Love Songs: The Wrong Note - A Collection of Short Stories

Eudie's Request

She slumped in the overstuffed chair, her legs wide apart and hanging limply from her hips. Her feet were small and bare and occasionally swept the wide boards of the old oak floor, stirring dust motes into a frenzied dance of chaotic mayhem.

It was one of those summer nights that refuses to cool, even after the violet shadows of dusk signal the sun's duties are over for the day. Every window in the ancient mansion was thrown up. Any hint of breeze traversed across the wrap-around porch, filtering into the room where she sat. The crickets were stitching their songs together in a hacksaw rhythm of syncopated revelry.

"Is there anything else you'll be needin', ma'am?" Sylva asked.

"A grave," Eudie said quietly, allowing the least hint of a smile to trace across her lips.

"Eudie! I declare! If Uncle Ceph could hear such talk!"

"I doubt he'd care. Anyway, Uncle Ceph was as deaf as a stump before y'all filled his ears with dirt," said Eudie, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a cough caused by a ragged tickle in the back of her throat.

"Chile, chile," said Sylva, "I ain't never in all my born days! Don't you know they watch all the rooms? Don't you think they don't know what you be sayin'?"

"You're as nutty as last year's pecan candied fruit cake," said Eudie. "Why would they give one hoot about anything I say? Are they going to reach out from the walls and box my ears? I think not."

"It's late," said Sylva. "I'm goin' to bed. If you need me, just holler."

Sylva patted Eudie on the shoulder. Strange, thought Eudie. How could such roughened, work-gnarled hands have the light touch of a feather's caress?

Eudie listened as the sound of the slow, shuffling footsteps of the ancient woman faded. Sylva was making her way to her room beneath the sweeping open stairway.

Eudie coughed into her embroidered handkerchief. What made her throat act up so? How was she ever going to rid herself of this cursed tickling that danced jigs against her windpipe?

Impossible to scratch. Besides, a finger that far back in her throat would only make her gag. Or much worse. Eudie shook her head violently, scattering the awful images that crowded her mind.

She could almost hear the wet clucking sounds of Sylva's toothless mouth, and the 'waste of good food' echoing in the silent room of her imagination.

The weak bulb under the fringed shade flickered and blinked.

Had she remembered to pay the bill?

She took her forefinger and thumb and squeezed her parched lips together. The gesture did nothing to revive her memory or quell the nagging itch in the back of her throat that threatened to drive her mad.

She reached for the old silver mirror she kept on the table beside her favorite chair. Ornate and heavy, it was black with neglect and in sore need of polishing. Its shabby elegance felt cool to her touch.

She looked at her reflection in the black-spotted, splotched glass.

"How old I look," she muttered, sticking out her tongue and attempting to peer down the dark cavern that was her throat.

"Useless," she muttered, replacing the mirror glass-side down exactly on the spot of dustless wood that mimicked its shape.

A small black ant caught her attention. She watched it skitter about the plate of food left untouched beside her. Sylva would be irate at this desecration, Eudie thought, but she left the innocent insect alone. Somebody might as well benefit from the untouched larder.

It was really intriguing, watching such a small creature tug and push crumbs about the plate. A cornucopia. A feast. How many eons would it take to clear this mountain of food morsel by tiny morsel?

Dry. Stale. But to an insect, delectable.

She glanced at the tea cup beside the plate and for a quivering instant thought of taking a sip of tea. But no. The brew was as cold as death and the milk curdled.

The tickle at the back of her throat had calmed. Musings can really be wonderful medicine.

She stared at the violet rim of sky above the black tree line, noting the brilliant flashes of white. Heat lightning. Her nostrils twitched at the scent of ozone. Perhaps it would rain later on. A welcome respite, perhaps, until the liquid air chasing the storm overrode the coolness of rain-soaked air. She could almost feel the oppressive humidity return as it chased the rolling clouds to blanket the earth in uncomfortable stickiness all over again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a dark shadow flit across the far corner of the room.

"Sylva? Is that you?"

Nothing.

"Nerves," Eudie whispered. "Just nerves."

Thunder exploded. It was definitely going to rain. Soon, she thought. Very soon.

She grabbed the arms of the overstuffed chair and hoisted herself up. Every joint in her body felt like it needed oil. Her bare foot slid across a rock hard crust of bread. Pins and needles shot up her shin, and Eudie pitched to one side, Instinctively, her hand moved toward the table to stay a fall.

The plate of food went careening off, hitting the floor in an explosion of shattering glass and flying globs of gravy, pork, mashed potatoes, and cut green beans.

Eudie leaned against the wall, her breath coming in ragged stitches. Her shoulder bumped hard against a heavy gilded frame, causing the massive portrait to skew on the nail that fastened it to the wall.

It happened in the millisecond it took for the flash of lightning to illuminate the vaulted ceiling of the spacious room.

Next morning, Sylva could not believe her eyes. What a mess! Food scraps and glass shards littered the floor.

"Chile. Chile. You gonna be the death of old Sylva, yet."

They searched for Eudie for nearly two weeks, dredging the river and nearby ponds, bringing in bloodhounds and scouring the countryside for any trace. Eudie's photograph was posted on the front page of every newspaper in eight surrounding counties.

A few years later, the estate was auctioned off to a well-to-do real estate developer from up North. Every piece of furniture was cleaned and catalogued. Every portrait was inventoried and placed in heavy wooden crates for storage.

No one noticed the small grave marker painted in the background of Uncle Ceph's likeness. The proud craggy faced gentleman farmer, whose elaborate sideburns and mustache would make General Ambrose Burnside proud, stood in the middle of a panorama accentuating the great house and gardens of his family's antebellum plantation.

The overhauled workman pulled the portrait from the wall. His partner was preparing the wooden crate to house the artwork.

"Hey, Mac," he said. "Get a load of this."

The curly headed man had his nose barely an inch from the painting.

"This headstone's got no last name."

"Huh," Mac said, inspecting the picture intently. "I think you're right. Can hardly make out the name. I think it's Eudie."

"Eudie," said his friend. "What kind of name is that?"

"Maybe it's a favorite pet's name."

"Yeah. Probably."