Hello, friends. July was so miserably hot this year that I was in fierce dread of August. However, a "cold" front dipped down into the South, and ... tada!! ... the temps dropped about 12 degrees, and August is much better than usual!
I've been knitting and sewing small quilts for NICU babies. I've been taking a break from the farmers market, but I'm still making a few things at home, like a batch of shampoo bars yesterday. Around July 4, some family came for a lovely visit, and we were outside a lot. Adam built me a new, massive chicken pen, fully enclosed! I'm quite happy with that.
Thanks for visiting today, friends! I'm hoping beyond home that this cooler weather will continue. It feels almost like autumn, my favorite season!
I've been quilting a little. This is a string-pieces quilt, still in its blocks. I love making these squares.
My latest new project is knitting preemie baby hats for a hospital in a nearby city. I also want to use those quilt squares to make "tummy time mats" for young babies to lie on the floor. I plan to donate all these to some agency that can use them for new mothers.
What are you up to?
For quite a few years I've been ruminating on the passage in I Corinthians about love. I've memorized it, pondered it, prayed about it, and evaluated myself by its standard. "Love is kind," would seem like a perfect place to start, but no! It starts with "Love is patient."
I've always been impatient: impatient with others, impatient with God, impatient with myself, and impatient with inanimate objects. We all know the signs of impatience: frustration, anger, irritability. We excuse impatience. I thought for years that my impatience was actually efficiency; I tried to do everything as quickly as I could, and I was immediately impatient with anyone or anything that slowed down my "efficiency." But I wasn't efficient; I was impatient. I was unloving.
I won't belabor the point, because we all know what it looks like. We're just not comfortable with calling it "unloving," or more accurately: hateful. To be impatient with a child is to hate the child. To be impatient with our aging and slow bodies is to hate ourselves. To be impatient with how (or when) God does something is to hate God. It's no wonder that chronically impatient people are so miserable! They are full of hate and don't know it.
Life has squelched some of my impatience as I've had to slow down, and this simple phrase from Scripture has convicted me. Oh, how I wish I had changed this part of myself when I was a young mother! Impatience with small children is perhaps the saddest, most damaging version of this sin.
I recognize impatience in myself now, and I think (hope?) I'm better at stopping myself, correcting myself, and asking God to help me show love instead.
Have you thought about this topic? I'd love to know your thoughts too.
I've been spinning and knitting in January. This is some wool (many various breeds) that I prepared (some from raw fleece), naturally dyed with plants that I picked here on the farm (like lichens, goldenrod, dandelions), spun on my spinning wheel, and now it is ready to make something with. But what? That's always the big decision!
I hope all of you are warm, content, peaceful, and thankful right now. In the midst of life's sorrows and trials, it's often a Herculean effort to keep inner peace. May God, with his Holy Spirit, help us all to keep that peace.
(To read all previous chapters, please click on the book title in the header bar above.)
Chapter 23
My conversation the next morning with Harold Garvey was awkward. He could not fault me, technically, but I knew instantly when I told him that the body had been misidentified that he was beyond irked. He was angry.
“Well,” he said sharply, “so where is Anita Wagner now?”
“Mr. Garvey, I don't know. She never came to Peace Valley.” This was a tiny lie. “Desiree Steele was here as the only family representative. I do have their phone numbers, but I've had no luck getting them to answer or reply to my messages.”
“But Miss Steele did come for the urn?”
“Yes. Just yesterday.”
“And when exactly were you aware that the body was not Anita Wagner's?” This was, I felt, an unnecessarily pointed question.
“Not until my conversation with Miss Steele, Mr. Garvey.” This was also a tiny lie. “By then I'd already cremated the body.” This, thankfully, was true. I wanted to avoid any mention of the break-in and Anita's presence in the morgue.
“And you believe that the body you did cremate was that of the identical twin, Angela Steele?”
“I don't see how it could've been anyone else,” I replied. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Garvey, but we were all going on the certain identification of the body by Desiree Steele, and without the assistance of Myron Wagner, whose participation was explicitly prohibited in the burial instructions, we had no one else to ask, and no reason to think we needed to,” I explained. “Besides that, Willard Riggins affirmed his role as notary for those burial instructions. I had absolutely no suspicion of foul play.” This was true, and my guilty conscience was somewhat assuaged.
“Hmph,” he responded. “I don't like this at all, Mrs. Monson.”
“Nor do I, Mr. Garvey.” Thus ended our conversation.
I heard from Johnny Little that his wife's visits to Bobbie Dixon were becoming more frequent, that she was failing at last. He indicated in his gentle way that I might be welcome to see her again before she passed. As a funeral director, this made me squirm a bit. Seeing and caring for dead bodies was my business. But seeing someone alive, and then caring for that person's body only a few days later, seemed a strange thing. Still, I went with Nelda one morning a few days later when the sun was warming the lemony blossoms of the magnolias and the Bermuda grass was stretching its tendrils across the sidewalks. We walked there together. Nelda spoke lovingly of Bobbie Dixon along the way.
“She's such a dear,” she said, “never complains. She's been talking a lot lately of the old days, years ago. And Anita's name has cropped up often.” She was silent a minute. “I wondered if having you there might prompt her to clear her mind of old thoughts in that regard.”
“Does she seem disturbed about Anita?” I asked.
“We'll see,” Nelda replied. “We'll see what she says today.”
Bobbie Dixon was smaller, thinner, even shrinking into her bedclothes. Her bony hands held the sheet edge lightly. At first her eyes flitted around the room, like two tiny birds trying to light on something solid. Finally they found Nelda's face and rested there. She sighed deeply.
“Hello, Nelda.”
“Hello, Miss Bobbie. I've brought a friend.” I thought she was referring to me, but instead she pulled a plush tiger from her basket. She placed it between Bobbie's hands. Bobbie pulled it to her lips and brushed it against them.
“So sweet,” she said.
Nelda leaned in and whispered. “Bobbie. Ivy's here. Ivy who is Anita's friend.”
I felt this was a stretch. When I thought Anita was dead, I had a sympathetic attitude toward her, a woman I'd never met. After several angry interactions with her, I considered us much less friendly than before. But for the purposes of this quiet exchange over a death bed, I was content to be Anita's friend.
“Hello, Bobbie.” Her glazed eyes rolled toward me. Her mouth twitched in recognition.
“Anita's friend,” she whispered. “I'm Anita's friend too.” She rolled her head slowly from side to side on the pillow. “So sad,” she said. “She's dead.”
I did not contradict her. This was a time to listen, I could tell.
“We were all friends, we three,” she went on. “We took the baby and went on picnics. We went to the fair.” She smiled a little. “I took those two to get their nails done for the very first time.” Her voice hushed so that I could barely hear her. “So sad. She was so sad.” Then she was silent. At last I inquired.
“Who was sad, Bobbie? Anita? Was Anita sad?”
Her eyelashes fluttered but her eyes did not open. “No. Oh no. Not Anita. It was the other, the other one. The twin who came and left. Such sadness.” Her eyes opened again and sought mine. “That baby, you know. That baby – she didn't want it at first. She was --” Then Bobbie Dixon's mouth shut for lack of the word to say. She'd come upon a stumbling block. “I don't know. She … that mother of hers … the mother had married a man, a filthy man. He abused that girl, Anita's sister,” she said, and tears ran from the corners of her eyes into her hair. “She came to Anita pregnant with his child. She was running. She was running away.” Her voice choked in a cough and for a few minutes Nelda helped her recover, wiped her mouth and helped her sit up. Then Bobbie was weaker than before. With great effort she finished her tale. One hand drifted from the sheet edge to mine and she gripped my hand as tight as she could.
“There was a bond,” she whispered, “between those two. Unbreakable. Anita always felt guilty for being able to leave, to live with my family. When she saw Ange and what had happened to her all those years, down in that trailer in Opelika – oh, she could not conquer that guilt.” The intensity in her voice carried her along. “She wanted to help her, she would've taken that baby, if she could've. But in the end Ange went back to the mire and took the baby with her. That changed Anita. She was never the same after that.” Bobbie's lips closed together like a fist.
“That is sad, Bobbie. I'm so sorry.” I didn't know what else to say. She gave a long, deep sigh that rattled her chest, and she turned her head away from me. Soon she drifted into a shallow sleep. Nelda said it was time to go.
“Thank you,” she said as we went onto the front porch. “I think she's needed to tell that to somebody for a long time, but she couldn't. Not till now.”
The only other person to whom I told the whole story was Willard Riggins. I drove to Newberry a few days later and knocked on his office door. He welcomed me in again and served me lemonade laced with a bit of Pim's.
“What's this?” I asked, amazed at the beverage that had just passed my lips.
“Oh, that's something the English drink,” he said nonchalantly. “It hasn't taken off over here yet, but I'm trying.” And he laughed.
When I told him that Anita Wagner was alive and well, albeit of unknown location and not likely to be seen again, he smiled a knowing smile.
“You're not in the least surprised,” I said to him. His blue eyes twinkled in delight.
“She came by to see me at my house night before last,” he said. “Now then – I was shocked. But I was so pleased that she felt she could trust me, that I was someone she wanted to know that she was alive.” He stroked the perspiration on his icy glass with one finger. “That I was not among those from whom she was escaping.”
I laughed a little. “Well,” I said, “I'm afraid I am one she'd prefer not to see again. Our few exchanges of words were not kind ones.”
“You had a job to do, Mrs. Monson, and I think you did it well.” Then he added, “Emery Plott would be proud of you.”
After another long sip of Pim's, I said, “Anita Wagner had a very difficult life. I don't blame her for what she did.”
He shook his head. “No, my dear. Angela her sister was the one with the difficult life, indeed the horrible life. How I wish they'd both been put into foster care together. How different things would have been. But as it is, one sister seems to have surrendered her life to give the other a fresh start.” He held up his glass of Pim's toward mine. “May she make the most of it!” And we toasted to this wish.
Sam came for his visit to Peace Valley in late May just after the boys got out of school for the summer, so emotions were high and celebration was in the air. I agreed to dinner at the Mexican restaurant, El Rancheros, a few blocks down from Rick's coffee shop. Sam and I sat at opposite corners of the table, a tactical ploy on Rick's part to ensure maximum comfort and peace during dinner. Thankfully, Sam seemed to focus his attention on Jeffrey, who sat beside him. They inspected their burritos together and played with the chips and salsa. Karen had a voracious appetite.
“You're hungry tonight,” I observed.
“I'm hungry all the time,” she said. “It's ridiculous. I suppose it's some leftover effect of the chemo, but I'm not sure. My last treatment was ages ago.” She was stuffing chimichanga into her mouth. “Before, it was ice cream and donuts, if you recall.” I nodded. “Now it's anything spicy.” She dribbled tomatillo sauce on her food. “This stuff is fabulous.”
After dinner Rick drove Sam back to the B&B while Karen and I walked home with the boys. It was a long walk, but the night was perfection, the boys were happy, and Karen was chattering away as daughters sometimes do. This was what I'd come to Peace Valley for, I thought. For family. For Karen. For a community where walking home along the dusky sidewalks with little boys is normal and your neighbors – even the ones you've never met – greet you and wave. Some of these people I will be burying someday, I thought to myself. But the thought didn't scare me. It was a service that someone had to render to them, and it was the one I'd chosen.
“Mom,” Karen said quietly. The boys had run ahead.
“Yes, honey.”
“I'm not sure. I'm probably wrong. But I think maybe I'm pregnant.”
We both stopped. I looked at her.
“What? Pregnant?” I squeaked. She stared at me, waiting for more response. I in turn wondered how she felt about this development. “I mean – is that okay?” Somewhere in my fuzzy memory was a vague impression that Rick had said she wanted a baby. But did she want one now?
My daughter broke down in tears, standing on the sidewalk under the street light.
“Oh, honey, it's okay. It's all gonna be okay.” I held her and stroked her head. I could hear the boys squealing and chasing each other around a tree. “Don't worry. I'm gonna be here to help.” Karen sniffled in that way she does, and pulled away.
“Mom, I'm glad. I've wanted another baby so much. It's just Rick. I don't know if he wants a baby.”
I slipped my arm through hers and we turned to walk ahead. The boys ran back to us and then ran away again.
“A baby is a happy thing. Rick will be delighted. You'll see.”
The street lights flickered on as we walked and the little boys danced beneath them. Under the magnolia and live oak trees, we walked arm in arm to the house and rested in the rockers on the darkening porch until Rick came home.
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
(To read all previous chapters, please click on the book title in the header bar above.)
Chapter 22
“Wait,”
I said slowly. “Wait a second.” My mind was spinning in more
confusion, if possible, than it had spun in a long time. “Anita?
You think that's Anita?” I pointed to the frozen image on the
screen, the red, bloated face turned upward, the bright auburn hair
glowing under the fluorescent lights of the morgue. “That's Anita
Wagner? But she's dead! She was identified, examined, autopsied,
certified.” I looked in despair at Patty.
“Patty, I
cremated her this morning.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You what?”
“I did,” I replied. “I'd waited as long as I could. I had no excuse to delay further.” I stood up, pacing the room. “Honestly, I was sick of it, the whole situation, as you know. You were sick of it too!” I turned to her. “You thought I should've put her into that retort last week!”
Patty nodded. “Yes, I did. I can't blame yeh. But oh my word, that's bad timing.”
“You said it.”
I sat down heavily in Beau's chair by the front door and put my head in my hands. “I think I've got your headache,” I said. I slouched in the chair and implored her, “What do we do now?”
Patty walked across the office and locked the front door. Then she leaned against her desk, stretching her long legs out and piercing the carpet with her sharp black heels. “We figure this out, once and for all,” she said. She wagged one lethal fingernail toward the morgue. “If the woman walkin' around in there last night was Anita Wagner, then who exactly was the woman you cremated this morning, huh?”
I gulped. There was only one option. “That was Angela Steele.”
“Yup. It was. We've been holding Angela Steele's body here all this time.”
“And that explains why some things about her didn't seem right,” I added, “like the smoking you smelled on the body --”
“But not the clothes,” she interjected.
“Right,” I agreed. “They'd changed the clothes. And her feet – the toes and the bunions – those were Angela's feet. Like everybody said, Anita would never have had feet like that.” I paused, my mind racing. “But they kept the high-heeled shoes.” I looked at Patty. “They had to keep the shoes, because that's what made her fall down the stairs!”
“And,” Patty added. “They also had to dye --”
“Her hair,” we said together. “Angela's hair must've been gray!” I exclaimed. “And the dead body had a new dye job. But when I went to Alabama, Angela's … I mean Anita's … hair had a gray part down the middle.”
“Ahhh!” we both said.
Patty's face was troubled. “So are you sayin' they killed her? They lured Angela up here from Opelika and pushed her down the stairs out there at Anita's house?”
I began pacing again. “No, no,” I told her. “Angela died at her own house in Opelika. I saw it myself. She fell down the attic stairs. Oh!” I exclaimed, and ran to my office to retrieve the gem stone. I showed it to Patty. “See? I found this on the attic stairs at Angela's house. It was ripped out of her shoe when she fell there. I think she was drinking in the attic.”
“Drinkin' in her attic?” Patty asked.
“Yeah, probably hiding from Desiree. I think she had a real drinking problem.”
“And they brought her body up here?”
“I suppose. And tried to pass her off as Anita,” I said. “Though Lord knows why.”
“I know why,” Patty said ominously. “Anita wanted to escape, and bad! She wanted to get away from that nasty piece of work they call a husband, that's what. She found out her twin sister had died, and this plan popped into her mind, and she took her chance.”
I shook my head. “That was a big risk. And now she's caught.”
That afternoon I put Angela Steele's ashes into a small urn, tallied up the total expenses concerning the handling of her remains, and went to the bank for payment from her account. This proved to be a seamless operation, and I was satisfied that at least I would not be out any money for all my trouble. All that was left was handing over her ashes to the family. I called Desiree Steele's phone number, which directed me straight to her voice mail.
“Ms. Steele,” I said, “I have the ashes in an urn and would like for you to pick them up at the funeral home as soon as possible.” Click. Perhaps that would lure her back to Peace Valley.
The following three days were delightfully calm. My little grandsons were happy that the end of school was approaching and played outside each afternoon in the creek, catching tadpoles and playing with them in the mud puddles. They took chocolate chip cookies into their tree house, and I told them stories of pirates and the high seas. I spent more hours at home. Karen's diet improved as I sneakily rid the premises of ice cream and donuts, replacing it with homemade yogurt, fruit, and buttered wheat toast. She was not amused but didn't complain too much since Beau stopped throwing up under her bed.
I felt calmer too. Patty and I started chatting at the office, learning about each other. She introduced me to Skip-Bo, a ridiculous and highly-addictive card game. I showed her the wonder of dipping French fries in a Wendy's Frosty, plus the many delights of Haagen-Dazs ice cream. I was shocked to discover that she also enjoyed sappy Hallmark Christmas movies, although I drew the line at her affection for Air Supply. That was a band whose sound I could never appreciate. When I first saw Patty Goyle, I'd never have thought we could be good friends. I found her fingernails off-putting. Peace Valley was teaching me lessons in understanding and acceptance.
Karen informed me that Sam was indeed coming for a visit.
“But he's only staying one night, Mom,” she explained hurriedly. “And he'll stay in the B&B, and we'll see him there with the boys. You won't have to see him at all,” she continued.
I thought about this for a few minutes, and realized that inside myself, I had no fear or apprehensions about seeing Sam again. I had no inclinations toward him, no desire to reunite. And although I still loathed his infidelity, I had worked hard at forgiving him as much as I could – forgiveness is an ongoing work in progress. Nor was I afraid of his possible advances toward me; I felt strong enough to repel and discount them.
“It's okay, Karen,” I told her. “I don't mind seeing him or eating a meal with you all. I would appreciate not staying in the same house though.”
Her face brightened and her smile glowed at me. “Mom, that's great!” She hugged me. “That makes me so happy! Plus, it's really nice for the boys to see that you can be together without fighting.”
I nodded. It was good to try to be together without fighting. We would see if it was possible yet.
The fourth day after my message on Desiree Steele's voice mail, she showed up at the office. She looked horrible, exhausted, dragged down and rung out, as we used to say. Her eyes were sunken and dull, her hair as stringy and oily as ever, and her clothes wrinkled as if she'd been sleeping in her car – or, Anita Wagner's car. I wondered how readily her aunt had relinquished the car to her as part of the ploy to fake her death. She put her baggy purse down on Patty's death.
“I'm here for th' urn,” she said to Patty.
Patty fiddled with some papers on her desk. I'd asked her to delay Desiree, to keep her in the room. She put a few folders away in her desk drawer and picked up the phone to call me in my office, where I was listening carefully for all her signs.
“Mrs. Monson,” she said loudly, “a representative of the Steele family is here to collect the ashes of Anita Wagner.”
I opened my desk, took out the gem stone, picked up the urn and an accompanying page of condoling statements from the funeral home, and went out to Patty's office, picking up the plastic bag of Angela Steele's clothes and shoes on the way.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Steele,” I said.
“Hey,” she muttered.
I handed her the bag. At this point Patty got up from her desk and walked toward the front door, behind Desiree. “Here are your aunt's effects that were on her body at the time of death.” Then I handed her the urn. “And here are her ashes, in a simple brass urn with some mother-of-pearl inlay.” She mumbled something in reply. “And a sheet from the funeral home.” By this time her hands were full, as she picked her purse up from Pattys' desk as well. “And this is a gem stone that I believe fell out of one of her shoes.” I held the stone between my thumb and index finger. It sparkled in the light. At that moment I heard a sharp intake of breath from Desiree, and juggling all the other items in her hands, she tried to extend her palm to receive the tiny item.
I dropped it just left of her extended palm so that it hit the floor under Patty's desk. I pretended not to see my miss, instead beginning some comment to Patty Goyle while Desiree looked at me helplessly, wanting the gem stone but unable to bend over to pick it up. Finally she placed the urn and the bag on the desk and got down on her hands and knees, reaching under the desk. I looked at Patty, who was studying the bottoms of Desiree Steele's feet, on display in a pair of cheap Wal-Mart flip-flops. Patty squinted at her feet, tilted her head, and then gave me a thumb's-up. The matching tattoo – the heart-shaped mark with “A” and “D” inside – was on her right foot also.
Before Desiree could stand up again I'd retrieved the urn from the desk. She stood up, momentarily confused to see it in my hands.
“Please tell your aunt,” I stated coldly, “that I don't appreciate the charade she's attempted to play on me. I don't appreciate the lies you told me yourself, young lady,” I added, using my best displeased mother voice. Her face turned red and terrified, her eyes looked away from me. “I'm releasing these ashes to you, but I want you both to know that I know whose remains are in this urn, and I think I could easily prove it, if needed.” I wasn't sure, but I thought Desiree might have begun to cry. “Tell your aunt to stay out of my funeral home, stay away from my morgue, and give up breaking-and-entering.” I put one finger under her chin and raised her eyes to meet mine. “Do you understand?” I asked, giving her my coldest look. She nodded. “I have not given this information to Myron Wagner … yet.” At this, her eyes widened and she nearly exclaimed some expletive. “Hush!” I added. “I understand your aunt's fears. But tampering with a dead body, and especially transporting it across state lines, is illegal in some states, and I think Alabama has especially strict laws regarding this.”
Desiree began to cry openly now, and her head dropped again.
“I didn't want to do it. I only helped. It was Aunt 'Nita's idea,” she murmured.
“I know,” I replied. “I thought as much.” I sighed and continued. “Unfortunately, I have no option but to tell the whole sorry mess to the county coroner, Mr. Garvey. You remember him?”
She nodded again.
“I will put it in his hands, and he'll have to determine what he will do with it. I will do that first thing tomorrow morning.” She nodded. “Tomorrow, Desiree.” I placed the urn back in her hands. “Drive back to Opelika and tell Anita all I've said. Tell her she has until tomorrow about 10:00 in the morning, okay?”
Desiree Steele looked up at me. Suddenly she understood. She took the urn, the gem stone, the plastic bag, and stared at me for a moment.
“Thank you, ma'am,” she said. “I don't know how --”
“It's okay, Desiree,” I replied. “Just go.”
As she walked out the door, I realized I had one more question that remained unanswered, an answer that I had to have. I ran to the door.
“Desiree!” I called. She turned. “I wanted to know – the tattoo. How did you make the tattoo appear the next morning?”
She smiled, just a little. “That was Aunt 'Nita's idea,” she said. “She had some big ole bandaids from the hospital, somethin' skin-colored. Just made it disappear.”
“Ah,” I responded. “And you broke in here overnight and took it off?”
Again, she looked down, ashamed, and nodded.
“Why?” I asked her, stepping closer. “That made no sense to me.”
She sighed. Her shoulders slumped. “She's my ma. I understood Aunt 'Nita's desire to use her body, to do the swap. But it was hard. That tattoo --” If Desiree had had a hand free, she would've wiped the tears from her cheeks that fell freely now. “I wanted her buried with that tattoo showin', after it didn't matter no more.” She sniffed loudly. “It was special. To her and me.”
She loaded her belongings in the car and drove away. I felt for the girl, I did, but I hoped I'd never see a member of that family again.
To read the last chapter, please click here.
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
