I rode in their car to the church. We arrived early, which meant I had time to practice walking before Violet and Mike showed up. I was finally getting the hang of it when they entered through the opposite end of the foyer. As I approached, Violet was asking Aunt Bessie where I was.
“Here she comes now.” The pride in Aunt Bessie’s voice was unmistakable, making me love her even more.
Violet’s mouth dropped open. “What have you done?”
“Violet…” Aunt Bessie cautioned.
“What have you done?”
“Violet!” Mike voice was sharp with warning.
She turned to Mike, flinging her arm in my direction. “Mike, she went and got her hair styled! The day of Momma’s funeral! Who does that? What is she thinking?”
“Violet, this is my doin.’” Aunt Bessie said. “I insisted on cuttin’ her hair this mornin’.”
“She could have stopped you!”
“Why?” Aunt Bessie asked. “Why would she stop me? For one thing, her whole life has been run by you and your mother, so what was one more woman tellin’ her what to do? And second, there is nothin’ wrong with her lookin’ beautiful. It’s not like she showed up to your mother’s funeral lookin’ like a hooker.”
Violet gasped, the sound echoing off the tiled entrance.
Aunt Bessie pressed on. “Rose looks very tasteful, very conservative. You should be happy for her.”
Violet put her hands on her hips. “What are people gonna say?”
“And right there is the bottom line, isn’t it, Violet? What are people goin’ to say?”
I couldn't believe the two women I loved most in the world were arguing. Over me no less. “Stop! Stop it the both of you!”
They turned to face me. Violet looked like she was about to give me a good throttling, then move on to Aunt Bessie.
“Violet, I’m sorry if you are unhappy with my new haircut, but I honestly had no idea what Aunt Bessie was goin’ to do to it. I thought she was givin’ me a trim. But that bein’ said,” I smiled at Aunt Bessie. “I’m not sorry she did it. I love it and I’m sorry if you don't. And perhaps the timing was bad, but you and I both know that the people in this town are goin’ to talk about me one way or the other. They always have.”
Violet looked like she was about to start spitting out carpet tacks. Mike grabbed her arm and dragged her away from our group, their heads bent together in a heated discussion.
“Rose, if I had known Violet would react this way, I never would have cut your hair.”
“Don't be sorry, Aunt Bessie, for heaven’s sake, it’s only hair.” But the truth was that the problem lay much deeper. I was changing and Violet didn’t like it.
Violet calmed down a little before it was time to go into a private room to wait while the mourners were seated in the sanctuary. Violet looked like she would burst out the door to escape my presence at any minute.
A few minutes after eleven o’clock, we walked to the front of the church. I offered a prayer of thanks that I didn’t fall over in my two-inch heels.
Violet remained chilly at the graveside service, but I reached over and grabbed her hand, overcome with a wave of grief. I took it as a good sign when she didn't snatch it away, instead hanging on tight. We sat next to the open grave and clung to each other as we buried our last remaining parent. We were orphans. I choked back a sob of despair. Even if Momma hadn’t been the best mother, she was still our Momma. And now we were alone.
We rode in an uncomfortable silence to the church for the traditional funeral dinner. Any good Southern Baptist knows there’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a casserole potluck, death included. I told myself if I could just make it through the dinner, then I could return to my solitude, or at least my own inner demon.
We’d made it through the funeral and graveside service without mishap; I knew it was too much to expect to make it through the dinner, as well. Two older women watched me while I stood to the side of the buffet table. I recognized them as Momma’s friends, if you could call backstabbing, busybodies friends.
Violet and Aunt Bessie made their hostess rounds while I did my best to stay out of the way. One of the women pointed to me, shaking her finger in outrage, then buried her face in their huddle. I did my best to ignore them, but they soon worked themselves into a chattering tizzy. A few moments later, they moved toward me and didn't waste any time getting to the point.
“You have some nerve showin’ up at your mother’s funeral lookin’ like that.” The ringleader pointed to my dress with a gnarly finger covered in gaudy rings. Ethel Murdock, self-appointed morality czar of Henryetta. I had no doubt that Momma and Miss Ethel spent many an hour judging the actions of the First Baptist Church members. Then they’d move on to the remaining citizens of Henryetta for good measure.