The Funeral Bill

Chapter 7

James called it a perfect little hill to build a church upon. For Jeffers property had to be earned. He hadearned it, bought with monies he got paid from other lands, which he bought with monies he earned originally from labor in a dust-filthy mill. Everything he owned he'd earned. He wanted his son to earn it. James prated on about church, but Jeffers couldn't listen to him. He was angry with RD, angry with himself. He was going to have to get rid of the little man, evict him.

"Anything else going on up there?" James asked.

"Nothing."

"Did you get the squatters out the house?"

"Not yet."

"You can't do anything with the place until you get them out."

Jeffers let out a meek huh, which his son didn't respond to. He flicked the light back on and saw himself in the blacken window with a hand across his chest as if he were taking a pledge. His face was sullen. He smiled at himself, mirthless, false. When he stopped smiling the leaden expression returned. His son wasn't speaking. Who was his confidant, Jeffers wondered.

"Don't make any decision about that place before talking to me," James said.

Jeffers didn't respond.

James sighed on the other end and told his father goodnight.

Jeffers got up the next morning surprised he'd had a good night's sleep. His feet were warm and when he stood he could feel them—he could feel the coolness of the floor. He was still angry, but he felt good and up to running off squatters. He would have to deal with RD soon and getting Ashcross taken care of would be one less thing to worry about. He'd foregone calling the police. In years past, just telling the squatters to leave did the trick. Sometimes he'd flash his pistol.

When he got to Ashcross he knocked on the front door and a young woman with a gaudy bloom of red- and yellow-dyed hair answered. She was very pregnant, and she smiled so brightly that Jeffers couldn't help thinking of a flower he wished he could pick. The young woman said her name was Lucinda, but that everyone called her Panky.

He didn't mention that he'd seen her before. He began by telling her that she was a squatter and that the property belonged to him. If she didn't clear out immediately, he would have her arrested for trespassing and demand back-rent by garnering future earnings.

The young woman stood quietly as Jeffers finished speaking. After a few moments she spoke: "Someone told me and Toby it was empty and we could just stay a while until Toby got a job."

"I am the landlord. I charge rent on the people who live here."

"But it's been empty for a long time."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"But we have nowheres to go."

He'd never felt sorry for squatters or tenants, but Panky's festival hair, spray of freckles across her nose—her belly—released an unexpected shock of tenderness in his chest. He looked away, toward the trees and the catfish heads, as she continued to talk about their plucky intentions to stay briefly, have the baby, find a job for herself, find a better place. She just needed a little more time.

He hustled his pants around his haunchless hips. The weight of the pistol tugged on his trousers. His feet were going numb.

She was silent for a moment, and he looked back to see why she'd stopped talking. Then she said: "We could do some repairs on the house. Toby's good with that. Let us stay here and we'll fix it."

He hustled his pants again. He felt squirmy. His legs were being subsumed. His mind snarled with untethered thoughts. The woman before him, unpleasantly steady, continued to plead for more time. Her words became senseless in his ears.

He needed her. Or someone like her. This sudden upstroke of clarity frightened him. He needed someone to relieve him of the unrelenting loneliness of the last few years, someone to care for him. He was going to need care. He was dying and she was about to give life. She couldn't help it. Panky carried it inside her freely. He saw that.

Jeffers' mouth palsied inward before he stammered: "Do I look sick to you?"

Panky took a step back: "Maybe a little."

Jeffers stumbled forward: "How little?"

"Your face."