The Funeral Dress Read Online Free PDF Page A

tidying the extra room for Emmalee and her newborn daughter. They would come tomorrow, but Leona wished Emmalee was already there. She could have used her young eyes with the tedious hand stitching. Even Leona had to admit that the girl’s pickstitch was now almost as good as her own.
    Leona had tried to explain to Mrs. Brooks that another fabric would be easier to handle and might drape her furniture more smoothly. But the young woman, outfitted in her neatly ironed dress and fine pearl necklace, refused to listen. She held her palm up toward Leona’s face, indicating Leona was to hush.
    “The only reason I’ve come this distance at all is because I hear you do fine work at a fair price,” Mrs. Brooks said as she handed the bolt of fabric to Leona. “Considering this cost more than sixty dollars a yard, and I’ve driven all this way to find you, I hope I’m not disappointed.” Mrs. Brooks cocked her head to the right and tried to steal a peek into the trailer, although she refused to come inside, even when Leona offered her a cold glass of lemonade and a piece of fresh cake. She preferred to handle her transaction standing on the wooden stoop,slipping Leona no more than twenty dollars folded and tucked neat inside the palm of her gloved hand.
    “I’ll leave the rest in an envelope when I pick everything up Thursday morning.” Mrs. Brooks’s speech slowed and an exaggerated smile had stretched across her face. “You know my mother-in-law prefers I use her woman down in Saint Elmo. I’d hate to prove her right.”
    Leona rubbed her tongue across her blistered spot and glanced at the clock on the wall. She spent too much time this week sewing baby gowns, flannel blankets, and bibs for Kelly Faye. She had fallen behind in all her chores, but today she blamed Curtis for her running late. He forgot the cornflakes, and he knew damn well she could not make her hash brown casserole for Wednesday-night church supper without them. He had offered to run to the store five miles down the road, leaving her to finish her sewing. But she was too mad to be reasoned with and insisted on riding along for no other purpose than to remind him every mile of the way that his error had cost her valuable time. Her heart raced and her sore finger throbbed in perfect rhythm with every beat.
    Outside the trailer, the pickup spit a final hacking cough. Leona glanced out the window to find Curtis standing with his head buried underneath the truck’s hood. She picked up another piece of the red damask with pinned seams. She had no choice but to finish the slipcovers after church supper. She always had done most of her sewing late at night, after the dishes were cleaned and put away. But she was tired, more tired than she had been in years, and the thought of staying up late into the night left her both weepy and cross.
    With the arch of her foot, Leona pushed a bucket of potatoes and two large sacks of birdseed against the refrigerator’s side and stepped into the kitchen. November’s cold percolated through the holes in the dingy linoleum, and she shivered thinking of the winter months to come.
    “Damn,” she repeated, loose birdseed sticking to the bottom of her thin wool socks. A wave of cold air rushed into the trailer, and Leona turned to see Curtis at the door.
    “Shut the damn door,” she said and turned to the morning dishes sitting dirty in the sink.
    Curtis’s eye cut in Leona’s direction. He did not like to hear any woman talking with a foul mouth. In all their years of marriage, the only times he raised his voice to Leona was when her tongue got ugly, but she was too mad to be concerned with his opinion or reprimand. She thrust her hands on her hips and tossed him a mean look. Curtis’s expression turned soft, and he scooted farther inside the trailer. He placed his hat on a peg fastened to the trailer’s wall and shook his body as if he was casting off the cold. His frame was lean and his arms muscular, but his pace