Ray wasn’t interested in cooking breakfast. It was the first morning to awaken without Lillian in the house. He already missed her, even though they hadn’t been intimate for years. After showering and dressing, Ray left the Lodge and drove to Grumpy’s Restaurant in the old Boaz Outlet Center.
A broad-hipped middle-aged server led him to a table along the back wall. The man sitting alone at the corner table next to the windows laid his newspaper aside as another server delivered his food. The man’s profile startled Ray. It was a grown-up version of the young man who had inhabited his dreams for over half-a-century. The man was Kent Bennett, Kyle’s twin brother. Ray had heard he was already in town, five days before Black Friday and Kyle Bennett’s memorial.
Kent noticed Ray staring at him, said “good morning,” and returned to his food. Ray had an idea.
“Mind if I join you?” Ray said once, then twice a little louder, to grab Kent’s attention.
“Sure, do I know you?” Kent knew exactly who he was.
“I’m Ray Archer. From high school. You’re Kent Bennett, right?”
“I am. Ray, I didn’t recognize you.” Kent said, motioning towards an empty chair on the other side of the large round table.
Ray sat. “Aging is brutal, more for me than you. I’ve gained a half-ton, shrunk a couple of inches, gone ghost gray, and turned out a barn full of wrinkles.” Ray stared at the trim, blue-eyed Kent with near-perfect teeth and wondered if his old high school classmate had found the proverbial fountain of youth. Ray’s stomach started a mild revolt as his memory poured forth a brutally cold and bloody image, like a bucket of hot lava. He figuratively shook his head, wondering why and how that thought appeared.
Kent nodded as his server refilled his water glass. “My friend needs to order.” Kent said, motioning towards Ray.
“I’ll have what he’s having.” Ray no longer felt like a plate of grease-saturated bacon, sausage, and eggs. Instead, he opted for a bowl of oatmeal with a side-serving of bananas, grapes, strawberries, and cantaloupe. The server left. “Can I run something by you?” Ray believed himself to be a master manipulator.
“Sure.” Kent was patient. He had his own ‘something’ to run by Ray.
“You may not know, but the City and I are in process of developing a piece of property off Thomas Avenue.”
Kent jumped in. “And you guys are experiencing a temporary delay. Others call it a brick wall.”
“Well, yes. What I wanted to ask is whether you’d have any opposition to us honoring Kyle with a bust, maybe a full statute.”
“Probably not, as long as it is professionally done with a suitably worded plaque.”
Ray continued, as though Kent hadn’t responded. “I call it the Oasis. It’s in the middle of the development with trees, plants, flowers, benches, and will encircle a beautiful fountain.”
“Okay, but with one stipulation. I serve ex officio with the right of final approval?” Kent was just as rich as Ray. But, much smarter.
“Not a problem.” The server delivered Ray’s breakfast and refilled his coffee cup. Kent again declined caffeine.
“I have a question myself, if you don’t mind.”
“Fair enough.” Ray figured Kent would ask for a donation to the Kyle Bennett Charitable Foundation he had established a few years ago. Ray had learned about it through a recent Sand Mountain Reporter article that discussed Kyle’s upcoming memorial.
“That night.” Kent paused. “Let me start over.” Ray now knew Kent’s direction. A day or so after Kyle had disappeared, Kent had approached Ray asking him to confirm the rumor: Ray and Rachel were the last to see Kyle alive. They had dropped him off just beyond the city dump on King Street at the end of the Bennett’s long driveway. “Why didn’t you take Kyle all the way to the house that night?”
It was a softball question. Ray and Rachel had rehearsed their story a hundred times. “Kyle said he would walk. I guess he wanted to look at the full moon.”
Kent had no follow-up. But he had a different question. “Do you remember the blue and white car Jackie Frasier drove?”
“Are you talking about the custodian and bus driver?” Ray was looking down, eating furiously, hoping Kent wasn’t noticing the sweat popping out on his forehead.
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I remember. A 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air.”
Ray never saw Kent activate his recorder. Not that he thought it likely since it was an APP he’d developed and installed on his iPhone. “Do you remember where he lived? It’s for a story I’m writing.” Kent was nudging Ray further from safety, ten feet out on a scraggly limb.
“Straight across from you and Kyle, didn’t he?”
“That’s right. One more thing if you would be so kind. When you and Rachel dropped Kyle off at the end of our driveway, do you remember seeing Jackie’s Bel Air?”
“Yep, it was parked in front of his old dingy mobile home.”
Kent, and most everyone else in Boaz, knew of the good-hearted Jackie Frasier. The man worked three jobs. Bus-driver, but only in the early morning, then chief custodian five days per week at Boaz High School. By three PM every day except Sunday, Jackie was clocking in at Boaz Spinning Mill for a full nine hours. The shift bell rang straight-up at midnight. Jackie was always home by twelve-twenty. His 1957 blue and white Chevrolet Bel Air was his pride and joy and by far the most valuable thing he owned. It was beautiful and good old ‘Jack’ deserved it.
Kent knew if Jackie was already at home that long-ago Friday night, that Ray had lied to the Marshall County investigator who had interviewed him and Rachel. This aspect of the official report read: “It was a few minutes after ten when me and Rachel dropped Kyle off at the end of his driveway.”
Kent whispered to himself, “If Jackie was home, Ray had lied to the tune of at least two hours. But why?”
It seemed like only a few days since Kent and Kyle had shared a tiny bedroom in the dilapidated old house just south of the city dump. The brittle wooden frame around their northern-facing window guaranteed the twins had an unending supply of putrid smells, everything imaginable discarded from kitchens, bathrooms, garages, restaurants, and a butcher shop on South Broad Street.
Ray excused himself when he saw Mayor King and Pastor T. J. Miller enter Grumpy’s and seat themselves two tables over. “Listen. Kent, thanks for breakfast, but I’ve got some business with the mayor, so I need to run. I’ll see you at the memorial. Maybe afterwards we can talk more about Kyle’s statute.” Ray scurried away, but not before laying down a ten-dollar bill.
For several years after Kyle disappeared, Kent had suspected Ray Archer. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on the exact reason. But he knew Kyle had an odd reaction every time he saw Ray at school and especially during the last week as the tenth graders met to work on their Christmas float. But, as the decades had rolled by, Kent had chalked his feelings up to, well, feelings, just a hunch.
That had changed less than a month ago when he’d received an anonymous package, a box large enough to hold a dozen paperback novels. The package had been postmarked in Birmingham, Alabama on October 2, 2020. It contained a single number ten envelope. Across its seal someone had printed: “Thought you’d be interested.” Kent had been patient and waited a week for a hand-writing analysis. The expert had concluded a woman had written the four-word phrase.
Inside was a form document titled, “Witness Statement.” Along the bottom, in tiny print, was “Marshall County Sheriff’s Department.” Detective Charlie Darden had taken the statement of one Raymond Carl Archer.
Kent took a last drink of water and grabbed his check and Ray’s ten-dollar bill. After paying, he walked outside and headed across the parking lot to Mill Avenue, and on to his room at Key West Inn. He smiled at his luck and voiced his satisfaction: “I never could have dreamed a sit-down with Ray Archer would have been so easy.”
***
Five minutes after Kent paid for his breakfast and left Grumpy’s, Ray told Mayor King and Pastor Miller he needed to review his notes before teaching today’s Sunday School lesson. He exited the restaurant, slid into his Suburban, and drove south to Billy Dyar Blvd. It was only 7:20 and Sunday School didn’t start until 9:30. Ray told himself he had plenty of time for a quick visit to Dogwood Trail.
As he drove south on Highway 431, Ray couldn’t believe he could be so stupid. Somehow, Kent had tricked him. Ray cursed aloud, “why in the Hell did I commit one way or the other? Why didn’t I say I don’t remember if Jack’s Bel Air was home or not?”
Ray continued to curse and almost missed the left-hand turn onto Cox Gap Road. He turned on the radio, hoping to find a calming song, but gave up in thirty seconds. Seeing the pastor of Cornerstone Baptist Church closing the trunk of his car distracted Ray and had the sought-after soothing effect. But not enough to stop his questions. “What kind of story was Kent writing? Why was he so interested in Jackie Frasier?” At the stop sign, Ray convinced himself it all had to do with the upcoming memorial. Ray guessed that as part of his speech, Kent would set out a detailed chronology of what was known about that fateful Friday night.
Ray slowed when he approached Alexander Drive. He wanted to stop and see Lillian but decided against it. Even though he fully intended to woo her back to the Lodge, now was not the time. She might still be asleep, and he didn’t want to upset her. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Lillian’s move foreshadowed the end of his successful life, and the beginning of another phase, one filled with failure and pain.
At Happy Hill Baptist Church, Ray’s attitude leaned toward positive. Mayor King’s attorney had promised Rob Kern’s opposition to the City’s eminent domain action was doomed. The Hunt House would be demolished, and Rylan’s would be built. The worst-case scenario was a week or two delay.
Ray smiled as he imagined the bulldozers doing their thing, followed by the dump trucks hauling away load after load of debris, that included a key piece of evidence. Then Ray remembered his last conversation with Rachel. That was Halloween a year ago.
She had called during her ride from Birmingham’s airport, declaring there was still time for the two of them to do the right thing. They had argued. He still didn’t know why she had come so far, refused to see him, and then simply vanished.
All he knew was she’d received an anonymous package. Shortly afterwards, she traveled to Alabama. The package had contained copies of the statements the two of them had given to Detective Charlie Darden two days after Kyle disappeared. A scared Rachel believed the case was heating up, and fifty-year-old secrets were about to be revealed.
Ray tried to calm her. Like he always had, but this time it didn’t work. Finally, Rachel had assured him the murder weapon was still where she’d hidden it fifty years ago.
In a sick and morbid thought, Ray was glad Rachel was dead. She was the only one who could incriminate him. Thank God she was successful in her second suicide attempt. And thank God, the destruction of the murder weapon was inevitable.
Ray turned left onto the old logging trail and stopped to unlock and open the gate. Three hundred yards beyond was the barn and the pond in the center of what once was the only clearing on the entire sixty-acre tract. When Ray arrived, the dilapidated barn reminded him again of the brutality of aging. He drove another hundred feet and parked at the same spot he had half-a-century ago.
He sat in the Suburban and closed his eyes, reminded that Rachel had lied to him about the abortion. He considered whether that was her only lie. What if she had lied about the pistol? What if she had removed it from the Hunt House and hidden it somewhere else?
Ray slid out of the Suburban and walked to the water’s edge. He stared at an odd-shaped limb that had fallen from the giant oak behind the barn and someway floated here. The image presented by a large knot and two outstretched limbs from the main branch sent a shiver down his spine. To Ray, it looked like a human head with outstretched arms arising from the pond, and coming back to settle a score?
***
Rosa saw Jane the minute the elevator doors opened. She was standing at a podium across the hall, inside her classroom, a few feet from the rear wall. Jane was reading or meditating.
For nearly a year, Rosa and Jane had been prayer partners. Any time Rosa was in town, the two met in the Ruth Sunday School class before any of the twenty-plus ‘senior’ women arrived. Even when Rosa was out-of-town, no matter the state or country, no matter the time zone, the two always did their best to connect at this hour and have a few moments of prayer.
Rosa paused until Jane looked up. And smiled. It had been Rachel’s wish that her mother and her lifelong friend connect. Rachel’s plea to both women had started as, ‘if something were to happen to me…’
“Hey baby.” Rosa said, walking across the hallway and into the classroom. She wanted to honor Rachel’s wishes, but sometimes this time on a Sunday morning was not the most convenient. Rob was waiting in the car in the rear parking lot. The two were scheduled to speak at a church-wide assembly at Cullman First Baptist. Rosa knew the time was tight.
“Good morning. You look nice. As always.” Jane hoped she would look as young and beautiful as Rosa when she was eighty-six. “Why don’t we pray? I have a little reviewing to do before the girls arrive. I’m having a little trouble describing the end times.”
Rosa smiled, eased around the podium, and wrapped her left arm around the lower back of the tall and thin Jane. “Don’t we all?”
After a few minutes of intercessory prayer, the two women had exhausted Rob, Lee, Judge Broadside, and everyone else loosely connected to the Hunt House dispute. It had been Jane’s idea to limit each prayer session to one issue. She was a big fan of the Gospel of Matthew, especially chapter 18, verses 19-20: “Again, truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”
The two hugged and recited their weekly post-prayer ritual: “God is good. All the time.” Jane knew the Hunt House situation was in excellent hands.
Rosa departed and Jane wondered why she couldn’t come to peace about another issue. A big one that Rachel had left with her that Rosa knew nothing about.
Rachel and Jane had hit it off from day one in the ninth grade. To those outside their circle, it would not have been unreasonable to think the girls were gay. Even some of their closer friends, Lillian and Kyla, often questioned (in a lighthearted way) the two about whether they would tie the knot before they turned eighteen.
Rachel and Jane shared an openness and intimacy that rivaled the most star-struck couples. Yet, it wasn’t sexual. Rachel and Jane shared most everything, including their deepest fears, failures, and fantasies. And that hadn’t stopped when the MK had returned to China. What troubled Jane now, and ever since her best friend had died, was what Rachel asked her to do.
Elita Ann Kern was born June 1, 1970, at the Tung Wah Hospital in Hong Kong. Three days later, Rachel and Elita (Latin for ‘the chosen one’) were discharged. Rachel returned with her family to their thirteenth floor Hong Kong apartment in the Lower Ngau Tau Kok public housing estate. Elita and her adoptive parents traveled by plane 4,580 miles to her new home in Sydney, Australia. One of Rob’s missionary colleagues arranged the transaction. At the time, all the Kern’s had been told was that the middle-aged couple was well-off, childless, and would provide young Elita with a God-fearing home and every opportunity for health, happiness, and education.
Other than her parents and her diary, Rachel didn’t share the wonderful but sad news of the arrival and departure of Elita Ann Kern with anyone except Jane Fordham.
The Pencil Driven Life 