Author: Richard L. Fricks

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.

“Lee, Lee, wake up.” It was Mom, and we were in Panama City. My twelve-year-old self had been at the beach outside our hotel, lying on my stomach for hours. Mom, Dad, Kyla, and Lillian had gone to a mall and left me alone. “You need to take this.”

I opened my eyes and wondered why Kyla looked so old, and why I needed the pill and glass of water she was holding. “Sunburned?” I knew that’s what it was because I’d already seen myself in bed in this very room for a week after we’d returned from vacation. How was I still on the beach and why was Kyla’s hair streaked with gray?

“Lee, you’re dreaming. Sit up and take this.” The old Kyla raised her voice. She set the pill and the glass on my nightstand and started tugging at my tee shirt. She forgot my shoulder.

“Shit.” 2020 rushed inside my old bedroom like a wave at high tide. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.” It was then I noticed Kyla’s face matched that of a ghost. She had some sort of white cream smeared everywhere there weren’t eyeballs or a mouth. Her night gown reminded me of Mother. “Your prescription says you can take one pill every four to six hours as needed for pain. You’ve been groaning and moaning ever since Lillian left.”

That last fact was confusing. It wasn’t connected to anything else I knew other than Lillian had delivered me home. Painfully, I sat against the headboard and realized I was nearly naked. Underwear and a tee-shirt. The weird thing is I had no memory of undressing and crawling into bed. Heck, I didn’t recall walking inside Kyla’s house at all. I swallowed the pill. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

Typical Kyla. “Why start now?” Without missing a beat, sis continued. “Mark it down in your little book. Tomorrow we’re going to have a talk about what’s going on. You hear?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“If Lillian’s theory is correct, you’re fighting a losing battle and a mild head wound and a bruised shoulder are the least of your troubles.”

I was in no mood for this conversation, but ‘theory’ had my attention. “What did Lillian say?”

“Later. You get some rest. I’m headed upstairs but here’s a whistle if you need me.” Kyla left. I inched my body back horizontally.

I was asleep before she was halfway up the stairs. The Vicodin kicked in soon afterwards, followed by a speed of light return to 1970. During the next several hours, I experienced a virtual replay of my last two years of high school.

Lillian was the first girl I ever saw naked. In person. It was New Year’s Day 1970. Until that experience, I had always viewed my sister’s best friend as just a member of our household, like Mom, Dad, Kyla, and Kyle. She was part of the family, just another sister. I think it was my infatuation with Rachel that had blinded me to the metamorphosis happening right before my eyes.

Our pond froze six inches deep. According to Dad, it was the worst ice storm since March 1960. Lillian and Kyle had already spent two nights at Harding Hillside. After a big breakfast on the first day of the new year, Mom suggested we bundle up and get some exercise. That seemed to connect with Lillian and Kyla. They quickly raced from the kitchen to her upstairs bedroom. Mom asked me to grab her camera from her desk. Years earlier, she’d fashioned an office of sorts from an upstairs closet.

When I entered the hallway, Kyla’s door was open, and I heard laughing and singing but continued. It didn’t take a minute to find Mom’s camera. I tiptoed back to Kyla’s room, planning on executing one of my best scare tactics. When I peeked my head around the door frame, the most unbelievably gorgeous site of my young life met me. Apparently, Kyla was changing inside her walk-in closet, but there stood Lillian facing away, towards Kyla’s bed and the room’s sole window. I even recall how the incoming light created a shadow on the floor that matched Lillian’s hour-glass figure.

She must have heard my mind revving like a car engine. She turned and saw me, doing nothing except slipping inside the thermal top she was holding. I’ll never forget her smile and her boobs, not to mention anything else. That day, I learned Lillian was a young goddess. She might have a teenage mind and a queen-size Southern drawl, but her body was the epitome of a Playboy’s luscious centerfold.

My dreaming, hallucinating was more like it, had continued nonstop until 4:37 a.m. according to the digital clock/radio on my nightstand.

It might have been a hard fall on the ice that morning that changed the directory of my life and my Vicodin adventures. It wasn’t my head slamming against the pond’s concrete surface when I was showing out for who? No, not Mom and Dad. Instead, it was the unplanned and totally unexpected experience of seeing the naked Lillian that changed the trajectory of my life. At least for the next two years.

I doubt if I would have ever had the courage to ask Lillian for a date. I was more of a nerd; no way am I a narcissist. That was my understanding of what a guy had to be to have the courage to ask out the prettiest girl in the universe. Yes, that’s how star struck I was. Fortunately, I didn’t have to conjure up the courage or attempt the impossible transformation toward loving myself to the extreme. On the twentieth day of January, Lillian asked me to the Valentine’s Dance.

It seemed like a five-minute fight to crawl out of bed. There were four of us entangled, me, of course, along with a sheet, a thermal blanket, and a quilt. The latter was one of Mother’s beautiful designs. I wondered why I was sweating.

At 4:59, I exited my bedroom and inched toward the kitchen. Exhausted, but proud. Somehow, I’d been able to slip inside the sweat-suit Kyla had left hanging over my rocker, not to mention my bathroom adventure of off-loading pee, washing my face, and brushing my teeth.

***

Kyla was sitting at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading Chambers, her since-middle-school devotional. Kyla’s faith had always been a strong flame. I’d also read Oswald Chambers’ My Utmost for His Highest. That daily practice stopped when Rachel killed herself. My faith had weakened since my youth, flickered after her overdose, and slithered away to hide under the proverbial basket after she hung herself. That eventually prompted my research into the overwhelming facts of pain and suffering. Ultimately, the truth of reality doused my faith forever.

“Fresh coffee.” Sis said without raising her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“Why are you up so early?” I poured a cup and wondered if Kyla was wishing I hadn’t disturbed her.

“Too tired and worn out to sleep.”

“Uh?” Kyla said, laying Chambers face down on the table.

“The bananas were too ripe.” Why couldn’t we siblings have a normal conversation, absent the jokes, digs, and sarcasm? Before she responded, other than giving me her best quizzical look, I leaned back against the kitchen sink and shared street slang for Vicodin and Dr. Claburn’s hilarious story.

I thought about sharing a few of my late-night hallucinations but concluded that was off-limits for brother-sister talks. Kyla motioned me to join her at the table. “Promise me you won’t be mad if I tell you I snooped inside your briefcase.”

My mind had slowed a million degrees since last night’s light speed wanderings. Briefcase? It was on the back seat of the Explorer. It’s still in the Walmart parking lot. “Uh?” Kyla and I learned this word when we were quite young.

“After Lillian and I got you in bed.” Sis stopped and released her trademark yelp. It only appeared in those rare foot-in-mouth moments. “Man, did that sound sexual.”

“I understand. The two of you stripped me down. I don’t remember being gratified.”

“Ugh, that’s a mental picture I’ll burn. Listen, big brother. After you zoned out, Lillian suggested she return to Walmart and secure your vehicle. She had seen your briefcase lying in the seat. Also, she worried about the back door. It’s badly damaged. It doesn’t fully close.”

“So, the two of you preyed on my vulnerability, concocting a scheme to steal my money?” The Harding siblings are far from normal.

“Shut up and play civil. It was an innocent mistake. Well, mostly. When she grabbed the briefcase’s handle, the contents went flying. Apparently, you hadn’t snapped it shut the last time you used it. Long story short is that Lillian couldn’t help but see Rachel’s diary and a receipt from Micaden Tanner’s office. After she returned, the two of us talked, even engaged in a little speculation.” Kyla walked to the coffeemaker and refilled her cup. “Want more?”

“No. So, I might as well be interested in the story you two thieves have conjured.” My phrasing was still off.

“Lee, where in heck did you get a gun and why did you give it to Micaden Tanner?” Kyla’s question wasn’t bad. She’d already reasoned I could not have cleared airline security with a pistol in tow. But, not to credit smart sister too much, it appears she hadn’t connected the Hunt House to the mystery gun.

Oh well, I might as well take in some new partners. Over the next half-hour, I painted Kyla a rough picture of what I’d pieced together since finding Rachel’s basement-concealed diaries. This included search and discovery at the Hunt House Friday night. I started not to mention Rachel’s pregnancy and abortion, but these were the moon, the mountain, and the merciless ocean of the landscape I was painting. After relaying that Ray Archer must have killed Kyle Bennett, I warned Kyla about discussing these details with Lillian. I also promised to fabricate a story about the pistol.

“Big brother, I know you’re a little slow but hear me out before you write off your first lover.”

I wanted to lasso that calf and tie it up, neck and legs (the Vicodin?), but shook my head sideways instead. Kyla could be wrong on so many levels. “I assume we’re speaking of Lillian.”

“Well, duh, who else? Okay, let’s move along. The married woman who’s always had your back left here a little before midnight. While you were tossing and turning, moaning and groaning, she was a dog after a bone.”

“Did she find it?” At most, I guessed Lillian had followed up with the Boaz Police officer who had dropped by the ER. The sharp pain erupted from my shoulder when I made too-quick-a-reach for the sugar bowl. I hoped Lillian had not broken her promise to stay mum. My mind was still several thousand degrees below optimum processing.

“She did. With some help. Lillian is not dumb, nor is she untrustworthy. She called and got her investigator out of bed, and he awakened one of his contacts. You can read the email she sent about an hour ago.” Kyla pointed to the couch. Until now, I hadn’t noticed her laptop.

“Investigator?” Why would Lillian need an investigator? A couple of vague reasons started revealing themselves.

“Oh, sorry. Lillian said not to give you any of her personal information. She didn’t know if she could trust you.”

“Uh?”

“I’m kidding, you dote.” Kyla stood and retrieved her laptop. “Do you want to know the name, address, and phone number of the owner of a 2014 blue Chevrolet Silverado?”

“Shit, Lillian doesn’t fool around.” Five thousand degrees.

“Let’s not go there. Derrick Hart’s your man. Well, he’s the owner of tag number ‘USA4GOD.’” Kyla turned her laptop screen so I could see. Lillian’s email was open.

I scanned the three short paragraphs and then reread them more closely. Two things caught my attention. The first was the name of Lillian’s investigator: Connor Ford. Interesting that she was using the same guy Micaden had recommended I use. The second was Lillian’s admonition to Kyla for her to keep quiet about anything related to the tag number. I liked her last statement: “Lee will know what to do. Remember, he plays chess; we play checkers.” The Vicodin almost triggered another hallucination.

I looked over the laptop’s screen at Kyla. She was shaking her head sideways. “Do I want to know what you’re thinking?” She and Rachel had always said I over-think everything. “You need to give this information to the police. They can hunt him down and charge him with attempted murder. Right?”

I wasn’t interested in Kyla’s question. What I needed to know was something far more personal. “Sis, this might be uncomfortable for you, but I have to know. So, be honest. How long have you known about Rachel’s high school pregnancy and abortion?”

I wasn’t expecting such a quick and hurtful response. “Since eleventh grade.” Kyla’s eyes teared as she mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

“One last question, for now. I know you have things to do.” Today was Thanksgiving, and Kyla had volunteered to help with the community meal at the church. She used a napkin to wipe her eyes. “To your knowledge, who else was aware of Rachel’s situation?”

This time she paused, like she was alphabetizing a long list of names. “Jane, Lillian, and me. Ray and Rachel, of course, and their parents.”

“Kyle Bennett?”

Kyla shook her head. “Not that I know.”