April 13, 1936
The coffin rested on the kitchen table in the center of the room.
She turned and stared at the walls, up at the ceiling, down at the floor, anything to avoid looking at the smooth pine box that seemed to swallow the air in this room, seemed to draw the very breath from her lungs.
She had always loved this room.
She remembered being a young newlywed in this house, hanging the pretty new curtains she’d made, Everett watching proudly from the doorway.
Four years later, this was the room where Everett could barely contain his excitement when she told him that finally, finally, the Lord had answered their prayers and seen fit to bless them with the baby they longed for. And then He blessed them with three more in His own good time, each one a miracle in Lillian’s eyes.
This was the room where Mary, their eldest, had shown off her new dress before her first school dance. She had twirled around in a circle until she was dizzy and stumbling, and her younger brothers had howled with laughter.
They sang “Happy Birthday” only a few weeks ago in this room. She remembered Everett laughing and smearing a dab of frosting onto Patrick’s nose.
But now this room would forever hold different memories for her.
Looking at the door would remind her of the long line of friends and neighbors who came through this morning to pay their respects.
The side table by the kitchen doorway, normally a gathering place for a vase of flowers and a stack of newspapers, was covered with an overflow of casseroles and fruit cobblers brought by the ladies from church.
And, of course, she would always remember the long, smooth sides of the large pine box resting on the table in the center of the room. The box that was the source of her anguish, the symbol of her torment, the reason she couldn’t breathe.
It had been a long, dreadful day, and her shoulders ached. The clock on the wall sounded unbelievably loud. Or maybe the rhythmic pounding she heard was only in her head. She couldn’t be sure.
She wanted nothing more than to take her hair down from the tight bun at the base of her neck, crawl into bed, and pretend that none of this had happened. That Everett was at work and would be home later for dinner, like always. She placed her hands over her face to block out the light. Her eyes felt scratchy, as though they were full of sand.
Mrs. Suzanne Bower suddenly appeared in front of her with a cup of hot tea. “Here, dear, drink this.”
Mrs. Bower was the first to arrive that morning, as was her custom when there was a death in Waverly. As head of the local Baptist Women’s Missionary Union, she took it upon herself to organize meals and help out with whatever the family of the deceased needed, whether it be funeral arrangements, childcare, meals, or a shoulder to cry on. She had been fulfilling this solemn duty for as long as most people in Waverly could remember, ever since her own husband died unexpectedly many years ago.
“Thank you,” Lillian whispered.
“You’re welcome, my dear,” Mrs. Bower said, sitting delicately on the couch beside her. “You know, pneumonia is what took my Robert, too. Hard to believe he’s been gone thirty years now.”
Lillian glanced at her and sipped the tea, the hot liquid soothing her raw throat, though it did nothing for the ache in her chest. She tried to imagine thirty years without Everett, but found it to be an impossible task.
“Lillian, I want you to know something.” The elderly woman reached a warm, wrinkled hand over and gripped Lillian’s fingers tightly. “Life is hard, and it often doesn’t turn out the way we expect. I can’t tell you that it will get easier, that the pain will go away, but I can tell you that you will survive this. Even though it may feel right now like you can’t go on another minute, you are capable of more than you know.”
Lillian smiled weakly. “I appreciate that.”
“If you ever need to talk, dear, I would certainly welcome your company any time.”
Lillian exhaled a long, ragged breath. She wished she could tell this thoughtful woman how much she truly appreciated her kindness, thank her for bringing over breakfast that morning, for staying to oversee the visitors and rows of covered dishes parading through the house all afternoon. Lillian wanted to ask her how she was supposed to survive this, to tell her that she didn’t feel strong at all, in fact she felt not just weak, but cracked and broken, like a part of her was damaged beyond repair. She wanted to tell her she was angry, so angry at the unfairness of it all. Angry at Everett, angry at God, angry at the church ladies who stopped by to drop off casseroles and pies before going home to their families and their strong, healthy husbands. But she simply didn’t have the energy or the words to describe her anger or her pain. And yet, when she looked into Mrs. Bower’s kind blue eyes, an understanding passed between them, and Lillian knew she didn’t need to say a word.
Mrs. Bower returned to the kitchen, leaving Lillian to sip her tea and avoid looking at the pine box. Murmuring voices drifted in from the kitchen, but she could only make out occasional snatches of her neighbors’ whispered conversations. “… judge will need to decide … too soon … the children …”
The children.
They sat stiffly in the wooden kitchen chairs that had been moved into the sitting room, lost in their own thoughts, their eyes glazed over. The older boys, sixteen-year old Jack and Patrick, who had recently turned ten, stared down at the floor, their dark hair falling into their eyes. They were both in need of a haircut, but Lillian had no idea when she would be able to pick up a pair of scissors and do something as mundane as cutting hair. The effort of just breathing and holding back the tide of sorrow inside seemed to take all of her energy now.
Her youngest, eight year-old James, occasionally wiped his big brown eyes with the back of his hand. She knew he hated to cry in front of his brothers. Still, she saw the tears glistening on his thick, dark lashes that were so much like Everett’s.
In the chair closest to the kitchen sat her beautiful eighteen year-old daughter, Mary, her red rimmed eyes staring hollowly at a lace handkerchief in her lap. Mary’s long, dark hair, her pride and joy, had loosened from its ribbon and now cascaded around her shoulders, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Lillian sighed.
One more day. Just one more day of this, and then the pine box would be taken away. it would be over, and she could go on with her life. Or what was left of it.
She tried to imagine fixing breakfast each morning for five instead of six.
“Mrs. Conner?”
She realized a familiar man was sitting on the couch next to her. Had he been there the whole time? She couldn’t be sure.
“We all thought so much of your husband, Mrs. Conner,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. She searched his face, taking in the cleft chin, the remarkably bright blue eyes. His name suddenly came to her. Judge Riney. Of course.
“Everett was a fine man, and you and your children have my deepest sympathy.”
She smiled. “I appreciate your kind words, Judge Riney. My Everett is … was … indeed one of a kind.”
The judge nodded, looking at the pine box. Lillian wondered if it made him as uncomfortable as it did her.
“Mrs. Conner,” he turned to her, “This may seem terribly insensitive, but there’s something I need to ask. I’m afraid your husband’s untimely passing has left us in an awkward position, without a sheriff in Clay County.”
She nodded absently.
He looked at her children, who were all watching and listening intently. “And the truth is … well, I may be able to offer a rather unorthodox solution that will be mutually beneficial.”
She sipped her tea and waited, wishing he would make his point.
“If you would be willing to consider it,” Judge Riney said, “there is a statute in place that could help us with filling the role of sheriff and also provide you with an income, at least temporarily.” He paused before continuing. “What I’m trying to say is, would you be willing to step in as sheriff in your husband’s place?”
She sat staring at him, dumbfounded.
“It would only be until a proper election this fall, of course,” he added.
“I don’t understand,” she said as her foggy mind struggled to make sense of his words. “You want me to take Everett’s place? As sheriff of Clay County?”
“Yes, ma’am. The statute allows for the county judge to appoint a successor if the sheriff’s position becomes … well, if it becomes open due to unforeseen circumstances. In addition, deputies cannot serve without a sheriff in place, so we’ve found ourselves in a tight spot. I’m sure you understand we need to find a replacement as soon as possible. In light of your current situation, and in honor of your husband, whom we all held in such high regard, I would like to formally offer you this position. That is, if you’re willing to accept.”
Lillian turned slowly and looked at the four young faces staring at her, wide-eyed. She swallowed and turned back to Judge Riney. “Judge, I thank you for your consideration, truly. And I am honored that you would place your confidence and trust in me. But what would people think if I was sworn in as sheriff? I have no experience, no credentials to make me qualified for such a role. I’m nothing but a mother and a simple housewife. Surely you have someone else more qualified in mind, maybe a deputy or an officer with at least some kind of experience?”
“Please consider it, Mrs. Conner. This would provide an income to help you care for the children, at least until you can get on your feet.” Seeing the doubt on her face, he continued, “This will allow us to help you and honor your husband’s memory. I’ve spoken with the other officers, and they are one hundred percent in support of this arrangement. Deputy Mitchell has assured me he will personally guide you every step of the way.”
She remembered how much Everett respected Deputy Mitchell, how the kindhearted young deputy even joined them for dinner on occasion, devouring her peach cobbler as though he had never eaten in his life.
She looked again at her children’s faces. Her children who were now depending on her to be both mother and father, to provide for them. Her children who would need her now more than ever.
She turned back to Judge Riney’s hopeful face. She knew very well that she was not cut out to be a sheriff. She hadn’t the first clue about running a police station. But it seemed Everett had found a way to provide for them, to take care of them all, even after he was gone.
For the first time since before she heard her husband exhale his last, ragged breath, Lillian felt a tiny flame of hope. Maybe, just maybe it could work.
This is an excerpt from my book, Waverly: A Novel, which was published in 2019. It was inspired by true events that happened in my town in 1936. I first heard the story when I was in college, and I had been fascinated with it since then.
Writing Waverly was certainly a labor of love, with multiple viewpoints and alternating time periods. I had no idea how complex the planning and structural elements would be, but I learned so much in the process!
My current big work in progress is also historical fiction inspired by true events that happened in another small town near my home, but it features a totally different structure, at least for now. I’m only about 25% of the way finished with the first draft, but it is very rough. I am constantly fighting my inner critic, as well as trying to juggle and find time to just sit and write.
Looking back at projects like Waverly reminds me that slow progress is still progress. Finding the time to write as a side gig while working full-time is not for the faint of heart!
Amy Bellamy, Author 