The Funeral Dress (22 page)

“You think I ain’t going to know you gone and dumped your baby on somebody else. Can’t keep no secrets in this
town. I told you more than once Bullards don’t give up their blood.”

“I ain’t dumped her on no one. And I ain’t gave her to nobody. They’re keeping her while I make this dress. And I’m done. I called Runt late yesterday evening and told him to come and get me. I was waiting on him. Runt. He told me he was coming for me.”

“You see Runt here?” Nolan gripped Emmalee’s arm and shook her hard. “Do you see Runt?”

“No. But he’s coming any minute. He told me so.”

“Runt ain’t coming, fool. I done been to Runt’s house. Went to see if you was there. I found Mettie rocking my grandbaby. My grandbaby. I told her the baby girl she got in her arms was Emmalee’s. She said not no more she ain’t.”

“What?” Emmalee’s knees weakened, and the dress slipped from her arms.

“That’s right. She carried on about you not taking care of Kelly like you ought. Said the baby not been fed right. Said her bottom was raw. Said she and Runt were doing the right thing, and we ought to be grateful they was so caring.” Nolan looked toward the bluff. “Shit, us be grateful. For what?”

Emmalee slid down the aluminum and sat slumped on the wood stoop, the crimson dress wadded on her lap. She looked up at her father. “I want my baby, Nolan.”

Nolan turned toward the truck. “Get your things,” he said over his shoulder.

Emmalee held her tongue as Nolan steered the truck down Old Lick, cutting into the sharp turns with both hands firm on the wheel. The truck picked up speed till Emmalee felt as though they were the ones falling down the mountain’s side. She pulled her coat collar tight around her neck with one hand while she held Leona’s dress on her lap with the other. “Can’t you go no faster, Nolan?” she pleaded.

Nolan tightened his grip around the wheel and pumped the accelerator. “A good mama don’t go handing off her baby to a stranger.”

“Damn it, Nolan. Mettie and Runt ain’t no strangers.”

“And that woman ain’t your blood. She don’t claim us. She don’t ask us to her house. She don’t call us family.” Nolan pounded the wheel. “You’re a damn fool, Emmalee, for leaving that baby with that woman. Shit.”

“Kelly Faye.
That
baby’s name is Kelly Faye. Named her after Mama.” Emmalee stared out the window. The ground passed fast alongside the truck; even the blue sky and the dull green fields in the distance melted into a blurry mass. “Come on, Nolan, can’t you go faster?”

Nolan only slowed the truck as he made a sharp left turn into Red Chert followed by a quick right onto the drive winding its way up to Runt’s house. Emmalee set the dress on the seat next to her father and readied her hand on the door.

“Hang on there, girl, you let me take care of this.”

Emmalee paid no attention to her father’s direction and jumped from the truck before he came to a full stop. She ran toward the house, but Runt met her at the top step. A shotgun rested against the doorframe behind him.

“Emmalee,” Runt called and motioned for her to go around him. He stood square on the edge of the porch, not once taking his eyes off his brother.

Nolan spat and stepped closer. “Runt, I told you I was coming back for that baby. She’s Emmalee’s girl. You ain’t got no right to her, and we’ve done come to get what’s ours.”

“Back off, Nolan,” Runt said.

“The hell I will. Just ’cause that woman of yours can’t give you a baby of your own don’t mean you can go and take somebody else’s.”

Nolan jumped in front of Runt. His fists were clenched tight and his arms hung stiff by his side. He stood a head taller than his brother but next to Runt’s sturdy frame, Nolan looked gaunt, worn thin from years of hard living.

Runt stood firm. “Listen, Emmalee,” he said, “Kelly ain’t been fed enough. Her bottom was beet red when you handed her to us. She was running a fever.”

“That ain’t so,” Emmalee said, her voice cracking raw.

“If you really love her, Em, you’ll leave her here with us. Even Dr. Greer thinks it’s the best thing for her for right now.

“And Nolan,” Runt added, “we done talked to the sheriff. All I got to do is call him, and he’ll haul your sorry ass off for trespassing.”

“Shut up, Runt,” Emmalee yelled and pushed her way into the house. Runt kept his guard on the front porch.

Mettie sat in a rocking chair, humming a lullaby as she folded a stack of dry diapers.

“Where is she? Where’s my baby, Mettie?”

Mettie hummed a little softer as she pushed the rocker
back with the balls of her feet and let it fall forward. “Sit down, Emmalee.”

“Where the hell is my baby, Mettie?” Emmalee yelled out loud as she walked toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms in the back.

“She ain’t here. A friend is keeping her for the morning.”

“Damn it, Mettie. You got no right to keep my baby or hand her off to someone I don’t know.”

“Don’t get upset, Emmalee. Come here and sit down and let’s talk about this.” Mettie extended her hand toward the sofa.

“Where is she?” Emmalee asked again, trying and failing to keep her voice from shaking.

“Honey, you didn’t even bother to call us once to check on her. Just seems a mama truly concerned about her baby would’ve called after her a time or two.”

“Hell, Mettie, I was making Leona’s burying dress. You knew where I was the whole damn time. Not like I run off.”

“Well, that doesn’t really matter much.” Mettie leaned toward Emmalee, and the chair tipped forward. “Look. Runt and I done a lot of thinking while you was up on Old Lick. We could see Kelly ain’t been getting the kind of care she needs. She ain’t thriving, Emmalee.
Failure to thrive
, that’s the official term for it.” Mettie reached for a piece of paper on the table at the end of the sofa. “That’s what Dr. Greer called it. He wrote it down. See, I can show it to you in his own handwriting.”

Emmalee swatted at the paper in Mettie’s hand.

“Sweetie, Kelly’s nearly nine weeks old and only gained a pound since you had her. That ain’t enough. If she gets
too weak, she could die, especially with winter coming on. You don’t want that, do you, Emmalee?”

“Why’d you take her to the doctor?” Emmalee’s eyes darted about the room, thinking Kelly Faye might be hidden somewhere nearby.

“She was running a fever. We was worried about her. She’s fine, but it could have been bad.” Mettie pulled another clean diaper from a basket on the floor and folded it into a square. She held it on her lap and pulled on another one. “The doctor thinks maybe this has all been too much for you. I told him you never had little sisters or brothers to practice on like I did. It ain’t your fault, really it ain’t. No one’s blaming you. You don’t know what to do with her is all. Goodness, Emmalee. You don’t have running water. It’s freezing cold in your house. You did the best you could. We all believe that.”

Failure to thrive. Failure to thrive
. These words made no sense to Emmalee. “Mama was no more than eighteen when I was born. She was a whole year younger than me, and she done good,” Emmalee said, wiping away the tears spilling down her cheeks.

“Some women are more ready than others. I think some of us come into the world ready to mama. And Cynthia Faye, from what I’ve heard, sure had some good mothering of her own to draw from. It don’t mean nothing bad about you.”

“I can do it,” Emmalee said almost in a whisper.

“Maybe in time. But you can do the right thing now by letting Runt and me give her a good, loving home. I’m ready to be a mama, Emmalee. Been ready for a long time. I’ll love on her right. So will Runt.”

Mettie braked the rocker as it tipped forward and set the folded diapers aside. “She’s beautiful, Emmalee, prettiest baby I ever seen.”

Emmalee dropped her head in her hands, not even looking up when Runt and Nolan stepped into the room.

“Come on, girl,” Nolan said, his voice slow but strong. “Come on now.”

Emmalee walked to her father.

“You ain’t stealing that baby from us, Runt,” he said and took Emmalee by the arm and walked out of the house.

L
EONA

O
LD
L
ICK

1969

Leona held the palm of her hand to her cut and swollen cheek on the ride home from Tennewa.

“I ran into the bathroom door,” she told Curtis twice before reaching the mountain road. “I was coming out. Cora was going in.”

She dropped her head against the truck window, not able to look at Curtis when she was telling a lie. Leona did not confess about Cora following her into the bathroom at the end of the shift.

The other seamstresses sometimes bickered over the bundles, each one so determined to exceed her quota that she might sneak two or three instead of the allotted one. Leona had done it some, but this was the first time Cora had accused her of such doing. Mr. Clayton said nothing to either one of them, always choosing to ignore whatever
happened inside the women’s restroom. But Curtis stared at his wife, waiting for a more honest answer.

“Put your eyes back on the road,” Leona said. “It wasn’t nothing but an accident. Just let it go.”

The couple climbed the mountain in silence, neither daring to look at the other. Leona imagined Curtis had grown tired through the years of trying to coax her to a happier place and preferred riding on home in quiet. He pulled in front of the trailer and cut the engine.

“Leona, you don’t need to work this hard no more,” he said. “We’re going to be fine whether you double your quota or not. If that’s what all this is really about?”

“Of course it is,” Leona snapped back. But she knew that wasn’t so. She had been living with a secret for too long, and even though her cheek throbbed, a part of her felt better knowing Cora had beat the truth from her.

Leona had lost interest in Curtis years ago. She hadn’t planned on it. She hadn’t meant to do it. It happened slowly, without warning. She had come to blame Curtis for everything since the baby died. She blamed him for the hot summer temperatures beating down on her potted geraniums and the tomatoes she had staked out in the garden. She blamed him when she couldn’t find her favorite program on the television, and she blamed him for smiling at her when she felt more like crying. In the end, Leona blamed him for moving on with his life when she felt shackled by the one that had left her barren.

But when Leona looked at Mr. Clayton she saw none of that. Instead she saw a strong, powerful man. She saw a generous, kind man with a warm smile. Maybe his
nose was a bit crooked. But it was only a small imperfection, one that left him looking even more rugged and handsome.

For too many months now Leona had stayed at the factory late, just to be near him, always telling Curtis she had mistakes in her sewing to correct or extra production to meet. Leona dallied at her machine and convinced herself there was no sin in only talking to the man.

“Mr. Clayton,” she said, knocking on his open door late one Tuesday afternoon, “I hadn’t seen you in the sewing room much today and wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

“I was caught on the phone is all,” he said and leaned back in his chair. “We’re changing thread suppliers.” He loosened his tie and undid his shirt’s top button. “More important, how’d it go today for you, Leona? You beat another record?”

“No, sir, but I come close.” Leona folded her arms across her waist. She lingered there till the silence grew awkward. “I guess I’ll be getting on my way. Curtis’ll be here in a little while.”

“Don’t run off, Leona,” Mr. Clayton said and walked around his desk. He stepped right up to her, but she did not pull away. He reached for her waist and drew her into his arms, touching her lips first with his fingertip and then with his mouth. It was a short kiss, but Leona did not refuse it. Instead, she pressed her body against his and kissed him harder, this time wrapping her arms around his neck.

After that, Leona spied Mr. Clayton admiring her,
too, sometimes even finding an excuse to come and ask her about production or daily quotas. He’d slip Leona a note, and she was careful to hide it in the palm of her hand. In his scribbled handwriting, Mr. Clayton asked Leona to come to his office after the four o’clock bell, careful to wait until Gwen Whitlow left for home. Leona folded the paper into a small square and pushed it deep inside her pocket. She would burn it later in the incinerator set back from the trailer.

“Ah woman, I need you,” Mr. Clayton said in a hushed tone as he closed the metal blinds hanging in the windows. He undid the zipper in the back of her housedress and pulled it off her shoulders. Leona lay on the cold vinyl-tiled floor and tugged on Mr. Clayton’s hand. He straddled her body and handled her rougher than Curtis ever had. He was a powerful man, a strong man, even in his lovemaking. But Leona realized in the darkened office, Mr. Clayton had never called her by her name.

Now sitting in the pickup next to Curtis, she could not look him in the eyes.

“Look, Ona, you don’t need to be working late. We don’t need the extra money. We even got a little saved in the bank.”