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  I kissed my aunt’s heavily-rouged cheek and picked a path across the room. A petite pasty-complexioned woman so drab she could blend into the background stood next to a mass of floral arrangements studying the card on a tall spray of white carnations. My dear cousin—Evelyn Longman Fletcher.

  “Hattie!” Evelyn said when she glanced up. A cloying cloud of flowery scent enveloped me. “I’m so glad you made it home all right. I prayed the whole livelong night for your plane to land on time.” Her red-rimmed eyes watered. “I’m so sorry about your mama. I stayed at y’all’s house as much as mine after Joe and I were married. It was my second home. I thought she’d just live on forever. She just never seemed like she was any older than the rest of us.”

  Evelyn dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Why, just a few days back, she stopped by for a cup of mornin’ coffee on her way up to the Cut ’n’ Curl for her weekly hairdo appointment. Not a day went by that we didn’t talk on the phone. It just don’t seem real that she’s gone.”

  We studied the line of mourners passing by the pale pink coffin with the rose-trimmed embroidered silk lining.

  “I’m so sorry my kids couldn’t be here for you, honey. The grandyounguns are still in school right now, so Bryon and Linda couldn’t come down with them on such short notice. And, Ohio’s such a long way off. They only get home every other year or so around the holidays. And, Karen…well…”

  A flicker of pain washed over Evelyn’s features, her hazel eyes downcast. “She’s just so busy with her work with the television station up there in Atlanta. But, enough about us, let’s have a look at you. You’re just pure skin and bones I told Joe I thought you were livin’ way too fast over there in Tallahassee. Lordy, I just don’t know how you can stand all that traffic!”

  My reply was drowned in a barrage of Evelyn’s breathless chatter. Besides being locally famous as a terrible cook, Evelyn was known for frequently redecorating her house, and herself, around a chosen theme. Often, clues to the new décor were echoed in her attire. Small touches to the drab charcoal gray ensemble gave clues to Evelyn’s latest animal passion.

  Dolphins! The earrings, the necklace…and yes, a ring! Her latest foray into home embellishment was surely “Shades of Sea World.” Had she replaced the rooster toilet seat cover in the guest bathroom—a huge red and orange rooster with the words “cock-a-doodle” on the outside and “doo” on the underside? That was during her chicken and barnyard phase. The new lid cover was probably a dolphin sailing high over a wave carrying the Tidy-bowl man in a small dingy.

  Acute sorrow and the lack of sleep in the last twenty-four hours had left me punch-drunk. I coughed to cover a giggle.

  “Honey, you’re not coming down with something, are you? You know your eye-mune system takes a beating when you are overcome with grief. You probably aren’t eating right, either.”

  Joe stepped up behind his wife. “Eat a steak every now and then. A little red meat’d do you good.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek.

  “She’s way too thin, don’t you think, Joe? Now, Hattie, you’ll have to come and see us after things settle down. I know you’re gonna be busy with settling all your mama’s affairs, but you can still stop by. It’d do you good to stay over here in the country for a while and breathe some fresh air.”

  I nodded dumbly.

  A murmur rippled through the small room as my older brother entered. He stopped to study our mother’s lifeless face. How much he now resembled our father, especially his hands. Like Mr. D., Bobby accentuated his words with expansive gestures, his large strong hands carving arcs in the air. The way he walked, shoulders squared military straight, the uneven smile and receding hairline; all mimicked the giant man I had cherished.

  Recently, Bobby and I had drifted apart. The more I prospered and traveled, the more strained our relationship became. After a bitter divorce from his wife of twenty years, Bobby grew more rude and sarcastic when we chanced to visit the Hill at the same time.

  The handful of friends who met my big brother experienced the same disdain. Chris, my police-officer friend from Tallahassee, dubbed him Mr. Personality. It was a kind label considering the treatment she received the first time she accompanied me home for a Sunday visit. Chris and Bobby came close to a fistfight over some point of law enforcement. With twenty-eight years’ experience as a game warden, Bobby assured her he knew more than she. The picture in my mind’s eye was still clear: Chris’s Italian temper in full bloom, nostrils flaring slightly, as she tried to control the urge to stuff a dinner napkin into Bobby’s smart mouth.

  My mother, always the peacemaker, tried to talk with him and me, goading the core of Bobby’s anger and pain. “You’re not the reason he’s so unhappy, Hattie,” she told me, “you’re just a focus for it to come out.”

  Bobby’s broad shoulders drooped. Though not outwardly handsome, my brother possessed a rugged cowboy demeanor women found irresistible. Unfortunately, his gruff attitude proved an unapproachable barrier. Without Mrs. Tillie’s gentle balance to buoy our relationship, how we could manage to mend the rift?

  The room was cloaked with a profound stillness. People we had known for years surrounded my family like a protective cocoon. For a fleeting moment, I had the eerie feeling that we were all the same with different coverings hiding identical forms.

  Though just the beginning of May, the day of the funeral was unseasonably hot. The near one hundred percent humidity ironed out the heavily sprayed curling-iron waves from my naturally straight hair. The control top pantyhose were stuck permanently to my skin, and several trickles of sweat made a sticky pool on the underside of my bra. To make matters worse, the service was graveside. Only a few immediate family members could sit or huddle in the shade of the narrow crimson Memorial Memories tent. Factoring in the heat and humidity, the press of sweaty bodies swathed in black, and the total lack of even a breath of a breeze, it was a wonder that half the mostly over-fifty crowd didn’t pass out.

  A cluster of close friends and coworkers from Tallahassee stood to my right side. Among them were Chris and Kathy, two of Tallahassee’s Police Department’s finest, dressed in formal navy long-sleeved uniforms to show their respect for the family. Visible from several feet away, rivulets of sweat glistened on their faces.

  My eyes were sore, swollen, and red-rimmed from bouts of crying. With purple smudges painted from two nights with little rest, I resembled a raccoon with a bad case of mascara run-off. Thank God for dark sunglasses.

  Preacher Ghent droned on for over an hour. My head pounded in time with the cadence of his speech.

  When was this guy ever going to stop talking? On and on about sin, and ashes to ashes. If we all didn’t feel rotten enough, they seated the family practically on top of the coffin! The heat and lack of sleep added to my irritation.

  Preacher Ghent heaved a heavy sigh, breathed deeply, and launched into another long tirade. “And, Gawd-AH…”

  My lower lip burned where I had bitten down to suppress a giggle.

  Everything he said ended with ‘AH’! Gawd-AH. Heaven-AH. Death-AH.

  His deep-voiced litany droned on and on, rolling in waves; quiet and still one moment, enough to shake the rafters, had there been any, the next. To avoid laughing, I focused on counting the AH’s.

  The preacher heaved a gulp of air before continuing. “And-AH! Our sister-AH in Christ-AH will find her reward-AH in the great-AH by and by-AH!”

  I leaned over and shook slightly with the effort not to guffaw. How could anything possibly be funny about a funeral? Aunt Piddie, thinking I was just overcome, handed over a monogrammed hankie and patted me on the back. I held my breath for a full three minutes, just long enough for Preacher Ghent to finish his sermon and ask the crowd to bow in prayer.

  Immediately after the congregation responded, I passed out cold—right at the base of the coffin. In the fall forward, two of the standing white carnation and lily sprays tipped over on top of me. I don’t recall what happened afterwards. When I could focu
s, Bobby was holding my head in his lap and everyone was huddled around clucking sympathy for Tillie Davis’ poor, pitiful daughter.

  Then, oh my God, I saw him. Garrett Douglas. He swaggered toward the crowd with easy long-legged athletic smoothness.

  Damn it! What was he doing here?

  “Well, hi there, Garrett,” my brother said as he extended a hand. The two men greeted each other as old friends. Amazing, since they’d met only once.

  Bobby tipped his head in my direction. “Seems poor Hattie got a little overheated.”

  Note to myself: kill Bobby later.

  “She always has been a bit of a delicate flower,” Garrett replied in a conspiratorial “aren’t-women-so-weak-unlike-us-good-ole’-boys” voice.

  If not for the fact that I had just successfully halted the final prayer at my mother’s funeral with a half gainer into the flower exhibit, I would have planted a black patent-leather pump in his crotch. It was right at eye level. I could have done it easily.

  Garrett crouched and softly stroked my face. “I’m so sorry about Mama Tillie.”

  I ducked back from his warm hand. “Nice of you to take the time off from work to come.”

  He flinched. “I hope we can talk soon,” he said as he rose.

  Bobby helped me to my feet. I brushed a few stray fern leaves from the front of my black dress. “I’m exhausted, Garrett. It’s not a really good time for me at the moment, as you could imagine.”

  Garrett flashed his orthodontist’s dream smile. He was the only human I knew who could rival former president Jimmy Carter in the sheer number of teeth he could expose at once.

  “Of course. It’s a trying time for you. I’ll call you later in the week. Good to see you again, Bobby.”

  As he walked away, I was struck, as always, with his sense of presence. All the women in the crowd, regardless of age or marital status, watched him move toward the sleek black Mercedes convertible. I could’ve sworn I even caught Aunt Piddie running her tongue over her thin painted lips.

  Excerpt from Max the Madhatter’s notebook, August 17, 1958

  I asked Dr. Bruner how it is that I can feel on top of the world and so miserable I can barely look up, sometimes within minutes of each other. He said it was like when it rains and the sun is shining at the same time. Strong feelings can hold hands.

  Chapter Two

  THE DAVIS HOMESTEAD

  The local paper, the Twin City News, and its big city counterpart, the Tallahassee Democrat, were crammed into the green plastic newspaper box on the opposite side of State Highway 269. That my mother had to cross the busy highway to pick up the paper and mail always concerned me. She had finally contacted the postal carrier the past summer to have the mailbox moved up the sand lane close to the house, but the newspaper had to be fetched by either walking or riding an old golf cart. When Mr. D. was alive, he would pile into the cart, flanked on either side by one or more dogs, and make the mail and paper run. After he died, my mother used the daily paper as a reason to get out, get some exercise, and stop by the neighbors’ house for a cup of coffee. This worked out pretty well for everyone except the last of the aging canines who begrudgingly trudged along behind her.

  “Howdy, Mrs. Margie!” I called from the road.

  The petite woman wearing a red bandana waved from the edge of a patch of tomato plants. “Mornin’! Stop on in after you get the paper. John has the coffee on.”

  “Thanks. Some of my friends from Tallahassee are still here. I have to go back up and help with breakfast before they leave.”

  Spam, my parents’ elderly golden retriever/lab/shepherd mix woofed at me to hurry on up the road. I had dubbed the blended mutt a “Florida Cracker Retriever,” a hardy breed not yet recognized by the American Kennel Club.

  At the turn of the white sandy lane, I paused and studied the sprawling white farmhouse on the Hill. A warm feeling of home washed over me. I had literally been born in that house—on a couch beside the fireplace in the kitchen. My mother had gone into labor in the wee hours of an October morning. I came way too fast for a quick trip to the little hospital in Quincy twenty miles away and had emerged into the world kicking and screaming with my mother, father, Mrs. Margie, and my scared stiff-older brother in attendance.

  The house loomed at the top of a small hill as if it had been placed there by an other-worldly Monopoly God who bought the property and dropped a house to improve its value. The grassy lawn sprawled for five acres surrounding the farmhouse, with three large past-their-prime pecan trees framing the edges of the cleared property. My father’s workshop was tucked out of view, and an old smokehouse listed dangerously behind the covered carport. A wooden privy once stood at the edge of the woods, but a severe case of wood rot had claimed it several years back. My friends’ automobiles were pulled up on the thick lawn next to my truck, and indistinct figures passed behind a rectangular picture window that formed a good portion of the front wall of the kitchen.

  I sighed. Except for my graceful dive into the plants, the graveside service was a blur. The numbness prevailed as I heard all the platitudes: She lived a wonderful, full life. She went just the way she would’ve wanted, Hattie. Your mama wasn’t one to stay down for long. Mrs. Tillie’s with Mr. D. now. All the well-intended phrases confirmed the wisdom I had gleaned from my father’s death ten years prior: it’s best to simply say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  The pain lurks, hidden in the wings, waiting for the loyal friends to pack up and go back to their lives. The processions of well-meaning visitors bearing casseroles, heaping plates of cold cuts, cakes, and pies, stop coming up the lane. Contact with familiar things left behind snares my breath and leaves me gasping for air. They are the leavings of a life fully lived: a soil-stained plaid work shirt on a peg by the back door, my mother’s frazzled sun hat from the Straw Bazaar in the Bahamas, and a fingerprint- smudged pair of reading glasses propped crossways on an unread copy of Life on the Nile.

  Chris pushed away from the breakfast table and belched loudly. “Good one!” she boasted.

  “You can be so gross,” I kidded.

  “You’re just jealous since you’re such the Southern Lady who can’t make any good bodily function noises.” Her deep-set dark eyes flashed in an expression I had seen many times in the twenty years we had been close.

  “I can’t help it. My mother taught me that a female neither belches nor farts out loud,” I said. We’d had the same conversation countless times.

  She toasted me with a coffee cup. “I’ll come visit you in the hospital when you finally blow frickin’ up.”

  A sun-faded dark blue Ford pick-up slid into the yard.

  Chris smirked. “Time for us to pack up and head back to the city. Especially now that Mr. Personality is here.”

  Bobby hopped from the truck’s cab and shuffled toward the door. “Y’all don’t leave on my account, now,” he called as he stepped inside.

  Chris worked up her best saccharine smile. “Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, sweetie.” She pecked me on the cheek. “I’ll call you later on in the week. As to that pompous asshole, Garrett, don’t worry about him. I have his tag number.”

  “Don’t harass him, Officer Friendly. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Her finely-plucked dark eyebrows rose slightly. “Would I do that?” Chris grabbed a suitcase and motioned for the rest of the Tallahassee gang to join her.

  I ushered my friends outside. They pulled out of the drive in a dust-raising procession.

  “What brings you out here so early, big brother? My coffee?” My stomach churned in anticipation of the inevitable confrontation.

  “I just came out to let you know that we’re supposed to meet with the attorney tomorrow at 10.”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  Bobby poured a cup of black coffee. “So, how long you planning on staying in town?”

  “I took a month of family leave from the state. All of my massage-therapy clients know I’ll call when I’m back, so both
jobs are covered. Why? You have a problem with me being around?”

  He took a long noisy swill of coffee. His eyes were cold blue. “It was good of Garrett to come to the funeral.”

  I clenched my teeth and studied my brother. What the hell was he up to?

  “Such as it was. I’m sure he had his motives.”

  Bobby slammed his cup on the table, sloshing coffee onto my mother’s hand-loomed table runner. “Damn it, Hattie! The man’s trying for heaven’s sake. Give him a break!”

  “You have no earthly idea what you’re talking about, and since when do you give a damn about my love life?”

  He ran a hand through his thinning light brown hair. “All I know is that half this town thinks you’re some kinda dyke. Hell, here you are at forty, and never married.”

  Familiar anger knotted my stomach. “Like you’re the expert! At least none of my past partners left and took me for everything.”

  Bobby’s sun-wizened face caved in on itself.

  “Oh, jeez…Bobby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that…”

  He stood quickly and headed for the front door. “Just be there tomorrow,” he muttered.

  The silence was eerie and haunted after Bobby left, and I needed to exorcise the anger brewing a hole in my stomach lining. After phoning Margie and John to tell them I would take care of the daily fish-pond duties, I donned a pair of snake boots and headed to an area my family called the back forty. This was also the direction of what my father referred to as Pete’s Mudhole, the mystical place where all of the tremendous summer thunder and lightning storms originated. “It’s gonna be a frog-strangler,” he would say, pointing to the purple-black clouds above the tree line. “It’s comin’ from Pete’s Mudhole.”

  The cultivated soil of the field was mushy soft, still rising and falling in the furrows of the last corn crop. The two-lane dirt road gave way to a weedy overgrown path when it entered the hardwood forest at the edge of the ten-acre cleared track. Stepping into the woods, I noticed the reverent hush reminiscent of the foyer of a cathedral. The towering pine, red oak, sweet gum, and hickory trees formed a dappled canopy overhead.