Cemetery Silk. E. Joan Sims
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Copyright Information
Copyright © 2001 E. Joan Sims.
All rights reserved.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Emory University Hospital School of Medical Record Science, the Medical Mission Sisters of the former Holy Family Hospital of Atlanta, Georgia, and to Dr. Cynthia A. Moore, M.D., Ph.D.
Dedication
To the memory of my parents, John and Sara Sims,
with love, gratitude, and admiration
Prologue
Father Barnard could not sleep. His head ached, his pillow felt like a concrete block, and for some reason the new mattress his grateful congregation gave him last Christmas was no more comfortable than the hard cot he had slept on as a chaplain in the army. He tossed and turned until his bedclothes were wrinkled and twisted, but sleep would not come. He wondered why. It was so unlike him to have insomnia. And even though he usually boasted of a hearty digestion, his dinner of corned beef and cabbage was a sour memory that hovered, a dull burning pain, somewhere between heart and stomach. What was wrong, indeed?
His day had been a pleasant one, beginning with the christening of a chubby baby boy. The proud parents were a couple who had grown up in his church. He had watched as their puppy love developed into the lasting devotion that he had sanctified in a marriage ceremony two years before, and he was proud and happy to bless their new son.
It had been a lovely service—full of happy tears and laughter, and he remembered with a smile the warm sweet smell of the child. He felt his body relax and his mind slowly drift—floating through memories. Suddenly he recalled the thin, dry, hands of the old man grasping his with a strength that only the dying can muster.
Father Barnard sat bolt upright in bed and wiped the perspiration from his face. He fumbled about for the carafe of water his housekeeper always left for him on the bedside table and poured a glass, spilling half on the front of his pajamas before he got it to his mouth.
The old man! That was it—but surely as a priest he had done nothing wrong? It was God’s will: He giveth and He taketh away. A time to live and a time to die, that was what Father Barnard always preached. It was the old man’s time, and Father Barnard had merely gone to his hospital bedside at the request of a man in his parish to save his friend’s immortal soul. Where was the harm in that?
Oh! But those ancient eyes: so pale a blue they were almost clear—a window into a soul in pain.
The old man had no family. His wife was gone, and they had no children. There was no other immediate family, or so the parishioner had said. “He is alone. I am his only friend—his dear friend and companion. My wife and I love him like a father. We don’t want him to die without your blessing.”
Father Barnard shook his head in bewilderment. What was wrong with saving a soul? Besides, the bedside conversion assured the old man a Catholic funeral—the one Father Barnard had scheduled for ten o’clock tomorrow morning.
He put down the water glass and slipped back beneath the covers to close his eyes once again. He began a silent entreaty for sleep, but the old man’s eyes appeared unbidden behind his own eyelids. Against his will he recalled the sharp pain as the yellowed, unkempt nails dug into his arm in a desperate attempt to hold on to life. And sleep eluded him once more.
Chapter One
Ah, funeral food. I’d forgotten how tasty it truly is. And so many dishes to choose from! The aluminum folding table in William’s shabby dining room almost buckled under their weight. Big platters of crunchy golden fried chicken, watermelon rind pickles, spiced crabapples, and cole slaw competing for space with creamy potato salad, deviled eggs, and pickled okra. Casseroles galore, from green beans and mushrooms to sausage and grits. Plus at least four jewel-toned congealed salads quivering with mandarin oranges, Bing cherries, bananas, and enough miniature marshmallows to float a boat.
William had been nearly eighty-two when he died. Since most of his friends were at least that or older, some had been too ill or infirm to attend the funeral so they’d paid their respects by sending this food. A few had even attached little cards to the sides of their dishes. Mother said it was so they could get their containers back, but I think they were staking claim to their particular gastronomic specialty. Surely no one but Amby Tucker could be responsible for the tender ham baked in Coca-Cola gravy.
The same for Ouida Prine’s meringue-covered banana rum pudding and Mary Agnes Hammond’s golden lemon pound cake. I could understand why. Each dish was a masterpiece. The cake was so moist and delicious I would be tempted to fake my own death just to get access to a slice.
I tried to look dainty and abstemious. The truth was that we had skipped breakfast and I was famished.
My elegant little mother watched me like a hawk as I filled my plate to the brim. She excused herself from a conversation and sashayed over to offer a gentle whispered reproach.
“Paisley, darling, a lady never makes a pig of herself, especially in front of friends and family.”
With the skill of a ventriloquist she managed to say this while smiling sweetly in the direction of the twenty or so people crowded in the tiny house.
“These are friends of yours, not mine,” I replied. “And what little family there is here was William’s not ours, and he’s dead.”
“Don’t say ‘dead,’ dear. It’s so common. Dear William has ‘passed away.’”
“Dead’s dead in my book, and I’m alive and starving.” I waggled my plastic fork in the direction of the buffet. “Have you tried that green bean casserole? It looks like something you’d find at the bottom of a garbage disposal, but it tastes delicious.”
“For heaven’s sake, Paisley!” she hissed.
“Speaking of heaven, weren’t you just a tad surprised to see a Catholic priest officiating at William’s funeral? I almost wet my pants.”
She managed to look furious and nonplussed at the same time. My mother would be sixty-two next March, but in her stylish Castleberry knit suit she displayed a figure some teenagers would envy. Her handsome face was still smooth and relatively unlined, with fine high cheekbones and lovely brown eyes. A cloud of silver white hair was pulled back from her forehead in a chic French twist, and the Sterling family pearls gleamed on her slender neck. I was proud of her. It was obvious at this moment that the feeling was not mutual. I was definitely in the doghouse.
“It’s apparent that you have let that place alter your vocabulary as well as your behavior. You are quite a different person from the proper child I raised.”
She squared her slender shoulders and marched off in the direction of a tired-looking woman with adult acne. I recognized her as William’s second cousin.
By “that place,” Mother meant New York City, where my daughter, Cassandra, and I had lived for the last ten years. In spite of what Mother would like to think, Cassie and I had been happy and as well mannered as it is prudent to be in the mean streets of Manhattan.
When my husband, Raphael, disappeared, my parents begged us to come back to Kentucky and live with them on Meadowdale Farm, but I had reluctantly refused. It was not that I didn’t want to go home. I yearned desperately for the safe refuge of my childhood after the tumultuous life I had led in Latin America. But I knew I needed to break free of the past and make a new life for Cassie and myself. If I stayed on the farm or in our hacienda in San Romero, I would never stop listening for a familiar voice, or looking for a beloved face. Rafael Luis Alberto DeLeon had vanished without a trace. He had to be dead. After all these years, I was sure. Almost sure, anyway.
I finished off a fried chicken wing and surreptitiously licked my greasy fingers.
“Hallo, Paisley Sterling. You’re lookin’ mighty good, sugar.”
Joseph Thomas Roth had lost a considerable amount of hair since I last saw him. His voice sounded greasier than my fingers felt.
“Nobody