The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  Sandy looked into her cup, the coffee inside long chilled.

  “And now for the punchline,” Jake said. “Guy thinks we’re his church.”

  “Which are you?” the leader asked. “Are you a carrot or an egg? You find yourself in hot water, maybe because of your addiction, maybe something else. But it alters you. It makes you weak like the carrot, or hardens you like the egg. Or are you like the coffee bean, when things are at their worse, your best comes out?”

  Nobody said anything. Sandy squirmed and her chair squeaked. The lady who’d gotten the chip cleared her throat. Jake played with a fiber at the end of his cast.

  A woman with stringy black hair and glasses that hid most of her face spoke. “I may be an egg. I used to be a good person. I used to care a lot about other people—not just family, but friends and people in my church. My house used to be where all the kids in the neighborhood hung out.”

  Around the room, the other members nodded encouragingly. In her dad’s church, someone would have said, “Amen, sister.”

  “But then I broke my back and needed drugs for the pain. When my back had healed, I still needed the drugs. I needed them more than I needed my family. Anything. My addiction made me selfish and mean. I don’t like being so hard inside.” Tears fell down her face. A man beside her handed her a handkerchief.

  “You don’t look so hard right now,” the leader said. “Your addiction hasn’t changed everything about who you are.”

  People nodded and offered things they liked about her. Told her she was brave to make the changes she had in her life. Said God and her family were proud that she was tackling her addiction. She wiped her face, smiled, and thanked them.

  “How about the rest of you?” the leader asked. “Carrots? Eggs? Or Coffee beans?”

  Sandy stared at the floor. Jake raised his casted hand. “Feeling a bit carrot-like.”

  “At least your head didn’t crack like an egg,” someone said, and everyone laughed. Sandy faked a laugh, too, though she wasn’t sure why. There was so much she still didn’t understand about herself.

  She pulled the folded NA log attendance sheet from her purse and approached the speaker. He initialed that she’d come and said he hoped to see her again soon.

  “You just might,” she replied.

  BECCA SAW A FAINT LIGHT on in Dad’s office. The housekeeper hadn’t been over since the week before last. Mom? She doubted it. Mom was acting too weird, avoiding Dad’s chair in the kitchen and Dad’s coat hanging on the rack. She probably wasn’t ready for Dad’s office.

  Becca wasn’t sure she was, either. She had spent a lot of time in there when Mom left them—helping Dad with computer stuff, or working on her homework across from him while he messed with bills. That all changed when Mom got sick and came home and Dad only entered the office when he had to. Sometimes he’d summon Becca by yelling that the computer had locked up, and she’d come in to reboot it. He’d mutter a distracted “thanks,” finish his business, then hurry back upstairs to Mom.

  The dim glow was from the computer monitor. She heard clicks, too, and as she stepped inside she saw the familiar chaos of dark curls of her brother bent over the keyboard. She tiptoed in, curious to see if he was emailing someone. Maybe it was that girl in his band, the one he kept calling.

  He wasn’t in his email account. He had the homepage to Dad’s bank open.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, sitting on the credenza behind the desk chair, the way she always did back when she was helping Dad. She drew a deep breath to chase that memory away.

  Elliott swiveled the squeaky leather chair to face her. He hadn’t shaved and stubble made an uneven shadow on his cheeks and chin. “Nothing,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “How are you feeling? Stomach better?”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t appreciate the way he stared at her. She pointed to the screen.

  “Do you still have money in our bank?” All three of the Hastings kids had bank accounts set up for them by their parents. Becca had five hundred and forty-eight dollars in hers, babysitting money.

  “No. I was trying to check on Dad’s account.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why?”

  “Because there are bills to pay. The funeral home. Soon, the hospital. Other stuff. I don’t want Mom having to worry about it.”

  Of course not. Nobody wanted Mom worrying about anything.

  “Doesn’t matter, though,” Elliott continued. “I don’t have his password. I’ve tried guessing but that didn’t get me very far.”

  The screen showed a shimmering photo of the downtown bank at dusk, seven gray stories outlined against a vivid pink sky. Photo-shopped. “I know the password,” she said.

  His brows climbed up his forehead, as though it was impossible that his stupid little sister knew anything useful.

  “Move,” she commanded, pointing to the chair.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned and made a big deal of relinquishing the seat. She propped her feet on the wooden pedestal legs as she spun it back around to face the screen. She clicked in Dad’s account number, which she’d memorized, then keyed in the password: Spatz78!.

  “Nice,” Elliott commented.

  “You want checking or savings?”

  “Start with checking.”

  She pulled up the balance info: $853.25. Elliott ran his finger down a long list of withdrawals. “Mortgage is high,” he said.

  “Dad refinanced it when Mom got sick.”

  “He never told me.”

  Her brothers would soon learn a lot that Dad hadn’t told them. So would Mom. The second mortgage, the money lost over the past two years. She wasn’t sure how much was gone, or how much they’d had before, but it was something Dad always fretted about.

  Elliott pointed to another entry. “Over seventeen hundred. What’s that? Credit card payment?”

  Becca clicked on the “detail” tab. “Oh, right. Mom’s hospital bill.”

  “Really? They have good insurance, don’t they?”

  “Yeah, but one of her chemo drugs wasn’t covered.” Becca remembered long arguments over the phone, Dad’s face getting redder than his garnet Gamecock shirt, the receiver slammed down so hard it could have cracked. Then she’d helped him type a three page letter appealing the decision that Mom could use a less expensive chemotherapy option. “She’s going to use the treatment that’s best for her and you’re going to pay for it!” Dad had written, though the appeal had been rejected.

  At least the new drug had worked. The other treatments had made her so sick they’d had to stop them, but the brand new medication had fewer side effects. And they’d be paying for it for the next hundred years.

  “Leave it to big pharma. Bastards.” A sheen of perspiration covered Elliott’s face, which was weird, because the room was cool.

  “What next?” she asked.

  “Let’s see the balance in savings.”

  The number surprised Becca. She hadn’t seen the account figures in months. Less than seven thousand remained. There had been sixteen thousand the last time she’d helped Dad.

  Elliott didn’t seem bothered. “Can we access his money market account?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Another form of savings. More long term.”

  Becca returned to the accounts homepage and clicked the “overview” tab. The money market account had a balance of zero.

  “Damn.” Elliott dropped onto the credenza, his face blanched. “Does he have money somewhere else? Another bank? A brokerage firm, maybe?”

  “I don’t think so.” She totaled the numbers. Not quite eight thousand. That would cover the mortgage for a few months but there were other bills.

  “Damn,” Elliott repeated, shaking his head at the screen. He stood, paced over to the book case, then to the window. He carded a hand through his hair so that it stood up in asymmetric lumps around his face.

  Would they have to move? Sell this big house? Maybe they’d move into an apartment. But not like th
e big nice one Mom had leased. What if they wouldn’t let them keep Spats? And how would they pay bills? Mom didn’t work, so there’d be no money coming in. How long before they were homeless?

  Becca joined Elliott at the window and stared out at the bleak autumn day. “Leaves need raking,” Elliott said.

  Could they even afford to pay Joe Booker now?

  “I’ll do it in the morning,” Elliott said.

  She nodded. She could barely make out the fat hydrangea plants that edged Dad’s garden. Who would fertilize and mulch it in the spring? Who would plant the annuals and trim the azaleas right after they bloomed? Whose garden would this be after they moved?

  “What’s going on in here?” Mom’s voice made her jolt.

  Elliott spun around, looking as guilty as the time he had short-sheeted Sims’s bed. “Nothing.”

  Becca hurried to the computer and powered it down.

  “Just reading email,” Elliott said.

  Mom hovered in the doorway as though scared to step inside. She wore a baggy green sweater without the scarf she put on when she was going outside. The skin on her neck sagged above her trachea.

  She took a step closer to them. “Elliott? You okay?”

  “Of course. I’m getting some bookings worked out for when I go back to New York.” Elliot’s smile quivered at its edges. Lying didn’t come easy to him.

  “I don’t want to think about you leaving,” she said. Neither did Becca.

  “I may stay a few extra days,” he said.

  “Good.” Mom traced a finger up the oak-stained door jamb. “That’s good. It won’t cost you any jobs, will it?”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  She cast a curious glance at Becca, then turned and left them.

  “She’s going to have to find out,” Becca whispered.

  “I know. But not yet.” He returned to the credenza and crossed his arms. “Does Sims know?”

  She shrugged. “Dad talked to him about most stuff.”

  “Of course he did.” Elliott looked back at the window. “Wait a minute. Dad had to have life insurance. That’ll pay. And then there’s his business.”

  “What about it?”

  “Dad owns half of it. Gotta be some money there. Hell, five years ago they won that award for being the most successful realty company.” He spoke faster now, like a car rolling downhill. “Yeah, it’s not so bad. Y’all will be okay.”

  Becca’s gaze returned to the window. A breeze tossed the limbs of the oak tree so that orange and yellow leaves rained down. She wished she could believe Elliott, but somehow, she couldn’t.

  JOE BOOKER KEPT MOVING. There was purpose in his step, though he lacked direction. He’d already walked the perimeter of downtown twice, passing over the steel grates puffing out the devil’s breath. He cut through the university, climbed up the Capitol steps and down, and looped behind the government buildings on the statehouse grounds. He liked to keep a rhythm in his stride, walk-fast, walk-fast, walk-fast, his wool coat flapping as he moved. People didn’t talk to him, not even Pug-eye, the old drunk lying by the statue of Strom Thurmond, and that was how he liked it. The sole voices he heard were the nagging whispers in his head.

  He could tell from the angle of the sun that he still had four, five hours before dusk. No matter. Gray clouds hovering west of town might bring some rain or might blow by with nary a drop. In his pocket, he could feel the tin of Vienna sausages that would do for supper and the four dollar bills and two quarters left from what Reverend Bill had given him for cleaning up the graveyard. He felt bad about taking the money. One shouldn’t be paid for tending to his own home.

  Cold air pushed through the clouds, and Joe buttoned his jacket. The hole in his right shoe had become a bother; his big toe poking through could feel the chill. Tomorrow he’d go behind the Goodwill store and see if they’d tossed out any shoes that would fit. Joe had big, broad feet, even as a child. Feet like a kangaroo, his mama used to say.

  Funny the things he remembered. Odd flashes: a wrinkly smile, crust drooping off a slice of pecan pie. A worn baseball glove. A hand swooping towards his face.

  Papa couldn’t help his temper. He had spirits after him, which Joe didn’t understand when he was a child, but he understood now. Best thing was to be away from people, not let the demons’ meanness hurt anybody else, which is what Papa should have done, but he didn’t know any better. Joe had learned from Papa’s mistakes.

  He sometimes wondered if Papa had taken to the streets during those months when he’d disappeared. Mama never said. He’d be gone as long as half a year, then show up at the back door like he’d just gone up the road for an Orange Crush. The coming-back times were always happy, Mama so glad to see him, Joe and his brother grabbing on to his knees as he snuck change into their pockets. But weeks, or even days, later the spirits would have their way and Papa’d raise his hand again.

  “Joe! Over here! Joe!” Rag Doll had spotted him from up the block. Joe kept moving, but when she had her sights on him there was no getting away. He dipped his fingers in his pocket and wrapped them around the can of Vienna sausages. Rag Doll wasn’t getting them from him, no matter what she tried.

  “Didn’t see you at breakfast,” she said, her squat little legs working hard to keep up. “There was a big fight after. Cyphus Lawter took juice and cigarettes off the old white man with no teeth. That old guy went after him like a Chihuahua after a bear. Cyphus Lawter knocked him flat. Split his head open. They had to call an ambulance.”

  This was another reason Joe stayed away from people. You never knew when you might step into a mess. Cyphus Lawter brought trouble wherever he stepped.

  “He don’t like you none, does he?” Rag Doll said.

  “Cyphus?”

  “He don’t like you cause you ain’t scared of him. You ain’t scared of nothing, are you, Joe?”

  He didn’t answer. There were plenty of things that frightened him, but most were on the inside.

  “Where you staying?” Rag Doll asked.

  Joe froze. Turned. Stared her down.

  “I just want to know, s’all. I ain’t gonna bother you or nothin’.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her dirty hand. She had blue ribbons tied in her long hair, untidy clumps hanging down past her shoulders. “I got me a good squat. Even has a roof. Not too cold. If you ever want you can stay with me.” She shrugged her narrow, bony shoulders. Lots of men had lain with Rag Doll. The offer came with a price.

  “You got any money on you, Joe? I just need me a buck or two for some cigarettes.”

  Joe turned and began to walk. The coins in his pocket clicked against the can.

  She fell into step with him. “Or even a case quarter. I go by the river, someone might split a smoke for that.”

  A gust of wind swept over them, kicking up leaves and a paper sack. A Coke can clattered by, and Rag Doll chased it and snatched it up like she thought Joe was going to fight her for it. He almost smiled at the thought.

  Joe picked up his pace, making it hard for Rag Doll to keep up.

  “Okay, Joe,” Rag Doll said, panting. “I’ll see you at breakfast then. Tuesdays are the Catholic Church.”

  “Maybe.” He kept walking, relieved that Rag Doll left him alone. He looped through downtown and approached the church. It was too soon to bed down, but he liked to keep an eye on his squat and quickened his pace when he spotted a man in the graveyard, someone he’d never seen before. He had red hair that fell past his shoulders and was on his knees in front of Mr. Wortham Pinckney’s headstone. Joe inched closer, worried when he saw the man scribbling something against the granite. It wasn’t right; that grave was a holy thing. Joe wasn’t sure he should even sleep on it and knew damn well this man had no business defacing it this way. Joe’s hands fisted as he approached.

  The man looked up at him. “Hello there.”

  Joe glared. Up close, he could see that a dark piece of paper had been taped on the granite. Good. The man wasn’t writing on the headstone,
but scratching something on the paper. But still, why was he here? Did Reverend Bill know?

  The man stood and brushed bits of leaves from his brown pants. He wasn’t tall, only came up to Joe’s neck, with skin as pale as cane sugar. He extended a hand. “I’m Royce Macy,” he said.

  Joe didn’t take his hand. He didn’t like touching other people.

  Royce Macy lowered his arm. “I was doing a tombstone rubbing. This one has some intricate detail, the way the flowers top his name, the vines winding across the top.” He traced the design with his finger. “See this bird? It symbolizes the soul partaking of heavenly food. And the vine itself means God’s seeds replanted on the earth. At least, that’s what I read.”

  Joe bent over to look at the sheet. He could just make out Mr. Pinckney’s name. “That hurt the marker?” he asked.

  “No,” Royce Macy said. “I was here for a funeral the other day and spotted this. Never made it into the church though.”

  Seemed odd he’d come for a funeral and not bother to go inside for it.

  Joe heard footsteps in the leaves—he needed to get to raking them—and spotted the Reverend heading their way. Good. Let the Reverend tell Royce Macy to stop messing with Mr. Pinckney’s grave. And if he didn’t leave, Joe would toss him from the graveyard.

  Reverend Bill limped on over to them, wearing his bright white collar like a halo around his neck and a warm smile. “Joe? Who’s your friend?”

  Joe started to comment that this man was no friend of his when Royce Macy introduced himself, saying he worked at the university and going on about how he liked the vines and stuff on the tombstone.

  “Royce Macy?” the Reverend repeated, his grin flattening.

  The redheaded man nodded. It looked like his shoulders sunk down, like the two men had had an invisible conversation between them. “Is it okay if I do the rubbing? I’m not hurting the marker.”

  “Okay, but clean up after yourself. I don’t want Joe to have to do it.” The reverend’s voice took on a different tone than Joe was used to.

  The reverend’s attention was drawn to someone else walking up the path. Another white man, tall, with dark curly hair, wearing jeans and a scuffed leather jacket, moving with head lowered, like he had to watch every step. “That’s Elliott,” the Reverend said.