The guests rose as we passed, following Reverend Moore, up the steps and into the chapel to seats reserved for us. I didn’t see Matthew anywhere and I worried then that he had left.
On the altar’s right side were our four musicians, three violinists and a cellist, all of them from the Southcoast Symphony in Charleston, led by Dawn Durst, the Canadian virtuoso who had played all over the world to rave reviews. I couldn’t tell you exactly what they were playing, but I was grateful that it was not a mournful dirge. I had wisely left the musical selection to Ms. Durst.
I sat next to Eric and Richard was on his other side. The girls, to our relief, had not made a fuss about attending the service or sitting with their father or acknowledging his grief. I suspected they still harbored some measure of guilt for how badly they had treated Rusty. I hoped they were giving that serious thought because Amelia and Belle, but most especially Linnie, needed to develop adult consciences. And even though I knew they wished their family was still intact, they recognized the depth of their father’s grief and finally felt some sympathy for him. And poor Chloe; she sat in her pew crying and crying asking everyone how they got Rusty into the urn. When Belle and Linnie told her, she cried even harder. I guess the details of cremation were pretty gruesome news for a child to hear. Poor kid.
Poor Trip. He was right in front of me. I leaned forward and put my hand on his shoulder, letting it rest there for a few minutes. He reached his hand up and patted mine.
It was a lovely service. Reverend Moore led us in prayer and quoted the Bible many times as he gave a short eulogy, talking about how we could take comfort that Rusty was in heaven with God, where she belonged. I worried that Trip might get up and give him a good pop in his jaw. He did not. But it was Owen who gave the more personal eulogy, talking about all the support Rusty gave him when he struggled in school with undiagnosed dyslexia and a string of other learning-style differences. He swore that it was her generosity of spirit, her patience, and her love that allowed him to put his fear of failure aside and try other methods for studying until they found the right compensating skills, ones that led to success for him and a career teaching learning-disabled children for her.
“Rusty found a home here in the Lowcountry of South Carolina and, I confess, this
is
the most unbelievably beautiful place in America.”
That one remark endeared him to us for all of eternity.
“And, she found a loving home with the Wimbleys. She adored you, Trip . . .”
I saw my brother’s shoulders begin to convulse and I knew he was weeping. I put my hand on his shoulder again and Richard reached over and offered him his handkerchief. Richard wasn’t
completely
good for nothing after all. What do you know?
Suddenly I noticed that Millie and Mr. Jenkins were standing to the side of us in their choir robes! I should’ve known Millie wasn’t going to let us have some painful, dreary service. This was precisely why we loved her so. Millie knew how to provide the right balance. When Owen was finished and stepped down, she and Mr. Jenkins went to the platform and stepped up. Millie spoke to Dawn Durst.
“Can you gimme a E flat on that thing?”
“Yes, ma’am?” she said, and played an E flat.
Millie hummed until she was in perfect pitch with the note. Then Mr. Jenkins took out his harmonica and began to play, Millie singing the verse and Mr. Jenkins pausing to sing the refrain. They gave us an old-fashioned gospel-music rendition of “Free at Last” with incredible optimism and rocked the house. One by one, we stood and clapped until everyone, inside and outside, was on their feet clapping and singing along.
Way down yonder in the graveyard walk
I thank God I’m free at last!
Me and my Jesus going to meet and talk
I thank God I’m free at last!
They sang every verse they knew twice and slowed down at the end for Mr. Jenkins to let his harmonica wail with joyous strains of hope and promise.
“We done sent Miss Rusty to Gawd today!” he said, speaking out loudly to the congregation, who clapped some more. “Yes, we did!”
“Hush! I told you, no talking!” Millie whispered loud enough for us to hear. “You agreed!”
“Humph. At my age? I says what I want!”
No matter how sad we may have been, we all had a smile on our faces. It was the perfect end to the perfect service. Reverend Moore gave a general blessing to everyone and we began to file out, shaking hands with many old friends as we went. We went slowly so that Millie and Mr. Jenkins would have time to get home before us and put all the staff on notice.
On the way back to the house, as we rolled along the uneven ground, I was thinking about Rusty and how good she had been for Eric and all the other young faces I saw in the crowd who were probably touched by her as well.
“She was a heckuva gal,” I said.
“She sure was,” Eric said. “I’ll miss her.”
“I could use a little hair of the dog,” Richard said.
Eric looked at me with uncertainty. His generation used other terms to describe the cure for a hangover, which was another cocktail, of course.
“A dwinky,” I said. “Daddy’s a little green around the gills.”
“Ah,” said Eric. “Hung.”
“Yes,” I said. “Be extra nice to him.”
“Thank you,” Richard said.
I wondered if Richard was simply too ill to pursue his intentions or had he changed his mind? There had not been a grab or a feel from him all day. He was awfully subdued.
As we stepped off our golf carts, waiters were there to offer us a choice of wine or champagne and told us there was a full bar on the veranda. We were hardly inside the house before we were offered sandwiches and all sorts of other delicacies. Richard, who had rushed ahead of us, had found the bar and procured a scotch, popping hors d’oeuvres in his mouth along the way, nodding his surprise and approval at each one.
“This is pretty swanky fare for the boonies, darling. However did you pull it off?”
“This is not the boonies, Richard. What’s the matter with you?”
“Sorry,” he said, but the elevation of his eyebrows said,
Yes, it is
.
He was not sorry one bit. From the very first second that the scotch hit his bloodstream, the old Richard, the insufferable one I didn’t like anymore? Yeah, that one was back.
I looked across the crowded room and thought I saw Josh Welton, Eric’s old tutor and my former, um, we had a brief, um, unbelievably smoking-hot night or two years ago. Yes, it was him, Dreadlock Man, Dr. Kama Sutra, Lama Tantric Yoga, and he was coming toward me. I had not seen him in aeons. I wondered what he was up to and hoped it might be, well,
me,
but then I remembered why I really, really didn’t like him. Nonetheless, I sucked in my stomach and corrected my posture.
“Caroline!” he said. “How are you?” He took both of my hands in his and kissed them. “You look amazing!”
“Well, thanks. How’s life?”
“Dull,” he said. “My love life is the Sahara.”
“Whoa. Don’t tell me you’re at a funeral trolling for action.”
“No, I’m here because I thought the world of Rusty Peretti. But if you want to have dinner next week, I’m around.”
“We’ll see.”
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?”
“Now, why in the world would I be mad with you, Josh?”
“Because I probably wasn’t as sensitive as I could have been when your mother passed away. I apologize again.”
“Oh, Josh. Listen, I’m not mad at anybody. It’s bad karma to hold a grudge.” There had to be at least one hundred people in the living room, dining room, and hall, never mind all the people on the veranda. I could hardly hear him and I certainly didn’t want anyone else to hear me, so I leaned in. “Here’s what I think, Josh. You’re a great guy. You’re a fascinating guy. But you know what? You’re a little prick. Not as big of a prick as my ex-husband, but a prick all the same. Excuse me.”
“Wait a minute. That’s not nice, Caroline.”
“No. It’s not. Let me put it another way. You know the old story about the scorpion and the turtle?”
“Help me.”
“Okay. The scorpion and the turtle come to a river and the scorpion says, ‘Listen, Mr. Turtle, I can’t swim and I need a ride across this river. Can you help me?’ Well, the turtle knows scorpions can’t swim but he also knows that the scorpion will sting him and that sting will kill him and they’ll both drown, so he points that out. The scorpion says, ‘Oh, no, no! I won’t sting you! I swear!’ So reluctantly, the turtle lets the scorpion get on his back. They get about halfway across the river, and sure enough, the scorpion stings the turtle. As the turtle is dying he says, ‘Why’d you do that? Now we’re both gonna die!’ And the scorpion says, ‘Because I’m a scorpion and I couldn’t help myself.’ ”
“And that’s why you won’t see me? Because I’m a scorpion?”
I glanced to the other side of the room and could’ve sworn I saw Bobby Mack. He was headed my way, too, looking fully recovered, robust, much thinner, and ready to take on the devil. Fine by me, because for some reason, I was
full
of the devil.
“No, you’re a prick, but there’s not much difference to me. Both pricks and scorpions hurt people and really don’t care. And that’s not an opinion. It’s a statement of fact. Now I gotta go see a man about a pig. Excuse me.”
I could hear Miss Lavinia gasp the whole way from heaven, but then I heard her laugh. It was her all right. I had waited ten years to tell Josh that some things were simply unforgivable. He shouldn’t have been a scorpion when I was mourning Miss Lavinia.
Bobby Mack was standing right in front of me.
“Darlin’, baby boy! Look at you! You look absolutely grand! The picture of health! How are you doing?”
I just adored Bobby Mack and I always would.
He hugged me like the ferocious old papa bear he was and said, “Caroline? I’m coming back! For a time I thought it was lights-out for me, but it’s not! I’m just so happy to be alive! Now tell me, how’re you all doing with this terrible, terrible loss? Rusty was a fine woman. Oh my God. What an awful shock!”
“Horrible. This is just unbelievable, isn’t it? We’re all so sad.”
“How’s Trip?”
“Trip is totally devastated.”
“Poor bastard. I sent him twenty pounds of baby backs. I hope he enjoyed them.”
“I know you did. That was so sweet of you. We’re serving them today.”
“That’s not my ribs on the table over there with all that nasty rub on them, is it?”
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “Owen, Rusty’s brother, fixed them last night—some midwestern secret barbecue rub.”
“What?” Bobby Mack’s color was rising along with his voice. “I didn’t even recognize them! Why, it’s sacrilege!”
Jesus H. Christ! Don’t have a stroke! Please! Not at my house!
“Darlin’! Come on now!” I linked my arm through his and navigated him away from the platters. “I’m inclined to agree, but you know, sweetums, not everyone understands how to treat a pig like we do. And it’s her brother, you know? He wanted to do something. Tough day for him, too, and all. Don’t say anything, okay?”
He made a concerted effort to calm his breathing and threw his hands in the air. “No, no! I won’t say a word. But on my soul, it’s a terrible crime.”
“I know, baby,” I said.
As soon as I walked away, Matthew appeared out of thin air and was standing by my side.
“Where were you? I couldn’t find you!”
“You had your hands full. But I was there. Beautiful service,” he said, “but it’s awfully crowded in here. Want to step outside?”
We got a drink at the bar and walked away from the house. Something was bothering him.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Look, this may not be the time or place to bring this up, but I just want to ask you a question.”
“Sure! What’s up?”
“Do you think Chloe still wants a puppy?”
“What? That child needs one something terrible!”
“Well, I’ve got one in my car. That cocker spaniel she was supposed to get? She’s in a crate with food and a collar and a leash . . . ?”
I stood back and stared at him. It was the last thing I expected.
“I saw the paperwork lying around in Trip’s kitchen, so I called the breeder and she drove her up here. The puppy’s had all her shots and all that stuff. What?”
I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him as hard as I could.
“Oh, Matthew! I think I love you, Matthew! I really do think I do!”
“Well, this is excellent news,” he said, and hugged me back.
T
HE OLD FOLKS IN THE
Lowcountry used to say that if we lived long enough we’d see everything. They may or may not have been wrong, but I sure have seen a lot of things happen that I never thought would come to pass. Let’s start with the convoluted, self-serving reasons for Richard’s visit.