Cemetery Silk Read Free Page B

open grave. She stared forlornly at the plain metal casket. At her feet lay a spray of cheap florist greenery mixed in with some inexpensive fake carnations—the ones that florists call “cemetery silk.” It was a rare moment. Cassie was usually in motion physically and emotionally. I had forgotten how truly beautiful she was. For once she had my blessing to wear her favorite color. She had pleased me by choosing a simple black silk dress. It was one that I purchased for her college wardrobe. I had the misbegotten notion that her need for “a smart little black dress” would be the same as mine had been twenty-five years before. I helped her cut off the price tag this morning. It had hung in the closet for more than a year unworn.
    Even standing as far away as I was, I could see her thick black eyelashes. Dark brown hair hung straight and shining to her shoulders. My daughter did not inherit my hazel eyes and freckles. No unruly auburn curls for her. Her hair and eyes were dark like her father’s. He used to say his baby’s hair was the color of castanos. The word always brought to mind visions of castanets. It really meant “chestnut.” That was the wood most castanets were made from. She was truly lovely, and she was still my baby even if she was eighteen.
    A few feet away from her three gravediggers were lounging under a big oak tree smoking. They waited impatiently for everyone to leave so they could finish their dismal business. They had on short white cotton jackets resembling the ones supermarket clerks or butchers wear. The name of the funeral home was embroidered over the breast pocket in a bright irreverent green. Underneath their jackets they wore faded cotton work shirts, or, in the case of one man, a soiled undershirt. They all wore dirty jeans and scuffed boots.
    They began to grumble among themselves. As their voices got purposefully louder and more obscene I could tell their anger was directed at Cassie because she showed no signs of moving. Foolishly, one of them flicked a cigarette butt in her direction. It landed smack in front of her and bounced off the coffin. Hair swirled around her pale face like a dark cloud as she turned quickly toward them. She glared at the men for a moment until they began to shift uneasily, then slowly wiped the tears from her eyes. She gave William’s casket a farewell caress and picked up the still smoldering cigarette. All of her sadness and grief had found a focal point, and for a brief moment I felt sorry for the men. I watched my daughter, the avenging angel, walk toward them with a sweet and terrible smile on her lips. Cassie looked carefully at their faces and decided correctly who had done the deed.
    â€œI do believe this is yours, Sir,” she said, as she gently lifted a big dirty hand and turned the palm up. The man stared dumbly into that incredibly perfect face and gave only a slight whimper as she ground the burning cigarette out in the center of his lifeline.
    Somehow we managed to get out of the cemetery alive. Considering the ugly shouts that followed us to the car, I found it to be just one more unsettling event of the day. Funerals should be peaceful occasions. So why did our attempt to say farewell to our dearly departed leave me with such a sense of foreboding?

Chapter Two
    Cassie, Mother, and I drove back home to Rowan Springs in weary silence. I was thinking back to happier days when my father and grandparents were still alive. I was sure Mother and Cassie were having similar thoughts.
    We were strong and hardworking folk, most of us with sound minds and strong tall bodies. We were from pioneer stock with good genes, and we had our share of good fortune. Those who passed on had mostly died in bed, simply exhausted from a long and happy life. There was, however, one great-great-grandfather who died in the arms of his buxom new wife during their wedding dance. She was his third lady, and her “buxom” held