The Stone Necklace

by Carla Damron

  “Well, at least I’m good at something.” She didn’t mean to sound flippant. His wince, his turning away, made fear flutter in her stomach.

  “I just—” Her voice hitched. She couldn’t bear it if he walked away, even if it was what she deserved. “I’m supposed to work on that.”

  “Work on what?” he asked.

  “Saying shitty stuff about myself.” The cramp relented. She stretched out her legs and looked at her neon green socks. “That’s what my therapist says.” There. She’d said it. She was messed up and seeing a shrink and now he knew. He’d be polite, because that was his way, but he’d find an excuse to disappear. Who could blame him?

  “Who are you seeing?” he asked.

  “Huh?” The question rattled her. “Dr. Owens. Her office is on Forest.”

  “Don’t know her.” He sat beside her on the bench. “I used to see Miriam Aster. Her office was downtown. She was nice.”

  She stared. Dylan had a shrink?

  “I had this stupid problem—it’s embarrassing.” He shook his head like it was too shameful to speak about.

  “I doubt it was stupid.”

  “It was a long time ago. I was eight. Mom dragged me there till I was ten. Though honestly, it was fun to have someone to talk to. I kept going even after I got over my problem.”

  “You did?”

  “We played games, stupid stuff, but I liked her. And I’ll tell you why I went but you have to promise never—never—to tell anyone.”

  “I promise.”

  He held up his little finger. “Pinkie swear?”

  “What are we, fifth graders?” She retorted, but he didn’t lower his hand, so she linked pinkies with him and hoped he didn’t notice her cuticles bitten raw.

  “I was a bed-wetter.” He dropped his hand and stared down at it. “There. I said it. I got over it before I was ten, but it was awful. You can imagine my brother—”

  Now she really hated his brother, enough to knee him in the groin, to sic her brothers on the douchebag.

  She drew a deep breath. “I have eating problems.” She couldn’t make herself say bulimia or anorexia. “It messed up my body some, so that’s why I’m seeing Dr. Owens. There. I said it,” she said, repeating his words, then adding, “but I’m not over it yet.”

  She closed her eyes. When she opened them, he’d be gone. She knew this, but still she’d said it. A chill spread in her chest, icy tentacles tingling her arms and legs.

  Fingers wound themselves around hers. Her eyelids flicked open. He was there. He smiled, lifting her hand and kissing it. His lips were warm like spring sunshine.

  “I’m glad you told me,” he said. And so was she.

  LENA STOOD IN THE CORNER of the backyard, her easel beside the naked dogwood tree. Withered leaves lay at her feet. The yard needed to be raked, the patio swept, the table and chairs wiped clean. She and Mitch used to love fall, to sip coffee in the cool air, to watch the colors fade from brilliant gold to brown. Spats would stretch across Mitch’s lap, and Mitch would tell Lena where he’d plant the pansies that would bloom much of the winter, asking if she preferred purple or white. (The answer was always purple). He’d mention piling leaves on the mulch pile behind the garage. “We’ve got lots of worms this year. Should be healthy soil for spring.” The absence of that voice threaded each and every day.

  She used a pencil to sketch the lines of the house, the jutted angles of roof, the wide windows, and the steps leading to the back door. (She remembered the time Elliott tried to climb down those steps wearing his in-line skates, how he’d sprawled across the cement with skinned knees and nose and elbows.) She traced the outline of the screened porch they’d added after Becca was born. (Mitch had bought a rocking chair to rock her to sleep those days when Lena couldn’t.) She added the silhouette of the magnolia tree that grew outside their bedroom window. The tree was a hundred years old. Plump ivory blossoms filled its limbs every spring. (Five-year-old Becca had shimmied up it, then grown too terrified to come down. Sims climbed after her, coaxing her descent limb-by-limb.)

  The oils she’d gathered in her wooden basket would have to be mixed with care to get the exact shade of brick and roof. When they left this house, when she and Becca moved to something she could afford, the painting would be all she’d have left of it.

  The notion of leaving clawed inside her; something else to grieve. How different it would be from the last time she moved, when she’d fled this home and Mitch and Becca, sure there was something better waiting for her. Now there was nothing better, there was only an uncertain future, a troubled daughter, and a countless number of Mitch-less days.

  Lena steadied her pencil against the canvas. She had to move forward. She’d find a new home to share with Becca. They would live a different life but she would make it a good one. She had to.

  She had called Phillip and arranged to meet with him tomorrow to discuss her taking over Mitch’s half of the partnership. Phillip would tutor her for the licensing exam, and she’d work under him for the first year. Their first project would be doing something with the strip mall Phillip had purchased near where the Wal-Mart wasn’t being built. So much of the firm’s money was tied up in it; they had to find a buyer or lease the units. She’d make Phillip take her to the site so she could see it and be involved in the planning. She would not trust him on his own as Mitch had.

  Someone stood in the kitchen window. Probably Abby. Bill had called her first thing that morning. She’d been on the phone since then, speaking in a fast, animated Spanish. Maybe Bill had found a way to get Esteban. Someone in Lena’s family deserved good news.

  The back door swung open and Abby emerged. She grabbed a chair from the patio and carried it to the corner of the yard where Lena was, huffing as she dropped into it. “Hope you don’t mind,” she said. “But I want to talk with you.”

  Lena shook her head. She continued to sketch the arcing lines of the birdbath beside the porch, the one Mitch had given her for Mother’s Day two years before. Would she take it with her? No, it was too heavy. Besides, it should remain in this yard; the birds counted on it through each season.

  “Bill Tanner has been a godsend,” Abby said. “The Episcopal church has a mission in Peru, and he went to school with the priest assigned there. He’s pulling some strings, trying to help me get Esteban.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s still a long shot, but there is hope at least. I’ve got to get down there and make sure the paperwork gets processed before my birthday. The clock is ticking.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Just booked my ticket. I’m heading out tomorrow.”

  Lena lowered her pencil. A rush of sadness swept through her: another person leaving. She should be used to it by now.

  “My flight leaves at seven A.M. An ungodly hour, I know. I’ll have a cab take me.”

  “No you won’t.” Tears welled in Lena’s eyes. She had been brave when Elliott left, smiled and waved him through security, blew him a kiss on the other side, letting herself face the full impact in the privacy of her car.

  “I don’t see why you need to get up before dawn to be my taxi service,” Abby said.

  What did it matter? Lena awoke at all hours of the night, snatching a few elusive hours of sleep. “I’ll take you,” she said, her voice hitching. Embarrassed, she stepped closer to the canvas.

  “Le-Le?” Abby stood and came to her. “You’re crying. I’m sorry, I . . .”

  “It’s okay. I get emotional these days.”

  “Of course you do. Of course. My God.”

  Lena looked back at the birdbath. Joe always freshened the water when he came, though they’d never asked him to. Last winter he’d had to chip through ice to clean it. When they moved, would they have a yard for Joe to tend?

  “I won’t stay gone, Le-Le. I’ve booked a round trip ticket. I’m coming back for a little while, hopefully with Esteban. I don’t know when. I want to make sure you and Becca have your
feet under you.”

  Lena started to say that was absurd, of course they’d be fine, but she saw no need to lie. “Are you going to live in South America?”

  “That’s the million dollar question. Bill suggested moving Esteban out of the country. Maybe coming back to the US. Somewhere with strong schools and no coca trade. My agency’s national office has a vacancy in DC. Maybe I’ll move there.”

  “Hard to picture you in Washington. Wearing suits and pantyhose.” Lena smiled, imagining her sister wobbling on two-inch heels, briefcase in hand, cursing with every step.

  “I’ve adjusted to other foreign countries,” Abby replied with a smirk. “But hell, I may go ahead and retire. I have the years in. Maybe work part-time. Do something sane for a change.”

  “You can retire?” This surprised Lena, though it made sense. Abby had been with the same federal agency for over thirty years.

  “One more thing,” Abby said. “I wanted to do something in Mitch’s memory. And I didn’t want to contribute to the church organ fund or plant a stupid tree. I wanted to do something more personal.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “I’d say there’s a hell of a need. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I don’t want you to argue with me. In memory of Mitch, I’m paying off the second mortgage on your house. I’ve already talked to the bank. I’ve got a cashier’s check ready to go. Don’t argue with me; it’s done.”

  Lena stared, wondering if maybe her sister had gone insane. Abby lived like a vagabond, how could she afford such a thing? “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve been a federal employee for eons. I make good money but I can’t spend it down there. It’s just piling up in the bank. I can’t imagine a better investment than your house. I wish I could pay all of it, but you have savings enough to cover the first mortgage for a while. You and Becca have enough to worry about, where you live shouldn’t be one of them.”

  “It’s . . . it’s too much. I can’t accept it.” Lena groped in her pocket for Mitch’s stone and squeezed.

  “It’s not enough, as far as I’m concerned. And this is a gift to Mitch, so you can’t refuse it. You can take that off your worry list.” Abby had that confident, insistent tone that made her impossible to argue with.

  Lena studied the faint lines on her canvas. The house, hers. The magnolia tree and birdbath and patio. The porch and rocking chair and garden and thirty years of memories.

  Hers.

  CHAPTER 27

  Joe searched for Cyphus Lawter over three days. He’d looked in the parks, under bridges, behind the abandoned Piggly Wiggly, but there was no sign of him anywhere. While Joe could no longer stay at the church, he stopped by twice a day, making sure Lawter hadn’t carried out his threat. No sign of him there, either, but it brought little relief.

  Rag Doll said Joe might not find him. That the man stole crack from some gangbangers who were hunting him down, and Lawter was good at hiding. That was okay, though, because Joe was good at searching, and he would not rest until this deed was done.

  The Lord would be ashamed of what Joe planned to do, but Cyphus Lawter wasn’t going to hurt anybody else, especially a man as good and holy as Reverend Bill. If taking care of Lawter put Joe back in jail, so be it. He’d pray that maybe the Lord might forgive him one day.

  Sundown came on fast, turning the sky gunmetal gray. A breeze stirred up leaves and sand as he left the old quarry on the east end of town, the last place he knew to look, but Lawter hadn’t been there. Maybe Joe would go through the park once more before he found a place to sleep for the night.

  A police car slowed at the park entrance. They’d do rounds through the park at sundown to make sure nobody bedded there. Joe stopped at the water fountain, tilting his head to watch the car inch on by.

  When he reached the north lawn, the sun had sunk low and tree shadows stretched long over the grass. He fastened the top button of his coat.

  “Joe Booker.” The low, gravelly voice sent a chill along Joe’s spine. He turned to meet Cyphus Lawter dead in the eye.

  “Hear you been looking for me,” Lawter added.

  Joe didn’t answer. Cyphus stepped closer. He wore a green army jacket with bulging pockets, and held his right arm stiffly at his side. Hiding something, Joe was sure. A gun? A knife?

  Joe swallowed, trying to pull up courage from deep inside.

  “Well, looks like you found me, Joe.” Cyphus flashed a soulless smile. Joe thought about all the people Lawter had hurt. The old man at the bus station. Rag Doll. He thought about Reverend Bill and his churchgoers, and pictured the damage Lawter might do.

  Lawter raised his arm, a steel pipe gripped in his hand.

  “Joe!” Rag Doll’s voice caught him off guard.

  Cyphus slammed the pipe down. Joe sidestepped him, catching the force of the blow on his shoulder. He closed his mind to the flare of pain.

  “Run Joe!” She stood by a live oak tree, wearing that stupid hat, gesturing wildly. Joe wasn’t going to run.

  Lawter came at him again with the might of a grizzly. Joe grabbed his wrist before the pipe made contact, but holding on took every ounce of strength he had, and the burn in his shoulder started to spread. Cyphus breathed foul breath on Joe’s face as his eyes glowed wide and feral.

  Joe’s arm quaked; sweat streamed down his face but he held on. If he could twist Lawter’s hand, he’d have to drop the pipe, but it was like trying to bend a maple tree.

  Tree. The live oak they fought beneath had a wide expanse of roots like tiny mountains coming out of the ground. Joe scanned down. Behind Cyphus’s feet was a fat knuckle of root so Joe leaned in. Cyphus stepped back, tripped, and toppled to the ground.

  Joe fell atop him, grabbing the pipe, but Cyphus wasn’t letting go. One elbow jab into Joe’s jaw and Cyphus shimmied out from under him, pulling the pipe from Joe’s grasp and heaving his bulk on top of him.

  “No!” Rag Doll yelled. “Police! Help him!”

  There’d be no police to help. Cyphus had gotten the best of him. It was over. Joe’s mind flashed on Reverend Bill’s kindly smile, on Wortham Pinckney’s headstone, on Mama’s face. Maybe he’d see her again. His gaze trailed to Rag Doll. Her tears surprised him.

  A cold breeze swept over them as Lawter swung the pipe.

  “Leave him alone!” Rag Doll rushed him, kicking Cyphus hard in the ribs. Lawter shifted, off-balance, and Joe took advantage, bucking till Lawter fell. Joe snagged the pipe from his hand. He squeezed the cold, cold metal and lifted it high. He swung the pipe. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Joe! That’s enough!” Rag Doll pawed at his arm, trying to stop him.

  He almost swung again, but then he saw the dark spread of blood under Lawter’s head. The darker emptiness in his open, unblinking eyes.

  Joe dropped the pipe. It was done. Cyphus Lawter would hurt nobody else.

  Another chilly wind blew by, snatching up leaves that twirled around them. Joe’s breath came in fast pants, puffing out clouds, as he tried to calm himself. A yellow maple leaf drifted down to land on Lawter’s half-open mouth like a hand quieting him.

  Rag Doll pinched its stem and plucked it from the body.

  The sound of muted voices came from behind them. Rag Doll stood and squinted toward the noise. “It’s the police,” she whispered.

  He nodded.

  “You gotta run.” She grabbed at his arm.

  “Too late.”

  “No it ain’t.” She grabbed the pipe and wrapped the end he’d held in the hem of her skirt. Pushing Joe to the side, she grabbed Cyphus’s hand, curled two of his fingers, and scratched the flesh on her neck with his dirty nails.

  She’d gone crazy, he was sure of it. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  She tore the front of her top as the footsteps drew closer.

  “It should have been me that done it. Go hide in them bushes until you can sneak away.” She shoved him towards the shrubs—the same ones where Cyphus Lawter had attacked her. �
��Do as I say,” she growled. “I mean it, Joe.”

  What followed was the strangest bit of confusion Joe had ever seen. When the police approached, Rag Doll yelled, “Over here!” like she wanted them to find the body. Flashlight beams swept the grass and focused on her, huddled beside Lawter’s corpse.

  “He almost killed me!” she cried, holding the pipe. “He come after me with this and tried to beat my head in! If he hadn’t tripped, he’d a done it!”

  The officers checked out the body and radioed for help. When they asked Rag Doll questions, she interrupted them, screaming: “I told the police Cyphus Lawter tried to rape me. I told them he was coming back, that he aimed to kill me, but y’all didn’t do nothing. You didn’t do nothing and he almost beat my brains out!”

  “Calm down, Rag Doll. You say that’s Cyphus Lawter?” an officer asked, as though familiar with both names.

  “That’s what I said alright.” Rag Doll went on, her loud voice droning out all other sounds until the wail of approaching sirens pierced the night.

  It was all the distraction Joe needed. He crawled behind the row of bushes to the end, then heaved his aching, sore body over the wooden fence.

  He was going home.

  TONYA SAT ON THE FAUX leather sofa ignoring the SpongeBob cartoon that had Byron chuckling on the floor. She gripped the schedule in her hand. Business Law I was held Saturday mornings. Civil Litigation would be her class on Tuesday evenings. Ruth had said she could leave work early on Tuesdays to have a little time with Byron before heading to the university. If she could handle the schedule, she would complete her Certified Paralegal certificate in one year.

  It was Ruth who had helped her with the decision to settle the lawsuit. From Ruth’s office, Tonya had called the insurance company and told them she accepted the latest offer of nineteen thousand dollars.

  That morning, when Tonya picked up the check, she’d set aside nine thousand to purchase a used minivan and then paid four thousand for spring semester tuition.

  John knew none of this.

  Nor did he know that she’d paid off her Visa bill and put the rest of the money in savings. Tonya would have to work hard to add to that account to cover tuition for the final semester, but she was determined to complete the degree without debt. What worried her most of all was the studying that would be required. She and Ruth discussed this, too. She would bring her lunch to work and use the hour every day to catch up on her reading. She’d use another hour after Byron went to bed, and Sundays would be devoted to schoolwork (except for a few hours on Sunday afternoons when she liked to take Byron to the park). John played no role in her planning, though she had, reluctantly, recruited her mother. Curious that Mom had called just as she left the university, chatting at first, then growing somber, saying, “I never meant for you to think I loved you less than Buddy.” Tonya had replied, “I know, Mom,” even though she did feel less loved, but what good did it do dredging up history? Tonya told Mom about returning to school and asked about babysitting; Mom had agreed. “You’ve never asked me to before,” she said. “I thought maybe you didn’t think we’d take good care of him.” So standing Tuesday night and Saturday morning visits to Grandma’s might be in Byron’s future. It all depended on how things went with John.