by Ron Fisher
I gave it to him and he added his number to my phone contacts.
“You were obviously going somewhere,” he said, “so I’ll let you get to it.”
He turned to leave and said, “Call me anytime, John David. I’m always available for an adult beverage.”
He smiled and wagged his eyebrows at me, which returned the feisty boyhood look I remembered so well. He got in his car and drove away.
I stood and watched my old friend drive away. I forgot to ask him how he was making his living these days. A few years ago he was working as a fishing guide on the lake, but he didn’t look like a fishing guide anymore. He had a more prosperous look about him, and If anybody deserved prosperity, it was Bucky. He'd obviously come a long way from that hardscrabble farm he grew up on.
I remembered a summer when we were about thirteen years old, and we got the idea to try to make muscadine wine. Muscadines grew wild in the woods on Bucky’s Dad’s farm and we picked and squeezed enough juice to fill a gallon jug, threw in some sugar and yeast and hid it in the barn so Bucky’s old man wouldn’t find it.
We left it there for a week; it was August, with the temperature in the nineties every day. When we finally got the nerve to sample it, it was awful, and it was a miracle that it didn’t poison both of us.
Bucky told me to go pour it out in the woods, but I poured it on a pile of fodder in the pasture instead, because it was closer.
Bucky’s daddy’s old mule got into it and we later found the animal standing in the middle of the fodder, legs all spraddled out, her head almost on the ground, and piss drunk.
I thought it was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen, and laughed until tears came. I didn’t notice that Bucky wasn’t sharing my humor.
The next day he told me that after I left, his daddy took a fishing rod and beat him so hard it left bloody marks from the guides on his back and legs.
I knew Bucky’s old man beat him often, but Bucky always took it and never complained or changed his ways. He remained a wild and rebellious kid, full of good-natured devilment, and constantly in one kind of trouble or another. He knew when he’d gone too far with his old man, and took his beatings with a nonchalant resignation. I always felt like that was just an act, but even so, Bucky was a tough kid.
Later, I spent time thinking about that mule and what I’d done. I realized that Bucky’s dad’s anger wasn’t at the wine making, but was stoked by the fear of losing the mule. That plow-mule put food on their table, and was the only thing that stood between them and an even bleaker life. And there we were feeding it something that could have easily killed it. It never crossed my mind that the mule would eat the wine-soaked fodder, so, the fault was all mine and a stupid, unthinking thing to do.
The thing that struck me the hardest was something else I’d never given much thought to: and that was how different my life and Bucky’s was. I lived in a big house with an abundance of food and amenities, and meals better than most restaurants, and here was Bucky, only a mule away from not having enough to eat.
He could have blamed the whole mule episode on me, but he didn’t. He kept his mouth shut and took a beating for it. I grew up owing him for that, and the debt had never been paid. I’d never had a better friend than Bucky Streeter.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Time had stood still in the small town of Pickens. The courthouse dominated one side of main street and a row of two-story shops and stores with different colored brick fronts, returned the morning sunlight with the starkness of a Hopper painting.
Whenever I looked at the courthouse, I always felt a sense of what I think is called Weltschmerz—the loss of something never experienced. The present courthouse replaced an older, statelier building that was torn down before I was born, but I’d seen photographs of it. It was an imposing structure of a bygone era, a majestic construction surrounded by oaks that shaded old men on benches who sat and talked about crops, boll weevils, and politics. As a kid, I always thought that whatever happened inside a building like that had to be important. This courthouse however, with its commonplace redbrick façade, skinny white pillars, and tiny cupola on top, seemed to diminish the importance of anything that went on inside.
The law office of Ellis P. Hagood was behind the courthouse, two blocks south, near the old Pickens jail—originally spelled g-a-o-l. The antiquated spelling seemed appropriate, since the small castle-like structure, no longer a functioning jail, was now the county’s history museum.
I found the place easily and parked in a small lot next door. Inside Hagood’s office, a gray-haired receptionist sat behind a desk. I walked up and announced myself. She told me that Mr. Hagood was with someone at present, but would be available shortly. I recognized her voice as the one I spoke to earlier.
I sat down and picked up a magazine. I could feel her eyes on me, but every time I glanced up, she busied herself with something on her desk. I had the feeling she was struggling with whether or not to comment on Grandfather’s passing.
Ellis Hagood’s relationship with my grandfather went back to when he purchased of the Clarion; they also had more than just an attorney-client relationship. They were close friends. As a boy who watched too much TV, I always thought the dapper little lawyer, in his customary tweed jackets, suspenders and bow ties, should speak with a British accent rather than the clipped twang of an Upstate South Carolinian.
The door to an inner office opened, and the elderly lawyer came out, followed by a young man in a golf shirt. I stood to greet him and extended my hand, but he walked right by me and out the door. I looked back at the younger man, who was now standing by the reception desk looking at me.
“It happens quite often,” he said.
“What happens?”
“People confuse my great uncle Walt with my grandfather.”
“Who is your grandfather?” I asked.
“Ellis Hagood. Who did you think?”
“I’m here to see him. I’m John David Bragg.”
“Oh, he isn’t here. He’s in Florida.”
“But I just called this morning, and I understood he would see me.” I looked at the receptionist for help.
“My grandfather retired,” the young man said, “I took over his practice.” He offered his hand. “He was Ellis Hagood Sr., I’m Ellis Hagood III.”
“John David Bragg,” I said, and took it reluctantly. The guy didn’t look old enough to shave. I thought he might be pulling my leg.
“What happened to Ellis Hagood number two?” I asked.
“My father is in the insurance business. The law gene skipped him, I guess. You don’t think I look old enough to be an attorney, do you?” he asked, smiling.
“Well . . .”
“It’s the same reaction I got from your grandfather the first time we met. I might add that he and I eventually became good friends . . . once he got over the shock that I looked like one of Mackenzie’s classmates. Follow me,” he said, and went into his office.
I tagged along. He stood waiting by several framed diplomas on the wall.
“Look, there’s no need to . . .”
“Humor me,” he said, and pointed to the top diploma. “William and Mary.” He moved to another one. “Columbia Law School. And below that, my acceptance to the bar of the Great State of South Carolina.”
He walked over and took a seat behind his desk. “At Columbia, I graduated number three in my class and turned down offers to join some of the country’s most prestigious law firms.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to.” He gave me a look that dared me to say anything else.
I didn’t.
“I assume you’re here about your grandfather’s will,” he said. “If not, what else can I do for you, beyond offer my heart-felt sympathies over the tragic death of a fine man?”
I sat down across the desk from him. “Yes, the will. That and anything else you can tell me about his business and financial affairs.”
“Is Eloise joining us?”
“No she isn’t. It’s just me.”
“I think it might be better if both of you are present for the reading,” he said.
“She wants me to handle everything for her.”
“Where is she now?”
“She’s probably still out buying funeral clothes.”
“Ah,” Hagood said, reaching for the phone caddy. He looked up a number and dialed it. He swiveled around in his chair and stared out the window, his back to me.
“Eloise, hello,” he said after a moment. “This is Ellis Hagood. First, allow me to offer you my deepest sympathies. Yes, I know, it’s a terrible tragedy. We will all miss him.”
Hagood’s voice was kind and respectful. I got the feeling he meant what he said.
“Eloise, your brother is here with me, and he tells me that you have no wish to be present for the reading of your grandfather’s will. Is that correct? Yes. All right, but I’ll send along a copy. And please don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions at all. Well, that’s nice of you to say. Goodbye.”
He swiveled back around and yelled to the woman outside: “Margaret, bring me the Bragg file.”
He sat quietly, looking at me unblinkingly through his tortoiseshell glasses as we waited.
“Did we get off on the wrong foot?” I asked.
“Don’t take that call personally, Mr. Bragg, I’m required to do that. In fact, I probably should have it in writing just to be correct, but I think we can waive that procedure in this case.”
“I didn’t mean to get your back up over your age. Or lack of it, as the case may be. I was just surprised, that’s all.”
Hagood smiled. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now. I apologize for the bullshit about the class ranking and the offers.”
“You mean it isn’t true?” I asked.
“Of course it’s true. But it’s still bullshit.”
The receptionist delivered a file folder that contained a sheaf of papers. Hagood fumbled among them until he found a document, pulled his glasses closer to the end of his nose, and peered at it. “Do you want me to go through all the legalese gibberish, or cut to the chase?” he asked.
“Cut to the chase,” I replied.
He looked at me and frowned. “In anticipation of this meeting, I took the liberty of reviewing the file. The will, I have to admit, has me intrigued. My grandfather drew it up for your grandfather long before I began working here. I have not come across another one worded quite this way. But then again, words were your grandfather’s business, weren’t they?”
If he was looking for some kind of comment from me, I couldn’t give him one. I had no idea what he was talking about, or what lay in my grandfather’s will.
“I’ll read one part of it verbatim, if that’s okay.”
I don’t think he was really asking for my permission, but I nodded, anyway.
“To my beloved granddaughter Eloise, and to my precious great-granddaughter Mackenzie, I leave a love that is far more lasting than my time upon this earth, and hopefully, more valuable than any possession I own. This I believe them to know, and these words are but a confirmation. If there is a human being in this world who will understand my actions here, it will be my granddaughter, Eloise.”
Hagood shifted in his seat and glanced at me over the top of his glasses before resuming. “To my grandson, John David, I leave all my worldly possessions in the belief that he will discover my love and trust through my deeds. By this act, I place Eloise and Mackenzie in his hands.”
“What?” I almost shouted.
“Well, it’s really quite simple,” Hagood said, looking up. “He’s left everything to you.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, flatly.
“There’s nothing to understand. You get . . .” he turned his eyes back to the will, “two hundred acres of land, located approximately ten miles north of the township of Pickens in the community of Sunset, including the family residence, commonly known as Still Hollow, and all other constructions, dwellings, household goods and artifacts thereon; plus all monies, policies, investments, valuables and collectibles personally held by Garnet Quincy Bragg—including the business and property, dwellings, equipment, and holdings in the 300 block of Pendleton Street, Pickens, South Carolina, otherwise known as the Clarion.”
Hagood looked up from the will. “There are no stipulations as to what you do with any of it,” he said.
I was numb.
“It looks like he left it entirely up to you to decide if Eloise and Mackenzie share in the bequeathal,” he added.
“It looks like he went senile,” I said.
“I know that isn’t true,” Hagood offered.
“It’s a test,” I said. “Even in death, he’s giving me a goddamned test.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but if it’s a test, then you’re already failing. To me, it’s more proof than a test. Proof that he had a lot of faith in you.”
I didn’t care what it was called: test, proof, or the act of a crazy old man who had to be right no matter how different it made him or who suffered because of it. It was another of his experiments in morality, a final lesson for his most difficult pupil. I stared out the window trying to collect my thoughts while Hagood sat quietly watching me.
“What I have to do is quite easy actually,” I finally said. “I don’t want anything but Still Hollow, and I really don’t want that. I just want it to stay in the family.”
I turned to Hagood. “I’d like your help in preparing something that will guarantee Eloise has Still Hollow as long as she lives, then Mackenzie after her. Also, I want you to help me sell the newspaper. It has to be worth a substantial sum, and the proceeds—along with everything else—can go into a trust fund for Eloise and Mackenzie so they can maintain Still Hollow. Will you help me do that?”
Hagood took his time answering. “I’d be happy to, but are you absolutely sure this is what you want to do? Your grandfather had on several occasions indicated that one day you might return to take over the newspaper yourself.”
“He actually told you that?” I asked, failing to keep the surprise from my voice.
“He told my grandfather. My grandfather told me. I understand that you’re also a journalist?”
“I’m a sportswriter.”
Hagood gave me a look that suggested he found the distinction negligible.
“I have no interest what-so-ever in the Clarion,” I said flatly. “I want it sold as soon as possible.”
He studied me for a moment. “Well. That answers that, I guess, but there are complications.”
I waited for him to continue.
“The bank is holding a lien on the newspaper for outstanding loans, which must be taken care of before any sale.
“Loans?” I said. It was the first I’d heard of it. Was Eloise right about Grandfather having financial trouble?
“Is the newspaper making money?” I asked.
“The newspaper has always shown a modest profit,” Hagood replied, “which would be greater if your Grandfather’s editorials didn’t occasionally anger people in the community, often resulting in the loss of advertising revenue.”
He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know about grandfather’s knack for pissing people off.
“What were the loans for?” I asked.
“Mostly for capital improvements, and they occurred in stages over the years: a new press, computer and other equipment costs, expansions, and so forth.
“Then we’ll just build them into the sale price. That’s another reason to sell it.”
“It may not be that easy,” Hagood said. “The bank may not be willing to wait for it. I’m afraid that Garnet being . . . well, who he was, the bank was quite lenient with him. Most years, when annual interest payments were due, they would simply allow him to fold it back into the notes, increasing the principal, rather than paying it down. They may not be quite as understanding with anyone else.”
Meaning me, I thought.
“So what are you telling me? Are we in trouble here?”
“Anticipating your arrival, I took a quick look at things earlier and saw that one of the notes is due soon. If you could pay the interest on it, and maybe a bit of the principal, we might get them to roll it over for another year. It would give us more time to sell the newspaper. How much money do you think you can raise at the moment, Mr. Bragg?”
I didn’t have to think too long.
“I have about eight-hundred bucks in the bank, an old jeep that the finance company and I own, and a baseball card collection worth about two grand,” I said. “There may be an insurance policy on the old man, but if there is, it sounds like it may be all Eloise and Mackenzie will have to live on for a while.”
Hagood unsuccessfully tried to hide his disappointment.
“The Clarion has an operational account,” he said, “but I don’t know what the balance shows. You’ll have to check on that.”
“How much is the Clarion worth?” I asked.
“I really don’t know, but I would think it’s enough to cover these loans and then some. An audit would help us determine that. But how much it’s really worth might not matter. The real question is how much a buyer is willing to pay—especially with this debt hanging over your head. They might think it smarter to wait until foreclosure, and then pick the place up at a fire-sale price.”
“Would you know if anyone has ever expressed an interest in buying the paper?”
Hagood chewed on his lip for a moment, his eyes inwardly focused on something that obviously wasn’t too pleasant.
“There was someone about a year ago,” he finally said, “but I don’t think he’s what we’re looking for.”
“Why, wasn’t it a serious offer?”
“Oh, I’m sure he was serious. This is someone who already owns a string of small papers across the country.”
“Great. Let’s call him up and see if he’s still interested.”
“Maybe we should see who else is out there first.”
“What’s the problem? I want to sell; he wants to buy. Sounds like a perfect match to me.”
“Garnet wouldn’t even return the man’s calls. It seems the two didn’t share the same political views. In fact, your grandfather was quite vocal in his distaste for the man. I think he referred to him as an imbecilic neo-Nazi. I took it to mean that this fellow uses his newspapers to espouse an extreme political view.”