Month: August 2023

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.

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.

While Kyla made a congealed salad and tried her hand at Mom’s green bean casserole, I called Enterprise Car Rental. Since I had purchased insurance, all I had to do was return the Explorer, or, if it was inoperable, arrange a rollback. If I needed a replacement, I’d have to come to their nearest location. That was Guntersville.

A few minutes before 11:00 AM, Kyla dropped me off at Walmart. The rep I’d spoken to had instructed me to use duct tape to secure the damaged rear door. He asked if I’d taken pictures. I hadn’t. He also inquired whether I’d called the police. I hadn’t done that either but revealed an officer had come to the ER and taken my statement.

Exiting the parking lot, I almost called Lillian. I’d noted her phone number at the bottom of her email. I was indebted to her not only for my rescue but for the return of my iPhone. The OtterBox protective case had done its job and earned a lifelong customer, even if their products were expensive.

I opted to postpone my call, subconsciously plotting a drop-by visit to deliver a Hallmark thank-you card, a box of chocolates, and a bouquet. Strike the flowers. A potted green plant would be more appropriate. Come to think of it, strike the chocolates also. She’s dieting or thinking of dieting, according to Kyla. Although I hadn’t taken a Vicodin since midnight, my thinking remained unique, akin to chit-chat. Maybe the drop-by wasn’t a good idea either. For now, I’ll keep the card idea for further review. I turned right into Circle K since the Explorer was flashing “Low Fuel.” I’d promised to return it with a full tank.

I completed my purchase, rejoined 431’s northbound traffic, and replayed last night’s voice mail from Rosa. She and Rob had met Leah and Lyndell and their families in Roanoke, Virginia for the long Thanksgiving weekend. This had become a tradition for at least ten years. Rachel and I had never attended. Rachel’s idea, not mine.

“We made it before dark, no problems. The grands should be here in a few hours. Hickory Hill is still beautiful. Wish you were here. Call Rob when you get a chance, he’s not feeling well, so he’s thinking about taking the City’s offer.”

I would love to visit the rustic and secluded cabin in the mountains to the northwest of Roanoke. I’d prefer to be there with just my children and grandchildren. As always, I looked forward to the photos Leah and Lyndell captured every year.

Coming into Albertville, I stopped at Raceway and bought a bottle of water to swallow three Tylenol. Both my head and neck hurt, but enough of Vicodin and its hilarious hallucinations. I am now more convinced than ever that we have little control over our thoughts. They just appear out of nowhere. Like the one that confused me when I reentered 431.

Why was Rachel’s ‘wall’ diary in my briefcase? I’m certain Kyla said Lillian found it and the pistol receipt when she’d returned to the Explorer. I’d left the diary in my bedroom, or so I thought. When I entered Micaden’s office yesterday afternoon, I didn’t see how it had traveled to my briefcase. If it hadn’t, how did it get there after my altercation at Walmart? Unless it didn’t. I wondered if the Vicodin was affecting my memory, or my ability to construct cohesive ideas. I couldn’t help but consider whether my sister and Lillian, or one of them, had found it in my bedroom when they were stripping me down and settling me into bed. If so, why would Lillian say it fell out of the backseat when the unlatched briefcase had opened? Was it unlatched? I hated being confused. If it wasn’t the Vicodin, maybe my head injury was worse than I thought. The car horn from a Toyota Camry scared me. I admit the light at the Highway 431/75 intersection had already turned red.

The rest of the drive was uneventful thanks to my extra precaution and turning on WQSB radio. There’s nothing like country music on Thanksgiving Day to highlight all your blessings. The twang and the drawl made me focus on the road. And trigger a memory from twenty years ago. Leah’s trademark statement concerning country music came during a period of teenage rebellion, but I have to say, she nailed it. It was something like, “listening to country music in reverse, you get your dog back, your truck back, your house back, your girl back, and you stop drinking.” I slowed even more before going down the mountain and fought back random and ridiculous thoughts of getting my girl back.

Enterprise’s holiday staff was nearly as limited as its car inventory. I had wanted another SUV but had to settle for a mid-sized compact. However, it all worked for my good. The Hyundai Elantra is exactly what I need; it’s much more comfortable than the Explorer and should use a lot less gas.

***

My iPhone rang as I eased up the mountain. It was Rosa. “I was just about to call Rob.” I lied.

“That’s why I called. We’re on our way to Roanoke Memorial Hospital.” I thought I heard a siren.

“You mentioned he wasn’t feeling good. How’s he now? Are you driving him?” I was asking too many questions.

“Rob’s in the ambulance. We’re trying to keep up.”

“You’re not driving, are you?” Truth be told, neither Rob nor Rosa should operate a motor vehicle.

“No, I’m riding with Lyndell. Leah stayed at the cabin with the children.”

“What’s going on? What are Rob’s symptoms?”

The siren sound faded. “It’s classic stroke. His face started drooping and his left arm grew numb. We were eating a snack lunch and his speech got slurry. Lyndell helped him to an easy chair and tried to have Rob repeat ‘my name is Rob Kern.’ He couldn’t do it. Leah dialed 911 immediately.”

I pulled into another Raceway and parked to avoid distraction. “Do you want me to catch a flight?” Rosa had always treated me with such respect. Our relationship had grown closer since Rachel’s death. My mother-in-law knew I’d come in a heartbeat.

“No, the EMTs encouraged us since we had called for help so quickly. Maybe it’s a just a mild one.” I wondered if she was trying to convince herself, Lyndell, or me.

“Okay, but you keep me posted. I’ll answer anytime you call.” Rosa didn’t respond directly. She was probably wondering why I hadn’t answered last night’s call.

“Lee, we’re here. Say a prayer for Rob.”

“Okay.” What was I to say? “And tell Lyndell to call me when it’s convenient.”

Instead of leaving Raceway, I sat and imagined the scene in Roanoke. What if it wasn’t a mild stroke? What if they hadn’t acted fast enough? Hadn’t Rosa in yesterday’s voice mail said Rob hadn’t been feeling good? What if Rob died? I didn’t want to think about that, but I considered the legal ramifications.

My mind replayed Rosa’s message. The first time I’d heard it, something had struck me as odd. I grabbed my iPhone from a cup holder and listened again. Her last statement got my attention: “he’s not feeling well, so he’s thinking about taking the City’s offer.” The ‘so,’ implied cause and effect. A causes B. My shortened version: since Rob is sick, he will sell the Hunt House to the City. I laughed to myself, feeling like a 1L. There would be an effect caused by the effect: the lawsuit dismissed. That would be a good thing. Right?

A large semi swung through the parking lot and blasted its air-horn, insisting I pull forward a few feet. A causes B. I admit I had oddly parked. My mind flipped back to legal mode. I needed to brainstorm the real estate closing. There seemed to be only two scenarios; I didn’t like the second.

The first closing would take place while Rob was alive and legally competent (I didn’t know if he’d executed a durable power of attorney). Here, Rob and Rosa would do what they wanted with the money. I’m certain they wouldn’t blow it in Las Vegas. They would probably put it in the bank until their deaths and then their wills would control.

The second closing would take place after Rob died. I forced myself to think it through. Assuming Rob hadn’t changed his will, the proceeds would be divided three ways: a third to Randy, a third to Rachel (since she’s dead, Rob’s per stirpes provision would dictate this third be distributed to Leah, Lyndell, and me), and a third to the Southern Baptist Missions Board.

I looked at the time and needed to get rolling. I reentered 431. Two new thoughts entered my mind. What if Rob had changed his will? Of course, it was his right to do so. My second thought revealed another assumption I’d made years earlier: that Rob and Rosa owned the Hunt House as joint tenants. But what if the title is solely in Rob’s name? The answer came quickly. Rosa would inherit the real estate, assuming she survived Rob. But there would be a delay in distribution. Probate, the legal process of administering a person’s estate after death, is inefficient. I made a mental note to talk to Rob about the Hunt House deed. I certainly was no expert in wills and trusts, but I could still give him some excellent advice: consult an estate planning attorney.

My mind changed gears again when I approached the Guntersville Walmart. If it hadn’t been for the empty parking lot (they were closed for the Holiday), I would have stopped and bought Kyla a replacement crock-pot. Yesterday, I had never made it inside Boaz Walmart to make the exchange, and I’d forgotten to remove it from the Explorer. Maybe because it was no longer in the backseat. Maybe Lillian had returned it to Kyla. I’d have to ask, but that could wait.

I found a classical music channel on the radio and concentrated on my driving. I’d already had too many horns blowing at me since I’d left Kyla’s. She had instructed me to be at the Church’s Family Life Center between noon and 1:00 PM for the most food choices, including Mom’s green bean casserole. I was hungry, so I took her advice.