Until I boarded Flight 2867, I hadn’t realized how tired I was. The past three days had been a whirlwind. Besides the all-nighter I’d pulled Tuesday to draft and refine the motion for a preliminary injunction in Rob and Rosa’s case, I’d completed dozens of tasks to prepare for my trip to my hometown. Planning my travel was anything but simple.
Initially, I was shocked by Micaden’s news that Judge Broadside required my physical presence in his courtroom next Tuesday. The shock turned sickening when I learned a Friday flight from my local airport to Birmingham would take fourteen hours, including a six-hour layover in Philadelphia and five hours in Charlottesville. That had been unacceptable, which precipitated a two hour plus drive to Boston Logan Airport for a fifty-six-minute stop and layover in Charlotte, North Carolina.
Thankfully, I’d slept during most of the flight time and didn’t have any trouble navigating Birmingham’s airport or at Enterprise picking up the Ford Explorer I’d previously booked. My drive to Boaz was uneventful, almost pleasant, as a twinge of mental excitement evolved as I expected to see Kyla and visiting Harding Hillside, my home for the first eighteen years of my life.
***
In Boaz, I turned left at McDonald’s and drove west on Hwy. 168. A mile further, I found Piggly Wiggly. The grocery store was a landmark in my hometown, although it moved across the street to its present location a few years ago. In fact, I started my work life in the old building, bagging groceries. That was the fall of my junior year. I lasted three days but cannot recall why I quit. It might have had something to do with Lillian Bryant, the gorgeous classmate who made me forget the equally gorgeous Rachel Kern.
I parked and walked inside for chips, bread, Bologna, milk, cereal, and a large box of Pop Tarts. Something had forever addicted Kyla to brown sugar. A few groceries were the least I could do since my little sister had offered to house me during my five-day stay. When I phoned her yesterday, her initial surprise turned to quasi-anger when I announced my plan to stay in Guntersville at the Hampton Inn. I changed my mind two minutes into her sermon on why brothers stay with sisters when they come to town and hadn’t seen each other for a year.
I paid the cashier and returned to the Explorer. I laughed to myself when I recalled I had seriously considered driving from New Haven to Boaz. As often happens, one memory leads to another. The last time I’d made the thousand-mile, eighteen-hour drive was in 2002 with Rachel to my thirty-year high school reunion. We’d left a day early, stopped halfway in Charlottesville, Virginia, and spent several hours the next morning exploring our college day haunts.
I popped the hatch and stored the groceries. The blare of gospel music erupted from across the street. It quickly became distracting, even disconcerting, probably because that’s where Rosa had said she and Rob would be when I arrived. One of the many calls I’d made yesterday had included my mother-in-law. It was our second conversation. Rob, on speaker, had consumed the first, thanking me for filing the motion and then quizzing me about my plans if Judge Broadside rejected our request.
During mine and Rosa’s second call, I shared my idea of visiting the Hunt House when I arrived. I’d asked about a key. That’s when Rosa said she’d leave it on the front porch under a flowerpot containing a yellow mum. She’d also said she and Rob would be at Old Mill Park. The City of Boaz and First Baptist Church of Christ, Rob and Rosa’s home church, were hosting a dual-purpose event: a gospel concert at the amphitheater while the Keenagers, assisted by the Fusion youth group, were constructing the largest Nativity Scene in Boaz history.
An old and decaying document came to mind: the U.S. Constitution. I would find no wall of separation between church and state in this north Alabama Jerusalem.
***
I drove to the Hunt House on Thomas. Thankfully, Rosa, maybe Rob, left the driveway gate open. It felt like I’d just driven inside a prison. The thick, equally spaced steel rods were at least ten feet tall. I stopped before entering the carport.
I exited the Explorer and realized how close I was to the park and the raging music. It was one small city block south of where I was standing.
It was crazy in a way for me to be here, especially tonight. Why couldn’t it wait until tomorrow? Or never? Even though I’d made some phone calls during my drive from the Birmingham airport, Rachel’s diaries were front and center of my mind.
Of course, that wasn’t the main reason I’d come to Alabama. I hadn’t made that decision at all. Judge Broadside was the reason I was here. Unjustified and unnecessary. There simply was no good reason to take me a thousand miles to say a few words to support Rob’s motion. If it had been up to me, I would have waited until Christmas and visited Kyla under the ruse I wanted to see what she’d done with our home place.
Then, it hit me. I couldn’t wait until Christmas. I had to be here for Thanksgiving, well, the Friday after Thanksgiving.
I looked under the flowerpot. No key. Oh, that’s just swell. Luckily, there were other mums positioned on each of the five front porch steps. I wondered why Barbara had left them.
Around noon yesterday, Gina had checked my law school email and noticed one from Kent Bennett asking me if I’d speak at Kyle’s memorial. Two other things were happening around that time. I was engaged in completing the motion for temporary injunctive relief (sorry Micaden; I was late), and Bert Stallings had appeared inside my office. Midst everything, I’d told Gina to tell Kent I would be honored. Dang, I’m not as sharp as I used to be.
And there was no key anywhere. I started over with my search, thinking I could have missed it. Again, even being extra careful, no key. “Damn,” I said aloud. Sorry Rachel.
I did what I should have done to begin with. I tried the front doorknob. No luck.
The same resulted when I walked around the house to the back door. I stood at the top of the stairs and looked over the large backyard, almost completely shrouded in darkness even though there were a couple of back porch lights shining from the houses facing Sparks Avenue.
Even though I had always wanted to visit this place, there had never been a good time. Barbara McReynolds had operated her bed-and-breakfast from before I graduated high school. After Rachel and I married, I’d suggested a few times we make reservations and come spend a weekend as guests. She had acted as though I wanted to travel to North Korea.
As I started walking back to the front porch, around the opposite side of the house from before, my iPhone vibrated. I removed it from my pocket. It was Kyla.
“Hey sis.” The first thing I heard was “Amazing Grace” in the background.
“Where are you?” Even a rather dull person would put this simple puzzle together. Kyla had to be at the park.
“I’m at the Hunt House. I thought you would wait for me at home.”
“Lillian wouldn’t take no for an answer. She threatened to drag me here if I didn’t come, kept saying she needed my help to serve refreshments.” I didn’t buy my sister’s excuse.
“You haven’t by chance seen Rosa, have you?” I said, surrounded by darkness other than the soft glow spawned by my iPhone. I had tried to call and remind my sweet mother-in-law she had forgotten to leave the key. But the call had gone to voice mail.
“That’s why I’m calling you. She and Rob had to leave, rather quickly. She gave me a key to give you when you arrived.” I hadn’t heard the voice in the background asking Kyla who she was talking to since my freshman year at college. It was Lillian Bryant, Archer.
“Well, I’m here and need that key. Can you walk it over?”
“Sorry bro, I’m a little busy. You wouldn’t believe how Baptists like their sweets, including tea.” I could only imagine.
The last place I wanted to go was Old Mill Park. Not that I had anything particular against it. If it was desolate. But moping around with a bunch of church folks wasn’t my idea of an enjoyable evening. “That’s okay. I’ll just head home. You left me a way in?”
“Dang, I knew there was something I needed to do before leaving.”
“No problem. I’ll sit on the front porch and wait. You stay out as late as you want.”
“Don’t be that way. Come. Do it for me. You will see some folks you haven’t seen in years, probably decades. You remember Jane Fordham, don’t you?” Kyla’s voice lowered to a whisper, “And, I’m sure you’d enjoy seeing Lillian.”
I doubt I’ll ever know why Kyla’s last statement was so appealing. There was no way I was interested in another woman. Heck, I’d never be ready. Rachel was my one and only, even though she had lied about having an abortion when she was still a kid. More to the point, why in God’s name would I give a second thought to Lillian Bryant? I quickly thought of two reasons not to. She’s married and she dumped me half-a-century ago.
***
I almost crawled inside the SUV and drove away, forgetting the key and my desire to visit Rachel’s room. But I didn’t. I walked past the silver Explorer and to the sidewalk. Before I turned left, I stopped and looked across the street.
Now, there were eight small townhouses facing Thomas Avenue. Then, in 1969, when I was in high school, two-thirds of the entire block was consumed by Young Supply Company. The warehouse the Jenkins’ had loaned my tenth-grade class to build our Christmas Parade float was long gone, except in my memory. The Company sold construction materials from a building beside the railroad track: Mann Avenue and Brown Street. I can still see stacks of cement blocks scattered about between the warehouse my class borrowed and a two-story building within the same block. Then, it was an office. I think, recalling the Company operated a concrete plant. But I’m not sure. I turned back to my left and walked. My thoughts returned to float-building, Kyle, Rachel, and Ray Archer.
After fifty feet, I looked both ways and crossed Thomas Avenue. My route to Old Mill Park was easy. I’d turn right in front of where Dr. Hunt had his medical office and walk Darnell Street to East Mann.
“Hey, can I have a word?” To my left, I saw a man much younger than me headed my way. He was coming from a vehicle parked in the rear of Julie Street Methodist Church.
“What do you need?” Boaz wasn’t New Haven, but there were no boundaries for evil people and sinister scams.
“Is that your vehicle?” He was pointing toward the Explorer as he crossed the street, walking faster now. I’d already concluded the man would be much stronger than me. He was about six feet tall and weighed at least two hundred pounds, likely more. I could tell his midsection was flat, even with his loose-fitting jacket.
“It is. What’s that to you?” Rachel always said, ‘it’s not always what you say, but how you say it.’ My six words likely fell within both what and how categories.
At first, I thought the man was about to give me the middle finger as his arm rose and semi-pointed. Fortunately, his action transformed into a ‘come on over’ invitation followed by announcing his name and position. “I’m Dan Brasher, pastor of Julia Street Methodist Church.” He was calm, collected, and polite. After he mentioned Barbara McReynolds and her departure yesterday, I filled him in on who I was. It didn’t hurt that Dan knew Rob and Rosa. After we shook hands, he said, “It will be unfortunate for the city to lose the Hunt House.”
I assumed I knew where Dan was going, so I changed the subject. “From what I hear, what’s happening with this block is a godsend to you and your flock.” I admit, the ‘God’ phrase was sort of tease, a test to see how deeply delusional Dan was. Rachel would be disappointed.
“It couldn’t have come at a better time. Our hundred-year-old building is almost dead.” He eased his hands inside his coat pocket. The air was chilly, and the wind was picking up. I stayed silent. And waited. “You think the others will take the deal or walkaway?”
Dan’s question confused me. “Uh, what are you saying? I thought everything was a done deal. Except for Rob and Rosa and the Hunt House.” A loud, jacked-up truck approached from Brown Street. Dan and I stepped out of the way and onto the sidewalk towards Dr. Hunt’s old office.
“The closings took place last Monday. Mine, I mean the church’s deal, is complete. Money is in the bank. New building plans are almost complete. The other nine sales are contingent.”
“Contingent on what?” I doubted if the city had paid those sellers.
“It was a strange deal. You may not know but before the city got involved, Ray Archer, the developer.” Dan paused. “Do you know Ray Archer?”
“No.” I lied. Sort of.
“Anyway, Mr. Archer approached everyone on the block and made an offer. Let me just say, offers that were significantly higher than any local realtor could imagine. But here’s the kicker, no one except us, the church, accepted Archer’s offer.”
“Why?” I asked, knowing that money is the most persuasive invention of all time.
“I don’t know how other locals feel, but folks on this block don’t like Ray Archer.”
“Why?” These three letters were always relevant.
“You can thank your father-in-law for that.”
“Why?” This didn’t make sense. Seemed like it would be the opposite.
“I don’t know, exactly, but he single-handedly soured the deal. I would love to know what he told them.” The same loud truck returned. This time going in the opposite direction. It slowed but didn’t stop.
I fast-forwarded our conversation. Kyla was waiting. Christmas was coming. “And that’s when the city got involved.”
“Yep.”
“But I’m still confused. What is the contingency?”
“Folks on this block are ignorant of a lot of things, like the rest of us, but they certainly aren’t stupid. However, we can’t say that about city officials. For a reason I don’t understand, the mayor and council gave the landowners an out. To be frank, I smell a rat.” A car horn blared from the Church’s parking lot. “I better go. My wife’s probably freezing. I have the keys.”
I wanted to encourage, maybe even insist, Dan take care of his wife like he never had before, but I withheld my thoughts. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same to you. I enjoyed our talk.” Dan turned to leave, as did I. In three steps, he semi-yelled. “Oh Lee, I know that Ray Archer is still working the crowd. He’s privately making higher offers, tempting the property owners to walk away from the city’s offer.”
Without speaking, I acknowledged Dan’s statement with a thumbs-up.
The Pencil Driven Life 