The Rosewood Casket (6 page)

Robert Lee took a look at his wife, with her tear-stained face, at the flecks of Martha White flour on her turquoise caftan, and at the baking ingredients scattered all over the countertops, and he wondered if he ought to ask her what was wrong or if it was a woman thing that he should pretend not to notice.

“How are you, sweetheart?” he asked.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Well, Robert, I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

He felt his stomach muscles tighten. He was fifty-one, still young enough to think that bad news meant money troubles rather than health problems. The furnace? The washing machine? The transmission on Lilah’s car? He sat down at the kitchen table, willing his breathing to stay regular, and wondered why life had become an endless round of belittlings, ending in a great terror. Was it better in the old days when people died tragically and young? “What is it then, Lilah?” he said.

Lilah had gone back to her wooden spoon and mixing bowl, transforming the flour into a yellow batter. “I have been meditating on death,” she told him. “And I’m making cupcakes. Rudy says that it is important to keep busy in times of sadness. You wouldn’t think that angels would be so understanding about our reaction to death, because, of course, from their point of view it’s such a small event in the course of our eternal lives, like a leaf falling on a page as we’re reading. I mentioned that to Rudy when we heard the news, but do you know what he said? ‘A child is no less afraid because the monster in the closet is not real.’”

“That’s real good, sweetheart.” Robert Lee supposed they would have to go through a few more minutes of small talk about her angel before he found out what was bothering her. Probably some movie star had died, knowing Lilah. But he was relieved. At least it wasn’t money.

Humoring his wife took more patience than Robert Lee Stargill sometimes possessed, though, in truth, he hardly minded this delusion of hers, or her change-of-life game of pretend, or whatever it was. He figured an angel was less trouble than a little yappy dog, and cheaper than a collection of childlike porcelain dolls.

At first, he had debated the expense of a therapist, fearing that people might think Lilah was a little nuts, but no one in their small circle of friends had ever said so. Even the most skeptical neighbors were polite, because it seemed like everybody was seeing angels these days, and to doubt a sighting would be sacrilegious. Billy Graham even wrote a book about them. Everybody else seemed entertained by Lilah’s accounts of her angel’s pronouncements. At least she didn’t harp endlessly on her ailments, like Mrs. Rickey, or get maudlin drunk at parties, like Alma Henson.

Robert Lee thought she was lonely.

He was grateful that Rudy wasn’t a fanatical angel: they didn’t have to go to church three times a week, or give their belongings to the poor. An occasional check to help starving elk in Wyoming or earthquake victims in Japan was the extent of his charitable meddling—cheaper than poodle grooming, Robert figured. He did wonder, though, why Lilah’s guardian angel was black and male with a pencil-thin mustache, eagle’s wings, and an Alabama accent. Lilah was born and raised in pre-integration-era Cincinnati. She was the least Southern woman Robert could think of. Why, she put carrots in her potato salad! As for her Alabama angel: the Lord works in mysterious ways, had been Lilah’s—and presumably Rudy’s—reply.

“Why were you fretting about death?” asked Robert.

“It’s your father,” said Lilah, her eyes welling again. “The poor, old man is on his deathbed.”

The churning in Robert Stargill’s stomach ceased. Sad news, but not, in terms of his day-to-day survival, a catastrophe. Not like being fired. “He’s had a good life, Lilah.” Another thought struck him. “Was it—ah—Rudy who told you this?”

“Of course not, Robert. You know he never interferes. Your father’s neighbor, Mr. Stallard, called. He advised us to come right away.”

“What about Clayt? He lives right there.”

“They can’t find him. They’re still trying, though.”

Robert’s lip curled in irritation. “Clayt never did have a lick of sense. Dad’s in the hospital, then?”

“Well, no. But he’s terribly ill. It seems he left a note saying that he wanted to die at home. They think Clayt will want all of you to come back and decide what to do.”

Robert Lee glanced at the calendar. It was only the middle of the month, and he was a little behind in his sales quota. “Maybe we ought to wait,” he said. “We don’t know how this will turn out. He could linger. You know how they are about time off down at the lot.”

“But if you explained—”

He ignored her. In a sales job, you didn’t explain. “And if there is a funeral, we’ll have to budget time for that, and then there’ll be things to see to afterward. That will take even more time.” He wouldn’t have said such things out loud to anyone but his wife. With outsiders, even with his brothers, he would express a willingness to go home at once, and to stay for as long as necessary, because that’s what you were supposed to say and feel, but the fact was that he had a real job, and, like it or not, the amount of time that he could be away from that job was limited. Life wasn’t like a soap opera, where feelings were everything, and everyone could afford to have them.

It was all right for his younger brothers to drop everything and run back home. Charlie was a country singer, and Garrett was career army, on the government payroll with all kinds of benefits and time off and free health care, paid for with taxpayers’ money. Clayt, the back-to-nature dilettante, had no career to jeopardize, but he lived back there anyhow, so no sacrifice would be called for on his part. It was easy for Clayt to insist that they all come home. Only Robert Lee would be caught in the pinch of family demands—as usual.

“Rudy says we ought to go, Robert. You should make peace with the dying.”

“I’m more at peace with Daddy than the rest of the family, I reckon,” snapped Robert. “Is Rudy going to sell cars for me while we go gallivanting off to Tennessee?”

Lilah sighed. “You have to trust Providence, Robert.”

“I have to use my vacation time,” he replied bitterly. “I wish the Lord would schedule disasters for weekends.”

Lilah listened to empty air again and smiled, but Robert turned away. He had no interest in the clever reply of an angel.

*   *   *

It was nearly midnight when Chief Warrant Officer Garrett Stargill got home, but he wasn’t surprised to see the lights on in the kitchen. He knew Debba would be waiting up for him, because she always worried when he was scheduled for a night jump. He had long ago ceased to be flattered by her anxiety. He had given up explaining to her that he was too experienced to be in much danger, that he enjoyed the thrill of parachuting into a sky full of stars, and that he was probably safer in free fall than he was driving the two-lane road home from the base. Pointless to say any of this to Debba, because terror was Debba’s vocation, her constant companion in life. Take her out of one obsession and she would latch on to another. Now that he had survived the parachute jump, she would go back to worrying about terrorists, or germs in the tap water. He scarcely listened anymore.

He let himself in through the kitchen door, calling out loudly, “It’s me, Deb!” He had steadfastly refused to let her buy another gun, but he was always careful to make noise when he came in, telling her it was him, in case she had acquired one on her own, at some military family’s yard sale, perhaps. Pistols were easy enough to come by in a neighborhood of army personnel, or in Tennessee, in general, for that matter.

She appeared in the kitchen doorway, tiny and wraithlike, wrapped in a chenille bathrobe and looking twelve years old, with her face scrubbed pink and her hair in pigtails over each ear. “Hi, Garrett,” she said with the tremulous smile that made him want to shake her. He knew that he had once found her vulnerability appealing, and her curveless body sexy, but he could not remember why.

“Everything went off without a hitch,” he said. “Is there coffee?” She nodded toward the Mr. Coffee machine. He poured himself a cup, and kept talking. “The kids were nervous, but they were game. We didn’t have to push anybody out of the plane. And the wind didn’t pick up, so we all made it into the drop zone.” He yawned. “It makes for a long day, though.”

She nodded. “I watched the eleven o’clock news. I figured that if anything had gone wrong, they would have said so. I’m glad you’re back.” She put her arms around him, and he patted her head, as if she were an anxious child. The robe opened a little, and he saw that she was wearing his black T-shirt for a nightgown—the one his unit had made up, that said “We Rule the Night.”

Then he noticed the blinking light on the answering machine.

“Were there any phone calls, Debba?”

She nodded, a flash of guilt crossed her face, and she buried her face in his shoulder. “I thought it might be the base. A wreck, maybe, or your unit being put on alert. You just got back.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t have to go again,” he said. He pushed the button and waited for the machine to rewind. “Did you hear the message?”

“No. I turned the TV up when the phone rang.”

The machine clicked on, and he heard his brother Clayton’s voice. “We have to go home,” he told her. She looked up, her eyes wide with panic. It would have made no difference if Debba had married an accountant instead of a chopper pilot. Her terror was a constant. He knew that Debba would find east Tennessee no less terrifying than the prospect of Haiti or Somalia.

*   *   *

In the darkness Clayt Stargill was pacing the flagstone walk in the backyard of his father’s house, his vigil punctuated by frequent glances at the luminous dial of his watch.

“They won’t be here for hours,” said Dovey, who was sitting on the porch steps. “Nashville is a good five hours away, and Cincinnati is even farther. They may not be here until morning. It’s not like there’s anything they can do once they get here.”

“I know,” said Clayt. “There’s nothing I can do, either. Except pace.”

At sunset, when he had returned to Jonesborough from his visit to Beverly Tipton’s farm, a black car was blocking his driveway, and Dovey Stallard was sitting behind the wheel, reading a paperback in the fading light. Without preamble she told him about his father’s illness, and she went in with him while he telephoned Dr. Banner, who had all but retired from half a century of general practice, but he agreed to meet Clayton at the Stargill farm.

Dovey followed his truck back to Wake County and up the ridge to the old homeplace, nestled between two old maples that brushed the tin roof with their branches. They found Alton Banner already in the house, tending to his patient.

“Will he get better?” asked Clayt as he entered his father’s bedroom.

“I doubt it,” said Dr. Banner. “He’s had a serious stroke, and his heart wasn’t any great shakes to begin with. You can’t leave him like this, though. If you don’t get some fluids in him, he’ll die of neglect.”

“He doesn’t want to go to a hospital.” Dovey Stallard appeared in the doorway, and handed the physician a yellow legal pad. “Mr. Stargill wrote down everything he wants.”

“Never mind what he wants,” said Clayt. “If he has a chance, then do whatever you have to.”

Alton Banner skimmed the first page of Randall Stargill’s instructions. “It says he doesn’t want life support. Hooked up to machines, he calls it. Well, we can give him his way on that, but just in case this is not his final hour, he is going to the hospital, so that he can at least have clean sheets, intravenous fluids, and a fighting chance to beat this thing. I’ll call the rescue squad. Have you notified your brothers?”

“We got in touch with Robert in Cincinnati this afternoon,” said Dovey. “Garrett and Charles Martin have unlisted numbers, so we decided to let Clayt call them.”

He nodded. “Phone for the ambulance, doctor. Then I’ll call them.”

They said almost nothing while they waited for the ambulance. Clayt was grateful that Dovey did not feel the need to cover every silence with small talk. She had insisted on staying with him, offering to fix him coffee and sandwiches and tidying up the house while he paced the braided rug in the living room.

When the ambulance arrived, Clayt said, “I’m going with them. I have to sign him in, and see what they say. Thank you for coming for me, and for staying.”

“I’ll wait here, Clayt,” said Dovey. “One of your brothers might have decided to hop on a plane. On your way back, you need to stop at Krogers. I checked the pantry, and you have nothing to feed a houseful of people. Here’s a list.”

It was past ten o’clock when Clayt returned to find Dovey curled up on the sofa asleep, with the television blaring. He set the groceries on the kitchen table, wondering if he should wake her. It was late. She needed to get home.

“How is he?” she said, yawning. “I heard you come in.”

“He’s stable for now. Still in a coma, though, so I didn’t see any point in sitting there all night. I’ll go back tomorrow when the rest of them get here. Guess you should be going.”

“I’ll just make that tuna salad first, in case they get here late and hungry. You’d just dump mayonnaise into the tuna and call it done.”

He wondered if, despite the broken engagement all those years ago, Dovey still felt like a part of the family, but he didn’t ask. Perhaps she was just being neighborly. He hadn’t seen her since his mother’s funeral. He got out the onions and the pickles, and watched while she chopped them, and mixed them with the tuna. “We don’t need to do too much preparation,” he reminded her. “Garrett and Robert Lee are bringing their wives.”

Dovey gave him a look, and went back to spooning mayonnaise into the glass salad bowl.

When she finished, she put aluminum foil over the top of the bowl and set it in the refrigerator. “Now don’t forget and leave it out,” she told him, “Or else you’ll
all
be in the hospital.”

Finally they ran out of things to do in the house, so Dovey put on her coat and went outside. Clayt went with her. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said. “I’m too restless to stay in that house. Maybe I’ll just sit outside for a while.”