The funeral director was on the front steps, handing out programs with a map showing where the chapel was located on our property and offering people the option of a ride. It was getting to be time to go. The last person to arrive was Reverend Moore.
He came through the door looking very serious, holding his vestments high in a long hanging bag.
“Good morning, sir.” He shook Trip’s hand.
“Good morning, Reverend Moore,” Trip said. “Thank you for coming.”
“It’s an honor,” Reverend Moore said. “Truly it is.”
I could almost hear Trip thinking Ka-ching! Honored? The bill for Reverend Moore’s services had probably just gone up another hundred dollars.
Trip shot his eye at me and I knew I was right. Sometimes we could hear each other think.
“And, Miss Caroline?” He was ogling me like I was a Bluffton oyster on a half shell.
“Good morning, Reverend Moore.”
“Call me Charlie, please.” He leaned his head to one side and smiled so wide I could count his dimples. He probably thought that posture made him seem boyish. It did. I had never noticed his dimples before.
“Charlie,” I said, and grinned.
I knew I was supposed to be serious today but this man was so silly! Okay, look, if I was interested in Charlie, you would have already heard about it. Charlie was not my type but I couldn’t tell you why. He was handsome enough. He was smart enough. And I suspected he probably had a reasonably decent sense of humor. I guess fate had just not brought us together. And then I realized the real reason was that I was the last person cut out to be the spouse of any kind of clergyman.
I wanted to say, I’m so wrong for you, Charlie, you can’t even imagine! Instead I said, “You can change in the powder room. It’s a quarter to one.”
“Thanks,” he said, and disappeared down the hall.
We made our way down to the chapel in a kind of a procession. Trip, Owen, and Charlie were in the lead, the girls were huddled in the next golf cart, and Richard, Eric, and I brought up the rear. I knew Millie and Mr. Jenkins would be along and that work would stop until we returned.
I had to say McAlister-Smith had transformed our ancient chapel that sometimes seemed so dark and depressing into a warm and welcoming place of worship. The doors were flung wide open, anchored by enormous baskets of flowers. The front windows were raised so that even if you were sitting outside, or way back under the oaks where we stood, ready to make our way as a family up the long aisle, you could still see the whole way to the table—the table where Rusty’s ashes sat in a beautiful urn, surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of flowers.
The guests rose as we passed, following Reverend Moore, up the steps and into the chapel to seats reserved for us. I didn’t see Matthew anywhere and I worried then that he had left.
On the altar’s right side were our four musicians, three violinists and a cellist, all of them from the Southcoast Symphony in Charleston, led by Dawn Durst, the Canadian virtuoso who had played all over the world to rave reviews. I couldn’t tell you exactly what they were playing, but I was grateful that it was not a mournful dirge. I had wisely left the musical selection to Ms. Durst.
I sat next to Eric and Richard was on his other side. The girls, to our relief, had not made a fuss about attending the service or sitting with their father or acknowledging his grief. I suspected they still harbored some measure of guilt for how badly they had treated Rusty. I hoped they were giving that serious thought because Amelia and Belle, but most especially Linnie, needed to develop adult consciences. And even though I knew they wished their family was still intact, they recognized the depth of their father’s grief and finally felt some sympathy for him. And poor Chloe; she sat in her pew crying and crying asking everyone how they got Rusty into the urn. When Belle and Linnie told her, she cried even harder. I guess the details of cremation were pretty gruesome news for a child to hear. Poor kid.
Poor Trip. He was right in front of me. I leaned forward and put my hand on his shoulder, letting it rest there for a few minutes. He reached his hand up and patted mine.
It was a lovely service. Reverend Moore led us in prayer and quoted the Bible many times as he gave a short eulogy, talking about how we could take comfort that Rusty was in heaven with God, where she belonged. I worried that Trip might get up and give him a good pop in his jaw. He did not. But it was Owen who gave the more personal eulogy, talking about all the support Rusty gave him when he struggled in school with undiagnosed dyslexia and a string of other learning-style differences. He swore that it was her generosity of spirit, her patience, and her love that allowed him to put his fear of failure aside and try other methods for studying until they found the right compensating skills, ones that led to success for him and a career teaching learning-disabled children for her.
“Rusty found a home here in the Lowcountry of South Carolina and, I confess, this is the most unbelievably beautiful place in America.”
That one remark endeared him to us for all of eternity.
“And, she found a loving home with the Wimbleys. She adored you, Trip . . .”
I saw my brother’s shoulders begin to convulse and I knew he was weeping. I put my hand on his shoulder again and Richard reached over and offered him his handkerchief. Richard wasn’t completely good for nothing after all. What do you know?
Suddenly I noticed that Millie and Mr. Jenkins were standing to the side of us in their choir robes! I should’ve known Millie wasn’t going to let us have some painful, dreary service. This was precisely why we loved her so. Millie knew how to provide the right balance. When Owen was finished and stepped down, she and Mr. Jenkins went to the platform and stepped up. Millie spoke to Dawn Durst.
“Can you gimme a E flat on that thing?”
“Yes, ma’am?” she said, and played an E flat.
Millie hummed until she was in perfect pitch with the note. Then Mr. Jenkins took out his harmonica and began to play, Millie singing the verse and Mr. Jenkins pausing to sing the refrain. They gave us an old-fashioned gospel-music rendition of “Free at Last” with incredible optimism and rocked the house. One by one, we stood and clapped until everyone, inside and outside, was on their feet clapping and singing along.
Way down yonder in the graveyard walk
I thank God I’m free at last!
Me and my Jesus going to meet and talk
I thank God I’m free at last!
They sang every verse they knew twice and slowed down at the end for Mr. Jenkins to let his harmonica wail with joyous strains of hope and promise.
“We done sent Miss Rusty to Gawd today!” he said, speaking out loudly to the congregation, who clapped some more. “Yes, we did!”
“Hush! I told you, no talking!” Millie whispered loud enough for us to hear. “You agreed!”
“Humph. At my age? I says what I want!”
No matter how sad we may have been, we all had a smile on our faces. It was the perfect end to the perfect service. Reverend Moore gave a general blessing to everyone and we began to file out, shaking hands with many old friends as we went. We went slowly so that Millie and Mr. Jenkins would have time to get home before us and put all the staff on notice.
On the way back to the house, as we rolled along the uneven ground, I was thinking about Rusty and how good she had been for Eric and all the other young faces I saw in the crowd who were probably touched by her as well.
“She was a heckuva gal,” I said.
“She sure was,” Eric said. “I’ll miss her.”
“I could use a little hair of the dog,” Richard said.
Eric looked at me with uncertainty. His generation used other terms to describe the cure for a hangover, which was another cocktail, of course.
“A dwinky,” I said. “Daddy’s a little green around the gills.”
“Ah,” said Eric. “Hung.”
“Yes,” I said. “Be extra nice to him.”
“Thank you,” Richard said.
/> I wondered if Richard was simply too ill to pursue his intentions or had he changed his mind? There had not been a grab or a feel from him all day. He was awfully subdued.
As we stepped off our golf carts, waiters were there to offer us a choice of wine or champagne and told us there was a full bar on the veranda. We were hardly inside the house before we were offered sandwiches and all sorts of other delicacies. Richard, who had rushed ahead of us, had found the bar and procured a scotch, popping hors d’oeuvres in his mouth along the way, nodding his surprise and approval at each one.
“This is pretty swanky fare for the boonies, darling. However did you pull it off?”
“This is not the boonies, Richard. What’s the matter with you?”
“Sorry,” he said, but the elevation of his eyebrows said, Yes, it is.
He was not sorry one bit. From the very first second that the scotch hit his bloodstream, the old Richard, the insufferable one I didn’t like anymore? Yeah, that one was back.
I looked across the crowded room and thought I saw Josh Welton, Eric’s old tutor and my former, um, we had a brief, um, unbelievably smoking-hot night or two years ago. Yes, it was him, Dreadlock Man, Dr. Kama Sutra, Lama Tantric Yoga, and he was coming toward me. I had not seen him in aeons. I wondered what he was up to and hoped it might be, well, me, but then I remembered why I really, really didn’t like him. Nonetheless, I sucked in my stomach and corrected my posture.
“Caroline!” he said. “How are you?” He took both of my hands in his and kissed them. “You look amazing!”
“Well, thanks. How’s life?”
“Dull,” he said. “My love life is the Sahara.”
“Whoa. Don’t tell me you’re at a funeral trolling for action.”
“No, I’m here because I thought the world of Rusty Peretti. But if you want to have dinner next week, I’m around.”
“We’ll see.”
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?”
“Now, why in the world would I be mad with you, Josh?”
“Because I probably wasn’t as sensitive as I could have been when your mother passed away. I apologize again.”
“Oh, Josh. Listen, I’m not mad at anybody. It’s bad karma to hold a grudge.” There had to be at least one hundred people in the living room, dining room, and hall, never mind all the people on the veranda. I could hardly hear him and I certainly didn’t want anyone else to hear me, so I leaned in. “Here’s what I think, Josh. You’re a great guy. You’re a fascinating guy. But you know what? You’re a little prick. Not as big of a prick as my ex-husband, but a prick all the same. Excuse me.”
“Wait a minute. That’s not nice, Caroline.”
“No. It’s not. Let me put it another way. You know the old story about the scorpion and the turtle?”
“Help me.”
“Okay. The scorpion and the turtle come to a river and the scorpion says, ‘Listen, Mr. Turtle, I can’t swim and I need a ride across this river. Can you help me?’ Well, the turtle knows scorpions can’t swim but he also knows that the scorpion will sting him and that sting will kill him and they’ll both drown, so he points that out. The scorpion says, ‘Oh, no, no! I won’t sting you! I swear!’ So reluctantly, the turtle lets the scorpion get on his back. They get about halfway across the river, and sure enough, the scorpion stings the turtle. As the turtle is dying he says, ‘Why’d you do that? Now we’re both gonna die!’ And the scorpion says, ‘Because I’m a scorpion and I couldn’t help myself.’ ”
“And that’s why you won’t see me? Because I’m a scorpion?”
I glanced to the other side of the room and could’ve sworn I saw Bobby Mack. He was headed my way, too, looking fully recovered, robust, much thinner, and ready to take on the devil. Fine by me, because for some reason, I was full of the devil.
“No, you’re a prick, but there’s not much difference to me. Both pricks and scorpions hurt people and really don’t care. And that’s not an opinion. It’s a statement of fact. Now I gotta go see a man about a pig. Excuse me.”
I could hear Miss Lavinia gasp the whole way from heaven, but then I heard her laugh. It was her all right. I had waited ten years to tell Josh that some things were simply unforgivable. He shouldn’t have been a scorpion when I was mourning Miss Lavinia.
Bobby Mack was standing right in front of me.
“Darlin’, baby boy! Look at you! You look absolutely grand! The picture of health! How are you doing?”
I just adored Bobby Mack and I always would.
He hugged me like the ferocious old papa bear he was and said, “Caroline? I’m coming back! For a time I thought it was lights-out for me, but it’s not! I’m just so happy to be alive! Now tell me, how’re you all doing with this terrible, terrible loss? Rusty was a fine woman. Oh my God. What an awful shock!”
“Horrible. This is just unbelievable, isn’t it? We’re all so sad.”
“How’s Trip?”
“Trip is totally devastated.”
“Poor bastard. I sent him twenty pounds of baby backs. I hope he enjoyed them.”
“I know you did. That was so sweet of you. We’re serving them today.”
“That’s not my ribs on the table over there with all that nasty rub on them, is it?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “Owen, Rusty’s brother, fixed them last night—some midwestern secret barbecue rub.”
“What?” Bobby Mack’s color was rising along with his voice. “I didn’t even recognize them! Why, it’s sacrilege!”
Jesus H. Christ! Don’t have a stroke! Please! Not at my house!
“Darlin’! Come on now!” I linked my arm through his and navigated him away from the platters. “I’m inclined to agree, but you know, sweetums, not everyone understands how to treat a pig like we do. And it’s her brother, you know? He wanted to do something. Tough day for him, too, and all. Don’t say anything, okay?”
He made a concerted effort to calm his breathing and threw his hands in the air. “No, no! I won’t say a word. But on my soul, it’s a terrible crime.”
“I know, baby,” I said.
As soon as I walked away, Matthew appeared out of thin air and was standing by my side.
“Where were you? I couldn’t find you!”
“You had your hands full. But I was there. Beautiful service,” he said, “but it’s awfully crowded in here. Want to step outside?”
We got a drink at the bar and walked away from the house. Something was bothering him.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Look, this may not be the time or place to bring this up, but I just want to ask you a question.”
“Sure! What’s up?”
“Do you think Chloe still wants a puppy?”
“What? That child needs one something terrible!”
“Well, I’ve got one in my car. That cocker spaniel she was supposed to get? She’s in a crate with food and a collar and a leash . . . ?”
I stood back and stared at him. It was the last thing I expected.
“I saw the paperwork lying around in Trip’s kitchen, so I called the breeder and she drove her up here. The puppy’s had all her shots and all that stuff. What?”
I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him as hard as I could.
“Oh, Matthew! I think I love you, Matthew! I really do think I do!”
“Well, this is excellent news,” he said, and hugged me back.
20
Reckoning Days
THE OLD FOLKS IN THE Lowcountry used to say that if we lived long enough we’d see everything. They may or may not have been wrong, but I sure have seen a lot of things happen that I never thought would come to pass. Let’s start with the convoluted, self-serving reasons for Richard’s visit.
It was the Saturday night after the memorial, the valet service and waiters were gone, the rentals had been picked up, and the kitchen was almost back to normal. Some generous soul had thought to bring us a stuffed and roasted turkey, which was a wonder
ful diversion from all the ham. Millie and I made gravy and mashed potatoes, so we had hot turkey sandwiches for everyone. Comfort food. Chloe was out-of-her-mind thrilled with her new puppy, who she promptly named Missy. Eric and all his cousins played with Missy until it was time for supper. Seeing Eric then, playing like a kid? It was hard to envision him cavorting with Erica the Pedophile.
“Too bad Matthew couldn’t stay, Caroline. He’s really a helluva guy. I told him so, too,” Trip said. “He sure made Chloe happy.”
“Yeah, he’s amazing. He had to go to restore law and order out at a social club. I always worry when he has to answer a call like that.”
Owen said, “Well, from what I’ve seen of him, I think he can take care of himself just fine.”
Owen was leaving in the morning to fly back to Chicago.
“I hope so and, Owen?” I said, thinking about how much he really did remind me of Rusty. “We have all really enjoyed the chance to know you a little better. I hope you’ll come back and see us, ’eah?”
“Terrible way to get to know anybody but I’ll do that. Promise.”
“Yep. I’ll take you fishing, on the Edisto. Make a Lowcountry boy out of you,” Trip said.
“That sounds like a deal,” Owen said. “This is so strange, but I feel like I’ve known you guys all my life.”
“That’s what happens when the chemistry is just right,” I said, hoping Trip wouldn’t tell him how many chemistry experiments I had conducted, i.e., pheromone romps! But all silly jokes aside, I believed then that a visit from Owen might make us all miss Rusty a little less. I really did.
We shared a casual kitchen supper and then Trip, Owen, and the girls got themselves together to go back to their house. Chloe stood by the door with Missy curled up in a ball in her arms.
“I love her, Aunt Caroline.”
I looked down at Chloe and thought, You know what? She’s not a bad little girl, she’s just really ugly. Maybe we can fix some of it and maybe she’ll grow out of some of it, and in the meanwhile she’s got a new puppy to love. Not so terrible.
“That’s good, sweetheart. You take very good care of her, okay?”