father, and after a feeble investigation, no one seemed to know who he was or where he called home.
There was never any sound reason to ban the man from visiting. He timed his arrivals perfectly and was careful not to overstay his welcome. He never attempted to touch anything—or anyone. My father kept an eye on him, of course. I wondered if one day he might crack and try to climb on top of a closed casket or kiss a corpse or run out with a wreath of flowers in his arms, REST IN PEACE emblazoned across his chest. Sometimes, when the funeral home was busy like a train station with hats and coats flowing inand out, his mysterious bearing faded and he seemed entirely normal, just a regular visitor caught in the morning rush.
The Visitor and my father never became friends, never shared even the smallest of conversations. That’s what made his presence so unsettling, and that for thirteen years he never missed a visitation until, one day, he disappeared.
We pondered what had happened to him and years later spoke of his probable death. I imagined his own portrait of repose: his face restored with cosmetics to appear alive, his closed eyes, his hands folded upon his chest. I wondered, too, if someone fixed a stare upon his corpse as he had upon so many others.
----
CHAPTER 4
The Woman in Red
O n a raw January night in 1960, Miss Agnes Davis turned out the light in her office and locked the door of the business she’d owned and operated for over thirty years. Adjacent to her office, the massive doors to her warehouses filled with fertilizer were already bolted for the evening. She climbed into her odd-job man’s farm truck and scarcely five minutes later thanked him for the ride and disappeared through the tall, white columns of her home.
She rattled around the spacious rooms of her antebellum mansion and turned on the lamps, fired up the furnace, and secured the doors. When all of this was completed, she reached for the decanter of fine Kentucky bourbon and poured herself a generous amount into a crystal glass. She thought of happier times, days unlike today, the first anniversary of the death of her only sibling, her much-loved brother, Urey. There were still a few things her wealth could not buy.
She stepped onto a red satin footstool and climbed into her imposing half-tester bed. The half canopy, covered in the same magnificently faded red satin fabric, was neatly ruched to create a swirling effect above her head.
Miss Agnes woke in the middle of the night feeling not quite right. The thought occurred to her that she might not have taken her medication correctly, or maybe she’d had a little too much bourbon. Perhaps the best thing to do was to go to the hospital. For the first time in a long time, she had a choice of whom to call. She could either call Alfred Deboe, whom she despised, or she could call that new young man in town.
My father, at this point only recently arrived in Jubilee, drove to Winter Street and pulled up to a beautiful, old Southern home. Not knowing his way around the place, he chose the front entrance. Quickly, he passed between the tall, white columns of the long porch and rang the bell. A short, rotund lady answered the door and introduced herself as Miss Agnes Davis. She was ready to go. She stood a little unsteadily, dressed as if she were going out for the day in a red coat, which was carelessly buttoned, carrying a bottomless red bag. Her hair was leaning toward one side. He’d seen this middle-of-the-night, disheveled look upon many occasions, but never had he seen it quite so vividly.
“Ma’am, I’m Frank Mayfield, and I’d be happy to take the cot out of the ambulance for you.”
“Speak up, boy. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
“Do you want the gurney, Miss Davis?” he yelled into the night.
“I can walk. Call me Miss Agnes.”
“Well, Miss Agnes, let me take your bag for you then. Here, hold on to my arm. We’ll take this real slow.”
During Miss
There was never any sound reason to ban the man from visiting. He timed his arrivals perfectly and was careful not to overstay his welcome. He never attempted to touch anything—or anyone. My father kept an eye on him, of course. I wondered if one day he might crack and try to climb on top of a closed casket or kiss a corpse or run out with a wreath of flowers in his arms, REST IN PEACE emblazoned across his chest. Sometimes, when the funeral home was busy like a train station with hats and coats flowing inand out, his mysterious bearing faded and he seemed entirely normal, just a regular visitor caught in the morning rush.
The Visitor and my father never became friends, never shared even the smallest of conversations. That’s what made his presence so unsettling, and that for thirteen years he never missed a visitation until, one day, he disappeared.
We pondered what had happened to him and years later spoke of his probable death. I imagined his own portrait of repose: his face restored with cosmetics to appear alive, his closed eyes, his hands folded upon his chest. I wondered, too, if someone fixed a stare upon his corpse as he had upon so many others.
----
CHAPTER 4
The Woman in Red
O n a raw January night in 1960, Miss Agnes Davis turned out the light in her office and locked the door of the business she’d owned and operated for over thirty years. Adjacent to her office, the massive doors to her warehouses filled with fertilizer were already bolted for the evening. She climbed into her odd-job man’s farm truck and scarcely five minutes later thanked him for the ride and disappeared through the tall, white columns of her home.
She rattled around the spacious rooms of her antebellum mansion and turned on the lamps, fired up the furnace, and secured the doors. When all of this was completed, she reached for the decanter of fine Kentucky bourbon and poured herself a generous amount into a crystal glass. She thought of happier times, days unlike today, the first anniversary of the death of her only sibling, her much-loved brother, Urey. There were still a few things her wealth could not buy.
She stepped onto a red satin footstool and climbed into her imposing half-tester bed. The half canopy, covered in the same magnificently faded red satin fabric, was neatly ruched to create a swirling effect above her head.
Miss Agnes woke in the middle of the night feeling not quite right. The thought occurred to her that she might not have taken her medication correctly, or maybe she’d had a little too much bourbon. Perhaps the best thing to do was to go to the hospital. For the first time in a long time, she had a choice of whom to call. She could either call Alfred Deboe, whom she despised, or she could call that new young man in town.
My father, at this point only recently arrived in Jubilee, drove to Winter Street and pulled up to a beautiful, old Southern home. Not knowing his way around the place, he chose the front entrance. Quickly, he passed between the tall, white columns of the long porch and rang the bell. A short, rotund lady answered the door and introduced herself as Miss Agnes Davis. She was ready to go. She stood a little unsteadily, dressed as if she were going out for the day in a red coat, which was carelessly buttoned, carrying a bottomless red bag. Her hair was leaning toward one side. He’d seen this middle-of-the-night, disheveled look upon many occasions, but never had he seen it quite so vividly.
“Ma’am, I’m Frank Mayfield, and I’d be happy to take the cot out of the ambulance for you.”
“Speak up, boy. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
“Do you want the gurney, Miss Davis?” he yelled into the night.
“I can walk. Call me Miss Agnes.”
“Well, Miss Agnes, let me take your bag for you then. Here, hold on to my arm. We’ll take this real slow.”
During Miss
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