The Will of Wisteria

by Denise Hildreth Jones

“Claire, I just . . .”

  “I honestly don’t want to hear it, Jeffrey. We haven’t needed anything from you before, and we don’t need anything from you now. The last thing I want my son to do is wake up and have one ounce of hope that you are coming back into his life.”

  “I’m sorry, Claire. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Forget the apologies, Jeffrey. It’s way too late for that. Just leave.”

  Jeffrey nodded his head. “Okay. Okay.”

  She spoke again. Obviously she wasn’t ready for him to leave quite yet. “Do you know why he went back in that house, Jeffrey?” Her voice broke.

  Dr. Moss’s words from the emergency room came back to him, registering with the nudge of her question. “They said it was for a dog or something.”

  “Yes, it was for a dog. The dog you bought him for his third birthday. He kept that dog for more than ten years, loved that dog, Jeffrey, because it was a part of you. He wouldn’t even let me change his name from Wilcott when I changed mine. He still wanted to be your son, even though you never called. Never wrote. Never checked on him. So unless you take pleasure in seeing what all your reckless ambivalence has produced, then please, just stay away from us.”

  She left him with only one option: watching her walk away, again.

  Elizabeth was soaking in the bathtub when the call came. She recognized the caller ID and snatched up the phone. “Tell me what you know.”

  “All the charges against her were dropped. The embezzlement claim came from a disgruntled employee who worked under her.”

  “Charges are dropped all the time. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t guilty. If she had enough money to pay someone off—”

  “Mrs. Wilcott.”

  “Ms. ,” she corrected.

  He paused. “Ms. Wilcott. I’m the investigator. You’re the lawyer. I’m just telling you the information I received. Whether you choose to believe it is your decision.”

  chapter twenty-two

  Jeffrey rummaged frantically through kitchen drawers. He ransacked closets, emptied dressers, but he found nothing. Finally, as a last resort, he made his way back to the family room and flung open the cabinets underneath the bookcase. A dozen labeled boxes sat there, perfectly positioned and organized by date.

  After ten minutes of searching, he found what he was looking for. Standing there by his birthday cake with the big number 3 on top was Jacob, grinning, holding a flailing puppy. Bobo the Boxer.

  Jeffrey sank heavily to the floor. Bobo was supposed to be named Bruno, but Jacob couldn’t say Bruno yet. So Bobo was as good as it got.

  His eyes took in every detail of the picture. The vibrancy of the color, the smile on Jacob’s face, his tiny hands grasped around the puppy’s stomach. Then he noticed Claire in the background, standing behind Jacob in that pink sweater Jeffrey always said complemented her dark hair.

  What he had failed to notice eleven years ago was like the North Star today, pointing straight to his denial. Her eyes were dark, heavy, and tired, and she was only twenty-four. They had married in college at the age of twenty, much to his father’s objections. But they didn’t care. They were excited, full of life. She was passionate about Jeffrey and everything else. In four years he had taken away her youth.

  He laid the picture down in front of him. “My God, what did I do to her?” His mind tried to wrap around the reality. “I made her that way. I’m the reason she was so unhappy.”

  The revelation brought with it a barrage of memories, memories of the last fifteen years. Torturous memories in which Jeffrey began to see himself as he was—shallow, self-centered, narcissistic. Wanting what he wanted when he wanted it. Not caring about who he hurt in the process.

  Jeffrey grabbed an eight-hundred-dollar crystal Lalique vase from the bookshelf and threw it across the room. It crashed against the floor in the foyer, leaving massive chunks of crystal strewn across the marble and shimmering shards in almost every corner.

  Then he knelt on the rug and screamed—a primal, guttural scream—as every painful moment of the past thirty-eight years tore through him. He flailed his fists at the ceiling, wanting with all his might to direct this anger at his father, to blame him. But Jeffrey could find no one to blame except himself.

  And then the tears came. He wept for his mother. He wept for Claire and the look on her face in that picture. He wept for his son Jacob, for his pain and his burns and his loneliness. For the lost years. He wept over every stupid decision he’d ever made. He wept for the fact that heaven held no answers.

  And he wept, for the first time in his life, over his father.

  He remembered now, with painful clarity, the phone calls he never returned. The days his dad would pick up Matthew and ask him to come.

  Then he wept over Elizabeth and her screams in the barn, and the fact that he’d never told what he should have told. And now that he was weeping for her, he remembered . . .

  That was the last time he had ever cried.

  Jeffrey heard movement in the hall, slippered feet coming down the stairs, crunching over the slivered glass in the foyer. But he couldn’t make himself stop crying. Now that the gates had opened, he couldn’t shut off the flood.

  Jeffrey felt a small warm hand on his back. Through his tears he looked up at his son, the face of an adult on an eight-year-old boy. He reached up and took his son in his arms, and then he wept some more.

  This time he wept for Matthew. And Matthew held on to his dad the way a father holds on to his child.

  “Hey! Where do you think you’re going with my car?!”

  The tow truck driver looked at Will and spit a straight line of tobacco juice between his teeth. Will backed up instinctively. “Just doin’ what I’ve been told to do.”

  “But this is my car. I wasn’t parked illegally.”

  The man kept his finger on the button. The car continued to rise. He pulled out a wadded up piece of pink paper from the pocket of his overalls. “Says here on my paper that this car is stolen. I’d say you’re lucky I’m here and not the police.”

  “This car isn’t stolen. I’m Will Wilcott. And this is my car.”

  “Well, I’m Potese Goff, and this here’s my car now.”

  “I’m going to call the police!” Will threatened.

  “You wanta go to jail tonight, then you go right ahead. But my paper says this here car belongs to an Elijah Clayton Wilcott II.”

  “That’s my dad. But for your information, my dad is dead.”

  “Your dad is your dad? What’s that s’pose to mean?”

  Will’s voice escalated. “I said he is dead. D-E-A-D.”

  “Oh, well then, I’m real sorry ’bout your loss and all, but that don’t change my ’sponsibilities. So you run on and take your issues up with someone else.”

  Will was still standing in the middle of the street when Potese Goff headed off with his Porsche.

  The new day was about to reveal how much her kids had really learned. Mary Catherine walked into her classroom with a stack of test papers in her hands. “Go straight to your desk, put your books away, get out a pen or pencil, and sit quietly until everyone else arrives. Review your notes if you like, but no talking.”

  Five minutes after the bell rang, Nicole wandered in. “What’s everybody so quiet for?” she asked through her chewing gum.

  Mary Catherine repeated the instructions and held out the trash can. Nicole spat and sat with a huff and a roll of the eyes.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you will have the entire class period to finish your test. If you finish early, please take out a book to read quietly. If you talk, you will automatically be suspected of cheating, your test will be taken from you, and you will receive a zero.” She paused and smiled. “I am confident you will all do well. You know this material. Now, go show me what you can do.”

  For thirty minutes absolute silence reigned. Charmaine finished first, of course. The child was diligent at everything she did. Mary Catherine gave her a wink as she laid her pape
r down. Terrance brought his paper to her desk after forty-five minutes, looking tense and sweaty. Nicole remained firmly in her seat, arms crossed, leaning back in her chair. She never picked up her pencil.

  When the hour was over and every test was turned in except Nicole’s, Mary Catherine made a decision. She made a brief call from the class phone to the gym teacher. He agreed to her request, and she hung up the phone.

  “Class, I want to thank you for being so quiet and respectful during this test. You can all go to the gym and enjoy yourselves until I come and get you.”

  All the kids rose and headed for the door, chattering excitedly. Nicole got up and started out with them.

  Mary Catherine held out a hand. “Nicole, you stay here, please.”

  Nicole turned around slowly, hesitantly. She sucked her teeth.

  “I don’t believe you’re finished with your test. The gym is for those who have completed their test. You need to take a seat.”

  Nicole took a step forward. “I’m not taking that test. And there’s nothing you can do to make me.”

  “Well, whether you take the test or not will be your decision. However, how long I make you stay in that chair will be my decision. Take a seat.”

  For a moment she wasn’t sure if Nicole would defy her and walk out. The girl shifted on her feet and sneered at Mary Catherine. Then she sauntered over to her desk and slumped back into it, crossing her arms defiantly.

  Mary Catherine sat back down at her desk. She wasn’t sure how long it would take, but she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Mr. Nash, the gym teacher, called around noon. “Send the kids on to lunch, if you don’t mind,” Mary Catherine said. “There’s no change here.”

  He called again after lunch. “Can you keep them a little while longer?”

  A little after two, Mr. Nash called for a third time. “Go ahead and send them to art. That’s their last class of the day. They can go home after that. I appreciate your help.”

  By five o’clock, Mary Catherine’s stomach was growling incessantly. She had missed lunch. Nicole still sat in her chair, arms crossed, but she looked about to doze off. That wasn’t about to happen.

  Mary Catherine opened her mouth and began to sing. She was exceptionally bad at it, and exceptionally loud at it. If ever there was a situation that called for bad, loud singing, this was it.

  She turned her back to Nicole and sang away, off-key and with gusto. Mr. McClain walked by her door during her serenade and peered through the glass. He smiled and continued down the hall. As it finally began to get dark outside, Mary Catherine finally gave up.

  “Bring me your paper, Nicole.”

  Nicole picked her paper up and walked over, slapping it down on Mary Catherine’s desk. Not even the space where her name went had been filled in.

  “You can go home now.” Nicole didn’t respond; she just headed for the door.

  “Ever walked through a graveyard, Nicole?”

  The girl turned. “What?”

  “Do it one day. Take an hour and walk through a graveyard, Nicole. More lost potential rests in graveyards than anywhere else. Possibilities are buried there every day. The greatest books. The greatest songs. The greatest teachers. The greatest scientists. They can all be found in graveyards, forgotten, anonymous, because they never dared to be what they were supposed to be. It takes courage, Nicole, to be great.”

  Nicole shrugged and left without a word.

  Next time she gave a test, Mary Catherine decided, she would pack a lunch and a Snickers bar.

  Jeffrey had gone in twice to check on Jacob, after making sure that Claire was out. He had consulted with Dr. Moss on the most effective course of treatment and discussed with Dr. Nadu what the reconstruction options were, assuming Jacob made it through this touch-and-go time. Dr. Nadu had explained the process in detail, and Jeffrey had listened. Really listened.

  Jeffrey left the hospital and pulled onto the James Island Express-way. Porter-Gaud, Jeffrey’s alma mater, was just off the first exit, one of the most reputable schools in Charleston.

  The school had come into being in 1964 when Porter Military Academy, an institution with its roots in the Episcopal denomination, merged with the Gaud School for Boys and the Watt School. The seventy-acre site on Albemarle Point situated the campus right on the banks of the Ashley River.

  Jeffrey drove through the pristine grounds and for a moment felt lost. He had never once come here to pick Matthew up from school.

  He knew Matthew was playing basketball, so he backtracked and made his way around to the gym, where a line of waiting cars gave him some assurance that students might exit here. A few minutes later Matthew came out of the gym and scanned the parking lot for his ride. Jeffrey still had no idea how he played basketball at his height. But from what Gretchen told him, the kid was actually a pretty good basketball player.

  Jeffrey himself hadn’t sprouted until he was fourteen. He had spent three years on the sidelines watching his middle-school buddies play football until he was finally big enough to play. Matthew, it seemed, would be a late bloomer as well.

  Jeffrey watched as Matthew continued to scan the parking lot, a look of disappointment on his face. And suddenly Jeffrey realized he’d never even think to look for his car.

  He got out and waved his hand. “Hey, Matthew!”

  Matthew’s brow furrowed as he walked slowly toward his dad’s car. “What’s wrong, Dad? Did somebody die or something?”

  Jeffrey could have come back with several smart remarks, but he refrained. The truth was, it was a shame that a child should be shocked when his own father came to pick him up. “I wanted to take my son to dinner tonight, if that’s all right with you.”

  Matthew screwed up his face. “Sure. I guess dinner would be good.” He kept staring at Jeffrey all the way out of the parking lot. “You sure there’s not something wrong? Have you been diagnosed with something?”

  Jeffrey laughed softly and said, “Yeah, probably. Terminally pathetic fathering.”

  “You could be right there.”

  Jeffrey looked over at his son and grinned. He reached out and tousled his thick brown hair. “What would you like for dinner?”

  “Well, I kind of like tofu.”

  “Tofu?”

  “Yeah. Gretchen gets it all the time.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t rather have pizza or hamburgers?”

  “Naw, Dad, I really try to eat healthy. I know a great sushi place.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. He had no idea who this kid was. “Sushi, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s really good.”

  “I don’t eat raw fish.”

  “Not all sushi is raw, Dad. And they have a hibachi grill if you want meat.”

  Jeffrey followed Matthew’s directions to the Japanese restaurant. The waterfall front was surrounded by stone and held a bronzed fish in the middle of the fountain. “Gretchen takes you to nice places, huh?”

  “She always says if you were paying, we might as well enjoy ourselves.”

  They stopped on the sidewalk. Jeffrey took Matthew by the arms and knelt down in front of him. “Did you enjoy yourself, Matthew? Did you really enjoy yourself? I mean, without me in your life?”

  Matthew’s soft smile disarmed his father. He took both of his hands and laid them on top of his father’s shoulders. “Honest, Dad?”

  “Honest.”

  “I like this much better.”

  Jeffrey leaned over and kissed his son on the top of the head. Matthew’s big eyes lit up with a life Jeffrey had never seen before. As they headed into the restaurant, Matthew placed his tiny hand inside Jeffrey’s, and for the first time Jeffrey knew the thrill of a father.

  That evening Matthew taught him all about sushi, wasabi, and using chopsticks. And after the second call from the private investigator interrupted their dinner, Jeffrey simply turned his phone off altogether.

  Even though she had asked for the meeting, Elizabeth had to drag herself to dinner with Ainsley
Parker. At least she had dictated the environment—Tristan’s on Market Street, a place she felt comfortable.

  It would be a late dinner, around eight o’clock, because Hazel Moses’s son, Willie, had time to talk with Elizabeth after he got home from work at six. A conversation with him would give her even more information to share with Ainsley and, she was certain, more questions to ask.

  Tristan’s was hidden in a corner on Market Street, one of the oldest and most historic streets on the eastern seaboard. But this street held more recent memories for Elizabeth. When Mary Catherine was engrossed in theater, acting in plays during the Spoleto Festival, Elizabeth served as babysitter and chauffer. She’d take her across the street to the row of brick buildings and walk her to what they called the “Gourmetisserie.” Years later they would learn it was just a fancy name for a “food court.” But for them it was a smorgasbord of foreign fare. Foods from everywhere—China, Japan, Greece, Mexico.

  Elizabeth could get Mary Catherine to eat anything if she thought it came from some exotic faraway place even when she was ten.

  Elizabeth had always been the “old soul,” as Mother called her. Mary Catherine had always been the adventurer. The memory of that child made Elizabeth smile. She still wasn’t sure how the chasm had grown so wide.

  A voice broke into her musings. “Three months down. More to be discovered.”

  Elizabeth stopped in the middle of the street between the two outdoor markets. An elderly black gentleman sat there, his fingers twining dried sea grass into a beautiful handmade basket. She’d only seen one man making baskets here before, and that was years ago . . .

  “Excuse me? Did you say something to me?”

  He looked up at her and smiled, then focused once more on the fluid movements of his fingers.

  At that moment a horse-drawn carriage came to a stop right in front of her, blocking her view of the basket weaver. She stepped back. The horse eyed her. Fortunately, the tour guide flicked the reins, and the horse continued his slow saunter up the street.

  The weaver had vanished. There was nothing there. Not a man. Not a chair. Not a basket. Not a piece of sea grass.