A Double Plot
Opal Hollister examined the scant selection of black dresses and suits offered in what passed in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey, as a fashion boutique. She was looking for something stylish, yet she did not want to spend too much money—not yet, anyway. Once the estate was settled and she inherited all of Ellis Hollister's money, she would then go on a shopping spree in the finest salons in New York, Beverly Hills and Paris. Maybe her late husband had been content to live out his days in Bergen County, but not the former Opal Louise Carlson. She was going to live life in style.
"I'll take these two dresses and that black suit," she haughtily informed the salesgirl, a college student from nearby Oakland.
As far as Opal was concerned, even the boutique's most expensive outfits were no better than the clothes offered at JCPenney, Bloomingdale's and Sears, but they would have to do for Ellis's viewing and funeral. Besides, her late husband would no doubt have appreciated her thrift. When he was alive, he would pinch a penny so tightly that Abraham Lincoln would cry out in pain.
As the Widow Hollister left the boutique, she glanced at her watch. It was only 3:30. She had plenty of time to stop by Franco's apartment before going to the funeral home. Franco Scanlon was her current lover, but not for much longer. As was the case with the small suburban boutique, Opal planned to move on to bigger and better things once she had the money to afford them.
The tryst with Franco was over by five o'clock. Afterward, she went back to the tastefully decorated, two-hundred-year-old colonial home she had shared with Ellis Hollister, where she ate a quick dinner and donned one of the black dresses she had purchased at the Franklin Lakes boutique earlier in the day. When the widow arrived at the Vander Plaat Funeral Home shortly after seven, she noticed Mervyn Hollister and Henrietta Hollister Clark, Ellis's two children, were already there finalizing arrangements with the home's director.
"My dear Mrs. Hollister," the mortician said, taking Opal's hand in his own as a gesture of comfort. "I want to offer my sincere condolences to you on your loss. Your husband was a good man, and he will be greatly missed."
Mervyn and Henrietta momentarily looked in their stepmother's direction and then silently turned away and joined their spouses and children in the viewing room. After Opal managed to extricate herself from the undertaker's grasp, she followed her two stepchildren (who were not much younger than she was) to stand before Ellis's casket.
"He looks so peaceful," she remarked, at a loss for anything more original to say.
Henrietta wiped the tears from her red, puffy eyes with a damp, crumpled tissue and shot a hateful glance at the widow. Under normal circumstances, she would have had a harsh comment for her stepmother, but she forced herself to hold her tongue in respect for her father's memory.
Opal knew her stepchildren hated her, that they considered her a gold digger. They probably even suspected she had murdered their father. If so, they were mistaken. She did not murder her husband—not really. It would hardly be deemed murder for her to supply Ellis with cigarettes against his doctor's orders or to let him eat the rich, fatty foods he loved despite his strict diet.
It proved to be a long, exhausting evening. Over two hundred mourners showed up at Vander Plaat's to view Ellis's remains and offer condolences to his family. For nearly three hours, relatives, friends, neighbors and business associates filed past the flower-laden casket. Opal stifled a yawn and wished her stepchildren hadn't insisted on three days of viewing. Had she made the arrangements, she would have had only one night followed by the funeral service the next day, but she had been more than happy to let Mervyn and Henrietta deal with the funeral home, the church and the cemetery. All Opal had to do was buy her mourning clothes, show up for the services on time and play the role of grieving widow.
At last, the antique grandfather clock in the foyer of the funeral home struck the hour of ten. As the Westminster chimes sounded, the mortician politely but firmly ushered the remaining mourners out the door.
One day down and two to go, Opal thought as she got behind the wheel of her Ford Taurus station wagon.
After several futile attempts to start the car, she finally heard the Taurus's engine turn over. The four-year-old Ford, like Franco Scanlon, the poor man's Romeo, would shortly be left by the wayside. In fact, she had already shopped for her next car: a McLaren 12C Spider in Elite Volcano Red. Let the rest of the world be content with driving compact cars, station wagons, SUVs and minivans; Opal Hollister wanted a sleek, sporty convertible and the more expensive, the better.
* * *
The following day the widow had to endure not one but two viewings—an afternoon matinee from one to four and an evening showing from seven to ten. In between her trips to the funeral home, she met Franco Scanlon at an out-of-the-way restaurant in Ringwood for dinner.
"Maybe you shouldn't drink too much before the viewing," Franco suggested when Opal ordered her third Scotch and soda. "People are bound to smell the alcohol on your breath."
"Don't be ridiculous! I need to brace myself for the ordeal. Besides, I don't give a damn what anyone thinks."
"Tomorrow morning is the funeral, and then it will all be over," Franco said, hoping to cheer her up. "Ellis will be out of our lives forever."
"I'll drink to that!" Opal replied as she greedily drained her glass. "It will be the last time I'll have to wear widow's weeds and pretend to be a bereaved woman."
"When is the will going to be read?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. I thought it would be in bad taste—even for me—to mention the will before my dear Ellis is placed in his grave. I'll ask my stepchildren tomorrow after the service. That ought to put a bee in their bonnets!"
When Franco brought up the subject of marriage for the tenth time, Opal made a hasty exit.
Before driving to Vander Plaat's, she stopped at her house to freshen up, douse herself with perfume and rinse her mouth with Listerine. She did not want anyone at the funeral home to smell the Scotch on her breath.
* * *
The next morning Opal woke before sunrise. She normally slept until midmorning, but she was going to have a busy day ahead of her. As much as she dreaded the ordeal of the church and graveside services, she was anxious for the funeral to be over. She wanted to begin her new life, to close up the house she had shared with Ellis and leave Franklin Lakes as far behind as possible.
The widow donned a stylish black suit that made her look even more slender than her one hundred and twenty pounds. The hemline, nearly four inches above her knee, revealed a good portion of her shapely legs. She eyed herself appreciatively in the full-length mirror.
"Not too bad for someone over thirty-five," she said proudly.
As a final touch, Opal placed a small, black, veiled hat atop her dyed, pale blond hair and stepped into a pair of black high heels. She was now ready to perform her last duty as Mrs. Ellis Hollister: attending her late husband's funeral.
Properly attired, she then drove to Ponds Reformed Church where the funeral service was to be held. Henrietta wept copiously, and even her pompous, snobbish brother, Mervyn, shed a few tears for his deceased parent. Not to be outdone by her stepchildren, Opal took a lace handkerchief from her purse and theatrically dabbed the corners of her dry eyes.
The service drew to a close, and the funeral director led Opal to the black limousine that was waiting to escort her to Ponds Cemetery, which was a short drive along Route 202. She sat back on the leather seat, lit a cigarette and closed her eyes.
Thank God! It's almost over, she thought. I need a drink.
Not long after the widow crushed her Marlboro Light out in the ashtray, the limo entered the final resting place of many of her late husband’s ancestors. It was a small cemetery but one rich in history. The funeral procession stopped near a tent under which chairs and a podium were placed.
As Opal emerged from the back of the limousine, she felt a moment of disorientation.
Wasn't Ellis's first wife buried much closer to the street?
She had only been to the gravesite once when she and Ellis were first married, so perhaps she had forgotten.
Maintaining a sorrowful demeanor, the widow followed Mervyn, Henrietta and their families to the tent and sat in one of the folding chairs that were provided for the mourners. Naturally, as the dead man's wife, she took the front center chair. Once all the seats were filled, the minister, his Bible in hand, walked to the podium where he gave the eulogy before the coffin was lowered into the ground. As usual, the clergyman had been somewhat long-winded in his praise of the deceased. Opal discreetly stifled a yawn of boredom and desperately wished the service was over.
At long last, the somber minister ended the service with the oft-used phrase, "Ashes to ashes and dust to dust."
On cue, the mourners rose and filed past Ellis Hollister's casket for the last time, dropping red roses onto the closed lid as they did. Finally, it was the immediate family's turn. Henrietta and her husband and Mervyn and his wife cried as they paid their final respects.
"Goodbye, Dad," Henrietta sobbed. "We'll never forget you."
As she turned away from the open grave, the rather plain and plumb Henrietta glared at Opal and then burst into tears.
The minister hugged the distraught woman, whom he had christened as a baby.
"Don't grieve, my dear. Your father is with God now."
It's almost over, the widow thought gratefully. Just a few more minutes.
Out of the corner of her eye, Opal saw Mervyn Hollister step up to the large memorial stone that would stand at the head of his father's grave when the ground had a chance to settle. The headstone was covered with a black tarpaulin, and Opal assumed that it had yet to be engraved. She was wrong, however. Her stepson pulled off the tarp and revealed the marble stone beneath.
It was an exquisite marker, one that spanned the entire length of the double plot. On the left side of the headstone, engraved in finely carved lettering, were the words "Ellis Theodore Hollister, Beloved Husband." Beneath this epitaph were the dates of his birth and death. When Opal saw the writing on the right-hand side of the monument, her heart froze. Rather than the name "Rita Marie Hollister," Ellis's first wife, it read "Opal Louise Hollister, Beloved Wife."
"What's the meaning of this?" Opal cried angrily, dropping all pretense of grief.
"It was our father's wish to be buried in a double plot with his wife by his side," Henrietta explained with a smirk.
"No one consulted me about this. I want my name taken off that thing."
The minister quickly interceded.
"I realize you're upset, Mrs. Hollister. This must be quite a shock to you, especially coming so soon after your husband's tragic death, but I hardly think this is the time or the place for this discussion. Perhaps some other time might be better."
With great difficulty, Opal managed to suppress her rage. She would remain silent until after the will was read. Then she would demand her name be removed from the stone.
The following week Opal met with Spiros Karras, Ellis's lawyer, for the reading of the will. Naturally, Mervyn and Henrietta were also present. Ellis left generous gifts to a number of his close friends, relatives and even several former employees. In addition, substantial sums of money were to be paid to his favorite charities. But the bulk of his vast wealth was to be divided equally between his son, daughter and widow. Opal, who had been an underpaid beautician before marrying into the Hollister fortune, was more than happy with the generous amount of money she received. On the other hand, Mervyn and Henrietta, although well taken care of, resented the fact that their stepmother received one-third of their father's estate.
"There is one small stipulation," the attorney added, deliberately avoiding eye contact with the smiling widow.
"Yes?" Opal asked. "What is it?"
"As your stepchildren are well aware, it was your husband's express wish that he be laid to rest in a double plot, with his wife at his side. However, Mervyn and Henrietta tell me that you object to this arrangement."
"I'm not yet forty years old. I have no desire to know where I'm going to be buried, and I certainly don't appreciate seeing my name engraved on a gravestone."
"Well, your late husband named his children executors of his estate," Spiros explained. "Should you not comply with Ellis's last wishes, it is in their power to hold your share of the estate in trust—indefinitely, if necessary."
Opal gritted her teeth and stared out the office window.
"If that is my husband's desire, then so be it," she grumbled, finally relenting. "Just give me the damned money, and you can do what you want with my body once I'm dead."
* * *
After receiving her sizable inheritance, Opal immediately bade a tearful goodbye to her former paramour, Franco Scanlon—the tears were his, not hers. Then she left New Jersey and headed for Los Angeles. She'd had enough of the cold winters. When she arrived on the West Coast, she purchased a beach house in Malibu and went on a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive.
Not long after relocating to warmer climes, Opal began to experience odd feelings of fear and anxiety every time she saw her full name, "Opal Marie Hollister," in print. Whether it was on the deed to her house, the title to her new sports car, her bank account statements or the application for a charge account at Nieman Marcus, the sight of her name sent a chill down her spine.
It was that awful gravestone! she realized with a shudder of revulsion. Damn Ellis's kids for putting my name on it. Why couldn't they have at least waited until I was dead?
The widow's displeasure with her husband's burial arrangements was not the only dark cloud on Opal's horizon. Life in California was not nearly as exciting as she had imagined it would be. In Franklin Lakes, the attractive Mrs. Hollister turned many heads, but in Malibu where beautiful and wealthy women were as common as celebrity divorces, Opal paled by comparison. The former beautician, pretty though she was, just did not measure up to the movie stars, supermodels and trophy wives with their flashing white teeth, silicone implants and minuscule waistlines.
Soon Opal began to drink to compensate for her flagging self-esteem. She went from one bar to another, hoping to be invited to a Hollywood party or to strike up a romance with a young producer or even a handsome supporting actor. The men she met, however, were only California versions of Franco Scanlon: auto mechanics, waiters, movie extras and valet parking attendants.
As her loneliness, self-doubt and discontent grew, her drinking increased; and as her consumption of alcohol rose, so, too, did her anxiety. She soon began to have nightmares in which she would see a marble headstone above the bed in her Malibu home. Engraved on it were the words Opal Louise Hollister, Beloved Wife, Born June 7, 1970, Died .... In every dream, the frightened widow woke up with a start just as she read the word died.
Opal remembered a friend once telling her about dreams.
"If you dream that you're falling and you fail to wake up before you hit the ground, you die in your sleep."
At the time, she had thought it was all a lot of superstitious nonsense, but now she was not so sure. What would happen to her, she wondered, if she read the date of death before she woke up?
Not only did Opal's alcohol consumption get progressively worse, but her nightmares became more frequent as well. Predictably, her excessive drinking and loss of sleep took a heavy toll on her looks. She gained more than twenty-five pounds, and could no longer fit in any of her new clothes. Puffy, dark circles appeared under her once-pretty blue eyes that were often bloodshot.
"I need a nice, long rest," she moaned. "I have to get away from here."
Without bothering to pack a bag, the widow drove to LAX and boarded a plane headed for Newark Airport.
* * *
Opal stood on the doorstep of the Hollisters' two-story colonial home in Franklin Lakes despite having sworn to herself when she left for the West Coast that she would never come back to New Jersey. She frowned and reached under the welcome mat and found the spare key just where she had left it nearly two years earlier.
Surprisingly, the house was immaculately clean; either Henrietta or Mervyn must have hired someone to keep the place up. Nothing had been changed. Her old clothing still hung in the bedroom closet, although none of the clothes fit her anymore. Opal looked at the black suit she had worn to Ellis's funeral and cried. She had looked so good back then and had such high hopes for her future. Now she was an overweight, aging mass of nerves, an alcoholic who could not sleep at night without dreaming of a name engraved on a gravestone.
"Damn you, Ellis Hollister!" she swore, pulling handfuls of clothes off their hangers and tossing them onto the floor. "I hope you're rotting in hell. That stipulation in your will was so typical of you. All your life you held onto everything with an iron grip. Now, even in death, you hope to keep me on a short leash, don't you?"
She glimpsed her reflection in the mirror: the widening waistline, the dull, graying hair without any definite style, and the red, puffy eyes with dark circles beneath them. Opal had never looked so bad. Anger rose in her breast and replaced the self-pity she had been wallowing in.
"You're dead and buried, you old bastard! I won't allow you to run my life anymore," she screamed with defiance.
A strong determination took hold of the widow: she would not be beaten. She would seek psychiatric treatment to dispel the nightmares, and then she would check into a private rehabilitation center and get help with her drinking problem. Once she kicked her chemical dependency and could make it through the day without a drink and through the night without a nightmare, she would join a gym, lose weight and take pains to restore her beauty.
First, however, she would begin her arduous journey of self-healing and renewal by going to Ponds Cemetery.
* * *
After several attempts to start it, the engine of the rental car—another Ford—sputtered to life. Opal stopped for gas at the nearest gas station and then went directly to the cemetery.
Ellis is buried around here somewhere, she thought, her eyes scanning the memorial markers for one that would spark a memory.
It took Opal less than fifteen minutes to locate the dreaded monument. "Ellis Theodore Hollister, Beloved Husband," it read on the left half of the marker. Her eyes moved to the right where she read, "Opal Louise Hollister, Beloved Wife." Suddenly, the widow noticed with horror that the wording on the stone had been changed or rather that something had been added.
"No!" Opal screamed, foolishly denying the evidence of her own eyes.
Did Henrietta and Mervyn hate her so much that they would have a date of death engraved upon her headstone to torment her?
Opal got back into the rented Ford, gunned the engine, sped through the cemetery and pulledout onto the main road. She would have it out with her stepchildren for once and for all; she would not stand for such a cruel practical joke.
As she neared the private development in which Henrietta and her husband lived, Opal's foggy mind started to clear.
Neither Henrietta nor Mervyn knew I was coming back to New Jersey, she thought. Why would either of them have today's date engraved on the headstone unless they were certain I would see it?
Opal pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. If neither Henrietta nor Mervyn had the date engraved on the headstone, then who had? And why?
The frightened woman began to tremble. She reached into her purse for her pack of Marlboros. Her hands shook so badly that she found it difficult to light her cigarette.
I need a drink! she thought, continuing to drive.
She pulled out onto Route 202 and headed toward the nearest bar. As Opal stubbed her Marlboro out in the ashtray, she briefly took her eyes from the road. The Ford swerved into the oncoming lane and directly into the path of a sanitation truck.
* * *
Mervyn Hollister and Henrietta Hollister Clark stood before their father's grave.
"You can rest in peace now, Dad," Henrietta said as she placed a wreath of flowers on the ground below his headstone. "We've carried out your final wishes."
Then her brother, Mervyn, placed a matching wreath on the adjoining plot.
"You're here where you belong, Mother," he said, looking at the name now engraved on the marble: Rita Marie Hollister. "Father is now buried next to his wife, just as he wanted."
Mervyn and his sister walked back to his car. On their way out of the cemetery, they drove past an unadorned burial plot, one void of either flowers or statuary. Neither bothered to turn a head in the direction of their stepmother's grave or mourn the loss of Opal Louise Hollister.
A double plot sounds nice, Salem, but I don't think that the Old Burial Ground in Salem allows any "new arrivals."
