Category: Novels

I slept horribly. Every time I’d close my eyes, the current edition of the American Bar Association’s law journal would appear. On its cover was a picture of me in an orange jumpsuit. The caption underneath my photo was, “America’s Worst Attorney.” Apparently, the punishment for violating a lawyer’s duty of competence to his client was now a long prison sentence.

As the digital clock clicked to 4:30, I gave up. After showering, dressing, and eating a bowl of Raisin Bran cereal, I headed for the law school. No lawyer likes to be embarrassed. As I made the twenty-minute drive, I secretly hoped the New York legal eagle was only a sparrow.

By 6:30, I’d concluded Rob was smarter than I’d ever imagined. He had been correct to question whether I was a real attorney. My WESTLAW search had produced six cases that addressed the National Registry (officially named National Register of Historic Places), and eminent domain. Each case had wound up in federal court except one. I ignored it and concentrated on the other five. After reading two cases, I realized I had been wrong. Embarrassed or not, as an attorney, I had to follow the truth wherever it led.

The case whose facts were closest to the Hunt House was out of the seventh circuit (Illinois, Indiana, and Wisconsin). It originated in South Bend, Indiana in a state trial court but was quickly moved to federal court. The National Registry was the issue that gave the Feds jurisdiction. Ultimately, the property owner lost but the appeals court’s reasoning turned on the fact the real estate had once been a commercial warehouse.

I kept looking. One case I’d initially skipped now looked promising. It had originated in Macon, Georgia, which was part of the Eleventh Circuit. Alabama is also in this circuit. My interest was not because of the Court’s ultimate ruling. It was the attention it had given to a temporary injunction. What made the analysis so powerful was that it was controlling law. Since I hadn’t found a single case on my issue that had made it to the U.S. Supreme Court, I had to depend on a lower federal court’s ruling. Any other analysis and ruling on temporary injunctions could be used, but they would only be persuasive authority, not controlling. Of course, all federal circuits might think the same way on this issue, but I didn’t have the time, nor interest, to chase that rabbit.

However, I was curious enough to review the only case I’d found where a state appeal’s court had considered the National Registry’s effect on a local municipality’s eminent domain action against a private landowner. It originated in Dubois, Wyoming. The property was Twin Pines Lodge, on Highway 287, the heartbeat of downtown Dubois. It was built in 1913 and operated for years as a hotel. The thing I liked most about this case was the unquestioning viability of razing the Lodge and constructing a mega-mall, including three restaurants and forty other stores. But the learned Wyoming Supreme Court justices gave a long and inspiring opinion including two pages weighing the importance of the past and comparing it to expected profits in the future. History won. I particularly liked the last sentence of the paragraph addressed to the National Registry: “The National Register of Historic Places included Twin Pines Lodge for one simple reason: to preserve and protect our past. Economic progress is too high a price to pay to lose physical proof of the rough and tumultuous journey we’ve trod to get us where we are today.”

I printed a copy of Twin Pines Lodge vs. City of Dubois. It felt more than persuasive. I was ashamed to admit that all I had really wanted to find this morning was some legitimate way to slow down Judge Broadside’s ruling. For the first time, I realized the Hunt House was a national treasure. Losing it to another shopping center, one in existence simply to generate a few more sales tax dollars for the City’s till was clearly too high a price to pay. Even if the citizens of Boaz didn’t realize it.

But there was another issue I had to address before I could draft and move for temporary injunctive relief. I wasn’t a member of the Alabama Bar. Thankfully, each state had a procedure to resolve my problem. It’s called Pro hac vice. These Latin words mean, “for this occasion.” It is a legal term for adding an attorney to a case in a jurisdiction that does not license him, in a way the attorney does not commit the unauthorized practice of law.

I quickly searched the Alabama Bar’s website and wasn’t surprised by its rules. I had to associate with an attorney who was already a member in good standing with the Alabama State Bar. Then, that attorney had to file a verified application for my admission to practice. It was a lot to ask of another attorney. I’d need to find one who didn’t have a conflict with the City of Boaz, one who wouldn’t require me to travel to his office for a personal interview before he would agree to our association.

Thankfully, I already knew who I would call. And, even better, his office was in old downtown Boaz. Micaden Tanner was a high school classmate. Although we had not been close friends, I always sensed a mutual respect. I hadn’t seen him since graduation in 1972, but I had talked with him once. It was the year 2000 when I was working for the U.S. Department of Justice in Washington, D.C. He had called to ask the name of the best Assistant U.S. attorney to talk with in the Civil Rights Division. We had promised each other to stay in touch. Promises we both had neglected. Until now.

Fortunately, I reached him on my first attempt. Unfortunately, I was running out of time before my 8:00 AM Torts class, and Micaden was ten minutes from having to depart for a motions docket in Calhoun County. After exchanging pleasantries, I went for the jugular. “I need to associate with a local attorney in a case against the City of Boaz.”

Before I could go further, he responded, “the Hunt House?” He didn’t pause for my acknowledgment. “The sons of bitches respect nothing or no one unless it lines their pockets.” I liked a straight shooter, even if I didn’t fully understand his bold statement.

I confirmed I needed authority to represent Rob and Rosa Kern in their defense of the Hunt House. “I’m hoping you don’t have a conflict.”

“No. Never. I’ve always represented the little guys, those who don’t have a chance in hell against the big boys. But I must warn you. How long has it been since you lived here?”

“Early August 1972, right before I moved to Charlottesville, Virginia. Why?”

“As long as you keep David and Goliath in mind, you’ll be okay.”

I didn’t question his analogy, since his secretary came in and announced his need to leave for Anniston.

“After I’m admitted, assuming Judge Broadside approves my application, I want to move for temporary injunction.”

Again, Micaden was quick to jump in. “I’ll have Tina email you the application. Complete and return it to me ASAP. I’ll have it on Judge Broadside’s desk by noon if you do your part. Talk later.” The line went dead without a goodbye. I too disliked chit-chat.

I grabbed my Prosser, Wade, and Schwartz tome and headed to my 1L Tort class. Mostly, 1L’s (first-year students) spend their time on the law school’s first floor, 2L’s on the second, and 3L’s on the third. Administration sandwiched my office between two smaller classrooms and was easily accessible to 3L’s and professors alike. Although I enjoyed teaching the more advanced classes, after Rachel died, I’d requested permission to teach introduction to torts. There was something special about witnessing a mental toddler transform into a hair-splitting adult. It was as beautiful as observing the caterpillar-to-cocoon-to-butterfly process.

After class and interacting with a couple of students, including answering a false imprisonment hypothetical, I returned to my office via the stairwell. Rachel would be proud.

It took less than half an hour to print the Pro hac vice application and return it to Micaden’s secretary. I halfway expected her to call with at least a clarification question or two. She did not.

I spent the rest of the morning with Lauren Araya, a 3L, having a problem with the essay she was writing for the Yale Law Journal, the student led publication.

At noon, I ate my sack lunch and closed my eyes. I semi-dozed twenty minutes before my iPhone alarm sounded. This practice had become valuable.

For the next three hours, behind a locked door, I read and graded case briefs written by my Appellate Advocacy students. Naturally, all 3L’s. The best students always impressed me with their ability to set out the Statement of Facts in narrative form.

At three-twenty, Gina tapped on my door and whispered she had an emergency. I took a break and learned her daughter had suffered a broken tooth during soccer practice.

I whisked her away right as Professor Stallings stuck his head inside my open doorway. As usual, he didn’t tarry. He stayed just long enough to learn I had called Connie Morgan but had to leave a message. I took the liberty of succinctly stating she might lead to another prospect.

At four fifteen, once again my iPhone sounded. This time, it was a phone call from Micaden’s office. I answered, assuming there was a problem. “Lee, is now a good time to talk.” I affirmed. “Okay, hold for Mr. Tanner.”

Tersely, he said: “Good news and bad news. Shit, I’m getting windy. Judge Broadside approved your application and is demanding we both appear at next Tuesday’s hearing.”

I felt woozy. I’m glad I’m not the fainting type. All along I had failed to consider real life law practice in the South. Why can’t Alabama judges make conference calls or even online video exchanges, especially with attorneys living a thousand miles away? “Gosh, are you kidding?” I already had my answer. Micaden wasn’t the kidding type.

“No. Be glad you’ve got a cushy teaching job. Judge Broadside is hell on wheels. It was your motion for temporary injunctive relief that raised his dander.”

“How did he know that? That motion hasn’t been drafted.”

“Trust me, it’s better I forewarned him. Why else would you be getting in the case? Shit, you have to do more than kiss the city attorney’s ass.”

Micaden had a point. I had nothing to say except thanks.

He quickly responded with, “Send me a copy of your draft motion. If possible, have it here early. Tomorrow.” The line went dead. My high school classmate certainly wasn’t a chit-chatter, but he clearly wasn’t passive.

Damn, what had I gotten myself into?

The house was hot when I arrived home. I walked to the thermostat in the den: eighty degrees. Sophia, no doubt. The pleasant and trustworthy Hispanic woman had been our housekeeper for over ten years. Rachel had met her at school and determined she was the hardest working of the high school’s four custodians, and with her large family, was interested in a little extra money. The only thing negative, if that’s what you call it, was that the polite, shy woman was extremely cold natured.

From the beginning, we had granted her permission to turn up the central heat. Apparently today, she had forgotten to return the setting to its usual sixty-eight degrees. One would think dusting and vacuuming, along with all the other chores Sophia completed every Tuesday, would keep her body toasty warm. I opened a can of Chicken Noodle Soup and set it to simmer while I walked to the master and changed clothes. Jogging shorts and a tee-shirt were proper attire for the tropical weather.

I let my laptop boot-up while my dinner finished warming. I also dialed Rosa’s cell phone (Rob hated them). No answer. I left a message requesting a callback tonight if convenient. I suspect they found a Baptist church in the back hills of New York or Pennsylvania that was holding an all-week revival. Of course, this was just a guess, but certainly not out of the question.

Since Rachel died, I had abandoned my desk in the master and used the table in the breakfast nook for household business, including online bill paying, and responding to personal emails. The latter had dwindled to a small trickle, my sister Kyla notwithstanding. Mainly, I used my laptop on the weekends to review the coming week’s lesson plans and to read relevant law. Law, law, law. I guess I shouldn’t feel so guilty when I occasionally spent time at the law school on personal business.

I poured my soup and crumbled some crackers. Unsurprisingly, an email from Kyla was waiting. Ashamedly, I almost didn’t open it. For the past two weeks, all she wanted to talk about was Harding Hillside (Mom’s idea from the 50s when her and Dad bought the farm), plans for a large garden next spring, and a growing fetish for Anglo-Nubian goats. I guess a forty-plus year executive had earned the right to “return to nature,” as Kyla described her in-progress transformation. Apparently, she had done well for herself financially because she had paid me $125,000 cash for my share of Harding Hillside after Mom and Dad died. My one-year younger sister could afford a few Nubians.

“Good evening to my favorite brother.” Kyla’s email had arrived ten minutes before I’d driven into the driveway. She had picked up where she had left off in her Saturday correspondence: a barrage of reasons I should fly to Alabama and stay with her over the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend. The main reason was to get me away from New Haven and away from 58 Ansonia Road in particular, since time was fast-approaching the one-year anniversary of Rachel’s suicide. Kyla had ended her plea with an argument that I should be the one who reviewed and inspected Dad’s clothes and personal items to determine what goes to Goodwill and what travels to New Haven.

The subject of Kyla’s second paragraph never failed to sicken me in a way nausea never had. It was Kyle Bennett’s 1969 disappearance. She referenced an article in today’s Sand Mountain Reporter (I wouldn’t receive the Tuesday edition until tomorrow at the earliest; probably Thursday). I clicked on a photo Kyla had taken of the brief article. Seeing Kyle sitting in front of a white background in his football jersey carried me back to the moment after the parade, the moment we’d separated and I’d gone home, and he’d gone on to what I now believe was his death.

I read how twin brother Kent was upping his reward offer to half-a-million dollars and that he, with the City of Boaz, was planning a memorial of sorts, an event to honor the life of young Kyle. The date surprised me. Black Friday, the Friday after Thanksgiving, the twenty-seventh. It was to be held at Old Mill Park and would feature songs by Mountain Top Trio and long-delayed eulogies from a few of Kyle’s closest friends. Kent had located the three founders of the once-famous band that had formed in the eighth grade. Until his death, Kyle had been their business manager and events coordinator.

I ate another spoonful of soup and closed my eyes, considering how I felt about traveling to Alabama and attending Kyle’s memorial service. I recalled the decision I’d made a year ago. Kent and the City had attempted this event last year, on the fiftieth anniversary of Kyle’s disappearance. That was before the completion of Old Mill Park. The city had arranged the use of the football field, but for several reasons, including Kent’s emergency trip to one of his plants in Japan, the planning had evaporated. My decision last year not to attend had only added to the guilt I always felt. I decided I was halfway open to attending when the house phone rang.

It was Sophia apologizing profusely for leaving the heat set so high. I told her not to worry. I thanked her for washing my bedclothes and for, as always, making the house smell so clean. “It’s my secret spray.” She said in broken English, although she’d lived in America for over twenty years. Sophia also apologized for losing my place in my book. At first, I thought about the Lawrence Block novel laying closed on my nightstand with bookmark inserted. After two more sentences, I gathered she was referring to Rachel’s diary, the one I had left open, face-down on the coffee table. I had forgotten to hide it this morning before leaving for work. Sophia said it had closed when it fell to the floor, and she didn’t know what to do. Again, I told her not to worry about it. I recalled Rachel saying Sophia could barely read.

I stored my bowl and spoon in the sink and checked on the diary. I returned to my laptop and Kyla’s email. After writing a long paragraph on the therapeutic benefits of closure (her subtle argument for me to travel to Boaz), she referred to another article, one in today’s Huntsville Times I could access via their website. The title, “There’s More than One Way to Skin a Cat,” showed it might be a funny story about a young boy or girl overcoming a speech impediment or outsmarting a playground bully, or a newly discovered Amazonian method of preparing a wildcat for boiling. But I was wrong. And shocked.

I didn’t visit the website but read Kyla’s abbreviated summary instead. The Times investigative reporter had assisted an associate with the Tennessee Sentinel in uncovering a scheme between Knoxville’s mayor and two councilmen, and the developer of Rylan’s, an expensive thirty-store shopping center in the heart of downtown. The scheme involved an elaborate kickback plot. “Wholly unfounded,” was the response from the lawyers for Ray Archer, the mayor, and councilmen. “The evidence will vindicate our clients.” Oh yeah, I bet that’s the truth. Ray’s coattail had gotten caught up in criminal conduct. No surprise there.

I chose not to think about Ray Archer except to wish him a future in prison. Instead, I read Kyla’s last paragraph. It was another long one.

It was almost a blow-by-blow accounting of Lillian Archer’s morning visit. The word ‘scheme’ returned to the forefront of my mind. Kyla had always liked Lillian more than Rachel. Of course, sis had never said this in so many words, but she didn’t have to. I can recall Kyla’s advice to me as we sat next to each other in the Boaz High School auditorium during our Baccalaureate service. “You need to ask Lillian to marry you. Long distance is a relationship killer.” By this time, the University of Virginia had granted me a full academic scholarship, and Lillian had committed to pursuing her dream of becoming a professional cheerleader. She had decided a few months earlier she was going to try out for the Alabama Crimson Tide cheer squad.

Lillian had liked the goats and Kyla’s new front porch swing. In fact, over a Tuna-salad lunch, the wife of Ray Archer had asked about me and whether my sister knew if I was coming to Kyle’s memorial. I must admit; it was good to hear, albeit secondhand, that the beautiful Lillian Bryant, my high school girlfriend of almost two years, had admitted she had made a big mistake in choosing Ray over me.

***

I didn’t tarry thinking about Lillian, given my overwhelming guilt at failing to protect the two most important people in my life: Kyle and Rachel. I sure didn’t need to add to the pile by fantasizing, albeit honorably, about the wife of Ray Archer.

Now, to Rachel’s diary. After deciding against reading them chronologically, I made a quick trip to the basement, returning with ROME. This one was after Rachel’s overdose, the period from April 25, 2019, through November 27, 2019. I sat in my Lazy Boy and flipped to the very last page. It was odd Rachel had written her last entry the day she hung herself. She had been rather terse: “I’m tired of living and hiding my past.”

I read and reread the words a dozen times, yielding nothing but a sense of failure and awareness that I could not give Rachel the peace and hope she deserved. A better person would have been capable of protecting his wife from anything and everything, especially her past. For a second, I became angry. The past. So what? Many people have horrible pasts but live fulfilling lives. It reminded me I was about to embark on a journey to learn about other women who had experienced late-term abortions. What was it about Rachel’s teenage abortion that kept her mind so shackled? It seemed Christian beliefs made this chain around her neck so much worse. Ironic. Wasn’t Christianity all about forgiveness? Yet Rachel, the one who was so open about her faith and Jesus’ promise she would spend eternity in Heaven, struggled mightily. Maybe she open-armed believed Jesus had forgiven her for all her sins yet could not forgive herself.

Rachel spent the first ten days following her failed suicide attempt at Yale New Haven Psychiatric Hospital. The impressive facility was seven miles from home and a mile and a half from the law school. I had spent every hour the staff would allow at Rachel’s bedside.

After they discharged her, Rosa and Kyla moved in. Until now, reading Rachel’s words, I thought the two-week period was happy and helpful. “I know they mean well, but they are visual reminders of my past.” This statement ended Rachel’s May 16th entry.

The following day, Kyla and Rosa drove away after Rachel insisted she was fine, needed some space, and had a duty to her students (Rachel never returned to teaching). Somehow, my dear wife convinced her mother and sister-in-law that she had learned her lesson.

The next entry was three pages, the longest I’d read so far, including last night. Rachel was reliving a nightmare. Below, I summarize what she had written.

After leaving Boaz at the end of 1969, the plan had been for Rachel and her family to return in two years to the Hunt House for another furlough. That had changed when Randy had moved to New Hampshire to attend the infamous Phillip Exeter prep school (its alumni include people like Mark Zuckerberg, David Eisenhower, Jay Rockefeller, and eighteenth-century Daniel Webster). This would be Randy’s ninth grade year. Rachel’s interest and ultimate decision to move to Charlottesville to attend the University of Virginia also played a role in two things.

One was Rob and Rosa’s decision to skip furlough and move to Taiwan. The second was their decision to lease the Hunt House to Barbara McReynolds and allow her to convert the historic home into a bed-and-breakfast.

What made me question last night’s conclusion that Rachel had been joking about hiding Ray Archer’s pistol, was a statement buried in the final paragraph of the May 27, 2019, entry: “I wish I had somehow traveled to Boaz to better secure the pistol, but Dad had bought my airline tickets and even more important, controlled my allowance. I simply didn’t have the funds. But maybe that’s like a lot of things I worry about that never happen. I doubt Barbara will ever have a reason to notice the board above the doorway at the top of the rear stairwell.”

I almost returned to the basement to grab BERLIN. I suspected it contained additional details concerning the hidden pistol since the time frame included the early January 1970 travel and the family’s first six months of living in Hong Kong.

But I stayed put and questioned why Rachel would write about something that happened so long ago. She was recovering from her overdose and what would naturally be a traumatic ten days in a psych ward. Now, looking back, I wondered if journaling was a way to convince herself she needed to get it all out one final time and finally forgive herself (not only for her abortion but, damn, for obstructing justice). Of course, it is uncertain whether Rachel ever forgave herself. What seems likely is she never could forget. Why else would she hang herself less than six months after her first failed suicide attempt?

Somehow, I fell asleep pondering a single question. A vibrating cell phone awakened me at 10:30. It was Rosa.

“Hello” stumbled from my lips.

“Sorry to call so late. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“That’s okay. Can you put your phone on speaker where I can talk to you and Rob?” I’d much rather talk with my mother-in-law.

“I’m listening.” Rob responded, gruff as ever. They were a step ahead of me.

I spent at least ten minutes summarizing my legal research and the details of my phone call to the Clerk’s office. My in-laws were unaware of next Tuesday’s hearing. Rob accused the city and the court of conspiring against him. He had a few choice words for Judge Broadside. I tried to convince Rob (Rosa seemed willing to do whatever I suggested) his best option was to take the half-million dollars. I confirmed he had verified the value with a local appraiser. After Rob cooled down and the conversation crawled to silence, I expressed my sympathy and apologized for not being able to do more.

That’s when Rob asked an embarrassing question. “What about our house being a national treasure?” I admitted to myself that I had failed to consider the Hunt House and the National Historic Registry. That issue, an exception to typical eminent domain law, was missing from all the cases I’d read. Something else I kept to myself. I had only read Alabama law.

“I’m not sure if that applies to your case, but I’ll check on it tomorrow.” I said, feeling like a D level law student.

“You do that.” I could see Rob waving his hands in frustration. He must have stepped away from Rosa’s phone, but I clearly discerned his words, “and he calls himself an attorney.”

Rosa apologized for Rob’s comment and behavior. We exchanged a friendly salutation and said our goodbyes. Before I could return my iPhone to the end table, she called again and said she meant to tell me that Rob had spent $250 consulting with a New York attorney. One that Randy somehow found. The man, the New York legal eagle, had advised Rob to use the Hunt House’s historic status as a defense. He said that at a minimum it would throw a wrench into the court’s timetable.

Again, Rosa and I said goodbye. I sat dumbfounded and shook my head sideways. No wonder I stopped practicing law almost twenty years ago. The pressure of being thorough, of being right, was relentless when the lawyer has a client’s livelihood or life on the line.

Professor Stallings was sitting at his secretary’s desk facing the hallway when I exited the third-floor stairwell. He was on the phone, and I was ten minutes early. He motioned me inside and through a wooden arched doorway that led to his giant office in the corner.

I nodded and smiled and settled into a leather armchair facing the large metal desk that was at least fifty years old, likely present when he’d become an associate professor in the early seventies.

Bert Stallings, now approaching eighty-seven years old, was the heart and soul of Yale University’s Law School. He’d shared different aspects of his storied life with me ever since I’d arrived in 2000. He and his wife, Mary, now deceased, had frequently dined with Rachel and me at our home. Although he was an excellent teacher, his claim to fame (my phrase, not his) was his work on behalf of women’s rights. His most notable case was Roe v. Wade, the 1973 U.S. Supreme Court decision that gave women the exclusive right over their bodies. The Court held women had the unfettered right to have an abortion if it took place during the first trimester of the pregnancy. That forty-seven-year-old case was a world away from the current religious and political environment.

Recently, the Republican controlled Senate had confirmed a far-right winged woman to replace the heroic Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The new justice adamantly opposed a woman’s right to choose. Thankfully, there was Bert Stallings and his exceptionally talented team, who had the courage and humanism to fight the religious takeover of the highest court in the land. I was excited and honored Professor Stallings had asked me to take part. Although limited, it was an honor to play a small behind-the-scenes role in defending the right of every woman to choose what to do with her own body.

While waiting on Bert to end his phone call, I thought of Rachel and what I’d told her at the cemetery Saturday morning. It was only a tiny fib. “I’ve agreed to help Professor Stallings with the interviewing.” I had already made my decision, but it would be today before I officially agreed. Sometimes I split too many hairs. Rachel would understand what I had meant by “agreed.”

“Good morning, Lee, so nice to see you.” The man had the energy of a forty-year-old. His head full of gray hair declared he was much younger than three years shy of ninety. He patted me on the back and made his way into a chair equally old as his desk.

I smiled. My eyes glinted as the sun rose higher in the eastern sky. Bert always had the bank of windows along the outer wall open, even in the hottest weather. Today, it was in the upper forties with a stiff breeze. Papers fluttered at the right corner of his desk.

“I just talked to Connie Dalton. She’s open to your call. I told her it would be within a week.” Bert held a yellow sticky note across his desk. I leaned forward in my chair and took it. It contained Connie’s name and two phone numbers. The word “Montgomery” was at the bottom.

A week ago, Bert had called me to his office and provided a quick summary of what he was planning. He asked me to locate and interview as many women as I could, and not just any woman. Bert provided a written profile. The women had an abortion in the past ten years with a story that relayed the importance of late term procedures to end the life of their baby. Bert wanted me to assemble a bank of data that supported his position that not only was Roe v. Wade properly decided, in fact, it didn’t go far enough. Somehow, he knew there was a case to be made for certain abortions after the baby was beyond the first trimester in age.

“One question,” I said. Before I could ask, Bert’s secretary walked to his desk and laid a note in front of him.

“Sorry Lee, I need to take this call.” He scribbled something on the back of a card. “Send your reports to this email address.”

I stood, accepted his note, and gave an affirmative nod. Professor Stallings is a busy man.

***

I always feel guilty when I use over thirty minutes of my law school day on personal business. It’s not rational since, while at home, I often think of case or statutory law that applies to upcoming lessons.

Today, I didn’t have but two classes, so I added a heavy dose of guilt to my already gigantic pile. I spent at least four hours researching the current status of Alabama’s law dealing with the doctrine of eminent domain. At 4:30 p.m. Eastern Time, I phoned the Marshall County Circuit Clerk’s office and spoke with a soft-spoken woman named Edith. Of course, she didn’t know me from Eve’s hamster but was cordial, respectful, and eager to answer my questions.

Normally, a lawsuit isn’t necessary when a city or state invokes its intent to take property from private landowners. Even if they oppose the taking or believe the government agency isn’t offering fair market value, negotiations themselves resolve the issues. It’s only when the property owner refuses to sell that the government makes use of the court system’s power.

This was happening in the City of Boaz vs. Rob and Rosa Kern. My in-law’s adamant opposition (it was mostly Rob) had left the city no choice but to file a civil case: CV—2020—194837. I’d asked Edith to read the Case Action Summary. The city had filed its lawsuit on October 9th. A private investigator by the name of Buddy Hutton had served the Complaint and Summons on my in-laws the morning of the eleventh. Rob, without counsel, had responded less than a week later with a handwritten note adamantly, often rudely, opposing the City’s action. The Circuit Court Judge, Waymon Broadside, had ruled on October 18th that Rob’s filing would serve as the Defendant’s official Answer.

What surprised me was the Judge had set a hearing for a week from today, November the seventeenth. A further surprise came when Edith, acting as though she was my paralegal, relayed the judge had issued a tentative Order. I wasn’t familiar with the details of the Alabama Rules of Civil Procedure, but this act seemed odd.

Edith, at my request, read the tentative Order. Basically, it said unless the Defendants could show cause why the City’s taking was illegal or its offer understated the property’s fair market value, the Court would grant the Plaintiff’s requested relief. In short, it would grant the City of Boaz fee simple ownership in the Thomas Avenue property known as the Hunt House upon payment of $500,000 to the Defendants. It was clear the only way to stop the ownership transfer was for Rob and Rosa to provide a valid reason (“show cause”). If they did, the Court would be in error to grant the City’s request.

With this information in hand, I left the law school at 5:00, skipped takeout from Bella’s, and drove home. I had two things I needed to do. The first was to call my in-laws with an update. Then, focus on the subject I had done my best all day to keep suppressed at the back of my mind: Rachel’s diaries.

Lillian slept until 7:00. After peeing, she slipped on her housecoat and descended the stairs for coffee and a bowl of cereal. She’d forgotten Ray would be home. He had told her yesterday he was going to prepare the prime rib for tonight’s deacon dinner before going to his Main Street office. He was frying bacon when she entered the kitchen.

“Good morning. Want some eggs?” He knew she hated pork. He also knew she didn’t like chatter or any other noise so early.

“Cereal.” A one-word answer was sufficient. Then she changed her mind. “Can I borrow your car?”

“Which one?” The bacon was almost burnt.

“The SUV. You know I can’t drive a stick shift.” Ray’s 1972 Corvette was still in mint condition, stored in the detached garage next to the bay filled with a Honda four-wheeler, a John Deere Mule, and an assortment of other deer-hunting gear. He knew Lillian’s driving limitation but liked to make her talk.

“When will yours be ready?”

“Hopefully Friday.”

“You can. Be careful.” He was being extra generous, probably a little guilty about something. But he was right to caution Lillian. The Suburban was big and wide.

“Thanks. I will.”

Lillian filled a bowl with her favorite cereal, picking out a few raisins to eat while they were dry, and poured a half-glass of milk. She would wait for coffee until after her shower. Since Ray was in the breakfast nook, she retired to the dining room.

The separation didn’t last long. She was pouring her milk over the Raisin Bran when Ray entered carrying a Southwestern Omelet. “Mind if I join you?”

Since Ray pressed, Lillian figured this was as good a time as any. “Sit and let’s talk. I’m moving to the Corbett place.” This was a house and ten acres Ray had purchased after Betty and Tommy Corbett had moved to Nashville to finish out their days, closer to their two daughters and their families. For the past year, Ray’s renters had been prompt and dependable, but that had changed a week ago when he had taken the long route to the mayor’s house and saw a Ryder moving van backed up to the front porch. The law had been on Ray’s side given the eighteen months remaining on the lease, but Ray had chosen not to pursue the matter. He preferred staying out of court.

Now, with Lillian, he was defenseless, dependent solely on his charm. He chuckled to himself, realizing that card didn’t have a hand to play. Maybe the facts would work. “You know you lose everything if you file for divorce.”

“Ray, I know the prenup by heart.”

“It’s no different if you lure in a cohabitant.” That was an odd way to put it.

“We can negotiate some more. You owe me for what, three or is it now four affairs?” Ray’s weakness for the opposite sex was Lillian’s ACE. She’d played that hand perfectly in the middle of selling the pharmacy chain. She’d threatened to go public with Ray’s philandering. That wouldn’t have caused the sale to fail, but it would have caused a big hit to Ray’s reputation. He valued it nearly as much as his girlfriends. That’s when Lillian had insisted she receive $50,000 every time he had an affair. He’d quickly agreed, even suggesting an amendment to their prenup. In addition, Ray had promised to stop his philandering and swore to be truthful if, by chance, he ever strayed again.

“It’s three. I’ll pay you by the weekend.” Ray stood and as he returned with plate and cold food to the breakfast nook mumbled to himself, “there’s a point Lillian’s not worth the bother.”

Lillian knew it was four. She’d followed the old Reagan saw, ‘trust but verify.’ Thanks to local PI Connor Ford, she had the philanderer dead to rights, inclusive of audio, video, and stills, not to mention the receipts she’d found scattered about in Ray’s favorite hidey-holes.

***

By 10:00 AM, the weekly women’s Bible study had ended. Lillian attended every Tuesday morning, not for spiritual guidance but to get out of the house and to hear the local gossip.

She and Jane walked together to their cars. It was Jane’s way to check in, private and in person, on the reserved Lillian.

“Do you want to grab a cup of coffee?” Jane asked, reaching inside her purse for keys.

“Sorry, I have some errands to run, but thanks anyway.” Lillian fibbed. She loved the smart and sometime sassy old maid who knew the Bible better than the pastor. It was true Jane had never married, but she wasn’t old. In fact, she was the same age as Lillian, 66, and that was still young by today’s definition. Jane was tall and thin with piercing green eyes. She always wore a cross-cropped dark red wig that came a few years ago after two rounds of chemo. The two had been best friends from first grade through middle school, but it hadn’t always been smooth sailing. Lillian had never fully forgiven Jane for being disloyal when Rachel Kern moved to Boaz during the summer before ninth grade. Jane’s excuse for favoring Rachel during that eighteen-month period was God, or more accurately, God’s will. Nearly as important was Jane’s desire to please her Master.

“You know you can talk to me. When you’re not taking part, then you’re troubled.” Jane said, confusing Lillian. She rarely said anything during the Bible study. If she was going to talk fiction, she preferred the John Grisham type. “Oh, I forgot. I saw you and Ray last night in Guntersville.”

“Uh?” Lillian knew this wasn’t true and almost asked questions.

“I was driving south and had just crossed the bridge into downtown. You two were headed north. Huntsville? A late dinner?” Jane opened her Impala’s door and turned to Lillian, expecting an answer.

“Cotton Row.” Again, Lillian fibbed. “Have you ever been?” Jane would never eat at a place that served alcohol. “Later,” Lillian said with a smile, and walked to Ray’s Suburban.

***

Lillian dropped by Y-Mart for coffee. After showering and dressing, she’d chosen to ignore coffee and avoid another encounter with Ray, who was cleaning the kitchen when she exited the Lodge.

Two older teenage boys nearly ran her over as she entered the convenience store. They gawked at her from head to toe. Before the door closed behind her, she heard one of them say, “damn, now that’s a hot old lady.”

Lillian headed for the coffee station with mixed feelings. She knew she hadn’t aged as rapidly as many of her friends. Take Jane, for instance. Lillian’s dark brown hair was silky as ever. And the new bras she had found at Victoria’s Secret gave her boobs that younger look, lifted tight, firm in the imagination, from a distance. But pretty and sexy was vacuous, just thoughtless lust, not anything like genuine romance. Not that she knew anything about that, other than from the clues she picked up from her constant novel reading.

Three containers of Hazelnut creamer and four Splendas. Perfect. Lillian paid her bill and walked outside. The two boys were at the gas pumps. The hood raised on their old Chevrolet pickup. One was pouring in a quart of oil. That one, average height but lean and muscular, cocked his head at her and smiled. His dark hair, red and yellow flannel shirt, and work boots reminded Lillian of Lee Harding. Oh, to go back, to know what she knows now.

Lillian turned to suppress her imagination. She dug seventy-five cents from her pocketbook and bought today’s Sand Mountain Reporter. She walked to Ray’s Suburban, crawled in, almost spilling her coffee in the driver’s seat, and locked the door. An old habit.

She took a long draw on her sweet and nutty coffee before placing it in one of two cup holders behind the gear shifter. She unfolded the newspaper. On the front page, below the fold, was a color photo of Kyle Bennett with a related article titled “Reward Doubled.” Lillian knew it was Kyle’s tenth-grade class picture and not his ninth. She could tell by the red football jersey he was wearing. Red and not crimson. She remembered like it was yesterday. All the new football jerseys had arrived late, just days before the opening game with Guntersville. The delivery had caused quite a stir since the jerseys were red and not crimson and gray. With little choice, Coach Hicks had kept the red jerseys and created quite a stir, more so as the season went by with no change. A year later, Hicks redeemed himself at a preseason pep rally and bonfire by tossing the god-awful reds into the flames.

Lillian first scanned the article. She knew the story well. The city had never forgotten the missing teenager. Neither had his twin brother Kent, who now was offering half a million dollars for information that led to the arrest and conviction of the person or persons responsible for Kyle’s disappearance and death. Even though the police didn’t have a shred of evidence that someone murdered Kyle, what other conclusion could a reasonable person draw?

The article summarized the story. Lee and Kyla Harding and their mother had seen Kyle just after the December 12th, 1969, Christmas parade. The police questioned all three, raising no suspicion. Lee and Kyla had said Kyle was going to the Young Supply Warehouse at the corner of Thomas Avenue and Brown Street to help dismantle the tenth graders’ float and to help Ray Archer return a borrowed PA system to First Baptist Church of Christ.

Ray had admitted Kyle and Lee Harding had promised to meet him at the warehouse and help with the PA system, but neither had shown up. Rachel Kern had alibied Ray’s whereabouts the entire evening until shortly before midnight. She helped him remove the PA System, including delivering it to the church in his pickup. Afterwards, the two drove to a secluded spot-on Cox Gap Road, a property owned by Ray’s father. There, they’d built a campfire and roasted some marshmallows, and spent two hours staring at the stars and the full moon.

Kent now lived in Houston and was a multi-millionaire. After receiving an aeronautical engineering degree from Auburn University in 1976, he spent ten years at NASA. Next was twenty years with Boeing in Seattle. In 2006, he had formed K2, Inc., a high-tech firm that manufactured satellites and drones for the U.S. military.

Lillian refolded the newspaper, took another draw of the still-steaming coffee, and headed east on Mill Avenue. She wanted to see Kyla. At the McVille and Beulah Road intersection, Lillian remembered that night. Lee, Kyle, and she had watched the parade through the windows upstairs at Fred Kings. Kyle was always quiet, but that night he was preoccupied. She and Lee had teased him, accused him of having a secret girlfriend, suggesting she was so ugly he didn’t have the courage to expose her. Now, Lillian pondered Kyle’s response to an off-color question Lee had asked while the Albertville High School cheerleaders and majorettes danced and twirled on the street below. “Courage can be deadly. Sometimes stupid and scared is the wiser path.”

Turning left into Kyla’s long driveway, Lillian pondered whether Kyle’s words had been his feeble attempt to ask for help.

I was in no mood for a salad. After one look, I closed the Styrofoam lid and stuck it in the fridge. Rachel and Gina my teaching assistant for ten years, had conspired against me. Mesclun greens, an assorted mix of lettuce, are high in vitamin A and C. Late this afternoon, I’d asked Gina to order me an Angus Burger from Bella’s. The salad was unrequested.

I returned to the kitchen table and ate my burger. Since Rachel’s death, this had been my Monday night routine: leave my office, walk twenty minutes to Bella’s, pick up my takeout order, and drive home. The twice a day walk was becoming as bad as the Mesclun greens, tomatoes, red onions, olives, and peppers. Gina had made it even worse with that damn balsamic vinaigrette. I made a mental note to set the rabbit food on her desk first thing in the morning.

The Bears were just receiving the Patriot’s opening kick when I sat in my Lazy boy in the den. Like my feelings toward the salad, I wasn’t much in the mood for football, but I knew it was the best sleeping pill I possessed. Like last week, I’d rest here most of the night, turning the TV off when I made my predawn trip to the bathroom.

Nick Foles threw an interception on second down. I liked the 6-foot 6-inch kid, but he was a slow-starter and prone to turn-overs. And he didn’t have Mitch Trubisky’s running and scrambling ability. I muted the sound when a Lumen dating commercial appeared. That seemed an odd choice for the NFL.

A dating APP for those over fifty. It would have been more natural to think of myself, but strangely, my mother-in-law came to mind. It might be because the older woman, jogging, reminded me of a much younger Rosa. My broken promise also came to mind.

Saturday, after exiting Bella’s, I’d promised Rosa I’d take another look for her second most treasured book, after the Bible, of course. I’d spent the balance of Saturday mowing the yard the last time for the year and reviewing several emails from my friend and associate Professor Stallings. Mostly, I’d moped around the house and napped. I spent yesterday at school, prepping for this week’s lectures.

***

I switched off the TV and headed to the basement. My guilt gave me no other choice, even though I’d prefer a very long nap.

The fifteen minutes I spent Saturday morning before meeting Rob and Rosa for breakfast, were the first time I’d made it more than halfway down the stairs since Rachel had killed herself. There were simply too many reminders of my beautiful and brilliant wife.

She had aptly named the twenty-by-twenty-foot space “The Cave,” after we’d moved here mid-summer 2000. By the following January, she’d secured a job at Amity Regional High School and hired the carpenter husband of the school’s secretary. The man, Carlton I believe, had done an excellent job building and installing hundreds of feet of shelving on the four walls inclusive of a built-in desk. A few months later, Rachel had Carlton return and build waist-high cabinets topped with a basic Formica countertop. She naturalized the room by hanging a dozen landscape paintings along the unobstructed paneled walls above the countertops.

Other than a single, chain-pull bulb dangling from the center of the room’s ceiling, the only other light was a three-foot double fluorescent hanging low above her narrow desk and secured by the shelf above. Just like Saturday, I’d brought my flashlight to scan the fully stocked shelves.

After pulling the chain and flipping the fluorescent toggle switch, I sat at Rachel’s desk. Her chair was cloth, maroon-colored, and cheap. It was mobile, with a set of three rollers attached to the base. The seat and back were soft and adjustable. I tried to recall the last time I’d seen her sitting here. I fought sadness and a low rumbling portent of sickness when I recalled it was less than two weeks until the first anniversary of her death. It was the day after Thanksgiving, truly Black Friday. I literally shook my head, refusing to go there.

I rolled her chair back from her desk and switched on my flashlight. I pointed it to three shelves above her desk. Nothing but literature, textbooks and teaching guides, one set for each year she’d taught English at Amity Regional.

I stood, realizing I needed to conduct my search methodically. Each shelf deserved special attention. Before departing Saturday, Rosa had shown me an Amazon photo of Bonhoeffer’s book, including a colorful cover. However, according to Rosa, the book itself was solid gray other than the author’s name and book title on the spine, which were in a light-colored gold. Rosa remembered packing the book and bringing it along while traveling. She thought the cover had gotten torn during a return voyage from China and that she’d kept it tucked inside the book when she’d shipped it to Rachel a few years ago.

My plan was to work from top to bottom, shelf by shelf. I’d start in the far corner at the front of the house. But first, I needed something to stand on. Rachel’s rolling chair would be an accident waiting to happen. My body was stiff enough as it was, even considering my most recent two-mile walk. I made a quick trip upstairs for the stepstool stored in the utility room closet.

The top two shelves contained nothing but works of literature, single and multi-volume. There were works of many famous authors: Jane Austen, William Blake, Geoffrey Chaucer, Charles Dickens, John Donne, and dozens more, all neatly arranged with their spines flushed to the edge of the wood shelves. The stepstool was unnecessary. Thank goodness. With the flashlight, I could easily see the titles, even though they were two feet above my head.

This changed three-quarters of the way down the second shelf. Rachel had stacked the books horizontally, from bottom to top. Some stacks were tightly wedged, leaving at most a hair’s distance from the last one to the underside of the next shelf. But there was a problem. Even though the spine of each book aligned perfectly, Rachel had pushed each row farther back, making it harder to read each stack’s first few books, given the depth of the wooden shelves. I climbed onto the top run of the stepstool and continued using my flashlight. If I heard trickling water, I’d think I was in a cave.

Again, no luck. I conducted my second scan of the seven stacks, seeing only one gray-sided spine, The Mill on the Floss, by George Eliot. It was next to the bottom on the last stack before the ninety-degree turn toward the backyard. I lowered myself to the first step and paused, quickly returning to the top rung. I held my flashlight out as far as I could. There was something beyond the last horizontal stack. It couldn’t be a book, but given my angle, my brain foisted a figurine. Probably one of the Heavenly hosts Rachel collected. The intersection of these two shelves, tucked virtually out of sight, seemed an odd place to feature the harp clad angel. Especially one captured behind a thick bookend that began Rachel’s self-help book collection.

I should have been more careful stepping off the stool. The sole of my right foot slid off the first step. I think I would have fallen if I hadn’t grabbed a bookshelf. Unfortunately, I dropped my flashlight. It broke and was dead the second it hit the floor. I walked upstairs and found an older one in the pantry, but its batteries were too weak to be helpful.

It took fifteen minutes to walk to the garage and extract the portable tripod light-stand from a tangled web of Christmas decorations, ancient sections of gutter, and a rotting, unfolded tarp. I consumed most of this time replacing two halogen bulbs.

The Patriots were up by ten when I passed through the den. I carefully descended the stairs, clumsily tilting the tripod to my left overhanging the basement floor. I don’t know why we never installed an outer handrail.

I plugged in the tripod and focused before climbing onto the stepstool. Removal of the last horizontally stacked literature hardbacks, half-a-dozen self-help paperbacks, and the heavy book end required three round trips down and up the stool. These efforts cleared my way to Michael the Archangel (per the tiny gold label at its base). I was careful to hold the ceramic being in one hand and hold on to the bookcase with my left as I again descended the stepstool. At Rachel’s desk, with the aid of her overhead light, a small key hanging like a backwards necklace around Michael’s neck caught me by surprise.

After removing the tiny key, I tugged on Rachel’s top left drawer. It opened freely. I had always known she kept copies of IEP (Individual Education Plans) for the dozen Special Education students scattered across her roster. She was always serious about each person and their individual learning. The drawer was empty, but I tried the key, anyway. It didn’t fit.

Now, I was curious. I made a quick trip to the utility room upstairs for an extension cord. I moved the tripod to the basement front and focused both lights towards the third shelf. For the first three feet, literature continued. Then there was what appeared to be geography. The upright spine of the first, rather thick book read, “LONDON.” These continued for another two dozen international locations, although two were American cities, Chicago and New York. I adjusted the tripod again and saw that Biographies were next. As far as I could see, each of them was by a famous author, virtually repeating the names of the writers from shelf one and two.

I felt something was odd. But that’s nothing new for me. And most every attorney I suspect. Law school, law practice, and especially law teaching, caused an almost biological gene mutation. The gene for “Distinction.” Or better understood, “Hairsplitting.” I retrieved the stepstool and sat gazing at Rachel’s bookshelves, focusing on the third row from the top, and more particularly the city volumes. After five minutes, I concluded Rachel misfiled them. No wonder lawyers aren’t the life of a party.

However, Rachel was an organizational nut. She was anal about everything: her kitchen, the laundry room, her flower beds, everything school related, not even considering our bedroom closet. For example: clothes categorized by days of the week, and color coordinated. It got worse, the first week of the month, Wednesday’s dominant color was green, second week, red. But everything somehow ignored the garage. She said that was my domain and insisted I keep the roll-ups closed.

There had to be a reason Rachel inserted the city volumes where she had. The only reason had to be a connection between the LIT writers and their domicile, or possibly where they had been born, if different. I moved the stool closer and balanced myself on the second step. I removed LONDON, surprised it wasn’t heavier. My shock came when I saw the small keyhole on the far-right edge of the front cover. LONDON wasn’t really about London, it was a locking book safe, a place where you store (or hide) stuff.

I retreated to Rachel’s desk. The florescent light highlighted the front cover. It was an expert painting of London Bridge, or Tower Bridge, I’m not sure. But after close inspection, one thing was certain, the safe was well crafted and durable.

Of course, I had to try the key. This time it worked. I opened the hinged cover, surprised again. Inside was a slightly smaller book embossed on the soft red cover with “Diary.” I looked inside at the front page. Rachel (I assume) had printed on the From and To lines: “07/01/69 through 12/31/69.” I almost closed the lid and returned LONDON to its third shelf home. Instantly, I recognized the time. It was the final six months she had lived in Boaz, the fall months being our tenth-grade year. I didn’t know for sure, but I believe the 31st was the day Rachel and her family flew from Atlanta to Miami, where they took an ocean liner to Hong Kong.

***

Instead of returning LONDON to its home, I removed the Diary and walked upstairs. After muting the TV, I sat in my Lazy Boy and closed my eyes. Was I really going to jump off this cliff? I couldn’t imagine any narrative that would relieve my pain. After a long minute of pondering, I opened my eyes and turned to page one. My plan was to read a few paragraphs, hoping Rachel’s words were light and happy, simple accountings extracted from her slow-paced days living in the Hunt House with little brother Randy, and a mom and dad who were busy sharing their China adventures with a host of local churches.

Rachel’s first entry was July 3rd. She had printed “World Events,” and underlined it, then listed “1. Prince Charles became Prince of Wales.” And “2. Car crash. John Lennon and Yoko Ono admitted to hospital.”

Then my dear wife started a new section, also underlined, “Local Events.” Other than watching the train and going to Phil’s Pharmacy on Main Street for a cherry-coke float, not much else happened.

Rachel was sporadic in her journal postings. I continued to peruse and saw the same categorization of events on each of her four July entries. The most interesting international event occurred on July 20th: “Neil Armstrong became the first man to walk on the moon. Ray and I watched it on TV at his house.”

I noted she spoke often of a girl named Jane. I didn’t recall such a person. Penciled boldly at the bottom of the July 30th entry was “Miss Ray.”

I kept reading but was growing bored fast. Glancing at the TV, the Bears were making a comeback. I didn’t need the volume to know that. On August 3rd, “Ray returned.” Rachel didn’t say where he’d gone, but took half a page, making a point she could have made in two words. “Missed Ray.” It was hard to say, looking back fifty years, whether it was love or lust that she had longed for.

This was disgusting on several levels, none of which I intended to explore. I hastened my scan. The once or twice week postings were all basically the same; they all concerned either Jane or Ray. I noted an odd word at the end of each entry, “close.” I didn’t have a clue. My first guess was that Rachel was expecting her return to China, that it was close, or was rapidly approaching. By now it was mid-August and school, tenth grade, was in full swing. Nothing interesting was happening on the world stage, but locally Rachel was enjoying Friday night football and times with Ray. “Close.”

Enough. I closed the Diary and set it on the end table. That’s when I noticed what looked like a wooden Popsicle stick two-thirds of the way inside. I couldn’t resist. The bookmark wasn’t a Popsicle stick, it was wider, like those flat wooden object’s doctors used to stick down your throat and ask you to say “ahh.” Written in dark pencil along one side was October 11, 1969. The identically labeled entry started on the left side of the journal. Rachel’s first words, before international news or local events, were, “I’m two months pregnant.”

These four words weren’t really news, but they were. After Rachel’s first suicide attempt 18 months ago, she’d finally confessed to this, and a later abortion. What was news was the details, the context of her entire ordeal. These specifics meant she had gotten pregnant around August 11th, 1969.

I kept reading, assuming I’d happen upon Rachel’s declaration that she had an abortion; it was a fact she and her family had left for China shortly before January 1, 1970. No abortion before their departure would mean the baby would be in its twentieth week. I now wish I’d taken a different tack when Rachel made her confession. Instead of refusing to ask questions—something diametrically opposed to every fiber of my being—I now could kick myself. My next thought was a shocker. Contrary to what I’d assumed, what if Rachel had not had her abortion until after she and her family arrived in Hong Kong? I knew I was correct in concluding that she had simply said, “when I was in the tenth grade, I got pregnant and had an abortion.” Her statement was certainly open to multiple interpretations, especially the time frame.

I fell asleep in my Lazy Boy after reading Rachel’s Thanksgiving weekend entries. There were two, and they were routine. Ray this, Ray that, Jane this and Jane that, half a page about America’s first settlers and their happy meal with the Indians, and finally, a summary of a Walter Cronkite segment: “Betsy Aardsma, 22, student, stabbed and murdered inside the Penn State University library while doing her schoolwork.” Another certainty, Rachel consistently watched the CBS Evening News.

It was 4:45 a.m. when I awoke and had to pee. I made a dash to the bathroom, flipped on the coffeemaker, and returned to the den. I wanted to finish Rachel’s reporting before showering and leaving for the law school.

The first entry since her Thanksgiving accounting brought back a mix of happy and sad memories. She dated it the fifteenth of December and covered two weeks of activities. It was one of Rachel’s longest postings. Friday the twelfth was the Boaz Christmas Parade. During that entire week, freshmen through seniors had built floats. Tenth graders conducted operations from a warehouse across from the Hunt House. I’m pretty sure the property was owned by the Young Supply Company, a hardware and construction materials outfit beside the railroad track. I couldn’t help but recall Kyle Bennett, my closest and best childhood friend. We were both shy and behind-the-scenes type of guys.

If it hadn’t been for the two of us, our Santa with reindeer float would have never materialized. The other students who showed up, other than a girl named Lillian (that’s a different story), were goof-offs and were more interested in flirting and sharing a nightly bottle of Jack Daniels someone had absconded from a parent, than doing any actual work. The float, complete with a high-quality PA system (a loan from First Baptist Church of Christ via Ray Archer’s father), propelled us into a second-place finish.

Kyle and I had attended the parade and watched from the second floor of Fred King’s Clothing Store (Lillian worked there part time and gained access via permission from the owners). As the last high school band and float disappeared, Kyle and I started our return walk to the warehouse. Halfway there, Kyla, my sister, approached and said Mother had ordered us home. “Now.” I think she had somehow caught wind of the drinking and smoking at the warehouse. I argued I had promised to help remove and return the PA system. About that time, Mother, out of the blue, appeared and enforced her order. Kyle told me not to worry, he’d take care of things. That was the last time I ever saw my best friend.

The first three sentences of Rachel’s fourth paragraph literally made me yell in horror and disbelief. “Ray shot and killed Kyle after the three of us dropped the PA system off at the church. Kyle knew too much and was sure to talk. Ray made me hide his father’s pistol at the Hunt House while he disposed of Kyle’s body.”

This had to be a joke. Rachel’s words read so normal, even trite. Her tone did not differ from a description of the turkey and dressing meal she and her family enjoyed Thanksgiving Day.

I was out of time. I laid the Diary on the end table and headed to the master to shower and dress. Professor Stallings and I planned our 7:00 AM meeting a week ago. I made a mental note to unlock and inspect the other book safes when I returned home tonight.

Inside her bathroom, upstairs, Lillian removed the sales tag from a new jogging suit. She laughed to herself, returning the scissors to the top drawer, and stealing a quick glance in the large mirror above the vanity. “Oh boy, I needed that,” she whispered to herself. “Aging is a bitch.” She was naked other than a bikini bra and panties. Stepping into her sweatpants, she moved closer to the mirror. Gone were the firm boobs and abs. Gone was her curvaceous figure of long ago. Even her bright blue eyes were growing darker, sadder. “I need to jog for sure, maybe begin with a daily walk down Skyhaven Drive. Sixty-six is not too late for some radical change.” Again, whispering aloud, then standing mum. She imagined it would take weeks before she could jog back to the Lodge from the foot of the Drive. Hate was the only word she could think of to describe how she felt about the Lodge and Skyhaven.

After dressing, she combed her silky brown hair (Camilla, her hairdresser, hid the gray) and heard the front door chime. Ray’s voice thundered and floated upwards throughout the great room and its twenty-four feet ceiling. It also slithered through the opened bathroom door. “Let’s have a drink.” She knew he had been at Attorney Wright’s office all day with the real estate closings, even though it wasn’t necessary. Archer, Inc. was leasing the property from the City. 

But she didn’t want a drink. She’d rather, well, what? Take a jog? A walk would be more practical. Anything except playing happy with Ray. A second before announcing her declination, Lillian heard a second voice.

“How about some bourbon? We deserve an entire bottle.” It had to be Mayor King. He, like Ray, had spent all day in Guntersville, just to make sure none of the property owners got cold feet. They hadn’t. All had gone as planned. Attorney Wright had even said he was certain Judge Broadside would grant the City’s motion. Clearing the way to acquire the Hunt House.

“Jack and Coke, okay?” Ray’s favorite. Lillian eased to the bathroom door. If he stayed downstairs, he couldn’t see her. She wondered if he knew she was home. But how could he? An hour ago, she had dropped off her Lincoln Aviator at Alexander Ford for service and to investigate that strange grinding noise when she braked. Kyla, her friend, had driven her home and had left only a few minutes ago, after coming inside to borrow Lillian’s copy of Grisham’s new book.

“Where’s Lillian?” Ted didn’t care for Ray’s wife, but he certainly cared about privacy.

“She must still be with Kyla. She’s not here. Her car wasn’t in the driveway or garage.” Ray said from the bar, ice cubes clattering.

“Is she liking this place any better?” Ray had shared Lillian’s dissatisfaction over their move six months ago from their home in Country Club. He knew it was the Lodge’s history. Two years ago, local entrepreneur and City council member Wiley Jones was murdered upstairs inside his study. Lillian was standing less than twenty-five feet from where it happened. A door on the other side of her bathroom led inside a walk-in closet and on to another door and secret room, one Mr. Jones had used as a private office. His wife, Linda, had found him tied to his desk chair, his brains everywhere.

“Not really. I’m hoping the renovation of Wiley’s hideaway will solve the problem.” It will, Lillian thought, anything to have her own space: large bath and bedroom with private balcony, and the huge hideaway where she could read and scribble. And anything to avoid sleeping with Ray in the giant master bedroom downstairs.

Lillian eased through the bathroom door onto the landing. She peeked over the railing and saw Ray sitting in his favorite chair with Ted standing, backed up to the dormant fireplace. She quickly retreated when she imagined Ted’s eyes looking straight at her.

“We still set to sign on the fifteenth?” Ted was excited. Ray’s in-progress development was the City’s fifth major project since he’d become mayor in 2016. Old Mill Park, the new recreational center, the downtown renovation, and the high school’s Fine Arts Center were the other four (although the school board was due more credit for the latter). Once completed, Ray’s development, Rylan’s, with its thirty retail stores, would be the most expensive investment in Boaz since the outlets in the late 80s.

“Probably. My attorney’s reviewing the lease agreement. He says it’s imperative we wait until the city acquires the Hunt House. None of my cajoling has changed his mind.” The attorney wasn’t the only holdout. Ray himself had no interest in going forward unless he controlled the entire block.

“That’s nearly two weeks. Rob will sign the deed. He’ll have no choice.”

“You’re assuming the Judge will get on board.”

“I don’t think he has a choice either. I assume you’ve been reading the community anger from the Reporter’s article. Lillian had read every letter to the editor and Facebook comment since last Thursday’s newspaper. She was angry the Sand Mountain Reporter had been so open about Rob and Rosa’s opposition. Many online commenters expressed their thoughts with vitriolic terms: “the Kern’s don’t love Boaz”; “they are greedy”, and on and on with the same negative theme. But Lillian knew the true reason Rob was so adamant, even if every other citizen except Ray didn’t have a clue. Now that Ray’s mother was dead, the group who knew about Ray and Rachel’s pregnancy and abortion grew even smaller: Ray, his semi-senile father, Rob and Rosa, and possibly Lee. But he was just a guess. The group’s remaining member was herself, but that was her secret.

For the next several minutes, Ted responded to Ray’s question concerning additional parking. The mayor was confident the city would find the funding needed to acquire the block due west of Rylan’s. The deteriorating property contained one abandoned residence and three buildings whose glory had long passed. Built in the mid-fifties, Cox Chevrolet, and Jack Oliver Ford had once been the heartbeat of North Main Street. Now, the crumbling buildings barely survived. The old Ford place was now a warehouse of sorts, mostly junk. A Hispanic church and a Mexican restaurant leased the two Cox buildings from an out-of-town great-granddaughter. Making the City more ‘American,’ as Ted described it, had been a vibrant but unspoken goal of the four-year mayor.

Lillian got bored and retreated inside the bath. She lowered the commode lid and sat. She could still hear voices but was free of words. The two egoists were reviling for many reasons, least of which was their hypocrisy. She wasted thoughts comparing the Sunday Ray with the every-other-day Ray. Chairman of Deacons and Men’s Sunday School teacher at First Baptist Church of Christ. That’s Sunday Ray. Chasing women and money was the every-other-day Ray.

Finally, a Crimson Tide ring tone erupted. It had to be Ted’s cell. Ray normally set his to vibrate. Another minute, more voices, and the front door chime. Lillian rose and walked to the landing. Both men were walking outside. This was her chance. She hurried down the winding staircase, across the great room, and out the back door. A few seconds later, she descended eight steps, turned left to the patio and outdoor kitchen, and sat in a chaise lounge.

***

Lillian dialed Kyla, but the call went to voice mail. Before the Facebook APP opened, Ray descended the back porch stairs.

“I didn’t know you were here.”

“Kyla dropped me off. I came here to read and enjoy the view.” Lillian kept a novel or two in a bottom cabinet next to the char grill. The Lodge, constructed of cypress wood, river rock, and glass, sat perched atop the highest point in the county, just beyond the dead end of Skyhaven Drive. The valley below was all forest. It had been a brilliant fall. Red, yellow, brown, and orange still glowed, even glistened, for miles and miles.

“I’ll grill some steaks.” Ray said, walking to the refrigerator, satisfied with Lillian’s response. 

“Sounds good. I’m hungry. If it’s okay, let’s eat inside. I’m freezing.” It was early November and one week into daylight savings time. It would be dark in twenty minutes.

Lillian’s cell beeped with a text notification. “I’m putting up groceries. Will call in a few. I hate Walmart.” Kyla had seen the missed call. 

“Wait thirty minutes. I’m about to eat dinner. With Ray.” Lillian responded, regretting not having her car, but resigning herself to an evening spent upstairs, talking with her childhood friend.

Kyla Harding was Lee’s younger sister. By one year. Lillian and Kyla had been virtually inseparable until she went away to college and a career in marketing. Six weeks ago, the Coca Cola corporation executive retired and returned to Boaz, to Kyla and Lee’s home place. It had been a tough decision for the never-married Kyla. Not that she didn’t love the cozy farmhouse, barn, and pond centered on forty acres off McVille Road. It was the death of her and Lee’s parents that haunted her. No one, especially an eighty-five-year-old couple, should die in a car wreck.

“You want a salad?” One good thing about Ray was his cooking skills. He fashioned himself a chef. The Lodge’s outdoor kitchen was another reason he’d bought the Lodge. It provided a powerful daily temptation. The kitchen’s semi-circle design displayed a combination of cypress cabinets and ten stainless appliances: two stoves, three grills, an offset smoker, a warming cabinet, a double-door refrigerator, a single door freezer, and a custom designed ten-foot steam table. The lone non-stainless grill was a Blackstone. This eccentric home setup had always motivated Ray to keep a generous supply of pork, beef, chicken, fish, and lamb either fresh or frozen. When he was in town, he grilled something every day, some days he even cooked breakfast on the Blackstone.

“Caesar’s. With Vinaigrette.” Ray nodded his head and turned his attention back to the steaks. The days were long gone when she would have gotten up and walked over and wrapped her arms around the tall and dark-haired man with muscular arms and ribbed abs. Now, it wasn’t just the extra pounds and semi-bent back (post, 2 surgeries). It was the barren desert that lay between them. Lillian pushed aside memories of Ray’s multiple affairs and her own midnight investigations.

Inside, after the rib-eye and salad, and a painfully slow glass of white wine, Lillian excused herself to read and walked upstairs. If she had to hear more about the Rylan’s chain, she would puke.

Lillian lay across her bed, opened The Pelican Brief, and adjusted her reading lamp. It was John Grisham’s third novel, first published in 1994. Darby Shaw was an amazing woman, albeit wholly fictional. Three weeks ago, Lillian had started re-reading her favorite author’s novels. She had already read A Time to Kill and The Partner. It would take her months before she’d need A Time for Mercy, the latest novel she’d loaned Kyla.

It was almost seven-thirty before her cell vibrated. “Hey girl, thought you’d forgot to call.” Lillian laid Pelican aside and stood. The jogging suit was hot. She walked to the doorway and flipped on the ceiling fan.

“Sorry, the goat man came. I thought he was coming tomorrow. He was half-drunk, but I love my Nubians.” 

“What?” Lillian wasn’t a farm girl and didn’t understand or appreciate Kyla’s interest in country life. She’d spent forty-plus years in a Buckhead suburb.

“That’s the breed. Anglo-Nubian.”

“How many did you buy?” 

“Five. Four females, all pregnant, and one male. They’re beautiful and adorable. Like pets.”

“What color?”

“The male is mostly black. One female is solid brown. The others are a mix of brown and white spots. They all have pendulous ears.” Lillian didn’t ask.

“And you’re really going to milk them?” Lillian remembered visiting Kyla’s home and farm during their high school days. Then, Kyla was naturally smart but country, an outdoor, tom-boyish girl with a distinctive southern twang. Now, and most all her years since college in Atlanta, she was cultured, exuding confidence with her coherent speech, anything but a slow drawl.

“And make cheese.” The sounds that followed Kyla’s statement had to be the bleating of goats.

“You still outside?”

“I’m headed in. I’m leaving them in the barn’s hallway. You should come see them tomorrow when I let them out to pasture.”

“Don’t forget, I’m hoofing it. I’ll be climbing the walls by Friday, assuming my car’s ready by then.”

“I can come get you. Oh, this’ll pick you up. Guess who I talked to?”

“George Clooney? Did you give him my number?”

“Ha. Not George, but the next best thing. For you that is.”

“And who would that be?”

“My brother.” Kyla had always thought Lillian and Lee would get back together. They had dated in the eleventh grade and gone steady throughout their senior year. The bust-up had occurred during Lillian’s freshman year in Tuscaloosa at the University of Alabama. Ray Archer had swooped in and snatched her up, promising a leisure life with travel, money, and none of the headaches of working. It had been the hardest thing she’d ever done, calling Lee at the University of Virginia and giving him the news. Looking back, it was the worst decision Lillian had ever made.

“Is he retiring? Coming to see you?” Lillian crossed the room and opened the sliding door to the balcony. She needed some cool air. The moon cast its soft light across the narrow porch. She took three steps and looked skyward. The full moon was so close she could touch it, so she imagined.

“Don’t you wish?” Kyla and Lillian shared every secret, well, almost everyone. For sure, through the years, Kyla had listened to her best friend, as her marriage crumbled. To start, the sex had been passionate and frequent, but without intimacy, it was only a quick thrill. Kyla knew Lillian had stayed for the money, not the love. Anyway, what would she do now? She had never worked a day in her life, although there had been that tenth grade Christmas job at Fred King’s, a clothing store in downtown Boaz.

“Is he any better?” Kyla had shared how devastated Lee was over Rachel’s suicide, that he was seeing a counselor, and spending most of his time teaching, advising students, and researching. Except for Saturdays, he was rarely at home.

“Maybe a little. I’m hopeful. He called to ask if Rachel had loaned me a book, one by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. You know, the Lutheran preacher who the Nazi’s hanged during World War II.”

“I think there’s a copy in the church library, but I’ve never read it.”

“No surprise there. I’m hoping this is a sign Lee is rekindling his love for Jesus. His searching for this book is encouraging.”

“It’s probably not what you think. I doubt he’d change his mind. Lee’s too smart.” Lillian remembered her and Lee’s high school conversations, and his surprise she believed the Jesus story.

“Oh, please. Let’s not go there.”

“Alright but tell me when Lee’s going to pay you a visit.” Lillian’s mind was flying at warp speed, trying to figure out a believable way for her to pop in after Lee arrived.

“I don’t see that happening. You know he hasn’t been to Boaz since 2002, our thirty-year class reunion.” Even though Kyla was a year younger than Lee, they were in the same grade. She academically had been smarter than the very smart Lee, skipping third grade to join her brother, Lillian, Rachel, and a hundred others in the class that would change the world. Or so Mrs. Sims, the high school counselor, had claimed.

 Kyla and Lillian talked and giggled another forty-five minutes before Ray pecked on her closed bedroom door. “I’ve got to go out. Do you need anything?” Lillian stood and semi-panicked, remembering she’d flipped the lock. She knew he’d be mad if he tried the doorknob. Even after their agreement, he was always in the mood. Charming, he thought. 

“No, I’m good. You be careful,” she said as she slowly unlocked and pulled open the door. Ray’s aftershave wafted inside the bedroom, drawn by the draft from the balcony. “I’m talking with Kyla.” Lillian whispered and pointed to her upheld iPhone.

Ray gave her that curled lip of a smile and delivered his usual salutation as he descended the stairs. “Don’t wait up for me.” 

A smart-ass remark almost followed. Lillian kept it to herself. She had wanted to say, “Tell Karen, or Cindy, or Brenda, whoever she is, that she can have you.”

Lillian closed her door and returned to the balcony. And Kyla’s patient ears.