Episode #3: Fluerene's Letter to the World

My husband is dead, and quite frankly, I couldn’t be happier. The thought of having to waste my golden years with that man was almost more than I could bear. Fortunately, I got the call telling me about Harmon and I’ve been dancing a little jig ever since, but only on the inside.

One has to keep up appearances, you know. As far as anyone else knows, I am the distraught Fleurene Moretz, the beautiful, still young and now woeful widow woman. My eyes are perfectly red and puffy. I break down in silent distress at just the right moment for comfort, and I am wearing a snazzy little black number I bought at Smithy’s and saved for just the right occasion.

Harmon’s life may be over, but mine is now damn near perfect. Shoot, I don’t even know what he died of, but I’ve been hinting to everyone that it was the cancer. That sounds good, and gives people the notion that we both suffered in silence for a long while.

Hopefully, some of the local churches and charity organizations will take up some collections to help this poor woman to cover the ungodly hospital bills and keep her and her poor children from being tossed out on the street. I may not even paint the porch this year, just to make the neighbors think we’ve fallen on hard times.

The hard times is over, honey. Now don’t get me wrong, Harmon was a good provider and lived up to the bargain right up to his dying day, whatever day that was. We never loved each other, but we made a deal and got married. I had decided that it was time for me to wed, and he wanted to stay out of the army so it was a match made in, well, Forge Creek.

That’s where we live, born and raised in on the Forge, a pretty little mountain town in East Tennessee. We used to be part of Virginia, but then got included in that proposed state of Franklin that never got ratified. I don’t remember just why, but even in death Ben Franklin must have really pissed someone off, because one still mad as a wet hornet senator said “No” and that was all it took for the land to be split back up, but this time we got gived to Tennessee.

They say that that’s why this area is so different from the rest of the state, cause we never really belonged to begin with. It’s all fine by me. It happened way before I was born, and it gives me something interesting to talk about that sounds intelligent over tea.

Intelligence and style, that’s my calling in life, anybody who wants to know how to do anything proper knows that I am the expert. Arzella Tater can think she’s the one all she wants, but just cause she has the fanciest house in the county don’t mean squat.

And it’s not that my house ain’t fancy mind you; it just ain’t as big as the one that uppity witch lives in. In fact, I think its fancier and I don’t lock my kids out of the house and make ‘em pee in the bushes like she does. (Of course, you didn’t hear that from me!)

My children are all well mannered, well behaved and all have fancy names like me. My name is Fleurene, born Pelletier. It’s French, so it’s pronounced Flurr—een Pell—teer. I am constantly having to correct the inbreds around here on how to pronounce it. They all want to call me Floor-een, and that’s just disgusting. It makes me sound like I’d give ya healthy gums or something.

Harmon was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, and I never once had to correct him on how to say my name. He was the perfect match in almost every way. I told him, all I wanted was a husband, a nice house and lots of kids. I didn’t even care if he was faithful, as long as I didn’t find out about it; cause then I’d have to kill him. He gave me everything I wanted and more. Yes indeed he was a fine husband and I praise God Almighty that he’s finally dead.

It was just fortunate for me that the Lord has always looked out for me. As a young girl I fell head over tails in love with Wilbur Joe Farmer, and he with me. Wilbur Joe was nothing like Harmon at all, although they was best friends. Harmon was beautiful and smart. Wilbur Joe was a half wit and butt ugly, and I don’t know why but I loved him so much it still hurts to this day.

Wilbur Joe and I was all set to get married just as soon as he finished basic training. I was busy planning my dream wedding, knowing the whole time we’d end up being penniless tobacco farmers, but I didn’t care. I was having the perfect wedding to the man I loved.

Fortunately God stepped in and on Wilbur Joe’s first day of boot camp. He tripped in the bathroom and drowned face down in a US Military toilet. I told you he was stupid!

Of course, I was nearly destroyed but like the strong woman I am just focused on what was important in life and carried on. I had the wedding all planned. I just needed the groom. At the funeral, Harmon was blubbering away about how he was scarred to go in the Army. That’s when God stepped in and showed me the light.

Five months later, my Daddy was escorting me down the aisle of Hammons Chapel Christian Church as planned, with only two different details. I was saying “I do” to Harmon, and I was wearing a much nicer gown, thanks to the insurance policy that Wilbur Joe had been bright enough to leave me and his fat cow of a mamma didn’t dare protest.

It wasn’t long after we married that Harmon got a really good paying job somewhere out of town. He wanted to move, but I refused. I was born on Forge Creek for a reason and I wasn’t leaving.

Harmon took the job anyways; built me a nice house on Meemaw’s old farm and spent most of his time doing whatever he did that brought me such good money. I think it had something to do with trucking, but I figured as long as them fat paychecks came in regular and didn’t bounce it wasn’t none of my business.

Harmon would come home for a couple of weeks every couple of months, always with a nice gift and hung around long enough to get me pregnant. It was a husband’s job.
Obviously, I didn’t care much for him, but I did love the life he provided and the fact that he left me alone to live it the way I wanted.

My oldest got the best of both of us. Harmon Sinclair, Jr. has his father’s looks and my class and intelligence. I called him Sinclair, because it sounded so nice and exotic. Mamma insisted on calling him “Junie” when he was born and I just hated it. I started back handing her every time she did it, so she soon got the hint and stopped. Sinclair it was, is and always will be.

I’d love to say that all my kids are beautiful, but I am a totally honest woman. The simple truth is the more I turned out, the plainer they got right down to my youngest. Actually my youngest are a set of twins, a boy and a girl. I named him Abingdon, after the nice little town in Virginia where Harmon took me to a real live professional theatre with dinner across the street at the Martha Washington Inn.

The girl I named Modene, after a company I read on something somewhere. I can’t remember what it was, but when I read it I just knew it was the perfect strong name for a perfect strong little girl. Modene did come out last, so I always call her my youngest.

What Sinclair is to beauty, poor sweet Modene is not. I swear I look at her sometimes and think that I didn’t really have twins at all, that she’s just the afterbirth that lived. Of course, I would never tell her that.

As far as she knows she is the most darling young lady in the world. Notice how I use the word darling and not beautiful? Remember I am a woman of truth, and she is darling, just nothing even remotely close to attractive. Shoot I had an albino Chihuahua as a child with a better complexion than Modene.

But she’s sweet and adorable and just dotes on me something awful. She has been so concerned for me these last few days, so concerned that I might, oh I don’t know, throw myself onto Harmon’s burning body like one of them Indian women. I’m sorry, but that’s just stupid.

Jimmy Dean said die young and leave a good lookin’ corpse. He is so right, that Jimmy Dean. How on earth are you supposed to be a good lookin’ corpse with singed hair? Gracious!

Of course, as far as Modene and all my kids is concerned I am the distraught widow woman with nothing left to live for. My Harmon did die young and will be a darn great looking corpse. He also left behind a heck of a lot of cash that’s all mine and I will moan and wail like I’m in a Lifetime movie until the day that will goes probate. Then I am kicking up my heels and really living.

Until then, I am mustering all my acting ability and being “courageous and strong” for my kids. I ran around the house all morning making sure they was ready to go to the funeral. Obviously, I was too upset (tee hee) to handle it and Sinclair took care of everything.

All I have to do is round up my brood, stuff ‘em in the limo and head to Tester’s Funeral Home, at least that’s where we better be heading. I did let Sinclair know that if he even dared to bury his father at that other place in town, whom I can’t even let cross my lips, we’d be burying him next in a couple of Ziplock snack bags.

I even thought about cooking this morning. I haven’t done that in years. As soon as the twins started at the high school I stopped. I made a general announcement that if it couldn’t be micro waved or delivered it wasn’t being eaten at my house anymore.

To make my point, I took the heating elements out of the oven and keep my sweaters there. I even got some of them stove eye covers down at Iron Mountain Stoneware and super glued them in place. Besides, I figure people will be bringing by casseroles and turkeys for awhile anyway, and Sinclair is having the wake catered.

I do hesitate to let Modene be seen in public today. Her plain, fat little face is so puffy and red you’d think God smacked her around with her tears. Her eyes are almost bruised from crying.

Poor thing, she is so emotional and I’m sure she didn’t care for her daddy much. He was around so rarely. Once when she was six and Harmon was home for breakfast she turned to me and said, “Mommy, who’s that man?”

I was afraid for a minute that would guilt Harmon in to coming home more often. Fortunately it didn’t faze him. I lived in fear that whole week.

I tried so hard to get her to wear some make up or something, but she refused. She said she didn’t want to waste plastering on something that was just gonna get cried off. I guess she’s right. She looks scary enough without having black streaks smeared all over those swollen hamster cheeks.

I did at least get her to wear a little jewelry, told her that Harmon always thought she looked so nice in jewelry. I picked out the gaudiest stuff I could find for her and told her they were his favorites. I actually am just hoping it will distract people’s eyes from her face.

The boys, of course, all look so dapper. My boys know how to dress. The girls, now that’s another story. Except for Diana Jean, my girls wouldn’t know a designer dress from a burlap sack. Scarlet is still into that all black Goth stuff, which does kind of make her wardrobe today a little easier and Ruby tries to stuff a little too much into too little. We’ve already discussed Modene.

Then again, at least the older three have figures; Modene is a senior in high school and is still waiting on a visit from the boob fairy. Actually, I think Ruby may have gotten Modene’s helping. I swear I thought about buying that child her first bra before she was potty trained. She was practically birthed a C cup!

Ruby’s my Miss America. She was first runner up in the Miss Johnson County Pageant two years in a row, I’m not sure how that happens but you can bet it wasn’t pretty. And you can bet it won’t happen again. She’s done with those cheesy third rate pageants. It’s on to Miss Lonesome Pine and Miss Watauga Valley from here on out.

Now Diana Jean, along with her inheriting her mama’s flair for fashion, is the smart one in the family. I think she’ll make a doctor or something pretty, you can stake good money on that.

And Miss Scarlet, as soon as she gets through this depressed and angry phase, she’ll make a good wife. After all, wives and mothers don’t have to be chipper, just organized, and that she is.

My boys are my pride and joy. I never really cared too much for girls, so I admit there is a special place in my heart for each one of my sons. As I’ve said Sinclair has both beauty and brains and the world is his for the taking. If I play my cards right, I’ve got a built in ticket to more money and an even better life.

He’s finished up with college now, graduated with honors from somewhere and has a degree in something impressive. I was a little disappointed when he told me he was gonna go off and work with his daddy for a while, but I guess first sons just expect that they are expected to follow in the family business. So as long as he provides for me, whatever is just fine.

Dear sweet Abingdon, is just a precious little idiot, all football and tractors. I expect he’ll be plowing up some of the old farmland around the house and letting cows poop in the backyard before too long. But it will give him something to do, and as long as he takes his boots off before he comes in the house I won’t complain.

I’m a little surprised that I have a card carrying member of the FFA in my brood, but I guess there are worse future “F’s” than farmers. Now don’t get me wrong. Farmers are people, too. Some of my best acquaintances are farmers. I just never imagined that agriculture would ever be more than a conversation around my dinner table. Oh well, I reckon as long as Abingdon, doesn’t go as far as to let dead animals drip out in the old smoke house and expect me to cook ‘em, I’ll make do.

Then again, if I’m lucky, like Scarlet’s Goth mood, Bing’s desire for dirty fingernails is just a phase. I secretly hope that he’s just doing it long enough to make Arzella Tater’s boys that he tends to pal around with all get into farming while secretly prepares for Congress. Now wouldn’t that be a hoot.

Of course, I got two more boys; Silas and Joe Cooper, eighteen months apart and like two peas in a very odd pod. Silas is tall and looks like that man who used to be Dr. Gannon on “Medical Center”. Joe Cooper on the other hand is short, beefy and looks like somebody’s sidekick.

They seem to share one personality. It’s kind of scary. If the other one ain’t in the room there just seems to be this vacuum to the right or left of them. They even went to the same college and all they talk about is opening a practice together. I’m not sure what they plan to practice together, but they are good boys so I’m sure it won’t be anything harmful, or earth shaking for that matter.

Oh there, I go, boasting about my wonderful kids and completely off the subject. What was I talking about to begin with? Do you remember and was it that all fired important? It was something to do with the color black and the color of money.

Oh yes, my husband is dead and I’ve got to get all these kids stuffed in a limo and down to the funeral home! I’d better watch my p’s and q’s or someone’s gonna figure out just how down right happy I am about the whole situation.