Neighbors At A Wake

Neighbors at a Wake

Ever since Nicky’s father died, everyone was nice to him. As an eight year-old, Nicky Albigensia couldn’t understand why. He liked it all the same, and supposed this is what grown-ups do when someone “passed”. He also couldn’t figure out why they called it a wake, when his dad wasn’t going to wake up.

The white collar nipped at his neck as he sat alone in the first pew of the funeral home. His mother, Deidre Albigensia, was in the back discussing the route to the cemetery with the hearse driver. Being left alone with a coffin, Nicky doodled in his black notebook. There he found comfort in the monsters and sword-slashing knights that raced across the beige pages. Then a cautious touch tapped on his shoulder. A plump older woman smiled above him with her grey mustached husband close behind.

“So, sorry for your loss, Nicky boy,” wisphered Mrs. Peterson.

She bent down and squeezed the boy in a suffocating hug. Nicky nodded with a pained smile. “Thanks.”

The Petersons were his neighbors from across the street, and had always eyed the Albigensias suspiciously since they moved in, until now. A year ago, Nicky and his family moved to the poor little town of Coopersville because of his father’s insatiable appetite of turning nothing into something, and his successful investments in real estate allowed him to do so. The deceased Mr. Albigensia relished in reinventing tumbleweed towns and updating them into vintage villages, drawing in new blood.

However, the Petersons, like many people in Coopersville, thought their town was already something to be proud of. Yes, it was dilapidated, forgotten and impoverished. But it was home; so the Petersons, and alike, found it contemptible for an outsider to rebrand their living as “rustic farmhouse”, “country decor”, and “midwestern gothic”.

Nicky found Mrs. Peterson’s sudden affection strange, especially when in the past she had chided him for stepping on her lawn, and had only given him meager candy at Halloween. But now Mrs. Peterson was at his house every day, warmly greeting him and offering pieces of butterscotch .

“Would you like something sweet,” she said as a statement. Mrs. Peterson pinched a piece of butterscotch from her purse and dropped it in the boy’s palm as if she were Santa.

“It must be hard for your mother. But thank heavens your father left you a lovely inheritance. Let us know if there’s anything we can do. You know where we live,” she said with a wink and took her leave.

***

Out of earshot from Nicky, Mr. Peterson tugged on his wife’s black coat sleeve.

“Are you gonna’ give this kid candy every time you see him?”

“If it helps me get rid of this turkey neck,” said Mrs. Peterson, jiggling the flappy skin under her chin.

“Dear, his dad left him two-hundred dollars. Peanuts,” said Mr. Peterson, escorting his wife into a pew in the back.

“If you used those ears of yours, Harold,” she said, wagging her finger at his large hairy ears. “Then you would have heard that it was ten-thousand dollars.”

The inheritance came from Mr. Abligensia’ success in remodeling Coopersville. He had not asked for Mrs. Peterson’s opinion on modernizing Coopersivlle, but getting a cut of that inheritance would be a lovely apology.

A thin middle-aged woman with poorly dyed hair turned around in her pew to face the Petersons.

“Well, Mrs. Peterson, if you were as close as I am to Deidre, poor widow, then you’d know that her husband left Nicky twenty-thousand dollars,” said the middle-aged woman.

“Heavens, that’s a lot,” gaped Mr. Peterson. “What's a kid gonna’ do with twenty-thousand dollars?”

Mrs. Peterson crossed her arms under her breasts while a scowl wrinkled across her face.

“Keep out of it Harold,” said Mrs. Peterson to her spouse. He was familiar with the signs of a cat fight. Taking his cue, he reclined back into the pew and prayed to be delivered out here soon. “Well that’s fine for you Mrs. Greene, but what makes you think you’ll get a piece of that?”

Mrs. Greene delicately pointed to her flat chest with the grace of a gameshow host displaying the grand prize. “Why, I’m Nicky’s piano teacher. I’ve been teaching him since he was seven.”

Mrs. Peterson glared at the woman. She was cutting in on her turf. How could she compete against piano lessons with butterscotch? There was no way she would let some church mouse would snatch up her share. So, Mrs. Peterson pivoted.

“That’s only been a year of lessons, dear?” she said languidly. “I’m sure he’s improved a lot in one year. I don’t know how anyone could learn in such a gaudy place. Oh, forgive me, dear, but it wasn’t your call to spruce up your studio.”

Mrs. Greene eyed Mrs. Peterson dubiously. “No, it wasn’t my choice.” Then she glanced at the casket.

“Well, now you can change it anyway you like, right?” said Mrs. Peterson, with a slight grin. “I personally always liked your plaid wallpaper.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Peterson,” said Mrs. Greene sincerely.

“Oh, I mean it. The Albigensias think they’re so above it all,” scoffed Mrs. Peterson. “Did you know that each of them has their own servant?”

Mrs. Greene nodded, “I heard the same thing. And that they have one for the dog, too.”

Exasperated, Mrs. Peterson threw her hands up. “Exactly! See what’s become of Coopersville.”

The women hushed their voices and shifted their sights on the new guests who filled the pews. They inched further down the pew with an accommodating smile to the new visitors.

“Mrs. Gonzales,” said Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Greene, with a nod.

“Ladies,” said the shriveled grey-haired Mrs. Gonzales. She gripped her purse tightly, resting it on her lap, while she peered at the front pew.

“A tragedy isn’t it?” she said.

Mrs. Peterson and Mrs. Greene nodded.

“A boy without a father is a formula for trouble,” said Mrs. Gonzales, digging into her purse. “What’s a boy going to do with twenty-thousand dollars per year?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” said Harold Peterson, leaning back into the conversation.

Mrs. Peterson brushed him back. “What was that?”

“Per year?” asked Mrs. Greene.

“You didn’t hear?” said Mrs. Gonzales, pulling her eyeglasses from her purse. “Mr. Albigensia was so well off that he wrote in his will that his son would receive twenty grand a year, cash.” She precariously placed a pair of steel rim glasses on her upturned nose. Squinting through her thick lenses she asked, “What’s Nicky doing by himself?”

“His mother is preoccupied,” said Mrs. Greene, dropping a thin veneer of malice.

“Preoccupied?” said Mrs. Gonzales, quizzically. “Boy do things change. When my father died, I was no younger than Nicky, and my mother never left me out of her sight.”

“Different generation,” said Mrs. Peterson quickly.

“Different folks,” Mrs. Gonzales muttered to herself. “Maybe they’ll leave Coopersville. Ya’ know I heard they have a hot tub for each of them. What do you need three for! Boy, wouldn’t that be nice just to have one?”

A sharp clack of high heels silenced the women and transformed their cruel lips into bright smiles as Nicky’s mother Deidre stepped past them. She sighed heavily, and addressed the women.

“Thank you for coming, it means a whole lot,” she said, taking a breath through a black mourning veil. “Really, Mrs. Peterson, thank you for watching Nicky these last few days while I’ve been here, the banks, the cemetery. Gosh, I just feel like a chicken with its head cut off.”

Mrs. Peterson stretched over Mrs. Gonzales and patted Deire’s hand. “There, there, dear. These things take a lot on a person. This is why you need your family, friends and neighbors.”

The word ‘neighbor’ hung in the air a little longer than the rest of the words. Mrs. Peterson hoped Deirdre caught her drift; if not Mrs. Greene and Mrs. Gonzales certainly did.

“Truly, if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate,” said Mrs. Greene.

“You're such a dear, Mrs. Greene. Thank you for the lasagna you’ve made for us. And thank you, Mrs. Gonzales for the ceviche.”

“Anytime, in fact, if you need me to come and make breakfast, lunch and dinner, I'll be there,” said Mrs. Gonzales.

The other two women shot threatening looks at Mrs. Gonzales for raising the stakes. This old bat is in it, too?, thought Mrs. Peterson. As fast as her brain could calculate, she listed different favors she could do for Deidre and Nicky. But before she could offer any, Deidre spoke.

“It’s hard without family or friends nearby. There must be some reason why we moved out here and why my husband…” Deirdre held a hand to her quivering mouth and excused herself.

The women nodded, and watched warily as Deidre walked to the front with Nicky. Not breaking her focus, Mrs. Peterson spoke.

“Offering to make breakfast, lunch and dinner? What are you a full-on catering service?”

“Says the kettle,” said Mrs. Gonzales.

“Alright,” said Mrs. Peterson. “But we can agree that her veil is a little much? No?”

“It’s a little garish,” Mrs. Greene.

“I met her husband, he was no saint,” said Mrs. Gonzales. “Nice man, but let’s not kid ourselves.”

Mrs. Peterson slowly rocked her head in agreement with the women. Splitting twenty-thousand dollars two ways was bad enough, but now she’d have to compromise with a three-way split. Then that annoying little voice in the back of her head reminded her of Nicky. She quietly groaned at the idea of a four-way split. But if she could share in just one of these annual inheritances, she’d be set. But, she thought cunningly, if she played her cards right, Nicky would be so fond of her after a year, or two, that he’d give her all the twenty grand. What would he be losing?, he’d see it next year.

A nudge broke her from her reverie. “What is it now, Harold?”

“This guy is looking for Nicky and Deidre,” he said, pointing to a clean cut gentleman sitting in their pew.

Mrs. Peterson didn’t recognize this gentleman. In a small town, it made it very easy to recall faces and their stories. Yet the way this man clutched at the leather black briefcase on his lap peaked Mrs. Peterson’s curiosity.

“Mrs. Janeane Peterson. How do you do?”

“Hi. Derek Himmler,” he said with a curt nod. “I’m looking for Deidre and Nicholas Albigensia.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Peterson. “How do you know them?”

“Well, I don’t actually. To be honest I don’t know who they are. I was told they’d be here. You see I’m from the bank out in Cincinnati, and was told to deliver an inheritance to a Nicholas Albigensia in cash. I was supposed to do it yesterday at their house and couldn’t make it. GPS wasn’t working, got lost and now I’m here. I’ve probably said too much. But if you could just point me in the right direction,” he said, tapping his fingers on the briefcase.

Mrs. Peterson’s eyes widened at the concealed twenty-thousand dollars that sat a mere three feet from her. She smiled as she felt the loose skin under her chin vanish, dreaming of her upcoming cosmetic surgery. Her aging eyes craned back to see if Mrs. Greene and Mrs. Gonzales were spectating. They were. That was fine, but at least now, she could split it three ways.

“Well Mr. Himmler, I just so happen to be…”