Six Feet Under and Three Sheets to the Wind

Standing in front of her meticulously organized closet, Estelle holds up her small French clutch. The ruffled leather pouchette is embroidered with metallic flowers and dangles from a studded wristlet. Looking intently at my father and me, she simply asks, "Is this too much?" Emerging from a space equivalent to a normal sized Manhattan apartment, the closet is a draped warehouse of Estelle's supreme mantra: looking good is feeling good.

My dad and I look up from our sections of the newspaper, both silent in our reaction. We know Estelle's solicitation is for sheer amusement and not serious since my dad's sartorial adventures are limited to one thousand and one interpretations of golf attire and since my youth negates any seriousness of my opinions.

She holds the clutch against her monochromatic St. John's tunic, wrap, and pants. "It's never too much, boys." Our signal to follow her to the Escalade, the car that is envied by both teens and rappers. "I'll drive the Escalator tonight."

Friday's standing dinner reservation at the Hendersonville Country Club had been shifted to a newer restaurant on Main Street. The newspaper's recount of local merchants feeling the pressure of the recession and larger corporations has prompted my mom and dad to whole-heartedly support their fellow capitalists. "To this day, I will say Walker's Hardware would be there on King Street. if it hadn't been for that Wal-Marts," was my dad's consistent introduction to lectures on local business practices and like all good Southern gentlemen, he will pluralize many a single entity.

Sitting and scrutinizing the menu, our silence was broken. Ignoring the menu, Estelle's French clutch waved through the air and throughout the restaurant her voice carried, "Rucker. . . . .Rucker . . . Rucker." Louder and louder.

Confused and staring blankly at each other, my dad and I thought my mother was suffering from a momentary lapse of manners and yelling mispronounced profanities at near-by patrons of the seven o'clock seating.

"Rucker . . .Rucker. I'm over here." Standing at our table was a giant in a dark suit. Because of his palor and overly-starched shirt, his age was somewhere between late twenties and death. Estelle continued, "This is Rucker Shipman. He's the new mortician at the funeral home."

Although my mom and I have much in common, my father and I share a dark and inappropriate humor that is steeped in cultural references. At the mention of giant's occupation, I knew we were thinking the same thing: Lurch.

"Please Rucker, join us for dinner." The words escaped Estelle's mouth, inviting adventure to which we were now so accustomed.

"Well, I say, I say, that would be simply grand, Mrs. Crisp. Mrs. Crisp that would be simply, I say, Grand. But I am meeting two of my colleagues for a nightcap," the giant's words were as long as his inseam.

"No worries," Estelle dismissed. "These boys won't mind at all." In one swoop of the Lanvin clutch, my dad and I were relegated to the proverbial back seat. "Let's pull up some chairs."

Within minutes our quiet table of three expanded to a table of five. Our routinized Friday evening dinner occasionally accompanied by a glass a wine was now peppered with three gentleman in dark suits, somber faces, and pastel ascots. Their silvery baritones formed a unison request of the bewildered waitress, "three gin and tonics, please."

The gin and tonics briefly touched the table before the triune of funeral directors proposed a toast, "Here's to Mrs. Crisp. I say, she made what could have been a rather, I say, a horrible week into what I say into a pleasant ending. I say, here's to you." The gin and tonics raptured our mineral waters in the air with the mystery of Rucker's linguistic oddity and Estelle's own undertaking remaining in the air.

"Here, here," the white-headed undertaker with the purple ascot uttered. "Let's have another round," he noted to the waitress. Her face perplexed at this gathering. The mortician continued, "You were quite wonderful with Mrs. Mabel Watkins."

"That is really quite sweet of you, thank you." Estelle can be more than gracious when she wants. She continued with compliments, "You remind me of my wonderful Uncle Wesley. He was a doll." The funeral director blushed and I immediately thought of the mentioned Uncle Wesley. When Uncle Wesley wasn't engrossed in teaching Latin at the University of South Carolina, he was volunteering his time and talents at local funeral parlors doing hair and make-up. Impeccably dressed always, a normal day could find Uncle Wesley in a salmon-colored linen sport coat, yellow shirt, pink paisley ascot with white pants and shoes. Estelle was correct, his incarnate was at dinner.

With more gin and tonics in the hands of the undertakers, Estelle commented, "Mrs. Mabel Watkins was fine. She just needed someone to listen to her." Estelle will easily dismiss praise.

Rucker, interrupting his gin flow, persisted, "no, no, no, I say. I say, we have been working with her for six weeks with, I say, little to no success. I say, you worked with her for two hours and , I say, changed our worlds." Gin briefly to lips, he then continued, "How did that all happen?"

The smaller of the three who was wearing a plaid ascot and matching pocket square continued, " I thought we would never please Mrs. Mabel Watkins. We buried her husband, Mr. Walter R. Watkins, over six weeks ago. Every time I would go to her home she would accuse me of eating half of a ham or a cake or a plate full of biscuits. Do I look like I could eat a half of a cake?"

The table was silent as we looked at the man's portly sphere enclosed in a striped shirt and plaid ascot.

Rucker interrupted his gin intake, "I say, the last time, I say, I went in her rambling old house, she accused me of eating a bowl of snap beans and a plate of turkey legs."

At this point my dad and I were confused about the intersection of a thought-to-be-insane widower, three gay morticians, stolen food, and Estelle. Snidely, I couldn't refuse, "I say, what happened?"

My dad coughed nervously at my remark while more gin warmed the throats of the three. Ascots must not be too warm. Estelle, giving my an eye that was keen to my taunting, did not let conversation lapse. "Last week Rucker called and asked if we could send a cleaning crew to Mrs. Watkins' home. We do this from time to time. If a grieving family needs extra help, the funeral home will hire us. So, last Wednesday I scheduled a cleaning with Mrs. Watkins' son, Troy. He lives over in Clyde now and, I think, rarely checks on his home-bound mother."

At this point, my dad and I expected most anything. The ascot-clad crowd nursed another round as she continued.

Well, Wednesday afternoon Evangeline called from Mrs. Watkins' home. There was a serious ruckus happening and all I could hear was 'Ms. Estelle. Please come really quick. White lady is crazy.' I was trying to get my nails done but that was serious so I went all the way over to Mills Gap Road."

When I got there, the whole crew was standing outside and Mrs Watkins had a rifle and was sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch." The only sound at the table was the clanking ice of an empty gin and tonic glass as Rucker signaled the waitress for another round. Estelle continued, "So, I got out of the car and looked at the crew and told them to calm down and let me handle all of this. Lord, that woman was a mess."

The red-faced man in the purple ascot inquired, "were you at all frightened, Ms. Estelle?"

She looked at the blushed crowd, "Well no. I carry a pistol in my pocket book." At this point, my dad and I chuckled. Although my mother is a certified pistol packer and a great shot with a rifle, she has never owned bullets. She will, however, tell you the pearl handle matches her Tiffany necklace and bracelet.

The story unfolded, "I walked up to the porch and said 'Mrs. Watkins, how are you, is there a problem?' The elderly woman put the rifle in her lap and said 'I'll say. Your Mexican wants to open up that there door to my husband's bedroom and I ain't having it!'"

"I ss-ss-ssay, theeeey Lord," Rucker's words were slurred as he ordered another round.

"Well first I told her that Evangeline was from Antigua and, therefore, could not be a Mexican. Then I asked her when the last time that door had been opened and she told not for three years. Her husband had gone into assisted living when he was diagnosed with cancer and she had just shut-up that bedroom and moved upstairs. Then I told her we had to get in that bedroom to clean."

"Oh, my. Drink please,"slurred purple ascot as he signaled the ever-busy waitress.

Estelle eyeing the gin classes continued, "I just took her hand and told her I would go with her to open the door or I would do it by myself but that it had to get done. So, she said she wanted to go with me. I told her I would hold her hand and it would be o.k. So I called over Evangeline and the crew and we all went to the bedroom. Lord, and I looked down and we were all holding hands. Even Joe, my new handy man."

Plaid ascot began to chuckle, "That is sssure ssweets of you, Ms. Estelle."

"Well," Estelle paused again to let the waitress deliver another round of gin and tonics to the funeral crew. "I opened the door and couldn't believe my eyes. There was a full-grown woman in the bedroom asleep smack in the middle of the bed. Well, she shot straight up and started screaming. Then Mrs. Watkins started screaming and hollering. Then Evangeline started screaming and crying. Even Joe shouted."

"I say, say, I say. I say," stumbled Rucker. All I could think was "really, you don't Rucker." He then asked, "well, well, I say, what did you do, do, I say?"

"I told them all to shut-the-hell-up. All the screaming was getting on my damn nerves. Then I asked the lady in the bed who she was." Estelle smirked. "That lady had crawled in that window two years ago and had been living in Mrs. Watkins' home since and she would sneak out and steal food from the pantry and stove. Her name was Lavonia and her husband had died three years ago and she had nothing."

"Honey, did you call the cops?" My dad wanted to know.

"The police? Why would I call the police?" My mom looked at my father as if his methodical logic had once again failed. "No, I called Seventh Street Mission. Anyway, they came down and Lavonia has a home. Mrs. Watkins has her house straightened and cleaned and is not crazy for thinking someone was eating her food."

"Well, well. I say, I say, I say, I say that is a miracle, I say," Rucker's repetition lengthened with each drink.

"Miracle," Estelle dismissed, "I just opened up a shut door. Rucker, you'll learn. Sometimes, you just need to hold someone's hand and help them turn the knob."

Silence fell on the table for a brief second.

"Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind," The portly man started singing and soon the trio was belting with drinks raised in the air.

"Here's to Ms. Estelle, I say," shouted Rucker

The trio continued, "Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet,

for auld lang syne."

The singing continued as we excused ourselves from the table avoiding sloshing gin and falling ascots. We left the restaurant and crossed Fifth Avenue towards the car. Estelle flung her purse in the air and laughed, "Just think boys, I thought this pocketbook was too much tonight." She laughed as she climbed in the car.