“Who knows, Claire-bear, who knows.”
Sandy gave her hand a squeeze. “No matter what happens, you will always have a place with Walter and me. Cousin Norah and I were closer than sisters.”
“And Clem’s—was—my best friend.” The hitch in his voice made Claire look up. His eyes were as damp as his face was pinched.
“Aw, damn it, Walter, you’re making me cry. Come hell or high water, we will honor Clem and make this the best display ever.”
The crying stopped, at least on one side of the table. “Okay, Kiddo, but watch the swearing. Your Grandma Norah would have pulled out the soap.”
“I had half a mind to run inside and find some.” Sandy was not the type to kid.
“Sorry. That’s the problem with hanging out with old sailors like you. You learn to swear like one.”
“Touché.” Walter graveled.
“That’s no excuse.”
Walter pressed his palm on the picnic table. “Of course not, my dear, it’s French.”
Sandy put her hands on her hips and glared at husband, but the smile dancing on her lips belied her real feelings. She had sported that same look in one of the photographs setting on the occasional table in the upstairs hall. The one with Sandy and Walter and Norah and Clem dressed up in costume as 1920s Flappers and Gangsters. They all looked so young, happy, and carefree in that photo. She’d even recast the photo as a scene for a California train installation of Hollywood’s golden era. That photo had been taken when their children were still young enough that Claire’s mother had not yet sucked all the joy out of her grandma’s life.
“We know how often my mom ate soap growing up and we all know what happened to her.” Walter and Sandy glanced at the grass. She understood. Bringing up her mother was a surefire way to end a pleasant conversation. She shouldn’t have done it.
A peek at the weeds under the table gave her a much-needed transition. “I better ask that O’Meara boy to mow under the table next time he’s out. Oh, and before I forget, would you maybe look in Clem’s room and see if any Halloween or Christmas boxes or plans are there and put them in the hall? Please, please, pretty please?”
Walter’s face scrunched into dismay.
“I know I need to do it at some point, but I can’t go in there. Not yet. I’m still so disoriented from my trip, and you helped him pack stuff away after last year’s Halloween display because I was on the road. I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Fine. Sandy and I can look while you do the dishes, but only today.”
Sandy patted the back of her hand. “Claire, sweetie, you’re going to have to go through their belongings sometime, and don’t feel you have to do it alone.”
But that was the problem. There were a handful of distant cousins, but she was the only Evans left.
CLAIRE MADE ONE STOP before delivering two dozen figurines to Dayton. It was mom’s birthday, after all. The cemetery gate was open which meant either it was broken, or she wasn’t the only one with a pulse here. She took the first left and then a sharp right, stopping her car in front of row four, plots five, six, and seven.
“Happy Birthday, Mom.” She poured most of a fifth of cheap vodka onto the ground about a foot away from stone marker etched with the words “Christina Evans, Daughter, Mother.” She had to guess where Mom’s mouth was.
“No alcohol in the cemetery, young lady.”
The voice alone let her know who was coming over the rise, but the visuals confirmed the stooped silhouette of old Miss Jones.
“It’s mom’s birthday.”
“You should have brought flowers.”
“She wouldn’t have wanted flowers. Be glad it’s only vodka and not the cocaine she preferred because that would be downright illegal rather than merely offensive.”
Miss Jones’ facial features contracted a ball almost as tight as the bun she wore.
“Your grandfather wouldn’t have liked this.”
“You’re right. He never liked visiting Mom on her birthday. But he did because that’s what you do for family, you remember them; you care for them. I’m only following in the footsteps he left for me, except I brought flowers for Clem, too.”
“Hrumph.”
Claire poured the remaining vodka into two vases on the monument to her grandparents. Maybe her talk of family obligation sounded too harsh or judgmental to the elderly woman who never married nor had children, but Miss Jones wielded her moral high ground with all the grace and precision of an atomic bomb.
“Vodka’s supposed to make the flowers last longer according to the internet. Since I’ll be in Dayton a few days, I’m hoping to keep the flowers fresh while I’m gone, brighten Grandpa’s week a bit, because this week always brought up some tough memories for him.”
Miss Jones turned her head toward the hill and cocked her ear. “Good suggestion.” Her voice sounded almost kind, far from her usual tone.
“Claire!” The harshness returned. “If you promise to put a carnation on my Everet’s memorial down at Wright-Pat, I won’t report your open container of alcohol to the police.”
Claire sucked at the back of her teeth. This was blackmail, but she had no reason to say no. Her work was in the same museum where the uniform and some letters from Miss Jones’ long deceased fiancé were on display.
“I don’t want to get in trouble or set a bad example for others by marring the display.”
Miss Jones gave her the stink-eye. A gust of wind picked up and plastered a heart-shaped leaf from the redbud tree to her grandmother’s headstone.
“Do you have the carnation with you? I need to get on road.”
“Wait one minute.”
Miss Jones took off at a brisk pace.
“Of course, I was going to do it, Grandma.” Claire spoke in a soft voice. Most people would think she was crazy talking to the headstones as if they were the actual person rather than an inanimate object. But at least her conversations were one sided.
