I still thought it was surreal. Kyla and a truck. I first saw it last night when I arrived. It’s big, a 2500 Series Chevrolet, a Silverado model, and it’s silver colored. With four full doors and 4-wheel drive. It’s three times as big as the last Lexus she owned.
Sis had been a tomboy growing up. Every chance she got, she’d be outside exploring the woods behind the house, helping Mom in the garden, fishing at the pond, or hiding in the barn loft. Even more boyish, Kyla was a master at castrating baby piglets, at least according to Dad.
The odd thing was Kyla had been both a tomboy and a scholar. Even though she was a year younger than me, we finished high school on May 26, 1972. I think it was third grade she sailed right over. I had always been jealous of her memory. It was close to photographic. She could capture, process, collate, store, and retrieve so much faster than me. However, my claim to fame, and an intelligence greater than little sis, was that I had been the Valedictorian of our high school class. Of course, Kyla was the Salutatorian.
Sis circled my rental and eased toward the attached carport, smiling and waving as she passed. At sixty-five, she was half-a-century beyond her tomboyish days, yet her looks were beating a path towards beauty unlike so many other women her age. Sis had graduated magna cum laude from Emory University in Atlanta and gone on to a stellar career at Coca Cola. She’d retired a few months ago, second in seniority and compensation to the Vice President of International Marketing. Her world in Atlanta, including life in a sophisticated Buckhead neighborhood, had shaped Kyla Harding into cultural elegance. Now, back where she began, I wondered how easy it would be for her to return to her tomboyish roots.
Sis finally appeared from the carport toting several Walmart bags. “Here, let me help.” I should have already gone to meet her. People often misconstrue introverts. Until Rachel’s death, I’d always figured if someone wanted help, they would ask.
I tried to untangle a few bags from her hands, but she refused, “just open the door.”
Inside, Kyla set everything on the kitchen table. She gave a quizzical look at the two books still laying open where I’d been sitting. I quickly stuffed them into my briefcase.
“Work related?” Kyla asked, now removing the crock pot lid and using the wooden stirring spoon to sample her re-creation.
“Yes.” After I watched her put away the groceries, she suggested we go back outside. The temperature had risen into the mid-fifties since I’d checked my rental.
“I hope you don’t mind me making some changes around here?” Kyla was always considerate, sometimes too much.
I sat on one of Mom’s old benches to give Kyla the more comfortable swing. “Not at all. Why should I? It’s your place.”
“I still feel guilty taking your money.” Mom and Dad’s Will left everything they owned in equal shares to Kyla and me. The accidental death of our parents, strangely, came at a perfect time for sis. She had been toying with retirement for at least a year. Her call had surprised me. “What do you think of me buying you out? I’m ready to return to Harding Hillside.”
“You should. How about a refund?” Kyla and I had always prided ourselves on quick retorts, often brutally sarcastic.
Sis had paid for two independent appraisals and yet still insisted she pay fifteen percent more than half the highest valuation. “I love the fresh paint on the barn. Do you remember the summer we persuaded Dad and Mom to pay us to paint the front?”
“Oh yeah. Summer before we started high school. We nearly killed ourselves.” If pushed, Kyla could probably share the top three things we’d talked about as we’d stood side by side on two heavy ladders Dad built.
“Question. Isn’t it difficult living here, knowing what happened to Mom and Dad?” I could still hear Kyla’s trembling voice when she’d given me the call everyone dreads to receive. It was New Year’s Eve 2018. Mom and Dad were driving home after a Sunday School get-together at Blaine and Zadie Fordham’s. Earlier in the day, it had rained. That was hours before a cold front had moved into the area. By midnight, the temperature was in the mid-twenties. Mom and Dad were crossing Highway 431 headed straight for McVille Road when an eighteen-wheeler slammed into their little Plymouth. They never knew what hit them.
“This may sound crazy, but I find it rewarding. It’s like their spirits are everywhere. I know that sounds silly, but I find myself in conversation with one of them several times a day.” Kyla leaned to her right and touched the window shutter. I’d already noticed them but had said nothing. “Dad wasn’t so crazy about the color, but you know how Mom loved forest green.”
I chose not to inject my thoughts, pro or con, about the spirit world, concerned it might lead to a full-blown discussion on souls and the afterlife. Instead, I played a polite game of brother-sister ping pong. After all, it was only a few hours into our family reunion. “Who painted the barn?” I suspected it wasn’t Kyla.
“The goat man, Donnie Tolbert. He was highly recommended from a guy at Lowe’s. Not only was he a talented painter, but he also raises goats. Voila. My beautiful Nubians.”
“Kyla, the goat lady. Why not a few chickens? With your marketing background, you could start peddling milk, cheese, and eggs.” I was still trying to figure out what my little sis was going to do with all her time.
“And you could retire and move back home.” Kyla walked down the porch stairs and to the edge of the house. She turned on the water faucet. Although it was late fall, she dragged the attached hose in front of a flower garden that bordered each side of the porch steps and watered two Azaleas and some Monkey Grass surrounded by a thick layer of new mulch. “Plus, you could refund my money and own half of Harding Hillside.”
I joined her and offered to do the watering. She refused. So, I backed away toward the barn to gaze at the six new shutters and how they’d given new life to an old farmhouse.
I sometime ask too many questions. “Did Donnie help install the forest greens?” I was fishing to find out how much he had charged her. I knew it wasn’t a really demanding job, especially on the first floor.
“Interesting that you ask. What you’re looking at is a masterpiece by a pair of talented and gorgeous felines.”
“Okay, so you and Donnie’s wife installed them. She’s gorgeous and you’re talented.”
“Smart ass. Think you know everything. Truth is, Lillian and I did the work all by ourselves. It wasn’t difficult at all.”
The last thing I wanted to do was signal to my sister I was interested in Lillian Bryant. Archer. But I was curious. What I really wanted to know was whether Lillian was aware she married a monster. I tip-toed into the water. Sometimes acting dumb is the best approach. “Where did you say Lillian and Ray were moving to?”
“I didn’t. As far as I know, Ray’s staying at the Lodge.”
“Where’s the Lodge?”
“Top of Skyhaven Drive. I’ve been to it twice. It’s beautiful, like a Vail, Colorado chalet.”
“Trouble in paradise?” As kids, Kyla and I had always been open, virtually no filters between us. Not as true as the years had rolled by.
“You could phrase it that way. From what Lillian has told me over the years, Ray’s an asshole. And that’s putting it mildly. Strictly between you and me, Ray has always been a womanizer.”
“He’s also a crook, but I’m speculating.” As an attorney, even under the umbrella of openness and confidentiality, I was careful with my words.
“Lillian is a great gal who made a big mistake when she dumped you.” My sister had always thought Lillian was the right woman for me. And that there was something a little off about Rachel.
“Her words or yours?” I was now in deep water. Surely it was about time to feed the goats or go fishing or something.
“Both.” Kyla looked at me with those deep green eyes and smiled. “Don’t worry, I can keep a secret. Not a word about the beautiful and sexy Lillian. Not a raised eyebrow you’re also interested in her mind, soul, and spirit.”
“We best check the chili,” was all I could say.
***
According to Kyla, the chili was too spicy. She added a little water, and we settled in the den around the big screen TV. It didn’t take long for the Alabama Crimson Tide to put Kentucky’s Wildcats in a chokehold.
At halftime, we each ate a bowl of chili. Kyla added Tostito chips. I chose saltine crackers. She swore she followed the recipe to the letter, but admitted Mom was not one to divulge her secrets when she scribbled down ingredients and instructions. Regardless, Kyla’s chili was certainly better than store bought.
At 49 to 3, I made my decision. I asked sis the question that had been burning my gut long before I ate my first bite of the crock-pot chili. I grabbed the TV remote and lowered the volume. “Sis, I need to ask you something.”
“Shoot, but the answer is still no.” I instantly knew what she was talking about. Her upstairs bedroom. Growing up, I had always wanted it. It was much more private than mine downstairs, the one set between the laundry room and the corridor to the back porch.
“Okay, but is this your final answer?” We both laughed. Finally, I said, “I have a second question.”
“Shoot.” We laughed some more.
“Sis, think hard before you answer. Please. Do you remember Rachel coming to Boaz after she first tried to kill herself?”
“Lord have mercy.” It wouldn’t take Kyla five seconds to recall if there was anything filed away. Yet, she paused. “No, to your question, but I suggest you frame a follow-up.”
I repeated my question, slowly and out loud, to myself. Sis would have made an excellent attorney. I crafted a broader interrogatory. “Do you have any information, whether directly gained or via hearsay or any other method, that Rachel Harding came to Boaz after she tried to kill herself in April 2019?” I could probably do better, but Kyla was giving me an affirmative nod.
“Your honor, I have a question for the learned counselor. Sir, does your question include a Rachel Harding look-alike?”
“Yes. It does.” I now shook my head. Sideways. Kyla could always split hairs better than me.
Sis stood and transferred our bowls to the kitchen sink. When she returned, she sat in a new Lazy Boy recliner facing me. “It’s pure hearsay, but this is what I heard. Lillian told me. Jane Fordham told her. What caught Jane’s attention was a Birmingham taxi turning right onto Darnell from Mill Street. Jane had just exited Piggly Wiggly and was walking to her car. You know how nosy a spinster can be.” I laughed to myself, wanting to comment, but didn’t. “Jane quickly stuffed her three bags of groceries in her back seat and took off. Following the taxi. It stopped in front of the Hunt House and a woman got out clutching a leather-looking bag. The taxi drove away. Jane said the woman was wearing a blond wig and a long raincoat, even though it wasn’t raining. Or, cold. Jane circled the block and wound-up parking at Dr. Hunt’s old office. Thirty minutes later, the taxi returned. The same woman, tall and thin from what Jane could see, crawled into the back seat and away they went. Jane followed the taxi south on Highway 431 as far as Carlisle Elementary School.”
After Kyla’s lengthy monologue, I was at a complete loss when Rachel could have made this trip. It finally came to me after sis told me the phantom visit was sometime around Halloween. That was all I needed to hear. Rachel had gone with a group of middle-schoolers to Washington, D.C. It was a two-day trip. Even though she taught high school, the group needed another chaperon. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Kyla’s answer came quick and surprised me. “I knew it wasn’t true.”
“Uh?”
“First, the woman in Jane’s story could have been anyone. And second, I talked to Rachel two, if not three, times that weekend. There’s nothing in my head that, even now, makes me think she was anywhere but home.”
Over the next hour, I shared every dot and tittle of what was going on. Whatever reluctance I had in sharing information that painted Rachel in such a poor light was easily overcome by my solid belief that my sister’s intelligence could be invaluable in helping bring Ray Archer to justice.
Before the evening was over and we retired to our separate rooms, I knew I had no choice but to stay in Alabama and prove my case.
I hoped the stay would not be a problem for Yale Law School.
by 
The Pencil Driven Life 