The Optimist's Daughter - Eudora Welty [14]
“My father? Why—at his home,” said Laurel, stammering.
“At the residence. Until the hour of services. As was the case with the first Mrs. McKelva,” said the man.
“I’m Mrs. McKelva now. If you’re the undertaker, you do your business with me,” said Fay.
Tish Bullock winked at Laurel. It was a moment before she remembered: this was the bridesmaids’ automatic signal in moments of acute joy or distress, to show solidarity.
There was a deep boom, like the rolling in of an ocean wave. The hearse door had been slammed shut.
“—and you may have him back in the morning by ten A.M.,” the undertaker was saying to Fay. “But first, me and you need to have a little meeting of the minds in a quiet, dignified place where you can be given the opportunity—”
“You bet your boots,” said Fay.
The hearse pulled away, then. It turned to the left on Main Street, blotted out the Courthouse fence, and disappeared behind the Presbyterian Church.
Mr. Pitts turned to make his bow to Laurel. “I’ll return this lady to you by-and-by,” he said.
Miss Adele took Laurel’s coat over her arm and the bridesmaids gathered up all the suitcases. The old Bullock Chrysler had been waiting.
It was first-dark in the town of Mount Salus. They turned right on Main Street and drove the three and a half blocks.
The McKelva house was streaming light from every window, upstairs and down. As Tish passed the row of parked cars and turned up into the driveway, Laurel saw that the daffodils were in bloom, long streamers of them reaching down the yard, hundreds of small white trumpets. Tish lightly touched the horn, and the front door opened and still more light streamed out, in which the solid form of Miss Tennyson Bullock walked out and stood on the porch.
Laurel ran from the car and across the grass and up the front steps. Miss Tennyson—Tish’s mother—was calling to her in ringing tones, “And he was such a precious, after all!” She folded Laurel close.
Half a dozen—a dozen—old family friends had been waiting here in the house. They came out into the hall from the rooms on both sides as Laurel walked in. Most of them had practiced-for smiles on their faces, and they all called her “Laurel McKelva,” just as they always called her. Here at his own home, inside his own front door, there was nobody who seemed to be taken by surprise at what had happened to Judge McKelva. Laurel seemed to remember that Presbyterians were good at this.
But there was a man’s deep groan from the dining room, and Major Bullock came swinging out into the hall, cutting through the welcomers, protesting. “I’m not even going to have it, I say. He was never sick a day in his life!” Laurel went to meet him and kissed his flushed cheek.
He was the only man here. It might have been out of some sense of delicacy that the bridesmaids and the older ladies, those who were not already widows, had all made their husbands stay home tonight. Miss Tennyson, who had relieved Laurel of her handbag and crushed gloves, smoothed back the part into her hair. She had been Laurel’s mother’s oldest friend, the first person she’d met when she came to Mount Salus as a bride.
Now she gave a sidelong glance at Tish and asked her, “Did Mr. Pitts manage to catch Fay?”
“He’s going to return her to us by-and-by.” Tish mocked him perfectly.
“Poor little woman! How is she taking it, Laurel?” asked Major Bullock.
At last she said, “I don’t think I can safely predict about Fay.”
“Let’s not make Laurel try,” suggested Miss Adele Courtland.
Miss Tennyson led Laurel into the dining room. The bridesmaids had been setting out a buffet. On the little side table, where Major Bullock, standing with his back to them, was quickly finishing up something, was the drinks tray with some bottles and glasses. Laurel found herself sitting at her old place at the dinner table, the only one seated, while everybody else was trying to wait on her. Miss Tennyson stood right at her shoulder, to make her eat.
“What are all these people doing in my house?”
That was Fay’s voice in the hall.
“You’ve got pies three