repeated. She wanted to grab this woman by the shoulders and shake her. You left her with her head back while she vomited? Have you lost your mind? She choked! She choked to death and all she needed was someone to tilt her forward!
But she said nothing as Barbara nodded her confirmation.
Della breathed hard and unwound herself from Barbara. She stood up. “Rita’s right,” she announced. “We have got to call Hugh Junior.Why don’t you all stay here, and I’ll go back to the Ladies Farm and track down his number. That way, if Kat calls, someone’ll be there.”
Rita looked up from the comfort of Dave’s embrace and nodded in a dreamy way that irritated Della. She didn’t bother looking at Barbara, but hurried out to the Suburban. She didn’t trust herself enough to think until she had gunned the engine and lurched out of the parking lot.
“Oh God! That bitch! That stupid, hysterical bitch killed Pauline.” She reminded herself not to close her eyes while she was driving and she fought her impulse to head for the highway. You have to call Hugh Junior, she thought. You have got to make that call before you do anything else.
Pauline’s cloth-covered address book lay atop her desk in the office behind the registration counter. The book’s cover, a floral print in spring-toned pastels, had been hand-stamped by Pauline during one of her book-binding classes. There was a whole set of these things: journals, birthday books, purse-size reminder books, calendar covers.
Both home and office numbers for “Hugh, Jr.” were written in Pauline’s flowing hand. Typical of Pauline, all the entries were in peacock-blue ink and all had been inscribed carefully, with calligraphic flourish.
Della had dialed the number and it was ringing before she even realized what she was doing. What will I say? she panicked, but someone was already singing out the name of Hugh Jr.’s law firm and she found herself stammering out a request to speak to him regarding a family emergency.
“Hello?” The voice was so much like his father’s that Della could not speak for a moment. Stupid! You were expecting the ten-year-old with the drippy nose who was always crying because the other kids picked on him?
“Hello?”
“H-h-hugh?” she finally stammered.
“Who is this?”
Della took a deep breath. “Hugh, honey, this is Della Brewer at the Ladies Farm.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Hugh, I’m so sorry, there’s been, your mother had an, ah, a heart attack and she died early this afternoon.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Now this was the voice of the ten-year-old. “What happened?”
Della related the story as quickly as she could, omitting the vomiting and emphasizing the lack of any previous symptoms.
“I just saw her last week. She was fine.” His father’s voice returned.
“I know,” Della said. “She was so happy to see you and the kids. And Melissa called just last night.”
“Oh, Jesus! Melissa! You haven’t called her, have you?”
“No, you’re the first one, really.”
“I’ll have to call her. And my uncles.” Della felt she could see him starting to scribble lists, his face scrunched in earnest wrinkles, his pen flowing in that same even, though more masculine, hand that Pauline had instilled in him. Even in crisis, Della guessed, maybe especially in crisis, Pauline’s children would tend to the details of order, harmony, and seasonal grace.
They agreed that he would contact the funeral home in Fort Worth to make arrangements to transport the body, and that she would fax him a list of friends that she and Kat would call from the Ladies Farm.
“This is Monday. The funeral will have to be Wednesday,” Hugh Jr. said.
“Yes.” She had not even thought about a funeral and she wanted to tell him no. Not for a few weeks, she would say. Give us a few weeks to get used to this.
You’re losing it, Della told herself, and made herself sit back in the chair, an old mahogany banker’s chair that Hugh
But she said nothing as Barbara nodded her confirmation.
Della breathed hard and unwound herself from Barbara. She stood up. “Rita’s right,” she announced. “We have got to call Hugh Junior.Why don’t you all stay here, and I’ll go back to the Ladies Farm and track down his number. That way, if Kat calls, someone’ll be there.”
Rita looked up from the comfort of Dave’s embrace and nodded in a dreamy way that irritated Della. She didn’t bother looking at Barbara, but hurried out to the Suburban. She didn’t trust herself enough to think until she had gunned the engine and lurched out of the parking lot.
“Oh God! That bitch! That stupid, hysterical bitch killed Pauline.” She reminded herself not to close her eyes while she was driving and she fought her impulse to head for the highway. You have to call Hugh Junior, she thought. You have got to make that call before you do anything else.
Pauline’s cloth-covered address book lay atop her desk in the office behind the registration counter. The book’s cover, a floral print in spring-toned pastels, had been hand-stamped by Pauline during one of her book-binding classes. There was a whole set of these things: journals, birthday books, purse-size reminder books, calendar covers.
Both home and office numbers for “Hugh, Jr.” were written in Pauline’s flowing hand. Typical of Pauline, all the entries were in peacock-blue ink and all had been inscribed carefully, with calligraphic flourish.
Della had dialed the number and it was ringing before she even realized what she was doing. What will I say? she panicked, but someone was already singing out the name of Hugh Jr.’s law firm and she found herself stammering out a request to speak to him regarding a family emergency.
“Hello?” The voice was so much like his father’s that Della could not speak for a moment. Stupid! You were expecting the ten-year-old with the drippy nose who was always crying because the other kids picked on him?
“Hello?”
“H-h-hugh?” she finally stammered.
“Who is this?”
Della took a deep breath. “Hugh, honey, this is Della Brewer at the Ladies Farm.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Hugh, I’m so sorry, there’s been, your mother had an, ah, a heart attack and she died early this afternoon.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Now this was the voice of the ten-year-old. “What happened?”
Della related the story as quickly as she could, omitting the vomiting and emphasizing the lack of any previous symptoms.
“I just saw her last week. She was fine.” His father’s voice returned.
“I know,” Della said. “She was so happy to see you and the kids. And Melissa called just last night.”
“Oh, Jesus! Melissa! You haven’t called her, have you?”
“No, you’re the first one, really.”
“I’ll have to call her. And my uncles.” Della felt she could see him starting to scribble lists, his face scrunched in earnest wrinkles, his pen flowing in that same even, though more masculine, hand that Pauline had instilled in him. Even in crisis, Della guessed, maybe especially in crisis, Pauline’s children would tend to the details of order, harmony, and seasonal grace.
They agreed that he would contact the funeral home in Fort Worth to make arrangements to transport the body, and that she would fax him a list of friends that she and Kat would call from the Ladies Farm.
“This is Monday. The funeral will have to be Wednesday,” Hugh Jr. said.
“Yes.” She had not even thought about a funeral and she wanted to tell him no. Not for a few weeks, she would say. Give us a few weeks to get used to this.
You’re losing it, Della told herself, and made herself sit back in the chair, an old mahogany banker’s chair that Hugh
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