“Dwight Bryant says he’ll come for it tomorrow,” she said.
“Bet he don’t budge ten feet from a television the rest of the day,” Lacy said with what was almost a chuckle.
Gordon glanced at his watch and announced that it was high time he and Mary Pat went home for lunch.
Kate thanked them for their help and Tom Whitley almost met her eyes as he promised to return the next day, Saturday, and help figure out what materials they should order from the lumber company.
When they had gone, Kate finished taking in the laundry; and as she passed through the kitchen, she found Lacy heating a can of soup for his lunch, the television tuned to some sporting event. She showered and put on a favorite plaid silk dress in tones of jade. It should have bloused more at the waist, but with a navy linen blazer, she didn’t look too pregnant. Even so, it might be time to check out some maternity clothes, she decided.
When she stepped back in the kitchen to pick up the grocery list, Lacy barely acknowledged her departure over the roar of the frenzied television crowd.
The drive to Raleigh took about thirty-five minutes and was a pleasant meander along back roads past dandelions, purple henbit, patches of blue Quaker-ladies, and white Johnny-jump-ups. In June and July, the ditch banks would be thick with orange daylilies and clumps of butterfly weed; blue cornflowers would run through fields of grain; then autumn would bring blue asters and purple shooting stars beneath early-turning trees. Kate loved how wildflowers marked the seasons along this country road that turned and twisted and eventually brought her through a large dairy farm at the southwest edge of town, a dairy farm owned by North Carolina State University.
The university’s curriculum was heavily weighted with science, technology, and computer engineering; but it had begun as an agricultural school and, even though it was no longer a cow college as Duke and Chapel Hill students teased, it would never shake off its origins—witness the several hundred black and white cows that still grazed on rolling green meadows and ignored the passing cars.
Despite its growth, Raleigh remained an easy town to drive through. Street parking was a problem in midtown since Fayetteville Street had been converted to a pedestrian mall; but in the Cameron Village section where Rob Bryant practiced law, Kate found several empty spaces outside his office building.
Against all professional procedures with which Kate was familiar, the firm’s receptionist had a tiny portable television on her desk. She turned down the audio as Kate approached, but her eyes flickered toward the picture.
“Mr. Bryant, please,” Kate said.
“He’s in conference right now,” she smiled. “Is he expecting you?”
“Yes, he is. I’m Mrs. Honeycutt.”
The young woman glanced again at the television. “Carolina’s ahead of Clemson by five,” she grinned, “and here’s the commercial. I’ll see if Mr. Bryant’s free.”
She rose and disappeared around the corner. In a couple of moments she reappeared, followed by Rob.
“Kate! Come on back and let me introduce you to everybody. You met Debby, didn’t you? Debby Mizner, Kate Honeycutt.”
They exchanged polite smiles.
“Rob, I don’t want to interrupt you if—”
“No interruption,” he said, hurrying her down the hall. “It’s two minutes till the half, though.”
He opened the door to a formal conference room. The chairs along the glass-topped table were occupied by eight or ten people with soft drinks, coffee cups, and various take-out lunches; smells of pizza sauce, fried chicken, and deli pastrami mingled in the air. At the end of the room was a large color television, and Kate saw a basketball court awash with pale blue and white uniforms and excited cheerleaders waving blue pom-poms.
“Okay, you people. Drag your eyes off the screen a minute. This is Cousin Kate from New York,” Rob said.
A friendly chorus greeted Kate, but Rob’s exhortation to his colleagues was useless.
“Can you believe Matt Doherty today?” exclaimed a young woman who was otherwise a dress-for-success model of a tailored-down, buttoned-up attorney.
“Yeah,” chimed one of her male counterparts who was dabbing at a mustard stain on his tie. “You expect Sam Perkins or Michael Jordan to make those super shots, but Doherty?”
“It was the Duke game that did it,” said one of the gray-haired senior partners magisterially.
“He’s had the potential all year,” agreed another partner who had also graduated from Carolina.
“A flash in the pan,” the one Duke alumnus in the room said gamely. “Duke took ’em to two overtimes last Saturday and I bet we edge by tomorrow.”
Jeers went up at his heresy and as the buzzer sounded for the end of the first half, everything suddenly fell into place for Kate: it was basketball tournament time for the Atlantic Coast Conference—a spring madness almost incomprehensible to newcomers or outsiders.
With Duke, Wake Forest, Carolina, and North Carolina State within spitting distance of each other, and with no professional teams to engage their enthusiasm, North Carolinians picked a college team to which they remained loyal from birth to death. It was exactly like being born into a political party or a religion, Kate had decided. If your family were State fans, you grew up one, too. You wore a little red T-shirt with a wolf on the front when you were a baby, you bristled at the sight of other babies in Carolina blue T-shirts, and both of you learned early to yell, “Nuke DOOK!” when egged on by the adults in your respective families.
When you grew up, your car would sport bumper stickers that read “Phi Packa Attacka” or “If God’s not a Tar Heel, why’s the sky Carolina blue?”
And once a year, when ACC Tournament weekend rolled around, if you were not a heavily-contributing alumnus—the twenty thousand or so tickets were split among the eight colleges and were never, ever sold to the general public—you settled in with a group of similarlyaligned friends for three days of intensive television viewing.
This year’s tournament was at the Greensboro Coliseum, which was why, Kate realized, the radio announcer this morning had been so happy about Greensboro’s weather. This was also why Lacy had turned on the television for lunch, why Rob’s firm had kept the afternoon clear, and why Dwight Bryant might not be seen till Monday morning.
As she recalled from earlier years, there were four games the first day, two the second, and the championship game on Sunday. For three days, every business office, department store, restaurant, you name it, would suddenly sprout portable televisions and radios.
“Don’t employers mind?” Kate asked as she and Rob drove to a nearby restaurant.
“Most employers are in Greensboro this weekend,” he said. “And those that aren’t are hanging over a television, too.”
The restaurant was uncrowded and they were seated right away.
“So,” Kate said, resigned to the inevitable sports talk, “is Carolina going to win?”
“I guaran-damn-tee you, as Lacy would say. They’re unbeaten in conference play. Of course, Duke gave them a scare last Saturday and Maryland’s hungry to win a championship for Lefty Driesell, but Carolina has two All-Americans.”
Rob brushed at a cowlick of russet hair and laughed at the polite tilt of her head. He had heard the resignation in her voice.
“Poor Kate! You really did pick a bad time to come, didn’t you? Dead bodies in your packhouse, wall-to-wall basketball for the next three days. Depending on how many ACC teams get picked for the NCAA, you may not get anybody to talk about politics, the Middle East, or even prayer in the public schools till after the first of April!”
“Murder takes second place too,” she said, and told Rob of his brother’s decision to wait till the next day to pick up the picture of Bernie Covington.
“You have to remember that Dwight helped win a basketball championship in our high school division. Once a player, always a fan.”
“You didn’t play?”
“Oh, I played. Second string. My team
just didn’t have the same talent as Dwight’s. We finished third every time. I was better at baseball.”
“Was it hard having a brother you couldn’t match?” Kate asked shrewdly.
“Do I sound jealous?” His slanted green eyes were rueful. “You know, Dwight could have played for Carolina. The recruiters were interested, but he wanted to join the army, see the world. When I got over to Chapel Hill, I couldn’t even make junior varsity.” He grinned at her and the playful fox look returned to his pointed face. “Sibling rivalry’s a dreadful thing, Kate. Be grateful you’re an only child. You ready to order?”
Kate prudently chose a salad plate and glass of white wine. Rob opted for a steak sandwich and beer.
“Who’s Bernie Covington, anyhow?” he asked. “And why does Dwight want his picture?”
Kate had forgotten that Rob hadn’t been there when Lacy remembered that Jake’s old army acquaintance also had a prominent black mole on his right cheek. “Miss Emily must be slipping,” she teased when she had explained.
“Dwight must have gone straight back to Dobbs,” Rob agreed.
“On the other hand, he’s one of the few people who can spend an hour with Mother and leave knowing more than he’s told.”
“Like what’s happened to his marriage?” Kate guessed.
Rob nodded. “He’s hurting, but all he’ll say is that Jonna likes her own home town out in western Virginia better than she likes Dobbs or Washington and that the divorce will be final this summer if they can agree on custody and visitation for their son. I offered to handle it for him, but he told me to butt out and I did.”
His tone was light, but Kate sensed the hurt.
“Anyhow,” she said, steering the conversation back to less personal ground, “Lacy mislaid the snapshots Jake sent him years ago, but I found copies in the things that came today.”
“Was it the same man?”
Kate shrugged. “It would be quite a coincidence, wouldn’t it?”
Their food arrived and as they ate, Kate mused, “Odd how much difference a beard makes. I can’t get used to Gordon without his, can you?”
“I hardly knew him,” said Rob. “You heard Mother: once Gordon and Elaine married, they took off for more exotic climes. Colleton County was too provincial for them. I doubt if I ever saw him or his brother, either, more than two or three times in the last few years and that was always at a party or some sort of mob scene where you can’t speak to anyone except at a shout. I’ve only come to know Gordon since Thanksgiving. I do know I’ve heard Mother and Bessie talk that when Jake tried to play matchmaker, it was between James and Elaine, not Gordon. Jake ever mention it?”
“I’d forgotten all about that,” said Kate, “but you’re right. It was after Vietnam. They were all back in college then and James came down for spring break. Jake told me he thought James and Elaine might click, but nothing ever happened. Then Gordon tagged along the summer Patricia and Philip were married and it was love at first sight.”
According to Bessie Stewart, the first sight of a millionaire brother-in-law probably hadn’t hurt either. True or not, thought Rob, Elaine and Gordon had seemed perfectly matched: both had proper bloodlines and Elaine’s allowance from Patricia was large enough to finance the sort of life they wanted. Even Bessie and his mother approved of how devoted to each other Elaine and Gordon appeared.
He wondered aloud why James had never married.
“Jake said he couldn’t afford to,” said Kate. “There was a small trust fund somewhere. Enough to keep him off the unemployment line, but not enough to support a wife in the style-to-which, et cetera. I think that’s why they had drifted apart by the time Jake met me. You know what a workaholic Jake could be. He just couldn’t understand a man not settling down to a real career, and James seemed to be the perpetual houseguest. Always the extra man to balance Elaine’s table.
“They kept in touch, though—met for drinks when James was passing through town, and he came over for dinner once right after we were married; but I think Jake was disappointed in the way James’s life was turning out, even though he never said so.” Jake’s loyalty to people and places was another of the things Kate missed with aching sorrow.
To change the subject and take away the sad look in her eyes, Rob said, “I hear you’re ready to start remodeling the packhouse tomorrow?”
Her lips widened in a slow smile. “Is that maid at Gilead by any chance one of Bessie Stewart’s nieces?”
“DeWanda Lanelle Sanders,” he admitted with one of his small tight grins. “She’s got a sister if you need someone to help out this spring.”
“Gordon told me that you’d staffed Gilead. I’m surprised you hired outsiders like the Whitleys.”
Rob finished his sandwich and shook his head when the waiter suggested another beer. “It’s hard to get someone local who’ll live in,” he said, “and the trustees don’t like to leave Gilead without someone on the premises. The college has been good about finding responsible prospects, although—come to think of it—it was Whitley who approached me last fall. He was recommended by the grad student who’d had it before him.”
“Is Tom Whitley a graduate student, too?” she asked, sipping the last of her wine.
“Because he’s older? No. He dropped out of high school and ran away to the army. I believe he got an equivalency diploma in the service, and last spring decided not to make a military career, but come east and study horticulture or landscaping instead. His wife’s a kindergarten teacher, you know, so it worked out perfectly when Gordon needed an emergency nursemaid for Mary Pat. You’re sure you don’t want another glass of wine?”
“And go reeling into my obstetrician’s office? No, thank you.” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly time for her appointment.
Rob called for the bill and on their way out, they paused by the cash register to watch the final shot of the game as Carolina put Clemson away for the year, 78-66.
CHAPTER 9
All up and down the radio dial, sportscasters were going wild. Duke and Georgia Tech seesawed back and forth with the lead.
“Duke’s ahead 61-59. Here comes Price with a twenty-five-footer.
Tech ties it up for the ninth time. Duke in possession. Stolen by Petway. Twelve seconds left—Petway to Price—missed! And we’re going into overtime!” shrieked a hoarse announcer.
Kate kept her eyes on the road, but her fingers continued to twiddle the dial knob until she hit a radio station playing an old Beatles song. Her foot relaxed on the accelerator and she dropped just below the speed limit, soothed as always by the strains of “Penny Lane.”
An aroma of celery and freshly baked wheat rolls rose from the brown grocery sacks on the back seat.
“More fruits and vegetables and roughage,” the obstetrician had said. The doctor had been brisk and efficient and, on the whole, pleased with Kate’s physical condition. “But no nonsense about dieting,” she told Kate. “You’re almost too thin. Drink a milk shake once in a while and try to cut out the cigarettes.”
Dr. Teresa Yates had been recommended by her doctor in New York, and Kate thought they would probably be compatible once basketball season ended. There was a small television set in the waiting room and Dr. Yates’s nurse kept popping in and out to relay the score throughout Kate’s examination.
It figured. A certificate behind Dr. Yates’s desk announced that she had interned at Duke Hospital.
There was one good side to the tournament, though. Kate hated having anyone hover while she tried on clothes, and the salesclerks at the maternity shop could barely be pried away from the game long enough to take her money for the slacks and tops she’d selected and tried on as freely as if she’d been alone in her own closet.
At the crossroads before her turnoff to the farm, Kate pulled in at a shabby white-frame country grocery and parked between a late-model pickup and one that was even older than Lacy’s.
Inside, the potbellied stove had been replaced by a small gas g
rate, but several men still sat around the soft drink chest on upended wooden cartons and slat-bottomed chairs to watch the ball game on a black-and-white television set up in a corner. They gave polite nods as Kate entered.
Cracker barrels and open bins of pickles were long gone and penny candy was two for a nickel these days, yet some things remained as they were when Jake was a small boy and had ridden his bike here for his mother to pick up items not worth a special trip into town: a loaf of bread, cigarettes, a quart of milk, or, best of all, a wedge of cheese.
Wheels of mild cheddar—everyone called it hoop cheese—still came in round wooden boxes, and no city supermarket could match its flavor. Mrs. Fowler, the stout and graying matron who tended the store, rose to fetch her knife as Kate approached the counter.
“Bet I know what you want,” she smiled, and Kate acknowledged that she’d guessed correctly.
As the storekeeper cut off a generous hunk, weighed and wrapped it in waxed paper, she told Kate how glad they were to hear she was going to be living here for good; then, lowering her voice, said how awful it was that someone had been killed in her packhouse and did Dwight Bryant have any idea who he was or why he was there?
“Not for sure,” said Kate, “I believe they’re still checking his fingerprints.”
Before she could open her purse, Mrs. Fowler asked, “Want me to put this on y’all’s tab?”
“Tab?” asked Kate.
The woman’s kindly face took on an embarrassed look. “I thought maybe—that is, uh— Well, did you mean to keep on like Jake did?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fowler, but I don’t understand.”
“Well, see, Mr. Lacy’s always put things on tab here—gas, drinks, Nabs and such little mess as that—and then Jake always paid it ’fore he went back to New York.” Like many country people, Mrs. Fowler was self-conscious about appearing to press for payment. “There’s no rush,” she assured Kate, “but it’s starting to be right much and—”
“How much?” asked Kate. Mrs. Fowler consulted a little green notepad that had “Honeycutt” penciled on the front. She punched keys on her old-fashioned adding machine, then tore off the tape and handed it to Kate: $347.63.
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