Francine marched across the parking lot of the Tubbs Funeral Parlour. It was a newish building put up sometime in the 1960’s when Frank Lloyd Wright architecture was the style.
She shivered in the hot sun and opened the door of her stifling Mercedes. Glancing down, she saw her heels were scraped and dusty.
“Shit...” she whispered.
She had made a reservation at the Sherwood Inn out on the road, which wound along the river. Clapboard housing everywhere! Why the hell can’t they build anything substantial around here?
Once on the highway to the other side of town, she glanced in the rear view mirror and touched her cheek. Several tears had escaped and were now making rivulets down her cheeks and messing her makeup. “Shit...” she whispered. Ten minutes later, she pulled up in front of the Sherwood Inn. At first she was pleased. It fronted on the river just where it broke into two tributaries and the water rushed over rock. She stared at the Inn but did not get out of the car.
She shot out of the parking lot and headed back into town. If I’m ever going to understand all of this—she waved her hand to encompass all that she felt—I need to stay in town.
Francine was on the main street. Is this where mother was hit by the bicycle? She did not even know. In fact she did not know exactly where mother lived in town. Yes, she knew the general area of course, but not the address.
In fact, I haven’t been here for over five years, she admitted to herself.
It was the kind of main street like so many across North America. A two lane highway creeping across the river on one side, down a steep hill and into town—usually flat and short. Main Street was only a few blocks long in a small town. Cars were parked diagonally with their bumpers hanging over the sidewalk. Signs hung out over the sidewalk too. Only by the models of cars, could you tell how many years had passed. The storefronts, with their banging shutters and screen doors slapping on their hinges, were unchanged. Same window with the same goods. Little dresses for girls, shorts for boys hats, sandals and bathing suits all set out in a practical, unimaginative display.
How little things change! In Toronto, Francine worked on page-layouts at a fashion magazine. She thought she should bring a camera crew up here...just to show....just to show what? How little changes in a backwater town. She pulled her car into a diagonal spot and got out. There it was, right on the main street at a corner—The Edison Hotel, ensconced like a Victorian dowager suspiciously overlooking the four corners of the town. It’s high, dark windows rose up above the fussy bric a brac mouldings giving it an air of mild confusion.
Grimly, Francine pushed open the door. Before her lay an expanse of red carpet and a burnished mahogany panelled foyer. Immense vases of wild flowers festooned the tables. Francine caught her breath and then smiled. What had she expected? Cheap panelling and cracked linoleum? The town had acquired some taste after all! She peeked into the Victorian tea room just off the lobby. All the staff wore starched collars and pleasant, attentive smiles.
She inquired at the front desk. Yes—they had a room for her.
As the elevator rose swiftly to the fifth floor, she rested her forehead against the brass cage. All Francine wanted was a room and a very hot bath. The funeral was not until tomorrow afternoon. She had tried to escape Aunt Evelyn but it was no use. It was impossible to turn down the dinner invitation at her house at seven o’clock.
