They’d all been dragging their feet today because they knew very well what they had to face. Carla had eventually kicked in and showered and ironed her black slacks and matching form-fitting blazer. She even took extra care when putting on her makeup, which she hadn’t worn since her arrival, and checked herself in the full-length mirror several times before deciding that she should button all three of the buttons on her blazer. She ran her fingers down the collar to the cream-colored camisole underneath, still worried about whether or not she looked nice enough. Realizing she didn’t have time to fuss with her outfit regardless, she refocused on her watch.
“Maurine!”
Damn it.
They were going to be late for the funeral. She couldn’t seem to light a fire under anyone’s ass. The only one who seemed to have any concern for the time was Travis, Maurine’s husband. He’d already left for the church to meet with the other pallbearers. Carla was glad he was finally home. He was a long-haul trucker and had been on a run across the country when her grandmother had passed. His being home had made a big difference in Maurine. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she needed Travis. He was her love and support. A truly good guy who was the yin to Maurine’s yang. Maurine didn’t know how fortunate she was to have someone by her side like that.
Carla felt that sickening dread that kept recurring just when she thought it was finally gone for good. It came on the coattails of the reality of her loss, the loss she’d endured before her grandmother’s death. The one that had been preceded by betrayal. It was a loss, she now knew in thinking about Maurine and Travis, that included more than just her relationship with Megan. It also included the hope she’d once had in having someone by her side for love and support.
“Give me a damn minute!” Maurine shouted, causing Carla to jerk.
Maurine sounded like she was still in her bedroom. Still getting ready.
Carla groaned, completely exhausted, but more so, frustrated. She was just as tired as everyone else, having to meet and greet dozens and dozens of family and friends the past few days. She’d shaken hands, given hugs, and accepted kisses. She’d laughed and she’d cried. She’d comforted and consoled. And she’d made sure everyone was fed and hydrated with the relentless attention she’d paid to the enormous amount of food people had brought on their visits. They had so much she knew if she hadn’t kept it organized, first labeling and then rotating the dishes in and out of the fridge, and then cleaning up those that weren’t touched or already devoured, both Maurine’s and her grandmother’s house would be in a state of chaos with mountains of food everywhere. As it stood now, she’d even had to take multiple dishes to store at the neighbor’s homes.
And then there had been the other issue with space.
The people.
Family and friends she hadn’t seen in years had driven in to pay their respects. She’d met people she didn’t even know were kin or that they even existed at all. They just kept coming and there hadn’t been room for them all in Maurine’s house or her grandmother’s, and they weren’t about to turn them away. Thankfully, the family’s long-time preacher, Douglas Kirby, was one of the first to stop by and he’d made a phone call, and an hour later, vans and pickup trucks pulled in and people unloaded and set up all the folding chairs and tables the church had. Carla had almost cried as she watched those kind folks do their best to make sure her family and friends at least had a place to sit when they came to visit.
She’d given Douglas one of the biggest hugs she’d given thus far, and he’d only patted her on the back and reassured her that the chairs and tables were surplus and stored in the church basement and that there was no hurry to return them. They already had enough to accommodate everyone at the funeral.
Moments like that made her appreciate where she came from. Made her so grateful that she had been raised around such good, kind people. People in that town considered everyone to be family and they treated them as such. Things had been that way for generations, and the families that were by her side today were the same ones that had been by her family’s side decades ago. There were, of course, those who weren’t so kind, and they’d let her know how they felt about her sexuality. But they weren’t the majority and she didn’t allow them or the town gossip and serious lack of privacy, keep her from appreciating where she came from.
There was a knock at the door, and she hurried across the living room of the modest farmhouse to answer it.
Cliff Buford, whom she considered to be the oldest living man in America, as well as the owner and manager of the town’s only funeral home, stood wearing one of his trademark dark suits and a somber smile.
“Miss Carla,” he said in his gentle manner. “I’m here to escort your family to the church.” He spoke with such grace and elegance, and Carla had always wondered if that was just who he was or if it was because of his job. Or perhaps it was a little of both.
She pushed open the squeaky screen door and gave him a hug, even though she’d seen him the night before at the private viewing up at the funeral home. She was still reeling and trying to recover from that. Having to see her grandmother one last time and give her a final good-bye had absolutely torn her heart out. It had torn all of their hearts out. And Cliff had teared up too. He’d known her grandmother from birth, having lived down the road from her family when she’d been born. He’d told Carla that he could still remember that day because she’d been breech and his father, who had been the closest thing to a doctor nearby, had rushed to their home and helped deliver her.
She’d never known that before, and it had been nice of him to share that with her. He probably had a story like that for nearly everyone in town, and she contemplated just how difficult it was for him to bury the people he knew so well.
She pulled away and he held her hand in both of his. At last, Maurine came out behind her and she was softly cussing and fumbling in her purse for a mint, no doubt so her breath would be pleasant when interacting with folks at the funeral. Tending to tiny, nonsensical things was what Maurine did when anxious. It was her version of beard stroking.
“Miss Maurine,” Cliff said with a polite nod.
“Hey, Mr. Buford.”
“Shall we go?” He offered them both an elbow, forever the gentlemen.
They walked down the porch steps and crossed the lawn to where her uncles waited next to the limousine. They’d gotten ready at her grandmother’s house, where they’d been staying since her passing. They looked very nice in their suits and ties, dressed in their Sunday bests to lay their mother to rest.
They rode to the church in silence. Maurine sucked on her mint and dabbed her nose with a tissue. She, too, looked nice in a long, floral print dress. She’d refused to wear black because, as she’d said, “Mama loved color and flowers” just like she did and she would’ve rather seen her in something like that. She messed with it the entire way, smoothing it down with her palm, over and over, as if thinking about her mother, until Cliff eased into the parking lot and headed slowly for the front entrance.
The Sims family church was Southern Baptist, just like all the churches nearby, but it wasn’t as large as some of the others and didn’t have near as many members. It had history going back more than a hundred years, however, and loyal, devoted families that went back generations. Carla had always thought it a bit majestic with, not only its placement atop a hill, but its decorative stonework and steeple that seemed to soar into the sky. As a child, she’d often pretended it was a castle, and she used to love to just stand and gape up at it.