Corella sat at the end of the bed, dressed in black, down to the socks and shoes, her hair short like a man’s. His other daughter, Cynthia, was the pretty one but she wasn’t Lorene’s child. Cynthia lived with her mother far away, St. Louis the last anybody heard.
Corella would never move away. She was daddy’s little princess, homely like him.
Marguerite extended her hand. “Pleasure.”
“Obliged,” Corella said.
Pilgrim shooed both Robert and his daughter from the room. Robert went quick, Corella less so. Clingy, that was the word he wanted. But bitter. He waited for the door to close.
“I got the feeling,” he said, “way your voice sounded over the phone—”
“You were right, there are problems.” Marguerite removed a thin stack of papers from her briefcase, copies of documents she’d discovered at the County Recorder. “With the Excelsior property.”
She explained what she’d found. Six months earlier, the IRS had filed tax liens for over three hundred thousand dollars in back taxes against a Raymont Williams—who came with a generous assortment of aliases. Soon after that, Lorene, who worked at a local credit union, recorded the first of three powers-of-attorney, forging Pilgrim’s signature and getting a notary at the credit union to validate it. Then, acting as Pilgrim’s surrogate under the power-of-attorney, she took out a loan for a hundred-twenty thousand dollars, same amount as the oldest of the tax liens, securing it with the Excelsior property.
But no release of lien was ever recorded. Apparently, when Lorene realized how easily she could phony up a loan, she got the fever. The IRS could wait for its money. Two more loans followed for increasingly shameless sums from hard money lenders. The house was now leveraged to the hilt, the total indebtedness over six hundred thousand dollars and that was just principal. Worse, though Lorene had made a token effort to cover her tracks, keep up with the payments, she’d already slipped into default.
“Expects me to come to the rescue,” Pilgrim guessed.
“It’s that or lose the house to foreclosure,” Marguerite said.
“All that happen in just six months?” Pilgrim chided himself for not seeing it sooner. Hadn’t even known about this Raymont fool till recent. Why hadn’t Corella told him earlier? She went to see her mother from time to time—not often, they didn’t get on, but often enough. Daddy’s homely, clingy, bitter little princess was playing both sides. But she’d pay. Everyone would pay.
Marguerite said, “You’ve got a very strong case against the notary, pretty strong against the lenders, though the last two are a step above loan sharks. I don’t know what Lorene told them—”
“Woman can charm a stump.”
“But they’ll want their money. They’ll know they can’t go against Lorene or this Raymont individual for recovery. And they could say they had a right to rely on the notary and turn on her but her pockets most likely aren’t that deep either. So they’ll come after you. And my guess is they won’t be nice about it.”
“How you figure?”
“It’ll suit their purposes to stick with Lorene and her story, at least for a while. She’ll say she had your full authority to do what she did and now you’re just reneging out of jealousy. It’s not an argument that’ll carry the day in the end but the whole thing could get so drawn-out and ugly they could grind you down, force a settlement that still leaves you holding a pretty sizable bag.”
“Maybe I’ll just walk away from the house.”
“If you’re okay with that, why not do it now? Save yourself my legal fees.”
Pilgrim cackled. “You don’t want my money?”
“Not as much as some other people do, apparently.”
Pilgrim blinked his eyes. He could feel the water building up. “And this Raymont Williams, this phony preacher, he walks away clean.”
“I call it the Deadbeat Write-off. Meanwhile, for you, this could all get very expensive, particularly in addition to the other work you mentioned.”
Pilgrim glowered, trying to shush her. He figured Corella had an ear pressed up to the door, trying to hear his business.
“Expensive is lying here doing nothing. I can’t move. Don’t mean I can’t fight.”
That night Pilgrim dreamed he had his body back. He and Lorene were in the throes, the way it used to be—give some, not too much, take a little away then give it back till she’s arching her spine and making that sound that made everything right. Damn near the only good he’d done his whole sorry life, pleasure that woman—that and turn himself into a quadriplegic piggy bank.
But no sooner did she make that gratified cry in his dream than the whole thing changed. He heard another sound, a low fierce hum, then the deafening broadside slam of the semi ramming his pickup, the fierce thrum of the diesel inches from his bleeding face through the shattered glass of his window, the scream of air brakes and metal against metal then the odd, hissing silence after. His head bobbing atop his twisted spine, body hanging limp in the shoulder harness. The smell of gas and smoldering rubber and that tick-tick-tick from the radiator that he mistook for dripping blood.
Raymont Williams, dressed in pleated slacks and a cashmere V-neck, Italian loafers and silk socks, heard the doorbell ring and glanced down from a second story window. A fluffy little white fella, baggy suit, small hat, stood on the porch. Something wrong with this picture, he thought. White people in the neighborhood didn’t come to visit.
Raymont lifted the window: “Yeah?”
The man backed up, gripping his hat so it wouldn’t fall off as he tilted his head back to see who was talking. “Reverend Raymont Williams?”
No collar, Raymont thought, touching his throat. “You’re who?”
“Name’s William Montgomery. I live down the block. I received some of your mail. By mistake. The names, I guess.” He tugged on the brim of his puny hat. “Kind of similar in a backwards sort of way.”
“Shove it through the slot.”
The man winced. “There’s a bit of a snafu.” He looked at the wad of mail in his hand, like it might catch fire. “One of the letters is certified, I signed by mistake. I don’t know, I didn’t look carefully, I just…” He scrunched up his face. “I called the post office. I have to get your signature, too, next to mine, then take the receipt down to the main office on Evans. It’s a hassle, I realize—”
“That don’t make sense.”
“They were very specific. I’m truly sorry, reverend.”
The hairs on Raymont’s neck stood up. You mocking me? “Hold on.” He closed the window, walked down the carpeted stairs to the entry. The crystal prisms on the chandelier refracted the sunshine streaming through the fanlight. In the dining room a bouquet of lilies and irises exploded from a crystal vase on the Hepplewhite side table. Lorene had this mania for Waterford lately, in addition to a number of other decorating obsessions. Out of control. They’d need to talk on that.
He flipped open the mail slot from inside. “Okay, slip it through.”
The little man obliged. Raymont took the bundle of paper, at which point the voice through the mail slot said, “Reverend Raymont Williams, a.k.a. Raymont Williams, a.k.a. Raymond White, a.k.a. Montel Dickson—you’ve been served with a summons and a complaint in accordance with state law and local rules of the California Superior Court. You must appear on the specified date or a default judgment may be filed against you. If you have any questions, you can call the number that appears on the summons.”
Why you schemey little bug, Raymont thought. He pulled himself up, booming through the door: “How dare you. Coming here, full of hostile intent and subterfuge. I am a man of the cloth. What’s the difficulty, tell me—the difficulty in simply ringing the bell like a decent man with honest business.”
Beyond the door’s beveled glass, the white man grinned, his eyes hard. He didn’t look so fluffy now. “Yeah, right. Straight up, that’s you.” He turned and started down the steps, saying over his shoulder, “You’re served.”
Raymont thr
ew the door open, came after him, one step, two. “You listen—”
The little man spun around. “Go ahead. I’ll sue you for every cent you’re worth.”
Raymont cocked his head, perplexed. “Will you now?” He reached out, lifted William Montgomery or whoever the hell he was off his little white feet and tossed him down to the sidewalk. His head hit with a hollow, mean-sounding thunk. The man groaned, curled up, clutching his hat.
“Sue me for every cent I’m worth? Joke’s on you.”
The phone started ringing inside the house. Raymont slammed the door behind him, went to the hallway and picked up. He could hear Lorene, sobbing.
“So. Lemme guess. They got you at work.”
“We got ten days—to get out. That’s my house—”
“What did you do? What did you say?”
“I tried, Raymont, I swear. But he is a stubborn, spiteful—”
“You best try again, woman. Try harder. Try till that horizontal nigger sees the motherfucking light of God damn day.”
“Mr. Baxter says I’m to stay in the room this time.”
Robert opened the bedroom door so Lorene could go in. She put away the fifty dollars she’d planned to pass along, tidied her hair, gathered herself. “Fine then.” She strode in like a shamed queen.
Pilgrim’s voice stopped her cold. “You come here to try to weasel your way into my good graces, don’t bother. You got ten days to quit. You and that hustling no-count you taken in. The two of you, not out by then, sheriff kicks you out.”
Lorene gathered her pride. “From the very beginning, Pilgrim, you promised—”
“Promises don’t always keep, Lorene. You crossed the line.”
Lorene sat down and tried to collect her thoughts. Crossed the line. Yes. And what an interesting world it became, across that line. The things you never thought you could have, right there. But here and now she was running out of options. Still, she reminded herself: I know this man.
With the nurse there she couldn’t be as bold as the moment called for. All she could do was lean forward, tip her cleavage into view, bite her lip. “What is it you want, Pilgrim?”
Marguerite sank back in the chair and tapped her foot. “I don’t agree with this.”
“Not your place to agree or disagree.”
“That’s not entirely true. I can withdraw.”
“Just find me another lawyer, not so particular.”
“Mr. Baxter, it may not be my place, but you might want to think of your estate plan as way to take care of your loved ones, not settle scores.”
“I want that kind of talk, I’ll turn on Oprah.”
“All right. Fine.” Marguerite took the papers out of her briefcase. “I’ve drawn things up the way you asked. Both sets.” She glanced up. “Are you all right?”
Pilgrim blinked. His face was wet. “Damn eyes, is all.”
Corella came that evening to visit and found her father sleeping. His breathing was faint, troubled. She put her hand to his forehead. Cool. Clammy.
Hurry up and die, she thought.
He’d always made no secret of his feelings. If her mother was in the room, Corella did not exist. Children are baggage. How much time had she wasted, pounding her heart against his indifference—only to melt at the merest Hey there, little girl.
As fickle as the man could be, he still had it all over her mother. That woman was scandalous. Corella had tried to be gracious, turn a blind eye to the parade of men through that big old house—even this Raymont creature—but then the woman started spending money like a crack whore on holiday and Corella had to draw a line. Woman’s gonna burn up my inheritance, she thought. That can’t stand.
She pulled up a chair to wait until her father woke up. A manila envelope peeked out from under the bed covers. Carefully, she lifted it out. The lawyer’s address label was on the front, with the notation: “Pilgrim Baxter—Estate Plan—DRAFT.” About time he got to this, she thought.
Corella had earned her teacher’s certificate just as the new governor was talking about taking pensions away and basing salaries on “merit”—meaning your career lay in the hands of bored kids cut loose by lazy parents. Schoolwork? Not even. Not when there’s curb service for rock and herb on the street, Grand Theft Auto on the Gameboy, streaming porn on the web. The American dream. She was sorry for what had happened to her father but the money was luck and she’d need all she could muster. Otherwise the future just looked too grim.
She checked to be sure he was still dozing then opened the envelope quietly, removed the papers inside. There was a living trust, a will, some other legal documents captioned “Baxter v. Williams et al.” Not like I don’t have a right to see, she thought. He’ll need me to make the calls, transfer accounts, consult with the accountants and all.
She read every page, even the boiler plate. By the time she was done her whole body was shaking.
Raymont, wearing his preacher collar under a gray suit, stared out through the beveled glass of the Victorian’s front door at Corella on the porch. Girl’s nothing but a snitch for her father, he thought. He felt like telling her to just go away but Lorene hadn’t come home the night before. He’d rattled around all night alone in their canopy bed, like a moth inside a lampshade, wondering if he shouldn’t call the police. But, given his troubles, that could turn tricky. Besides, he figured she wasn’t missing. She was hiding.
He cracked open the door. “Your mama’s not around.”
Corella had her hands folded before her, prim as a nun. “I didn’t come to see her.”
She might as well have thrown a rock. “Say that again?”
“Turns out, you and I have something in common.” She looked him square in the eye. “We need to talk.”
They sat in the kitchen, Raymont sipping Hennessey with a splash of Seven-Up, Corella content with tap water as she told him what she’d learned.
“The lawsuit and eviction remain in place—against you. Everything against my mother is dismissed in exchange for her cooperation and truthful testimony.”
Girl sounds like a bad day on Court TV, he thought. “Your mama says I forced her into anything, that’s a damn lie. I may have suggested—”
“She gets the house, too. He’s quit-claiming it to her. But the debt comes with it.”
Raymont shook his glass, the ice rattled. “There’s his pound of flesh. Payments too steep. She can’t keep up, they’ll foreclose.”
Corella shook her head. “She’ll be able to hold them off for a while. And the insurance annuity that pays for my father’s care? It has a cash payout when he dies. Half a million dollars. He’s giving half of that to my mother to pay down the debt. That should make it manageable but still steep enough it’ll feel—if I know my mother and father—like punishment.”
Girl understands her blood, he thought, I’ll grant her that. “And the other half—who gets that?”
Corella shook her head, a little flinch of outrage. “It goes to the nurse.”
Raymont put down his drink. “The bouncer?”
“‘For services rendered charitably, patiently and generously.’” Corella seemed about to cry by there was ice in her voice too. “I get nothing.”
“You got a half-sister floating around somewhere, too, am I right?”
He might as well have slapped her. “She doesn’t deserve anything! Where has she been? What has she done?”
“Easy. Easy. I just—”
“The nurse is bad enough. I’m the one in the family who’s been there. Every day, every day—”
“Fine. Agreed. Fair enough.” Raymont juiced up his drink with a little more cognac. The girl was getting on his nerves and he needed to think. His mind boiled. “I’m gonna hire me a lawyer,” he said. “A real junkyard dog. You best find yourself one too, girl, before this all gets finalized.”
Corella stood up from the table. “You’re missing the point.”
Lorene left the hotel where she was hiding and arrived in Hunter’s Point shor
tly after dinner to visit with Pilgrim. Robert let her in and said, “Mr. Baxter said you and him would be wanting some private time.” She opened her purse, figuring they were back on the old payment schedule, but Robert said, “No need for that, m’am.” He grabbed his hat, glanced at his watch and said, “I’ll come back in an hour.”
She inferred from his cheerfulness that Pilgrim had informed him of his good fortune. Once Pilgrim executed his documents, the former wrestler and part-time bouncer would stand to inherit a princely sum. Pausing at the window, she watched him flounce out to his beat-up car. He’ll buy himself a new one first thing, she thought, something everyone will stare at. New car, new clothes, flash and trash, waste it all. But who’s the bigger fool for that—him or Pilgrim?
She went into the bedroom and stood beside the bed. Pilgrim gazed up at her. “You look tired,” he said.
She smiled grimly, thinking: You have no idea. Tired of pretending I feel for you. Tired of keeping up that charade just so I can have the one thing I want, my home and the things in it, a safe place as I grow old. Tired of watching you hang on to your miserable life with all its petty jealousy and resentment and hate. Tired of trying to convince myself I can do what you want. You think you can control my life and who I love, now and forever, even from beyond the grave. So yes. I’m tired.
It’s always the devil, she thought, who shows us who we really are. She knew Raymont was evil, but so? Love is not a choice and who would want it if it was? He’d taught her things. Fortune favors the bold. No risk, no reward. She did not intend to waste that lesson. And there were hatreds and resentments of her own to abide.
“Come here,” Pilgrim whispered. “Visit with me.”
She stepped out of her shoes, lowered the bed, climbed on and straddled him, edging forward on her knees. Maybe you’ll forgive me, she thought. Maybe not.
“Let me move this,” she said, wrestling the pillow from beneath his head.
“Lorene, damn, careful—”
She clamped the pillow across his face and pressed down hard. The plump soft weight muffled his cries. Two minutes, she thought. That’s how long they say it takes for old folks in nursing homes and Pilgrim lacked even that much strength. The killing would leave tiny red dots in his eyes but she would call her own doctor, not his, say he’d just stopped breathing. Her doctor would take her word, sign the death certificate before anyone was the wiser. And though Robert would be suspicious when he got back—Christ Almighty, he’d be out a quarter of a million dollars—he’d be in no position to make trouble. The police would see right through him. Besides, she made out no better than he did with Pilgrim dead and no documents signed—why would she kill him?
Killing Yourself to Survive: Stories Page 6