Careful What You Wish For

by Lucy Finn

  We exchanged pleasantries. Then she told me that she was calling because she had spoken to Dutch, the young Bandido, when he was taken to court to be sentenced. She’d asked him about Jake.

  “Oh,” was all I said. Time seemed to stop. Her words became all that existed.

  “He said he didn’t feel comfortable talking about another Bandido.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointment coloring my voice.

  However, she added, Dutch said “Doc” had gotten him his lawyer. The lawyer was also Jake’s, and Dutch gave her the lawyer’s name. I could hear clicking—she must have been working on her computer while she talked. After all, I was only a friend of a friend and this was strictly a favor. There was a long pause before she said, “I have to say I was more than a little surprised when I heard who the lawyer was.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  She said that most of these bikers had what she called “sleazebag criminal defense attorneys,” the kind of guys who will represent anybody as long as he can pay, and they don’t care where the money comes from. Bray Bentry, Dutch’s lawyer, represented the upper crust in Houston: people like the Bushes and Clayton Williams. He didn’t “do bikers.” In fact, she added, the judge gave Dutch probation as a first offender. Bentry had pull.

  “And you say he’s Jake’s lawyer?” I asked.

  “Evidently. Bray is a good ol’ boy. He’s always nice to the ladies. I think he’ll talk to you. Here’s his phone number,” she said, and I wrote it down.

  I had no reason to put off the call except that my emotions still cut me like broken glass. At the same time, over the past few weeks, my perceptions about life had sharpened too. I understood that the only things humans really controlled in life were their choices. Fate determined everything else. But purposefully making choices—and not letting events or others make them for us—made a tremendous difference in the kind of journey our lives became. To be a villain or saint, activist or recluse—those were all choices. Our mistakes made us human, but our choices kept us from becoming victims.

  I firmly believed I needed to act, not react, when it came to Jake. So I dialed Bray Bentry’s number. I was surprised when his secretary put the call through instead of saying Bentry would get back to me.

  A drawl as quintessentially Texan as the Lone Star flag came on the line. “Ms. Patton, this is Bray Bentry. My secretary says you’re calling about Jake Allred.”

  “I am. I understand you represent Jake.”

  “That I do,” he said. “I must say I’m mighty pleased you made this call.”

  That was a curve ball. None of this conversation was going the way I thought it would. I paused and asked, “Why would that be, Mr. Bentry? And how do you know who I am?”

  I heard Mr. Bentry shift in his seat. The chair creaked. He sounded like a big man, substantial in size as well as in influence. “This conversation would be a mite easier in person, Ms. Patton. Is there any chance you will be coming down here to Houston?”

  As I worked hard to keep my professional mask from slipping, I answered, “No, Mr. Bentry. I’m afraid that’s not possible. Why would it be easier?”

  “Well now, it’s a long story, and there’s some bad news mixed in with it, the kind of thing I don’t like to break to a body over the phone.”

  I felt a frisson of fear crawl up my spine. In a split second, I went from Ravine Patton, attorney-at-law, to Ravine Patton, the woman who had met and for a single star-crossed afternoon loved a biker named Jake. “Please continue, Mr. Bentry.”

  He did. What he said next were words I didn’t want to hear—not then, not ever. He told me Jake was dead. “Passed on” was how he put it. Whatever I expected Bentry to say—and frankly I had half expected him to say Jake was in jail—this wasn’t it. After giving me a moment to let this sink in, he said he’d answer my questions.

  “Some of them Jake might have answered himself,” Bentry added, explaining that Jake had left a letter and a package with the lawyer the last time he had seen him. He told Bentry to get them to me if I didn’t contact Bentry within six months of when Jake passed.

  My head was spinning. I told Bentry that I felt very confused. I asked him how he knew about me. I heard Bentry’s chair creak again, and the click of a cigarette lighter. My guess was that he lit a cigar, since I heard him taking a series of little puffs to get it burning, followed by a long exhale.

  “I’ll come to that in a minute,” he said. “Jake’s story is a sad one, Ms. Patton. He was a fine boy, that he was. I think I need to tell you a little about him.”

  Bentry was a man who took his time and I was getting impatient. I told him to go ahead. He told me to hold my horses; then he told me Jake’s story in his slow, Southern way. I clutched the phone and listened.

  “I’ve known the Allred family ’bout all my life,” Bentry said. “Jake’s daddy was—and still is—a surgeon down here at the cancer center. Jake became a doctor too. He wasn’t all that sure he wanted to be one, but he did what his family expected. Like I said, he was a fine young man, and he didn’t want to hurt his mama, even if medicine wasn’t quite what he hankered for.

  “I’m not rightly sure what he did hanker for, and I don’t know if he knew either. He had some friends—I guess they were friends—who raced motorcycles. Jake had always been wild for those bikes. Once he told me that if he had his way, he’d build racing bikes. But I never heard any more about it.

  “As it turned out, Jake had just started his residency down here—this was maybe two years back—when he got sick. At first he thought it was the flu, but after a fair amount of time he didn’t seem to get any better. Finally his daddy convinced him to get some tests done. Turned out Jake had a cancer of the blood, and not a good kind, if there is such a thing.”

  There was a long pause, and I heard the chair creak again.

  “His mama was about beside herself, especially when Jake wouldn’t do the chemo or get a bone marrow transplant. He said it wouldn’t do no good at all, and his daddy, he agreed. Then Jake started feeling better again—some kind of remission—but he knew he didn’t have a lot of time. He told his parents he wanted to live his last months, really live them. He took off. Nobody knew where he went. Turns out he was riding with the Bandidos. Jake always was a pistol. A real wild one. I can’t say I was all that surprised.”

  My mind was reeling, trying to take in what Bentry was telling me. It was as if I had been riding for a long time on a straight road, when it suddenly made a sharp turn and I found myself going in another direction entirely, one where the destination wasn’t what I expected it to be at all.

  “Then Jake met you. At least that’s part of the story he told me. He came in to see me—let me see now— it was last October. He said he was getting sick again. He needed to make out his will. And he told me that he had met a woman a while back and he had a son—”

  “He knew about Brady?” I broke in.

  “Yes’m, he sure did. He said he had gone looking for you and when he finally found you, you had a little baby. His baby. He knew that. But he felt he had no right to walk back into your life, especially since, well, since he knew his time was running out. But he was awful proud of that boy, Ms. Patton, I can tell you. Your mother had given him pictures and all—”

  “My mother! My mother met Jake? My mother knew about Jake? I can’t believe this.” I heard my own voice shattering like glass.

  “Now calm down, Ms. Patton. She gave her solemn word to Jake not to tell you. I know she must have wanted to, but Jake, he said he pleaded with her. Jake knew he was dying, Ms. Patton. He didn’t want to bring that sorrow into your life.”

  “When did he die?” I said, shaking all over.

  “He died right before Thanksgiving. But the cancer didn’t kill him. You might better know that. He had been riding his bike out here on the I-45 and he came upon a car accident. A bad one. He was still a licensed doctor, you know. He ran over to try to help. Another car hit him. He died two days later.”


  “Oh,” I said. “Oh no.”

  “Yes’m, it was awful sad. But it was better than wasting away from the cancer, if you want to know the truth. All in all, it was a damned shame all around from the git-go.”

  I sat there, holding my face in my hands for a minute before Bentry said, “To make a long story shorter, Ms. Patton. Back in October he had me draw up that will leaving everything he had to his son. And he put together a package. He hoped you’d come looking for him, that it would be your choice. But if you didn’t, he asked me to send it on up to you, along with the letter he wrote.”

  I asked him to send it out FedEx and he said he would. Then he added, “You mind if I say something else? I’m just an old Texas lawyer but I’ve seen a thing or two in life.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Bentry.”

  “Jake’s parents, they’re mighty good folks. They know they have a grandson, and they’d like to see him. But Jake asked them to let it be up to you. So it is. But it was awful hard on them to lose a son. Your little boy, well, they see him like a kind of miracle. They know all about you too. When you’re ready, if you can find it in your heart, it would mean a lot.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t ready to say anything then. I thanked Bray Bentry and hung up. Then I sat at my desk staring at the wall for a long, long time.

  You know the old adage: “Never assume. It makes an ass out of u and me.” I had made a lot of assumptions about Jake; most of them were wrong. At least the ones I made using reason were wrong. The things my heart had told me were true. There was a lesson in that, and I guess I learn the hard way.

  I’m not sure Jake made the best decisions, but I didn’t have to walk in his shoes, so I had no right to judge. I suppose he did what he thought was best for me and Brady. Was it? It didn’t matter. It was too late to change it now.

  When the package arrived via FedEx the next day, it didn’t contain anything of monetary value, but its contents were precious nonetheless. A tattered manila envelope contained dozens of pictures of Jake as a baby. His mother had neatly written on the back of each one, captions such as: “Jake’s first birthday. February 11, 1979. Aren’t the cowboy boots precious?” The envelope also contained a long braid of his hair, the same rich auburn I remembered from that hot August day. The rest of the package consisted of Jake’s black leather motorcycle jacket, the title to his Indian bike, a letter addressed to Brady to be opened on his eighth birthday, and Jake’s will.

  I didn’t open the letter; I did look carefully at the will. Jacob James Allred left everything he had to Brady Nathaniel Patton, which as far as earthly goods went, wasn’t much—except for Jake’s trust fund, which consisted of stocks and bonds that added up to about half a million dollars. By the time Brady was eighteen, they would be worth considerably more.

  His letter to me was short, and yes, it was sweet.

  Dear Ravine,

  Words don’t do much at a time like this, but they’re all I have. I want to thank you, and that sounds so damned feeble, for having my son. It makes my life worth something after all. It took a lot of courage for you to go ahead and have him on your own, but I knew you had spunk and more the moment I met you. And I thank you for the gift of that day we had together. I can say I love you now, and I loved you then. Doesn’t do much good to say it, though. But I am leaving Brady everything I have, and you won’t have to worry about saving for his college education.

  I can only say, from the bottom of my heart, that I am so sorry things couldn’t have worked out differently for us. If I hadn’t gotten sick, we could have made it. I do believe that. But the fates have spoken, and they say no. I’m sorry to die on you, Ravine.

  Don’t be too hard on your mother for not telling you I talked to her. I made her swear on a stack of Bibles not to interfere. Also, you’d like my parents. They had to put up with a lot from me, and they never cut me loose or turned me away. They just loved me. They’ll love you and our son. Please give them a chance. Bray can give you their phone number when you want it.

  I’ll be watching over you and Brady both. I promise you that.

  Jake

  Chapter 19

  After I read Jake’s letter, I got Brady dressed and drove over to my mother’s. I wasn’t mad exactly. I didn’t know what I felt—hurt, maybe. At the same time, I could see in my mind’s eye how she must have reacted when Jake showed up on her doorstep, or whatever he had done. She had invited him in, sat him down with a cup of coffee, and listened, not betraying anything of what she was thinking and feeling. And when she agreed not to tell me, and then when she actually didn’t tell me—it was such a Clara thing to do. I don’t know how many secrets my mother has kept in her life, but they would fill a bank vault. And she’s never told a one of them.

  I brought Jake’s letter with me to her house. I sat Brady on my lap and told my mother how I had looked for Jake and found Bray Bentry. She asked if I minded if she read what Jake had written. I passed it over to her.

  My mother’s face was always hard to read unless you knew her very well. As she looked over what Jake had written, she pressed her lips together hard, but nothing else betrayed what was going on inside her. She passed the letter back.

  “The boy was dying, Ravine. What else could I do? You were fragile enough back then. It wasn’t any of my business, not really. It was between the two of you, and you never once talked about him. As far as I knew, you had cut him out of your life. It seemed you had, as if he never existed at all. At least that young man came looking for you. I credit him for that. And I credit him for putting your feelings before his own. He didn’t want to cause you any pain.”

  “You should have told me, Ma.” My voice wavered as I spoke.

  “Maybe I should have. I spent many a sleepless night trying to decide what to do. I prayed on it a lot too. But then your Australian Gene showed up, and you were so happy. I figured whatever would be, would be.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “I know you did what you thought was right. You always do. I can’t blame you for my choices when it came to Jake. You’re right, I could have looked for him when I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t. For all the wrong reasons, it turned out.”

  My mother reached out and took my hand. “My daughter, what is past is past. You’ve been through a lot of pain over the last few years. Who can say why Jake got sick. Or why Gene left. I do know both of them loved you. And I believe both of them would have stayed if they had a choice. They didn’t.”

  I guess she saw how upset I was getting. She spoke quickly now. “Listen to me now, you hear? It’s not over with Gene. You have to believe that. Trust him, Ravine. I have a feeling about this.”

  “Ma, I’d like to believe that. I’m sure Gene would come back to me if he could. But you see, I know he can’t.”

  My mother looked at me hard, and she held my hand so tightly it hurt. “There’s a lot we can’t know in life. It’s not in our power to know. And you do not know what Gene can or cannot do. Do you understand me?”

  I nodded yes. I understood what she was saying, but she didn’t know the whole story, and I did. There was no way Gene could come back.

  Winter hung on like a snapping turtle attached to a fisherman’s thumb all through February. Three times during that bitter month, storms blew in and the snow stayed, piling up on both sides of the driveway until I couldn’t see the yard when I left in the Avalanche. Despite the earth like iron, one morning I heard the call of a red-winged blackbird staking out his territory. After that, he was singing each day at dawn.

  Eating up a big chunk of Peggy Sue’s payment, I continued with the home improvement plans I had made with Gene. By midmonth replacement windows stopped most of the drafts, the house was snuggly warm, new curtains hung at the kitchen windows, and a professional installer came in to lay down a terra-cotta tile floor.

  All the while, my little boy seemed to be racing through his first year. At eight months old he was crawling along so fast I couldn’t turn my back on him for a s
econd. He had started pulling himself up using the furniture to give himself a boost. He was good at standing as long as he had something to hang on to. If he sat down hard because he let go, he looked surprised and pulled himself back up. I expected he’d stand without holding on any day now. The puppy Cocoa too seemed to grow larger every time I looked at her. Going by the size of her feet, she might turn out as big as a pony; she certainly ate like a horse.

  One afternoon I got together all my courage and contacted Bray Bentry. He gave me the Allreds’ phone number, and I made the call. The conversation started out awkward and formal but ended up with everybody crying. After that I started e-mailing them Brady’s pictures nearly every day, and we all decided I’d bring him down to Houston later in the spring. He babbled to them on the phone too. I knew in my heart of hearts that Brady needed to know where he came from on both sides of his family. Even though Brady never met his father, he would know all about Jake. He’d never be left wondering who Jake was and whether he had his father’s eyes, talents, or flaws. Besides, no child can be loved too much, and his Grandpa and Grandma Allred let him know he was the apple of their eye.

  Some days the hours flew by; other days the time went so slowly I thought the clock had broken. As I said before, life went on.

  March came in, if not exactly like a lion, at least like a tomcat strutting his stuff. But after the first week, a change in the jet stream brought a series of above-freezing days. I noticed the pussy willows at the corner of the front yard were covered in furry catkins, and a few days later, a purple crocus popped up in a snow-less patch under the hedges. Even if my heart felt as if it would be cold and lifeless forever, the earth was waking up. Spring’s promise whispered in every breeze. And at times when I least expected it, hope, unnamed and unspoken, broke through my pain and emerged like that crocus in the lawn.

  On a Monday morning in mid-March, Brady was at Peggy Sue’s day care. I was in the kitchen when I heard the doorbell to my office door. Wiping my wet hands on a dish towel, I hurried to answer it and spotted a neatly dressed young man on the other side of the glass. He stood nervously shifting from foot to foot and shivering on the stoop. I assumed he was a salesman for phone book advertising or something like that.