Last Rights
Camille Minichino
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Camille Minichino
All rights reserved.
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LAST RIGHTS
My old Aunt Millie is laid out in the funeral parlor on St. Claire Street, one mile from the brown and cream house on the hill where she lived all her life, and one mile in from Revere Beach, just north of Boston. The cover of her sturdy cherry wood casket is propped open, like the hood of a car in trouble.
I'm comfortable in this quiet, final setting. The parlor, with its heavy burgundy drapes and antique walnut cabinets filled with religious curios and delicate figurines remind me of the old library where I work and where I figured out the details of my crime.
I walk across the rich maroon carpet toward Aunt Millie, and breath the sweet odors of thick-stemmed gladiolas and wreaths of pale pink and white chrysanthemums. Outside, the early morning traffic rumbles by, a barely audible hum, adding deep tones to the music Louie the undertaker has piped in.
Aunt Millie's stiff navy blue taffeta dress is tucked into the crepe-lined edges of her expensive casket, her best mother-of-pearl rosary circling her old fingers, her thin white hair falling neatly around her crusty orange face. Louie has done a good job.
In approximately one hour, Aunt Millie will be buried. Alone with her in the dark room, settled on the small wooden prie dieu in front of her casket, I lean over and look at her necklace.
Aunt Millie asked to be buried with her exquisite old pendant. An oval ruby set in gold, surrounded by tiny diamond chips and suspended on a delicate serpentine chain, it's worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. I've always been able to see myself in Aunt Millie's ruby, my dark hair and eyes matching her own in an earlier day. Today there's no shine from the jewel around Aunt Millie's lifeless neck, not the tiniest reflection from the flickering votive lights set in rows on the shaky metal rack next to her casket.
I dig my elbows into the black velvet top of the prie dieu and lift my short frame for a better angle, pricking myself on thorns from the enormous spray of blood-red roses at Aunt Millie's waist. Streaks of light edge around the curtains and end in dullness on her necklace. I see no glow at the center stone, not a spark from the diamonds. This is not the pendant Aunt Millie cherished.
Of course not. I've stolen Aunt Millie's necklace and replaced it with a fake.
I wonder whether anyone has noticed. I wonder if someone has reported the theft. I imagine the police asking questions. Who had the opportunity to switch the jewelry? Who needs money? Did someone want revenge? I stare at Aunt Millie's small, flattened bosom until it seems to rise and fall with breath and life, as if she's trying to throw off the worthless paste around her neck.
The taped organ hymns, soft at first, grow louder and louder and pound against my head. My hands turn clammy, and my body sways on the kneeler.
The drapes behind a large crucifix part, and a startling figure in black emerges. "Are you all right, Grace?"
I catch my breath and utter a tiny, embarrassing cry. It's only Louie's nephew and new assistant, Peter, just out of high school.
"I'm fine," I say, standing up. "Thank you."
Peter relaxes his wide, padded shoulders and nods with relief, as if the moment has cost him every ounce of his newly acquired graveside manner. He wanders around the parlor, straightens rows of chairs, dusts the lectern that holds the satiny white guest book, scrapes stray wax from the long ivory candles that frame Aunt Millie's body. It occurs to me that the police might think Peter stole the necklace. About all he has in this world is a suit Louie handed down to him, and a battered car that's his graduation present.
A light breeze from a lace-covered window ruffles the flowery stalks arranged in vases and baskets around Aunt Millie's casket. Yellow and pink and lavender ribbons with curly gold letters float around her head like a choir of pastel angels. In loving memory, from Rigione's Market. Rest in Peace, from the Friends of St. Claire's. Your Devoted Children and Grandchildren. Your Loving Niece, Grace.
Another fifty minutes until Aunt Millie's coffin is closed. Before then, the whole family will march past her lifeless body. Any one of them can be suspected of stealing Aunt Millie's necklace. Like me, they've all had access to this private room before regular guests arrive. We all knew of her request to wear the ruby and diamonds for all eternity. We've all had time to prepare an imitation.
Buddy, Aunt Millie's oldest son, is a likely suspect. He's a heavy gambler with never enough money. Buddy's a regular at Wonderland, the dog-racing track stretched out behind the old railroad tracks. I can almost hear Aunt Millie's clucking at the mention of Wonderland.
"No good came of that," she'd often say, talking about how they built the track in 1935 on the site of an old family amusement park.
It's common knowledge at Wonderland that Buddy will do anything to be free of the powerful men in white ties who hound him for payments on a six-figure debt. And Buddy's not the only one in the family with money problems. Jim, his younger brother, filed for bankruptcy when his small restaurant next to the fire station failed last year. Annie, the youngest, is the single mother of teen-aged twins, trying to support her family as a grade school teacher. Her husband died in a fishing accident, leaving Annie with a pittance of insurance money.
There's certainly no lack of motive for robbery among Aunt Millie's offspring.
My mind races with other possibilities, assuring myself that I'm only one of many persons of interest that the police will question.
Why not Louie, the impeccably groomed mortician who's as old as his dead client? I steal a glance at him. He's leaning against the doorway, arms folded across his chest. No one else was with Aunt Millie's body for so long. And I'd heard a rumor that he and Aunt Millie dated in the '50's. For all we know, it was Louie who gave Aunt Millie the necklace in the first place. She never told us how she came by it nor why she chose this particular piece for perpetual companionship.
I know the police will suspect me, too. Such a tightly knit neighborhood, everyone knows Aunt Millie reluctantly took me in when I was a child. My father, her brother Nick, couldn't deal with me, eight years old when my mother died.
"I don't like living with Aunt Millie," I told my father over and over. "I don't fit in and my cousins hate me."
But he always said I'd get used to it. I needed a real home life, he said. "With a rich woman in charge," he winked. He forgot to mention that he also wanted to start a new life, with nothing to remind him of my mother.
I was always second-class in Aunt Millie's household. Her sons, Buddy and Jim, were sent to a Jesuit high school, and her natural daughter, Annie, went to an academy in Boston. For me, public schools, hand-me-downs, and banishment from the living room during family meetings.
My mind revisits my first holiday in Aunt Millie's house. My father called from his new home, two hours away, to wish me a Merry Christmas. We stayed on the line only a few minutes, and by the time I returned to the living room, the whole family had already finished opening all their presents.
"Your stuff's in the corner," Aunt Millie said, while her children played with their new toys.
I sat on the floor, undid the wrappings, and looked at my gifts. Underwear from Aunt Millie, mittens from my cousins, and jewelry—a plastic heart-shaped pendant on a pink cord—that had been sent by my father.