The Obituary Society Read online

  Ada set the cups down, along with a rose encrusted sugar bowl, and joined her. “Well, he never was one for talking, at least about personal things” Ada said, stirring sugar into her tea. She pursed her lips and avoided eye contact, as if she didn’t care to discuss it further. Apparently it was a family trait.

  Before Lila could respond, Ada changed the subject. “I had so many raspberries last year I still have four jars of jam in the freezer. I sold some of it at the last Society fundraiser. It's almost time to start making it again.”

  Lila took her cue. “It’s delicious. I’d never had homemade jam until I came here.”

  Ada looked at Lila, her face pinched with pity. Then she turned her eyes to the window. “The mint is practically taking over the west side of the house,” She sipped her tea slowly, a dazed expression on her face.

  June 1968

  Phoebe squinted her eyes at Isaac, carefully watching his face. “Remember you told me to pick any color I liked.”

  “I remember.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “I've meant everything I ever said to you.”

  She stepped away from the large paint bucket.

  Isaac crouched down and pried the lid open.

  Phoebe waited, wringing her hands. For a long moment she watched the top of his head, waiting for him to raise his face and look at her. It dropped, then started moving as his shoulders jiggled up and down. Finally a deep chuckle forced its way out.

  Isaac put a hand over his mouth. Then he stood up and turned to face Phoebe, no trace of humor on his face. “Did you get the brushes?”

  Phoebe sighed with relief and smiled, then nodded.

  Half an hour later Isaac was dipping into the paint, making long strokes on the house.

  Ada's voice rang out behind him. “Good heavens! Pink, Isaac? When are you going to learn to say no?”

  Isaac smiled. “It's raspberry.”

  “Well, I guess we know who rules the roost around here.” Ada sighed. A moment later she stood by his side with a paintbrush in hand.

  Chapter 5

  The Mail Order House

  The house hadn't felt like it belonged to her until she stood facing it, in all its pink majesty, with the key biting into her palm. The paint had faded to an odd shade over the years, and had cracked and peeled until it resembled a tired showgirl who had seen better days.

  Until today she had only looked at it from the street, staring into the windows as if she might catch a leftover glimpse of life inside. She had envisioned her Great-Grandmother Elaine picking out the house from the pages of a Sears catalog, her index finger firmly planted on the picture. “That one.”

  How many trucks would it take to deliver the materials for a whole house? And how many men had pulled on thick gloves and work boots and gathered to help her great-grandfather build the house? She liked to think it was a neighborhood project, the way things used to be. Or perhaps she was thinking of the Amish.

  Lila walked up the sidewalk for the first time, noting the multiple fractures that had been invaded with grass and weeds. She was already making a mental checklist of things that would need fixing: new paint, sidewalk, trim shrubs. It made her feel like her old self again; the one who had been responsible for taking care of Grandpa Isaac during his last year.

  The rails that bordered the porch were uniquely shaped. They reached toward each other and met at the top in a pointed arch. The white paint was badly chipped, and a couple of them had toppled over, but she could see they were all accounted for, and that should make it a fairly easy fix. She visualized the charming porch in its former glory, and it pulled her up the weathered steps and wrapped around her in a welcoming embrace.

  If her mother could see the dreamy look in her eye she would laugh. She always said Lila was 'sentimental.' Her mother had worked at an insurance company in Bozeman, and seemed to put more of herself into her job every year after Lila's father passed away. Lila had almost finished her second year of college when her mother remarried, and the little apartment they shared quickly became crowded.

  Grandpa Isaac was her father's father, but her mother must have felt just sentimental enough to be concerned about finding a home for him in Green River when he became ill. Lila decided to pack up her things and take a Greyhound bus to Wyoming to take care of him instead. She had only visited him a couple of times before that, although he'd sent her a birthday card every year. Her early memories of him consisted of the way he had towered over her, the deep but soft sound of his voice, the impressive whiteness of his thick hair, and how he always kept lemonade in his fridge. She also remembered his sense of humor and his big, yellow guitar.

  He was just as she remembered him when he opened the door and took her suitcase, only he didn't seem quite as tall. Living with Grandpa Isaac had finally given her a feeling of roots. One more connection in this world. Even though he was gone, she felt a little more steady on her feet from having known him. He told her so many things; about Grandma Phoebe's affinity for the thrift store find, and her father's innocent pocketing of the waitresses' tips in the diner until age seven. But he had never explained why, at fifty-two, he left his home-town, where he had married Grandma Phoebe, moved into the house his father had built with his own hands, and raised his family.

  Standing on this porch, she felt as though new roots were extending from her feet down through the slats in the wood and deep into the earth below. She took a slow breath and turned to let herself inside.

  The old lock resisted, making a grinding noise before the loud click. She pushed the solid door inward. As she passed through each room, she imagined three generations living there; Great-Grandma Elaine proudly hanging curtains, then perhaps Grandma Phoebe making her claim in the choice of yellow wallpaper in the dining room many years later. She laughed at herself, thinking that she wasn't so different from Ada, who read between the lines of her black-and-white obituaries, making the stories more colorful.

  An old house is alive with ghosts. Each person that lived there made some kind of mark; if not in the choice of paint or cabinetry, then in a ding in the wall, a faucet with the handles installed backward, or a name carved out in the wallpaper behind the bed in secret. In some way, each voice that wandered its rooms whispers, “I was here.”

  The house had been locked up since grandfather left. He didn't want it rented out or sold to someone who wasn't family, and Ada was the only family member who seemed to want to live in Auburn. The windows had been boarded over, creating narrow shafts of light swimming with dust motes.

  When Grandfather left, he hadn't done a very thorough job of clearing the place out, which was strange, considering how clean and fastidious he'd been in all the time she knew him. Most of the furniture had been left behind, although someone had taken the time to throw sheets over the sofa and chairs. The effect was eerie, like the Barbie Dream House gone terribly wrong.

  Lila entered the kitchen, bracing herself for what she might find there, but fortunately it had been completely cleared out. An empty tin of Ajax and a shriveled-up sponge had been left behind. Several of the cupboard doors hung open and the fridge was slightly out of place.

  She paused and pulled a newspaper clipping from her purse. Ada had offered to write up Grandpa Isaac's obituary. Then she'd gotten hold of an extra paper and cut the segment out for Lila. Lila looked around for a magnet, and finding none, pulled a bit of gum from her mouth and stuck the obituary to the fridge. She admired her handiwork, laughing at herself. Somehow it felt right.

  Isaac Grant Moore, Oct. 23, 1941-June 15, 2014. Isaac was born to Phillip and Elaine Moore in Auburn, Nebraska. Isaac farmed in Auburn for many years, living with his wife Phoebe and son Nicholas in the beloved pink house built by his father. He moved to Rock Springs, WY, in 1994, but his heart was always here. He was a lover of lemonade and music and books, was devoted to Phoebe, a defender from errant fowl, a laugher, a keeper of secrets. He is survived by
his sister, Ada, and his granddaughter, Lila. There will be a simple funeral service at the cemetery on June 20 at 9 am.

  Her chest tightened. It summed up Grandpa Isaac simply and well. And it was what she would expect from Ada; a few beautiful details sprinkled with mystery. Lila couldn't help but wonder what secrets were buried with Grandpa Isaac.

  Turning to leave the kitchen, Lila noticed a drawer partly open. When she shoved it closed, something slid around inside. She opened it and found a collection of skeleton keys. She was so fascinated by the shapes and patina that she stuck them in her purse.

  Exploring the house was like a treasure hunt. The old furniture, the details in the lighting, moldings, and doorknobs were so much more interesting than in modern homes. She walked up the creaky stairs and peeked into the three bedrooms. She couldn't help but grin when she opened the bathroom door and beheld an iron claw-foot tub. She'd always dreamed of bathing in one of those. It needed cleaning, but there were no nicks or rust.

  Some of the discoveries were not as pleasant. Old coats and other items hung in one of the closets. They smelled so bad Lila gasped and sputtered before slamming it closed. A thick film of dust on every surface in the house made her cringe. She appreciated the beauty in imperfections of age, but like Grandpa Isaac, she liked things clean. It was all she could do to keep herself from running out of the house in search of cleaning supplies.

  Lila went back downstairs, and stepped into the living room once more. This time as she scanned the room, she didn't see the state of disrepair as simply the natural effect of time and neglect. She noticed a corner of the rug was rolled up and all the furniture looked as if it had been shifted slightly out of place. She strode over to a dark-stained antique desk, and noticed that most of the drawers were pulled partway out. One of them sat overturned on the floor.

  It was as if the house had been searched through. It was unlikely that Grandpa would be this careless, unless he was in a big hurry. Both possibilities were unsettling. Most likely there was an entry in the house that had been overlooked. If nothing else, an empty house like this was a temptation for teenagers.

  She would have to make a thorough check for possible entries; perhaps a window or cellar. Ada or Asher might know if there had been any incidents. Asher had seemed so willing to help, and she wouldn't mind having an excuse to talk to him again.

  Despite the growing list of repairs she was aware of, and doubtless many she wasn't, something green and eager burst to life inside her. She found herself already envisioning paint options, and which wallpapers would stay and which would have to be painstakingly removed. The hardwood floors looked okay. It was hard to say yet whether they just needed a good cleaning to bring out the brilliant warm tones, or if they needed sanding and refinishing. She would need to have the plumbing, electrical, and who-knows-what-else checked by a professional, but some of the work she could do on her own.

  The next steps would be ordering some books on home restoration and getting referrals for reputable professionals. But for now she needed to leave, and let everything she had taken in settle in her mind. Besides, she knew Ada needed help getting her house ready for her upcoming Obituary Society meeting.

  As she went to the front door something crumbled under her foot. It was a clump of dry mud that she hadn't noticed on her way in, with so much to see all at once. Stepping aside, she inspected it closer. It had a clean edge, like a shoe print. It was long enough that she guessed it to be a man's, and there were a couple more nearby, confirming the appearance of footprints.

  Perhaps it was possible that this mud had been here for a long time; that someone had been in at some point to do work at Grandpa or Ada's request. But she couldn't shake the impression that someone had been here uninvited, and that they had come right in through the front door.

  Chapter 6

  Maids of Honor

  Ada held her breath as she transferred her Maids of Honor to a cooling rack. The tiny cakes were delicate specimens of perfection, so light they were locally famous for melting in one's mouth, or so Lila had been told. She couldn't wait to test the claim herself.

  “You’ve outdone yourself today, Aunt Ada.” Lila finished her morning tea and rinsed her mug in the white farmhouse sink. “The ladies of the Obituary Society will think you’re putting on airs. Especially since you refuse to give them the recipe.” She tried to sneak one off the rack, but was thwarted with a whack of Ada’s metal spatula. It appeared Ada was in rare form today, and Lila couldn't help but be encouraged to tease her. The sting in her fingers felt like the warmth of acceptance.

  Ada began assembling ingredients for the frosting. “You know very well we are the Auburn Ladies' Society. And I’ll have you know, this is an old family recipe. It goes back to our pioneer ancestry. You don’t just pass something like that around.”

  Lila was still shaking the sting out of her fingers. “I don’t think it’s the heritage of the recipe, or even the quality that matters anyway, is it?” she baited. “The best recipe is the one that takes hours to make. You're all a bunch of little old martyrs.”

  “Well, if that’s what you think, you don't have to eat one,” Ada answered stiffly as she scraped soft butter into the bowl. “ Anyway, that's certainly not true of the Bell sisters. They aren't the best of cooks.” She glanced around as if someone might be listening. “In fact, often times their desserts are store bought. Not that anyone would mention it, except maybe Betsy Barker.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “That woman has no tact.” She rushed to the fridge and pulled out a pint of milk.

  “But they are extraordinary gardeners,” she continued. “Their peonies are the biggest I've ever seen, and no one can get their secret. I happen to know Betsy even offered to trade her mother's lemon meringue pie recipe.”

  Ada, beginning to feel rushed, turned the mixer on and poured the powdered sugar in too quickly, resulting in a fine white cloud of sweetness that hung in the kitchen. The late morning rays of sunshine lit up the tiny particles like fairy dust.

  She called out over the whir of the mixer and pointed. “Lila, be a dear and put a fresh doily on the table for me. They’re in that bottom drawer.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “And could you get that, please?”

  Lila grabbed a doily and spread it out on the table, then hurried to open the door. Gladys Ellison stood staring into her through her large bifocals. She smiled and presented Lila with a crystal bowl filled with a frothy fruit salad creation as she stepped in.

  “How are you, dear? It’s good to see you again. You look so pretty, but I'm afraid you're cold. Don’t you want to put on a sweater?” Lila's eyes were wide with disbelief. She felt like she'd been locked in a sauna since she came here.

  “Maybe you just need to eat more,” Gladys continued. She patted and squeezed Lila's bare arm with one withered hand and handed her the bowl with the other.

  Lila smiled graciously and hung Gladys's jacket before ushering her to a floral-patterned chair. She placed the bowl on the table.

  “Have you met my grandson Max yet?” Gladys asked eagerly. “It was a shame, you just missed him at the store the other day.”

  “Well, I—” The doorbell rang and Lila breathed a sigh of relief, then hurried to answer it. She couldn't tell this sweet woman that her grandson was a jerk.

  Matilda and Leona Bell stood on the porch, each of them carrying an offering for the meeting. Lila caught herself glancing at a plate of cookies, as if the word “OREO” might be stamped into the middle of each one. She blinked her eyes, momentarily stunned at what she had done. It was one of those surreal moments where she suddenly wondered how she came to be this person, in a place she'd never imagined herself being.

  She looked back up at the ladies and smiled. She recognized them from the funeral, but was relived when they introduced themselves again. She'd forgotten which was which. Matilda was the taller one, although it was difficult to tell how much of the height difference was due to posture. Her si
lver hair was short and tidy, and a cross hung just over the top of her soft grey blouse.

  Leona stood beside her, her grin unrestrained. She wore a sweatshirt with a flower on the front, hand-painted with long, loose strokes. She looked to be the younger of the two, although her golden-blond hair was probably dyed.

  “Do you like it?” Leona asked, her eyes following Lila's to the sweatshirt. “I painted it myself. I sell them at the art fairs.”

  “It's beautiful,” Lila answered.

  “I'll paint one for you.” When Leona smiled, her cheeks were apple round and her eyes crinkled.

  “I'd like that.” Lila couldn't help but return the eager smile.

  “So sorry, ladies.” Ada breezed in from the kitchen, her Maids of Honor perched on a white cake stand. “I was just frosting the cakes. Is Betsy coming today?”

  The ladies glanced at each other, brows raised at the sight of the delicacy. “She was out watering her begonias when I drove by. I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” Matilda said.

  Ada carefully arranged the food on the table, along with delicate dishes, flatware, and serving spoons. There was a knock on the door, and she rushed to answer it. Betsy Barker bustled in, hair piled high, loud-patterned blouse cut low. She was ready to compete, with a plate full of fresh strawberry tarts.

  Ada brought in the mint tea, and soon everyone was settled with refreshments. Lila dragged a folding chair to the corner of the room, then snatched one of the coveted Maids of Honor and sat down to watch as she savored the little cake. She was curious about Ada's meetings, but hoped to remain as invisible as possible.

  Matilda was eager to begin the day’s proceedings. “Did you hear about my cousin’s boy, Henry?” All eyes were on the sisters. “He was in a horrible motorcycle accident,” Leona said.

  “It was terrible,” Matilda continued. “His mother is so broken up. He was their only boy. He’d gone kind of wild, you know. And then he bought that motorcycle. We were all afraid something like this would happen.”