Death on the Family Tree Read Free

beneath the bay in that patch of sun. Beyond the flowers, the walk down to the pool was cool and inviting, shaded by tall trees and planted with white astilbe, Japanese painted fern, and wide hostas in many shades of green. The grounds were a living testimony to the faithful work of Anthony, who came every week to mow, weed, plant, and transplant. He often told Tom, “The missus never thinks a plant can grow ’less it’s been moved twice,” but he came reliably and worked without complaint. That was all she ever asked of him.
    Except—
    Anthony had a truck.
    She abandoned the view and headed to the phone.
    Anthony’s wife, who took calls for his business, assured Katharine he could and would be glad to move a piece of furniture that evening. She offered the ser vices of their son, Stanley, a junior at Georgia Tech, to help Anthony, and suggested using the lawn ser vice trailer so they wouldn’t have to lift the piece so high. She even had some old quilts they could wrap the piece up in, and cord to secure it. “They’ll fetch it for you by eight, Miz Murray. You just be home around eight-thirty to show them where to put it.”
    Sending up a prayer of thanks for faithful friends, Katharine called Autumn Village to tell them to expect him. Another crisis averted, she took her lukewarm tea and rock-hard muffin back to the table.
    As she sat down, she wondered, If I could rub a magic lamp and be granted three birthday wishes, what would they be?
    Would she wish Tom had an ordinary job where he went to work each morning after a tête-à-tête breakfast and returned home every evening for dinner, instead of leaving early on Monday morning and coming back late on Friday night? Not any more. She had loved having him home before the children came and while they were small, but he had been doing this weekly commute for so long now that she was comfortable with the pattern. She looked forward to weekends and marvelous trips together, but during normal weeks she enjoyed eating what and when she liked, watching her own television shows with sole possession of the remote, and having time for clubs, volunteer activities, occasional trips, and spontaneous outings with friends. When he was unexpectedly home for a week, she seemed to spend inordinate amounts of time cooking and stocking the fridge, and she never knew whether to stay home from meetings or go as she had planned.
    Would she wish for the children to be small again? No. As fleeting as those years now seemed, at the time they had felt like an interminable round of car pools, sports practice, dancing and piano lessons, parties, and orthodontist visits. Katharine loved having grown-up children with whom she could have intelligent conversations and eat sushi instead of noodle soup.
    Would she wish for her mother, Aunt Sara Claire, or Aunt Lucy to still be alive? Not unless they could be healthy and vibrant. She had hated watching their health deteriorate, still flinched at the memory of her mother’s final pain. And for the past four years she had devoted many hours to making their phone calls, running their errands, doing their shopping, handling their paperwork, and driving them to and from doctor and hairdresser appointments, bridge parties, luncheons, and what Aunt Lucy called “our little outings.” Taking on parts of their lives had required giving up equal parts of her own.
    Still, now that she had her own life back, what was she going to do with it?
    She did not know. That, she felt, was her tragedy.

     

    Since one of Aunt Lucy’s boxes sat on the table, she thought she might as well open it and see what it contained. Her paring knife made short work of the tape. Peering inside, she discovered that Mr. Billingslea’s packers had swept things off shelves helter-shelter and willy-nilly.
    Nice words, those , she thought, helter-shelter and willy-nilly . Exactly how Aunt Lucy collected her artifacts. She lifted out a lamp made from an ox horn, its shade painted with