Birthright

“Glorious!” I laugh. “He does seem to like that word.”

*****

I stare at my phone.

I haven’t heard anything from Nate since Tuesday morning when I sent him my work schedule, and we agreed to go out Friday night. It’s now Thursday evening, and though I want to text him, I have no idea what to say.

I had seen him though.

Yesterday, I tried to go to the county clerk’s office on the east side of town, but it was

closed. A note on the door said it would open again Thursday, right about the time I would be starting my first day at work. As I tried to figure out why they were closed in the middle of the week with the flag at half-mast, a long black hearse rolled slowly down the street, followed by too many cars to count. I saw Nate through the passenger seat window in the car directly behind the hearse, but he was talking to the driver. A woman in a black hat sat directly behind him, openly crying.

I had walked home in silence, wondering if I had made a big mistake.

As I walked through the woods today, meticulously counting and measuring trees, I continued to feel as if I should have gone to the visitation. The quiet atmosphere provided a lot of thinking time, and the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t decide if avoiding the event was the correct thing to do.

I can’t stop thinking about it now, either. I hadn’t felt comfortable with the idea of going to the visitation, and now that it’s far too late, I wish I had. Clearly the town had shut down for the event, and I should have gone to offer my condolences.

In my head, I picture the scene as it might have happened. I’d stand politely in the line for the viewing, reach the family members, and extend my support to people I didn’t know and then finally to Nate, who would wonder what the fuck I was doing there at all.

So very awkward.

“It was best I didn’t go, don’t you think?” I ask Vee. “I mean, I don’t even know his brother-in-law’s name, and I just moved here, so I don’t know the family or the town. Showing up for such a ceremony wouldn’t be proper, right?”

I have no idea, and Vee offers no advice whatsoever. I look down at the phone again, wondering if I should text him first or wait for him to get back to me. He’s also had a trying week, I’m sure, and I don’t want to interrupt the family’s grieving process.

“Since I didn’t go, I should at least offer my condolences,” I say to myself for the tenth time in the last two days. I start to type a text but then quickly delete it. Nothing sounds right.

Jessie’s knocking on my door provides a welcome distraction.

“It’s all done!” She squeals and holds up a bundle of cloth.

“What is?”

“Your quilt!” She brushes past me and holds the bundle higher, letting it fall partially open. “I never did get the colors for your bedroom, but I hope this will work for you.”

Surrounded by a blue border, the quilt is made up of a kaleidoscope of square pieces of fabric, most of which have a flower pattern of some sort but in all different hues.

“It’s got all the colors,” Jessie says with a laugh, “so it should go with everything, I think. And I know you like flowers. See this piece? It’s the only fabric I could find with cherry blossoms, but I thought you would appreciate that.”

I reach out and run my fingers over the quilt, noting the different textures of the fabric squares.

“Jessie, this is amazing! Where did you learn to do this?”

“From my grandmother,” she says. “Mom had no interest in sewing or quilting or anything like that, but my gramma taught me how after I found a bunch of fabric at a yard sale.” Jessie laughs at the memory as she shoves the quilt into my arms. “There was a whole box of fabric pieces for just a dollar, and I thought I’d make myself my own quilt. All I had to do was sew the little pieces together in straight lines, and there wasn’t much else to it, right?” She laughs again. “Boy, was I wrong! Come on then! Let’s go put it on your bed!”

I follow Jessie into my bedroom, immediately embarrassed by the dirty clothes lying on the floor, the unmade bed, and the mess of coffee cups on the nightstand. If Jessie notices, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she hands me the quilt, quickly pulls my sheet up to the pillows, and then helps me spread the quilt over the bed.

“This piece here,” Jessie says, pointing to a square of purple fabric with pink roses on it, “is one of the squares I got from the yard sale all those years ago. I try to incorporate a piece into every quilt I make now. I still have a lot of pieces left in that box I picked up almost thirty years back. Can you believe it?”

She starts going on about stitches and batting and backing while I run my hand over the quilt. It’s thick and heavy and will certainly keep me warmer than the blanket I had on there before. Though the flowery pattern is random and rather haphazard, it’s really quite pretty.

“Thank you so much, Jessie.” My throat tightens and tears well up in my eyes though I’m not sure why. “This is so kind of you—going to all that trouble—and you only just met me.”

“Oh, hunny, I just wanted to make my new neighbor feel welcome!” Jessie reaches over and pulls me into a tight embrace as I try to rein in the tears. “Now, let me boil up some water for tea, and you can tell me all about your first day at your new job. I haven’t worked in a few years now, you know. Retired at my age! Can you believe it?”

Chapter 10—Funeral