by Martin Clark
“Only two choices. Like I already suggested, bury it deep and be happy with what you’ve learned. Then forget it. You validated your marriage. Went to a dream spot with a hot new guy and Joe was still king. Or—second option—tell him. There’s some marketplace value in letting him know. Maybe if he understands there’s competition, he’ll up his game and appreciate how fortunate he is. The realization you were restless might make him clip some nose hair or ixnay his dorky motor scooter. Make him a better Joe. There’re men who would work extra hard to hold on to you and ensure you’re happy. He might try to improve to keep you around.”
Lisa dropped her head, twisted her mouth into a grimace, locked her eyes and stared at her friend. “Maybe on the Lifetime channel’s movie of the week. Or if we were Tristan and Isolde and King Marke, and we all sang our parts. Somehow, I don’t quite see Joe doing that math.”
“You’re probably right. I’m just brainstorming. At any rate, I’m not convinced I’d want a jolly cuckold around, regardless of how much effort he was investing in me. Doormat guys aren’t attractive over the long haul.” She shifted in her chair, leaned forward and rested her forearms flat against the table. “So if you confess and he stays…” She changed positions again, slumped slightly and folded her arms across her chest. “There’s not really a helpful business model for adultery.”
The waitress returned with turkey wraps and homemade tomato soup. Lisa and M.J. both thanked her and told her they didn’t need anything else. The wraps were held together with toothpicks; each bowl of soup was garnished with a basil leaf. The women neglected the food and kept talking. It was approaching three o’clock, and they were now the only customers.
“I’d actually thought about seeing a…counselor or, who knows, a minister or priest. This should be well within their field of expertise.”
“As for the counselor, I’d only consider a psychiatrist. If I’m going to suffer all the jibber-jabber, I’d like the words to have some pharmacological backup. The pills pay the bills, not the chitchat. I had a counselor for a while when I was married to the Craps Pirate, and it was okay, I suppose, but it didn’t solve the first thing. It was nice to have the sympathetic lady with the master’s in social work to commiserate with, but I was still married and he was still a piece of shit, and all her solemn nods and calm advice didn’t change that. The miracle of prescription dope might’ve at least given me a few nights away from the stress.”
Lisa chuckled. “There’s the issue of this being Martinsville too. I know all the counselors, and Art Prillaman’s the only psychologist in town, so it would be terribly awkward. Yikes. Ugh. We’re friends. He’s my friend and Joe’s friend.”
“You’d have to make an appointment in another city.”
“Plus,” Lisa said, “even though he’s honest and very professional and wouldn’t do it on purpose, I worry about news of my mistake leaking into the community gossip. A busybody sees you there at the counselor’s office, or a fired employee blabs, or hell, it’s a small town and it’s like spontaneous combustion the way your private concerns just, poof, become public at the Chatmoss pool or Snow’s lunch counter.”
“True. Exactly. I grew up here, remember?”
“I wish I knew a solid minister. But Joe and I have never really gone to church.”
“Happy hunting, Lisa.” M.J. shook her head. She stirred her soup but still didn’t eat any. “Last place I’d look for help, especially in Henry County.”
“I said a solid minister.”
“I gave the whole religion gig a big try, right? Wednesday night Bible study? The cruise to the Holy Land? As best I can tell, no one’s nailed it for sure yet. Take your pick. There’s Scientology, Haile Selassie, Wicca or the Mormon guy, Joseph Smith. You can unlock the secrets of Xenu, or smoke pot, or learn cool chants, or marry lots of young girls, all in the name of some god or another. You can be a Christian or a Jew—bet either black or red on the roulette wheel. Not much middle ground there. Or put your money on the Pope. Or buy a Vishnu ticket. Quarrel about grape juice versus wine, debtors versus trespassers. After years of struggling to sort through it, I decided I’d just begin my praying with ‘to whom it may concern.’ ”
“There’re tons of great people in the churches,” Lisa said. “Far more good than bad. You’re using fringe examples. Most everyone understands there’s a god, a creator.”
“Imagine my surprise when my new Baptist ‘church family’ in Raleigh informed me I was disqualified from every godly office because I was divorced. Huh? Excuse me? That’s my fault? I mean, damn, come on.”
“I’d just be curious to hear another opinion. There’re preachers who are college-trained, who went to legit seminaries. Part of their job is counseling people and keeping confidences. You don’t necessarily have to buy into all the theology for them to help you.”
“For me, same as the counselors. I’m having none of it unless this preacher can write me a prescription.” M.J. picked up her fork and pointed it at her friend, jabbing the air as she spoke. “Religion is like fashion, but with a much longer shelf life. Your mainstream Baptists and Methodists are the spiritual little black dress—they’ve managed to hang around for centuries. The fly-by-night folks, they’d be your caftans or cowl-necks or stonewashed jeans. Your apple-green trouser suits.”
“Okay already. Calm down.” Grim as she was, Lisa couldn’t help but laugh. “I didn’t mean to get you started. I understand the topic pisses you off. But the minister’s for me, not you, and I’m willing to try whatever, anything, hypnotism or colonics or acupuncture, if there’s even a remote possibility. So far, I’m not curing this on my own.”
“Sorry.” M.J. laid the fork on the table. “I’m sorry. But it sticks in my craw. I still volunteer at the food pantry my old church sponsors, so it wasn’t a total loss. But, yeah, we have to fix this for you. We need to stay on track. So have you cut ties with boyfriend Brett?”
“Completely. I called him the next Monday.”
“How’d that go?”
“He was a gentleman. He sent some roses disguised as a gift from a title company and tried to persuade me otherwise, but he’s left me alone. We were on the phone for an hour, and he sounded sad at the end. Oh—he did send me a long e-mail several days later. It was sweet. But he’s not a groveler or a stalker. I think he kind of had a huge clue before we left, so it didn’t sucker punch him.”
“Thank heavens. That would be a nasty complication.”
“At any rate, I—”
“I met a guy,” M.J. interrupted, “at my aunt’s funeral.” She still pronounced it “ant,” the Southside way. “My mom’s sister. The preacher did a nice job with the service, and I spoke to him afterwards in the church basement. Cute little round fellow, bald, tearing up a paper plate full of deviled eggs, ham biscuits and macaroni salad. He was from Louisiana, and lo and behold, I discover he has an MBA from LSU and quit his family’s business to become a minister. He was close to forty when he enrolled in the seminary. Kind of a different route—evidently, he was hauling in some serious jack, but left it behind to preach. Usually it’s the reverse. Plus, he had a dash of Cajun in him and was fun to talk to. My parents were upset he’d been invited to preach the funeral because he and his wife drink an occasional beer or glass of wine. The Carter family is strict Pentecostal, as you’ll recall. Of course, I liked him even better for it.”
“Huh. Where’s he from?”
“Patrick County. Stuart, I think. Bucky was his first name. Last name was odd. German sounding. He’s Presbyterian. Shouldn’t be hard to track him down if you really are convinced it’s worth a shot. He seemed reasonable and normal, which is about the best you can hope for from that bunch.”
“Maybe. Sounds as if he’s what I’m looking for. I might check into it.”
The waitress was wiping a nearby table, and M.J. asked her if she could pop their soup in the microwave for a few seconds. “We were gabbing so much, we let it get cold,” she said apologetically.
“I don’t mean to change the subject again, but I like your ring. I’ve never seen it.”
“Thanks. Seriously? It seems a little tacky and over the top to me. I don’t wear it too often.”
“Tanzanite. Nothing wrong with it, in my opinion. It’s a lovely shade of blue. Snooty bitches pooh-pooh it because you can buy it on the shopping shows. So what? Who cares? I own some, and I damn sure can afford Tiffany’s or the typical stuff, diamonds and emeralds.” M.J. grinned. “But I also adore Pigeon Forge and a Catskills hot tub, so I’m not sure how much my vote is worth. When did you get it?”
The waitress returned with the soup bowls. “John poured out the old instead of rewarming it,” she informed them. “He wanted me to tell you.”
“Oh. Well, we appreciate it,” Lisa replied. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“Sorry to be a nuisance,” M.J. added.
Lisa told M.J. how she’d come to own the ring. M.J. ate and listened. She was silent for a moment after Lisa finished. “Yeah,” M.J. said, “this is worse than I thought. You really stepped in it. Twenty years together, and he’s drinking wine with you on a weeknight and buying you jewelry off the TV? As a bonus, he’s wearing his cowboy clothes before you two have car sex? Sheesh.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“I told you before: This was a Two Pieces With Harland choice.” M.J. shrugged. “My final advice would be to keep your mouth shut, realize what you’ve learned and spoil Lawyer Joe like there’s no tomorrow.” She raised her index finger. “But not so much he senses it’s restitution and catches on you’ve cheated.”
The waitress interrupted with their ticket, and M.J. apologized for being a difficult table and arriving late for lunch, and she handed her a hundred-dollar bill as a tip.
“For me?” the girl said, stunned.
“Yes. I hope you can use it.”
The girl’s pale neck and cheeks colored. “Oh, oh…yes. The water pump in my car’s broke, and I didn’t have no idea how I could afford to fix it. Thank you, ma’am. I can’t believe it. Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure,” M.J. replied.
“John made me promise not to bother you, but I know who you are,” she told M.J.
“Oh?”
“Miss Gold,” the girl said. “You came and did a speech at the high school years ago. I was in tenth grade. They said you were sort of a female Donald Trump.”
“Ha!” M.J. cackled. “Not hardly. I’ve never filed for bankruptcy, and I don’t feel compelled to stencil my name on every building and plane and doodad I buy.”
“You have your own personal airplane?” the girl asked.
“Yeah. A Citation Ultra. And I can fly it too. I have my pilot’s license.”
“Awesome.”
“Listen, sweetie. You take your car down to Sirt’s Auto Repair and tell Mike to replace the water pump. A new one, not something salvaged or rebuilt. Tell him to send the bill to Mrs. Lisa Stone here, my attorney, and I’ll see that he’s paid. You keep the hundred and buy a treat for your kid.”
“How’d you know I have a little boy?” The girl’s mouth stayed open after she asked the question.
“Same way I wound up with my own plane,” M.J. told her, and the words, despite their smart-ass swagger, came off as generous and amiable, without any hint of condescension.
“You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?” Lisa said to M.J. while the waitress was walking away but still within earshot.
Inasmuch as he wasn’t eager for a double-barrel, twelve-gauge blast of scolding, Joe understood he needed more evidence—hell, he needed some evidence—before he mentioned the name VanSandt to his wife again and revisited Dr. Downs’s contention that Lettie had been assassinated by a multinational pharmaceutical company because her madwoman’s quackery was actually useful and mysteriously valuable. Joe decided that Neal would be the easiest, softest source to explore, so for a couple days after his meeting with Toliver Jackson, he mulled strategies and plans and then cold-called Neal early on a Thursday, nine o’clock sharp, at the Atlanta pest control service where he worked.
“Neal, good morning. It’s Joe Stone. How’re things down your way?” Joe was seated behind his office desk, still wearing his suit jacket. Brownie was torpid on his chamois pad. He’d suffered a seizure at breakfast, trembling and gagging and jerking in the kitchen, and Joe had given him extra medicine, half a pill more than normal.
“Attorney Stone? From Martinsville?”
“Exactly,” Joe said enthusiastically. Neal sounded as meek and scattered as ever. Joe envisioned him hunched over a computer, scheduling appointments and entering them on an electronic calendar, his dingy coffee mug beside the keyboard, his brown-bag lunch and puddingcup snack in the common-area fridge.
“Well, yeah, right, hello. Hi. I didn’t expect you to be calling.”
“Hope I’m not bothering you.”
“No. Not really. But we are busy today.” Neal sniffed, coughed. “And we’re not supposed to have personal conversations during work hours.”
“I’ll be quick,” Joe told him. “I’m afraid we have a loose end we need to discuss.”
“Okay,” Neal said warily, stretching the word.
“Here’s the problem, and most likely it’s no big deal. Before she died, your mother created several trusts. Do you know what I mean by that, a trust?”
“Kinda.”
“A trust holds assets and distributes them to the object of the trust, who’s called a beneficiary. The trust has to follow very specific rules as to how it pays the beneficiary. Lettie established a number of foundations, too, basically the same principle.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, when we settled her estate and I signed the renouncement giving you her assets, I didn’t consider the trusts. Didn’t even think about them.” This was true. Joe was careful not to lie. Lettie was constantly setting up trusts and foundations, none of which was ever funded, none of which had ever paid out a single dime. They existed entirely on paper, Lettie’s grandiose, pipe-dream plans to provide food for stray cats in Thailand or award scholarships for high school girls who wanted to study the haints and apparitions that bedeviled Turkeycock Mountain. “I’m concerned about potential trust holdings, things that were left in the trusts or foundations when she died.”
“Oh. Like what? What…uh…do you think could be there?”
“Money. Cash.”
“Okay. How much? And how would you find it?” Neal coughed again. “Sorry. I have a sinus infection,” he noted. “Drainage.”
“Good question. Do you have any papers or account numbers other than the information I gave you?”
“No,” Neal said. “I just went by what you told me. I have boxes and boxes of her files that I took from her place, but I never paid them any mind. They’re in my basement.”
“It might be worth the effort to investigate the local banks and see if there are any accounts in the names of the trusts and foundations.”
“Okay. Yeah. Thanks.”
“You want me to send you the various names?” Joe asked. “I can pull the files.”
“Sure. Thank you, Mr. Stone.”
Joe let the conversation stall for a moment. The line was completely quiet, miles and miles of separation in their connection. “Oh,” he said after the break, “this probably won’t matter, but Lettie was always talking about funding the trusts with her inventions and creations. I can’t imagine why it would be an issue since none of her various schemes ever amounted to a hill of beans.” He chuckled. “No offense to her. Not long before she passed away, she had me draw up a trust to provide seed money for a rebellion against the Henry County Zoning Board. Month prior to that, it was a foundation to tackle cheating in the state lottery. She actually paid to have both of those filed in Richmond with the SCC.” He made it a point to sound wistful, nost
algic for his quirky client.
“Mom had lots and lots of ideas, no doubt.”
“She mentioned dedicating the profits from—oh, what was it?—VanSandt’s Wound Velvet Medicine and her shingles remedy to start the zoning rebellion. She was also kicking in the earnings from her project to copyright the sounds of certain birds, beginning with whip-poor-wills and barn owls. She liked to remind me that the true owners probably weren’t in a position to sue her.” He chuckled again. “I don’t know if she ever actually transferred anything or not, but I gave her the paperwork with fill-in blanks to use, and Lettie being Lettie, and as much as she enjoyed shuffling legal papers around and keeping company with notary publics, she certainly could have.”
“Wait. What’re you sayin’?” Neal almost shrieked.
“Reminiscing makes me realize how much I miss your mom,” Joe said, deliberately ignoring his distress. “She was irreplaceable. Eccentric as hell too. There’ll never be another. I’m sorry—you were asking me a question?”
“The trusts and so forth. So what if she did? Put the Velvet…put, well, you know, an invention in one of these trusts?”
“It wouldn’t matter, Neal. As far as I can tell, all her inventions and formulas are worthless. You just need to make certain there’s no cash money in any account. If there is, you could simply donate it to the cause Lettie had picked, or to a similar and legitimate organization, assuming such a thing exists. Many of Lettie’s beneficiaries were unique, to say the least.”
“Can I…can I…get whatever’s there out? Would I own it as your son? As her son, I meant to say. Darn.” His voice spiked on several of the words.
“No. Nope.” Joe’s tone was smooth and lawyerly. “But who cares, Neal? And I doubt there’s any cash floating around, but I’ll pull the names of all her foundations and trusts and send them to you so you can inquire at the banks here. I’ll have Betty include the telephone numbers for the banks. Save you some trouble.”