The house was hot when I arrived home. I walked to the thermostat in the den: eighty degrees. Sophia, no doubt. The pleasant and trustworthy Hispanic woman had been our housekeeper for over ten years. Rachel had met her at school and determined she was the hardest working of the high school’s four custodians, and with her large family, was interested in a little extra money. The only thing negative, if that’s what you call it, was that the polite, shy woman was extremely cold natured.
From the beginning, we had granted her permission to turn up the central heat. Apparently today, she had forgotten to return the setting to its usual sixty-eight degrees. One would think dusting and vacuuming, along with all the other chores Sophia completed every Tuesday, would keep her body toasty warm. I opened a can of Chicken Noodle Soup and set it to simmer while I walked to the master and changed clothes. Jogging shorts and a tee-shirt were proper attire for the tropical weather.
I let my laptop boot-up while my dinner finished warming. I also dialed Rosa’s cell phone (Rob hated them). No answer. I left a message requesting a callback tonight if convenient. I suspect they found a Baptist church in the back hills of New York or Pennsylvania that was holding an all-week revival. Of course, this was just a guess, but certainly not out of the question.
Since Rachel died, I had abandoned my desk in the master and used the table in the breakfast nook for household business, including online bill paying, and responding to personal emails. The latter had dwindled to a small trickle, my sister Kyla notwithstanding. Mainly, I used my laptop on the weekends to review the coming week’s lesson plans and to read relevant law. Law, law, law. I guess I shouldn’t feel so guilty when I occasionally spent time at the law school on personal business.
I poured my soup and crumbled some crackers. Unsurprisingly, an email from Kyla was waiting. Ashamedly, I almost didn’t open it. For the past two weeks, all she wanted to talk about was Harding Hillside (Mom’s idea from the 50s when her and Dad bought the farm), plans for a large garden next spring, and a growing fetish for Anglo-Nubian goats. I guess a forty-plus year executive had earned the right to “return to nature,” as Kyla described her in-progress transformation. Apparently, she had done well for herself financially because she had paid me $125,000 cash for my share of Harding Hillside after Mom and Dad died. My one-year younger sister could afford a few Nubians.
“Good evening to my favorite brother.” Kyla’s email had arrived ten minutes before I’d driven into the driveway. She had picked up where she had left off in her Saturday correspondence: a barrage of reasons I should fly to Alabama and stay with her over the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend. The main reason was to get me away from New Haven and away from 58 Ansonia Road in particular, since time was fast-approaching the one-year anniversary of Rachel’s suicide. Kyla had ended her plea with an argument that I should be the one who reviewed and inspected Dad’s clothes and personal items to determine what goes to Goodwill and what travels to New Haven.
The subject of Kyla’s second paragraph never failed to sicken me in a way nausea never had. It was Kyle Bennett’s 1969 disappearance. She referenced an article in today’s Sand Mountain Reporter (I wouldn’t receive the Tuesday edition until tomorrow at the earliest; probably Thursday). I clicked on a photo Kyla had taken of the brief article. Seeing Kyle sitting in front of a white background in his football jersey carried me back to the moment after the parade, the moment we’d separated and I’d gone home, and he’d gone on to what I now believe was his death.
I read how twin brother Kent was upping his reward offer to half-a-million dollars and that he, with the City of Boaz, was planning a memorial of sorts, an event to honor the life of young Kyle. The date surprised me. Black Friday, the Friday after Thanksgiving, the twenty-seventh. It was to be held at Old Mill Park and would feature songs by Mountain Top Trio and long-delayed eulogies from a few of Kyle’s closest friends. Kent had located the three founders of the once-famous band that had formed in the eighth grade. Until his death, Kyle had been their business manager and events coordinator.
I ate another spoonful of soup and closed my eyes, considering how I felt about traveling to Alabama and attending Kyle’s memorial service. I recalled the decision I’d made a year ago. Kent and the City had attempted this event last year, on the fiftieth anniversary of Kyle’s disappearance. That was before the completion of Old Mill Park. The city had arranged the use of the football field, but for several reasons, including Kent’s emergency trip to one of his plants in Japan, the planning had evaporated. My decision last year not to attend had only added to the guilt I always felt. I decided I was halfway open to attending when the house phone rang.
It was Sophia apologizing profusely for leaving the heat set so high. I told her not to worry. I thanked her for washing my bedclothes and for, as always, making the house smell so clean. “It’s my secret spray.” She said in broken English, although she’d lived in America for over twenty years. Sophia also apologized for losing my place in my book. At first, I thought about the Lawrence Block novel laying closed on my nightstand with bookmark inserted. After two more sentences, I gathered she was referring to Rachel’s diary, the one I had left open, face-down on the coffee table. I had forgotten to hide it this morning before leaving for work. Sophia said it had closed when it fell to the floor, and she didn’t know what to do. Again, I told her not to worry about it. I recalled Rachel saying Sophia could barely read.
I stored my bowl and spoon in the sink and checked on the diary. I returned to my laptop and Kyla’s email. After writing a long paragraph on the therapeutic benefits of closure (her subtle argument for me to travel to Boaz), she referred to another article, one in today’s Huntsville Times I could access via their website. The title, “There’s More than One Way to Skin a Cat,” showed it might be a funny story about a young boy or girl overcoming a speech impediment or outsmarting a playground bully, or a newly discovered Amazonian method of preparing a wildcat for boiling. But I was wrong. And shocked.
I didn’t visit the website but read Kyla’s abbreviated summary instead. The Times investigative reporter had assisted an associate with the Tennessee Sentinel in uncovering a scheme between Knoxville’s mayor and two councilmen, and the developer of Rylan’s, an expensive thirty-store shopping center in the heart of downtown. The scheme involved an elaborate kickback plot. “Wholly unfounded,” was the response from the lawyers for Ray Archer, the mayor, and councilmen. “The evidence will vindicate our clients.” Oh yeah, I bet that’s the truth. Ray’s coattail had gotten caught up in criminal conduct. No surprise there.
I chose not to think about Ray Archer except to wish him a future in prison. Instead, I read Kyla’s last paragraph. It was another long one.
It was almost a blow-by-blow accounting of Lillian Archer’s morning visit. The word ‘scheme’ returned to the forefront of my mind. Kyla had always liked Lillian more than Rachel. Of course, sis had never said this in so many words, but she didn’t have to. I can recall Kyla’s advice to me as we sat next to each other in the Boaz High School auditorium during our Baccalaureate service. “You need to ask Lillian to marry you. Long distance is a relationship killer.” By this time, the University of Virginia had granted me a full academic scholarship, and Lillian had committed to pursuing her dream of becoming a professional cheerleader. She had decided a few months earlier she was going to try out for the Alabama Crimson Tide cheer squad.
Lillian had liked the goats and Kyla’s new front porch swing. In fact, over a Tuna-salad lunch, the wife of Ray Archer had asked about me and whether my sister knew if I was coming to Kyle’s memorial. I must admit; it was good to hear, albeit secondhand, that the beautiful Lillian Bryant, my high school girlfriend of almost two years, had admitted she had made a big mistake in choosing Ray over me.
***
I didn’t tarry thinking about Lillian, given my overwhelming guilt at failing to protect the two most important people in my life: Kyle and Rachel. I sure didn’t need to add to the pile by fantasizing, albeit honorably, about the wife of Ray Archer.
Now, to Rachel’s diary. After deciding against reading them chronologically, I made a quick trip to the basement, returning with ROME. This one was after Rachel’s overdose, the period from April 25, 2019, through November 27, 2019. I sat in my Lazy Boy and flipped to the very last page. It was odd Rachel had written her last entry the day she hung herself. She had been rather terse: “I’m tired of living and hiding my past.”
I read and reread the words a dozen times, yielding nothing but a sense of failure and awareness that I could not give Rachel the peace and hope she deserved. A better person would have been capable of protecting his wife from anything and everything, especially her past. For a second, I became angry. The past. So what? Many people have horrible pasts but live fulfilling lives. It reminded me I was about to embark on a journey to learn about other women who had experienced late-term abortions. What was it about Rachel’s teenage abortion that kept her mind so shackled? It seemed Christian beliefs made this chain around her neck so much worse. Ironic. Wasn’t Christianity all about forgiveness? Yet Rachel, the one who was so open about her faith and Jesus’ promise she would spend eternity in Heaven, struggled mightily. Maybe she open-armed believed Jesus had forgiven her for all her sins yet could not forgive herself.
Rachel spent the first ten days following her failed suicide attempt at Yale New Haven Psychiatric Hospital. The impressive facility was seven miles from home and a mile and a half from the law school. I had spent every hour the staff would allow at Rachel’s bedside.
After they discharged her, Rosa and Kyla moved in. Until now, reading Rachel’s words, I thought the two-week period was happy and helpful. “I know they mean well, but they are visual reminders of my past.” This statement ended Rachel’s May 16th entry.
The following day, Kyla and Rosa drove away after Rachel insisted she was fine, needed some space, and had a duty to her students (Rachel never returned to teaching). Somehow, my dear wife convinced her mother and sister-in-law that she had learned her lesson.
The next entry was three pages, the longest I’d read so far, including last night. Rachel was reliving a nightmare. Below, I summarize what she had written.
After leaving Boaz at the end of 1969, the plan had been for Rachel and her family to return in two years to the Hunt House for another furlough. That had changed when Randy had moved to New Hampshire to attend the infamous Phillip Exeter prep school (its alumni include people like Mark Zuckerberg, David Eisenhower, Jay Rockefeller, and eighteenth-century Daniel Webster). This would be Randy’s ninth grade year. Rachel’s interest and ultimate decision to move to Charlottesville to attend the University of Virginia also played a role in two things.
One was Rob and Rosa’s decision to skip furlough and move to Taiwan. The second was their decision to lease the Hunt House to Barbara McReynolds and allow her to convert the historic home into a bed-and-breakfast.
What made me question last night’s conclusion that Rachel had been joking about hiding Ray Archer’s pistol, was a statement buried in the final paragraph of the May 27, 2019, entry: “I wish I had somehow traveled to Boaz to better secure the pistol, but Dad had bought my airline tickets and even more important, controlled my allowance. I simply didn’t have the funds. But maybe that’s like a lot of things I worry about that never happen. I doubt Barbara will ever have a reason to notice the board above the doorway at the top of the rear stairwell.”
I almost returned to the basement to grab BERLIN. I suspected it contained additional details concerning the hidden pistol since the time frame included the early January 1970 travel and the family’s first six months of living in Hong Kong.
But I stayed put and questioned why Rachel would write about something that happened so long ago. She was recovering from her overdose and what would naturally be a traumatic ten days in a psych ward. Now, looking back, I wondered if journaling was a way to convince herself she needed to get it all out one final time and finally forgive herself (not only for her abortion but, damn, for obstructing justice). Of course, it is uncertain whether Rachel ever forgave herself. What seems likely is she never could forget. Why else would she hang herself less than six months after her first failed suicide attempt?
Somehow, I fell asleep pondering a single question. A vibrating cell phone awakened me at 10:30. It was Rosa.
“Hello” stumbled from my lips.
“Sorry to call so late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“That’s okay. Can you put your phone on speaker where I can talk to you and Rob?” I’d much rather talk with my mother-in-law.
“I’m listening.” Rob responded, gruff as ever. They were a step ahead of me.
I spent at least ten minutes summarizing my legal research and the details of my phone call to the Clerk’s office. My in-laws were unaware of next Tuesday’s hearing. Rob accused the city and the court of conspiring against him. He had a few choice words for Judge Broadside. I tried to convince Rob (Rosa seemed willing to do whatever I suggested) his best option was to take the half-million dollars. I confirmed he had verified the value with a local appraiser. After Rob cooled down and the conversation crawled to silence, I expressed my sympathy and apologized for not being able to do more.
That’s when Rob asked an embarrassing question. “What about our house being a national treasure?” I admitted to myself that I had failed to consider the Hunt House and the National Historic Registry. That issue, an exception to typical eminent domain law, was missing from all the cases I’d read. Something else I kept to myself. I had only read Alabama law.
“I’m not sure if that applies to your case, but I’ll check on it tomorrow.” I said, feeling like a D level law student.
“You do that.” I could see Rob waving his hands in frustration. He must have stepped away from Rosa’s phone, but I clearly discerned his words, “and he calls himself an attorney.”
Rosa apologized for Rob’s comment and behavior. We exchanged a friendly salutation and said our goodbyes. Before I could return my iPhone to the end table, she called again and said she meant to tell me that Rob had spent $250 consulting with a New York attorney. One that Randy somehow found. The man, the New York legal eagle, had advised Rob to use the Hunt House’s historic status as a defense. He said that at a minimum it would throw a wrench into the court’s timetable.
Again, Rosa and I said goodbye. I sat dumbfounded and shook my head sideways. No wonder I stopped practicing law almost twenty years ago. The pressure of being thorough, of being right, was relentless when the lawyer has a client’s livelihood or life on the line.
The Pencil Driven Life 