Author: Richard L. Fricks

I hate hot and prickly tasks, but that’s what Sunday afternoon and half of Monday morning brought my way. Although the weather was warm for late November, it was a marathon of physical activity and the barn loft’s inadequate airflow caused seven hours of profuse sweating. To my surprise and consternation, Kyla thrived. Without a handkerchief in sight, she drank coffee during our rare breaks while I swiped my face, head, neck, and arms with Dad’s old bandannas between gulps of bottled water. When it related to the farm, Kyla had always been the boss.

After she purchased the five Nubians, the goat man had related that alfalfa hay was the best source of roughage given the condition of the farm’s pasture. Lucky for Kyla, the business-savvy goat expert had a hundred and fifty bales available, and all for the cheap price of $600. My gullible sister took the bait, hook, line, and sinker, and called my name when the delivery arrived.

It was after 11:00 when I hefted the last bale through the barn loft’s paint-peeling door and scurried up the ladder to satisfy Kyla’s weird hay-stacking fetish.

***

After taking a cold shower, I flipped on my old window unit air conditioner, repositioned my Lazy Boy, and dialed Connie Dalton.

She answered on the first ring. I was glad we had exchanged texts earlier this morning. That icebreaking had revealed she wasn’t hostile to my call.

“Hello.” Her voice sounded much younger than I’d expected, almost like a teenager. From Bert, I’d learned her late-term abortion occurred in 2011 when she was twenty-five. That would make her thirty-four now.

“Hi Connie. This is Lee.” I didn’t repeat my last name. “Is now a good time to talk?” In my text, I’d promised I’d call before noon. Given the subject, I wanted to be extra sensitive.

“It is.” I heard arguing in the background, younger kids, girls, I think. “Hold on, let me close this door. The twins are at it again.”

“Okay, take your time.” While I waited, I heard Connie firmly, but respectively, instruct her kids to be kind to one another and remember Tolstoy’s calendar. I understood her first statement, but not the latter.

“Sorry about that. The kids are out-of-school today, teacher workday or something.”

Connie and I spoke ten minutes off-topic. From Bert, she had learned about me, Rachel’s suicide and my widowhood. He had warned me the conversation might be uncomfortable and shared that the best way to get our interviewee talking openly was to personalize myself, the questioner. Before Connie took the lead and transitioned us to the purpose for my call, she had given me an insightful perspective on the pain Rachel likely experienced before ending her life.

Connie and Lawrence married in 2007. Their son William was twenty-one months old at the time of the abortion. The couple had not planned the pregnancy but were happy. That changed over the next several weeks.

A sonogram at week twenty-nine revealed the network of cavities in their baby’s brain was larger than normal. Connie’s doctor referred her to a specialist. It was two weeks later, after another sonogram, that the couple learned their baby had a brain abnormality. The part of the child’s brain that connects the right and left hemispheres was missing. It didn’t exist.

The specialist told Connie and Lawrence their baby could never suck or swallow and would likely suffer from uncontrollable seizures after birth. There would be no end to the medical attention and care needed. The baby’s quality of life would be nonexistent.

Connie shared how at first, she blamed herself for not detecting the problem much earlier, but the specialist assured her that would not have been possible.

For several minutes, Connie’s mind and memory returned to 2011. Her sorrow and grief figuratively leaked through our phone connection. Finally, after what seemed minutes of her soft, semi-controlled crying, Connie said, “Lawrence and I faced the most horrible dilemma. We could end sweet Justin’s life and spare him unspeakable pain and suffering, or we could follow the religious teachings we’d held sacrosanct all our lives. Our decision was straightforward. How could any normal human being decide otherwise?”

I responded with, “you two were loving, and courageous.” I really didn’t know what to say, but I wholeheartedly agreed with their decision.

Connie, now more in control, continued. “What once was pure joy became unbearable. For several days, back home considering our options, sweet Justin persisted in kicking my belly. I finally realized his kicks were not playful but were his only way of screaming his pain. This realization was the final straw. God or no God. It would be inhumane to not give our dear baby the peace he deserved.”

The time had come. Per instruction from Bert, I asked a mind-numbing, heart-stopping question. “If you would be so kind and courageous, please share how Justin’s life ended and how you and Lawrence dealt with it.”

Connie didn’t hesitate. “The doctor used a sonogram to find the baby’s heart. He gave me an injection through my stomach to stop it from beating. My baby gave me one last kick. I believe it was to assure me of two things, that he loved me, and everything was going to be okay.”

That’s when I cried. It was the saddest story I’d ever heard. “I’m sorry,” I said. As quickly as it started, my sorrow turned to anger. The steady drone of “abortion is murder” from right wing evangelicals exploded in my mind. In the seconds before Connie shared her next thought, I shook my head in amazement at how ignorant, no, stupid, humans can be. If not for religion and what the Bible supposedly says, humanity would stop painting every issue as black and white. The world is full of gray. For an unknown reason, I was glad I’d gone to law school and gained critical thinking skills.

“Your crying assures me you are a genuine human being.” Connie paused for a few seconds. “As to the second part of your question, I delivered sweet Justin at the end of my thirty-second week. Deceased, of course, but beautiful, a spitting image of William.” I had planned on ending our call by asking what life was like today for Connie and her family. However, she beat me to it. “Now, although we have three healthy children, William, almost thirteen, Carrie and Lauren, eight going on eighteen, Justin is still with us. The only difference is he isn’t suffering. He’s healthy and headstrong.”

I think Connie would have continued her daydreaming if all three of her kids hadn’t rushed in and announced they had found a turtle on top of the tarp covering the swimming pool. “Sounds like you need to go. Thank you for sharing your story with me, Bert, Yale Law School, and the world. We will do everything we can to protect the right to late-term abortions in situations like yours.”

After our call ended, I cried some more, wishing life didn’t include such tragic events.

***

I stayed in my chair another thirty minutes, reliving the pain of losing Rachel. It didn’t take long to realize I was heading toward despair, something I’d often done during the past year. It normally took at least twenty-four hours to resurface. I lowered my footrest and stood. I didn’t have the luxury of time, not with tomorrow’s court appearance looming.

Twenty minutes later, my mind was unwilling to focus. I moved to the kitchen table and scanned Alabama’s eminent domain statute, and two federal circuit cases I’d found on point. At 12:30, it was time for a drive to clear my head. Afterwards, I could focus.

By the time I reached the Explorer, my mind was revisiting something Kyla had said yesterday afternoon. Her chosen subject was Lillian, more particularly, her constant presence while the three of us were growing up and her love for the barn loft. Kyla’s last statement before I descended the ladder to hoist up more bales was, “now Lillian has her own barn, red with a big loft. And her pond is gorgeous, complete with its enormous fountain.” These statements, plus my recall that Kyla had said Lillian’s place was on Cox Gap Road, tricked me into an adventure of sorts.

Before departing Kyla’s, I programmed the Explorer’s GPS to guide me to Alexander Road, the other identifier sis had mentioned during my phone call Saturday morning.

The weather had turned cooler since this morning, but the blue sky was ablaze with a brilliant sun. The GPS instructed me to turn left on Beulah Road. As safely as I could, I scanned the screen to get a feel of where I was going. After two miles, I’d turn right onto Highway 168, then proceed south to Highway 431 and make another left turn. From there, I’d drive two miles and turn left onto Cox Gap Road. After another mile, Alexander Road, along with Lillian’s red barn, huge pond, and spurting fountain, would be on my right.

I didn’t expect unsafe twists and turns, so I used my time to make a dreaded call. After speaking with Connie, I recognized two things. One, my mental state wasn’t stable enough to deal with stories seemingly like Rachel’s. And second, I wanted to give all my attention to the mission I’d set for myself here in Boaz.

I reached Cox Gap Road without clearly articulating what that mission was. Regardless, I called Bert and relayed that I wasn’t the right person to interview those who’d experienced a late-term abortion. As expected, he was sympathetic, leaving open the door for my return if I changed my mind.

I passed a six-bay cleanup shop and rounded a corner. I knew instantly that the Norman Rockwell scene before me was Lillian’s place. A large pond, a gorgeous deep green with fountain spurting water ten feet in the air, nestled next to Cox Gap Road. A right turn on Alexander Road led quickly to the driveway and a cute one-story cabin that was fifty yards in front of a like-new red metal-sided barn with a distinguished gambrel roof and an over-sized loft.

I thought about stopping but kept driving. A large, late model black SUV was parked in front of a matching garage at the rear of the cabin. I couldn’t stop my thoughts from venturing across the back porch and inside. I drove another half-mile to a driveway and turned around. A quick calculation yielded forty-eight years as the time span since the silky and sexy Lillian had called me at the University of Virginia and told me she was marrying Ray Archer. That too was the week of Thanksgiving.

Again, I drove past, looking left across the pond and seeing for the first time Lillian sitting inside the gazebo with her head down, probably reading a novel.

I returned to Harding Hillside, hoping the entire time that Lillian hadn’t seen my blue Explorer.

Ray wasn’t interested in cooking breakfast. It was the first morning to awaken without Lillian in the house. He already missed her, even though they hadn’t been intimate for years. After showering and dressing, Ray left the Lodge and drove to Grumpy’s Restaurant in the old Boaz Outlet Center.

A broad-hipped middle-aged server led him to a table along the back wall. The man sitting alone at the corner table next to the windows laid his newspaper aside as another server delivered his food. The man’s profile startled Ray. It was a grown-up version of the young man who had inhabited his dreams for over half-a-century. The man was Kent Bennett, Kyle’s twin brother. Ray had heard he was already in town, five days before Black Friday and Kyle Bennett’s memorial.

Kent noticed Ray staring at him, said “good morning,” and returned to his food. Ray had an idea.

“Mind if I join you?” Ray said once, then twice a little louder, to grab Kent’s attention.

“Sure, do I know you?” Kent knew exactly who he was.

“I’m Ray Archer. From high school. You’re Kent Bennett, right?”

“I am. Ray, I didn’t recognize you.” Kent said, motioning towards an empty chair on the other side of the large round table.

Ray sat. “Aging is brutal, more for me than you. I’ve gained a half-ton, shrunk a couple of inches, gone ghost gray, and turned out a barn full of wrinkles.” Ray stared at the trim, blue-eyed Kent with near-perfect teeth and wondered if his old high school classmate had found the proverbial fountain of youth. Ray’s stomach started a mild revolt as his memory poured forth a brutally cold and bloody image, like a bucket of hot lava. He figuratively shook his head, wondering why and how that thought appeared.

Kent nodded as his server refilled his water glass. “My friend needs to order.” Kent said, motioning towards Ray.

“I’ll have what he’s having.” Ray no longer felt like a plate of grease-saturated bacon, sausage, and eggs. Instead, he opted for a bowl of oatmeal with a side-serving of bananas, grapes, strawberries, and cantaloupe. The server left. “Can I run something by you?” Ray believed himself to be a master manipulator.

“Sure.” Kent was patient. He had his own ‘something’ to run by Ray.

“You may not know, but the City and I are in process of developing a piece of property off Thomas Avenue.”

Kent jumped in. “And you guys are experiencing a temporary delay. Others call it a brick wall.”

“Well, yes. What I wanted to ask is whether you’d have any opposition to us honoring Kyle with a bust, maybe a full statute.”

“Probably not, as long as it is professionally done with a suitably worded plaque.”

Ray continued, as though Kent hadn’t responded. “I call it the Oasis. It’s in the middle of the development with trees, plants, flowers, benches, and will encircle a beautiful fountain.”

“Okay, but with one stipulation. I serve ex officio with the right of final approval?” Kent was just as rich as Ray. But, much smarter.

“Not a problem.” The server delivered Ray’s breakfast and refilled his coffee cup. Kent again declined caffeine.

“I have a question myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Fair enough.” Ray figured Kent would ask for a donation to the Kyle Bennett Charitable Foundation he had established a few years ago. Ray had learned about it through a recent Sand Mountain Reporter article that discussed Kyle’s upcoming memorial.

“That night.” Kent paused. “Let me start over.” Ray now knew Kent’s direction. A day or so after Kyle had disappeared, Kent had approached Ray asking him to confirm the rumor: Ray and Rachel were the last to see Kyle alive.  They had dropped him off just beyond the city dump on King Street at the end of the Bennett’s long driveway. “Why didn’t you take Kyle all the way to the house that night?”

It was a softball question. Ray and Rachel had rehearsed their story a hundred times. “Kyle said he would walk. I guess he wanted to look at the full moon.”

Kent had no follow-up. But he had a different question. “Do you remember the blue and white car Jackie Frasier drove?”

“Are you talking about the custodian and bus driver?” Ray was looking down, eating furiously, hoping Kent wasn’t noticing the sweat popping out on his forehead.

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I remember. A 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air.”

Ray never saw Kent activate his recorder. Not that he thought it likely since it was an APP he’d developed and installed on his iPhone. “Do you remember where he lived? It’s for a story I’m writing.” Kent was nudging Ray further from safety, ten feet out on a scraggly limb.

“Straight across from you and Kyle, didn’t he?”

“That’s right. One more thing if you would be so kind. When you and Rachel dropped Kyle off at the end of our driveway, do you remember seeing Jackie’s Bel Air?”

“Yep, it was parked in front of his old dingy mobile home.”

Kent, and most everyone else in Boaz, knew of the good-hearted Jackie Frasier. The man worked three jobs. Bus-driver, but only in the early morning, then chief custodian five days per week at Boaz High School. By three PM every day except Sunday, Jackie was clocking in at Boaz Spinning Mill for a full nine hours. The shift bell rang straight-up at midnight. Jackie was always home by twelve-twenty. His 1957 blue and white Chevrolet Bel Air was his pride and joy and by far the most valuable thing he owned. It was beautiful and good old ‘Jack’ deserved it.

Kent knew if Jackie was already at home that long-ago Friday night, that Ray had lied to the Marshall County investigator who had interviewed him and Rachel. This aspect of the official report read: “It was a few minutes after ten when me and Rachel dropped Kyle off at the end of his driveway.”

Kent whispered to himself, “If Jackie was home, Ray had lied to the tune of at least two hours. But why?”

It seemed like only a few days since Kent and Kyle had shared a tiny bedroom in the dilapidated old house just south of the city dump. The brittle wooden frame around their northern-facing window guaranteed the twins had an unending supply of putrid smells, everything imaginable discarded from kitchens, bathrooms, garages, restaurants, and a butcher shop on South Broad Street.

Ray excused himself when he saw Mayor King and Pastor T. J. Miller enter Grumpy’s and seat themselves two tables over. “Listen. Kent, thanks for breakfast, but I’ve got some business with the mayor, so I need to run. I’ll see you at the memorial. Maybe afterwards we can talk more about Kyle’s statute.” Ray scurried away, but not before laying down a ten-dollar bill.

For several years after Kyle disappeared, Kent had suspected Ray Archer. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on the exact reason. But he knew Kyle had an odd reaction every time he saw Ray at school and especially during the last week as the tenth graders met to work on their Christmas float. But, as the decades had rolled by, Kent had chalked his feelings up to, well, feelings, just a hunch.

That had changed less than a month ago when he’d received an anonymous package, a box large enough to hold a dozen paperback novels. The package had been postmarked in Birmingham, Alabama on October 2, 2020. It contained a single number ten envelope. Across its seal someone had printed: “Thought you’d be interested.” Kent had been patient and waited a week for a hand-writing analysis. The expert had concluded a woman had written the four-word phrase.

Inside was a form document titled, “Witness Statement.” Along the bottom, in tiny print, was “Marshall County Sheriff’s Department.” Detective Charlie Darden had taken the statement of one Raymond Carl Archer.

Kent took a last drink of water and grabbed his check and Ray’s ten-dollar bill. After paying, he walked outside and headed across the parking lot to Mill Avenue, and on to his room at Key West Inn. He smiled at his luck and voiced his satisfaction: “I never could have dreamed a sit-down with Ray Archer would have been so easy.”

***

Five minutes after Kent paid for his breakfast and left Grumpy’s, Ray told Mayor King and Pastor Miller he needed to review his notes before teaching today’s Sunday School lesson. He exited the restaurant, slid into his Suburban, and drove south to Billy Dyar Blvd. It was only 7:20 and Sunday School didn’t start until 9:30. Ray told himself he had plenty of time for a quick visit to Dogwood Trail.

As he drove south on Highway 431, Ray couldn’t believe he could be so stupid. Somehow, Kent had tricked him. Ray cursed aloud, “why in the Hell did I commit one way or the other? Why didn’t I say I don’t remember if Jack’s Bel Air was home or not?”

Ray continued to curse and almost missed the left-hand turn onto Cox Gap Road. He turned on the radio, hoping to find a calming song, but gave up in thirty seconds. Seeing the pastor of Cornerstone Baptist Church closing the trunk of his car distracted Ray and had the sought-after soothing effect. But not enough to stop his questions. “What kind of story was Kent writing? Why was he so interested in Jackie Frasier?” At the stop sign, Ray convinced himself it all had to do with the upcoming memorial. Ray guessed that as part of his speech, Kent would set out a detailed chronology of what was known about that fateful Friday night.

Ray slowed when he approached Alexander Drive. He wanted to stop and see Lillian but decided against it. Even though he fully intended to woo her back to the Lodge, now was not the time. She might still be asleep, and he didn’t want to upset her. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Lillian’s move foreshadowed the end of his successful life, and the beginning of another phase, one filled with failure and pain.

 At Happy Hill Baptist Church, Ray’s attitude leaned toward positive. Mayor King’s attorney had promised Rob Kern’s opposition to the City’s eminent domain action was doomed. The Hunt House would be demolished, and Rylan’s would be built. The worst-case scenario was a week or two delay.

Ray smiled as he imagined the bulldozers doing their thing, followed by the dump trucks hauling away load after load of debris, that included a key piece of evidence. Then Ray remembered his last conversation with Rachel. That was Halloween a year ago.

She had called during her ride from Birmingham’s airport, declaring there was still time for the two of them to do the right thing. They had argued. He still didn’t know why she had come so far, refused to see him, and then simply vanished.

All he knew was she’d received an anonymous package. Shortly afterwards, she traveled to Alabama. The package had contained copies of the statements the two of them had given to Detective Charlie Darden two days after Kyle disappeared. A scared Rachel believed the case was heating up, and fifty-year-old secrets were about to be revealed.

Ray tried to calm her. Like he always had, but this time it didn’t work. Finally, Rachel had assured him the murder weapon was still where she’d hidden it fifty years ago.

In a sick and morbid thought, Ray was glad Rachel was dead. She was the only one who could incriminate him. Thank God she was successful in her second suicide attempt. And thank God, the destruction of the murder weapon was inevitable.

Ray turned left onto the old logging trail and stopped to unlock and open the gate. Three hundred yards beyond was the barn and the pond in the center of what once was the only clearing on the entire sixty-acre tract. When Ray arrived, the dilapidated barn reminded him again of the brutality of aging. He drove another hundred feet and parked at the same spot he had half-a-century ago.

He sat in the Suburban and closed his eyes, reminded that Rachel had lied to him about the abortion. He considered whether that was her only lie. What if she had lied about the pistol? What if she had removed it from the Hunt House and hidden it somewhere else?

Ray slid out of the Suburban and walked to the water’s edge. He stared at an odd-shaped limb that had fallen from the giant oak behind the barn and someway floated here. The image presented by a large knot and two outstretched limbs from the main branch sent a shiver down his spine. To Ray, it looked like a human head with outstretched arms arising from the pond, and coming back to settle a score?

***

Rosa saw Jane the minute the elevator doors opened. She was standing at a podium across the hall, inside her classroom, a few feet from the rear wall. Jane was reading or meditating.

For nearly a year, Rosa and Jane had been prayer partners. Any time Rosa was in town, the two met in the Ruth Sunday School class before any of the twenty-plus ‘senior’ women arrived. Even when Rosa was out-of-town, no matter the state or country, no matter the time zone, the two always did their best to connect at this hour and have a few moments of prayer.

Rosa paused until Jane looked up. And smiled. It had been Rachel’s wish that her mother and her lifelong friend connect. Rachel’s plea to both women had started as, ‘if something were to happen to me…’

“Hey baby.” Rosa said, walking across the hallway and into the classroom. She wanted to honor Rachel’s wishes, but sometimes this time on a Sunday morning was not the most convenient. Rob was waiting in the car in the rear parking lot. The two were scheduled to speak at a church-wide assembly at Cullman First Baptist. Rosa knew the time was tight.

“Good morning. You look nice. As always.” Jane hoped she would look as young and beautiful as Rosa when she was eighty-six. “Why don’t we pray? I have a little reviewing to do before the girls arrive. I’m having a little trouble describing the end times.”

Rosa smiled, eased around the podium, and wrapped her left arm around the lower back of the tall and thin Jane. “Don’t we all?”

After a few minutes of intercessory prayer, the two women had exhausted Rob, Lee, Judge Broadside, and everyone else loosely connected to the Hunt House dispute. It had been Jane’s idea to limit each prayer session to one issue. She was a big fan of the Gospel of Matthew, especially chapter 18, verses 19-20: “Again, truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.”

The two hugged and recited their weekly post-prayer ritual: “God is good. All the time.” Jane knew the Hunt House situation was in excellent hands.

Rosa departed and Jane wondered why she couldn’t come to peace about another issue. A big one that Rachel had left with her that Rosa knew nothing about.

Rachel and Jane had hit it off from day one in the ninth grade. To those outside their circle, it would not have been unreasonable to think the girls were gay. Even some of their closer friends, Lillian and Kyla, often questioned (in a lighthearted way) the two about whether they would tie the knot before they turned eighteen.

Rachel and Jane shared an openness and intimacy that rivaled the most star-struck couples. Yet, it wasn’t sexual. Rachel and Jane shared most everything, including their deepest fears, failures, and fantasies. And that hadn’t stopped when the MK had returned to China. What troubled Jane now, and ever since her best friend had died, was what Rachel asked her to do.

Elita Ann Kern was born June 1, 1970, at the Tung Wah Hospital in Hong Kong. Three days later, Rachel and Elita (Latin for ‘the chosen one’) were discharged. Rachel returned with her family to their thirteenth floor Hong Kong apartment in the Lower Ngau Tau Kok public housing estate. Elita and her adoptive parents traveled by plane 4,580 miles to her new home in Sydney, Australia. One of Rob’s missionary colleagues arranged the transaction. At the time, all the Kern’s had been told was that the middle-aged couple was well-off, childless, and would provide young Elita with a God-fearing home and every opportunity for health, happiness, and education.

Other than her parents and her diary, Rachel didn’t share the wonderful but sad news of the arrival and departure of Elita Ann Kern with anyone except Jane Fordham.