A Piedmont Porchlight Story

It started, as these things often do in Piedmont, with a purse being set down too firmly.

Rita Mae Hendrix placed her handbag on the table by the front door and said, “Beulah, if you’ve got us at the wrong visitation again, I’m walkin’ straight out!”

Beulah, who had been unmarried since before anyone thought to ask why, adjusted her hat with the solemnity of a woman entering sacred territory. “I know exactly where we’re goin’. I wrote it down.”

Rita Mae eyed the slip of paper. “You wrote down ‘the funeral home by the magnolia.’ That narrows it down to half the county.”

They had come dressed properly. Black dresses pressed within an inch of their lives, sensible shoes, and hats that had seen so many visitations they could have signed the register on their own. They were ready to pay respects, murmur sympathies, and leave with a pound cake wrapped discreetly in foil if circumstances allowed.

The room was full.

That should’ve been the first clue.

The deceased, according to Beulah’s memory, was supposed to have been “quiet, modest, and prone to naps.” Instead, the place buzzed like a social event with grief only lightly applied.

Rita Mae leaned over. “How come there’s so much laughter?”

Beulah whispered, “Some folks take death harder than others.”

A man approached them, smiling broadly. “Y’all family?”

Rita Mae opened her mouth, then closed it. Beulah stepped in. “Distant.”

“Well, welcome,” he said. “She’d have loved the turnout.”

Rita Mae frowned. “She?”

They moved closer to the casket.

The woman inside was wearing a red dress.

Not a muted red. A confident red. The kind of red that says, I ain’t done talking.

Rita Mae hissed, “That ain’t Myrtie McCarley!”

Beulah’s face drained. “Myrtie hated red. Said it encouraged opinions.”

They backed up slowly, but it was too late. Mrs. Ledbetter spotted them and waved enthusiastically. “Rita Mae! Beulah! I didn’t know y’all were kin!”

“We’re not,” Rita Mae said, a little too loud.

Beulah added, “We’re very sorry for your loss.”

“For Gloria?” Mrs. Ledbetter asked. “She wasn’t sorry for anything. Even at the end.”

Rita Mae closed her eyes. “Beulah, we’re at the wrong funeral. Again.”

Beulah nodded. “I see that now.”

They attempted to leave quietly, but fate, like a determined hostess, intervened.

A tray of punch appeared. Somebody pressed sandwiches into their hands. A woman began telling Beulah about Gloria’s fondness for karaoke and poor choices.

Rita Mae whispered, “If we eat these sandwiches, it’ll count.”

Beulah took a bite. “They’re real good.”

Time passed. Stories were told. Laughter bubbled. Somebody started clapping after a particularly scandalous anecdote.

Rita Mae sighed. “She seems like she’d have been exhausting.”

“And fun,” Beulah said.

Eventually, they escaped and made it to the correct funeral home, where the atmosphere was appropriately subdued and the deceased properly dressed in beige.

Rita Mae signed the book. “Well. That was different.”

Beulah nodded. “Gloria’s people mourned her the way she lived. Loudly.”

Rita Mae paused. “I kinda liked her.”

“So did I,” Beulah said. “I reckon it’s never too late to be memorable.”

They left quietly, hats straight, carrying nothing but the lesson that sometimes you learn more at the wrong visitation than the right one, especially if the sandwiches are good and the woman in the casket had the good sense to wear red.

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New Yesterdays can be found at: Books-A-Million, Barnes & Noble, and Amazon, as well as your favorite bookshops. The Audiobook is available from Libro.fm, as well as Amazon.