The Boaz Stranger–Chapter 24

Kent wound his way to Sparks Avenue. Neither of us said anything until he rolled through the stop sign at Brown Street. “How about going with me to see Jackie Frasier?”

I was still pondering tall man and short man. I must have misunderstood Kent’s question. “You’re joking, right?” There was no way old ‘Jack’ was still alive.

“Not at all. And he still lives across from my childhood stomping grounds.” Kent pulled beside my rental. There were other things I needed to do. One was to call Lyndell. An hour and a half ago, he’d sent a text saying he and Rosa were still waiting to talk to the ER doctor. I was eager to hear how Rob was doing.

“That dump of a single wide?” I also needed to do a hard review of tomorrow’s eulogy to determine where to insert Kent’s two suggestions but seeing a freak-of-nature sort was hard to pass.

“Yep. So, can you come along?” Kent seemed anxious. He was drumming his fingers on the stirring wheel. I wondered if he wanted a witness. I couldn’t imagine why.

“Yeah, I can go. But I need to be back within an hour.”

“That’ll work.” Kent backed onto Sparks, turned left on Highway 205, and drove toward old downtown Boaz.

I tried to visualize the last time I’d seen Jackie Frasier, the high school custodian. I still remembered his shiny Bel Air Chevrolet. “He’d have to be a hundred years old, probably more. I recall he was an old man when we graduated.”

“He’s now a hundred and three. I’ve tried all week to see him but he’s never at home.”

“What does a hermit do at a hundred and three?”

“Chase women, I guess. Or, he’s making excuses, given how many times I’ve dropped by this week and taped a note to his front door.” Kent said as the Thomas Avenue light turned red. Knowing me, I’d have run it.

“Seems like I’ve read the oldest person ever was a hundred and twenty.” The woman’s name slipped into my mind, Jeanette, somebody.

“Don’t forget, Methuselah.” Kent had a comical side. This was the second time we’d laughed in the past hour.

“Are you sure old Jack still lives there? How do you know he’s still alive?” I always had questions.

“The same way I know his age.” Kent tapped his fingers as we sat waiting on the red light beside Weathers Furniture. I figured it was to release energy. Maybe he was frustrated from wasting time, not being productive. I could appreciate that.

Kent had become a reluctant witness. I had to work for every fact. “So, how do you know Jackie’s age?”

“His daughter Jade.”

“Daughter?” I didn’t see that coming. “Jackie Frasier had kids, has kids?”

“She’s disabled, been that way all her life. Here’s what’s weird. I never saw the girl during all the years I lived at 294 King Street. I guess Jackie was too proud to let her out of the trailer.”

Kent shared his visit with Jade while he drove us to his childhood home. Jade Elizabeth Frasier is the daughter of Jack and a woman he worked with at Boaz Spinning Mill in the 1940s. Jade’s mother had abandoned her after birth, probably because of the child’s cerebral palsy and disfigured face. Since 2000, Jade continued her secluded life, not in a dilapidated single wide mobile home on south King Street, but at a government subsidized apartment in Mount Vernon Homes. Like her father, Jade never married.

If it hadn’t been for a sticky note inside the anonymously mailed package, Kent would likely have never learned of Jade Frasier. Handwritten were Jade’s full name and address, and: “witnessed 12/09/69 argument.”

“Question.” I hated to interrupt, but Kent paused while he slowed to cross the rickety Short Creek bridge. He stared to his left at what had once been Boaz City Park when we were in high school. Now, according to the sign, it’s a soccer field.

“Ask.”

“Would you agree the person who mailed you the package had spoken to Jade and knows the details of the argument you mentioned?”

“Woman. The expert said the same woman had written the sticky note and the message across the envelope.”

Kent exited the bridge and, after fifty feet, stopped again. This time, he pointed to Jackie’s trailer, now fully engulfed with rust and raging vines. Although the tiny deck and two steps outside the front door looked new.

Kent turned left into his old driveway after a car approached from the bridge. “Jade has a lot of health issues, but her memory seems perfect. This is what she told me. Kyle had exited the school bus that Tuesday afternoon, December the ninth. After the bus drove away, Jade saw a pickup truck coming straight towards her from our house. The driver stopped at the edge of King Street. It was a young girl, maybe sixteen. She exited the truck and started talking with Kyle. Low and civil at first, then the conversation got heated. Loud. It was about money. The girl demanded Kyle return it. That’s when she mentioned Ray. Then, Kyle asked the girl if she had gone inside his house. I’ll stop here and let you ask questions. I don’t want you to make your lips bleed.”

“It’s a tell. The first thing that came to mind was ‘how did Jade hear the argument?’ It was December cold.”

“Maybe she liked it cold. Maybe it was a warm day.”

“Next question. Did Jade describe the girl Kyle argued with?”

“I quote, ‘tall, dark curly hair, and built like Jane Fonda, and just as loud.’”

“Sounds like Rachel, but not my Rachel. She never raised her voice.” By now, Kent and I were out of his rental, leaning against the trunk lid. During high school, I rarely ever heard her speak.

“People change.” Kent said and started walking across King Street towards Jackie’s trailer.

Once again, Jack was not at home. However, Kent had another adventure in mind: visiting his old home place. He’d insisted we walk.

I’d forgotten how far the house was from King Street. The driveway was dirt potted with holes and lined with leaves and limbs of all sizes. I imagined the engulfing forest awakened by long-silenced conversations.

Like humans, houses age. The Bennett’s was no exception. It was a wood-framed house with a tin roof. The front porch had collapsed from the rotten posts. Many of the clapboard planks along the north wall had curled and twisted like toenails long abandoned.

We entered through an open back door, but our exploring was short-lived. Wind had blown back several pieces of tin and exposed the house’s interior. Rain had free reign for years, eventually rotting everything in its wake. It was all for the best since I really didn’t want to go inside Kent and Kyle’s old bedroom. I did my best to push back memories of my last visit. It was Thursday, December the 11th. I could still smell Mrs. Bennett’s fresh baked cornbread. After she insisted I eat a plate full of the golden bread buttered and soaked in sorghum syrup, Kyle and I had ridden in my car to Young Supply’s warehouse to work on the tenth-grade float.

Kent snapped a dozen photos as we walked around the south side and returned to the road. And he answered my questions. Mrs. Bennett now lived at the Bridgewood Gardens Assisted Living facility in Albertville, where she’d been for twenty years. Kent had insisted his mother leave the decaying structure before a life-crippling accident. He willingly continued to pay for his mother’s monthly care and the annual taxes on the home place. It was another way he could honor the memory of his long-lost brother.

It was after four when Kent dropped me beside my car. My one-hour limit had transformed into two, but I didn’t regret a thing. The time with Kent was sadly refreshing, a vivid reminder of days gone by, and a friend never to return.

***

I drove to Boaz Discount Drugs to buy a thank-you card for Lillian. I’d write a quick note and drop it in the mail. Now, that method seemed an insensitive way to express my gratitude. It might be perfect if I were back in New Haven, but I wasn’t. I was here, a few miles from the only one, among many, who had helped a hurting man. The drugstore included a large gift shop, so I ambled its aisles for ten minutes. I opted for a clip-on book light and a Hallmark card featuring an Emily Dickinson poem on kindness. I paid for my purchases and left.

Instead of driving straight to Lillian’s, I dropped by the Hunt House. I guess it was my second unsuccessful attempt to reach Lyndell that kept the place on my mind. I parked in the carport and checked both exterior doors. Locked. However, the rear one wasn’t the way I’d left it. It was an investigative trick I’d learned in Michael Dugoni’s novel, The Eighth Sister. Place a piece of writing lead from a mechanical pencil across the top hinge. When the door opens, the lead will fall. It’s so small most people would never see it.

I returned to the front, unlocked the door, and walked inside. After a thorough inspection of the entire house, I found nothing that disturbed or alarmed me. I secured the door, castigating myself for having forgotten my mechanical pencil. The front porch seemed a good place to pause and ponder who else had access to the Hunt House. Rosa and Rob came to mind, but neither was a possibility. Unresolved, I gave up and returned to my rental. I shifted the Hyundai into reverse and eased into the turning around spot. Maybe Barbara had an extra key and had returned for something. I eased forward to Thomas Avenue and waited for a red, older model Corvette to pass before heading to Lillian’s.

***

Lyndell called as I passed Wendy’s and merged onto Highway 431 South. “Hey son, how’s Rob?” I hoped by now the hospital had transferred him into a private room and he was resting comfortably.

“Not so good. It was a major stroke, much worse than we first thought. Hold on Dad.” I could hear a cacophony in the background. While I waited, I glanced at the bright green package with a red bow lying on the passenger seat. I second-guessed my decision to have the clip-on light gift-wrapped. “Sorry Dad, the ER’s a madhouse.”

“So, what’s going on right now?”

“He’s in surgery. The doctors are trying to deal with his brain swelling.” I heard a siren in the distance. I assumed Lyndell had walked outside.

“Wow. That’s serious.” I felt a rush of guilt for not being on the way to Roanoke right now. I knew little about strokes, but I knew Rob was 86 years old. That couldn’t be in his favor.

“Here it is, I wrote it down.” Lyndell spelled out, “H e m i c r a n i e c t o m y,” before pronouncing the surgical procedure, “hemicraniectomy. The surgeons remove a portion of Papa Rob’s skull to relieve the pressure.”

“Sounds like he might have a long road to recovery.” I turned left at Cox Gap Road and made my decision. I would deliver my eulogy in the morning and, out of respect for Kyle and Kent, remain until the memorial ended. Then, I would fly to Roanoke. It was the least I could do for my in-laws. And Rachel.

“That’s assuming the best. You know Leah, she’s at the cabin but reading everything she can on strokes. She said there could be permanent brain damage if the swelling isn’t relieved quickly enough. Also, there are several other potential complications, including pneumonia.”

I briefly shared my plan to fly to Roanoke late tomorrow afternoon before Lyndell ended our conversation. Apparently, he had seen Mama Rosa’s worried face staring at him through the glass wall of the Emergency Room.

***

My bravery evaporated when I reached Alexander Road. Instead of turning right, I kept driving east on Cox Gap. As I passed the pond, I glanced to my right and to Lillian’s cabin. The place was dark. She wasn’t at home. Kyla had said the Community Meal was an all-day thing.

That fact changed my mind. I would find a safe spot to turn around and then return to Lillian’s. I would deposit the card and gift on the front porch and leave. That was safe, and it showed the personal sincerity of my gratitude.

I didn’t see Lillian’s SUV when I pulled into her driveway. I exited my rental with a card and gift in hand. Halfway to the front door, the porch light came on and then a stronger one at the corner of the eve. It was like I had been thrust on stage and had forgotten my lines. I should have retreated but didn’t. I continued to the front porch, and without hesitation, rang the doorbell.

It felt like an hour before Lillian responded. My first thought was she had arrived soon after I’d driven past Alexander Road. She’d parked out back or in a garage I hadn’t noticed and walked inside through the back door. Before she could switch on a light, she’d seen a vehicle turn into her driveway. Maybe she was tired and didn’t want to be disturbed, but that didn’t explain why the outside lights were now on. Just as I discarded my first hypothesis, I heard the deadbolt click.

Lillian opened the front door and smiled. I don’t think it was noticeable, but my mind snapped a head-to-toe virtual photograph of the woman I saw. I would inspect it as she opened the storm door. If she did. She retreated for a moment to flip on the inside lights. The pine-paneled walls of the den became visible.

“Hey, come in.” Lillian said, pushing back the door to give me room. I combined my items into my left hand and used my right to assist with the stubborn door. The sweet and flowery scent of lavender was inescapable as I squeezed into a small open foyer. I felt a twinge more at ease. “What brings you out?”

I didn’t instantly respond. She closed the storm door and moved to a lamp beside the couch. She switched it on. “I wanted to thank you for coming to my rescue Tuesday afternoon.” I handed her the card and the green-wrapped gift with a red bow.

“You didn’t have to do this. I’m pretty sure you already said thanks, but you might not have known it.” It took me a second to realize she was referring to my Vicodin encounter. We both laughed and Lillian motioned me to sit.

“I wanted to. It’s the least I could do.” I also wanted to clarify my confusion over Rachel’s diary, but it wasn’t the time.

“Should I open this now?” Lillian sat on a leather couch across from me and reached for the coffee table for the green and red package.

“It’s yours.” I sucked in the personal communication department. I also sometime missed the obvious. This entire scenario was inappropriate on many levels. First, the last thing I needed, or wanted, was a relationship. I had utterly failed at the two most important ones I’d ever had: Kyle and Rachel. Both died because of my inability to recognize warning signs. My presence was wrong for an equally disturbing reason: Lillian is married. As she read her card and delicately opened her present, I did what most men would do, regardless of propriety. I took in the scenery.

I would bet most people at age 66 look radically different from their 16-year-old self. I know I do. But Lillian didn’t, at least in the virtual photograph I was inspecting. Her silky brown hair was still, well, silky, even though she now wore it shoulder length instead of halfway down her waist. My mind’s camera might be low tech, missing a few wrinkles and some loosening of Lillian’s neck muscles, but it had clearly captured her beauty, but not sensually. Even though she was heavier than at 16, the extra pounds had found suitable homes. How bad an effect would an extra fifteen or twenty pounds have on Julia Roberts? None. Come to think of it, Lillian had a lot of Julia’s features: amble and shapely breasts, and luscious lips.

“It’s perfect.” Lillian finally said after folding the green wrapping paper and setting it, along with the red bow, on the coffee table. “I love to read.”

“Kyla mentioned it.” Guilt washed over me, submerging my unintended sexual thoughts, and reminding me I needed to leave. Lillian’s phone chirped once, then a second time. It sounded like birds talking. She looked at me before grabbing her iPhone from the nearest end table.

I stood, realizing Lillian’s distraction was a good time to leave. She looked at me and mouthed the words, “please wait.” I guessed she had received a text and a voice mail at the same time. She read and listened. To avoid eavesdropping, my mind refocused on that easily accessible virtual photo. Finally, she returned her phone to the coffee table. “Lee, can I ask a big favor?”

I didn’t hesitate. “You can but know that I’m not much of a handyman.” Lillian smiled, stood, and walked to me. “The storm door does need adjusting but what I need requires little skill.” She softly poked me in the chest and laughed. “Only kidding.”

“What do you need?” I was feeling awkward, not knowing what to do with my hands. I quickly executed the hands-in-pocket routine.

Lillian’s look was somber. Her blue-green eyes stared into mine. “It’s rather personal. Do you have five minutes to let me explain?”

What was I to say? She motioned me back to my chair. She rejoined the couch. “I’m going to divorce Ray and, to put it bluntly, I need some dirt.”

Lillian summarized her and Ray’s latest prenuptial agreement. She, like a lot of other women in America, could not secure a divorce without negative financial repercussions. What Lillian wanted were two things: money and justice, including an ample dose of revenge for Ray’s many affairs. Fortunately, the prenup was her gateway. It contained a clause whereby each, Ray and Lillian, had promised the other they had fully disclosed their assets, and every other issue that could apply to the prenuptial negotiations. The bottom line for Lillian was that if she could prove Ray had withheld knowledge of his criminal activity, then she was free as a bird, a wealthy bird at that.

After Lillian’s rather long monologue, she still hadn’t told me where I fit in this convoluted story. “I’m confused about how I can help.”

My question triggered an equally long explanation. Unsurprisingly, Kyla had already shared with her best friend the two primary reasons I had come to Alabama. One was to help Rob protect the Hunt House, and the second was to seek justice for Kyle and Rachel. “Here’s what I propose since we’re after the same thing.” Lillian sounded like a lawyer, or one well read and with an excellent memory. “I’m asking you to share with me the fruits of your investigation.” I couldn’t help but think of the U.S. Constitution and ‘the fruit of the poisonous tree,’ one of the most dominate principles in Fourth Amendment search and seizure law.

I again stood and, being the excellent negotiator I am, said: “I will if you do the same.”

“Agreed,” Lillian said, standing and walking two steps toward me. She held out her right hand. We shook, and after standing, repeated my hands-in-pocket routine.

“Well, I need to be going. I’ve still got some homework.”

“Your eulogy?”

“Yes,” I said, retreating two steps. Lillian nodded affirmatively and walked past me to the front door. At 16, she loved the sweet smell of lavender.

After I reached the front porch, we exchanged goodbyes and promises to keep each other up to date on the fruits of our investigations.