by Tim Poland
Stamper leaned back and glanced toward the outer office. “We’re gonna get dirty on that one. Let him wait.”
Documents were circulated to be signed by Sandy and Keefe, witnessed by Stamper and his assistant. As Keefe signed the power of attorney agreement, Sandy leaned in and spoke softly to him. “Are you sure about this, James?”
“Completely, my dear. It’s only reasonable, considering. Question is, are you sure about it? Taking responsibility for a doddering old coot?”
Sandy smiled, ran her fingertips along Keefe’s cheek, and signed the documents.
Stamper’s assistant notarized the documents while he explained how they would be promptly filed but were now fully in effect. Sandy tucked her copy into her canvas purse.
At that point, Stamper scooped up another file. “And now our last bit of business, the estate of Edith Moser.”
Sandy’s attorney led her through the relatively simple documents, explaining his fees and showing Sandy where to sign. She followed along, paying little attention to the actual words printed on the pages. With this set of papers finalized and in order, with an oddly grand flourish, Stamper removed an envelope from the file and handed it over the desk to Sandy.
“And this, of course, is for you. Edith Moser was one in a million. You must be, as well, Ms. Holston, for her to hold you in such high regard. May she rest in peace.”
“Yes.” Edith’s ashes remained in their plastic urn, tucked behind the seat in Sandy’s truck. Only circumstances had delayed her in spreading the ashes as Edith had wished, Sandy told herself. It had nothing to do with any unwillingness on Sandy’s part to sever her final link with the old woman. Nothing. Now that the waters were down, she could finish that last business. As soon as she had the chance.
Sandy opened the envelope slowly, as if it contained something to be approached with caution. She pulled out the cashier’s check drawn on a local Sherwood bank.
“Not something you can retire on,” Stamper said, “but it’ll certainly smooth off some of the rough edges.”
The numbers blurred before Sandy’s eyes, and she blinked to focus: $34,951.00. No, not something to retire on, not nearly enough to qualify Sandy Holston as an heiress. The check bore an enumerated imprint of the hard-fought legacy of a beautiful old woman who lived on her own terms. The check Sandy held in her fingers condensed that legacy to a numerical abstraction, one that would never match the value of Edith’s hand patting her head as it rested on the old woman’s knee.
“Thank you,” Sandy said. She slipped the check back into the envelope and tucked in into her purse. Suddenly she felt an uncontrollable urge to urinate. “Is there a restroom?”
“Just down the hall, to the right,” Stamper said.
Keefe remained on the sofa in Stamper’s office as Sandy walked briskly through the outer office to the hallway. Stamper’s assistant was back at her desk. A young man of about twenty sat slouched in a chair, his ballcap sitting backwards on his head. Sandy barely noticed either of them.
She found the restroom, locked the door behind her, peeled her jeans down, and relieved herself in a gusher. Her elbows on her thighs, she raised her hands to her face. She had slapped the nursing-home manager for referring to Edith as a revenue source, might very well go to jail for doing so, and now Edith had become just that for her. A revenue source. And the old woman’s final wish was yet to be fulfilled. The ashes sat in Sandy’s truck because, she now admitted to herself, she couldn’t yet part with them, with the old woman. Edith had chosen her. Time now to merit that choice. The waters were fine. On the way home, they would stop at Edith’s spot on the river road. Sandy would insist that Keefe stay in the truck, that she needed to do this alone. He would say, “Of course, my dear” and remain behind, his eyes averted from the river below, trying to maintain a firm grip on the present moment. Into the crystalline waters with fallen leaves dotting the surface she would wade, not bothering to don her waders. She would scoop one small handful of the ashes into her hand, feel the last silky but gritty touch of the old woman on her skin, then scatter that handful of ashes in a fan over the water as she wept softly one last time. After she watched those few ashes spread and swirl into the braided current, she would upend the remaining contents of the urn in the shadow of the giant hemlock that wasn’t there any longer, returning Edith again to water where, that one day, she had floated, the most perfect she had ever felt.
Keefe and the attorney stood by the assistant’s desk in the outer office when Sandy returned. Stamper leaned toward Keefe, propped up by a metal cane, a knowing look on his face, as if to punctuate whatever he had just said. Keefe appeared to be listening politely. The visual contrast between the two men was striking. Stamper—large, flabby, loquacious—and Keefe—slender, lean, contemplative. They both nodded and smiled as she walked in. Keefe handed Sandy her canvas purse.
“Thank you,” Sandy said.
The young man in the ballcap squirmed upright in his seat. “Come on, dude. I been waiting, like, forever.”
“Hold your horses, you little shit,” Stamper said to the young man. “I’ll be with you when I’m damn well ready. You don’t like it, take your business elsewhere. Not like you’re doing me any favors. If it wasn’t for your daddy . . .”
The young man scoffed and slumped again in his chair. Stamper turned back to Sandy and Keefe. “Tuesday morning. Nine a.m. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be there,” Sandy said. “Thank you again.”
“My pleasure. It’s what I do.” Stamper then turned to the slouching man waiting for him. “Now you, get your butt in there.”
Sandy touched Keefe’s arm as they moved out into the hallway. “James, would you mind if we made a little stop on the way home?”
“Of course not, my dear.”
Keefe at His Workbench: Gray Ghost
Continue to hold fast to the pattern. Don’t discount vigilance. Between the ring of this light and the banks of the headwaters, still an unstable world. But less so now. With her here, and her knowing, the fear decreases. With less devoted to containment, more to devote to the knowing, to the remembering. All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured. Loosen the grip, but don’t release it. Now something more daring may be pursued, something that in isolation would be too risky, would present too great a threat. Something more of whimsy than wile. Not an imitation, but rather a fabrication beyond name and designation, beyond genus and species, shaped not by mimesis but through imagined possibilities, even fancy, to construct a pattern that will enliven and articulate the unspeakable, the unknowable. To narrate a story conjured through craft. To assemble from these alien, exotic components something not of this elemental world, yet something that will speak its intelligible language, will speak its native tongue in this native place. Thread and silver tinsel wrapping the shank from bend of hook to head for the body. Tuft of yellow, fluffed, for a beard beneath the head—pure caprice. Herl of peacock and guinea for saddle wings and cheeks. Composed by artifice within the ring of this light, like nothing in the world outside this ring, yet every atom here at hand the same as every atom groaning with the heft of ages out there, out in the headwaters. This will dip and flutter through the deeper pools, startling the wiser, older ones, luring them from their secure depths, if handled well. This, worthy of her . . . of her . . . yellow stonefly. Don’t press too urgently. Wait for it to come, and it will come. Worthy of her. Of Sandy.
17
SANDY WAS AS MUCH ILL AT EASE WEARING THE DRESS AS she was being in the courtroom. She had worn her black dress, with a simple strand of artificial pearls, hoping it would be appropriate for the solemnity of the situation because it was about the best her wardrobe would allow. The dress was wrinkled, and she attempted to smooth it, running her hand over her lap. Unaccustomed to wearing a dress, she crossed and uncrossed her legs, unsure what to do with them, until she finally relented, keeping her feet flat on the floor before her, the green canvas purse clutched in he
r lap.
“It’s terrible and all, but I have to say, it’s still kind of a hoot seeing you in a dress.” Margie sat to Sandy’s left, a few rows back from the front of the courtroom, her hand resting on Sandy’s shoulder. “Don’t know that the purse really matches, though.”
Sandy exchanged a brief, resigned grin with Margie before turning her eyes back to the courtroom. A low-ceilinged room, with beige walls and a tile floor of the same shade, the courtroom was awash with brash fluorescent light. The judge’s bench was still empty. People squirmed in their seats or milled about here and there. A dull humming sound filled the chamber. Margie had been there when Sandy and Keefe arrived, had met them in the parking lot. She assured Sandy that it was no trouble at all for her to be there, that she wouldn’t have it any other way. The boys were in school, and she had arranged to have this day off as soon as she’d found out about the summons and the court date. She told Sandy and Keefe that J.D. sent his best wishes and had wanted to be there as well, but he couldn’t get away from work. “Something with this damned bear business that’s had him all worked up.”
Keefe sat to Sandy’s right. His eyes moved about the room, a hint of worry flexing through the furrows of his face. He was struggling some right now, Sandy could tell, trying to recall all the pieces composing the scene around him. He didn’t appear anxious, seemed steady enough, considering the circumstances. The glaring light and din of the courtroom presented to Keefe an environment fully alien to the headwaters, so it might take him longer to draw it all into focus. But if she didn’t press, if she remained close by, she thought, he’d have it sorted out soon. Sandy kept her hand firmly on his.
Seated in the row directly behind the three of them were Tommy Akers and Joyce Malden. Sandy had passed Tommy on Willard Road when she’d gone by the house to get the dress. They had chatted for a couple minutes, window-to-window, as their trucks idled, and in the course of the brief conversation, Sandy had given up a short version of why she had come by for the dress. Tommy had assured her he’d be there in her corner. Sitting in the courtroom, he kept his cap firmly on his head and grumbled about government intruding into private business.
The nursing-home manager sat alone in the front row, dressed as smartly as she had been the day Sandy slapped her. She held a black leather planner in her lap, along with a purse that matched her suit. She checked her watch and cell phone frequently. She had been there when Sandy entered the courtroom with Margie and Keefe. When her eyes met Sandy’s, something between a snarl and a smirk locked onto her face. She huffed and turned away brusquely when Margie realized who she was and stuck her tongue out at her. When Joyce Malden entered, the nursing-home manager motioned for her to join her, as Joyce had been summoned as a witness for her. Joyce showed no sign of having seen the woman’s gesture, located Sandy and her group, and promptly moved to her seat behind Sandy, touching Sandy on the shoulder as she settled into her seat. Tommy removed his cap and nodded to Joyce, who returned his greeting with a nod and a smile.
“Bless your heart, I’m so sorry about this.” Joyce had her summons clutched in her hand and flapped it like a fan. “They sent me this.” Tommy smiled, his gaze locked on Joyce.
Sandy watched as Jackson Stamper stabbed at the floor with the cane in his beefy hand as he flitted in and out of the courtroom like a massive, wounded butterfly, followed by his assistant. He’d lumbered over to Sandy and her group a short while before and leaned over them with that knowing look on his face. “We’ll get this worked out. You just sit tight. Let me earn my fee.” He’d then spoken with the court clerk, leaving her giggling, her hand held over her mouth, as he laughed heartily and disappeared behind the door to the judge’s chambers and the commonwealth’s attorney’s office. When he reappeared, he nodded to the court clerk and limped to the nursing-home manager. Leaning on his cane, he still loomed over the woman. To Sandy, she looked so small just then, so utterly alone in the room. Margie’s hand still lay on Sandy’s shoulder. Keefe’s hand was still in Sandy’s, and he turned his eyes to her, an encouraging grin on his face. He returned the pressure of her hand on his. He’d pulled it all together—he was fully with her now. Behind her, Sandy glanced at Tommy and Joyce. Joyce smiled and patted Sandy’s shoulder again. Tommy’s eyes were still fixed on Joyce. In stark contrast to the isolation she saw in the nursing-home manager, Sandy felt the embrace of the small group around her. Something like a family. She felt anything but alone.
“What’s he doing?” Margie asked.
“No idea,” Sandy said.
Stamper’s conversation with the nursing-home manager continued until the woman checked her watch again, then raised one hand and swatted the air. She glanced briefly over her shoulder at Sandy, then turned back to Stamper and nodded. Stamper smiled and shook the woman’s hand. His assistant stood by the court clerk. He gave them a nod as he walked to the side of the courtroom, motioning for Sandy to join him.
When Sandy joined Stamper, he laid one of his large hands on her shoulder and, in a low voice, explained the situation to her. He called it an agreement of “accord and satisfaction.” Sandy would issue a public apology to the woman. That apology would be accompanied by payment of court costs and a compensation payment to the woman. She’d demanded a thousand dollars. Stamper told Sandy it was a good deal and that she’d be a fool not to take it. There would be a brief statement before the court, some paperwork to sign, but that would put the matter to rest. If Sandy agreed.
“Bottom line,” Stamper said to her, “the charges are dismissed and you don’t have a criminal record. Trust me, it’s worth it.”
Sandy glanced at the nursing-home manager, then back to her little group of supporters, focusing on Keefe. He’d had a difficult morning. It could happen again. Now there would be no danger of her going to jail, of leaving him alone.
But what would Edith have thought? She’d struck the woman for reducing Edith to a cipher in a ledger book, and she wasn’t sorry for it. She would pay this compensation with money inherited from the very woman whose humanity she had demanded. What would Edith have said about this? She felt the stroke of Edith’s hand on her head, imagined the old woman’s voice rise up in her mind. “A thousand dollars to put that little brat in her place? Oh, sweetheart, a bargain at twice the price.”
“Okay,” Sandy said to Stamper.
Her case was second on the docket. Sandy sat in the midst of her group, holding Keefe’s hand, and watched as two sisters accused a young man of stalking them, of lurking outside their bedroom window, attempting to break in. The accused stood before the judge in shackles and denied the charge against him, claimed one of the sisters was his girlfriend, that he was only outside her window trying to get her to talk to him. He was promptly found guilty. The two sisters looked at each other, rolling their eyes and smirking, as the convicted young man was dragged from the courtroom by two bailiffs, literally kicking and screaming, his voice desperate, filled with anger and outrage, as he avowed his love for the sister in question. Love, again. A kind of love her former husband Vernon would have understood. Not love as Sandy was coming to understand it. She pressed her cheek to Margie’s hand on her shoulder and squeezed Keefe’s hand a bit more tightly.
Sandy’s case was decidedly less dramatic. The judge asked for public confirmation that the charge of battery against one Sandra Holston, brought against her by one Stephanie Paulson, had been resolved through an agreement of accord and satisfaction. Stamper led the participants through that confirmation, culminating in Sandy’s apology. She stated, very simply and directly, that she was sorry for the incident. When Stamper glared at Sandy, his eyebrows knit, as if to say her apology could sound more sincere, Sandy reiterated her regret, said she was very, very sorry. One Stephanie Paulson shrugged her shoulders, checked her watch, and said, “Whatever.”
Only one problem presented itself. As the paperwork was being signed at the clerk’s desk, Sandy began to write out a check for the compensation.
“Not likely
,” said one Stephanie Paulson. “Cash or nothing.”
Sandy wrote out a check to Margie, whose bank was only a couple blocks away. Margie would run up to her bank and cash the check, while the others waited. Sandy couldn’t tell if the nursing-home manager heard the “bitch” muttered under Margie’s breath as she rushed out on her bank run.
Waiting for Margie to return from the bank, one Stephanie Paulson stood by herself in the lobby, visibly anxious to be done with the business, while Sandy stood with what looked now like her entourage outside the courtroom.
“Oh, thank the Lord I didn’t have to testify,” Joyce said. “That woman is just awful, bless her heart.”
“I’m so sorry, Joyce,” Sandy said. “I hope this doesn’t get you in trouble at work.”
“What?” Joyce said. “From her? Oh, phooey on her. They transferred her off to the facility in Winchester a couple weeks after all this. She can’t touch me.”
“Still, I’m sorry. And thank you,” Sandy said.
“Don’t give it a second thought, honey,” Joyce said. “But I am in a bit of a bind. My sister drove me here. My car’s in the shop. I do need to find a ride back to work now.”
Tommy Akers took a step to Joyce’s side, his cap still in his hands. “I’d be glad to give you a ride. Be my pleasure.”
Joyce Malden looked at Tommy, then quickly back to Sandy, her eyebrows raised, an impish smile on her face. “Thank you. So kind of you.”
“Thank you. For being here, Tommy.” Sandy embraced him and Joyce.
“What friends and neighbors are for,” Tommy said as he and Joyce Malden walked to the exit.
Stamper’s assistant held up the binder of files in her hand, caught Stamper’s eye, and nodded toward Keefe. “While we’re waiting?” she said.
“Yes,” Stamper said. “Mr. Keefe, your documents are ready for you to sign.”