The Will

by Reed Arvin

  “Mineral rights,” Amanda said. “That’s very odd.”

  “I thought so.”

  “No,” Amanda interjected, “there’s a battle going on around here on that subject. The Crandall land is in the middle of it.”

  Harris looked concerned. “I’m going to need you to fill me in on that,” he said. “It was obvious to me that he had identified very deeply with Custer’s story. Our conversation ended on a very disturbing note.”

  The door from the cellblock grated noisily open. Collier shoved his keys back into his pocket as he entered the room. He looked disappointed and said, “Well, Doc, he went in like a lamb.”

  Henry stepped between them and quietly asked the doctor, “Can we finish talking outside?”

  Harris nodded, and the three of them walked out onto the sidewalk in front of Collier’s office.

  “I take it you and the sheriff aren’t exactly friends,” Harris said.

  “He’s just wondering where the power is right now,” Henry said. “That makes him pliable, for the time being. If he ever takes a side, he’ll be impossible.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, Doctor, what I want to find out right now is the course of action you’re going to recommend.”

  Harris sighed. “Everything in me would normally say hospitalization. But it’s obvious that Raymond has a major problem with confined spaces, and from what I’ve heard, he’s been living out at the park quietly for more than twenty-five years.”

  “I’m going to level with you, Doctor,” Henry said. “It’s a huge request I’m making, and I realize that fact. I’ve got two requests, really. The first is for you to recommend that Raymond be remanded to my custody. The second is for you to agree to treat him here, in Council Grove.”

  “You’re right. Those are huge requests. Why should I agree?”

  “Because I think it would be a serious mistake to confine him and because I need him here.”

  “I’m not particularly worried about your needs at the moment,” Harris said, but his voice wasn’t hostile. “I agree that confining him might do him more harm than good. On the other hand, it might save his life.”

  “But you’ve seen how territorial he is,” Amanda interrupted. “I can’t stand to think about him in a cell.”

  “What about the sheriff?” Harris asked. “Raymond’s up on charges.”

  “He’s got nothing. I could argue Raymond was breaking into his own property, if it came to that. Nobody’s used to real opposition around here. I’d have Boyd out in two hours. The only basis for holding him this long is his psychiatric evaluation. So it’s really back in your court.”

  Harris regarded Henry thoughtfully. “Look, are you really sure you understand what it means to take responsibility for somebody like that? We’re talking about a very unpredictable situation.”

  “Both choices have risk,” Henry said. “But if the will goes against him, Raymond has no money we know of. We both know what we’re talking about, Doctor. We’re talking about the state mental hospital, rubber rooms, guards with truncheons, the whole thing. That place would drive a healthy person insane.”

  Harris fixed him in a level gaze. “I work at that hospital,” he said. “Frankly, I don’t think spending time with me would drive him crazy.”

  “Sorry,” Henry said, “and I agree with you on that—I am hoping you will spend time with him. I’m just hoping you’ll do it here.”

  Harris stood thinking a moment. “It’s up to him,” he said at last.

  “Him?” Amanda asked. “Then it’s all settled. Raymond will never voluntarily go to any hospital.”

  “I’m not going to ask him permission,” Harris said. “I’m still the doctor, and as of now he’s still under arrest. But no matter where he is, he has to be medicated. I’m going to jump-start him with an injection of Ativan and Navane, then he can get started on some oral medications. If he agrees to take his medicine voluntarily, I’ll let him stay. If he refuses, I have no choice but to send the suits. I will not allow one more day to pass without treatment for him.”

  Henry looked at the doctor a long moment. “That’s exactly the kind of attitude I hoped to find,” he said at last, “and I accept your terms.”

  “All right. Then you need to know what you’re in for. Neuro-drugs like the ones I’m going to put Raymond on are powerful, and he’s going to get a large dose. Even so, it will take time to see any results, months for the full effect. I’ll sedate him mildly to get him across the first stages, but in the meantime you can get some unpleasant side effects.”

  “Such as?”

  “Look, I won’t play any games with you. I believe in these drugs, but they’re not a panacea. For one thing they’re fat-soluble, so you basically have to drug the entire body just to get them to the sixty square inches of brain you want. By then you can have Parkinsonian symptoms, facial tics, nausea, mood swings, a bunch of stuff. I can tinker with things to try to even that out, but I make no promises. Some people are susceptible, others aren’t. As far as his schizophrenia is concerned, the drugs may help a lot. They may not make any difference at all. They can actually make things worse. Obviously, in that case, he’s got to be hospitalized.”

  “They might bring Raymond Boyd back to life,” Henry said.

  “They might,” Harris said cautiously. “But they won’t solve whatever happened to him that started all this.”

  Henry leaned forward, his face alive with interest. “You see it, don’t you?” he asked. “That something happened to him to begin all this.”

  “I see it,” the doctor answered. “And that will still be there waiting for him when he gets back. These drugs won’t change any of that. He’s going to need long-term help.”

  “We still have to go forward,” Amanda said. “Anything is better than what he’s facing now.”

  “I’m glad Raymond has you two looking after him,” Harris said. “It’s the only reason I’m going along with this scheme. Now let me go do my job.”

  * * *

  “You won,” Amanda said, looking up at Henry. “Raymond’s sleeping quietly in his cell, and we can get him back home by tomorrow afternoon.” The two stood at the corner of Chautauqua and Main. The sun had crested above them two hours earlier, and the air was hot, dry, and dusty.

  “It went well,” Henry answered, feeling lighter than he had in some time. “You scored on Harris. Good man.” He chuckled. “I loved how he handled Collier.”

  “You’re welcome,” Amanda said, smiling. “Where to now?”

  “I think celebrations are in order,” Henry answered, returning her smile. “Great, massive, probably premature celebrations.”

  Amanda looked down Chautauqua. Not a single car was moving. “This really is the perfect place for it, don’t you think?”

  “Do you think they keep any champagne at the Trailside?” Henry asked thoughtfully. “Preferably Cristal Roederer.”

  She laughed out loud. “Doubtful. Why that kind?”

  “You’d think less of me if I explained. Let’s just say it would put a nice period on a former relationship.”

  Amanda’s expression showed that her curiosity was piqued. “I take it you left more than your job behind in Chicago?”

  “You could say that,” Henry said, leading her toward his car. “And I really don’t mean to make light of it. But I love irony, and there it is.”

  “Apparently I’ll have to be content without the details.”

  “But you must not be content without Cristal. One thing I learned from my buddies at Wilson, Lougherby and Mathers: drink your champagne now, because you’re only one meeting away from bad news.”

  “I don’t know if that’s cynical or merely practical.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The point is, you get to drink a lot of champagne that way.”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  They arrived at the car, and Henry opened the passenger door for her. He felt h
er brush close by him as she got in, and he felt a dizzy, acquiring sensation in his chest. She slid across the bench seat toward his side; not enough to be forward, but enough to create a pleasant sense of proximity. He got in and they drove north out of town.

  “Where are we going?” Amanda asked after several miles had passed, obviously content to be surprised.

  “To the only restaurant with a wine list between here and Kansas City,” Henry answered. “I ate there my graduation day from law school, and I haven’t been back since. If there is a God, the place is still there.”

  Amanda leaned back in the seat, and Henry drove northeast toward Lawrence. He pointed out the landmarks of his youth with pleasure as the miles rolled by. “See that windmill at the horizon?” he asked, pointing over her shoulder. “I saw my first birth up there.”

  She looked at him, surprised. “Of what?”

  “Calf,” he said, laughing. “That’s Clara Littlewater’s place. Her husband’s long gone, but his widow still runs the place. She’s tough as a boot. In calving season most of the men around go up and help her. My father took me up there when I was a kid.”

  “And you watched a calf being born?”

  “Very messy. But worth it when the little guy stood up on those spindly legs.” They drove on, Henry pointing out a line of geese far to the east, flying high toward the road. Beyond them, ephemeral in the haze of distance, cattle were scattered like dots on the yellowish-green range grass.

  “This is nothing like Connecticut,” Amanda said, staring out the window. “You’d have hated us, Henry. We were all terminally bored, little spoiled kids with nice cars.”

  “Maybe. But you wouldn’t have given that up to come here.”

  “No, not at that point. But I still can’t help despising how stuck-up we were.”

  “When I think about you, that’s not the phrase that comes to mind.”

  She smiled. “What does come to mind?”

  Henry laughed, unwilling to be baited. Before she could press him, he turned the car into a gravel driveway. “What’s on my mind right now is a good steak.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Skunk Pepper’s.”

  “I am not eating at a place called Skunk Pepper’s.”

  “It’s not named Skunk Pepper’s, it belongs to Skunk Pepper. You are in the middle of the most productive cattle land in the world, and you are going to eat steak.”

  She stared up at the sign dubiously. FLINTHILLS STEAK HOUSE flickered in neon above them. “God, Henry, how do you find these places?”

  “Law school,” he said, opening his door. “We’d make runs down here whenever we could afford it. Which in my case was exactly twice in three years.”

  Henry led her into the restaurant. The dining room consisted of nine or ten tables pressed close together in a small room, but the decor was surprisingly tasteful. The waiter, a short, well-dressed man, greeted them with a gratitude that said customers were rare and appreciated.

  When they were seated, Amanda looked around the restaurant with approval. “Not bad,” she said, pulling a brass ring off her cloth napkin. “How do they stay in business?”

  “Exorbitant prices, and by growing his own beef. Skunk’s a Charolais rancher from way back. French cattle, pure white.” A waiter approached and Henry asked for Cristal Roederer, ’85, savoring the words. The waiter nodded demurely and drifted away.

  “I’m stunned,” Amanda said.

  “It was inevitable, actually. Leave it to a bunch of law students to discover the one civilized place within two hours’ driving distance of Wertner Residence Hall.”

  They both ordered steaks, and when the champagne came Henry waved off the waiter’s attempt to open it. He took the bottle in his hand and stared at the label. “We who are about to receive, thank Thee.” He covered the cork with a white cloth napkin and popped open the bottle. “To one tiny victory in a war I really want to win,” he said, pouring Amanda a glass. “Bad.”

  Over dinner Amanda asked what Henry had known was inevitable. “I’ve let you slide about why you’re back in Council Grove,” she said, “but no more. When you called to say you were here I nearly fainted.”

  “You weren’t as surprised as I was.”

  “I’ll give you a starting point. The guy I talked to . . . the guy who gave me your number?”

  “My managing partner.”

  “That’s right, Sheldon something. I remember he said something very odd. I let it go. I guess I was just preoccupied with getting on that land.”

  “What was that?”

  “It’s what he called you.” She changed voices, doing a fairly convincing impression of Parker. “‘Preacher’s in Kansas somewhere. God knows the name of the town. He’s picking me up some chickens.’” She smiled, returning to her normal voice. “He called you Preacher.”

  “You want to know why.”

  “It’s the kind of thing that gets your attention.”

  Henry took a swallow and set down his glass. He had kept this part of his life locked away from everyone in his new life, consciously, scrupulously. But that life was over, and maintaining that privacy had taken a great deal of energy. He wouldn’t resist this conversation, for once. Suddenly, he wanted her to know. “Sheldon—and everybody else in that godforsaken firm—called me Preacher because for seven glorious months I was a seminary student.”

  She looked up, surprised. “I wouldn’t have pictured that.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Seven months isn’t very long. What happened?”

  Henry hesitated, knowing she didn’t understand the meaning of her question, the fact that the answer went to the center of everything important in him. But at length he said, “A drunk in a pickup happened. He came over a hill at high speed on Highway 12 and introduced himself to my parents.”

  “My God, Henry, I’m sorry.”

  “It was a random . . . what do you call it? Things with position and direction? Vortex. Two vortices in a random world, colliding. A few seconds sooner, nothing. A minute later, nothing. They would be sitting here with us. Or they wouldn’t, because I would never have come back to Council Grove. Crandall’s will would have been handled by my father.”

  He could see her embarrassment and regret at asking her question, and he wanted her to know it was all right. “It’s okay,” he said. “You didn’t know. So I came back here and buried them. The gods of chaos and indifference had spoken, and my seminary days were over.” He picked up his glass, rubbing it between his hands. “It’s all ancient history now. Life goes on.”

  “So why law school? Is this following in your father’s footsteps, like a tribute?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  She smiled sympathetically. “I’m sure he was a great lawyer.”

  “He was a lousy lawyer,” Henry said. “I know that sounds harsh. If it helps, I never told anybody that before. But it’s the truth. He worked as hard as anybody I’ve ever seen, but he didn’t know how to finish, how to bring it home. He let a lot of victories slip away.” He paused, and added, “Lousy lawyer, good man.”

  “That’s a lot more important, isn’t it?”

  Henry shrugged. “At Wilson, Lougherby and Mathers you could get a difference of opinion on that.”

  “Which brings us back to why you’re here.” She leaned forward. “What happened in Chicago, Henry?”

  Henry exhaled. “Being back here is Boyd, pure and simple. But leaving Chicago . . . I didn’t plan that part. There was a difference of opinion, the kind that doesn’t get talked out. I was asked to do something I couldn’t do. So that was it.”

  “An ethical issue?”

  “Yeah, although God knows I don’t want to come off as holier-than-thou.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that.” Amanda smiled, lifting the glass of champagne to her lips. She sipped it, letting the liquid settle in her mouth. “Look,” she said, “I have something I need to say right now. I don’t exactly have the right, but it’s g
oing to drive me crazy if I don’t.”

  “Then go ahead. I’ve already got Boyd, so you need to stay sane.”

  “It’s serious.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She sat back. “What I want to say is that I don’t believe in random.”

  “That’s because random didn’t kill your parents.”

  She stopped, obviously hurt by his statement. He wanted to bail her out, but she was treading on places that had no reserve capacity for pain. She looked at him, regarding him differently for a moment; he could see it in her eyes: He’s not harmless. He can strike. “Don’t presume my story,” she said more quietly. “I’m only saying that I think things happen for a reason.”

  “Where’d you get this cosmic sense of meaning?”

  “Lapsed Catholic,” Amanda said. “I learned two things at Catholic school: my catechism and the facts of life.”

  “How lapsed?”

  Amanda gave a languid smile. “Appallingly. But you can never get that stuff completely out of your system. It’s burned into you. I remember once . . . God, it was seventh grade. There was a hurricane. It came up north, bounced off North Carolina and was coming back inland near the school. The nuns got all the classes together in this long, narrow room. We all said our Hail Mary’s together until the storm passed. Three hundred kids sitting on the floor, back-to-back in the center of the room, facing the walls. We chanted in the dark for nearly an hour. Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with Thee. Blessed art Thou among women and blessed is the fruit of Thy womb, Jesus. You could see the storm gather through the open windows. The sky got blacker and blacker, and after a while you could see trees starting to bend over from the wind. The sound was terrific.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. The wind howled for a while, and gradually it began to clear up. The sun came out, and we stopped chanting. The nuns almost looked disappointed.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. I really think they wanted something bad to happen. They wanted to test their faith. They wanted everything to be important. They wanted to suffer for God. I think they felt cheated. Anyway, they weren’t smiling.”