The Battered Body

TEN

James woke on December twenty-fourth to the sound of Milla’s hand blender. He only had a half-day of work ahead of him, but with Paulette’s funeral services scheduled for that evening, he’d been hoping to eat a peaceful breakfast while finishing the last chapter of The Thirteenth Tale. From then, he planned to move sedately through a quiet day. After showering and dressing for work, he arrived in the kitchen to find Milla baking, Jackson repairing the garbage disposal under the sink, and the coffee pot empty.

“I like your Santa tie,” Milla shouted over the whir of the mixer.

So much for quiet, he thought.

Smoothing a small crinkle in his holiday tie, which featured Santa and several reindeer reading a book in front of a fireplace, James held out his clean coffee cup in accusation. “You’ve been up a while.”

“Dear oh dear,” Milla clucked. “We’ve gone and left you high and dry. Let me just get these in the oven, and I’ll brew you a fresh pot. Can I fix you breakfast?”

James eyed the array of dirty bowls, wooden spoons, cake pans, and deflated bags of flour and sugar. “No thanks. I’m just going to toast a Kashi waffle and have some fruit. I think you’ve got enough going on here already. Are you planning to feed cake to the entire town today?”

“Just those who show up to my sister’s memorial service,” Milla answered as she slipped two filled cake pans into the oven. “I want everyone who is kind enough to express their sympathy to have a slice of Paulette’s favorite cake.”

“Which one would that be?” James asked as he sniffed one of the batter bowls.

Gloomily, Milla cradled an egg in her palm. “She was my own sister and I didn’t even know. Willow had to tell me, but it’s the eggnog cake she made for the TV show last week. That woman and her eggnog.”

Stepping forward to wipe away the lone tear cascading down the curve of her cheek, James said, “I bet the time Paulette spent with you last week made a real difference to her, Milla. Look at things this way: She flew down to Quincy’s Gap to celebrate your wedding, she was over here in the morning chatting and having breakfast, and she cooked us dinner and laughed it up with Pop. I think it’s safe to say that her last days were some of her better ones.”

Milla stood on her tiptoes and kissed James on the cheek. “You are a darling boy, James Henry. I’m going to come over and cook three times a week when you move down the road.”

“I’m counting on it!” James declared, gave his soft paunch a pat, and carried his breakfast into the den. He finished the last page of Diane Setterfield’s excellent novel to the sound of Jackson releasing a torrent of expletives. Even from the safety of the den, James was able to discern that Milla dumped a bowl of refuse down the garbage disposal, having forgotten that there was no longer a canister attached to the sink. The entire contents, including raw egg spittle and clumps of cake dough, had ended up on Jackson’s face.

“I am not a trash can!” he heard his father splutter indignantly.

“You sure you don’t want a crepe, James?” Milla called from the kitchen. “I could scrape enough dough off your daddy’s forehead to make you one!” She chuckled. “Jackson, honey. You just got a free sugar facial.”

James made a hasty escape while his father was in the bathroom cleaning the muck off his face, knowing that Jackson would grow even more inflamed if there were another witness to his humiliation.

“Don’t expect to see him until it’s time to go to church,” Milla whispered and handed James his lunch sack and a thermos of coffee. “He’s determined to finish that painting of my sister’s hands before the service. I’ll be cooking him steak every night as punishment for making him fix this dumb disposal when all he wanted to do was sneak out to his shed.”

“That’s why you’re so good for him, Milla. You drag him out of that shed from time to time. Call me if you need me to buy out the rest of Food Lion’s supply of flour, sugar, and eggs on my way home.”

“I just might.” Milla’s eyes twinkled as she pushed him out the back door.

“Merry Christmas, Professor!” The twins exclaimed as he alighted from his truck in the library parking lot.

Scott held out a narrow strip of black cloth. “We’re going to have to open five minutes late, boss. We want to show you what we made you for Christmas first.”

James pointed at the fabric. “Well, if that’s meant to be a belt I’m very flattered, but I think it’ll take a few more meetings with Dr. Ruth before that’s going to fit around this waist.”

“This is a blindfold,” Francis declared with a boyish grin. “Your gift was too big to wrap, so we’ve got it leaning against the book return bin. May I?”

Leaning his head forward, James allowed Francis to fasten the blindfold. Each twin took hold of one of his arms and they led him over the curb, around a curve of sidewalk, and pivoted him so that he faced the book bin. With a flourish, Scott removed the blindfold and James sucked in his breath in amazement.

The twins had built him a custom mailbox. The box was wood and had been carved to resemble a shelf of books. Each book had been painted a different color and the titles of authors had been carefully engraved on the spines. Labels representing the library’s filing protocol had also been painted on each tome. Upon closer inspection, James was delighted to note that the books were in proper order according to the Dewey decimal system. Even the red flag was a miniature book, which the twins had cleverly entitled The Scarlet Letter. The post of the mailbox, which was a stake of plain wood, bore Cicero’s famous quote on books: “A room without books is like a body without a soul.”

“We burned the letters into the wood instead of carving them,” Scott explained as James touched the black script. “It saves time and it’ll last forever because we covered that post with about forty thousand layers of polyurethane.”

Francis noticed that their boss seemed to have gotten something in his eye. “You okay, Professor?”

James nodded, too choked up to speak. Finally, after running both hands lovingly over the carved books on the mailbox, he turned and smiled at his employees, no longer caring that his eyes were glistening with tears. “This is a marvelous, excellent gift. You found out that my new house was number twenty-seven. I can’t imagine how much time went into this…” He hugged each twin and sniffed. “Bennett Marshall won’t believe his eyes when he puts my first letter in here. I’ll be on his route when I move, and there’s no doubt in my mind that this will be the finest mailbox he, or anyone else, has ever seen.”

Francis blushed and made a big show of tying his boot lace.

“He made one for that Willow girl too,” Scott whispered. “Looks like a box of chocolates. It’s a wall mount in case she ends up moving here and renting an apartment.” He nudged his brother so that Francis lost his balance and sprawled on the grass. “I think he’s in love .”

“Then he won’t have to ship that mailbox to New York, because Willow’s moving here after the holidays,” James informed the twins.Francis gaped at his boss in happy surprise. “And what about you, Scott? Did you make a newspaper column mailbox for Lottie?” James teased, allowing Francis a moment to recover his poise.

Scott’s face darkened. “That girlfriend of mine’s been acting weird lately, Professor. She wants me to stop playing video games and reading graphic novels for good! She even thinks I should…” he trailed off and looked to Francis to finish for him.

“Lottie wants him to get a different job,” Francis muttered. “A career , she calls it.”

James felt as though a cold wind had pierced his heart. “But you’re happy here, aren’t you?”

“Yes!” Scott answered hurriedly. “I’d never leave the library! I’m happy here, and I’m happy about who I am. I know I’m a geek who could use contact lenses and a car made in this decade, but I’m fine with riding a bike and living in Widow Lamb’s garage. My job is perfect, my boss is the greatest, and I’m the luckiest guy in the world to be able to work with my brother, my best friend, every day.”

“Stop it or I’ll cry again!” James clutched Scott on the shoulder. “And you are lucky. Some people spend their whole lives trying to figure out what makes them happy and you’re aware-in your mid-twenties no less-of exactly what you want and who you are.”

“So what do I tell Lottie?” Scott was clearly distressed. “Love me or leave me? That’s not how I talk, and I don’t want to lose her.”

In that moment, James had an epiphany. Lucy was basically telling him the same thing Scott longed to tell Lottie. She had made it clear that she would be devoted to upholding the law above all else and that was simply who she was. She had left it up to James to decide whether he could accept her and love her for who she was or sever their romantic ties once and for all.

But she didn’t let me decide, he thought ruefully . She just assumed that I wouldn’t want a life with her under those conditions. And maybe she was right. Maybe I want to be first in a woman’s heart. Maybe second place isn’t good enough for me anymore.

“Professor?” Scott’s voice brought James back to reality and he became aware that not only were they late opening the library but they were all shivering. The three of them had been standing on the grass, idly chatting in forty-degree weather as several patrons gazed at them with a perplexity that would shortly mutate into irritation.

Handing Francis the keys to the front door, James shouldered his beautiful new mailbox and looked at Scott with sympathy. “We can’t change people, Scott, no matter how much we’d like to. We must love them as they are or let them go so they’ll have the chance to be loved by someone else.”

Scott scratched his tousled hair in confusion. “Professor? Are we still talking about my situation?”

“What I’m saying is that you should be loved by someone who appreciates you as is, not as you could be. If Lottie doesn’t love you now, then she’s not looking for a smart, caring, loyal guy named Scott Fitzgerald and that’s her loss.” James smiled fondly at the young man. “It doesn’t mean you guys are done for as a couple, but you’ve got to be honest with her by telling her that you don’t want to change and see how she handles that declaration.”

“Great. I do have to give Lottie the love-me-or-leave-me speech, and I’ve got to do it before we go undercover tonight.” Scott sighed. “Poor Francis. He might be on a stakeout with the Grinch.”

“That’s right!” James had completely forgotten about Glowstar’s kidnapping. “The ransom handoff is at midnight. I hope your abductor actually shows up, or we’ll have to buy a new elf on eBay. I won’t let you and Francis face another holiday season without one.” With his left hand, he pulled envelopes containing generous gift cards to Best Buy from his coat pocket and held them out to Scott. “And I hope these will help take the bah humbug out of your day.”

As James headed toward the Bronco with his treasure, Scott tore open his gift card and his eyes widened in delight. He then read the inscription in his Christmas card. It said:

To Scott, fellow bibliophile, skilled librarian, and loyal friend. May your holiday be filled with barbarians wielding longswords and lovely maidens held captive by all-powerful warlocks. Merry Christmas. James Henry.

“Damn.” Scott shut the card and blinked several times. “Now I’m going to cry.”

The supper club members were waiting for James when he, along with Milla, Willow, and Jackson, entered the church chapel that evening. James and his companions were still reeling from the shouts of reporters and the blinding flashbulbs that had assaulted them in the parking lot.

Inside the warm sanctuary, the pews were stuffed. The townsfolk seemed to have congregated in the front while members of the media kept a respectful distance in the back of the chapel. A horde of strangers, who James feared were there in hopes of gaining a few minutes of fame by casting poignantly sorrowful glances at the television cameras, filed into the center rows.

Paulette’s children and sister Wheezie were in the first row. The pew behind them had been reserved for the supper club members and Willow. James was pleasantly surprised to observe Dr. Ruth and all three of her sons seated in respectful silence toward the middle of the crowd. He issued them a subtle wave and smiled at Dolly, who was likely to have a sore neck come Christmas Day from twisting this way and that in order to observe the demeanor of every person in the sanctuary.

“This is quite a showing,” Milla murmured to James as Reverend Emerson walked to the pulpit in order to greet the congregation and then ask them to rise and join with him in the singing of “Abide With Me.”

As James had spent the Sundays of his childhood at the very same church, he knew the hymn well enough to sing along while casting covert glances at the profiles of those lined up in front of him. Chase, who chose not to sing, was staring into the distance with a blank expression, while Chloe was concentrating on the words in her hymnal and appeared pale and overwhelmed. Wheezie was bobbing her head in time to the music, and James wondered if she weren’t more than a little unbalanced or even afflicted by dementia. Her childish innocence seemed less like a quirky personality and more like the sign of a mental illness, but since he knew nothing about the latter, he hesitated to form judgment over Milla’s sweet older sister.

Peering down his own row, James couldn’t help but notice the new spark of vitality in Willow’s eyes. Her face was shining with all the optimistic hopefulness of youth. She wore an attractive black dress with a cobalt blue scarf that brought color to her pale eyes. Her blonde hair shone with good health and was fastened into a chic knot at the base of her neck. Pink pearl earrings glowed softly against her cheeks, which were flushed by the cold air and by the proximity of Francis Fitzgerald (who was singing in a slightly sharp baritone two pews behind her).

At the conclusion of the hymn, Reverend Emerson led them in prayer and then invited Milla forward for the scripture reading. Her voice was clear throughout the entire recitation of Ecclesiastes 3, but when she reached verse twelve she paused. Wiping her eyes and nose with a tissue, she spoke with a tremor while reading, “That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil-this is the gift of God.”

Gillian, whose hair had taken on a shade akin to paprika since their dinner at Mamma Mia’s, sniffed loudly and then covered her entire face with a filmy handkerchief.

“Everything all right?” he whispered.

“Do you think Paulette was satisfied in her work, like that verse says? Do you think she realized what gifts she was given?” Gillian whimpered tearfully while Lucy patted her on the arm.

Milla finished her reading and then waited as Reverend Emerson offered Paulette’s family members the opportunity to speak words of remembrance. Since Milla was already standing close to the pulpit’s microphone, she introduced herself as “the middle sister” and then proceeded to tell an amusing childhood anecdote.

“As a young girl, Patty spent more time down the street than at our house. Our neighbor, Mrs. D., as we called her, loved to cook with Patty. Most girls my age were happy to set up lemonade stands or sell Girl Scout cookies for their first ventures into the business world, but not Patty. She wanted out of Natchez and while we were all spending our dimes at the movies or buying sodas and banana splits at the drug store, Patty was selling fancy cupcakes and tea cakes to all the neighborhood ladies.” Milla was lost in her memories, her gaze reaching over the heads of the congregation as she spoke of her sister with pride and a trace of awe. “She did exactly what she said she was going to do. Was in Paris by her eighteenth birthday. Some folks said she made a useful connection with one of the riverboat cooks, but however she got there, she never looked back. Even Mrs. D. never heard from her again, and that woman taught her everything she knew about baking. I do wonder what became of that sweet woman…”

Someone coughed discreetly in one of the pews in front, and Milla snapped out of her reverie and concluded her monologue by assuring those gathered there that Paulette had died doing the thing she was most passionate about. Then, her speech interrupted by a catch in her voice, she thanked everyone for coming and returned to her seat.

Chase was the next person to take the microphone. He too extolled his mother’s entrepreneurial success, but he made no references to her tendresse as a mother. In fact, his eulogy lacked any indication of intimacy. His voice was flat and expressionless, and his speech reminded James of a professor giving a lackluster lecture on twenty-first-century economics.

“Sounds like he’s givin’ a fiscal report to a board of directors,” Bennett whispered through a yawn.

“I think it shows poor taste to talk about how much money his mother’s last book made at a memorial service,” Lindy stated in disgust. “For crying out loud! Didn’t she bake him special cookies for his birthday or build magical gingerbread castles at Christmas? He must have one childhood memory when she did something special for him!”

Apparently not, for Chase sat down while the congregation exchanged befuddled glances. Chloe refused to speak, which she made clear by shaking her head and crossing her arms like a willful child, but when the minister focused his querying gaze on Wheezie, she hobbled up the carpeted steps to the pulpit unaided.

“From the moment she entered this world, Patty was a bossy one,” Wheezie said and pointed her finger at the bouquet of flowers that had been positioned where the coffin would have normally been situated. “That girl thought she was smarter than our whole town put together. Even Mama and Daddy were dumb hillbillies in her mind. Every day, she told me and Milla how she prayed to be told she was adopted. She hated us all and that ain’t no lie.”

Chase began to rise to his feet, but Chloe restrained him with both arms as the church audience sat up en masse with sudden interest. The members of the media who had been fortunate enough to find seating before the service began became instantly alert, mini recorders and small pads of paper held at the ready.

“And though she hated her family, the folks Patty hated even more were the mulattos. I know that’s not what you’re supposed to call them now, but that’s what we called them then, and there were plenty of mulattos in Natchez. I loved one of them. A man named Alberto Marcos. I would have married him and been happy for the rest of my days, but Patty ruined it. She made Al out to Mama and Daddy like he was the worst kind of scoundrel, but the only truly wicked person I ever knew was my own sister.”

Several members of the congregation gasped.

“I know it ain’t right to speak ill of the dead, but I’ve been holdin’ this in for too many years, and I want to tell you all that I ended up happy anyhow. Patty went to Paris as some man’s floozy, and then she came back and got famous right quick. Reckon she became a richer man’s kept woman.”

The reporters were scribbling furiously. James noticed Murphy and Lottie sitting side by side, listening with expressions bordering on rapture. James could practically sense Murphy spinning titles and headlines in her mind as Wheezie ruthlessly continued.

“I thought I could marry Al after we buried Mama and Daddy, but his heart turned hard toward our family and he married somebody else. He’s a widower now and I’m still sweet on him, even after all these years. I came to this town to offer Patty a chance to make things right, to tell Al she was wrong to judge him and lie about him, but she laughed in my face at the notion. I hope the good Lord forgives her, or I reckon she’s bakin’ cakes of hot coals for the devil right about now. ’Preciate y’all comin’ out. Thank you.”

Wheezie returned to her seat, her head held high and a grim smile on her face. James closed his gaping mouth and turned to Milla, who was staring at her older sister with horrified astonishment. Jackson covered his fiancée’s hand with his own and stared fixedly at the tops of his shoes.

Reverend Emerson was at a loss. James was certain that the minister had never presided over a eulogy speech such as Wheezie’s. His eyes raked the pew of family members with a searching look until his wife, who was seated near the organist, poked the woman in the side and the first few strains of “Amazing Grace” burst into the still air. The hymn was played in double-time, followed by a rather mechanical recitation of the Lord’s Prayer and a hasty benediction. Before James knew it, he found himself in the fellowship hall passing out slices of eggnog cake.

“Do you need help?” Lucy asked in a soft, concerned voice as she appeared at his side.

James nodded gratefully. “I don’t know what to say to people after a service like that.”

“I’ll chase away anyone from the media, if you’d like.” Lucy fixed a hostile glare in Murphy’s direction.

“That would be a relief, thank you. And I wanted to tell you that I appreciate your coming today. If I didn’t have the four of you behind me in moments like these…”

Lucy brushed his cheek with her fingers. The moment was fleeting, but filled with tenderness. “I’ll always care about you, James. No matter what else happens in our lives, you can depend on my friendship. That’s a promise.”

James placed a piece of cake in her hands. “And you can depend on mine too.”

Tears pooled in Lucy’s blue eyes, but she blinked them away and concentrated on spearing a triangle of cake onto her fork. Slipping the morsel between her lips, she inadvertently groaned, “ This is so good!”

Echoes of similar declarations emitted from mouths across the hall. As coffee cups were refilled and people accepted seconds on cake, Milla unveiled Jackson’s painting of Paulette’s hands to oohhs and ahhhs from the crowd.

James edged others aside in order to view the work of art. Once again, he was amazed by his father’s ability to capture an individual’s complete persona by fashioning a pair of hands through deft brushstrokes and a unique blend of hues. Paulette’s were strong, determined, and graceful as they gripped the handles of a wooden rolling pin. The left-hand side of the canvas portrayed several petits fours decorated with prim and perfectly formed icing rosebuds, showcasing Paulette’s love of precision. Edging off the right side was a bowl of raw eggs with a collection of fractured shells that had been scattered into the deepest corner of the canvas where Jackson’s signature normally appeared. The jagged points and splintered bits of shell reminded the viewer of the Diva’s sharp tongue and harsh words.

And yet, Jackson had also illustrated a fragility in Paulette’s wrists-the blue and green veins traveling beneath the thin skin were a reminder of the woman’s mortality. He had not spared the viewer her wrinkled knuckles or the ugly mole on the back of her palm, but the dough was clearly subservient to Paulette’s will. Yet, the overall feeling James experienced while staring at the picture was that even though Paulette Martine was a woman of determination, her strength and intensity had rendered her unavoidably bitter and lonely.

“How does your daddy do it?” Lindy whispered to James. “It’s so her . A more fitting memorial than any words.”

“He truly has a gift ,” Gillian agreed. “It’s like he paints souls through a pair of hands. And the energy that radiates from every work is different, as unique as the subjects themselves. Spectacular! No wonder Lindy’s mother can’t keep them in stock in her gallery.”

Scott and Francis plucked James on the sleeve and told them they were leaving in order to prepare for their midnight stakeout. After giving Milla sympathetic hugs, the pair headed for the door. However, Francis stopped short when he crossed Willow’s path and the two of them exchanged shy smiles and hushed conversation as if they were the only people in the room. On the other hand, James was sorry to watch Lottie wag an accusatory finger at Scott while adopting a very harpylike snarl. Murphy stood alongside her protégée, glancing at her with maternal pride, and James instantly pushed through the throng in order to show solidarity to his employee, but by the time he got there the Fitzgerald twins had gone.

“You’re turning that girl into a shrew,” James growled at Murphy as Lottie threaded her way back to the buffet table. “Don’t you have a book to promote? Some slander to spread? An ambulance to chase?”

Putting on a wounded expression, Murphy gesticulated around the church. “This is my community too, and I’m here to report on its news. Besides, I saw Paulette on TV and I wasn’t going to miss a chance to sample one of her cakes. I guess baking unbelievable desserts runs in the family.” She accepted a wedge from Lottie. “This is my third sample, mind you. And speaking of promotion, you’ll be happy to hear that I’ll be in New York for the release of The Body in the Bakery. From there I’m going on a twelve-city tour, so you won’t have to watch me chase ambulances for months.”

“I’m taking over as the Star ’s editor in her absence,” Lottie added with a smug smile.

“Congratulations,” James replied politely. “But keep in mind that the people of Quincy’s Gap are more likely to share their stories with someone who is earnest, approachable, and modest. Kind of like Scott Fitzgerald. He’s only in his mid-twenties and the entire town loves and admires him. At least anyone with a lick of sense, that is.” He tried to give Lottie his sternest look. “Thank you for coming, ladies.” And with that, he turned his back on the two speechless journalists.

Despite his determination not to succumb to the temptation of seeing plate upon plate of sweet-smelling cake everywhere he turned, conversing with Murphy and Lottie had put James on edge. Before he knew it, he had inhaled one slice and was carving away at a second, savoring the creamy butter-rum frosting and the spongelike moistness of the cake.

“Everything Paulette said about this cake when she was on TV was true,” he said to Bennett. “Food like this is just too good to give up.”

Bennett shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of eggnog.”

“It doesn’t actually have any in the batter,” James explained. “Milla showed me the recipe. It’s the nutmeg that makes people think of eggnog.”

Eyeing the few remaining pieces on the table, Bennett shot off like a cannon to claim one as his own. Within minutes, all the slices were gone, the coffee urns were nearly drained, and the gathering had been reduced from well over one hundred people to less than twenty.

James washed down his last bite of cake with tepid coffee, threw away his trash, helped to clear away any signs of debris in the hall, and then slipped his arm around Milla. “Are you ready to go home?”

“Am I ever! I can’t believe Wheezie! She’s not even sorry about what she said. Here, in church, she told me that she’s glad that Paulette’s dead! That the only shadow over her life had been wiped away! She said our sister’s only joy was in seeing others miserable and poor so she could gloat over being rich and famous and that people like that bring darkness to the world.”

“Whoa.” James knew he’d have to share that statement with the supper club members. With Wheezie so plainly satisfied by Paulette’s death, she was a prime suspect. Assuming she had found transportation to the Widow’s Peak, she could have poisoned her sister, seeking a painful death as revenge for the hurt she had suffered by being denied a life with the man she loved. Looking at Jackson and Milla standing shoulder to shoulder, James said, “Pop, I’d say you picked the finest of the Rowe sisters.”

Jackson snorted. “I’m glad the whole lot of them are leavin’ town. I don’t want to share my Christmas roast with those miserable people.” Looking at Milla’s weary face, Jackson took her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I know they’re your family and we don’t choose our kin, but not one of them has a drop of goodness in them.”

“Oh, I think there’s good and bad in all of us, dear, but I’m ready for a break from them too.” She sighed heavily. “I wish we really could have laid my sister to rest today. Who knows what we’re going to have to deal with when those lab results come back.”

“Don’t think about that now,” James advised as he covered Jackson’s painting with a sheet and slipped it under his arm. “Let’s just go home and watch The Christmas Carol and eat ourselves sick.”

“And instead of going to bed and dreaming of sugarplums, I can dream about my new shop and you can dream about your darling house,” Milla smiled at James.

“ I’m stickin’ to sugarplums!” Jackson declared sulkily and the trio left the church, their arms linked, their voices lifted in laughter.