Backlands

by Michael McGarrity

  The phone rang repeatedly over the next few hours, but he refused to answer it. He had nothing to say to Wallace, never wanted to see him again. For years Matt had secretly wished his pa was more like Wallace: smart, interesting, witty, sophisticated, and worldly. Not anymore.

  He’d never thought twice about why Wallace was a bachelor, and as far as Matt knew, no one else did either. He squired attractive single women to the many social and cultural events in town, belonged to all the right clubs, and was considered quite the ladies’ man. It was all a big fat lie.

  Matt fretted over what Wallace had done until he finally fell asleep on the living room couch. At midmorning the telephone brought him out of a dream where he was lost somewhere in Las Cruces on a street he’d never seen, surrounded by towering buildings that filled the skyline in place of the Organ Mountains. He answered without thinking.

  “Good morning, sport,” Wallace said cheerily.

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Please let me explain,” Wallace pleaded. “I drank too much and had a silly notion to tuck you in; that’s all. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Matt snapped. The memory of Wallace’s hand traveling up his leg made him shudder. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You must,” Wallace said pleadingly. “I was tipsy and silly. Forgive me.”

  “Just let me be.”

  Wallace sighed. “I’ve upset you. What can I do to make amends?”

  “Nothing,” Matt snapped.

  “There must be something,” Wallace urged.

  “Nope. Just be glad my pa isn’t here, or I’d tell him what happened.”

  “There’s no cause for you to do that,” Wallace implored.

  “Leave me alone and I won’t.”

  “As you wish,” Wallace said, his voice filled with resignation. “I’m going to my office and won’t be home until dark. I’ll leave the back door open so you can come and get your things. You won’t be bothered, I promise.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” Matt replied.

  “Matthew.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I was a real sap. I raise my hand and swear on a Bible to never again drink while in your company. Does that reassure you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Matt replied. “I don’t plan to come anywhere near you ever again.”

  His hand shaking, Matt hung up. He suddenly felt trapped inside a house that was too quiet, too empty. He ran outside and knocked on Nestor’s front door. Guadalupe answered, smiling at him, her round face a delight to see. He almost hugged her.

  “Matthew, are you back so soon from staying with Señor Hale?” she asked, stepping aside to let him enter.

  “I have lots of studying to do before school starts again,” he fibbed. The warm glow of the fireplace, the smell of green chili, and the sound of happy chatter coming from the kitchen made him feel safe and protected. “But I’m not here to ask you to come back to work early or to feed me, only to visit for a spell,” he added. “I can take care of myself for a few days.”

  “Bueno. Everyone is in the kitchen. Come join us.”

  ***

  Wallace Claiborne Hale tried hard to occupy his mind with work, but attacks of dread interrupted his concentration time and again. He stopped working on a breach-of-contract brief that required his full, undivided attention and kept busy organizing documents and placing them in the correct case files. Even so, the mind-numbing routine of putting his paperwork in order didn’t erase the absolute panic that came upon him, making his hands shake and his pulse race.

  Through his own stupidity, the career and reputation he’d carefully built since coming to Las Cruces were in danger of being destroyed. Up until now, he’d acted on his sexual preference for boys and young men only far away from Las Cruces, but he’d showered attention on Matthew over the past few years without a thought of hiding it. If Matthew decided to expose him, there would be no way to salvage things and escape being ostracized by the community. Matthew was too well liked and too highly regarded to be easily dismissed or ridiculed as a fabricator.

  Although it was early evening, Wallace resisted the impulse to go home. He wanted to give Matthew as much time as possible to retrieve his belongings without being disturbed. Meticulous by nature, he began compulsively tidying his office. He arranged everything on top of his desk just so, lined up the books in his bookcases, squared up the row of file cabinets behind his desk, and adjusted his framed diplomas on the wall. Finally he sorted the pens in his desk drawer by size and then centered his chair exactly behind the desk. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he turned off the lights and went outside to his car.

  At home he found the Christmas presents he’d given Matthew on the living room floor, including a leather-bound copy of The Life of Samuel Johnson he’d bought in a London bookshop, a brown driving cap purchased at a Fifth Avenue department store, a stainless steel Hamilton wristwatch with MK engraved on the back, and two Levi’s work shirts for wear at the ranch.

  It was a clear message that all was not forgiven and never would be. Wallace picked everything up, stuffed it in the kitchen trash bin, and left. Realizing there was no chance of redemption, he got behind the wheel of the Chrysler and sped out of town. Up ahead on the gravel road, a new two-lane bridge with thick concrete pillars and railings crossed a narrows of the Rio Grande.

  The bridge appeared in his headlights. Wallace floored the accelerator, pointed the car at the bridge bulwark, and at the very last instant before impact closed his eyes.

  14

  Patrick didn’t learn about the auto accident until a letter from Matt came a week later. It arrived just as he was about to leave the Double K to freight some cow ponies by rail for the Diamond A in the Bootheel. The ranch manager was meeting him in Lordsburg to take delivery.

  In Patrick’s mind, the only issue of importance surrounding the death of Wallace Claiborne Hale was who would take over as the administrator of Matt’s trust.

  He trailed the ponies to Engle, loaded them on a livestock car, and changed the ticket so he could lay over with his ponies in Las Cruces for a few hours. In Las Cruces, he hurried downtown and immediately hired Alan Lipscomb, the lawyer who had handled his divorce from Emma, to find out what he could about the status of Matt’s trust.

  “That won’t be a problem,” Lipscomb promised, running a hand through his thinning hair.

  “Good,” Patrick said. “Now that both of the men Emma appointed to dole out Matt’s money are dead, I want to know if there’s any legal mumbo jumbo that bars me from taking over.”

  The Diamond A had agreed to a good price for the ponies and Patrick felt flush. He counted out some greenbacks and slid them across the desk to Lipscomb. “Let me know if you need more.”

  Lipscomb smiled. Cash was always welcome in his practice. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “I’m freighting some ponies to Lordsburg and I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have something for you by then,” Lipscomb replied, pleased with the amount of Kerney’s retainer.

  “Let my boy know that I’ve asked you to make sure everything is gonna be okay with the trust. Tell him I’m delivering some ponies to a buyer and will see him soon. That’s all you need to say, savvy?”

  “I’ll tell him exactly what you wish,” Lipscomb vowed.

  Patrick nodded and left.

  The next day at the probate court clerk’s office, Lipscomb got a copy of Emma’s will and the trust document, and after a careful reading of both documents, he prepared his analysis and paid a visit to Hale’s clerk, who was in the process of shutting down the practice. When Kerney returned the following day from his business trip to Lordsburg, Lipscomb reported that no provision had been made to name a successor in the event of the death of both trust administrators. Fu
rthermore, the most recent last will and testament Hale had filed with the court did not mention the trust, much less state a preference as to who should manage it in the event of his death.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear,” Patrick said. “I want to be put in charge of the trust. How do we do it?”

  “As Matthew’s father, you can expect a judge will look favorably upon your petition to assume fiduciary control of the trust on your son’s behalf until his majority,” Lipscomb replied.

  Patrick groaned. “You can’t just do some paperwork to get it done?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Lipscomb replied. “It will take a court order made on behalf of Matthew Kerney, a minor child, to change the trust document. It’s not a lengthy process, but we will need to appear before the court and answer any pertinent questions the judge might have.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  Lipscomb shrugged. “Nothing of great consequence, I would imagine. He’ll be interested in knowing your current living conditions, your ability to adequately care for your son, your reputation and character—that sort of thing. He’ll likely want to visit with Matthew in chambers and also speak to your wife.”

  “Is all that necessary?” Patrick snipped.

  “I’m not sure if it is or isn’t,” Lipscomb answered, ignoring Kerney’s querulous tone. “It depends on the judge. But it’s best to be prepared.”

  “When can we see a judge?”

  “Soon, I hope. Hale’s clerk told me only Hale had the authority as trust administrator to write the checks and pay the bills. I’ll cite economic hardship for creditors and workers who are owed money by the trust and ask to have your petition heard as soon as possible. It will take me two or three days to have the petition ready. It’s best that we go over it together before I submit it.”

  Patrick snorted. “I suppose I can stay in town a day or two longer. Can you have it ready for me to look at day after tomorrow?”

  “Fine,” Lipscomb said, seeking to avoid being browbeaten by a man in a hurry. “We’ll meet day after tomorrow here at my office, same time. You might want to bring Matthew along so he’s fully aware of what you’re doing on his behalf.”

  “There’s no need to trouble him about all of this,” Patrick replied. “Do you know if Hale was taking any money for himself out of the trust?”

  “I don’t have access to the actual financial records,” Lipscomb replied. “But it’s normal practice for a trust administrator to be reimbursed for any legitimate expenses that are incurred.”

  “So he probably did,” Patrick ventured.

  “I would imagine so. It’s perfectly ethical.”

  Patrick cracked a tight smile and stood. “I’m obliged.”

  Lipscomb got to his feet and walked Kerney to his office door. “The sheriff told me that Hale drove straight into the bridge at a high rate of speed. He didn’t swerve or brake to avoid something in the road. Don’t you find that interesting?”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “The sheriff said he didn’t appear to be.”

  “You’re saying the man wanted to kill himself?”

  “Apparently,” Lipscomb replied. “But those of us who knew him are baffled as to why. The sheriff reported the cause of death as an accident.”

  “You got a point in telling me all this?”

  “When I spoke to Matthew on your behalf, he mentioned he was Hale’s houseguest over the holidays. It struck me that he might have an idea of what was troubling Wallace.”

  “The man’s dead,” Kerney replied tonelessly. “I say let him rest in peace.”

  Lipscomb’s cheeks flushed pink as he accompanied Kerney through his outer office. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

  Patrick nodded and stepped out into a cold, dry wind. A curtain of dust was bearing down from the west. He moved at a fast clip down Main Street with a few other pedestrians, hurrying to beat the blast of sand soon to engulf the town, and made a quick stop at a bank before turning onto Griggs Avenue. He reached the house and knocked on the door just as a high wind began to whistle through the bare branches of the tall cottonwoods that lined the street.

  “It’s blowing fierce out here,” he said as Matt opened the door to let him in. The boy had grown at least an inch or two in the time since Patrick last saw him.

  “Mr. Lipscomb told me to expect you sometime today. Have you seen him yet?”

  Patrick nodded. “I just came from his office. He says you, me, and Evangelina are gonna have to go before a judge to get everything squared away. Seems old Wallace Hale didn’t plan on dying, so there’s nobody who can take legal care of things until a judge decides. With only three years until you turn eighteen, Lipscomb thinks the best thing to do is put me in charge until then.”

  “Why is that?” Matt asked.

  “For a couple of reasons,” Patrick replied. “Appointing someone else could take a lot more time, and unlike Hale, I won’t be taking money out of the trust as a paycheck for managing it.”

  Matt stiffened. “Hale did that?”

  Patrick shrugged. “That’s what Lipscomb said.”

  “That’s balled up,” Matt snapped.

  “Don’t take it hard,” Patrick counseled. “Most all of these lawyer fellas always find a way to look after themselves first.”

  Matt shook his head in disbelief. “How long does Mr. Lipscomb think it will it take to get things settled?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll see Lipscomb again day after tomorrow.”

  Matt scowled. “That’s not fair to Nestor and Guadalupe. They haven’t been paid for two weeks. Hale really took money from the trust?”

  “I reckon,” Patrick replied. “Ease up worrying about Nestor and Guadalupe. I’ll pay them out of my own pocket until we get this settled.”

  “That’s jake,” Matt said, his stern look vanishing. “Thanks.”

  “Lawyer Lipscomb thinks you might have some idea about why Hale killed himself, seeing as you stayed at his place over the holidays.”

  Matt’s jaw tightened. “He said it was suicide?”

  “What he told me was the sheriff called it an accident, but in fact old Hale drove straight into the bridge without stopping.”

  Matt took a breath and held it. “That can’t be,” he finally said.

  The mortification on Matt’s face made Patrick pause and wonder if he knew something about Hale he wasn’t telling. “It could be just a lot of gossip,” he said reassuringly. “Don’t put any stock in it.”

  Matt recovered quickly. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “How about we step next door and settle up with Nestor and Guadalupe. With the wind now eased up some, we can walk over to that new diner on Main Street and have a meal. I hear the food is good.”

  “I’d like that,” Matt said with a grin.

  “Well then, jingle your spurs,” Patrick urged.

  ***

  During dinner, Matt managed not to ask Pa if he’d learned anything else from Lipscomb about Wallace Hale’s death. The notion that Hale might have killed himself made Matt’s guilt about Jimmy Potter’s death bubble to the surface like hot lava burning in his mind. Images of Jimmy falling, falling, falling, out of that cottonwood tree, his arms flailing, his face frozen with fear, his mouth open in a silent scream, prowled inside Matt’s skull most every day like a bad dream.

  He should have stopped Jimmy from climbing that tree, or climbed it first. Now he had Wallace Hale’s death weighing on his conscience.

  With his head bent over a bowl of peach cobbler, he squeezed his eyes shut as the newspaper photograph he’d seen of Wallace’s smashed car crumpled against the highway bridge floated into his mind’s eye. It made him shiver. If he’d accepted Wallace’s apology on the telephone, would he be alive today?

  Matt wanted it out of his mind forev
er, but he knew it wouldn’t go away. He swore silently that he’d never say a single word to Pa or anyone else about what Hale had done. Never, ever.

  He glanced at Pa, who was busy finishing his bowl of cobbler, running his spoon along the rim for that last bit of sweet peach filling. Pa was never one for conversation at mealtimes, and Matt’s silence at the table went unnoticed. About the only thing that would raise Pa’s curiosity would be his untouched cobbler bowl.

  Matt got to work on it. After his last bite, he thanked Pa for dinner and for paying Nestor and Guadalupe’s back wages out of his own pocket.

  “I was glad to do it,” Pa replied. “Maybe it’s best old Lawyer Hale is gone. There won’t be any more of this taking your money for his own use. I’ll look after what your ma left for you; I promise you that.”

  “He told me there’s enough to pay for college,” Matt said.

  “You need to get yourself through high school first, before you have any highfaluting ideas about college.”

  “I know I can do it.”

  “Maybe so,” Pa replied. “But don’t get to thinking you’ll become some smart-ass, high muckety-muck if you do spend a little time being a college boy.”

  Matt colored at the insult behind Pa’s words. “I ain’t like that.”

  “Maybe not,” Pa retorted as he dug into his pocket for money to pay the bill. “Just don’t get your hopes up.”

  ***

  Outside the diner, Matt grumbled good night, not caring if Pa heard the annoyance in his voice, and walked home alone. Not once in his life had Pa ever spent the night at the Griggs Avenue house. That hadn’t changed since Ma died. Matt figured it had something to do with their divorce. The way he’d heard it from Ma, they’d bought the house together so she could stay in town while she was pregnant with CJ. Maybe Pa figured Ma’s getting the house wasn’t fair. Or maybe he couldn’t stand to stay in the place where Ma had gone on to make a good life without him. From what Hale had told him, Ma’s money savvy put her way ahead financially of what Pa had done with the ranch. Could be that he was just downright jealous.