at sixteen or seventeen. He’d been wounded in the Pacific, survived, then drifted around the world at various jobs in the shipping business. Seth lost contact with his younger brother decades earlier and never mentioned him. There was no way to contact Ancil and clearly no reason to do so. He was probably as dead as Seth.
They talked about some old family relatives, none of whom they’d seen in years, none of whom they wanted to see now. What a sad, curious family, Lettie thought as she served them a selection of cakes. It was shaping up to be a small and quick funeral service.
“Let’s get her outta here,” Herschel said when Lettie returned to the kitchen. “We’re getting ripped off at five bucks an hour.”
“We? Since when are we paying her?” Ramona asked.
“Oh, she’s on our clock now, one way or the other. Everything’s coming out of the estate.”
“I’m not cleaning the house, Herschel, are you?”
“Of course not.”
Ian spoke up: “Let’s play it cool, get through the funeral and all, tell her to clean the house, then we’ll lock it up when we leave on Wednesday.”
“Who tells her she’s out of a job?” Ramona asked.
“I’ll do it,” Herschel said. “No big deal. She’s just a maid.”
“There’s something fishy about her,” Ian said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but she acts like she knows something we don’t, something important. Ya’ll feel that way?”
“Definitely something in the air,” Herschel said, pleased to reach a rare agreement with his brother-in-law.
But Ramona disagreed: “No, it’s just the shock and the sadness. She’s one of the few people Seth could tolerate, or could tolerate him, and she’s sad he’s gone. That, and she’s about to lose her job.”
“You think she knows she’s about to be fired?” Herschel asked.
“I’m sure she’s worried.”
“She’s just a housekeeper.”
Lettie arrived home with a cake, one graciously given to her by Ramona. It was a flat, one-layer sheet cake coated with store-bought vanilla icing and laden with slices of toasted pineapple, without a doubt the least appealing of the half dozen arranged on Mr. Hubbard’s kitchen counter. It had been delivered by a man from the church who’d asked Lettie, among other things, if the family planned to sell Seth’s Chevrolet pickup truck. Lettie had no idea but promised to pass along the inquiry. She did not.
She had seriously considered tossing the cake into a ditch along the route home, but couldn’t bring herself to be so wasteful. Her mother was battling diabetes and did not need another load of sugar, if she in fact wanted to sample the cake.
Lettie parked in the gravel drive and noted that Simeon’s old truck was not there. She did not expect it since he’d been away for several days. She preferred him to be away, but she never knew from one day to the next. It was not a happy house in good times, and her husband rarely made things better.
The kids were still on the school bus somewhere, headed home. Lettie entered through the kitchen and placed the cake on the table. As always, she found Cypress in the den, watching television for the umpteenth hour in a row.
Cypress smiled and stretched her arms upward. “My baby,” she said. “How was your day?”
Lettie leaned down and gave her a polite hug. “Pretty busy. How was yours?”
“Just me and the shows,” Cypress replied. “How are the Hubbards dealin’ with their loss, Lettie? Please sit down and talk to me.”
Lettie turned off the television, sat on the stool next to her mother’s wheelchair, and talked about her day. Not a dull moment as Herschel and the Dafoes arrived and walked through their childhood home, with their father gone for the first time. Then the traffic, the neighbors and food and the endless parade. Quite an exciting day altogether, as Lettie spun things, careful to avoid any hint of trouble. Cypress’s blood pressure was barely held in check by a collection of
They talked about some old family relatives, none of whom they’d seen in years, none of whom they wanted to see now. What a sad, curious family, Lettie thought as she served them a selection of cakes. It was shaping up to be a small and quick funeral service.
“Let’s get her outta here,” Herschel said when Lettie returned to the kitchen. “We’re getting ripped off at five bucks an hour.”
“We? Since when are we paying her?” Ramona asked.
“Oh, she’s on our clock now, one way or the other. Everything’s coming out of the estate.”
“I’m not cleaning the house, Herschel, are you?”
“Of course not.”
Ian spoke up: “Let’s play it cool, get through the funeral and all, tell her to clean the house, then we’ll lock it up when we leave on Wednesday.”
“Who tells her she’s out of a job?” Ramona asked.
“I’ll do it,” Herschel said. “No big deal. She’s just a maid.”
“There’s something fishy about her,” Ian said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but she acts like she knows something we don’t, something important. Ya’ll feel that way?”
“Definitely something in the air,” Herschel said, pleased to reach a rare agreement with his brother-in-law.
But Ramona disagreed: “No, it’s just the shock and the sadness. She’s one of the few people Seth could tolerate, or could tolerate him, and she’s sad he’s gone. That, and she’s about to lose her job.”
“You think she knows she’s about to be fired?” Herschel asked.
“I’m sure she’s worried.”
“She’s just a housekeeper.”
Lettie arrived home with a cake, one graciously given to her by Ramona. It was a flat, one-layer sheet cake coated with store-bought vanilla icing and laden with slices of toasted pineapple, without a doubt the least appealing of the half dozen arranged on Mr. Hubbard’s kitchen counter. It had been delivered by a man from the church who’d asked Lettie, among other things, if the family planned to sell Seth’s Chevrolet pickup truck. Lettie had no idea but promised to pass along the inquiry. She did not.
She had seriously considered tossing the cake into a ditch along the route home, but couldn’t bring herself to be so wasteful. Her mother was battling diabetes and did not need another load of sugar, if she in fact wanted to sample the cake.
Lettie parked in the gravel drive and noted that Simeon’s old truck was not there. She did not expect it since he’d been away for several days. She preferred him to be away, but she never knew from one day to the next. It was not a happy house in good times, and her husband rarely made things better.
The kids were still on the school bus somewhere, headed home. Lettie entered through the kitchen and placed the cake on the table. As always, she found Cypress in the den, watching television for the umpteenth hour in a row.
Cypress smiled and stretched her arms upward. “My baby,” she said. “How was your day?”
Lettie leaned down and gave her a polite hug. “Pretty busy. How was yours?”
“Just me and the shows,” Cypress replied. “How are the Hubbards dealin’ with their loss, Lettie? Please sit down and talk to me.”
Lettie turned off the television, sat on the stool next to her mother’s wheelchair, and talked about her day. Not a dull moment as Herschel and the Dafoes arrived and walked through their childhood home, with their father gone for the first time. Then the traffic, the neighbors and food and the endless parade. Quite an exciting day altogether, as Lettie spun things, careful to avoid any hint of trouble. Cypress’s blood pressure was barely held in check by a collection of
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