The Wallace Girl: The Feud Series

by Scott, Eliot

  “Ajax. His name is Ajax.”

  I bunch my lips and turn to face my daughter, because Emily has a hard time saying some of her letters so it’s come out sounding like, “Ayyeex.”

  “Ajax?”

  “Uh huh! Ayeex.” Her mouth stretches into her cheeks, dimples sinking into each side.

  “Ajax it is then,” I say, stressing the letter ‘j’ while adding in the food. I hand the caterpillar over for her to dote on for the rest of the night.

  “Is the creature contained?” Jeff asks.

  I turn, laughing, to face Jeff, who is clinging to the corner as if he may need to escape at a moment’s notice, but I know him, he can’t stand to be left out of something as huge as us, and getting a family pet.

  “Yes, Ajax is safe in jail.”

  Jeff’s reaction is a lot like mine at the name. “Ajax? What’s that from? A cartoon?”

  “Emily picked it.” I shrug. “I have no idea what it means, but she was insistent.”

  Jeff’s mouth slips into a tight line.

  “What?”

  “Do you think she meant Alex. Not Ajax, Jojo?”

  My heart turns to lead, the beats pounding against my ribs with slow, heavy thumps. I feel sick, and I feel stupid—and I deny it. “No. No I’m sure she didn’t make that connection…no way.”

  “Should I make her change it?” I say, turning without moving my feet.

  Jeff’s hand wraps gently around my elbow. “No…” his eyes meet mine. They reflect my worry—they share my pain. “I don’t think it’s worth it. She’s little, and it’s all subconscious stuff, right?”

  I nod.

  “She doesn’t know,” he adds.

  “But maybe she does…” I sigh, keeping my eyes on my daughter as I swallow the thorns and the hurt and the fear down—these emotions that had formed in seconds. All I can do is nod because there’s no way to make someone truly understand without them having lived what we have.

  “You’re right,” I croak, my chest stinging now with poison from the past and the hate I will always feel when I think of Mr. Sinclair and the evil that man spread.

  I let her have this, but my mind screams my rejections.

  Everything is in a name. Everything…and nothing.

  16.

  Jojo, Present Day.

  I push back a few feet in the rolling chair hard to stop the flood of memories—to stop the fear—and as I do, I accidentally knock over the stupid box marked Sinclair Aquifer, and send the contents inside into a waterfall of mess.

  “Fuck,” I utter out, feeling suddenly too exhausted. I’m so done.

  I’m angry at myself for coming here and dredging up all of these old memories. It’s making me feel stupid, like how I used to feel in this town. It’s making me miss Emily and my parents so badly it hurts every inch in of my soul right now.

  God, what I wouldn’t give to have been able to introduce Emily to her grandmother. Emily matches the three generations of strong, unrelenting Wallace women. Whenever I think that, though, I can’t stop myself from acknowledging she’s also a Sinclair. I seek solace in the idea that the Sinclair women are as tough as the Wallaces. They’re women who had to be strong. I hope that deep down, despite this stupid feud that darkened both houses, that they had the same ideals, same goals for their children.

  I think of how that didn’t quite work out for my mother. How it may not work out for me, because certainly the last six years of being alone doesn’t feel better than the amazing love shared by my mother and my father. I also can’t help but hope Emily is more Wallace than Sinclair, in more than just her name. And I hope to live long enough to meet my own granddaughter, because I’m driven to at least do that. Whatever happens to me, I also mean to make certain Emily’s life gets to be way happier than mine.

  ”What were you expecting to find?” I mutter out, scolding myself as I drop to my knees to scoop up and try to sort out the spilled papers. “A smoking gun, a red-flashing light? An arrow marked look here JoJo Wallace." I laugh—because I know that if I don’t laugh here and now, I’m going to start bawling or go mad.

  I’m done. I’m not looking at one more paper, and after I dance with a few more of my ghosts, I’m going home—to my real home with Emily and Jeff. I promise myself, bending down to gather up the flow of documents I’ve spilled on the floor, trying to put them back into some sort of order, when one tiny word—then two words—catch my attention.

  Ann.

  Ann Wallace.

  It's my mom's name!

  My heart pounds wildly, and I scoot into the desk with the papers until the metal edge is flat against my ribs. I find my glasses and pull the stack of papers close.

  I scan past the top section that’s all drivel. Attorneys’ names and addresses, dates and tiny print. I move through numbers until my eyes catch on the words: 600 Square Acres. See attached maps.

  I flip through the pages. It’s a puzzle, but not one I can’t piece together. Six hundred acres is a measurement I know in my heart. I find the map that outlines miles and miles of Sinclair property and find the exact points where this six hundred acres lies.

  It’s our old farm. I knew it.

  The lines stretch from the tip of the borders of Alex’s lake up to mile marker 145, stopping where county roads twenty-seven and twenty-eight cross.

  I’m chewing my bottom lip and my fingers are tingling because I’m gripping the papers too hard. I wish I could somehow discover what this means faster. Pulling in a deep breath to calm my chest, I go back and flip through pages once more, then again, reading each and every tiny word, looking for legal jargon I might recognize, when I realize a repetition of the use of these certain words: water, and water rights.

  I read this part out loud.

  “This agreement includes the full transfer of ownership of all physical standing water and all water rights to the deep underground aquifer, hereby designated the Sinclair Aquifer. Whereas all water and water rights to the underground natural spring that feeds said aquifer, as well as the entirety of Sinclair Lake which is the surface actuality of the entire aquifer shall be deeded to Michael Sinclair henceforth. Depth and volumes recorded in documents 14.a and 16.b. But let it also be recorded here because of the size and depth of said aquifer, the actual recordings of volume have not been truly measured. Current estimated scientific guesses are 35 cubic miles of water underground with a surface elevation of 3,498 feet, and the surface lake diameter of 17 miles. The underground aquifer portion is guessed by the Williams Hydrology and Geologic Company, out of Seattle, Wash. at nearly equalling the amount of water stored in Lake Tahoe, California. It will be known here that this transaction will create the nation’s only privately held underground pure water aquifer. True value is unrecordable at this time, but for the purposes of this document the parties have agreed to establish current market value for the lands at $35 million, knowing this number is an underestimation because of the aquifer below it.”

  I read it through twice, my voice fading out the second time through.

  I don’t want any ghosts hearing this. This discovery, it’s dangerous. This land, it’s the entire property above ground and underground that, for the past 107 years, was otherwise known as the Wallace Farm Holdings and Estate. Only this document shows the sale of my family’s lands—riches they’d never told anyone about—to the Sinclairs!

  My mom sold the entire thing to Mr. Sinclair for only—fuck—for only one dollar?

  “Why?” I choke out.

  My heart hurts deep inside, as though it’s having trouble keeping blood beating into my veins, as though it’s falling apart. I’m covered in goosebumps, and I feel like I’m going to vomit.

  “Where’s my father’s name?” I utter, while reading on: As per stated in the attached letter and bill of sale, written by Ms. Ann Wallace, this contract confirms such sale.

  All Lands Zoned Residential/Agricultural/Mining/Wetlands

  On the bottom it’s all caps:

  LET
IT BE RECORDED IN THE CITY OF TACOMA, PIERCE COUNTY RECORDS THIS IS A REVERSION OF A GIFTED LAND DEED THAT WAS GIFTED FROM MR. MICHAEL SINCLAIR TO MISS ANN DYSTEL now known as MRS. ANN WALLACE, from the year 1989. Said lands and aquifer were originally given away as an engagement gift from Mr. MICHAEL SINCLAIR.

  Signed, Ann Wallace, Michael Sinclair.

  The date this document was signed matches our time in high school, when Alex and I were falling in love.

  Alex and I had asked my mom point blank if she had a friendship with Alex’s dad back in high school. She admitted to it, and said that they were schoolmates. But she and my father never told me that my mother was once engaged to Michael Sinclair. All along, my parents lied to me. Maybe it was to protect me, or perhaps she was ashamed. Or maybe it all comes back to the feud that I can’t help but believe may have killed both of them.

  To conform my mounting fears, stapled to the deed is a handwritten letter. I know at a glance it’s my mother’s handwriting.

  I pause, missing the hand that wrote this letter so much, fighting back a surge of anger that she’d never told me about this—not even when she was on her last breath and dying.

  Let it be known that I, Ms. Ann Wallace, am of sound body and mind, and willingly give this deed of ownership for the Wallace Family Trust to Michael Sinclair. I waive my rights to the property, the well, and the aquifer waters discussed in these documents with the understanding that I will be allowed to live out the rest of my life in my home.

  My daughter, Jojo Wallace, will also be allowed to live in this home after I pass. She is to be funded an anonymous scholarship to the university of her choice by Michael Sinclair. As well as guaranteed access to the land and the farm properties until 30 days past her high school graduation so she has an appropriate time to move out of Tacoma, Washington with no harm done to her.

  As discussed, the farmhouse and all surrounding buildings are to be burned to the ground, in an attempt to keep Jojo Wallace from returning to Tacoma. Michael Sinclair promises no harm or plans that would interfere with Jojo Wallace’s safe and happy future as long as she remains away.

  In return for this transfer and protection for my daughter Jojo Wallace, the Wallaces will no longer be responsible for any fees associated with the land. By giving this land to Michael Sinclair for the price of $1, he takes on any and all future debt and promises to maintain adequate power and water supply for as long as a Wallace lives here.

  Should there be any direct descendants from the Wallace bloodlines, this contract shall never allow them to dispute it and they will have no future claims. In exchange, these descendants will be left alone by the Sinclair descendants, and all lands hereafter shall belong to the direct Sinclair descendants of the stated and legal and appointed head of the Sinclair family. And no other.

  The head of family descendant shall instantly assume 100 percent ownership of all properties, entities, enterprise, and any future use not currently zoned or foreseen, for as long as this document stands. As such, beneficiary retains right to transfer ownership to any person at any time he or she sees fit.

  Signed, Ann Wallace

  Signed, Michael Sinclair

  It’s not lost on me that the scrawling signatures are tangled up together as I wipe away some tears, then let my finger trace the lines carefully etched by a dead man and my dead mother. I follow the curve of the M in Michael Sinclair's name, stopping on the letter ‘e’ at the end of my mother’s name. It’s a letter scribed years ago, and I wonder if any of this was innocent, if the love letter I found from him to my mother while hastily packing my belongings and fleeing town years ago was sincere, or just one more domino he lined up as he patiently waited for life's clock to tick on so he could sit back as an older man and watch my family be thoroughly eradicated. Exterminated. By him and his sons.

  Only he never thought there would be a descendant that could take this land legally and be of Wallace blood, too. Or did he think of that? Is that why Alex waited so long to sleep with me? Was he afraid of that? That we would make a child?

  My blood runs cold.

  We did create the Wallace-Sinclair child.

  Our child.

  Alex’s and mine.

  My head floods with confusion as to what I’m supposed to do next. My first thought is no one can know Emily exists…or shit, maybe they can? Now that Michael Sinclair is dead perhaps everyone needs to know. I can’t remember for certain what was said at the funeral; words flew in and out of my ears in a blur of panic and hate and terror. I’m pretty sure someone said it was Alex taking over as head of the family and CEO of all businesses. Someone mentioned Grady, the older brother, was to be the CFO. But did that mean there was a swap in power between the brothers? Alex was always the smarter brother. If he took over the reigns, then Emily’s the heir—the heir to everything.

  I swallow hard at the sound of Will’s heavy footsteps in the hallway and wipe away all of my tears. I work hard to hide the shaking as he comes closer, and in the last second I compose my expression.

  As he enters the room, I clutch the paper with one hand and reach for my chest with my other, my palm pushing and begging myself to create a steady rhythm in my heart.

  "Well? You find what you were looking for?" he calls out from behind me. “I hope you’re done—I need to head out of here.”

  Quickly gathering the top stack into a bundle, taking care to include the letter and the deed agreements, I slip everything into my bag, deciding that if Will sees that I’ve just stolen pages, I will fight to keep them. I just need more time, another look, and then I’ll put it all back.

  “Not really. I don’t know what I’m looking for anymore, honestly,” I say. It’s true because I don’t.

  I face Will, trying to hide how my legs are still wobbling.

  "You'll be back then?" he asks.

  "Maybe. yeah. I don’t know. Probably,” I add, wondering how I’ll get the documents back in here. I need to at least keep an open door policy with Will.

  I’ve irritated him just enough to cinch up my bag and feel certain that the documents are hidden away.

  “I’ll need to know as soon as possible. I don’t have a lot of extra time.” He mumbles the last bit.

  “Neither do I,” I mutter, cryptically—already deciding yet again that it was a mistake to come back here. I almost wish I didn’t find out what I just found out, because it makes me feel vulnerable. This twisted feud makes me want to protect Emily more, and it makes me so uncertain about Alex and his current part in everything. Before the funeral, I’d been so sure.

  * * *

  The nausea returns, and I notice every tap of my feet on the floor as I exit. I make sure they stay in step with Will's behind me. I’m thankful that he didn’t stay in the room where I’d left all of the boxes, because what if he notices something is missing?

  He won’t. He won’t, and he doesn’t seem to care about anything other than himself. It’s going to be fine. As long as I can drive away from here today and never look back—this is all going to be fine.

  He unlocks the door exactly as he did before, and I slip out, careful to keep my bag closed tightly, tucked under my arm and against my breast. I don't think Will would reach for it, but on the off chance, I want it to be as awkward and uncomfortable as possible.

  He doesn't bother to say goodbye, and the locking sound rattles behind me as I walk down the pathway, following the curve back into the garage.

  My heart kicks, and I whimper a release, happy to see only my car and Will's below in the lot. Fine…this is all going to be fine. I’ve found a document that records ancient history—it doesn’t mean anything other than there was a bit more lies and a ton more heartbreak that my parents sheltered me from, right?

  Thanks to the Sinclairs…I’m very good at heartbreak and lies. I got this. No problem. Nothing wrong.

  My nerves want me to jam the keys into the ignition and pound my foot onto the gas, but I leave calmly, buckling the belt and pulling out slowly, maki
ng sure I don't leave a trace that my tires were ever here.

  I don’t notice the shiny black Mercedes pulling around the corner—going way faster than it should be going—until I’m headed in the other direction. Paranoia socks me in the gut. It was her car, that ostentatious gold trim package is unmistakable. It’s May Sinclair, and if it’s not her, then it’s one of her people. She’s watching me. It’s how they always do it. What I’m not sure of, though, is if she knows I saw her. My heart skids and skips with worry—and anger—and so much fear.

  I get now that May Sinclair has been lurking around everywhere. Smiling in her over-polite way, insulting me with her eyes, while telling me to get out of town. I didn’t think much of it but after today, after what I read about my mother and her late husband being engaged, her ongoing interest is beginning to make sense. She must hate me more than I ever thought she did. It’s personal.

  But then, it’s not like I showed up to the reading of the will demanding funds or retribution—not even close. She can’t know that I’m here for myself and, hopefully, for Alex. Though after today, I’m not so sure I want Alex anymore, because…who is he really? There’s no way he doesn’t know his mother is watching me.

  Maybe he’s watching me.

  My trust in him, which I’ve always believed to be real, is wavering. I can’t be certain he’s safe, and that he won’t hurt Emily. My head spins as much as my stomach. All that I thought I knew starts shifting around, and I’m imagining crazy things like Alex and May as a team, plotting against me. Grady and Alex are friends, running the Sinclair business—stewarding this valuable aquifer together.

  I already caught May driving by yesterday as I stepped out of the Antique Shop to shake out an old rug for Aunt Shelly. I thought it was just coincidence, but then she’d locked eyes with me, rolled down her window and slowed her car as she called out, “Be careful, Jojo Wallace. My husband was shot on this street, very near here…shot dead, you know?”