front of people’s eyes—”
“And I’ve never forgiven him for that. Nobody ever really got to tell Becky goodbye,” Miss Tennyson was saying at the same time. “But honey, your father’s a Mount Salus man. He’s a McKelva. A public figure. You can’t deprive the public, can you? Oh, he’s lovely.”
“I would like him away from their eyes,” said Laurel.
“It is Mrs. McKelva’s desire that the coffin be open,” said Mr. Pitts.
“See there? You can’t deprive Fay,” said Miss Tennyson. “That settles that.” She held out her arms, inviting the room.
Laurel took up her place in front of the coffin, near the head, and stood to meet them as they came.
First they embraced her, and then they stood and looked down at her father. The bridesmaids and their husbands, the whole crowd of them, had gone from the first grade through high school graduation together,and they still stood solid. So did her father’s crowd—the County Bar, the elders of the church, the Hunting and Fishing Club cronies; though they seemed to adhere to their own kind, they slowly moved in place, as if they made up the rim of a wheel that slowly turned itself around the hub of the coffin and would bring them around again.
“May I see him?” the Presbyterian minister’s wife asked right and left as she elbowed her way in, as if Judge McKelva’s body were the new baby. She gazed on him lying there, for a minute. “And here I’d been waiting to see who it was I was saving my Virginia ham for,” she said, turning to Laurel and squeezing her around the waist. “It was your mother first told me how I could harness one of those and get it cooked so it was fit for anybody to eat. Well, it’s headed right for your kitchen.” She nodded back to the coffin. “I’m afraid my husband’s running a little late. You know people like this don’t die every day in the week. He’s sitting home in his bathrobe now, tearing his hair, trying to do him justice.”
“Why, here’s Dot,” said Miss Adele, posted at the front door.
To everyone in town, she was known simply as Dot. She came in with her nonchalant, twenties stalk on her high heels.
“I couldn’t resist,” she said in her throaty baritone as she approached the coffin.
She must have been seventy. She had been Judge McKelva’sprivate secretary for years and years. When he retired, her feelings had been hurt. Of course, he’d seen to it that she was eased into another job, but she had never forgiven him.
“When I first came to work for him,” said Dot, looking at him now, “I paid thirty-five dollars of my salary to a store in Jackson for a set of Mah Johng. It was on sale from a hundred dollars. I really can’t to this very day understand myself. But, ‘Why, Dot,’ this sweet man says, ‘I don’t see anything so specially the matter with giving yourself a present. I hope you go ahead and enjoy it. Don’t reproach yourself like that. You’re distressing my ears,’ he says. I’ll never forget his kind words of advice.”
“Mah Johng!” gasped Miss Tennyson Bullock. “Great Day in the Morning, I’d forgotten about it.”
Dot gave her a bitter look, almost as if she’d said she’d forgotten about Judge McKelva. “Tennyson,” she said across his body, “I’m never going to speak to you again.”
Somebody had lit the fire, although the day was mild and the room close now, filling with more and more speaking, breathing people.
“Yes, a fire seemed called for,” said Major Bullock. He came up to Laurel and scraped his face against hers as though his were numb. His breath had its smell of Christmas morning—it was whiskey. “Fairest, most impartial, sweetest man in the whole Mississippi Bar,” he said, his gaze wavering, seeming to avoid Judge McKelva’sface, going only to the hand that had been placed like a closed satchel at his tailored side. “How soon is that poor little woman going to bring herself downstairs?”
“Eventually,” Miss
“And I’ve never forgiven him for that. Nobody ever really got to tell Becky goodbye,” Miss Tennyson was saying at the same time. “But honey, your father’s a Mount Salus man. He’s a McKelva. A public figure. You can’t deprive the public, can you? Oh, he’s lovely.”
“I would like him away from their eyes,” said Laurel.
“It is Mrs. McKelva’s desire that the coffin be open,” said Mr. Pitts.
“See there? You can’t deprive Fay,” said Miss Tennyson. “That settles that.” She held out her arms, inviting the room.
Laurel took up her place in front of the coffin, near the head, and stood to meet them as they came.
First they embraced her, and then they stood and looked down at her father. The bridesmaids and their husbands, the whole crowd of them, had gone from the first grade through high school graduation together,and they still stood solid. So did her father’s crowd—the County Bar, the elders of the church, the Hunting and Fishing Club cronies; though they seemed to adhere to their own kind, they slowly moved in place, as if they made up the rim of a wheel that slowly turned itself around the hub of the coffin and would bring them around again.
“May I see him?” the Presbyterian minister’s wife asked right and left as she elbowed her way in, as if Judge McKelva’s body were the new baby. She gazed on him lying there, for a minute. “And here I’d been waiting to see who it was I was saving my Virginia ham for,” she said, turning to Laurel and squeezing her around the waist. “It was your mother first told me how I could harness one of those and get it cooked so it was fit for anybody to eat. Well, it’s headed right for your kitchen.” She nodded back to the coffin. “I’m afraid my husband’s running a little late. You know people like this don’t die every day in the week. He’s sitting home in his bathrobe now, tearing his hair, trying to do him justice.”
“Why, here’s Dot,” said Miss Adele, posted at the front door.
To everyone in town, she was known simply as Dot. She came in with her nonchalant, twenties stalk on her high heels.
“I couldn’t resist,” she said in her throaty baritone as she approached the coffin.
She must have been seventy. She had been Judge McKelva’sprivate secretary for years and years. When he retired, her feelings had been hurt. Of course, he’d seen to it that she was eased into another job, but she had never forgiven him.
“When I first came to work for him,” said Dot, looking at him now, “I paid thirty-five dollars of my salary to a store in Jackson for a set of Mah Johng. It was on sale from a hundred dollars. I really can’t to this very day understand myself. But, ‘Why, Dot,’ this sweet man says, ‘I don’t see anything so specially the matter with giving yourself a present. I hope you go ahead and enjoy it. Don’t reproach yourself like that. You’re distressing my ears,’ he says. I’ll never forget his kind words of advice.”
“Mah Johng!” gasped Miss Tennyson Bullock. “Great Day in the Morning, I’d forgotten about it.”
Dot gave her a bitter look, almost as if she’d said she’d forgotten about Judge McKelva. “Tennyson,” she said across his body, “I’m never going to speak to you again.”
Somebody had lit the fire, although the day was mild and the room close now, filling with more and more speaking, breathing people.
“Yes, a fire seemed called for,” said Major Bullock. He came up to Laurel and scraped his face against hers as though his were numb. His breath had its smell of Christmas morning—it was whiskey. “Fairest, most impartial, sweetest man in the whole Mississippi Bar,” he said, his gaze wavering, seeming to avoid Judge McKelva’sface, going only to the hand that had been placed like a closed satchel at his tailored side. “How soon is that poor little woman going to bring herself downstairs?”
“Eventually,” Miss
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