Chapter Fourteen
Melanie parked in the cul-de-sac at the end of the new road behind the Hubbard farmhouse and, with an air of entitlement, walked across the close-trimmed grass that spread around the grounds of the new neighborhood. She followed the old path through the haying fields of her childhood. Although covered over by sod, the route was hard-wired into her. Generations of her family had moved across the fields, by foot, horse and wagon and, more recently, by tractor. Without a second thought, she cut between two new, enormous colonial houses, walking across the green swaths that served as backyards and past two identical children’s play sets and second floor decks that looked out toward the Hubbard house. Then, effortlessly, she hopped over a post and rail fence and stepped over the stonewall that separated the new neighborhood from the remnants of the old Quinn farm.
On the Hubbard side of the property, from the stonewall all the way to the Hubbard’s kitchen door, the path remained unaltered. Tall, tough grass lined the path which twisted past discarded cooking pots riddled with shotgun pellet holes, old broken milk crates and the smiling, slumbering, rusted chassis of a 1957 Ford pickup truck. Bits of rope still hung from the grayed wooden poles of the abandoned clothesline.
The back door of the house was unlocked. The rear entryway had escaped the previous day’s cleaning. To pass through to the kitchen, Melanie had to move out of the way old broom handles, dried mop heads, several galvanized buckets and an old apple bushel basket filled with paper bags. She managed to open the door just enough to pass into the kitchen. Nobody looked familiar, so she stood by the door, brushed off the front of her brown sweater and tugged her jacket’s lapel. She pushed her black hair behind her ear, but it immediately returned to its natural position against her cheek. Conversations filled the kitchen—“Will the rain ever let up?” “The service was beautiful,” and “I agree with the President’s strategy. I think we’re winning the war.”
A loud, clanging noise broke the mourners’ chatter. The caterer’s assistant had dropped a stack of silver tray lids as he tried to push past people and return to the dining room through the kitchen access hallway. The lids scattered across the kitchen floor, forcing the mourners to momentarily stop their conversations and switch positions. Other guests, those who had waited at the front of the food line in the dining room, entered the kitchen carrying plastic plates with small servings of rice, chicken and vegetables. They surrounded the assistant caterer as he tried his best to quickly stack the lids and get out of the way.
To Melanie, the scene looked more like a party than a reception for a dead soldier. She immediately wanted to leave. Be sociable, be sociable, she coached herself. No, just see if he’s here, then find my aunt, pay my respects and leave. That’s it. She felt her face redden and embarrassment grabbed her. Had she stood by the back door for too long? What if people noticed? She had to move—But where?
The door to the small sitting room was closed and guests holding plates clogged the access hall to the dining room. Shit. Melanie began to panic. Christ, when did I become so fucking frightened? I hate this! To protect herself, to keep others from noticing her angst, she faked a smile in the direction of a tall, blonde woman who turned her head away without smiling back.
“Well, look who decided to show up,” Elizabeth called out, pushing her way through the crowd. “It’s about time. She keeps asking for you.”
Heads turned in Melanie’s direction. She wanted to slink away.
Elizabeth continued speaking as she approached her cousin: “Mel, I didn’t see you come in. I’ve been hanging around the front door trying to greet people. I left Jon up there. Can you believe it? Look at this place.”
“Crowded.”
“No shit! That old pervert priest told the papers the times for the funeral and burial, even though I asked him not to. You should have been there this morning at the burial. It was mobbed. Then that old jackass made an announcement inviting everybody here. Not only that—” Elizabeth lowered her voice, “but my mother pretty much gave him the go ahead to do it.”
“Wow.”
“No shit.”
Ever since Elizabeth had moved to California after high school, and then married Jon seven years ago, her relationship with Melanie, not that it had ever been brilliant, deteriorated to Christmas and birthday cards. Melanie had met Jon only once before and she had never met their children. But then again, Elizabeth had never invited Melanie to visit them in California.
“You look good, Mel,” Elizabeth complimented her cousin with the tone of a patronizing mother praising a child for having cleaned her bedroom.
“Thanks, Liz.” Melanie had difficulty looking her cousin in the eye. Jealous, Elizabeth had done all the things that Melanie had dreamed of as a little girl—moving to California, marrying a loving husband, having children.
“I hear the kids didn’t come. But Jon’s with you; must be a big help.”
“He’s certainly done his part for the family. He helped me to organize the caterer, clean the house, everything. The house turned out amazing. Have you seen it?” Almost without thinking, Elizabeth touched Melanie’s arm, but Melanie pulled it back close to her chest. Elizabeth continued, undaunted: “Tony helped me some, too. Anyway we got the place into ship-shape. She’d become such a packrat. I am sure you know. Really, you have to take a look around.”
“Yeah, Tony told me. I hadn’t been over in awhile,” Melanie said, checking the front of her sweater again. Her cousin’s firm body, sexy black dress, perfect makeup and straight, jet-black hair only heightened her jealousy. And on top of that, Melanie felt sure Elizabeth was putting her down for her inattentiveness to her aunt’s needs. But she knew from her brother Tony that Elizabeth and Jon had actually hired people to transform the house. Once again, Melanie reflected, just like when we were kids—Elizabeth, always the center of attention, taking credit for everything.
“How’s Aunt Casey holding up?”
“Surprisingly well. She’s in there.”
Elizabeth pointed to the small room and leaned closer to Melanie. “I think she likes the attention. She’s been lonely, you know, and this brings people to her. In a funny way, I think it’s good for her.”
Melanie pulled back. Elizabeth’s face, so close to her own, made her uncomfortable. But Elizabeth persevered, and, leaning further in, continued to explain how she had arranged everything. “And because it was so damp and cold, I insisted that the limo drive us from the cemetery to here. Then we set up a comfortable spot for Mother by the fire to receive guests. And Jon and I have been monitoring the number of people who can sit with her at any one time. You know, we’re trying to move people through.”
“You’re in charge,” Melanie said, stepping awkwardly away from her cousin and reluctantly toward the crowd in the center of the kitchen.