Bitter Business

the funeral tomorrow,” she volunteered as I poured. “You wouldn’t know it from all the sunshine we had today, but we’ve been having more rain than anyone knows what to do with. My Tom said that when he ran into Chuck Zellmer over at the feed store, Chuck told him that he’s got twenty acres already under six inches of water. Now, Zellmer’s property lies closer to the river than Tall Pines, but I can tell you if we get much more rain, we’re going to see flooding as bad as we saw in sixty-nine—you mark my words.”
    “What happened in sixty-nine?” I asked, not wanting to seem rude.
    “Snake Creek went right up over its banks and the dam over by Chapaloosa didn’t hold. Half of Tall Pines was waist-deep in water. We had so much water in this here kitchen you couldn’t see the tops of the counters. Then, of course, when it finally went back down the mud was worse than the water. The men had to come down in here with shovels. There was dead catfish in Mr. C’s bedroom. Lord, you can’t believe the mess. Let’s just pray that don’t ever happen again, but I’ll just be happy if the rain holds off until after Miss Dagny’s funeral.”
    “Is that what you’re baking all these pies for?” I asked, looking at the half dozen or so that sat cooling on the counter.
    “Yes, ma’am. Last time I baked this many pies it was for the party we had for Miss Lydia’s wedding. Her second one, that is, not the first—nor the third neither, for that matter. And the time before that it was for Mr. Jimmy’s funeral.” She put her hands on her hips and drew a deep breath.
    “You worked for the Cavanaughs back then?” I asked, pulling a stool up to the counter where Darlene was rolling out pastry with a rolling pin.
    “My mama kept house for Mr. Cavanaugh until her arthritis got too bad for her to get around. I’ve been helpin’ out ’round this house since I was big enough to swing a broom. I was just a little slip of a girl when Jimmy died, but I remember it like it was yesterday. We all do. Mama and I stayed up all night right here in this very kitchen baking pies and cookin’ for after the funeral. We cried our eyes out, we did. It was such a terrible thing. He was such a fine young man. We thought Mr. C. would die from the shock.”
    “It must have been terrible for the girl’s family as well,” I said, thinking that there seemed to be a forgotten victim in every tragedy: the girl who’d tried to kill herself and ended up taking Jimmy Cavanaugh to the bottom of the pond with her; Cecilia Dobson, whose death would seem forever eclipsed by the loss of Dagny Cavanaugh.
    “I don’t know if they felt nothin’.” Darlene sniffed. “According to my mama, the Swintons was the worst sort of white trash there is. They all moved away right after it happened. Grace’s mama ran off when she was just a baby and her dad was an old drunk who only held down a job for as long as it took to get money for his liquor—that’s when he wasn’t out poaching or moon-shining.... Grace was a pretty thing, though. I remember that. Big blue eyes and hair like com silk. She sure was something to look at. I remember how Edna Tibbets was always squeezing lemons onto her hair and sitting out in the sun until she drew flies, trying to get her hair to go the same color as Grace Swinton’s...
    “Why did she kill herself?” I asked, thinking about the pond where we’d galloped earlier in the day. I was suddenly struck by the fact that, sitting in the middle of Tall Pines plantation, inaccessible by any road, it would make a rather inconvenient spot to choose for taking your own life.
    “There was lots of talk, of course. There still is, for that matter. You’d think that folks’d have better things to do than to sit around and jaw about what happened all those years ago—but you know what folks are. And after what happened to Miss Dagny, the old talk will start right back up again. Just this morning I heard ’em talking out there at the Dairy Pik over by Pinkerton about how the Cavanaugh family is cursed.”
    “So what do they say about the girl who killed herself?” I asked.
    “They say that Grace Swinton was carrying Jimmy Cavanaugh’s baby,” breathed Darlene conspiratorially.
    “And was she?”
    “Nobody knows,” Darlene replied, wiping floury hands on the front of her apron, “least of all the folks that’s doin’ all the talking. The only people who really know are Grace Swinton and Jimmy