The Will of Wisteria

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  She closed the Jeep door and carefully negotiated the cracked sidewalk. The yard was a patchwork of red dirt and crabgrass. Some of the siding was hanging off the house, shifting in the wind, and the wrought-iron railing that led up the steps had come loose at both ends.

  The porch boards slanted precariously, but two fresh white rockers sat on each side of a small wicker table. The wooden front door was also neatly painted, and the screen door seemed to be brand-new. She tapped on the side of the door.

  A tiny black woman appeared, eyeing the new arrival curiously. Her graying hair was cut close to her head, and her eyes were an almost translucent light brown shaded with flecks of green.

  “I suppose you’re from the Benefactor’s Group?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am. I’m Elizabeth Wilcott. You’re Hazel Moses?”

  “I am indeed.” The woman opened the screen door. “Come in, young lady. Come right on in.”

  Elizabeth stepped inside the old house, its aged wood floors creaking under her step.

  “Don’t mind those.” The woman chuckled, the small gold hoops in her ears dangling as her head moved. “That’s just one of the things that needs to be replaced. Truth is, I’ll probably be replaced before we can get all of this settled. Come sit down on the sofa and rest awhile.”

  Elizabeth sat obediently.

  “Let me get you a glass of sweet tea.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Oh, really. That’s not necessary. I’m not—”

  “Now, now. My mother always taught me that if guests come to your home, you serve them something to drink whether they want it or not.” Her voice trailed away as she headed toward the kitchen.

  Elizabeth looked around at the shabby house. This wasn’t her life. She took meetings in elegant restaurants and opulent offices, over expensive meals and fine wine and rich coffee. Not a place like this. Not Elizabeth Wilcott.

  Elizabeth’s eyes caught two small chairs in the corner of Hazel’s living room with stacks of children’s books nestled by each one. The one on the top was recognizable to Elizabeth immediately. It was The Secret Garden, her favorite book from childhood.

  Hazel Moses returned bearing two glasses of iced tea—one in a small Mason jar and the other in a dazzling piece of crystal stemware. She handed the crystal glass to Elizabeth and motioned to the sofa. “Have a seat, please. My son, Willie, will be here shortly. He’s been helping me handle all of the issues that have arisen since we found out that we have no legal claim on this property. Had these developers not come in here to take it from us, we would have never known.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting him.” Elizabeth took a sip of her tea, just to be polite. It ran down her throat smooth and thick like Esau’s. It was very good.

  “Would you like me to show you around until Willie gets here?”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  The front room ran shotgun-style straight through the dining room and into the kitchen. Clearly the house was aging not so gracefully, but the rooms were open and spacious, and everything was neatly placed and immaculately clean.

  “My ancestor, Willamina—that’s where Willie got his name—she was brought to Charleston and sold here as a slave at the Old Slave Mart in 1859. This house was deeded to her and her family once emancipation came to Charleston. She passed it down to her children; then they passed it down to theirs, and it ended up with me. Awhile back I discovered there wasn’t a piece of paper this side of eternity that had me as the rightful owner of this home or land. I always felt it was mine, even though there isn’t a law that would agree with me.”

  Elizabeth followed Hazel into the kitchen, where a capturing aroma emanated from the oven. “Are you making bread?”

  “Yes. My Willie loves homemade bread with pear preserves.”

  “My mother used to make bread,” Elizabeth blurted out. Until this moment, she had forgotten.

  Hazel patted Elizabeth on the arm. “All good mamas make their babies homemade bread.”

  Hazel continued her narrative as she showed Elizabeth the dilapidated back porch—the backyard even worse than the front. “When I tried to contact my family members about getting the property deeded to me so I could fight the developers, I contacted all of them, cousins, aunts, uncles. Lord have mercy, you would have thought I was asking them to sell their plasma. They were indignant, mean, and greedy. Not a one of them had given this place a second thought until they got a call from me. But when they thought they might have a right to something they never worked for, cared for, or invested in, they wanted a piece of it anyway.”

  “I’m sorry this has been so difficult for you.”

  “My son Willie owns a construction company and would do all of these repairs for me, but I don’t want him to put any more energy in it, if they’re just going to come and take it away from us. My mother gave me this house. She had all eleven of her children born right under this roof. This is my home. I’ve worked hard for it through the years. I was an English teacher until I retired five years ago, and I always thought I’d live out my life here. I want to make this home beautiful again. For my children.”

  Her expression grew distant. “I know a lot of people call your company because they want to sell their land and can’t because they don’t have the deed. But that’s not why I called. I don’t want to sell it, and I don’t want a developer coming and trying to steal it out from under me. I just want it to be legally mine, and to be free to make it into the home it needs to be.”

  Elizabeth looked into the woman’s eyes. “I think that’s a noble purpose, Miss Hazel.”

  “It’s not noble; it’s just right. Kids need a heritage. My grand-babies love for me to read to them in a special corner that is just for them. They’ll do that with their babies. That’s my legacy.”

  The passion she exuded was contagious, and Elizabeth felt herself profoundly affected by this diminutive woman and her cause. “If you’ll give me the names and numbers of the family you contacted, we’ll begin some family mediation for you, and then we’ll deal with the developer. Hopefully we can get all of this resolved with as little incident as possible.”

  Hazel accompanied Elizabeth to the door and cautiously down the steps to the car. “Sorry Willie didn’t get here to meet you. You would love him. But I really appreciate it. Next week is Thanksgiving. Every family needs a home where they can get together on holidays, don’t you think? I want this to be a place my great-grandkids can come to. A place they’ll remember.”

  Elizabeth opened the car door. “Yes, Miss Hazel, every family should have a place like that.”

  She climbed in the car and watched as Hazel Moses climbed her lopsided steps one at a time onto her slanted, ramshackled porch. The old woman paused and waved good-bye, then took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dusted off the arms of the rocking chairs.

  Elizabeth’s stomach rumbled, and her mind called up images of all the Moses clan gathered in that warm, shabby dining room around a table loaded with turkey and dressing and pumpkin pies and Hazel’s homemade bread.

  Elizabeth Wilcott had no plans for Thanksgiving.

  And she had accomplished absolutely nothing she had come here to do.

  Dr. Nadu eased Jeffrey into a chair at the boardroom table. “Dr. Randall, get Dr. Wilcott some water, please.”

  Jeffrey ran his sweaty palms together and tugged loose the knot of his tie. Oxygen. He needed oxygen.

  “Jeffrey, I’m sorry,” Dr. Nadu said. “I had no idea that was your son. The name Webber—?”

  “It’s her maiden name. She took it back after we got divorced.”

  “So you haven’t talked with her in a while?”

  Dr. Randall returned, setting a bottled water on the table. Jeffrey unscrewed the cap and drank a little while Dr. Nadu paced quietly behind him.

  “Perhaps you would like to go and stay with him for the rest of the day . . .”

  Jeffrey exhaled heavily. “With the way his mother feels, it might be best if I jus
t keep my distance.”

  Dr. Nadu nodded. “You might be right. I suspect you are in shock too. Can I get someone to drive you home?”

  “No. I think I’ll just get out of the hospital for a little while, just to get my head together. Maybe I’ll come back later.”

  Dr. Nadu patted him on the back. “We’ll do everything we can, Jeffrey. I promise.”

  Jeffrey nodded his head. “I’m certain you will, sir.”

  When Dr. Nadu left, Jeffrey ran for the parking lot and threw up in the shrubs. Leaning against the brick building, he tried to steady himself. But brick and mortar could not steady a life in ruins.

  One good thing about being a teacher is that you got out of school before rush hour. Mary Catherine pulled onto King Street, parked, and got out to walk. She loved this neighborhood, everything about it—the smells, the sights, the stuff.

  She intended to go straight to Old Towne. But an English commode in the window of her favorite antique store caught her eye. The inlaid drawers were like nothing she had ever seen. She ran her hands along the glass of the front window and let her feet carry her right through the front door.

  The ringing bell gave her away.

  “Mary Catherine!” the store owner crooned as she made her way, arms wide open, straight for Mary Catherine. “Where have you been, darling? I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “Hello, Lacy.” Mary Catherine returned the hug, feeling the perspiration start at the base of her neck. “I’ve been . . . ah, busy.”

  “You are admiring my beautiful chest, aren’t you?”

  Mary Catherine hoped Lacy didn’t go around saying this to everyone. “The one in the window. Yes, it’s lovely.”

  “I’ll give you a wonderful deal. Like I always do.”

  Mary Catherine’s heart hammered against her rib cage. “No, really, I need to go. I’m meeting someone up the street for dinner.”

  “Darling, you’ve never left my shop empty-handed, and you’re not going to start now. Where have you been anyway? Why haven’t you been to see me?”

  Mary Catherine debated telling the truth. “As I said, I’ve been busy. Traveling.” She rationalized the lie. North Charleston was, more or less, a different world.

  “You keep those miles adding up, don’t you? Where have your travels taken you?”

  Mary Catherine picked up a candle, stalling, trying to think of something else to talk about. It didn’t work. “I’ve gone back to teaching, actually.” She set the candle back down. “Yes, I’ve gone back to teaching.”

  “You have a job?” Lacy uttered the vile word with contempt as if what she had wasn’t one. Mary Catherine figured her logic was based around the fact that she owned the store.

  “It’s what I went to school for.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting. Mary Catherine Wilcott has gotten herself a job.” She used the Wilcott name deliberately, Mary Catherine was certain, and made no attempt to hide her disdain. “So, what can you buy on a teacher’s budget?”

  Mary Catherine studied Lacy’s arrogant face and looked at the carved baroque bookcase next to her. All of a sudden it all felt shallow, superficial. “I don’t intend to buy anything, to be honest with you. I have everything I need.”

  “Well then!” Lacy clapped her hands together. “Oh my. Would you look at the time? I better scurry back there and finish doing . . . well, whatever it was I was doing. Do come again.”

  She hustled Mary Catherine out the door without so much as a good-bye. And Mary Catherine felt something inside of her bend. Something that had never bent before.

  Elizabeth had no choice but to request Ainsley’s assistance. The lying swindler Ainsley. She hated to admit it, but if she were to completely understand the legal undertakings of her new case, she was going to have to go to the head.

  For the last three months she had dealt with Ainsley only when necessary. And Ainsley’s manufactured civility only frustrated Elizabeth more. But after years of pretending real life wasn’t what it really was, Elizabeth figured she could handle this as well. She pushed herself back from her desk and willed herself to move in the direction of Ainsley’s door.

  “Do you have time for dinner tonight?”

  Ainsley took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. It was already eight o’clock. She sighed heavily.

  “I’m not asking for a date; I’m asking for dinner.”

  Ainsley chuckled. “I know. It’s just that this brief is due before the judge Wednesday morning, and it will probably take me until then to get it finished. How about Wednesday night? I’ll be all yours. You can wine and dine me until dawn.” She laughed.

  Elizabeth didn’t.

  “I’m not brushing you off. I’ve really got to get this brief in by tomorrow night, or I’m going to have to fire myself.”

  Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

  “Ah. I see the prospect of my imminent departure pleases you.”

  She apparently wasn’t as good an actress as she had thought. “Sure, Wednesday’s fine,” she said. She reached to close the door.

  “Hey, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth turned back around. “Yes?”

  “Thanks. I know you’re working a lot of hours, and I really appreciate all of your effort.”

  Elizabeth averted her face to hide the smirk. “It’s all part of the job.”

  Ainsley nodded. “Yes, it is all part of the job. But thanks anyway.”

  Jeffrey sat in his car, staring out the front windshield. He had driven around all day going nowhere. But stalling offered no alternative to what awaited at the hospital. Now he had come full circle and sat in the parking lot, staring at the sign that read “Physician’s Parking.” The car idled quietly, but his thoughts were shrieking.

  All he had really wanted to do was to find Pamela and pretend none of this had happened. After all, he hadn’t so much as seen this kid since his wife left the house with him over ten years ago.

  Claire had left when she found out that Priscilla, his soon-to-be second wife, was pregnant with Matthew. She walked out the door that day asking for nothing, so he had offered her nothing.

  Dr. Nadu had expected emotion from Jeffrey. For God’s sake, this was his son. Fathers cried over wounded sons. Fathers ached over them. That’s what normal fathers were supposed to do.

  His hands twisted against the leather of the steering wheel. He hated what this might bring to the surface. This would probably be the tide that brought in Claire’s greed. She’d probably expect him to pay for everything. Worse than that, she would probably expect him to care. Expect him to help. Expect him to . . .

  A voice inside finished the thought: Be a man. Be a father.

  Long gone was the warmth of the Carolina sun. The parking lot—indeed, his whole world—was now illuminated by artificial light.

  He didn’t want to be here. Wanted to be somewhere else, any-the where else. Anyone else. But he had still felt the need to return. As fast as he drove away, something inside was tugging at him, pulling him, drawing him back. As much as he had tried to ignore his moral compass, it had spun him around and made him follow its direction.

  He entered the bustling halls of the hospital, seeing the entire spectacle from a completely different perspective this time. Now he wasn’t the doctor, in control and in charge. The patient was no longer just a nameless stranger, a list of symptoms on a chart.

  He opened the door to the ICU slowly. The nurses moved about quietly. The ICU rooms surrounded a central station, and he scanned the rooms looking for Claire, looking for Jacob.

  The older woman behind the nurse’s desk paid him no attention. He leaned over the counter. “Could you tell me where Jacob Webber’s room is?”

  “Sir, no one is allowed in ICU for another hour, and then only for ten minutes at a time. You’ll have to wait.” Her eyes never left the chart in her hands.

  “I’m Dr. Wilcott. I work with Dr. Nadu. This boy is his . . . our patient.”

  She lifted her eyes apologetically
. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”She pulled a chart from the vertical filer on the desk and began to scan it. “Let’s see here. I just got on duty an hour ago. I have a Jacob Wilcott . . . oh my, that’s your name. How ironic is that?” She laughed awkwardly. “He’s over there, in Unit Four.”

  “Is his mother with him?”

  “I don’t believe so. Not at the moment. I think I just saw her walk down the hall with a couple of people.”

  “I’m going to check in on him, but would you—” He paused. “Would you just give me a heads-up if you see her headed back this way?”

  “No problem.” She nodded. “But I’ll be in shortly anyway. It’s time to re-dress his burns.”

  Jeffrey entered the glassed-in unit slowly. Monitors attached to Jacob’s body surrounded his bed on both sides. The boy was completely bandaged from his face to the top of his thighs, the bandages spotted with oozing blood and plasma. A light sheet lay neatly tucked over his legs.

  He scanned the labels of the IV bags. Fluids had to be continually replenished, and morphine administered for the pain.

  He stood by Jacob’s head and placed his hands on the cold metal railing. The heart monitor beeped lightly, followed by the gentle rhythmic hiss of oxygen from the ventilator and the periodic inflation of the cooling blanket. It was a miracle this kid was alive.

  A harsh whisper came from behind him. “What are you doing in here?”

  So much for getting warned. He turned to face Claire. “I just wanted to stop by.”

  The nurse followed on Claire’s heels. “Um, she’s here, Dr. Wilcott.” “I see that.”

  “You need to go,” Claire said. He nodded and headed out the door. He wouldn’t cause a scene.

  Just outside the ICU main doors, he heard her following and turned to face her.

  “I want you to leave us alone,” she said. “This is no time for you to come around pretending to be a father.”