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Chapter 17
Nelda Little trotted into the funeral home with a smile on her face and a purse on her arm. She wore a snug cotton dress with flat shoes, both a pretty shade of pale yellow. She was a petite, plump woman with gray hair, tightly curled. All in all, she was a tidy package of efficiency and cheerfulness.
“Mrs. Monson,” she said brightly, holding out her hand. “So nice to meet you.” Her eyes met mine kindly. “Johnny has told me so much about you. We're thrilled you're here at the funeral home. I know it's been a big adjustment.”
Clearly she was the vocal one of the family. I tried to imagine Johnny telling anybody “so much” about anything.
“It's lovely to meet you at last, Mrs. Little,” I said.
“Nelda. Call me Nelda.”
“And you call me Ivy.”
It often seems silly to me to drive in Peace Valley. Bobbie Dixon's house was about three and a half blocks from the funeral home. Nelda and I could easily have walked the distance, enjoyed the Friday morning sunshine and the conversation. I nearly suggested it, but she'd parked the Woodie by the curb and was dangling her keys on her finger already.
“Ah – driving the Woodie?” I asked.
“Of course!” she replied with a smile. “It's my favorite vehicle!” She hopped into the driver's seat and perched on the edge, reaching for the pedals. “Short people problems,” she said, and smiled again.
I began to understand why Nelda Little visited the sick and elderly. She began chattering about the various elderly people in town who'd recently had surgery or strokes, were in rehab or a nursing home or languishing under hospice care. She visited them all. On the long bench seat between us sat a voluminous round basket, full to bursting with fresh cut flowers, small gift bags, fruit, and little stuffed animals. I looked at her questioningly.
“It's for my friends.” She smiled again. She smiled a lot, this time a little abashed. “The daisies are for Miss Jackson, her favorites. Bobbie prefers mums. And Mr. Fanner loves to wear a little pink rose in his pocket, so I try to find him one.” She reached among the blooms and extracted a tiny pink bud on a long stem with dew drops still clinging to it. “He'll be happy today.” She fumbled around in the basket. “There's snacks, but some of them have to be careful of their sugar or salt intake. So I take them stuffed animals. Sometimes they just like to hold them while I'm there, and I take them back, kind of like 'borrow a stuffed animal for the day.'” She turned the engine over and we began to coast down the street. “It's amazing what will make them happy, the simplest things.”
Bobbie Dixon's house was a fine, old 1920's bungalow with a deep porch that swept out from its sloping roof like the brim of a sun-protecting hat. The chunky pillars that supported it had been painted white, but the house itself was built of dark red brick with lovely forest green trim around the doors and windows. Azalea bushes banked the entire front of the house. I imagined the display they must've made just a couple of weeks before. Now they were fading, and a dead, brown mist seemed to rest over the bushes as each limp bloom hung, waiting to fall. The grass was trimmed tidily, and overhead the stately pecan trees and a huge, skirted magnolia shaded the house, as they did all over town.
“Here, you carry these,” Nelda said, and handed me the vase of yellow mums. She hesitated, torn between choosing a bag of peanut butter cookies or a stuffed Corgi. “Oh, let's do both!” she murmured generously, and we stepped out of the Woodie.
A woman sat on the porch swing, fanning herself slowly. She wore sneakers and a full cotton apron over her dress. She sipped on a sweating glass of iced tea and peered at us from her leisurely seat, her toes resting lightly on the floor.
“Mornin', Inez,” Nelda called, and she waved.
The woman nodded. “Nelda,” she said.
“How's Miss Bobbie t'day?” Nelda asked as we mounted the steps.
“Fair,” she replied. “She'll know ya.” She looked at me narrowly.
“This is Ivy Monson,” Nelda offered. “Ivy,” she added, smiling warningly at me, “this is Inez Spencer, Bobbie Dixon's care-giver.”
We
greeted each other. Nelda asked the woman how many years she'd been
caring for Bobbie Dixon.
“Forty-eight years,” she answered. “Every day of her life.” Inez's face grew somber. “I come as a child m'self, to help her mama with the washin', and I jus' stayed. Miss Bobbie, she means the world and all to me.” And she started to swing again and looked intently into the shade of the magnolia tree as if all the years of her past were hovering there, like ghosts, to be discovered again.
“We'll go in now,” Nelda said.
They'd drawn Bobbie Dixon's bed into the living room, which now resembled a hospital suite. Coffee table and wing-back chairs had been pushed against the wall, making room for monitors and rolling carts trailing wires and laden with plastic trays, pill bottles, and rolls of gauze. Bobbie lay on the bed asleep, her mouth agape. Her face was drawn and sallow, her lips dry, her lashes damp. Someone had wrapped a bright paisley scarf around her head, but it slipped sideways, resting on her ear. She was bald.
Nelda sat on the edge of the bed. “Bobbie. Bobbie honey, I've brought you Sammy to hold. He's so soft.” And she placed the stuffed animal in the crook of Bobbie's elbow. The woman reached up and clutched it. “Here's some cookies too, Bobbie, peanut butter, your favorite.” Then Nelda proceeded to place one morsel after another of cookie in Bobbie's mouth. She opened and opened, and at last would not open again.
“She's sleepy today,” Nelda said to me. “I'll sing. That usually perks her up.”
She sang “Down By the Riverside” and “Blessed Assurance.” On the last refrain, Bobbie's eyes flickered and her lips, with a few crumbs of cookie still attached began to croak the tune in a whisper.
“Oh! What a foretaste of glory divine!”
By the end she was beaming up at Nelda, a twinkle in her eyes.
“Nelda! Oh, thank you for coming!”
“Bobbie, I've brought a friend with me. I'd like you to meet Ivy. Ivy Monson.”
Bobbie's hand was bony and cold, but she grasped mine firmly and swung it gently back and forth.
“You new in town, Ivy?”
“Yes. I've just started working at the funeral home.”
“Ah,” she replied. Her brow furrowed. I wondered if she was thinking about her own death, and that I might be the one to prepare her body. Then she smiled at me. “Such important work. I did hear that our Mr. Plott left us.”
“Yes, I miss him every day. I needed more training before he died.”
“Well,” she said, and she smoothed the crisp white sheet lying across her chest. “I'm sure you'll do fine. How do you like Peace Valley?”
“Quite well, Bobbie. It's a lovely town. My daughter lives here.”
She closed her eyes. I wondered if she were fading again. But she said, “Ivy. Yes, you're Karen's mother. Dear Karen. She spoke of you.” Her eyes opened again. “I hope she's doing well?”
“Yes, yes, she is, Bobbie. Thank you.” Inside my stomach a great knot of sorrow tightened. I was now so thankful that Karen was not lying in a hospice bed, drained of life, peering questioningly at the undertaker. My daughter was eating ice cream and planning for her children's summer vacation.
Then Bobbie brought up the topic I'd been longing to ask about. “You must be handling Anita's funeral?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“They've had no memorial service yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“I'm not surprised.” She sighed. “There was never any agreement in Anita's life, among those who claim to love her. They all competed for her, all wanted to possess her.” A great sadness clouded Bobbie's face. “I've always thought her birth family would win in the end. Have they come?”
“Only her niece, Desiree. But she left and I haven't been able to contact her.” I paused, afraid to go further. “I was hoping somehow that you might be able to give me something to help me figure out what to do next. I'm thinking of driving to Opelika to look for the Prescotts and inquire about some,” here I paused again, “about some … irregularities with the body.”
Bobbie continued slowly, with difficulty. “The Prescotts are poor. They will not pay for the funeral. Anita's biological mother is in a care facility now, I believe. She may have nothing to contribute to the conversation.” Bobbie's eyes closed again. She concentrated as she went on. “Anita and her twin sister Angela – she went by Ann – were very close, but always in conflict.”
She stopped for a while, laboring to breathe. Her hand slipped from the sheet and rested by her side. Then she continued in a whisper, “I tried to be their friend, Ann's friend, when she came. She came with the baby. But they fought over that too, later. Fought over the baby. Anita loved that little thing so, wanted it for herself. I went to the trailer, went against Daddy's wishes. Sat and smoked with them while they made their plans to leave here, escape. Go on an adventure, they said. Get away from the past and be always together.” Bobbie then let out a long, rasping sigh. “They swore they'd never go back to Opelika. Swore they'd never marry. Swore they'd stay together. And Anita swore she'd take care of the baby, if anything every happened to Ann.” Bobbie blue eyes looked piercingly into mine. “They broke all those promises, I think.” She stroked my hand. “You may not find the daughter again, but see if you can find Ann. She knew Anita better than anyone on earth. Truly, she is the next of kin. Angela Steele." Bobbie sighed and closed her eyes. "Angela Steele," she repeated. "Somehow, I never did trust that girl.”
Copyrighted by M.K. Christiansen
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