Soleville

Soleville

By Teresa Hubley

Copyright 2011 Teresa Hubley

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter One

I never saw four inch heels on a corpse before. This is not to mention the pointy toes and the ankle straps. As if they were not enough by themselves, they were apparently to match the ruffly turquoise dress worn by the deceased. In life, I’d never seen that dress and a certain part of me was grateful to be seeing it for the last time. A few of the more honest mourners rolled their eyes. At least the shoes were made by Shawcross. I kept repeating that to myself.

Someone nearby muttered, She looks so sweet….just like she’s sleeping. You could only say that if you never saw her sleeping (as if anyone sleeps in heels). As for me, I can truly say I paid my dues in the years I was married to Julie Shawcross. I never backed out of a single family event or visit, not even the string of grim pilgrimages to the side of the family head as she lay dying. I saw her sleeping many a time in those days and I would disagree with any one of my compatriots.

Based on my experience, Moira Shawcross looked only slightly better as a corpse than she had as an old matriarch. At the viewing, Moira’s mouth appeared shriveled and pinched in death and her cheeks sunken. She had been bloated and her mouth had hung perpetually open in the last few months of her so-called life. That loud dress and those vixen shoes may have been a social butterfly’s last request, but someone (I wondered who…) should have thought better of the whole package (and the open casket in general). I felt more repulsed than peace-filled by her visage. I had to will the image to back out of my brain as I tried to listen to the priest at the graveside ceremony.

Moira Shawcross was a good woman.

It must be tough to eulogize someone you never met. Moira was too sick to attend mass for the entirety of Father Mann’s tenure in the local parish. He met her at the end, when she was a silent, immobile mass of flesh. During her active life as the head of the company where I worked, Shawcross Shoes, she was good in the sense that she could have been worse.

She will be greatly missed by those who loved her.

This could be true. I wouldn’t know.

Moira was a pillar of the community.

If by this he meant she was unavoidable, I agree. She was on every board and committee in town. I was known more as the husband of Moira’s great-granddaughter than as myself. Before I got married, I was nobody. I was just Cliffton Washburn, or more likely Whasis (actually my father-in-law still calls me by this name, and many others, after more than a decade). In our town, it didn’t matter much what you yourself did but mattered a whole lot what your family had done, especially if they did it several generations back. The Shawcross family built their shoe empire right here a hundred and some years ago, forged on a proud tradition of child labor and union bashing. That empire formed the backbone of the town (as they’d never let you forget). What did the Washburns ever do by those standards?

In the end, I could not stop myself from wondering what I was doing at the funeral, how I made it all the way to the graveside. The rain chilled me right to the bone. I could have been doing so many other productive or pleasant things with my time. At least I could have been dry and comfortable, instead of holding an umbrella over my mother-in-law as she wept.

She didn’t feel my elbow shaking over her. I had one hand wrapped around that icy metal rod, holding the umbrella in the middle to steady it against the wind. The water poured straight off the side and into my face, dripping off my chin in a trailing waterfall. My other hand stayed slightly warmer in the pocket of my suit coat but the water seeped into the pocket as well, snuffing out the pleasant dryness in that one corner of my body. At least the shoes were Shawcross. Too bad the waterproofing had long worn out.

In death, our beloved sister can finally rest from her earthly toils. As you pay her your respects, she gives you one more gift, a glimpse of the peace of eternal love.

The rain slowed to a spotty sprinkle as we trudged up to pay our last respects, happily to a now-closed coffin. Once by the coffin’s side, Tiffany Shawcross, whom I had been escorting all day, buckled at the knees and let out a wail, steadying herself with a hand on the coffin’s handle. I saw that my job was to haul her away but I couldn’t resist stepping back and staring at her in morbid fascination. Julie grunted and stepped around me, boosting her mother’s sagging form.

Come on, Mother, Julie whispered.

Her brother, Alden Shawcross III (known as Trey), swooped in to help her, fixing me with a laser-sharp glare.

Both Julie and Trey favored the willowy, blonde part of the clan. They looked for a moment like refugees from a fashion doll convention, dressed in matching black, their hair and manicures precisely honed. A coldness spilled off them like a draft, directed at any onlookers unlucky enough to have been born outside the family circle. That included me, of course.

Brother and sister dragged their mother away, crooning to her as she cried.

Mother…you know Gran has gone on to a better place, Julie soothed.

Either way, that’s probably true.

I noticed for the first time, now that I was no longer burdened with Tiffany’s wheezing dead weight, that every other person I saw, perhaps more, sported a pair of Shawcross shoes. One pair of shiny, tan oxfords with pointed toes, I noticed, seemed intent on walking straight up to me. I turned my eyes upright and discovered the grinning face of Junior, AKA Alden Shawcross II, my father-in-law. Some conveniently timed ‘previous engagement’ had delayed him long enough so that he could avoid the implosion of his bride, not to mention the entire service. He even brought a patch of blue sky and a peek of sun in his wake. The rain slowed to a drip as he approached.

Junior grinned and sauntered along as if he had just sunk the crucial putt on a game with a lot of money at stake. I didn’t doubt it was possible.

Dry your tears, my dear, Junior said, knocking Tiffany’s cheekbone with his knuckle.

She was so full of life, Tiffany whimpered. What will we do without her?

Ohhhh, she’d have wanted us to have loads of fun, sugar-pie.

Despite the dress and shoes in which she was buried, I did not have the impression Moira wanted anyone to have fun. No matter what you wanted to do, she had an example of someone who was killed or maimed for life doing it. To her, that was the moral of the story. Unbridled fun will cost you, big time, just as it had Alden the First. The only good fun was, as one of my daughter’s magazines put it, fun with a purpose. Best to keep it confined to very strict contexts (the back of the closet, the occasional party, etc.) and only to the select groups of people who knew how to uncork it without hurting anyone.

She never seemed to think I was one of those people. Instead, she kept me at arm’s length and praised me only for the more staid and humorless me that presided in the office, never letting me into the closet or the party unless Julie monitored my behavior. At work, Moira would sweep down on me and clap me on the shoulder in full view of my scowling co-workers and say, That’s the spirit, Cliff. A little hard work never killed anyone.

I personally think it killed Moira herself, but it took its sweet old time and came unexpectedly in turquoise. As for me, I was always bewildered about what I was supposedly working so hard at that it endeared Moira to me but hope to this day she was right about it not being lethal. I worked for Shawcross as a marketing analyst, toiling deep in the cubicle maze at international headquarters. I handed out sunny reports that told the Shawcross brass what they preferred to hear and did my best to stay out of everyone’s way. Junior and his sister, Mimi, the titular head of the company in Moira’s extended absence, fought often about me, sometimes in careless earshot. Moira’s affection for me always won the day. Until this day, I imagined.

Tiffany sighed deeply and said, Your grandmother was like a rock. She anchored us, Junior. I feel so empty without her. I feel like only a very big change can make it right again.

You make a good point, pet, Junior said. He nodded and swept his eyes across the crowd. I got the impression he was doing the same as I had done, checking out the shoes. I think this family and this company are in for a total make-over.

I felt lucky to have my side connections just then, the little community groups that had used me to promote local events. They could offer very little in pay but they loved my work and would be happy to have more of it. I could go into business for myself, shake my work life loose of the grasping hold of the Shawcross clan and get back into the design work that was more to my taste.

I stuffed down the tiny thought that snuck across my brain right behind that vision of career freedom. Would they also expect me to hand their daughter back over, along with the keys to the office? Some days that stray suspicion thrilled me. When my rational mind took hold, however, I realized that one major upheaval at a time made more sense. I was undecided in those days about Julie but figured I’d have plenty of time to come to a conclusion. With a child in the picture, I preferred the cautious approach.

My mind laid back on the soft support of the daydream that maybe my masters would see fit to cut me loose (ah, freedom). I sat down in a damp chair and rolled my eyes back up in my head, closing them under the shade of my hand and smoothing my grin into an if-only grimace.

Tiffany murmured, Look at poor Cliff. He was so close to that old woman…

Trey snickered somewhere nearby and said, He doesn’t know how to walk without someone holding his leash.

Without opening my eyes, I muttered, At least I’m not in need of a muzzle and a….good flea dip.

Shush! Julie hissed. Show some respect! This is a family funeral, Cliff!

Sorry, I replied. I felt the vacuum caused by her sudden retreat.

A voice I couldn’t place whispered, Hope the old bat didn’t leave anything to him in her will.

Another voice rejoined, Why else would he visit her so many times in that smelly old nursing home they stuck her in? And don’t forget. The old lady adored him for some reason.

The word will topped the list of most often heard words at the funeral. I suspected the show of family merchandise had a connection, as if Moira could look down from a cloud somewhere and remark, Well done! I’ll put you in for a few thousand or Mimi could say, I see you’ve got the trail hiker with the canvas trim. Let me rewrite the will a little. I wore my only pair of Shawcross shoes (a pair of long broken-in loafers) that day, not because I wanted to show my family spirit, but because, in spite of all the hype, they were the most comfortable shoes I owned that weren’t more suited to the beach.

Trey’s wife, Pepper, came along, just as I had succeeded in shutting the world out, and lowered herself into the chair beside me. She occupied herself at first with her compact mirror, rubbing away the shiny patches that had gathered around her cheekbones. I glimpsed her through half-open eyes, hoping she would not notice that I was conscious. She wrinkled her nose and then smiled at me, green eyes swimming in a mysterious backlight. Beside Julie, she seemed old before her time and frayed around the edges, like a pair of jeans that someone had worn every day for a year and washed frequently. I liked that about her. She never bothered to cover the gray sneaking into her mousy tresses and stuck to glasses when everyone else wore contacts. Unlike most of the women present, she didn’t feel obliged to remind the world she had breasts.

Hey, Cliffie, she said. What do you think of the proceedings?

Predictable, I said. But entertaining. I give it three thumbs up.

Pepper chortled her husky, tomboy laugh. I like your style, Cliffie. I knew you’d cheer me up.

Are you sad? I asked.

Yeah. I missed a great episode of ‘My Favorite Martian’ to come here.

"Never speak ill around the dead, Pepper. They have ways."

You’re right, I suppose. I keep forgetting you were Moira’s pet.

We had things in common, mostly the fact that no one wanted us around.

Trey stormed over and announced to Pepper that she had to bring their son to football practice. She parted with a nod in my direction and wandered away, arm in arm with her husband. In the brief few second that his eyes met mine, I saw fear giving away to rage. I sent a few good thoughts Pepper’s way in hopes that the rage was not meant for her. I didn’t mind taking it on myself, but I couldn’t stand the thought that Pepper might suffer for whatever warped reality Trey made out of seeing us talk like old friends. I couldn’t tell whether Trey hated me for making his wife happy or his wife for daring to talk to me. No reason why it couldn’t have been both.

Chapter Two

I had no intention of going to the reading of the will and my wife knew it without even asking. Julie grumbled through the preparation of the coffee that morning, grinding her teeth along with the beans. Typical Cliff, she muttered, before I said a word. I knew you’d back out.

Julie had no understanding of what it was like to be someone who didn’t belong, since she was born to a dynasty. Much as everyone made of my being Moira's pet, I knew the old girl still thought of me as an interloper and would have done no more than throw me a small bone in her will. After all, the Washburn family moved here only in the sixties to go back to the land (as if they’d ever been on it in the first place). My mother still sells her homemade and home-canned goods at the food co-op she and Dad started all those years ago. I’m afraid, though, our roots just don’t run deep enough. We are still outsiders, and we would have stayed that way, if I had just kept my distance from Julie Shawcross.

I first saw her cutting across the massive, tidy lawn at the private school, her eyes trained on me with curiosity and desire. She wore her hair up as if she was on her way to a fancy reception. She was the first person I ever saw wearing kilties and they looked strange to me, old fashioned on the one hand and completely different on the other. I wore old work boots that day as I trudged along in jeans and a denim shirt, walking the six miles home because my parents thought I wasn’t ready for my own vehicle and theirs was needed on the farm. I may have been dowdy and unwashed but she was the one behind the fence, pacing like an animal. She put her hand out through the bars and said, Hey, kid. Do you want to go to a dance?

I knew without asking that I was somebody’s punishment, revenge on a heartbreaker, the obscene gesture for a jilted admirer. I was not being asked for any quality of my own other than not being him and not being one of them. I knew darn well that was true but I went anyway. I couldn’t help myself. For a public school kid who lived in the shadow of the Shawcross clan, it was the chance of a lifetime. I spent most of my time by the time of Moira’s funeral trying to find that look on Julie’s face again. She spent most of hers staring off in a stupor, thinking of something else.

Why do you need me to go? I wondered out loud. I folded the paper to the Sudoku puzzle and dove in.

It's just like you, Cliff, to give me no support when I need it, Julie shot back. She kept her eyes trained on her task and yet fumbled, spilling water down the side of the coffee maker.

I certainly paid my dues at the funeral, I replied. And everything else. There. I said it.

That's not the worst of this thing, she told me. Today, I'm going to sit in that room with all those people staring me down and hear about my future. It could be the most humiliating day of my life.

It could be that Julie would be more humiliated if Moira left me something after all.

I suppose I should be there to show my support, I said, chewing on my pencil.

Only you could make that sound unvirtuous, Julie growled. If this is some kind of reverse psychology, it just failed. You're going!

Uh, like I just said.

Don't push the envelope, Cliff.

I'd better change my clothes or I'll humiliate you further.

You said it.

I was reluctant to leave, though, as the smell of the brewing coffee filled the room with its rich, expansive essence. She had chosen my favorite, a roast blend with a hint of mocha. I put down the paper and meandered to the counter.

Julie grunted at me as I leaned over her shoulder, pulling the scent of the coffee deep into my nostrils. I rested my hand on the counter, just under the sleeve of her robe. Our bodies did not touch. Inside the smell of the coffee drifted the smell of Julie's freshly washed hair, sweet and crisp. I reminded myself that once I used to drag her scent in, just as I now did with the coffee. Was coffee becoming my mate now in later life, replacing the charms of the flesh that once occupied the core of our relationship?

I pressed my nose against Julie's shoulder and she muttered, Cliff...go get dressed. She rolled her shoulder, throwing me off.

A small throat cleared itself in the room and I raised my head to the presence of our daughter, Lacey, ten years old. She had inherited her mother's blonde hair, which she wore