Pindeldyboz, The Dead Mule, Mid-South Review, Coastlines, and Inverse News. She lives in south Florida with her husband and daughter.
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