by J. T. Lundy
Eustace pursed his lips and shook his head resolutely.
“Don’t do this, Eustace,” I pleaded. “I’ll tell Aunt Clara. This is not what she wanted. She’s not going to be happy.” I looked around. Still no Aunt Clara.
“I agree Mr. Barnes deserves a lesson.” Judge Crawford grimaced. “And I’m still ticked off about my newspaper.” He closed his eyes and opened them slowly, considering my fate. “But even so, I’m a fair man and I will give him a chance. If Mr. Barnes can repay the damages, that’s enough for me.” The judge pounded the gavel. “Mr. Barnes, you have thirty days to pay sixty thousand dollars to this court, or the conviction stands and you shall report to jail. The court will record any funds collected and distribute them to Mr. Small.”
I couldn’t grow that kind of money. I was going to be in the slammer for a year.
I stood outside on the court steps, leaning against a limestone column that felt smooth and solid, unlike me. I looked downtown to Rosewald Drugs and the vacant movie theater. St. John’s steeple rose high into the air. Stumpy always tried to drag me to that old Baptist church, but I had been raised Catholic. I had given up on that kind of stuff anyway. People walked past the church and shops unhurriedly, with freedom, without a thought of going to prison. I envied them.
Hammersmith came walking out with an irritatingly cheesy grin on his face. “For sixty grand you’re free and clear.”
“Wait till my aunt hears about this.”
Hammersmith smiled proudly, as if he had done me a favor. Had Aunt Clara turned on me, too? Was this all her idea? I tried to think of the other things I had done that could really set her off.
“The court wants your passport. The judge thinks you’re a flight risk.”
“Like I’m going anywhere.”
“You brought your passport, right?”
I pulled my passport out of my back jean pocket and handed it to him. I turned and walked down the steps to the sidewalk, thinking about spending a year in jail.
I had to find Aunt Clara. Something told me she was behind all this. I bet she was trying to teach me a lesson. Perhaps she had the judge in on it, and it was all a big ploy to scare me.
A white Range Rover pulled up along the curb. The window rolled down and Laura looked at me, concerned for a change.
“You’re too late if you want to testify against me.”
She acted like she hadn’t heard me. “The hospital called. They still had me as a contact. I’m sorry, Jason, Aunt Clara had a stroke. She’s passed away.”
I stared at Laura, my senses deadened. I had wished for Aunt Clara to die probably a thousand times over the years. I felt queasy. Now I wasn’t so certain. I tried to breathe to stop myself from throwing up. That’s why Aunt Clara hadn’t shown up for court. She hadn’t turned on me. Oh, Jesus. Aunt Clara had her faults, but she was the only family I’d ever had—the only mother I’d known.
“Jason? Are you all right? Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”
I didn’t know what to do. I stared at Laura. She now had blond hair and extra hips, but she was still as cute as ever. I climbed into the Range Rover and shut the door, naturally, like Laura picking me up from court happened every day.
I sat silently, bewildered and dumfounded from the events in court and the news that Aunt Clara had died. Laura prattled on. “What happened? Are you guilty? Eustace is such an ass. I’m sorry about Aunt Clara. She didn’t like me much, but I am sorry. Are you all right? Should we stop?”
I waved my hand to keep going.
“Father Roger will visit you to take care of the funeral details. Did she have a burial plot?”
I shrugged.
“I wonder what she left you? I bet she had money stashed away.” Laura looked at me like money could solve all unpleasantness.
I stayed silent and we continued on until reaching my apartment.
I skipped the funeral service at the church. I’m not sure why. Was I mad that she had left me? Aunt Clara was all about obligation, and even though she was dead, I could still feel her controlling influence. Maybe that’s why I didn’t go; it was my last act of defiance. I wasn’t supposed to be a pallbearer or anything, but my absence would be noted, another mark against the uncaring, disrespectful Jason Barnes.
I put on a Thelonious Monk album from an old collection of jazz records Aunt Clara had given me. Jazz was the one interest we had in common that we could speak about without arguing. I listened to the music and paced. I stopped and looked at the one photograph I had of my parents, taken a week before they had died. In the faded color photo my frighteningly young parents seemed awkward together. They stood close, their hands inches apart, like they wanted to hold each other, but were afraid to. My mother cradled a mass of blanket that was supposedly me.
Did they love me? Of course they loved me, but would they love me now? Would I have turned out differently if they had lived? Would they have approved of how Aunt Clara had raised me—sternly and with unreasonable expectations? I’d always imagined my parents would have been perfect, loving, and kind, but maybe not. My mother was Aunt Clara’s younger sister; maybe she would have been worse. I stared at my parents, and I knew what I should do. I hopped on my Trek mountain bike and headed for the cemetery. Everyone, even Aunt Clara, deserved a final farewell.
I rode through the cemetery gates and followed the curvy asphalt road to the back. I leaned my bike against a grand tombstone and walked toward a somber group surrounding Aunt Clara’s freshly dug grave. I could hear Father Roger mumbling some words through the strong breeze. The sky was gray and the leaves rustled as the old trees in the cemetery swayed.
I made my way up and stood by Stumpy in the front. His eyes were red from crying and he was in his best, but still sloppy, suit. I wore jeans and a T-shirt.
“Where were you?” Stumpy hissed.
I shrugged.
“Jesus. Your aunt may have been mean, but she at least raised you.”
Aunt Clara never attended a school play or a sporting event. She’d yell at any child who even thought of walking on our grass, and was so intimidating no kid but Stumpy was willing to play at my house. Yeah, she had raised me.
They lowered the casket into the grave. I stared into the pit. It didn’t seem real. Stumpy sobbed.
“Jason?” Father Roger asked. “Would you like to say a word?”
I tried to say no, but I weakened. Father Roger calling me out felt like a cork had been popped from my gut. “I, I.” I was going to cry. Damn it. I didn’t want to give the old biddy the satisfaction. I fought to stay stoic, as Aunt Clara would have expected, as she would have wanted. I recovered. “No, Father. Thank you.” I picked up some dirt, tossed it into the grave and walked away.
CHAPTER 3
Sheila played a golf game on her computer as I walked into the reception room at Hammersmith’s office. Paintings of English fox hunts and tall-mast warships hung from the deep blue walls. Oriental rugs covered the floor. The dark wood trim and carefully placed antique lamps created an old men’s club feel in the office.
“Hole in one?”
Sheila looked at me with disgust and then motioned to an office door down a hall. “He’s waiting.”
I walked by Sheila. “Swanky joint for you to work in.”
“Have fun picking balls in prison.”
I walked into Hammersmith’s office and slumped on a leather couch. Hammersmith, our “family” attorney, looked across his clutter-free mahogany desk, oversized to intimidate, and cleared his throat. “Jason, the unfortunate day you have been waiting for has arrived.”
“Yes. I mean no, sir.”
Hammersmith grimaced. “For the matter at hand, Ms. Barnes’s last will and testament.”
I sat up straight.
Hammersmith adjusted his red power tie and pressed a button on a remote control. A wall-mounted flat-screen TV came to life. Aunt Clara stared down at me with vengeance. She wore her special-occasion blue polyester dress she bought back in ’79 and her poin
ty black glasses I imagined she was born with.
She spoke with her ever-present accent. “I’m dead and gone. You can wipe that smile off your face, Jason Antoine. I’ve raised you since you were a baby, but I’ve made no secret of the fact that you’ve been a great disappointment.”
“Psh,” I said, rolling my eyes. Like I hadn’t heard that one before.
Aunt Clara smacked her lips, looked left, and then right as though she were considering. “You need to learn what it’s like to work.”
I shook my head and looked at Hammersmith. “I’ve worked my butt off at Eustace’s for three years.”
“And driving golf carts is not work,” Aunt Clara said angrily. “When I was young …” I said the words along with Aunt Clara. “I hoed weeds and picked grapes from sunrise to sunset.”
I laughed. Aunt Clara was dead, and I still had to hear the same spiel.
“Don’t you mock me, Jason Antoine. It’s time you grew up and became a man. It’s time you learned how to make a woman happy.”
I jumped up. “Wait, what?” Aunt Clara had always viciously blamed Laura for our divorce. She had never insulted me like this, and I must say, it hurt. I sat back down as Aunt Clara continued. Her voice softened. “Mon petit garçon. Tu as besoin de profiter de la vie. I’m going to give you a chance to redeem yourself, Jason. That vineyard I’ve always told you about that I grew up on—well, I own it—and if you are willing to work like a man for a change, then it is yours.” Aunt Clara then raised her voice and pointed her finger and spoke to me again as she was accustomed. “But if you turn out a bum … if you go to jail … I’m giving it all to Eustace.”
The screen went blank. Hammersmith looked at me with disapprobation over his spectacles, uncannily like Aunt Clara would have done.
I stood up and put my hands on the desk. “I’ll show her. I’ll work like a man. What about her money? Do I get any cash or not?”
Hammersmith leered at me. He seemed almost happy. “No. No money. Clara generously donated her portfolio to charity.”
To charity! I thought Aunt Clara dying would be my ace card out of jail. This generosity stunt, designed to rile me, was just like her. In second grade she made me give all my first-communion money to the church. I was supposed to learn the power of giving, but all I learned was resentment—and that I craved money even more. She had done it to me again, but perhaps this vineyard was a way out of my troubles. “What about this vineyard?” I asked.
Hammersmith pulled out a photograph. An old stone house with blue shutters and a red Roman tile roof overlooked a sunny, unbelievably gorgeous vine-laden landscape.
“Your aunt left you this.”
I clapped my hands. “It must be worth millions. How do I sell it?”
“The inheritance is not final yet.”
I pointed at Hammersmith. “Well, finalize it.”
He was annoyed with my impertinence. “That can only take place in France.”
“Wait, what?”
Hammersmith took off his glasses, and I thought he might have made a slight smirk. “To inherit the vineyard, you must personally have it notarized in France.”
“I’ve got twenty-seven days to pay the court.” I stood up. “If you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way to France.”
Hammersmith stood up as well. “Sit down. You can’t leave. The court has your passport.”
Damn, he was right. I sat back down. “Does this vineyard make any money?”
“Plenty,” Hammersmith said. “Clara split the profits with the vineyard farmers.”
“Do I get the profits now?”
There was that little smirk again. “That’s the work part.”
“I have to work?”
“As your aunt said, ‘to become a man,’ if you remember.”
“I am a man.”
“Well, yes, but implicitly I think she meant, better man. In any case, to receive any profits you must help the farmers work the vineyard.”
“The grapes of wrath! Work? In France?” I was so stupid. I finally realized my predicament. “Will Eustace really get this place if I go to jail?”
Hammersmith patted a stack of papers. “That’s what the will says.”
“But, but, not this time, right? Aunt Clara said ‘the next time I went to jail’ when we were at Denny’s. We had an agreement for this time, right? You heard her.”
“Uh.” Hammersmith looked nervous. “Technically, no. Eustace changed his mind the next day, well within the three days legally allowed to break a contract, and nothing was in writing.”
I should have hired my own lawyer, but the thought never occurred to me. I didn’t have the funds anyway. My vision blurred, and Hammersmith’s head seemed to balloon. “Eustace knew! You both knew that Aunt Clara had died before court started.”
“I can’t discuss Eustace’s business,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Was this crazy will all your idea, Hammerhead?”
Hammersmith put his hands up. He was flustered and defensive. “Not at all! I’m just doing my job.” He then regained his composure and tried to appear forthcoming. “I must admit I find it amusing, but the caveats of the will were all Ms. Barnes’s idea. I put in the standard Good Character Clause she refers to when speaking of jail. Your aunt wanted the clause to be effective forever, but legally once you inherit the vineyard it’s yours to keep whether you are incarcerated in the future or not.”
I sat down in defeat. “Aunt Clara and her damn character building.”
CHAPTER 4
Stumpy waved at me from our regular booth near the end of the bar, happier now that the funeral business was over. He smiled at me with more friendliness than I deserved. Stumpy and I had been best buds since second grade. I had treated him badly off and on, I admit, dropping him for long stretches of time to hang out with the more popular crowd and things like that; but from helping me deal with my Aunt Clara, to holding my hand through the divorce, Stumpy had always stuck with me.
I made my way through Lucky Mike’s, an Irish pub in the heart of corn-fed Kankakee. The place served beer and hard liquor and made a terrible mojito. Classic rock thumped and the bartenders didn’t hurry. Neon Coors and Old Style signs reflected off the mirror-backed shelves, the only bright lights in the dark room. A group of lecherous men and observant women crowded the bar, talking and drinking and clamoring for attention.
Stumpy stood up to greet me. I was five foot ten and I had at least six inches on him.
“What’s up, Jason?”
The lack of couples reminded me it was the first Tuesday of the month: unofficially, divorce night. The typical woman in the bar had a husbandless subdivision castle, two or three activity-prone kids, not enough income to support it all alone, and worked out like crazy in hopes of attracting someone who could help.
The men were either looking for love or looking to get laid. Some women had difficulty discerning the difference. Others didn’t care.
I sat down across from Stumpy. “I hate divorce night.”
The place smelled of perfume, beer, cologne, and desperation.
“It’s okay. Changes the scene at least. Hey, look, I’m really sorry about your aunt.”
Stumpy had endured Aunt Clara’s unrelenting wrath ever since we started hanging out in the second grade. The guy never did anyone harm. I don’t know what Aunt Clara had against him, other than that he was my friend.
“It was nice that you made it to the funeral.”
“She would have wanted me there.”
I laughed.
Stumpy laughed, too. “But I’m serious.” He touched his chest. “Deep down I think she liked me.”
“Man, you are an optimist. She used to call you Frumpy! And remember when she said you were fatter than foie gras?”
“At least I learned what foie gras was. Talking with Aunt Clara made me feel wordelly.”
“Do you mean wordy or worldly?”
“The second one.”
Lucky Mike slid two Miller Lites
across the table to us. He had black hair and blue eyes like me, but wore a beard wild enough to intimidate anyone. Mike went to high school with us and was good about letting me have credit when I was low on funds.
“Well? What did Mr. Hammersmith say?” Stumpy asked.
I pulled out the vineyard photograph and slapped it on the table. “Aunt Clara left me a French vineyard. Hammersmith says it might be worth millions.”
“Millions? Like dollars?”
“Euros? Dollars? It’s all mud until I sell. Can you help me?”
“What do you mean help?”
I looked at Stumpy, disappointed. I had already told him what happened in court. “I have twenty-seven days to deliver the court sixty grand or I go to jail and Eustace gets the vineyard. Now, you’ve saved some money.”
Stumpy closed one eye and looked at the ceiling with the other. “I’ve only saved about five grand.”
“Five grand. We can go to France with five grand.”
“You can’t leave the country.”
“Lucky Mike says he’ll help out with a passport.”
Stumpy frowned. He didn’t like it when I started scheming. “That’ll never work. They, like, computer-check those passports now.”
“They scan them, and only to see if they’ve been reported stolen or if the person is on some bad list.”
“How do you know?”
“I Googled it, and stolen passports are the problem. I’ll be using a legitimate passport, so as long as I look like Lucky Mike, getting into France should be quiche.”
A raucous laugh came from the bar. Stumpy and I looked and saw Laura, Sheila, and Erin standing with a crowd enjoying a drink.
“I heard those French girls are sophisticated, and classy.” Stumpy tilted his beer at me to accentuate his point. “Or chic. That’s the word.”
I was surprised Stumpy was hip on French women, though he does read a lot of magazines at Wal-Mart during his spare time.
Laura caught me looking at her. She smiled and waved her arms wide and I could tell her preferred Captain Morgan rum had gotten hold of her. She walked through the crowd toward us.