The Optimist's Daughter - Eudora Welty [19]
Dot gave her a bitter look, almost as if she’d said she’d forgotten about Judge McKelva. “Tennyson,” she said across his body, “I’m never going to speak to you again.”
Somebody had lit the fire, although the day was mild and the room close now, filling with more and more speaking, breathing people.
“Yes, a fire seemed called for,” said Major Bullock. He came up to Laurel and scraped his face against hers as though his were numb. His breath had its smell of Christmas morning—it was whiskey. “Fairest, most impartial, sweetest man in the whole Mississippi Bar,” he said, his gaze wavering, seeming to avoid Judge McKelva’s face, going only to the hand that had been placed like a closed satchel at his tailored side. “How soon is that poor little woman going to bring herself downstairs?”
“Eventually,” Miss Tennyson told him. Whatever she said, in times of trouble, took on all the finality in the world. Finality was what made the throb in her voice.
3
“NOW WHAT COULD they want,” said old Mrs. Pease, who stood at the front window parting the draperies.
“Polly,” warned Miss Adele.
Everyone turned, and those seated stood up, as two equally fat women and a man walked past Miss Adele into the parlor.
“I said this had to be the right spot, because it looks like the very house to hold a big funeral,” said the old fat woman. “Where’s Wanda Fay? I don’t see her.”
While she was speaking, the two women, old and young, were walking up to the coffin, and while they passed it, they looked in. Laurel heard herself being introduced by one of the strangers to the other.
“Mama, this is Judge and Becky’s daughter,” said the young woman.
“Becky’s the one she takes after, then,” said the mother, seating herself in Judge McKelva’s smoking chair, which now stood nearest the casket. “You don’t favor him,” she told Laurel. “A grand coffin my little girl’s afforded. Makes me jealous.” She turned toward the man. “Bubba, this is Judge and Becky’s daughter.”
The man with them raised his arm from the elbow and waved at Laurel from close range. He wore a windbreaker. “Hi.”
“I’m Mrs. Chisom from Madrid, Texas. I’m Wanda Fay’s mother,” the fat lady said to Laurel. “And this is some of my other children—Sis, from Madrid, Texas, and Bubba, from Madrid, Texas. We got a few others that rather not come in.”
“Well, you’re news to me,” said Miss Tennyson, as if that were simply all there was to it.
Major Bullock came forward to greet them. “I’m Major Bullock!”
“Well, if you’re wondering how long it took us, I made it from Madrid in close on to eight hours,” the man in the windbreaker said. Madrid was pronounced with the accent as in Mildred. “Crossed the river at Vicksburg. And we’re going to have to turn around and go right back. The kids wanted to all pile in, but their mama said you don’t ever know what germs they might pick up in a strange place. And she’s right. So I left ’em with her in the trailer, and didn’t bring but one of ’em. Where’s Wendell?”
“I reckon he’s looking over the house,” said the young woman. She was pregnant, rather than fat.
“Sis brought the whole brood of hers. Sis,” said the man. “This is his first wife’s daughter.”
“I knew that’s who she was, you didn’t have to introduce us. Feel like I know you already,” said the sister to Laurel.
And oddly, Laurel felt that too. Fay had said they didn’t even exist, and yet it seemed to Laurel that she had seen them all before.
“I told my bunch they could just play outside in the front yard and watch for us all to come out,” said Sis. “That seemed to pretty well satisfy ’em.”
Old Mrs. Pease was already at the window curtains, and patting her foot as she peeped out between them.
Major Bullock looked gratified. “I summoned ’em up without any trouble at all,” he said. “They were delighted to come.” He threw a hopeful glance into the hall.
“You just forgot to warn us,” said Miss Tennyson.
Laurel felt a finger twine its way around her own finger, scratch under the ring. “You have bad luck with your husband, too?” Mrs. Chisom asked