The Amethyst Heart

by Penelope J. Stokes

  March 15, 1993

  Conrad Wainwright stood in the judge’s chambers with Mimsy on one side and the sheriff, Buddy Rice, on the other. He glanced at his watch—a gold Rolex, with diamonds marking the hours—and wondered how long it would be before he had to hock it and go back to wearing a thirty-dollar Timex from Discount World.

  The Rolex said 9:15. The judge had kept them waiting for a full fifteen minutes. A power play, most likely. A ploy to make him increasingly nervous.

  Harriet Dove, the judge’s name was. Probably one of those women’s lib types who loved lording it over males. Conrad couldn’t stand feminists. Their primary goal in life, it seemed, was to emasculate men, to use whatever authority they could muster to make him feel like a fool. All the lady lawyers he knew kept telling him it was time for him to get with the program, to come into the nineties and stop acting like a chauvinist pig. He had learned, over the years, to put on a good front so as not to irritate them or get himself accused of harassment, but privately Con still held to the belief that a woman’s place was in the kitchen—definitely not in the courtroom or the operating room, and most certainly not on the judge’s bench.

  He cleared his throat and shifted nervously from one foot to the other. He would have to watch himself with this Judge Dove—would probably have to grovel and say “Your Honor” and “yes ma’am” to her. It made him sick. Who on earth had come up with the insane idea that a female—a girl—could ever be rational enough to serve as a judge? The law demanded clearheaded reasoning, not mushy emotionalism.

  Still, his future—his solvency—was in Harriet Dove’s hands. He’d have to be careful, all right.

  At 9:23, the side door opened and a woman walked in and seated herself behind the desk. Con had to restrain himself from laughing—or at the very least, from gaping. The tiny woman with short blonde hair, a narrow chin, and huge horn-rimmed glasses looked like Tweety Bird in a black robe. A child playing court. The front panel of the desk blocked his view of her legs, but Conrad could imagine that her feet were swinging free, unable to touch the floor.

  When she spoke, the Tweety Bird image vanished from his mind. “Be seated.”

  They sat.

  “All right, Sheriff,” she said in a low-pitched, commanding voice, “what do we have here?”

  Buddy Rice took a step forward. “This is Conrad Wainwright, your honor, and his wife, Mimsy. He’s the son of Miss Amethyst Noble.”

  Judge Dove peered over the top of her glasses. “I understand you seem to be having a bit of trouble with your mother?”

  Conrad took his cue, nodded, and responded in his best lawyer-voice, “Yes, Your Honor. My mother is quite elderly and has become, well, intractable. She needs care, but refuses to be moved from the family home.”

  The judge shuffled some papers on her desk, then looked up again. “You say that she kidnapped your granddaughter, a teenager over whom you have custody, and drove you and your wife off the premises at gunpoint?”

  “She did, Your Honor. The sheriff here witnessed everything.”

  “Buddy? What’s your take on this? Is Miss Amethyst incompetent?”

  Rice hooked a thumb in his belt and considered his answer. “Her behavior is, well, a little eccentric. But the girl is seventeen, and claims that she is not being held against her will.”

  “Anybody get shot at?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Any crime committed?”

  “Not that I can tell,” Buddy answered. “As Miss Amethyst said, she has the right to lock her own doors.”

  “Against her only son?” Conrad interrupted. “She’s ninety-three years old, Judge! Anything could happen in there!”

  Judge Dove cast a withering look in Con’s direction. “Mr. Wainwright, we may be in chambers rather than in a courtroom, but this is still my territory. You will not interrupt, nor will you give an opinion until you are asked for it. Understood?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Conrad lowered his eyes, not out of humility, but so that she couldn’t see the rage that was building in him. This judge was just what he expected—a women’s libber who took delight in cutting a man down to size.

  “Go on, Buddy.”

  “Well, Your Honor, I told Con and Mimsy here that Miss Amethyst was perfectly within her rights to refuse them entrance to the house. And the girl is nearly of age; she’s intelligent and obviously knows what she wants. As far as I can see, it’s a family disagreement, nothing more.”

  Judge Dove turned back to Conrad. “I want to know what started the dispute. What happened, Mr. Wainwright, to cause your elderly mother to lock you out of her house?”

  Conrad said nothing.

  “I am giving you permission to speak, Mr. Wainwright. Now.”

  Con pushed down the sarcastic reply that rose to the surface of his mind. “I was trying to convince my mother that she would be much happier and safer in a retirement home. I have a lovely place picked out near my home outside of Memphis.”

  “But she doesn’t want to go.”

  “She thinks she can still take care of herself in that big house,” Con hedged. “But, Your Honor, she’s an old woman. She’s getting frail, and no longer coherent. What mother in her right mind would threaten her only son with a shotgun? I’m—I’m afraid for her.”

  Judge Dove pushed her glasses up her nose and stared at him in silence, as if she were looking right through him. “Yes. The good son,” she muttered under her breath. “What about you, Mrs. Wainwright? What do you think?”

  Conrad cringed inwardly. Please, he begged. Please, Mimsy.

  “Well,” she began, “I suppose I understand, just a little, why Mother doesn’t want to sell her house. But—but—” She broke down and began to wail. “But my little girl! She’s locked in there all alone, and—and—”

  “There, there, honey,” Conrad soothed. He turned back to the judge. “You can see how devastated my wife is over all this.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I can see.” Judge Dove’s expression clearly indicated that she wished she had never turned the valve that opened Mimsy’s floodgates. She turned her gaze back to the sheriff. “Buddy, do you think the girl is in any danger?”

  Buddy shook his head. “No ma’am.”

  “Mr. Wainwright, you need to know that I have no intention whatsoever of declaring your mother legally incompetent on your word alone. This seems to me to be a simple case of misunderstanding. Can you give me one reason—any reason—to run legal interference in a family matter?”

  Conrad racked his brain, and finally came up with a stroke of genius. “Isn’t it illegal for her to be kept out of school without her guardians’ consent?”

  Mimsy looked up. “Oh, no, Conrad. Don’t you remember? They’re on spring break, starting today. She doesn’t have school this week.”

  He could have throttled her. But murder in the judge’s chambers wasn’t the kind of offense he wanted on his record.

  Judge Dove gave a knowing smile. “All right. Here’s my decision. You"—she pointed toward Conrad—"will go back and try to reason with your mother. If you haven’t settled this in one week, I’ll issue an order that Miss Amethyst appear before me and that your granddaughter be released back to your custody.”

  “A week?” Conrad sputtered. “Another week? But it’ll be too late by then—” He stopped himself before he said something incriminating.

  “You have a problem with my decision?” Judge Dove asked. “Or with me?”

  “No—no ma’am,” Con replied, infusing all the false contrition he could muster into his voice.

  “Buddy, you go with them. But no hard-handedness, understand? Just a quiet discussion.”

  “You got it, Judge.”

  “Fine. I will hope not to see you next Monday. The truth is, I don’t like meddling in family situations that could be handled with a modicum of reason and compassion. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  The dismissal couldn’t have been clearer. Conrad got up and, stifling a cu
rse, stalked out of Judge Harriet Dove’s chambers.

  20

  Round Two

  Mother? Mother, are you in there?”

  Conrad’s shouting and frantic pounding, muffled by the closed door, sounded like a television cop show coming from a great distance. Amethyst looked up at the clock, then smiled at her great-granddaughter, who was seated in the opposite chair.

  “Right on time.”

  Little Am nodded. “Like clockwork.”

  Amethyst struggled to her feet and motioned for Am to follow.

  “You want the gun?” Little Am pointed to the shotgun that was resting against the fireplace.

  “Not right now. You can come get it if need be.”

  Amethyst opened the front door and peered at her son through the iron grillwork.

  “Open up, Mother! This nonsense has gone on long enough.”

  “No, Conrad.”

  “I’ve been to the judge, Mother. She said—” He stopped suddenly and looked over his shoulder at the sheriff, who stood directly behind him. Clearly, he had been about to concoct some outrageous story, but Buddy Rice’s presence kept him honest.

  “Said what, Conrad?” Amethyst threw a smile over her shoulder at Little Am.

  “She said we need to work this out like civilized people.”

  Amethyst nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Finally!” Con heaved a sigh of relief and tempered his tone. “Let us in, Mother, and we’ll talk about this.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Conrad let out a string of curses.

  “Does that sound like civilized conversation to you?” she asked Little Am.

  The girl shook her head. “I think he needs to have his mouth washed out with Drano.”

  “I taught him better,” Amethyst sighed. “I really did.”

  “Mother, listen! You’ve got to let us in, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Amethyst peered at Buddy. “Is that all there is to it?”

  Buddy grinned. “No ma’am. It’s entirely up to you.”

  “Then good-bye, Conrad. Come back when you’ve given up this idea of carting me off to the home. And when you can keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  “But Mother, you cannot stay here by yourself any longer. It’s just not reasonable.”

  Little Am stepped forward and pointed her finger at her grandfather. “Alone? What do you think I am, anyway?”

  “You’re an idiotic teenager who doesn’t know what’s good for her.”

  Mimsy stepped forward and laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Conrad, there’s no cause to insult people. Am, are you all right?”

  “I’m cool, Mimsy,” Am replied. “No problems here.”

  “You’re going to leave this house and come home with us right this minute,” Con ordered.

  “No, I’m not.” Am planted her hands on her hips. “I’ve got spring break, and teacher’s meetings come after that. I don’t have to be back to school for two weeks. And I plan to spend them right here with Grandam.”

  “I brought you some clothes, honey,” Mimsy said. “And your CD player and a portable TV. I thought you might be bored.”

  Con turned on her. “You did WHAT?”

  “Well, the girl needs clothes, Con.”

  “You already determined you’d let her stay?”

  Mimsy shrugged. “A good mother anticipates.”

  “Thanks, Mimsy,” Little Am said. “I would like the clothes, but you can forget about the TV and CD player. I won’t be needing them. The last thing I am right now is bored.”

  Con stared at his granddaughter as if she had just morphed into an alien being. “You—you don’t want rock music or television?” he stammered.

  “Nope.”

  He turned on Amethyst. “What are the two of you doing in there?”

  Amethyst smiled benignly. “Girl stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “And you won’t let us in to talk? Not even for a few minutes?”

  “Not a chance. Not until you come to your senses.”

  Con’s face turned a bright red. “Mother, you’re the one who needs to come to her senses. I’ve done what I’m supposed to do—I tried to talk reasonably to you. We’ll just let the judge decide what happens from here on.”

  Amethyst began to shut the door. “Fine, Conrad. Leave Little Am’s suitcase on the porch. And be sure to let me know how it turns out.”

  While Con was still shouting at her, Amethyst locked the door in his face. She turned to Little Am. “Now what?”

  Am grinned. “First, I’ll wash up the breakfast dishes. Then you have a promise to keep.”

  “More of the story?”

  “Much more. I can’t wait to hear about your wild and reckless youth.”

  When the dishes were done, Amethyst settled in the den with a second cup of coffee. “All right. Now where were we?”

  “You were born. Silas just died.”

  “Of course. One going out while the other was coming in,” Amethyst mused. “But I’ll have to skip a few years. We’ll pick up when I was—oh, just about your age.”

  “Cool.” Little Am settled into her chair and popped the top on a can of Diet Pepsi. “I’m ready.”

  “All right. It was 1917—”

  “World War I,” Little Am supplied.

  “Ah, yes, the A in history.” Amethyst nodded. “I didn’t expect the war to affect us much, but it did. . . .”

  Part 3

  DIGNITY

  “I will restore you to health and heal your wounds,” declares the LORD, “because you are called an outcast . . . for whom no one cares.”

  Jeremiah 30:17

  21

  Dishonest Abe

  June 1917

  Abraham Lincoln Noble peered at his face in the looking glass and scowled. As had become his habit throughout his fifty-two years, he cursed his name. Cursed his life. Cursed the attachments that held him in bondage to this land, this house, these people. And cursed his dead father for chaining him to an icon, a cherished martyr cut down by an assassin’s bullet.

  No matter what he did, he would never fulfill other people’s expectations of him. All his life, his name had caused him to be compared to Lincoln, who had, in his father’s glowing terms, “selflessly laid down his life in the battle for freedom.” An accident of birth and geography had sentenced him to be compared to Enoch Warren, the man who walked with God—and who, for all practical purposes, was a god. An agricultural genius, a divinity who had stretched out his hand over the land and made it fertile and prosperous.

  Every time Abe saw the muscular black man striding across the fields or riding his horse into town, his gut twisted with jealousy and rage. Clearly, Abe had turned out to be a bitter disappointment to his father. Why else would Silas Noble have willed most of the farmland to the son of a slave, leaving his own son with only Noble House and a small percentage of the yearly proceeds from the crop?

  The injustice stabbed at his heart like a blade. He should have been the landholder, the prominent citizen of Cambridge County. He should have been given the chance to make a name for himself, a future for his family. But all he had to show for his heritage was this house, this prison without bars that kept him incarcerated with a simpering, mindless wife and a headstrong seventeen-year-old daughter.

  Enoch had sons. Tall, strong sons who worked with him and made him proud. And one daughter as well—the beautiful Silvie, just turned twenty-one, whose very presence aroused in Abe a lust that would not leave him in peace. Pansy had seen the look in his eye, he was certain, but had never confronted him about it. She never would. She was too weak to take the risk. But someday—someday soon, if her multitude of medical complaints had any basis in reality—she would be gone, and he would have the opportunity to act on his fantasies.

  His time would come. And when it did, he wouldn’t give a second thought to the consequences. He deserved some pleasure in life, didn’t he?

  The problem w
as, he couldn’t wait. The walls were closing in, suffocating him. He had to get out. And finally, after all these years, he had stumbled upon a way to do it without seeming like a cad.

  Abe didn’t keep up much with current affairs, but he did know enough to realize that three years ago, somebody had assassinated some archduke over in Europe, and the result had been a conflict of monumental proportions—a war bigger and more complex than the world had ever seen. And now, finally, the United States had gotten into the fray. In April, President Wilson had declared war on Germany and last month had instituted something called “Selective Service.”

  Most of the men being conscripted were much younger than himself—in their twenties and thirties. But word was that the army would take volunteers up to the age of forty-eight. Abe was beyond that, of course, but his wife and daughter wouldn’t know the regulations, wouldn’t know that he was too old to enlist.

  This war, whatever it was about, would give him the perfect excuse he needed. He wouldn’t be viewed as a despicable husband abandoning his family; he would be a hero, marching off to battle to save the world for democracy. A protector of home and hearth.

  Never mind that he had no intention of joining the army. He made it a practice never to put himself in danger without a very good reason—a nice bottle of bourbon, for example; or a rich faro game with a table­ful of patsies; or that shapely new barmaid at Colby’s Tavern. Now, that was a risk worth taking.

  Abe left the bedroom, went into the kitchen, and sat down at the table to glance through the newspaper. A Selective Service office had been set up in Memphis. The train schedule for new inductees was printed in the paper.

  But where would he get the money he needed? Vanishing into thin air and creating a new life for himself wouldn’t be cheap. Enoch had already advanced him most of the profits due him from the summer’s harvest, but he’d had a run of bad luck lately, and it was already gone. Still, a good gambler could feel it when his luck was about to change. This was his chance, and he had to do whatever was necessary to take it.