Photograph by Everett Collection Inc. | Dreamstime.com
The rain has stopped but a mist lingers in the already saturated air; hard to tell if it’s coming from low clouds above or rising from the warm pavement below. Pulling into the crowded funeral home parking lot, I see the line of mourners snaking all the way out the back door onto the wheelchair ramp.
Quite a turnout.
But then, this is the Mississippi Delta and everybody knows everybody or acts like they do. After years of stories and gossip, sometimes it’s hard to distinguish between the two. And at times like these, that’s a blessing.
I know this. I was born and raised right here. But since I don’t live here anymore, I forget, even though I only moved as far as Memphis.
Besides, waiting in line to pay my respects for Hunter Travers is okay with me. He was a good man, my boss. Always been good to me.
Blue paisley dress and purple pantsuit walk up behind me to take their place in line, already deep in conversation.
“Hon, you have no idea. These young people today, I have to remind them that sewing is an art, you can’t hurry it. I’ve a mind to stop taking in mending all together.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. If my daughter-in-law even knew how to thread a needle I’d faint.”
“My hair, this humid air is just gonna have its way with it. I swear if it don’t get hotter every year.”
“Hot enough to make a girdle catch fire.”
Giggles erupt. The line inches forward.
Giggles morph into an unsuccessful attempt to stifle infectious, don’t-you-know-you’re-in-church-or-somewhere-else-sacred laughter.
“Oh me,” breathes the guilty, fanning. “This always happens. Laughing when I shouldn’t. Seriously now, we have to stop.”
A moment of silence, then another snort and release of high-pitched laughter.
“See what you’ve gone and done? Oh, my soul. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I guess it’s what Aunt Charlene calls the vapors.”
More giggles. Then a few usually stoic Southern gentlemen chuckle, prompting a few good churchgoing souls to turn around, their serious faces making a statement.
For a moment, all is quiet. Giggles break free again.
The line moves. Purple pantsuit whispers to blue paisley.
“Did you hear? Just last week? What he did?”
“I don’t think I did.”
“What a mess. Virginia knew Hunter was running around. He’d come in at all hours, smelling of bad whiskey and singing. Lots of late so-called work meetings. She also swears her ruby dinner ring has gone missing. Rumor has it he gave it to one of these floozies. Who knows? He might have sold it and helped himself to a day in Tunica. Don’t that churn your butter? Anyway, Ginny usually just ignored him. More than once she locked the bedroom door and told him to sleep it off downstairs only to find his sorry self asleep at the foot of the door the next morning. Begging for aspirin and forgiveness.”
“That’s not a good thing …”
“Yes, and bringing in the horse was the last straw.”
“What horse?”
“His old horse, the one that used to pull the tool wagon.”
“What do you mean he brought it in?”
“Just that! Right in the parlor! Ginny was asleep and something woke her up. She turned on the light and opened the door and there, staring at her, upstairs now, mind you, was that horse.”
“And where was Hunter?”
“Nowhere to be seen. The front door was open, the horse was on the landing, and no Hunter.”
“How did she get the horse downstairs?”
The line moves around the corner.
Our section of the line is now inches from the grieving widow and Hunter himself, laid out in his Sunday best in a lovely oak coffin with a white silk lining, a faint smile on his face.
For a few moments, all is still.
Hushed tones behind me.
“You know, he was a handsome man.”
“I agree. They grew up next door to each other, you know.”
“Good thing he wasn’t ugly.” Suppressed giggles return.
The woman ahead of me is taking extra time with the widow, giving me the opportunity I’ve waited for.
I move closer, gently touching the delicate spray of carnations. I think of the last two years. I whisper a prayer.
Goodbye, Hunter.
I drop the ruby ring into the casket.
And I smile.
Laura Derrington started writing stories as a child, back when it called for a pencil and sheet of paper. Since then, her professional career has included writing feature articles, public relations, advertising, marketing, website, brand messaging, and a blog for people 50 and older, RockTheWrinkle.com. She still prefers a pencil.
SHORT AND SWEET (or not-so-sweet), the Very Short Story Contest welcomes entries of up to 750 words, maximum. Writers are encouraged to incorporate the city into their work. Winning stories will be published in Memphis and archived on memphismagazine.com. Whereas the fiction contest was in the past a once-a-year event, the Very Short Story Contest will recognize ten winning entries annually, every month except February and August. The Very Short Story Contest is presented by Novel, Memphis’ newest independent bookstore, where each winning author will be honored with a $200 gift certificate.
