Chapter 14

When I have something to do, I do it. I don’t put it off, hoping it’ll get easier with time or just go away. No, I get right to it and get it over with.

So, with my usual alacrity, I stopped at Mattie’s apartment on my way home. Leaving in the car all the papers—folders, envelopes, and so forth—that Mr. Sitton had loaded into my arms, I walked into the building, went directly to Mattie’s door, and inserted the key—no hesitation this time. I had a job to do, and the more I didn’t want to do it, the quicker I wanted to get it done.

When I walked inside, I didn’t even think of it as invading Mattie’s personal space. Uppermost in my mind was where I should start in clearing it out, for clearing it of all furniture, clothing, food, bibelots, papers, and general accumulation of junk that’s found in any household was what I had to do. And do it quickly so I could release the apartment before more rent payments came due.

Lord, I didn’t know where to start. The apartment was crammed full, especially the living room, which looked like a furniture warehouse with chairs and tables and chests having been pushed aside to make space for the emergency workers. And I hadn’t even looked into closets and cabinets. The place had been Mattie’s home for years and years, and, from the looks of it, had rarely, if ever, had a great and wonderful housecleaning. I almost turned around and left.

But food, I thought, as I headed for the small kitchen, glancing at my watch as I went. There was time before my own dinner to make a start, so I decided that I should tackle the refrigerator first. Opening the door, I found the shelves filled with small, foiled-covered bowls of leftovers. Noting that Mattie did not have a garbage disposal or a dishwasher, I quickly began to empty the bowls into trash bags and stack the bowls in the sink. Holding my breath, I continued to dump out small servings of spaghetti and green beans and beef stew and stewed apples and—well, after that I stopped identifying Mattie’s menus. I emptied a milk bottle, an orange juice container, a half-full bottle of zesty Italian salad dressing, and jars one after the other of mayonnaise, mustard, pickles, horseradish, olives, and jelly—blueberry, cherry, and orange marmalade. Three eggs went next and a head of lettuce that was turning brown, a wrinkled tomato, and two potatoes that were growing sprouts.

The small freezer at the top of the refrigerator held a few unidentifiable packages—they went into the trash, as did the frozen peas and half carton of rocky road ice cream, along with a package of frost-bitten ground beef.

When I’d wiped the insides of the freezer and refrigerator, I turned down the inner thermostat, closed the doors, and wondered what to do with the Hefty bag of recyclable jars and plastic containers, as well as the squishy bag of food scraps. It occurred to me that a lot of hungry children in Africa or somewhere would love to have what I had just discarded.

Well, I had no way of getting it to them, and to have left it would mean further deterioration and an unpleasant odor. I lugged the trash bags to the door, wondering where a Dumpster might be. Just as I put the last of the bags outside the door, that nice Mr. Wheeler came loping down the hall.

“Looks like you could use some help,” he said.

“I sure could. I’ve just emptied Mrs. Freeman’s refrigerator, but I don’t know what to do with what I’ve emptied it of.”

“Well, here, let me take them. The Dumpster’s out back.” He gathered all the bags with no effort, while I thanked him profusely. Then I pondered how to tell him he’d just lost a tenant, which, considering how word gets around in Abbotsville, turned out to be totally unnecessary.

He hesitated a moment, then said, “I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Freeman. I didn’t know her well, but she must’ve been a close friend of yours.”

Hardly, I thought, but thanked him for his expression of sympathy, misplaced though it was.

“By the way,” Mr. Wheeler said, “do you know the funeral plans? I’d like to pay my respects.”

“No, nothing’s been decided yet. In fact, I guess that’s next on my list.” And I went on to tell him that I was the executor of Mattie’s will, so even though I wasn’t yet sure of what that position entailed, he’d most likely be seeing a lot of me going in and out of her apartment.

“Well,” Mr. Wheeler said with that nice smile of his, “I’m around if you need help with anything. And please do let me know about the funeral.”

Assuring him that I would, I stood for a minute at the door and watched as he walked down the hall, clutching the trash bags as Mattie’s empty jars clanked with each step he took.

Then I locked the apartment door and went home.

_______

“You been cleanin’ what?” Lillian stopped in the middle of the kitchen and stared at me.

“Miss Mattie’s refrigerator and freezer,” I said, putting my pocketbook and the stack of legal papers on the table.

“They Lord,” Lillian said with a roll of her eyes.

“Well, don’t act so shocked. I’ve done cleaning before. Besides, I had to get rid of the food before it turned green.”

“Did you clean the insides real good? The drawers an’ shelves an’ everything? And leave a box of Arm and Hammer inside?”

“I did the best I could in the time I had,” I said, just a mite huffily because I’d expected a little appreciation for my efforts. “However,” I went on, pulling out a chair, “now that you mention it, I forgot to wash the dishes I emptied. Just left them in the sink where the remains will harden and have to be scrubbed. Well,” I said, sitting down with a sigh, “I can’t think of everything.”

“I think you ought to take me next time you go.”

“Thank you, Lillian. I think you’re right.”

_______

“Sam,” I said as we sat around the table after dinner, “I am overwhelmed with the magnitude of executing Mattie’s will—mainly because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do first and what can wait. I don’t even know where to start, except that nice Mr. Wheeler reminded me that I need to set a date and time for a funeral.”

“That probably should come first, honey,” Sam said, putting his hand on my arm. “You don’t have to do everything all at once, you know, and there’s no reason you can’t ask some of her friends to help. As for the funeral, didn’t Sitton say that Mattie had made all the arrangements?”

“Yes, and paid for it all, too. Which is a relief to me, because from the state of her checkbook, we’d have had to bury her in the backyard.” I rubbed my forehead at the thought of it. “Of course, she does have a few thousand in a money market fund, which I guess should go to honor the bequests she’s made. I just hope there’re no unforeseen expenses that come up. That’s the problem with this whole thing, Sam,” I said, sitting up straight. “I don’t know what to expect.”

“Make a list, then tackle each item, one at a time. And, again, ask some of the ladies to help. They were all Mattie’s friends, and they’ll be happy to pitch in.”

“Well, I know one who will be—if I present it to her in the right way.” I smiled as I thought of LuAnne’s hurt feelings that Mattie had not honored her with the power of attorney. “Sam,” I said decisively, “I’ve just made my first executive decision. I’m going to ask LuAnne to oversee the funeral. Of course, I may have to imply that Mattie wanted her—specifically named her—to do it. But I know LuAnne will take charge and do a good job, although she’ll end up with everybody, including me, mad at her. The best part of it, though, is that she’ll take it off my hands. And,” I went on, “since the funeral is preplanned, what damage could she do?”

“All right,” Sam said with approval, “that’s one thing settled. I do suggest, however, that you call the funeral home yourself and double-check Mattie’s plans. Make sure it’s all paid for, so you’re not hit with an unexpected bill. Now, what else can you delegate?”

“Well, all that furniture,” I said, sighing. “I have to get rid of it some way, but I can’t see having a yard sale. Who would want it, I ask you. Everybody I know already has all the furniture they need. Oh,” I said, having had a sudden inspiration, “I know! Helen! Helen Stroud, that’s who I’ll ask to help. Remember, Sam, she had to sell most of her beautiful furniture when Richard left her with nothing but bills. She’ll know what to do.”

“Excellent idea. You’ve always thought a lot of Helen, and I expect she could use the extra income.”

“You think I should pay her?” I hadn’t thought of that, although I recalled that she was accepting payment for teaching a flower-arranging class.

“I think Mattie should pay her. You can ask Helen if she’d prefer to be paid by the hour or by a percentage of what’s made on the furniture. And if she’s done it before with her own things, she’ll know an appraiser, as well as some dealers who’ll buy it.” Sam leaned back in his chair, studied the ceiling for a few seconds, then said, “The one thing you’ll have to watch for, Julia, is appearing—not actually, because I know you won’t, but appearing—to benefit in any way by what you do with Mattie’s belongings. And that goes for allowing anyone else to benefit. Just approach everything you do on a businesslike basis, and realize that you are accountable to the court for however you handle Mattie’s estate.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re absolutely right, that’s exactly what I have to do.” I sat up even straighter, accepting the heavy responsibility of pleasing the court—whoever or whatever that was. “So that means that I can’t allow any of Mattie’s friends, or mine, to go into her apartment and take even a memento to remember her by. Right?”

“Right. And that reminds me. How many gifts and bequests are in her will?”

“I haven’t even looked. I was too busy cleaning the refrigerator, then coming home to tell Lillian, and then spending the last hour or so telling you what Mattie left to me. I don’t know what she’s left to anybody else.”

“Then,” Sam said as he got up from the table to get the coffeepot, “I suggest you study that will until you know it by heart. Figure out how much she’s left to each person or charitable group, then see if she has enough money to cover it. If she only has what’s in her money market fund, then you may need every cent you get from her household goods to meet the will’s requirements.”

“Oh, my,” I said, “every time I think I’m getting on top of this job, something else comes along to remind me that I’m not. What if there’s not enough, Sam, even with selling everything in her apartment? Used furniture won’t bring in much at all.”

“Well, you can’t get blood from a turnip, as they say. So you go with percentages and distribute whatever the total ends up being. Just keep accurate records, whatever you do.”

“That means,” I said with a moan, “that I’ll have to do arithmetic—adding and subtracting and multiplying and dividing by fractions and I don’t know what all. I’m not good at that, Sam. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

“You know I will, sweetheart.” Sam smiled, passed me the cream pitcher, and went on. “Don’t worry about it. Wills get probated all the time, and you’ll do fine.”

That was reassuring to hear, but it didn’t sink in far enough to do much good.

One thing was for sure, though. All my plans to learn to arrange flowers, teach people to read, and get Mildred on a walking schedule—all in an effort to fill up the time I usually spent worrying—were for naught. As far as I could imagine, there would be no empty time just pleading to be filled in the foreseeable future.

So in order to follow through on at least one of those good intentions, I immediately went to Nick’s Sporting Goods, purchased a pedometer, and presented it to Mildred.

“What’s this?” she asked, looking at it warily.

“It’s a step counter. Try it, Mildred. You’ll love it.”

“Uh-huh,” she said with a laugh. “I just bet I will.”