“We’ll deal with it at the time, if it comes to that.” I sit up straight, square my shoulders, and promise to call her the instant I hear any news. “Now, don’t you worry. It’s all in God’s hands.”
Perhaps not entirely. Who can guess what interference Saint Trixie might attempt? Maybe my mother-in-law misses the cantankerous old coot up in heaven.
Come get your husband anytime you want.
At least now I know what my next phone call will be. I root through the yellow pages like a pig under an oak tree.
Dr. Kennedy doesn’t practice medicine, but higher education. I finally locate him in the history department at the University of Texas in Austin. He agrees to see me tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. Better a short trip to the big city than a long visit to the funeral home. I cross my fingers.
The phone rings again. Judith Cromwell, my best friend and cousin by marriage, can’t remember if it’s her day to pick up Colton and her son Max after school.
“Your turn,” I say. “Plus, I need you to keep Colton through dinner, if you can.”
“Overnight, if you like, in case you’re on watch.”
Judith’s kind offer to help with laundry or meals brings tears to my eyes. She and I have shared many trials, and I often wish we had grown up as sisters. In a crisis, Angelique can be counted on to provide any alibi, no questions asked, but Judith would help her friend hide the body.
“I guess word has already spread around town about Big Jack’s accident.” I glance at the kitchen clock and try to calculate how long the local buzz has been active. Judith could tell me, but I have a more pressing concern. “Do you know anyone named Brett Kennedy?”
“I’ve heard the name from Charlie.” She giggles like a teenager in love. “He’s never met a stranger and remembers everyone’s face. I don’t see how he does it.”
I gather that her husband has had some dealings with the professor and later served up all the personal scoop to her like gravy. Judith sounds pleased to tell me Kennedy’s military service broke up his marriage after the Vietnam War, but before he struck it rich.
“Charlie said she left him because he was a poor ex-GI.” Judith’s voice changes to singsong. “If she’d only waited.”
“Your husband should have been a spy or a reporter, not a banker.” I’m not above returning her tease.
“Why do you ask about this Kennedy guy?”
I share my plans with Judith, along with my anticipation that the professor will prove helpful.
“You’re not serious, are you?” Ominous replaces singsong. “I’d leave that alone, if I were you.”
“Why?”
“Give Colton more time to adjust. That’s all he needs.”
“What Colton needs is to know his father didn’t kill himself.”
“Colton will be fine. He’s getting better every day. Expressing himself around here like he’s normal. You’d be trying to kill a fly with a sledgehammer.”
“What do you mean, ‘normal’?”
“He laughs, he talks, he follows directions. Doesn’t run with scissors and plays well with others. He’s especially nice to Maddie when Max torments her.”
“But–”
“Sally, you’re seeing something that isn’t there. Too much imagination killed . . . well, you know.”
“Curiosity.”
“What?”
“It was curiosity killed the cat.”
“Just don’t let your natural stubbornness lead you astray.”
Add Judith to my strikeouts. Great. I had now hit 0-for-four. Maybe Jack would appreciate my baseball metaphor.
BY THE TIME I RETURN to the hospital, Big Jack has just entered the post-op ICU, sedated to the fingertips. The surgeon extracted the broken rib from his punctured lung, inserted a steel plate in his pelvis, and realigned the bones, both ulna and radius, in his right arm. The huge bump on his head had swelled outward.
“Good thing he’s such a strong guy for sixty-seven,” the doctor says. “We had to keep him under for quite a while.”
“Is there any problem with his breathing?”
“Not since we put a chest tube in place. He’s on oxygen, too, of course.”
“I mean, earlier. From the accident?”
“Our neurological monitoring indicates there could be some brain damage, but we won’t know much more until he is alert. We’re watching him closely.”
“Should I wait here until he wakes up?”
“We’re keeping him sedated until he’s able to breathe on his own and his pressure is stable. He won’t even know you’re in the room with him.”
It takes all my courage, but I gut up enough to take a peek at Big Jack from the hallway. Bandages cover parts of him, tubes and wires stick out from different areas of his body, and hospital machinery hums and beeps like a trolley car. My stomach churns and I feel dizzy. When the ICU nurse asks if I’d like to go into his room, I decline. I can’t get down the elevator and out to my car fast enough.
IN JUDITH’S AND CHARLIE’S KITCHEN, four noisy children and two adults chomp on fried chicken and corn-on-the-cob, while trying to answer homework questions. After my brief update, Judith makes everyone get quiet while she recites a quick prayer for Big Jack.
“Amen!” Charlie shouts, and the children, except Colton, reply “Amen” in chorus.
Judith holds out a plate of food, but I shake my head. “Thanks, I’ve got leftovers at home I need to get rid of.”
In the car, I give Colton a few more details about his grandfather’s condition. “He’s still unconscious from the surgery, so he’s not in any pain.” Not enough to worry Colton, I hope. “If you’d like to go see him, I’ll check with the doctor to find out when he’ll be ready for company.”
No answer.
“I picked up your new camera this afternoon. When does photo club start?”
The silence continues.
“How was school?”
“Thursday.”
“You’ve got photo club tomorrow?”
He nods.
When I grow tired of using a verbal crowbar, we ride in silence for a while, until I turn onto our street. “By the way, I ran into Mike Avery today.”
Colton stiffens as he inhales sharply and holds it.
“He offered to take you fishing with his nephews sometime.” I press the button to raise the garage door and wait for it to creep open, panel by panel. “They go someplace down on the Brazos. Sounds like fun.” I pull forward and turn off the engine. “Maybe he can help me with–”
“I hate to fish. I’m not going anywhere with that guy. Ever.” For the second time in one day, Colton gets out of my car and slams the door behind him.
It’s not as if I expect Mike Avery to replace Jack, but how can I get everything so wrong? My son refuses to answer my easy questions. What I think Colton will enjoy, he declines. I feel small and stupid until I remember Angelique’s prediction. His disagreeable behavior points toward meltdown, and I will have to act fast.
Everyone else is wrong. Colton needs closure with his father’s death. All the more reason I should speak to Brett Kennedy. The way to help Colton is to get reasonable proof that Jack died by accident and not his own hand.
I hope my mother hears me because I will need her help.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning as Colton and I prepare in silence to leave the house, the phone rings. Harlene needs me to drop by Big Jack’s office before I visit him at the hospital. I dread spending any more time with her than absolutely necessary.
After I drive Colton to school, my return route takes me past the Hot Crossed Buns Diner. No silver pickup stationed in front. I wonder how Lois took the news.
Once I arrive at Big Jack’s office, I park at the back of the building. A young man sits smoking on the edge of the loading dock, his plaid flannel shirtsleeves rolled up. It’s amusing he is so oblivious of the cool air, until I recognize him, not as much from his unshaven face as by the black snake tattoos on
his forearms.
After Jack fired Harlene’s son Lamont and turned him in for selling pot, he was sentenced to two years in the Huntsville prison, because he was on probation at the time for the same offense, plus his rap sheet included stealing cars. Skipper, as everyone except his mother calls him, was released a year ago, right before Jack died. A week after the funeral I discovered Skipper seated in the break room, free on parole that Harlene had somehow persuaded the prison board to grant. By then, there was no Jack around, however, to throw his criminal ass off the property.
Although I hadn’t seen him since that day, if I happen to find out now that Harlene sneaked him back on the payroll, I won’t wait for Big Jack’s recovery before I dismiss him. As if Skipper reads my thoughts, he glowers at me. I walk faster toward the entry.
Harlene’s efficient manner has revived enough to assemble the documents Big Jack failed to sign yesterday, each page in order, starting with the one granting me power of attorney. “Last year Big Jack directed his lawyer to draw up, uh, as soon as . . .” She uncaps a pen. “He already signed, in case he ever needed it, but he didn’t want to bother you with it.”
“Why not one of his daughters?”
Harlene places the sheet of paper in front of me and hands me the pen. “I have my instructions.” She taps her notary stamp on the inkpad and waits.
Her unwillingness to reply further gives me my answer. A survivor of the Great Depression, Big Jack never borrowed a dime in his life and didn’t trust people who asked anyone for money. Something his children no doubt regretted discovering.
After she notarizes my signature, Harlene goes through the pile like a dealer at a blackjack table. The document placing my name on his bank account precedes a stack of checks. As I sign one by one, she stuffs them in envelopes with ten-cent postage stamps already affixed. It will do no good to offer to drop them at the post office. When it comes to Big Jack, Harlene never delegates even her smallest duty.
She flips to the final page of a group of papers stapled together. The line for the lessee’s signature, or his representative, is left blank at the bottom. Above it, blue ink scrawls from other hands, including Brett Kennedy’s, catch my attention. When I recognize my father’s, my breathing comes to a halt. “What’s this?”
“It’s a contract to renew a lease.”
“Why is my father’s signature on it?”
She hesitates. “Nate Wallace is . . . he’s majority owner now.”
The pen slides out of my hand. “Was Jack aware of this change? How did it happen? I’d like to know when this all came about.” Earth and sky have exchanged places.
“Sally, you know I can’t talk about–”
My breath returns with force, and I pound my fist on the desk. “I want some answers!”
Harlene’s eyes widen, but she says nothing.
I stare at the words typed below his signature. Nate Wallace, principal owner. Clutching the document, I stand up and head for the door. “I just obtained the power of attorney. If you won’t tell me, I’ll find someone who will.”
By the time I arrive at the hospital, I can’t explain to anyone how I got there. How dare Big Jack hand over his business to anyone except his son! Confusion and rage overpower my aversion to the smell of rubbing alcohol, and I stomp into the ICU.
Overnight, Big Jack has turned pale and shrunken, as if the tubes have siphoned his power instead of nourishing him. Standing next to him, I feel no pity, but rather the urge to howl. I shake the papers in front of his closed eyes and grit my teeth. “What the hell did you do to your son?”
BY TEN O’CLOCK, I leave Mason’s Crossing and drive toward Austin. Usually I enjoy the short trip to the capital, because it offers a few skyscrapers and more lush green hills than Mason’s Crossing. Over a crest in the highway, the road stretches out before me like a magic carpet leading to an exotic bazaar. As I arrive at Brett Kennedy’s office on the UT campus, the tower clock strikes ten forty-five. Rather than wait, I bang my knuckles on the rippled, frosted glass set in the thick wood door.
A low voice answers, “Come in.”
His puzzled frown tells me he expects someone else.
“Sorry, I’m early.”
“Then you must be Sally Edwards.” His accent reveals deep East Texas, as if his words have been dragged through soft bottomland.
Kennedy stands and motions me to a chair across from his large cluttered desk. With a flash of gray at his temples, he looks about ten years my senior. On the wall behind him hangs a diptych abstract in oil, wedged between overstuffed bookcases that reach to the ceiling.
I sit and shuffle the lease agreement and Jack’s appointment book in my lap. Kennedy listens while I explain how I found his name yesterday and his signature today. I could pretend to be a student requesting assistance from a professor, but I don’t have to. After assuring him of my power of attorney, I ask him if he will share what he knows about Jack’s attempts at a business deal.
“Around fourteen months ago, your husband called me about some property, but I wasn’t interested in selling it. He said he’d consider a lease. A short while later, he inquired if I’d like to invest in a retail operation he planned to expand.” He punctuates his explanation with a series of shrugs, probably the same taciturn answer Jack received.
A few more questions reveal Big Jack’s feed store sits on Kennedy’s property on the outskirts of Mason’s Crossing. Simple, but there has to be more to it. I feel he won’t show me his hand unless I show him mine first.
“Dr. Kennedy, I picked up the lease agreement this morning. You signed the renewal a few days ago.” I hold it up, as if he requires evidence. “Nate Wallace is my father. I need to know how he came to be the principal owner.”
His eyes dart back and forth. After a moment, his jaw muscles soften. With a loud squeak, he pushes back his chair and limps toward the window.
I want to ask if he hurt himself, but remember his status as a Vietnam War veteran and think it best not to inquire. He probably wouldn’t want my sympathy anyway.
Books cram the window ledge, and he stoops to blow dust from them. “Don’t get me wrong. I thought your husband was a nice guy and he had some cash to invest, but I concluded he didn’t have the gravitas, or the financial support required, to attempt such a project on his own.”
I nod. Thus far, except for the cash to invest, I can’t disagree with him.
“After I turned him down, I received a call from the elder Mr. Edwards–”
“Who was furious.”
“Just the opposite. He offered to sell me the whole thing. Not only the feed store, but also the two businesses in town. Land, building, and contents.”
My mouth drops open, but I can’t connect any dots to my father. Why would Big Jack sell Brett Kennedy the entire business operation his own son deserved to inherit? What if Jack found out his beloved retail operation was snatched from his future grasp and decided . . . No, it simply couldn’t be.
“Frankly, my business interests lie elsewhere,” Kennedy says. “Plus I didn’t want to get mixed up in a father-son falling out. The same day I rejected your father-in-law’s offer, Nate Wallace contacted me. I wasn’t previously acquainted with him, but he persuaded me to make the purchase.”
My head starts spinning, just from trying to keep the facts straight. “If you didn’t want it, why did you agree?”
“You’ll have to ask your father about that.”
“I’d rather hear it from you, if you don’t mind.”
“Because he offered to buy it from me immediately at a ten percent profit.”
As if the floor has shifted, I grab the arms of my chair. The lease agreement and Jack’s book slide off my lap.
“I hope it worked out for him, because I haven’t seen Mr. Wallace since.”
I can’t figure out if I should blame him for his take-the-money-and-run maneuver. Staring at his face, I decide he merely calculated his gain and believed he had no obligation beyond cashing the check.
No wonder he and my father came to such a quick agreement.
“Obviously all this catches you by surprise. Perhaps your father can explain it better.”
He hasn’t laid eyes on Nate Wallace in over a year and still doesn’t get it. My father excels at disappearing.
Aunt Mary must believe I have talent, even for my young age of nine, because she signed me up for private lessons with an art teacher. This morning Daddy told her to buy me all the supplies I might need, and we were on our way to the art store. I wondered if she would let me pick out more than twelve colored pencils. I would like to have at least three shades of pink and one for flesh. The picture I wanted to draw was already taking shape in my imagination.
Inside the store were bins filled with brushes of all different sizes and tubes of paint with weird names like ocher and henna, stacked tablets of textured paper, rectangles of canvas stretched on wooden frames, and fresh chalk and charcoal with perfect flat ends. But where were the colored pencils?
The clerk showed us to an aisle with shelves on one side, hung on brackets against the white wall. He selected a box made of smooth golden oak and faced me to open it. The contents might as well have been Ali Baba’s treasure. Pencils of every shade lined up neatly in three rows, forty-eight colors in all. He explained they were oil pastels and then led us to the aisle with the drawing tablets.
I tugged at Aunt Mary’s sleeve. “May I please get two? A medium and a large one?” Those blank pages and I were going to become good friends.
She nodded, and I followed the clerk to the cash register, hardly believing she agreed it all will be mine to use as I wished. Daddy must have told her not to be stingy. I danced on tiptoes all the way to the car.
Aunt Mary gave the chauffeur the address of the studio, and I sat up straight on the gray leather back seat, patting my new satchel with the oak box and the sketchpads inside. She told me to be still, then mentioned the driver would be back to pick me up in an hour. She was going home to lie down until supper. Aunt Mary was never any fun.
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