I took Sparks Avenue, thinking I’d park across from the church’s front entrance. That parking lot was full. I drove to Elm Street and turned right. The rear parking lot looked impossible. Undeterred, I wound my way through the giant U and back to Elm Street without finding a single spot. Now, readily deterred, I crossed Sparks and missed a turn into the library’s rear entrance but continued to Thomas Avenue and turned right. I thought about driving all the way to the Hunt House and park there but opted for a spot I saw coming open in the Boaz Public Library’s front parking lot. By the time I’d walked to First Baptist Church’s Family Life Center, my stomach had sung all four verses of ‘Feed Me.’
I nodded at two women standing out front smoking. When I walked through the propped-open double doors, I saw a flood of people inside a large foyer. A long line of people snaked back and forth toward the heart of the Center. Portable three-foot-tall expandable railings organized the waiting crowd. The scene reminded me of my tenth birthday and a trip to Six Flags Over Georgia with Mom and Dad, Kyla, Lillian, Kyle, and me. The line waiting for the Logs was always the longest.
I eased twenty feet to my left and stood behind an older couple who anchored the end of the line. They continued their conversation, both talking at the other at the same time with the husband (I assumed) slowly turning counterclockwise like he was standing on a turntable. After a minute, I concluded they were reciting their many blessings.
Neither husband nor wife (I’m assuming) acknowledged my presence. The man, tall and thin, had a shock of thick gray hair combed straight back. It was wet or oily. The woman was short with an odd-shaped rear end. She used a cane. Probably because of her hip problem. One was inches higher than the other, cocked upwards like it was trying to look over a wall. Her hair was gray, almost white, curly, and all tucked under a dark brown crocheted toboggan. Both husband and wife wore matching jogging suits, once navy blue but now displaying an array of bleach spots that might form an interesting pattern if I focused.
The line inched forward, and the wife powered past the husband as we approached the first turn-back. A family of six younger kids entered the foyer and took places behind me. “Margaret, I’d say 1:30.” The husband in front of me stood at a ninety-degree angle and stretched his neck, looking towards the far side of the foyer. I had seen another set of open doors there. That would be the entrance to today’s dining room.
Without attempting to look higher than the floor, the wife responded. “It was almost 2:00 last year. You in for a dollar?” The two old geysers were betting. I opted for an educational route.
“How does this work once we get inside?” The husband turned and looked down at me. He wasn’t but a couple of inches taller, but he’d craned his neck up and out, leaned his head backwards, and squinted his eyes towards me. It was clearly a look of disdain.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” I couldn’t imagine how my inquiry had disclosed my domicile. Wasn’t it possible I lived at Cooper Courts and had never been invited? Or, as a CC resident, I’d never heard of this glorious event? I could go on. To this census taker, I was a stranger, “not from around here.”
I figured I might as well be a smart ass, albeit one semi-cultured. “No, I’m from up north but I have my red and green ticket.” The husband’s neck grew an inch closer to Heaven but paused for a quick glance at the wife, who was in another world, one of numbers and simple calculations to determine if she was soon to come into great wealth. I gave up and turned to ask my question to the father of six, who, unsurprisingly, was scrolling his phone.
“Sometimes I can be a smart ass.” I heard behind me. Him and me both.
As we trod at a turtle’s pace, Jim Hawkins transformed into a pleasant and knowledgeable fellow while wife, Margaret, I think I’d heard, gathered more useful data, staring at the floor and softly reciting each discovery. T. J. Miller, the pastor, caused the slow-moving line. At least, that was Jim’s opinion. The Church’s senior pastor stood, like last year, inside the gym to the left of the double-doors. He greeted everyone, teased out their first name, and asked the person what he was thankful for. Then Miller gifted each, young and old, a copy of Impact, an index card sized booklet he had written several years ago. I decided not to ask my question.
After providing the layout of buffet tables and the categorization of the food groups along half the gym’s circumference, Jim invited me to sit with him and Margaret. He said, “if you don’t mind sitting with us Manor House folks.” The intelligent Jim was also adept at recognizing patterns. The entire gymnasium floor (minus the buffet tables) served as the dining area: row after row of connected eight-foot tables. I lost interest a quarter of the way through Jim’s groupings, Summerville Homes, Mt. Vernon Homes, Cooper Courts (I half-smiled), Country Club, and his rendition of past awards. Jim’s voice trailed off at Hunter’s Run when I thought I spotted a ghost. It was a grownup, none other than Kyle Bennett. In fact, it was his ninety-second older brother, Kent. And he was looking straight at me. I returned Kent’s wave two seconds before Jim mentioned the name Ray Archer.
“What did you say about Ray?” acting like the two of us were best friends.
“That’s what I’m going to say to Pastor Miller. I’m thankful for Ray Archer.”
I stared and Jim answered before I could ask, ‘Why?’
“He furnishes the meat. Ray pays for it and The Shack cooks it. Must cost a fortune since the entire town will eat here before dark.”
“He must be a kind and generous man.” Again, I felt like a stranger. Other than Kent, since joining the line, I’d not seen one person I knew. And Kent no longer lived in Boaz. ‘He’s not from around here.’
“Lee.” I turned back toward the gym when I heard my name. I saw Kent slowly hurdling over the nylon railings coming toward me. “Why don’t we get out of here. I’m starving and tired of waiting.”
He entered my aisle, and we shook hands. “Sounds great to me. Man, it’s good to see you.”
***
I rode with Kent since he’d parked his car in the Church’s rear lot. He suggested we eat at Grumpy’s, but they were closed. As was every restaurant on Hwy. 431, except McDonald’s. Oh well.
The drive-through was busy. We chose the dining room and didn’t have to wait to place our orders. We both started with chicken sandwiches, fries, and water.
“Let’s sit outside,” Kent suggested. The weather was beautiful, blue skies, and a warm sun. The uninhabited playground was the perfect spot to enjoy our first visit since graduating high school in May of 1972. We chose a bright red two-seater. All the tables were two-seaters.
Kent’s height had struck me since watching him hurdle the railings. “I can’t get over how tall you are.” From the ninth grade, there wasn’t two hair’s difference in mine and Kyle’s height. Kent was, at most, an inch taller. But now, we weren’t close. I’m five feet nine and a half. Kent had to be six foot two.
“I started stretching at MIT.” Kent was looking down, unwrapping his sandwich, so I couldn’t get a read on his eyes. I assumed he was joking. “Just kidding,” he said as I ate three fries. “Mother nature, I guess. Two inches at MIT. One and a half at Stanford.”
Kent caught me staring after one bite of my sandwich. “Sorry, I imagined Kyle.” Neither Kent nor Kyle, nor me, were top athletes in high school. The three of us had tried out for football in the ninth grade, more as a dare than for justified reasons. Kent was the only one who made the team, but never became a starter. I admired him for not quitting and wondered what would have happened to Kyle. If he had lived. I wondered if he would be the successful salt and pepper haired guy sitting before me.
“No problem. You’re not the only one I’ve caught staring since coming to town.”
A young woman pushing a baby stroller clunked through the door, made it halfway to Kent and me, and announced it was too cold for little Jamie. It was at least fifty degrees.
“Better than getting smashed by a truck.” My statement jumped from my mouth like a freed bird. I really didn’t want to remind myself why my shoulder and head were hurting.
“It’s a wonder you didn’t fracture your shoulder or suffer a grade 3 concussion.” Kent took the last bite of his chicken sandwich.
His statement triggered my curiosity. I knew he had arrived in town last Saturday. We talked on Sunday about my plans for Kyle’s eulogy. It was a mystery how he knew about my shoulder injury. “I agree. I don’t need to lose more brain power. By the way, how did you hear about my little adventure?”
“Hold on, you want anything?” Kent stood and wiped his mouth.
“No, I’m good.” Soon, he returned with another chicken sandwich and two pies.
“Can’t have a Thanksgiving meal without apple pie.”
I nodded, then wondered how he stayed so trim and fit with such a voracious appetite. He probably had continued his weightlifting or became a jogger.
“Jane Fordham.” Kent said right before taking another huge bite. I had almost forgotten my question. “Yesterday afternoon was the third time she’s called me since Saturday.”
“I don’t remember you guys being friends in high school, but that has been a lifetime ago.” I might understand one time, but three?
“We weren’t. She’s too much of a busybody for me.” Kent eyed my uneaten fries. I pushed them his way.
“Then, why three calls?” I had slipped on my lawyer’s hat.
“I agree, but she’s also a fixer. I probably couldn’t have pulled off such a big memorial for Kyle if not for Jane.”
“I see.”
“But here’s the thing. Jane seems worried it might backfire.”
“Meaning what?” I wanted to know more since I had planned on calling her myself. Jane’s name was all over Rachel’s diaries. The two had been best friends during ninth grade and half of tenth.
“I’m not sure but I got the strange vibe Ray Archer is her primary concern, like the memorial would cast him in a poor light since he supposedly was the last person to see my brother alive.”
“Along with Rachel.” I added.
“And another reason I don’t like her, I assume we’re speaking privately in Kyle’s best interest?”
It was a question. “Absolutely.” I was no longer hungry. I rolled up the rest of my chicken sandwich.
“Jane’s a tease. That might not be the correct word. I mean nothing sexual, but she likes to toss out a subject and keep you dangling.”
“Like what?” Short, simple questions were always the best.
“Something about a promise she’d made to Rachel. Don’t ask me why that came up.”
Kent seemed high-strung. He grabbed our cups and left for refills. Hearing my dead wife’s name was worse than bittersweet. It bordered on tragic. I’m rarely angry, but an unearthed horde of despicable secrets had sent my already fragile life into an inescapable spin that seemed destined for a fatal crash. All these years, I had thought I was the problem, the reason Rachel and I could not be truly intimate. Although I was a good provider and father, nice, respectful, and considerate, now, looking back, I was simply a placeholder. A husband as marital status, but nothing remotely akin to a romantic partner. The bald truth is the woman I loved had been a mirage, a slave to her past, incapable of confiding and trusting me, thus unable to love and accept love. One thing was for sure, casting blame upon Rachel didn’t assuage my guilt or a stomach knotting nag it had all been my fault. Kent’s return relieved me. Thoughts can be painful. “I take it Jane never divulged her promise?”
“No, she later made a comment I now sense was the truth.”
“What was that?”
“That ‘Ray had lied to Detective Darden, to protect Rachel.’” That was confusing. Context is critical to understanding. “How did you two get into that subject?”
“Sort of out of the blue. The two of us had been talking about the memorial when she asked about that night, what I had been doing, what I knew.”
“The night Kyle went missing?”
“Yes. When I asked her how she knew about Ray’s statement and that he had lied, Jane just said, ‘a little birdie told me.’ I hate that phrase.”
“Me too. Mother loved it.”
“Here’s what I was about to tell you earlier.” Kent shared his experience of receiving a large package containing a copy of the official witness statement detailing Detective Darden’s interview of Ray. Kent also revealed the conversation he had with Ray last Sunday morning at Grumpy’s, including how he used Jackie Frasier to catch Ray in a lie. “Jane is dumb as a rock or is crafty and cunning.”
I again was confused, but not because of Kent’s logic. It was because of the two men who entered the dining room and were walking to the cashier. One was tall and thick, the other was short and thicker. I could have sworn I’d recently seen the short one. But where? Kent snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Sorry. I think I see your point but talk as though I’m a third grader.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing.” We both had a friendly laugh. I wasn’t sure it was for the same reason. “Jane seemed to know Ray had not been completely truthful with Detective Darden.”
“You’re implying Jane’s the one who mailed you the package.” If she hadn’t seen Ray’s documented words, how would she know he had lied. ‘Most times, there’s another question you need to ask,’ my law school Evidence professor had oft repeated. Kent tore into his apple pie. “What else did Jane know?” Ray’s words alone wouldn’t be enough. She had to have something to compare to.
“Yes, I believe my package came from Jane. Also, she had to have learned something else from Ray or Rachel.” Kent looked at me and shook his head sideways as though apologizing for saying her name. “It’s like Jane knew I knew Ray was lying.”
I think Kent eyed my pie; I’d eat it later. “Here’s a possibility. Ray and Jane talked after last Sunday’s breakfast.”
“Maybe. Here’s another option. Jane has known this for half-a-century.”
“I see three scenarios from 1970. The conflicting information had come from Ray, Rachel, or personal observation. When Jane read Ray’s witness statement, she realized the discrepancy.” I felt like I was working on a hypothetical with my students.
Kent started neatly folding the paper wrappings from his two sandwiches. “If this didn’t concern Kyle’s death, it would almost be funny. After all our wanderings, we still don’t know what Jane promised Rachel.”
Kent was right. But I couldn’t resist. “Or, if Jane promised anything at all.” I learned the ‘opposite’ strategy as a 1L.
“Yeah, right. You agree, it’s certain that Jane leans toward protecting Ray?”
“That’s a strong possibility.” I enjoyed hedging my bets.
We gathered our garbage and dropped it and our trays at the station just before leaving the dining room. Kent detoured to the restroom while I headed to his car. I placed both hands on the roof beside the passenger door like I was about to be patted down, maybe arrested. Rachel and Jane again crossed my mind. What on earth had she promised my wife? I had nothing factual to support my feeling but deep down I believed there was something else, itching to join that horde of despicable secrets I’d already discovered.
“You ready?” Kent’s question returned me to reality. I’m not sure why I gave him a thumbs-up. “Let’s ride down King Street and talk about your eulogy?” I had prepared a solid outline, but I was open to Kent’s suggestions.
As Kent drove toward the Bethsaida Road exit, I glanced through the passenger side window. Tall man and short man were walking toward a truck facing Highway 168. I couldn’t tell the make or model, but two things were clear. It was red and wasn’t jacked up. Then, I recalled where I’d seen short man. It was last Friday night when Kyla and I ate supper at The Shack. I’d seen his face inside the kitchen. He was standing next to a stainless-steel shelf lined with finished orders awaiting customer delivery.
The Pencil-Driven Life 