by John Grisham
Back then the docks were rowdy and chaotic, as steamboats swarmed in from upriver and hundreds of stevedores scurried to unload them. That was all gone now. The great river was still busy, but the steamboats had been replaced by low, flat barges carrying grain and coal. In the distance were battleships resting from the war.
Joel was captivated by the river and wondered where each vessel was headed. Some were going farther south, to the Gulf; others were returning. He had no desire to go home. Home meant the last boring semester of law school. Home meant meetings with lawyers and judges and the winding-up of his father’s wretched affairs. Home meant saying farewell to the land, the house, to Nineva and Amos, and the others he had known his entire life.
He puttered around New Orleans for three days, and when he was finally bored he hugged Florry good-bye and left town. She had settled in nicely and seemed to be quite at home.
He drove to Biloxi and managed to surprise Mary Ann’s father at his office. Joel apologized for the intrusion, but did not want her to know he was in town, and there was no other way to do it. He asked Mr. Malouf for his daughter’s hand. Ambushed, the gentleman really had no choice but to say yes.
That night, Joel had dinner with his soon-to-be fiancée, and slept on the family’s sofa.
Chapter 49
The year 1950 began with as much dreariness as was expected. On January 26, in John Wilbanks’s splendid conference room, he and Joel assumed one side of the table while Burch Dunlap and Errol McLeish took the other. Chancellor Shenault, without a robe, sat at the end and refereed the negotiations.
Joel, as substitute executor, signed a deed that conveyed title to the 640 acres, with home, to Jackie Bell, now officially Jackie Bell McLeish. To avoid any misunderstandings with Florry, the land had been surveyed and platted so that the parties involved knew precisely where the property lines ran. All buildings had been identified, and a separate deed listed them: stables, chicken sheds, tractor barns, cow barns, pigpens, the shotgun home of Nineva and Amos, the foreman’s house used by Buford Provine, and fourteen shacks in the woods that were currently inhabited by the field hands. A bill of sale listed the personal property: Pete’s 1946 Ford truck, the John Deere tractors, trailers, plows, planters, every piece of farm equipment down to rakes and shovels, along with the horses and livestock. McLeish would get it all. He had allowed Joel to purchase the 1939 Pontiac for $300.
Another document listed the furnishings in the house, what was left of them anyway. Joel had managed to take the books, keepsakes, guns, clothing, jewelry, memorabilia, bed linens, and better pieces of furniture.
As far as cash, McLeish didn’t push too hard. He figured, rightfully so, that most of it had been either spent or hidden. Using the inventory Wilbanks had filed after probate in the fall of 1947, he agreed to accept the sum of $2,500, on behalf of his wife, of course.
Joel had loathed the man for so long and so hard it was difficult to conjure up another round of proper loathing. McLeish was at once pompous and pathetic as he considered sums of money and lists of assets earned and built by the sweat of others. He acted as though he truly believed that he and his new wife deserved the Bannings’ land.
The meeting was a nightmare, and at times Joel felt nauseated. As soon as possible, he left without a word, slammed the door behind him, and fled from the office. He drove to the farm, and had tears in his eyes as he parked his car.
Nineva and Amos were sitting on the back porch, never the front, and they had the bewildered looks of people who might lose everything. They had been born on the Banning land and never left. When they saw the tears in Joel’s eyes they began crying too. Somehow the three managed to wade through the emotions and farewells and separate themselves. When Joel left them on the porch, Nineva had collapsed into tears and Amos was holding her. Joel walked to the barn, where Buford was waiting in the cold. Joel passed along the message from the new owner that he, McLeish, would like to speak with Buford that afternoon. He would probably keep his job. Joel had said many fine things about their foreman and it would be a mistake to replace him. Buford thanked him, shook his hand, wiped a tear of his own.
Facing a raw wind, Joel walked half a mile over frozen soil to Old Sycamore and said good-bye to his parents. By a stroke of luck, the family cemetery was on Florry’s section and thus accessible forever, or at least the near future. What did forever mean anymore? He was born to own his land forever.
For a long time he stared at both tombstones and asked himself for the thousandth time how their lives had become so complicated and so tragic. They were far too young to die and leave behind mysteries and burdens that would haunt those they loved. He looked at the other tombstones and wondered how many dark secrets the Bannings had taken all the way to their graves.
He walked the field roads and pig trails and footpaths of the land for the last time, and when he returned to his car his fingers were numb. He was chilled deep to the bone, and he ached to his core. Driving away, he refused to look at the house, and he wished he’d burned it.
* * *
—
Later in the afternoon, Errol McLeish appeared at his new home and introduced himself to Nineva. Neither tried to be polite. He didn’t trust her, because she had worked forever for the Bannings, and she thought of him as nothing more than a thieving trespasser.
“Would you like to keep your job?” he asked.
“Not really. I’m too old, sir. Too old for housework anymore. Ain’t you got a buncha kids?”
“There are three.”
“See there. I’m too old to do all the washin’ and cleanin’ and cookin’ and ironin’ for three kids, plus a wife. Me and Amos just need to retire. We’re too old.”
“Retire where?”
“Can’t we stay here? It’s just a little house, but it’s all we got. Been here for over fifty years. Ain’t worth nothin’ to nobody else.”
“We’ll see. I’m told Amos milks the cows and tends the vegetable garden.”
“That’s right, but he gettin’ old too.”
“How old is he?”
“’Bout sixty, I guess.”
“And you?”
“’Bout the same.”
“You got kids?”
“Bunch of ’em but they all gone, up north. Just me and Amos in our little house.”
“Where’s Mr. Provine?”
“Buford? He down by the tractor barn, waitin’.”
McLeish walked through the kitchen and across the porch. He tightened the scarf around his neck, lit a cigar, and strutted across the backyard, passing the barns and sheds, counting the livestock, savoring his good fortune. Jackie and the kids would arrive next week, and they would begin the wonderful challenge of establishing themselves as people to reckon with in Ford County.
* * *
—
With his aunt tucked away safely in the warmth of New Orleans, and with his father’s estate closed and his ancestral home now occupied by others, Joel had no reason to return to Ford County. Indeed, he wanted to stay away. Most of the cash left in the estate went to the Wilbanks firm, for its faithful and loyal representation. His weekly telephone chats with John Wilbanks came to a halt, but not before the lawyer passed along the news that McLeish had fired Nineva and Amos and evicted them from their home. They had been given forty-eight hours to move, and were currently living with relatives in Clanton. According to Buford Provine, who was gossiping with the Wilbankses’ foreman on Florry’s land, McLeish was planning to charge the field hands rent on their shacks while at the same time cutting their wages.
Joel was shocked and furious over the eviction. He could not imagine Nineva and Amos living anywhere else, or being forced to find a new home at their ages. He vowed to drive to Clanton, find them, and give them some money. And the other field hands were being abused for doing nothing wrong. They were accustomed to being treated fairly
by his father and grandfather, but now an idiot was taking charge. Meanness does not inspire loyalty. The thought of it made him sick, and it was another reason to forget about the farm.
If not for the magic of Mary Ann, he would have been a brooding, depressed twenty-four-year-old law student facing a bleak future. She had said yes to his marriage proposal, and they were planning a small wedding in New Orleans after graduation in May. When spring arrived with all its promise and splendor, Joel shook off the doldrums and tried to savor his final days as a student. He and Mary Ann were inseparable. For spring break, they took the train to D.C. and spent a week with Stella.
Along the way to D.C. and back, they spent hours talking of finding a better life far away from Mississippi. Joel wanted to run, like his sister, and bolt for the big cities up north where the opportunities seemed boundless, and the memories more distant. Mary Ann was not quite as desperate to get away, but as the grandchild of immigrants she was not opposed to the idea of starting over. They were just kids, madly in love, about to be married, so why not explore the world?
* * *
—
On April 19, Florry awoke in the early morning with aching chest pains. She was faint, could barely breathe, and managed to wake Twyla before collapsing in a chair. An ambulance took her to Mercy Hospital, where she was stabilized. Her doctors diagnosed it as a mild heart attack and were concerned about her overall condition. The next day, Twyla called Joel at Ole Miss, and the following day, a Friday, he skipped his last class of the day and drove nonstop to New Orleans. Mary Ann was worried about exams and could not make the drive.
At Mercy, Florry was delighted to see him—it had been three and a half months—and worked hard to appear aggravated by all the attention. She claimed to be fine, bored with the routine, and ready to go home to start writing a new short story. Joel was surprised at her appearance. She had aged dramatically and looked at least ten years older with gray hair and pasty skin. Always heavy, she had thinned considerably. Her breathing was labored and she often seemed to gasp for breath.
In the hallway, Joel expressed his concerns to Miss Twyla. “She looks awful,” he whispered.
“She has degenerative heart disease, Joel, and she is not going to get better.”
The thought of Florry dying had never crossed his mind. After losing so many, Joel had blinded himself to the possibility of losing her. “They can’t treat it?”
“They’re trying, lots of meds and such, but it cannot be reversed, nor can it be stopped.”
“But she’s only fifty-two years old.”
“That’s old for a Banning.”
Thanks for nothing. “I’m stunned by how much she aged.”
“She’s very weak, very frail, eats little, though she would like to eat more. I think her heart gets weaker every day. She can go home tomorrow and it would be nice if you stayed the weekend.”
“Sure, no problem. I was planning on it.”
“And you need to have an honest conversation with Stella.”
“Believe me, Miss Twyla, Stella and I are the only ones in our family who have honest conversations.”
An ambulance took Florry home Saturday morning, and she rallied considerably. A fine lunch was prepared in the courtyard. It was a perfect spring day with the temperature inching toward eighty, and Florry was delighted to be alive again. Against her doctors’ orders, she chugged wine and had a full plate of red beans and rice. The more she talked and ate and drank the stronger she became. Her mind sharpened, as did her tongue, and her voice returned to full volume. It was an amazing comeback, and Joel stopped thinking about another funeral.
After a long Saturday afternoon nap, he hit the streets and roamed the French Quarter, which he always enjoyed, though he felt lost without Mary Ann. Jackson Square was swarming with tourists, and the street musicians had every corner. He had a drink at his favorite sidewalk café, posed for a bad caricature that cost him a dollar, bought a cheap bracelet for Mary Ann, listened to a jazz band outside the market, and eventually drifted to the levee, where he found a seat on a cast-iron bench and watched the boats come and go.
In their weekly letters, Joel and Florry had been arguing about whether she would attend his law school graduation in late May. Three years earlier, when his father was about to be executed and the entire family was in disarray, Joel had skipped his commencement service at Vanderbilt. He planned to skip the one at Ole Miss as well, but Florry thought otherwise. The three of them had enjoyed a glorious time at Hollins when Stella graduated, and they would do the same at Ole Miss, at least in Florry’s plans.
The argument resumed Sunday morning over breakfast in the courtyard. Florry insisted that she would travel to Oxford for the ceremony, and Joel said it would be a waste of time because he wouldn’t be there. The bantering was good-natured. Twyla rolled her eyes a few times. Florry wasn’t going anywhere, except perhaps back to Mercy.
Florry had slept little during the night and was soon weakened. Twyla had hired a nurse who led her back to her room.
Twyla whispered, “She won’t be here long, Joel. Do you understand this?”
“No.”
“You need to brace yourself.”
“How long? A month? A year?”
“It’s a guessing game. When do you finish classes?”
“May 12. Graduation is the following week, but I’m skipping it.”
“What about Stella?”
“She finishes about the same time.”
“I suggest the two of you get here promptly and spend as much time as you can with Florry. You’re welcome to stay here.”
“Thanks.”
“In fact, you can stay here all summer, before and after the wedding. She talks of nothing but you and Stella. Having you here is important.”
“That’s very generous, Twyla. Thank you. She’ll never go home, will she?”
Twyla shrugged and looked away. “I doubt it. I doubt her doctors would agree to it. Frankly, Joel, she doesn’t want to go home, not anytime soon.”
“I understand that.”
Chapter 50
The Crescent Limited ran twice daily from New York to New Orleans, a journey of fourteen hundred miles and thirty hours. At 2:00 p.m. on May 4, a Thursday, Stella boarded the train at Union Station in D.C. and settled into a comfortable seat in coach for a ride that would be anything but comfortable. To help pass the time, she removed her wristwatch, tried to nap, read magazines and a novel, ate nothing but snacks she brought with her, and tried to justify the trip. The headmistress at St. Agnes had not been happy with her request to take off. Because of her complicated family issues, she had missed too many days already, and, well, classes would be over in a week. Couldn’t she wait?
No, according to Miss Twyla, there was no time to wait. Florry was at the end. For Stella, being there with her aunt was far more important than any job. The headmistress was slightly sympathetic, and decided they would discuss a new contract later. Stella had become a popular teacher and St. Agnes did not want to lose her.
According to Twyla, Florry had been rushed to Mercy Hospital for the second time, then the third, and her doctors were doing little more than medicating her and frowning a lot. Now she was back home, bedridden, fading, and wanting to see the kids. Joel was already there. He was missing exams but unconcerned.
Because of delays, the train arrived in New Orleans late Friday afternoon. Joel was waiting at the station and they took a cab to Miss Twyla’s town house on Chartres Street. She met them at the door and ushered them into the courtyard, where cheese, olives, bread, and wine were waiting. As they nibbled and sipped, she said that Florry was resting but should wake up soon.
Twyla shooed away a maid and lowered her voice. “She wants to talk to you before it’s too late. She has some important matters to discuss, some secrets that she wants to tell. I’ve convinced Florry that n
ow is the time to talk. Tomorrow might be too late.”
Joel took a deep breath and shot Stella a look of fear.
“Has she told you?” Stella asked.
“Yes, she’s told me everything.”
“And these stories are about our parents, right?” Joel asked.
Twyla took a deep breath, then a sip of wine. “The night your father died, just hours before his execution, Florry spent an hour with him at the jail, and for the first time he talked about his motives. He made her swear on a Bible that she would never tell anyone, especially the two of you. Six months ago, the night your mother died, she and Florry were alone in the house, in the bedroom, and your mother was off her pills and out of her mind. But she told another story, one your father never knew. She made Florry promise to never tell. And she didn’t, until a few weeks ago when she was in the hospital. We thought she was gone. The doctors said it was over. She finally wanted to talk, said she could not take the truth to her grave.”
“Hearing the truth is like grabbing smoke in our family,” Joel said.
“Well, you’re about to hear it, and it will not be easy for you. I’ve convinced her that she must tell you. It will disappoint you. It will shock you. But only the truth can allow you to fully understand, and move on. Without it, you’ll carry burdens and doubts and suspicions forever. But with it, you can finally put away the past, pick up the pieces, and face the future. You must be strong.”