Short Stories

1.

Liberty Dawson adjusted the seatbelt, trying to secure a casserole dish, the pan of funeral potatoes riding next to her.  Seventy miles down the road she wondered if she should have made something else. A pan of potatoes in cheese felt like such a small contribution when she thought of the woman’s life they were celebrating. But there was no adequate dish, nothing to make to say “this woman was my mentor, friend and role model, a surrogate mom after my own mom’s death.”  So for her first memorial service as an adult- a married woman who baked in her own kitchen and arrived in her own car- she brought something mom used to make: ‘funeral potatoes.’

She tuned the car’s radio looking for soft rock, not because she liked it, but because she was indifferent to it. With the sun nearly overhead, the light inside the car was even, bright, unshadowed. Libby wasn’t an artist, but her mother was and so was Tammy, the woman who would be buried today. Growing up with artists makes a person notice light, shades of white, textures of black…even when that person grows up to be an office manager with no discernible hobbies. 

Her younger sisters would arrive in the minivan with dad. Libby felt a thrill at the daydream of arriving at the same time, getting out of her sleek sedan while Chelsea and Margaret climbed out from the back seat of the van. She imagined wrapping Chelsea in a hug while her sister sobbed on her shoulder, walking into the church together, arms linked, while her dad carried the casserole. They would notice her shoes, shiny black pumps with a thin ankle strap, they cost several hundred dollars on a credit card.

Libby entered the parking lot precisely ten minutes early. She took special pride in the things she did better than others: arrive on time, return all voicemails, and do her own taxes. It was no surprise her father and sisters hand’t arrived yet. 

She debated waiting in her car for the family minivan. She checked her hair and makeup, checked her phone for messages. Her husband hadn’t called or texted. She typed a message to him but erased it instead of pressing send.

The weight of mourning settled into her chest. After her mom’s death, Tammy was there. Not in a pushy way, just a steady “I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I would drop by with these fashionable clothes my daughters outgrew and here’s a casserole and how’s school going?” kind of way. 

There would be no moment that Libby felt ready for this: for Tammy’s death, for a memorial service, for seeing her family in mourning- again. 

She would never feel ready, but it was time to go in. 

***

“It was a beautiful service, Tammy would have loved it.”

“Cancer…how tragic…”

“Such a great talent, taken too soon.” Evidence of Tammy’s talent, her glowing, vibrant paintings of natural landscapes, were hanging on walls and propped up on easels all around them.

Libby made her way through the buffet, listening to tired platitudes, nodding when they seemed directed at her. She was happy to see only one other person brought funeral potatoes and Libby’s were disappearing a bit faster. Her family occupied a circular table, an empty seat between dad and her big brother Walter, who slipped into the pew next to her twenty minutes into the service. Libby sat between the men, leaned into her father, closed her eyes for a moment.  He kissed the top of her head, reminding her of goodnight kisses in childhood. Her sisters chattered, ignoring her.

Libby concentrated on her food despite having no appetite. 

While eating cornbread she listened for an opening in her sisters’ conversation about Tammy- she didn’t find any place to join them. While Libby ate green beans, the conversation turned to Colonel Rockhaven, a friend of the family, and his new wife. She was declared very sweet and “good for him” despite being only a few years older than his own kids, about Libby’s age. While eating potato salad, her brother bragged about how well his company was doing and broadly hinted they could really use Libby in the front office- she smiled and shook her head. And when she finally got to the pretzel and strawberry dessert, conversation was back to Tammy until Margaret interrupted.

“Ohmigod Libs, these potatoes are the best I’ve ever had. What did you put in them?” 

Libby startled, nearly dropping her fork, she looked to her sisters, uncertain which had spoken. 

“I was out of shredded cheese so I used a block of gouda and some aged cheddar, plus I added a bit of white pepper. The rest of the recipe is the one from mom’s recipe card box.” At the mention of the recipe box Chelsea rolled her eyes.

“I can give you the recipe,” Libby offered. “Or…or you can just have the box.”

Stunned silence greeted the offer but Chelsea didn’t answer. Libby mentally prepared to give up the link to mom, deciding to scan every card before passing it along. 

“I’m going to get more before it’s all gone,” Margaret stood.

All eyes swung from Chelsea to Libby. She felt the weight of the moment, an opening, an opportunity. They were listening. To her. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Chelsea, I know you and Tammy were very close.” 

Her sister answered with a tight smile, a small nod. Libby decided to not mention the recipe cards again unless her sister did. 

Libby opened her mouth to continue “please call me anytime, for any reason,” though the words were lost over her brother’s louder, happier voice.

“Hey remember the time Tammy went on vacation with us to Florida?”

“We painted the thunderstorms together,” Chelsea began another spell of crying. Margaret patted her back.

Libby’s moment passed. 

***

With the church in her rear view mirror, Libby pulled over by a cornfield and put her car in park.  Driving in high heels was annoying. “Stupid waste of money,” she murmured. Tossing the shoes into the back seat, one clanked against the now-empty casserole dish. Libby wiggled her toes, enjoying the freedom. She pulled back onto the highway, and drove home barefoot. 2.

“Libby Dawson, you look more like your mother every year.”

“Nancy! Thank you, that’s a great compliment.”

Nancy Baldwin, who dressed like an archetypal church-lady and swore like a sailor, wrapped Libby in an embrace. She hadn’t seen Nancy in ten years, not since Tammy’s memorial service, but the middle aged woman seemed impervious to the passage of time. Nancy Baldwin took her place as an old church lady by precocious age of forty-five, embracing her second half of life with knit sweater vests and enthusiasm. 

“Did you come with your father?”

“No, I drove straight in from Westfield, I’m sure he’ll arrive soon.”

“I’m so sorry, Libby. It’s a bloody tragedy, I know the Colonel was a close part of your family.”

Libby shrugged. “He was my dad’s friend, and Walter knew him somewhat, but I don’t care for fishing, poker or motorcycles…so…” She shrugged again. “So I’m here for my dad and brother.”

Nancy patted her hand. “It’s good of you to be here. And I hope those are your mom’s potatoes?” 

She nodded, passing over the casserole dish, of course filled with funeral potatoes. 

“Everything’s in hand, why don’t you go in and take a seat? The Colonel’s first wife is setting up chairs in the Parish hall, if you can believe it. It takes a fu…freakin’ … brave woman to face the new wife at a memorial service. I don’t mind saying my life has been much less complicated by remaining single.”

Nancy prattled on, saving Libby the need of adding to the conversation. She let herself be steered toward the chapel and directed toward a pew of Nancy’s choosing. Silently agreeing with her about the complications that come with marriage. 

“Plenty of room for your family when they get here,” Nancy nodded at her competent management of Libby and the Dawson family before retreating back to the kitchen. 

Libby sat alone, head bowed as though in prayer, and no one spoke to her while the church filled. Dad and Walter arrived three seconds before the service started. She barely listened to the memories shared, lost in her own thoughts. She wondered where her sisters were, both had settled in town near Dad after their own weddings. Libby wondered about her own husband, his choice to stay home and what he was doing. And she wondered why she couldn’t stop crying. 

***

“I thought I’d find you here,” Walter intruded on her silence, shaking her out of a deep reverie. She hadn’t heard approaching footsteps crunch through the snow and made no attempt to hide the cigarette in hand. “Those things will kill you, you know.”

“I got it from your coat pocket,” she raised an eyebrow at Walter.

“If I recall, that’s how you got your first cigarette too,” he replied while pulling out his own smoke, pausing to light it and take a long drag. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell dad.”

Libby smiled at the familiar, decades old promise. They leaned back against the church’s garden shed, winter coats sparkling with moisture from the light mist of flurries. 

“Why didn’t your husband come? Moral support and all that…”

“Do you want me to ask why your wife didn’t come?”

“Ask all you want, she’s home because we aren’t insane enough to bring four kids under the age of six on a road trip and then solemn church service. Honestly, did you WANT them here?”

Libby smiled, softly chuckled at the image of Walter’s four kids crashing a memorial service, though yes, she would have enjoyed seeing them. 

Silence lengthened between them. It was something Libby genuinely liked about smoking: the stolen moments outside, the companionable way smokers share space, the sense of a shared secret.

“So where are our sisters?” Libby broke the silence. 

“Took you long enough to ask. They are both home with their brats. Little Chelsea is teething and baby Meggie has colic. You didn’t want them here anymore than my own kids.” 

Libby nodded, heart contracting at his recitation. Her sisters married within months of each other, then went on to have children that would be raised as closely as siblings. Chelsea named her daughter after Margaret and Margaret of course reciprocated. Neither girl had “Liberty” as their middle name but Libby couldn’t begrudge them bypassing her quirky moniker.

“Well isn’t that all just special.” Libby tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. She thought she’d come across as wry or snarky, but she could tell her voice betrayed anger. 

“Since we’re talking about heavy stuff, I’m gonna say some shit I should have said ages ago. And don’t interrupt; you need to hear this.” 

Libby glared at her brother, daring him to continue. He ignored the warning look on her face.

“Libs, you gotta let them go. Just because you’re sisters doesn’t mean you have dibs on being friends. We could stand here all day and talk about misunderstandings and wounds and assign lots and lots of blame.  At the end of the day, I don’t know why Chelsea and Margaret are an exclusive little duo, but they are. They love you, but you aren’t friends. And it’s just painful to watch this…unrequited friendship.”

Libby felt tears on her cheeks again, the strange not-sobbing crying she’d done most of the day. But Walter didn’t stop.

“I love you Libby. Dad loves you. Mom did too. I assume your husband does but I haven’t seen him in almost ten years, which is weird and something we need to talk about or you should get therapy or something. Focus on all the people who open their arms to you instead of the two people who don’t…” He paused to take a drag. “I understand if you never speak to me again, I’m stepping way out of line to say this. But goddamnit, sis, I don’t want to spend my life watching you chase after them like a….”

“It’s best you not say ‘dog’ to finish that sentence. You’ve made your point. Don’t worry, I’m a big girl.” The tears were still falling. Libby stopped trying to wipe them away. 

They smoked in silence, both on their second cigarette, watching the sun set over barren cornfields. 

“Walter…I raised them after Mom died.”

“I know. It wasn’t fair to you- losing a mom isn’t fair to anyone. But maybe they now need you to be a sister more than a surrogate mom.”

“I don’t think they need me at all,” Libby tried to speak calmly, but she hurt by Walter and his psychobabble revelations that probably weren’t wrong.

“I didn’t say that. Just… maybe you’re going about stuff the wrong way. Or not. Look, I don’t know, I’m not a family therapist. I just see you hurting a ton…I’m sorry I brought it up.” 

Libby sighed her held breath. “It’s okay. And maybe I needed to hear it.”

The sun had fully set, removing the last sparks of warmth from the air. 

“Come on kiddo, time to get back inside.”

She followed Walter quietly, still thinking about his words. 

3. 

“Libby, are you alone?” Her brother’s voice sounded far away, crackling through the phone.

“Am I a divorced, middle aged woman with no children? Yes, thank you for reminding me, Walter. Now what other wounds are we opening today?”

“Glad to hear you’re not bitter,” he replied, the phone connection sounding mildly better and clearer.

“Well, we’ve established I’m not bitter, and you’re not insensitive, so what else can I do for you, big brother?” Libby kicked off her clogs. “Talk to me while I clean up, I’ve been in the garden all morning.”

“Libby, it’s serious. I’m sorry. I… can you sit down?”

“You’re scaring me Walter, what’s going on?’

“Kiddo….” Walter hadn’t called her kiddo in years. She couldn’t remember the last time they spoke with open affection and not incessant teasing. “Dad died. He passed an hour ago. I called as soon as I could, I just found out too. Libby, I’m so sorry…. Libs….? Are you still there?”

“Yes. Yes. I’m here. Was Chelsea or Margaret with him? When did they call you?”

“I’m going to tell you something Libby but please, for the love of God, breathe and…. Just… .Libby, the girls are out of town. They are in Hawaii. A neighbor found dad and called 911. He died on the way to the hospital.”

“What happened, I mean, what did he die of?” The words emerged from her by force, pushing past a tight ache in throat.

“I will tell you as much as I know. David and Brett from next door couldn’t get ahold of him on the phone, his car was in the driveway so they knew he was home, but they hadn’t seen him in a couple days. David used his spare key to the house and found dad on the kitchen floor. They don’t know how long he was there….and …. I’ll call our sisters next. I just wanted to talk to you first. It’s 5am in Hawaii where they are….”

“I don’t care what time it is in Hawaii,” Libby whispered. “I’m driving to Dad’s right now.” 

“Libby, he’s already gone.”

“I don’t care- I’m on my way. Get here soon.”

***

Walter joined her at Dad’s house three hours after she arrived. They exchanged a brief hug, no tears, and agreed it was time to sleep.

The ceiling fan spun overhead, offering the only relief from July’s heat. Down the hallway, Walter’s rhythmic snoring blended with the whine of cicadas, taking Libby out of time. This moment was many moments, nineteen years of Julys till she left home, every summer visit for birthdays, for the Fourth of July Parade that her parents used to say was in her honor- the blessing and curse of being born on July fourth. An oil painting hung over the bed, a painting of fireworks done by her mom. “You get weird presents when you’re named Liberty,” she mused to the darkness.

The house still felt like Dad. She didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t this familiarity. Everything in the world was changed, but the house didn’t know it yet. Was it this way when Mom died? She tried to remember the thirty-five year old pain but it had transformed too much over time. Dad never remarried, or even redecorated for that matter. “Did you go find Mom?” She whispered.

Walter’s snoring stopped. Libby listened to determine if he was getting up, maybe for a midnight snack and she would join him in the kitchen.  But the soft rumble started up again as he resettled into sleep. Libby’s eyes traced one fan blade around, around, around, till she felt like the bed was spinning instead of the fan. The cicadas suddenly stopped singing as though a conductor gave their final beat. “How do they do that?” Libby wondered into the night, her last thought before claimed by sleep. 

***

When people said “the girls,” or “the Dawson girls,” they meant Margaret and Chelsea, never Liberty; they were Walter, Liberty and The Girls. When Libby was in her teenage years she stopped trying to tell people “actually Chelsea and I are the closest in age, just 20 months apart.” Months and years didn’t matter, not when weighed against personality. Margaret and Chelsea were beautiful. They were creative and charismatic. They were married. They had each other. And they didn’t come home from Hawaii early. Libby and Walter stayed at dad’s house during that strange week, taking care of the practicalities, visiting with family and neighbors, fielding the condolences. 

Eight and a half days after dad passed, Margaret poured herself a cup of coffee in his kitchen and took it outside to the patio, joining her siblings in their informal council. Chelsea was dressed for work but everyone else looked ready to go back to bed. Four patio chairs tucked around a table, Libby sat across from Walter, flanked by her sisters.

“I want an autopsy.” Three sets of eyes met hers, Chelsea’s carrying a hard glint, Walter’s narrowed, Margaret surprised. 

“No.” The answer was emphatic and surprisingly from Walter. 

“She only wants it to know how much to blame us,” Chelsea said calmly, and sipped her coffee. Libby felt as though she had been smacked. “You think it’s our fault Dad died. We were in Hawaii, not hovering over him, treating him like a toddler. You can admit it, I don’t care.”

“Wow Chels, can you stop hating me long enough we can get our dad in the ground? I promise I’ll go away the first second possible and leave you to your perfect life.” It might have been the most words Libby said to Chelsea in a decade.

Chelsea shrugged again. “Okay, just tell me I’m wrong.”

Libby took a deep breath. “I want to autopsy to find out what happened.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s what I said. You want to find out what happened so you know how much to blame us for having a good time, unlike the tireless office manager Libby who has never taken a vacation day in her life.”

“Stop!” Walter’s raised voice caused them all to flinch. Margaret’s spilled coffee bloomed over her white t-shirt, reminding Libby of a bleeding wound. Chelsea handed her sister a napkin.

“I’d like an autopsy on him, too,” Margaret admitted, still eyes cast downward, dabbing at her stained shirt. “But only if we all agree and it doesn’t upset anyone.”

“It won’t upset me. He’s gone, and despite what Libby thinks, I didn’t kill him because we went to Hawaii. Do whatever you want.” Chelsea shrugged. All eyes turned to Walter.

“Why don’t you want one?” Libby asked from genuine curiosity.

“Because…Chelsea’s right. Not about you, Libs, but the whole thing. Dad is already gone, it’s no one’s fault, and learning what happened, that maybe he could have been saved if someone found him sooner…That would be a hard thing to any of us to carry- to know for the rest of our lives. So far as I can tell, there’s no upside. Either nothing changes, or we learn something incredibly painful. No autopsy.” 

Four siblings sat in silence, taking in Walter’s words. Libby sipped coffee, staring at a spot on the table.

Finally Walter sighed, running both his hands through his hair. “I think it’s a stalemate. One vote for autopsy, one vote for autopsy-kinda-only-if-it’s-okay, one vote for indifference,” at that he nodded at Chelsea, she nodded in confirmation, “and my vote for no. But I’m the only one here with power-of-attorney and the executor of his will. So I’ll decide.”

Three siblings stood, their meeting obviously adjourned. Walter remained in his chair, putting up his feet on the now vacant chair next to him. Chelsea left first, Margaret trailing behind her.

“You coming in, brother?” Libby asked him gently.

“I’ll be there in a moment.”

Libby reached in the front pocket of her hoodie, taking out a packet of cigarettes and lighter, set them gently in front of Walter, and sought out her own silence. 

***

The morning of the memorial service brought a break in the storms. Libby stirred sour cream, frozen hash browns and diced ham in a large mixing bowl, wondering if Walter was going to sell this house or if one of her sister’s wanted to move in. She scraped the mixture into a 9x13 casserole dish and set it aside. Looking for the cheese grater, she mentally catalogued the dishes as “Mom’s” and “bought after mom died.”  Most of the drinking glasses were after mom, most of the baking supplies were used by Mom. Libby remembered cutting out biscuits together and baking them in the treasured stoneware. 

While grating cheddar, she wondered exactly where Dad was found- she had been told that it was on the kitchen floor. Did he slip and hit his dead? Have a stroke? A heart attack? Mix up his medication and take too many pills of the wrong stuff on accident? On purpose?? No. She forced her mind away from that idea, her father would never kill himself. And was Chelsea right that she wanted the autopsy to know how to assign blame?

Walter joined her in the kitchen, holding an envelope. She nodded at him, turning her attention back to the cheese. As she switched to grating the block of gouda, Libby decided this was the last batch of funeral potatoes she’d ever make. Not that she could avoid funerals for the rest of her life, but that it was time to make retire mom’s recipe and try out some new dishes. The envelope appeared under her nose. 

“What’s this?” She asked her brother, not taking it from him.

“The autopsy results. I ordered it right away but I didn’t tell anyone. I haven’t opened it yet, you can if you want to. And you can tell people the findings or not. It’s all up to you.”

Libby resumed grating cheese, digesting his words. 

“Okay, leave it on the counter.”

***

She poured her fourth cup of tea for the morning, sitting at the kitchen table, watching the oven timer. The white envelope sat next to her, the kitchen still untidy from food preparation. Walter was upstairs, she listened to the shower start, stopping ten minutes later. She heard drawers opening and closing, probably from Dad’s room, he and Walter wore the same size of clothing. 

Ever since the Colonel’s funeral, she worked at mentally letting go of her sisters- of her need for their approval. She forgave them over and over again, tried forgiving herself, learning that forgiveness isn’t a one time event. For heaven’s sake, she had gone to workshops and therapist and support groups on grief and divorce and tried so goddamn hard to be a good person, good sister, good wife, then good ex-wife.  After a decade of work, none of it mattered. Chelsea hated her more than ever, nothing changed with Margaret, no amount of forgiveness and letting them go was going to make them like her.

The oven timer sounded. Libby put on the oven mitts, removed the funeral potatoes, cheese still bubbling. Setting it aside to cool, she turned her attention to cleaning the kitchen. She ran hot water in the sink. Emptied the tea kettle. Threw away some trash. Hesitated. Before she could second guess herself, Libby grabbed the envelope and put it in the trashcan. To make sure she couldn’t change her mind, she threw away a carton of milk and tea leaves, soaking and burying the paper.

And it was time to get dressed for his service.