Month: July 2023

Lillian was still in bed when her iPhone rang. She unburied herself from three layers of covers and reached toward the nightstand, knocking over a bottle of water. Thankfully, she had tightened the cap.

It was Donnie from Alexander Ford. It was five past seven. “Your car’s ready. Pete stayed over last night to finish up.”

“Thanks.” Lillian’s voice sounded like a man’s. “What was wrong with it?”

“Right rear rotor, had to replace it. You shouldn’t ride your brakes.” Lillian wasn’t aware of this tendency but didn’t comment on the advice.

By now, untangled and standing, her mind caught up with reality. She didn’t have a way to get her vehicle. Ray left yesterday around noon. An emergency of sorts. In Knoxville. He had driven his Suburban, leaving only the Corvette which Lillian couldn’t handle, given its manual transmission. Ray wouldn’t return until late afternoon, at the earliest. “Is there any way you or one of your guys could deliver my Aviator? I live on top of Skyhaven Drive, at the cypress lodge.”

By 8:00 AM Lillian had dropped Tank, a short and wide kid of maybe twenty, off at Alexander Ford and paid her bill. Six hundred forty-four dollars and thirty-eight cents seemed a little much, but she knew nothing about brakes and rotors. At least she had wheels. Better still, she’d used Ray’s debit card.

Most any other woman would have enjoyed spending the past two days at home, especially one as large and beautiful as the Lodge, not considering the view that competed vigorously with the Smoky Mountains. However, Lillian wasn’t just any woman. She was rarely content, except maybe when she’d find just the right novel, one with mystery and, of course, romance. Since marrying Ray, she’d always felt unfulfilled. She always regretted dropping out of college after Ray’s proposal and abandoning her dream of becoming a Crimson Tide cheerleader.

Lillian loved her Lincoln Aviator. It was the Black Label Grand Touring model. Black, of course, with tan leather interior. It was the most comfortable vehicle she’d ever owned. It was her first SUV, and Ray had bought it for $51,000 a year ago, not quibbling over the extra $1,000. Lillian guessed she was worth it. Not Lillian, but Becky Brownfield.

The irony was double headed. If Ray hadn’t introduced Lillian to private investigator Connor Ford one Sunday after church, she would never have obtained photographic proof of Ray and Becky’s affair. The real irony, if that’s what you call it, is that it was Lillian who’d hired Becky to seduce Ray. It was a long and interesting story involving the naïve Jane Fordham. The good part was that Becky was cheap, as in cost, willing to exploit Ray’s weakness for a mere $5,000.

Lillian turned right out of Alexander Ford’s parking lot and drove south on Highway 431. She was a day early, but that would give her an opportunity to inspect while the cleaning crew was still on site.

To Lillian’s surprise, Ray had not resisted her decision to move to the Corbett place. He’d even agreed to pay for the sprucing up. Two men and one woman from the city’s street department had moonlighted for Ray and Mayor King for years. They’d started yesterday morning, Veteran’s Day, an off day. Everything should be clean by late afternoon. Lillian figured today’s early morning rain had kept the three from their day-job duties.

Like Kyla’s, the Corbett place had a large pond. Lillian liked hers better, since it wasn’t in front of the house. Even better was the barn. Unlike Kyla’s, the barn was a hundred feet behind the one-story cabin. The barn had burned shortly after Ray bought the place and he’d rebuilt it much improved. Lillian loved the gambrel roof.

Lillian turned right on Alexander Road and saw the driveway to the left. Three vehicles consumed it. She parked along the road in front of the cabin. One man was vacuuming the yard with one of Ray’s John Deere mowers. That job would need repeating in a few weeks. The two giant oaks weren’t finished shedding.

Another man was on the porch, washing a large picture window to the right of the front door. Lillian waved to the man on the mower and walked to the cabin. The gray-headed window washer was humming “Amazing Grace” and didn’t hear her clear her throat. He also didn’t notice as she opened the storm door and walked into a large pine-paneled den.

Lillian could see the kitchen through a wide, arched opening. A matching entranceway was to the right, in the far corner of the den. She suspected the kitchen was one large room having a choice of entrances and exits, including one at the backside of the cabin.

Lillian heard a noise. A woman talking, or was she singing? Whatever it was, the noise was melodious. It was coming through another doorway, this one likely leading to the cabin’s bedrooms. Lillian stepped forward to a short hallway and saw the fireplug shaped woman standing inside a ceramic bathtub. She had ear buds and a caulk gun. Lillian knocked hard on the door, finally grabbing the attention of the woman with short, curly, and pinkish hair.

“Shit, you scared me.” Faye, according to her name tag, jerked out the ear buds with her free hand.

“Sorry, I’m Lillian. Looks like you guys are doing a good job.”

“Oh baby, what would I give to be in your shoes. This place is the bomb. And damn, me and Eddie could make some fine music on that gigantic bed.” Faye apparently had no filter.

“Bed?”

“It’s the biggest king I’ve ever seen.” Faye dropped the ear buds and pointed to my left. “Down the hall.”

The tube of caulk needed replacing. Faye stepped out of the tub and squeezed past Lillian.

The cabin’s main bedroom was a third the size of hers at the Lodge. The bed was enormous, almost consuming the room. Ray’s renters must have left it.

After exploring the kitchen and small utility room off the back porch, Lillian spent an hour exploring the barn and sitting in a swing beside the pond twenty feet from a long wooden pier. She wondered what roamed beneath the pond’s surface. Maybe she could learn to fish; she considered whether she could fish and read at the same time. Forget fishing. What a place to read a novel. Thoughts of starting over were scary, but also exhilarating. Living alone and maybe taking a class or two at Snead State Community College felt like heaven on earth.

A shrill noise from behind her silenced Lillian’s imagination. She stood and turned toward the cabin. Faye had reached inside her Nissan Sentra and blown the horn. She was now waving. “We done. Take care.”

Lillian returned the wave and couldn’t help but feel sorry for the short, stout, and pink-haired woman who seemed too damn happy.

An involuntary phrase erupted. “Faye don’t need no Aviator. She’s got loving Eddie and their melodious music.”

***

The early morning rain reappeared, forcing Lillian to return to the cabin. She entered through the back porch and found a set of keys on the kitchen counter. Underneath was a note scrawled across a paper towel. “If you want to sell the king call me.” Below, Faye had printed her name and phone number. Lillian couldn’t help but smile and flirt with a dream as she verified the keys. There were five in all: two for the front door and two for the rear. She guessed the fifth was for the detached garage behind the cabin.

After making sure the back door was secure, Lillian grabbed a handful of paper towels from a roll beside the sink and headed to the front porch. She locked the wooden door and used the towels to keep her hair dry, stumbling when she stepped off the short sidewalk onto the freshly mowed grass. When she reached her stylish and expensive SUV, Lillian glanced at the spot in the driveway where Faye had parked her silver Sentra.

As Lillian turned left onto Cox Gap Road, she whispered a question to herself: “if I hadn’t married Ray, would I have wound up like Faye?”

At Highway 431, Lillian dialed Kyla to ask if she had time for a visit. The sister of the only man she had ever truly loved had seemed troubled last Tuesday when Lillian had dropped by.

“Hey you.” Kyla answered on the first ring.

“I’m coming to see you if that’s okay.” Lillian assumed Kyla would be home. “What do you want for an early lunch? My treat.” She was approaching Taco Bell on the right.

“Sounds great. I’ve been missing you.” Lillian heard voices in the background, ‘next.’ “You’re welcome to come anytime but I’m waiting in line at the Courthouse. Not sure exactly when I’ll get back. Make yourself at home; the keys are where I told you.”

“You got a case or something?” Lillian turned right onto McVille Road beside Boaz Chevrolet.

“Homestead exemption. Why can’t things work like they’re supposed to? ‘Next.’”

“My favorite question.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can. I think they’re about to call me back. Make yourself at home.” Kyla ended their call as Lillian passed WBSA on her left.

As she drove, the thought of returning to a former life sent a chill down Lillian’s spine. She couldn’t decide what it meant. Was it fear or hope? Whatever it was, it included a gallon of regret. Lillian reminisced about visiting Lee and Kyla’s home place, where they had grown up, and she and Lee had spent many an hour during their last two years of high school. Memories of Lee’s bedroom flooded her mind, along with the pond and the barn loft. Oh, the barn loft. How could she forget their favorite spot: soft hay and sexy hands? She had never forgotten how alive and in love Lee had made her feel, and it really wasn’t about sex. It was how he’d traced the lines and curves on her face and neck and whispered his sweet and sensuous words. The man always had the right words.

An Alabama Crimson Tide ringtone blared from the Aviator’s console. Lillian favored the vibration setting. Why she’d changed it last night, she didn’t know. Boredom probably. She didn’t recognize the number; it wasn’t in her contacts.

“Hello, this is Lillian.”

“And this is Jane. Hi L.”

“Oh, hi.” Of all people, Lillian now regretted answering. She’d given up sexy words and sensuous touches to speak to the Bible woman.

“I’m headed to the Hunt House and thought of you and Kyla.” Jane wasn’t making any sense.

“Okay.”

“Do you want to join me?” Lillian could barely hear over the loud country song in the background.

“Why?”

“May be our last chance.” Jane turned the volume down a notch. “Barbara’s finished packing and is leaving early afternoon. I’ve heard the place could be rubble by sunset.” Jane was often wrong and had a penchant for drama. Lillian knew from Ray there were some unresolved legal issues before the bulldozers did their thing.

“I’m headed to Kyla’s.” Lillian regretted her announcement.

“Bring her too. We’ll make it a memorial of sorts, for Rachel. It can be a reverse cloud of witness’s type of thing.” Now that was confusing.

“Kyla’s in Guntersville. Barbara doesn’t care?” Rachel’s room had enamored Lillian, Jane, and Kyla. Third floor, exotic wood floors, walls, and ceiling, built-in bookcases with a hundred cubby holes. And don’t dare forget the narrow stairway that led to the kitchen.

“Not at all. She said I could stay as long as I want, just lock the door when I leave.” The volume increased. ‘You’re one of them girls I wanna put my lips on.’ Jane was unique. Everything was about God and the Bible, except for her country music. To Lillian, the contrast of interests was astounding. WQSB and sex-slurping songs vs. God’s Holy Word.

“I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” Lillian turned around at Shiloh Country Store and pressed hard on the accelerator. Reminiscing was coming easily today.

It was her last visit to the Hunt House. It was December 12, 1969, after the Boaz Christmas Parade. Rachel had invited her, Jane, and Kyla for one final spend the night party. She’d instructed everyone to arrive at 10:30. By 1:00 am, Rachel still hadn’t arrived. Jane, Lillian, and Kyla were tired, tired of sitting on the giant front porch and waiting. Rachel and Ray must have gotten distracted. And where were Rob and Rosa?

Lillian had always wondered about that night.

***

Ray walked across the gift shop to the maitre’d’s podium and asked for the corner table along the rear wall if available. It was. After sitting down and giving the server his drink order, he again read Ted’s text from five minutes ago. “I’m just about to leave the lawyer’s office. Should be there by 7:00. Sorry.” Per Ray’s iPhone, it was now 6:25.

The Shack wasn’t Ray’s favorite restaurant. Even though the food was excellent, the owner was an asshole, just like his father. At least the old man was dead. Ray’s drink arrived. When the server left, he held his glass up as though offering a toast, and whispered, “To Wiley Jones. Thank God you’re dead.”

Wesley Jones, the son and current owner, a former attorney with the U.S. Justice Department, was getting stinking rich. Ray simply didn’t understand. Maybe if dear old Wiley had left lawyer-turned-restaurateur a chain of these Cracker-Barrel type joints it would be more believable.

The only reason Ray hated Wiley was because he had won the city councilman’s election five years ago. What galled Ray was that he had fared so badly, losing by over thirty percent.

The server returned, and Ray ordered another glass of Chardonnay. But all was not bad. Even though Wesley was now completing the balance of Wiley’s second term, if he hadn’t died, Ray wouldn’t own the Lodge. Linda, Wiley’s wife, had been eager to sell, virtually running away from the haunted house. Not openly, but secretly, Wiley’s death brought pleasure. Murdered seemed an innocuous way to put it. In fact, Wiley’s killing was execution style in his own bedroom, in the secluded room beyond the walk-in closet beside the upstairs bathroom. The one attached to Lillian’s bedroom.

Ray steered his mind toward his wife and keeping her close. That looked better from the outside. Man and wife together, same house, happy. A loving couple.

Ray heard Ted’s voice, one recognizable anywhere. “Damn, that man loves torture, the slow kind.” The mayor was two tables away trying to flag a server.

“The attorney?” Ray hated lawyers.

“Yea. He took nearly three hours to tell me the city will probably go bankrupt if we don’t do your deal.” Ted said, ordering a glass of wine and a double Bourbon.

“Shit, I didn’t realize it was that bad.” Another server came and took their food orders. “Two large rib-eyes, baked potatoes, salads with ranch dressing. Shrimp as the second meat.”

“Thanks, I’m starving.” Ted and Ray always ordered the most expensive entrees. The city always paid. Business. Ted shared the attorney’s details. “It’s the twenty-five million we’re in debt for the park and the rec center.”

“Debt can be a killer if not properly structured.” Ray was a financial genius. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that five years ago he’d sold his pharmacy chain for a sneeze short of a billion dollars.

“The monthly nut is a quarter million. It’s eating our lunch.” Ted’s drinks arrived. He downed the bourbon in one gulp.

“That takes a shit-pot full of sales at five percent.”

“You’re telling me.” Ted loosened his pink and green tie and held out his wineglass. “To the future. I’m tired of the past.” Ray and Ted toasted.

“Speaking of the future, did Vince say if anyone had backed out?” Ray hadn’t wanted to think about it. All nine real estate contracts had already closed. With one unsatisfied contingency. Per agreement, the Birmingham attorney who represented the nine landowners had negotiated a rare provision: in exchange for a price reduction of fifteen percent, the property owners had twenty business days to decide whether to kill the deal. And the real twist was if all nine bailed, the city would withdraw its intention to go forward with the eminent domain action.

“Not yet. Rob’s son-in-law has thrown a monkey wrench into our plans.”

“You talking about Lee Harding? What dog does he have in this fight?”

“According to Vince, around noon today, Mr. Harding moved for temporary injunctive relief.” The food arrived and Ted paused long enough to take a bite of everything.

Ray started with his steak. He always ate one thing at a time, then moved on to the next item. “That has to be their Hail Mary finale.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Vince said he did a little research after receiving notice of Lee’s filing. According to him, the grounds aren’t frivolous. There’s precedent for it. The Hunt House has been on the National Register of Historic Places since the mid-nineties.”

Suddenly Ray was no longer hungry. He laid down his fork and knife and pushed back his plate. He knew the entire project depended on buying the Hunt House, and that time was of the essence. “Let’s up the offer.”

“At first, I thought the same thing. Who in their right mind wouldn’t instantly accept a half million dollars for that old heap of bricks? But listen. Our problem may be bigger than you realize. Guess who our Mr. Harding has associated with?”

“You know I hate the guessing game.” Ray grabbed the passing server and ordered a double Scotch.

“Micaden Tanner.”

“Oh, hell.” Ray said, closing his eyes and shaking his head sideways.

I slept horribly. Every time I’d close my eyes, the current edition of the American Bar Association’s law journal would appear. On its cover was a picture of me in an orange jumpsuit. The caption underneath my photo was, “America’s Worst Attorney.” Apparently, the punishment for violating a lawyer’s duty of competence to his client was now a long prison sentence.

As the digital clock clicked to 4:30, I gave up. After showering, dressing, and eating a bowl of Raisin Bran cereal, I headed for the law school. No lawyer likes to be embarrassed. As I made the twenty-minute drive, I secretly hoped the New York legal eagle was only a sparrow.

By 6:30, I’d concluded Rob was smarter than I’d ever imagined. He had been correct to question whether I was a real attorney. My WESTLAW search had produced six cases that addressed the National Registry (officially named National Register of Historic Places), and eminent domain. Each case had wound up in federal court except one. I ignored it and concentrated on the other five. After reading two cases, I realized I had been wrong. Embarrassed or not, as an attorney, I had to follow the truth wherever it led.

The case whose facts were closest to the Hunt House was out of the seventh circuit (Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin). It originated in South Bend, Indiana in a state trial court but was quickly moved to federal court. The National Registry was the issue that gave the Feds jurisdiction. Ultimately, the property owner lost but the appeals court’s reasoning turned on the fact the real estate had once been a commercial warehouse.

I kept looking. One case I’d initially skipped now looked promising. It had originated in Macon, Georgia, which was part of the Eleventh Circuit. Alabama is also in this circuit. My interest was not because of the Court’s ultimate ruling. It was the attention it had given to a temporary injunction. What made the analysis so powerful was that it was controlling law. Since I hadn’t found a single case on my issue that had made it to the U.S. Supreme Court, I had to depend on a lower federal court’s ruling. Any other analysis and ruling on temporary injunctions could be used, but they would only be persuasive authority, not controlling. Of course, all federal circuits might think the same way on this issue, but I didn’t have the time, nor interest, to chase that rabbit.

However, I was curious enough to review the only case I’d found where a state appeal’s court had considered the National Registry’s effect on a local municipality’s eminent domain action against a private landowner. It originated in Dubois, Wyoming. The property was Twin Pines Lodge, on Highway 287, the heartbeat of downtown Dubois. It was built in 1913 and operated for years as a hotel. The thing I liked most about this case was the unquestioning viability of razing the Lodge and constructing a mega-mall, including three restaurants and forty other stores. But the learned Wyoming Supreme Court justices gave a long and inspiring opinion including two pages weighing the importance of the past and comparing it to expected profits in the future. History won. I particularly liked the last sentence of the paragraph addressed to the National Registry: “The National Register of Historic Places included Twin Pines Lodge for one simple reason: to preserve and protect our past. Economic progress is too high a price to pay to lose physical proof of the rough and tumultuous journey we’ve trod to get us where we are today.”

I printed a copy of Twin Pines Lodge vs. City of Dubois. It felt more than persuasive. I was ashamed to admit that all I had really wanted to find this morning was some legitimate way to slow down Judge Broadside’s ruling. For the first time, I realized the Hunt House was a national treasure. Losing it to another shopping center, one in existence simply to generate a few more sales tax dollars for the City’s till was clearly too high a price to pay. Even if the citizens of Boaz didn’t realize it.

But there was another issue I had to address before I could draft and move for temporary injunctive relief. I wasn’t a member of the Alabama Bar. Thankfully, each state had a procedure to resolve my problem. It’s called Pro hac vice. These Latin words mean, “for this occasion.” It is a legal term for adding an attorney to a case in a jurisdiction that does not license him, in a way the attorney does not commit the unauthorized practice of law.

I quickly searched the Alabama Bar’s website and wasn’t surprised by its rules. I had to associate with an attorney who was already a member in good standing with the Alabama State Bar. Then, that attorney had to file a verified application for my admission to practice. It was a lot to ask of another attorney. I’d need to find one who didn’t have a conflict with the City of Boaz, one who wouldn’t require me to travel to his office for a personal interview before he would agree to our association.

Thankfully, I already knew who I would call. And, even better, his office was in old downtown Boaz. Micaden Tanner was a high school classmate. Although we had not been close friends, I always sensed a mutual respect. I hadn’t seen him since graduation in 1972, but I had talked with him once. It was the year 2000 when I was working for the U.S. Department of Justice in Washington, D.C. He had called to ask the name of the best Assistant U.S. attorney to talk with in the Civil Rights Division. We had promised each other to stay in touch. Promises we both had neglected. Until now.

Fortunately, I reached him on my first attempt. Unfortunately, I was running out of time before my 8:00 AM Torts class, and Micaden was ten minutes from having to depart for a motions docket in Calhoun County. After exchanging pleasantries, I went for the jugular. “I need to associate with a local attorney in a case against the City of Boaz.”

Before I could go further, he responded, “the Hunt House?” He didn’t pause for my acknowledgment. “The sons of bitches respect nothing or no one unless it lines their pockets.” I liked a straight shooter, even if I didn’t fully understand his bold statement.

I confirmed I needed authority to represent Rob and Rosa Kern in their defense of the Hunt House. “I’m hoping you don’t have a conflict.”

“No. Never. I’ve always represented the little guys, those who don’t have a chance in hell against the big boys. But I must warn you. How long has it been since you lived here?”

“Early August 1972, right before I moved to Charlottesville, Virginia. Why?”

“As long as you keep David and Goliath in mind, you’ll be okay.”

I didn’t question his analogy, since his secretary came in and announced his need to leave for Anniston.

“After I’m admitted, assuming Judge Broadside approves my application, I want to move for temporary injunction.”

Again, Micaden was quick to jump in. “I’ll have Tina email you the application. Complete and return it to me ASAP. I’ll have it on Judge Broadside’s desk by noon if you do your part. Talk later.” The line went dead without a goodbye. I too disliked chit-chat.

I grabbed my Prosser, Wade, and Schwartz tome and headed to my 1L Tort class. Mostly, 1L’s (first-year students) spend their time on the law school’s first floor, 2L’s on the second, and 3L’s on the third. Administration sandwiched my office between two smaller classrooms and was easily accessible to 3L’s and professors alike. Although I enjoyed teaching the more advanced classes, after Rachel died, I’d requested permission to teach introduction to torts. There was something special about witnessing a mental toddler transform into a hair-splitting adult. It was as beautiful as observing the caterpillar-to-cocoon-to-butterfly process.

After class and interacting with a couple of students, including answering a false imprisonment hypothetical, I returned to my office via the stairwell. Rachel would be proud.

It took less than half an hour to print the Pro hac vice application and return it to Micaden’s secretary. I halfway expected her to call with at least a clarification question or two. She did not.

I spent the rest of the morning with Lauren Araya, a 3L, having a problem with the essay she was writing for the Yale Law Journal, the student led publication.

At noon, I ate my sack lunch and closed my eyes. I semi-dozed twenty minutes before my iPhone alarm sounded. This practice had become valuable.

For the next three hours, behind a locked door, I read and graded case briefs written by my Appellate Advocacy students. Naturally, all 3L’s. The best students always impressed me with their ability to set out the Statement of Facts in narrative form.

At three-twenty, Gina tapped on my door and whispered she had an emergency. I took a break and learned her daughter had suffered a broken tooth during soccer practice.

I whisked her away right as Professor Stallings stuck his head inside my open doorway. As usual, he didn’t tarry. He stayed just long enough to learn I had called Connie Morgan but had to leave a message. I took the liberty of succinctly stating she might lead to another prospect.

At four fifteen, once again my iPhone sounded. This time, it was a phone call from Micaden’s office. I answered, assuming there was a problem. “Lee, is now a good time to talk.” I affirmed. “Okay, hold for Mr. Tanner.”

Tersely, he said: “Good news and bad news. Shit, I’m getting windy. Judge Broadside approved your application and is demanding we both appear at next Tuesday’s hearing.”

I felt woozy. I’m glad I’m not the fainting type. All along I had failed to consider real life law practice in the South. Why can’t Alabama judges make conference calls or even online video exchanges, especially with attorneys living a thousand miles away? “Gosh, are you kidding?” I already had my answer. Micaden wasn’t the kidding type.

“No. Be glad you’ve got a cushy teaching job. Judge Broadside is hell on wheels. It was your motion for temporary injunctive relief that raised his dander.”

“How did he know that? That motion hasn’t been drafted.”

“Trust me, it’s better I forewarned him. Why else would you be getting in the case? Shit, you have to do more than kiss the city attorney’s ass.”

Micaden had a point. I had nothing to say except thanks.

He quickly responded with, “Send me a copy of your draft motion. If possible, have it here early. Tomorrow.” The line went dead. My high school classmate certainly wasn’t a chit-chatter, but he clearly wasn’t passive.

Damn, what had I gotten myself into?

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.