Cemetery Silk. E. Joan Sims
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“What is it, Mother?”
“No, I don’t want to be a bother”
“Mother, please tell me what you want now. I know if you don’t ask me now you’ll want it later, so just let’s get it over with.”
“No, no, dear, it’s too much trouble, and you have so much planned for today.”
How did she know? Did she have some kind of radar?
“What plans? It’s raining. We can’t do anything until the rain stops.”
“I’m sure you and Cassie have something planned, don’t you?”
“Mother, I bet you could really eat a bigger breakfast, is that right? How about a nice shirred egg with cheddar on top just like you used to make for me? And some more pancakes, or maybe some buttered toast?”
“And some bacon, perhaps. There is some lovely Virginia bacon in the.…”
“I know,” I sighed. “I know.”
I trudged back to the kitchen. My energy was already reaching a low ebb, and it was only six forty-five. Twenty minutes later, I had the eggs, pancakes, preserves, and bacon on the tray with some fresh hot tea and toast.
My perky little ponytail had wilted, and I had a least two grease splatter burns on my hand and one on my cheek. I hated cooking and I was in a foul mood. I also knew that this was just the beginning. There would be no rest for the weary until Mother had decided she had punished me enough for calling the doctor.
When I got back to her room, I found that she had gone back to sleep. At first I was furious. I considered slamming the tray down on the night table hard enough to make her jump out of bed, but she looked so much better. The strain was already gone from around her eyes and mouth. She had that gift of a true Southern woman: to look years younger after a good night’s sleep. I put the tray down softly, grabbed the toast, and tiptoed out. I closed the door to her bedroom and her sitting room behind me.
Cassie was in the kitchen pouring honey over plain vanilla yogurt in slow golden squiggles.
“Wow, that looks good.”
“It’s certainly better for you than all that bacon you cooked and burned. There’s grease everywhere! Just breathing the air in here could give you a coronary. Really, Mom, you have to learn to eat more sensibly.”
I looked down at the half-eaten toast corner in my hand that was my entire breakfast.
“You are absolutely right, dear. I’ll try and do better.”
I went to get the cleaning supplies from the storeroom under the stairs. My daughter had always been extremely respectful of that spooky old closet. Meaning she always had some excuse not to go under there. This time Cassie said she would find some nice background music on the radio. I did not argue. I just hoped that I would not have to mop and dust to some heavy metal screech that would drive me insane.
I dragged all the mops and brooms and brushes and pails into the front hallway and dumped them in the middle of the Oriental rug. I started sorting through the buckets to find wax and dust cloths and was pleasantly surprised to hear the rhythmic strains of Glenn Miller coming from the living room.
“Wow, Mom! They have the big band channel.”
To the TV generation there were no stations, only channels.
“I love this stuff, don’t you, Mom. Did you ever hear of a group called The Andrews Sisters? They are just the greatest.”
Amazed and bemused I swung and swayed behind my daughter as we mopped and waxed and dusted to the tunes by which her grandparents courted. We had a ball. Cassie and I made each other wax and polish everything until we were ready to arrange the furniture in the living room to suit ourselves. We had seen the room look exactly the same way all of our lives. We itched to move things around now that we had a chance.
Try as we might, moving and pushing and sweating, we had no luck. The two big yellow flower print chintz sofas did not look good anywhere except in their long accustomed places on each side of the fireplace with the low Queen Anne table in between. And so we moved everything back from vase to rug and plopped down on freshly plumped yellow down cushions to marvel at our industry. I hopped back up immediately when a sharp poke in the rear called a broken sofa spring to my painful attention. Cassie leaned back and stretched, dreamily unaware of my predicament.
“Looks great, huh, Mom?”
“I’ll say.” Mother stood in the doorway looking like an ad for Ralph Lauren in jeans and chambray shirt with a perky red bandanna around her hair.
“How about some lunch now that you have validated my decor? You are evil, wicked children! At least you had the decency not to slip me another one of those sedatives that dreadful Doctor Morbus ordered.”
“Mother, you look great. And yes, you are as right about decorating as you are about everything else.”
“Thank you, for the compliment, Paisley. At least I think so,” she replied. “Maybe after lunch you will let me convince you that some big weasel has been up to no good. If you promise not to call in the entire medical profession of Rowan Springs or send me to a home for the dim-witted and simple.”
“Really, Mother, that’s unfair!” I argued. “I was just worried about you. You were very, very upset.”
“Well, wouldn’t you be very, very upset if you had just figured out there was a possibility that some greedy villain might have done away with your dear, sweet cousin so he could abscond with her sick old husband’s money?”
“Oh!” Cassie and I said together. We were stunned! Neither of us had thought of that little angle.
“Now, let’s go have some lunch,” she said brightly. “You all look exhausted.”
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