She forgot about the Honky Tonk charm when she slung open the door and yelled for Waylon. Usually he came running from the bedroom the minute he heard her, but that day he must have been in a pout because she’d left him alone. She checked the bed to find the pillows mashed down where he’d taken a nap. He wasn’t under the table or behind the sofa.
“Waylon, where are you?” she singsonged as she held her head. “Damn cat, anyway. I’ve got a hangover and he’s in a snit. I’d trade places with him. He can have a headache and I’ll hide and pout.”
She found him curled up behind the potty. When she called him, he ignored her. When she picked him up, he wasn’t breathing.
“Waylon!” She sat down in the bathroom floor and wept, her tears dripping off her jaw and onto the dead cat’s fur.
* * *
She held him until she got the hiccups, then laid him gently on the bed and went to find something appropriate to bury him in. She found a boot box and lined it with his favorite fluffy blanket, laid him inside, and taped the lid down with duct tape. She carried the box out to her car and gently laid it on the passenger’s seat right beside her.
“It’s a hell of a hearse but it’s all I’ve got, old boy. At least you’ll have a proper burial,” she said. She wiped away tears several times during the two-mile drive from the place of death to the house where she intended to lay Waylon to rest at the edge of the garden plot.
She pulled up in the driveway and removed the boot-box casket from the car and carried it to the garden. Two miniature bicycles were propped against the front of the shed, and toys were lined up on the back porch.
“Crap! I forgot they were moving in over the weekend,” she said.
She knocked on the back door to let Holt know she was there and exhaled loudly when no one answered. She dang sure wasn’t ready to face him again that day so she would get her cat buried, leave, and no one would be the wiser.
The house had been the talk of Mingus when Larissa had painted it turquoise with hot-pink trim and yellow porch posts. Then when she painted two rocking chairs bright orange and set them on the porch, everyone in town had a hearty laugh at the sight. It looked like a massive hurricane had picked it up in the Bahamas and set it smack down on the edge of Mingus, Texas, without damaging a single board.
Sharlene found the shovel in the toolshed, dug a good deep hole in the softened dirt, and laid Waylon in it. After she filled the dirt back in, she found a couple of boards and some wire in the shed. She made a small cross to set on his grave and painted his name on the crossbar in bright-yellow paint.
She tapped it into the ground with the end of the shovel and began her eulogy. “Waylon, you were a good friend. I will miss you. You’ve listened to so many stories and helped me talk my way out of many problems.”
She wiped sweat from her brow and fanned her face with the black straw hat that she only wore when she mowed the yard. She was gearing up to preach a sermon when she felt a presence behind her. Not another soul in Mingus even knew Waylon. Not even Merle, Luther, or Tessa. He’d been a very private cat and hid under the bed when anyone came inside the apartment. So who in the world would be coming around to his graveside services?
She heard the doors of the truck slamming before she realized it had driven up in the driveway. When she turned around, Holt stood there with a kid hanging on each of his long legs.
“Waylon died,” she said flatly.
A little boy poked his head out from behind the man’s leg. “I’m not dead. I’m right here. Tell her I’m not dead. Don’t let her cover me up with dirt like they did Momma. I’m scared, Uncle Holt.”
Sharlene dropped down on one knee to be at the little boy’s eye level. “I’m sorry. Is your name Waylon too? My cat was Waylon and he died.”
A girl about the same age with the same brown hair and big brown eyes walked past both man and boy right up to Sharlene. “Ain’t no need to be scared, Waylon. I ain’t lettin’ her put you in the ground like they did Momma.” She looked at Sharlene. “Waylon ain’t dead, so why are you havin’ a fun’ral? And what’s your name and why are you havin’ a fun’ral in a yard? You’re ’posed to have them things in one of them places what has gots lots of other dead people in it.”
Sharlene touched her black cowboy hat and realized what a crazy picture she’d presented in her hot-pink boots, a denim miniskirt, and a bright-yellow tank top. “I’m Sharlene Waverly. Your dad is going to work for me.”
Holt held up a finger and both kids hushed. “We just got back from Palo Pinto where the kids stayed last night. We’re on our way to Stephenville to buy groceries. We’ll let you get on with burying your cat.”
Sharlene slowly removed her hat and nodded.
Holt stopped on his way to the truck. “I wanted to measure one more thing. All right if I stop by the bar?”
“It’s locked. I’m finished here. I’ll follow you,” she said.
“What about the kids?” he asked.
“They’re not twenty-one, but then the bar doesn’t open until eight so I don’t think the cops will come and take them away,” she said.
“I don’t want to go away with the cops,” Waylon whined.
The little girl rolled her dark-brown eyes and sighed. “They don’t take you away unless you are twenty-one. Damn, Waylon, we ain’t but six.”
“You better not say that word, Judd, or you’ll get in big trouble. We won’t get to watch television if you say bad words.”
Judd popped a fist on her hip. “He likes cartoons in the afternoon because he don’t like to be outside when it’s hot. He’s the smart one. I’m the mean one. Uncle Holt says we’re playing at your house. Can we watch television there?”
Sharlene laughed again. “There’s one in the bar, and you can watch it all day if you want.”
“Then let’s go see this place where my Uncle Holt is going to work. I don’t have to drink beer, do I, Uncle Holt? I can still have juice packs and peanut butter sandwiches, can’t I?” Judd snarled her nose.
Waylon tilted his head up and looked down his nose at his sister. “I like beer.”
“When did you drink beer?” Holt asked him.
“Momma left some in a bottle and I tasted it. I liked it. Judd made an awful face and tried to puke when she tasted it so she ain’t so mean.”
She shook her fist at him. “Am too!”
“Mean girls could drink beer,” Waylon said.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Holt said.
Sharlene touched Waylon’s tombstone one more time and walked away listening to Waylon, the boy, and Judd, the girl, argue.