Woody's Love Song

Frontiers, 1998 by Benson, LaVonn

Nan's brother called that morning before she was fully awake. "Nan, bad news. Your old farmer is dead."

"Not Woody!" Benny told her that, yes, Woody's housekeeper had found his body lying across the bed. His preacher had called trying to find someone to conduct the funeral.

"Is his preacher no longer burying his own board members?"

"He's taking off to New Orleans to visit his wife's folks."

"I just can't believe Woody's dead. He and I talked on the phone Saturday. Do you know whether he had any blood relatives?"

"A nephew. He may not show."

"Do you think I should try to get a plane?" But Benny said, "No, Nan. You know how people love to talk." She could send flowers, anyway. She got out the thin Allabeena phone book. Any kind would do since Woody couldn't know. She saw him in his casket, dear old guy, with hardly anybody there to cry over him. But he wouldn't approve of spending money on funeral flowers, even for himself-especially for himself! She smiled, thinking of how he counted his pennies. She could see his slender body standing at the counter to order the flowers. He might decide they were too much, thank the girl and turn and leave, pleased over what he had saved. But Woody wasn't buying these flowers, and she would spend whatever she liked.

Nan had left Mississippi years before, but she kept the florists' numbers handy for the various funerals. She ordered a spring wreath. Woody firmly believed that his soul would live forever, so maybe if he smelled the irises it would rise up from his casket and say, "Time to plant sugarcane."

Nan walked into the mail room that morning where four of her colleagues were standing around drinking coffee, whining about their upcoming classes. When she told them that Woody was dead, one said, "Well, there goes your chance, Nan."

"The old farmer that courted her? Now see, Nan? You should have been nicer to Woody." She wished she hadn't mentioned it.

"Nan could have rested easy in a rocking chair on his porch from here on out.

They each had a clever one-liner, as if she weren't even in the room, like in a Chekhov play. Woody, dead in Allabeena, had lived out his life oblivious of such frivolous, phoney games. Nan was still amazed that, years ago, she had actually married a sparkling talker like these, but she had quickly tired of him. Finally, "What's going to happen to that money of Woody's?"

She told them he had probably left it to his church. She then slipped out the door and escaped to her office. Woody's effort to court her had been a great joke to them. Not one would have guessed that she had dreamed now and then about the peace of Woody's farm, about cruising around the pasture in the cab of his tractor, putting in a tape and bumping along to the rhythm of "Gaite Parisienne"alive with her own exhilarating passion. As she gathered up the books for her sophomores, she saw them in their seats, their muscles bulging with youth, their untamed minds ready to work on the poetry she loved. As for Woody, he had spent his days cutting hay and birthing calves.

The rumor about the trial began to spread six months after Woody's death. Benny called as soon as he heard it.

"Nan? Just wanted to tell you. Woodrow's nephew is contesting the will. Did I wake you? Nan?"

"What are you talking about, Benny? I'm eating breakfast."

"Woody's will. His nephew's saying Woody was incompetent."

"You're kidding."

"Somebody said your name has been mentioned."

"My name? Impossible."

"Just thought you'd want to know."

"Okay. Wait a minute, Benny. Did you go to the doctor?"

"Yeah, I'm okay. He wants to do a couple more tests."

Woody incompetent! Oh God, they'll turn it over to a jury of Allabeena Countians-a jury for a smart lawyer to manipulate.

As she ate her muffin, she glanced at the syllabus for her first class. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" for today. Good, she could teach it with her eyes closed. Like Prufrock, Nan had begun to wear her trousers rolled. That fiftieth milestone coming up wouldn't be a celebration, though she still "heard the mermaids singing, each to each." Poor Woody had never known about the mermaids. But he was far from incompetent. What kind of scandal were they concocting in Allabeena County?

From the beginning, any relationship at all between her and Woody had been unlikely. They had met at a funeral, one of those thinly disguised social occasions in southern small towns, similar to the Irish wake. Nan admitted that she always got caught up in them. The rituals were wonderfully overblown, with people reveling in their grief. It was during "the viewing" of her cousin that Woody must have spotted her. There, the casket framed by banks of flowers and the family standing in a receiving line for hours upon hours, neighbors and friends came for the "last respects." After hugging almost wantonly, the friend and a family member stepped to the casket. Their arms still encircling, they put the tissues to their noses and reached a hand to touch the cold skin of the departed. Often they clung together in another long, tearful embrace while visitors watched, whispering, the scent of flowers almost bringing on a swoon.