by John Grisham
The family was hiding on the rear patio, where they regrouped around a picnic table and kept themselves away from the traffic. Their search of Seth’s desk and drawers revealed nothing of benefit. When quizzed, Lettie claimed to know nothing, though they were doubtful. She answered their questions with soft, slow, thoughtful responses, and this made them even more suspicious. She served them lunch on the patio at 2:00 p.m., during a break in the visitation. They insisted on having a cloth on the picnic table, and linens and silver, though Seth’s collection had been badly neglected for many years. Unspoken were their feelings that, at $5 an hour, the least Lettie could do was act like a real servant.
As she buzzed about, she overheard them discussing who would attend the funeral and who would not. Ian, for example, was in the middle of rescuing an enormous deal that could, quite possibly, affect the financial future of the entire state. Important meetings were on tap tomorrow and missing them might cause problems.
Herschel and Ramona grudgingly accepted the reality that they could not avoid the service, though at times Lettie thought they were jockeying for a way out. Ramona’s health was fading by the hour, and she wasn’t sure she could bear much more. Herschel’s ex-wife would definitely not be there. He didn’t want her there. She had never liked Seth and he had despised her. Herschel had two daughters, one in college in Texas and the other in high school in Memphis. The coed could not miss any more classes, and Herschel admitted she really wasn’t that close to her grandfather. No kidding, thought Lettie as she removed some more dishes. The younger daughter was doubtful too.
Seth had one brother, their Uncle Ancil, a man they had never met and knew nothing about. According to what scarce family lore existed, Ancil had lied about his age and joined the Navy at sixteen or seventeen. He’d been wounded in the Pacific, survived, then drifted around the world at various jobs in the shipping business. Seth lost contact with his younger brother decades earlier and never mentioned him. There was no way to contact Ancil and clearly no reason to do so. He was probably as dead as Seth.
They talked about some old family relatives, none of whom they’d seen in years, none of whom they wanted to see now. What a sad, curious family, Lettie thought as she served them a selection of cakes. It was shaping up to be a small and quick funeral service.
“Let’s get her outta here,” Herschel said when Lettie returned to the kitchen. “We’re getting ripped off at five bucks an hour.”
“We? Since when are we paying her?” Ramona asked.
“Oh, she’s on our clock now, one way or the other. Everything’s coming out of the estate.”
“I’m not cleaning the house, Herschel, are you?”
“Of course not.”
Ian spoke up: “Let’s play it cool, get through the funeral and all, tell her to clean the house, then we’ll lock it up when we leave on Wednesday.”
“Who tells her she’s out of a job?” Ramona asked.
“I’ll do it,” Herschel said. “No big deal. She’s just a maid.”
“There’s something fishy about her,” Ian said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but she acts like she knows something we don’t, something important. Ya’ll feel that way?”
“Definitely something in the air,” Herschel said, pleased to reach a rare agreement with his brother-in-law.
But Ramona disagreed: “No, it’s just the shock and the sadness. She’s one of the few people Seth could tolerate, or could tolerate him, and she’s sad he’s gone. That, and she’s about to lose her job.”
“You think she knows she’s about to be fired?” Herschel asked.
“I’m sure she’s worried.”
“She’s just a housekeeper.”
Lettie arrived home with a cake, one graciously given to her by Ramona. It was a flat, one-layer sheet cake coated with store-bought vanilla icing and laden with slices of toasted pineapple, without a doubt the least appealing of the half dozen arranged on Mr. Hubbard’s kitchen counter. It had been delivered by a man from the church who’d asked Lettie, among other things, if the family planned to sell Seth’s Chevrolet pickup truck. Lettie had no idea but promised to pass along the inquiry. She did not.
She had seriously considered tossing the cake into a ditch along the route home, but couldn’t bring herself to be so wasteful. Her mother was battling diabetes and did not need another load of sugar, if she in fact wanted to sample the cake.
Lettie parked in the gravel drive and noted that Simeon’s old truck was not there. She did not expect it since he’d been away for several days. She preferred him to be away, but she never knew from one day to the next. It was not a happy house in good times, and her husband rarely made things better.
The kids were still on the school bus somewhere, headed home. Lettie entered through the kitchen and placed the cake on the table. As always, she found Cypress in the den, watching television for the umpteenth hour in a row.
Cypress smiled and stretched her arms upward. “My baby,” she said. “How was your day?”
Lettie leaned down and gave her a polite hug. “Pretty busy. How was yours?”
“Just me and the shows,” Cypress replied. “How are the Hubbards dealin’ with their loss, Lettie? Please sit down and talk to me.”
Lettie turned off the television, sat on the stool next to her mother’s wheelchair, and talked about her day. Not a dull moment as Herschel and the Dafoes arrived and walked through their childhood home, with their father gone for the first time. Then the traffic, the neighbors and food and the endless parade. Quite an exciting day altogether, as Lettie spun things, careful to avoid any hint of trouble. Cypress’s blood pressure was barely held in check by a collection of medications, and it could spike at the slightest hint of trouble. At some point, and soon, Lettie would gently break the news that she was losing her job, but not now. There would be a better time later.
“And the funeral?” Cypress asked, stroking her daughter’s arm. Lettie gave the details, said she planned to attend, and relished the fact that Mr. Hubbard insisted that blacks be allowed inside the church.
“Probably make you sit on the back row,” Cypress said with a grin.
“Probably so. But I’ll be there.”
“Wish I could go with you.”
“So do I.” Because of her weight and lack of mobility, Cypress rarely left the house. She’d been living there for five years, and gaining weight and becoming less mobile by the month. Simeon stayed away for many reasons, not the least of which was Lettie’s mother.
Lettie said, “Mrs. Dafoe sent us a cake. Would you like a small piece?”
“What kind?” Though she weighed a ton, Cypress could be a picky eater.
“Well, it’s a pineapple something or other, not sure I’ve seen it before, but it might be worth a try. Would you like some coffee with it?”
“Yes, and just a small piece.”
“Let’s sit out back, Momma, and get some fresh air.”
“I’d like that.” The wheelchair could barely squeeze between the sofa and the television, and it fit tightly in the narrow hallway into the kitchen. It rubbed alongside the table, inched through the rear door, and with Lettie pushing gently it rolled onto the sagging wooden deck Simeon had thrown together years earlier.
When the weather was nice, Lettie liked a late afternoon coffee or iced tea outside, away from the noise and stuffiness of the cramped house. There were too many people for a small house with only three tiny bedrooms. Cypress had one. Lettie and Simeon-whenever he was home-shared another, usually with a grandchild or two. Their daughters somehow survived shoulder to shoulder in the third bedroom. Clarice, age sixteen, was in high school and had no children. Phedra, age twenty-one, had a kindergartner, a first grader, and no husband. Their younger son, Kirk, fourteen, slept on the sofa in the den. It was not at all uncommon for nieces and nephews to stay a few months while their parents sorted things out.
Cypress took a sip of instant coffee and picked at the cake with a fork. Slowly, she took a bit
e, and chewed and frowned. Lettie didn’t like it either, so they drank their coffee and talked about the Hubbard family and how confused it was. They poked fun at white folks and their funerals, and how they got in such a hurry to bury their dead, often within two or three days of death. Black folks took their time.
“You seem distant, honey, what’s on your mind?” Cypress asked softly.
The kids would be home shortly from school, then Phedra from work. This would be the last quiet moment until bedtime. Lettie took a deep breath and said, “I heard them talkin’, Momma, and they’re gonna let me go. Probably this week, not long after the funeral.”
Cypress shook her large round head and looked ready to cry. “But why?”
“No need for a housekeeper, I guess. They’ll sell the house because neither of them wants it.”
“Heavens.”
“They can’t wait to get their hands on his money. They never had time to come see him, but now they’re circlin’ like buzzards.”
“White people. Do it ever’ time.”
“They think he paid me too much, so they’re in a hurry to cut me off.”
“How much he pay you?”
“Now Momma.” Lettie had never told anyone in her family that Mr. Hubbard was paying $5 an hour, and in cash. Such a wage was indeed on the high end for domestic help in rural Mississippi, and Lettie knew better than to cause trouble. Her family might want a little extra. Her friends might talk. “Keep secrets, Lettie,” Mr. Hubbard had told her. “Never talk about your money.” Simeon, sorry as he was, would lose all motivation to bring home anything. His earnings were as erratic as his presence, and he needed no prompting to earn even less.
Lettie said, “I heard them refer to me as a servant.”
“A servant? Ain’t heard that in a long time.”
“They’re not nice people, Momma. I doubt if Mr. Hubbard was a good father, but his kids are sorry.”
“And now they get all his money.”
“I suppose. They’re sure countin’ on it.”
“How much he got?”
Lettie shook her head and took a sip of cold coffee. “I have no idea. Not sure anybody does.”
6
The parking lot of the Irish Road Christian Church was half-full when Ozzie’s relatively unmarked car turned in to it at five minutes before four on Tuesday afternoon. There were no words or numbers painted boldly on the car-Ozzie preferred a lower profile-but one glance and you knew it was the high sheriff. A collection of antennas; a small round blue light on the dash, partially hidden; a big brown Ford with four doors and black wheels, same as virtually every other high sheriff in the state.
He parked it next to the red Saab, which was parked away from the other cars. Ozzie got out as Jake was getting out and together they crossed the parking lot. “Anything new?” Jake asked.
“Nothing,” Ozzie said. He was wearing a dark suit with black cowboy boots. Jake, the same, minus the boots. “You?”
“Nothing. I guess the shit’ll hit the fan tomorrow.”
Ozzie laughed and said, “I can’t wait.”
The church, originally, was a redbrick chapel with a squatty steeple above a set of double front doors. Over time, though, the congregation had added the obligatory metal buildings-one beside the chapel that dwarfed it, and one behind it where the youth played basketball. On a small knoll nearby there was a cemetery under shady trees, a quiet and pretty place to be buried.
A few smokers were getting their last-minute drags, country men in old suits reluctantly worn. They were quick to speak to the sheriff. They nodded politely to Jake. Inside, there was a respectable crowd scattered throughout the dark-stained oak pews. The lights were low. An organist softly played a mournful dirge, priming the crowd for the sorrow to come. Seth’s closed casket was draped in flowers and situated below the pulpit. His pallbearers sat grim-faced and shoulder to shoulder off to the left near the piano.
Jake and Ozzie sat alone on a back row and began looking around. Grouped together not far away were some black folks, five in total.
Ozzie nodded at them and whispered, “Green dress, that’s Lettie Lang.”
Jake nodded and whispered back, “Who are the others?”
Ozzie shook his head. “Can’t tell from here.”
Jake stared at the back of Lettie’s head and tried to imagine the adventures they were about to share. He had yet to meet this woman, had never heard her name until the day before, but they were about to become well acquainted.
Lettie sat unknowing, her hands folded in her lap. That morning she had worked for three hours before being asked by Herschel to leave. On her way out, he informed her that her employment would be terminated as of 3:00 p.m. Wednesday, the following day. At that point, the house would be locked up and deserted until further orders from the court. Lettie had $400 in her checking account, one she kept away from Simeon, and she had $300 in a pickle jar hidden in the pantry. Beyond that, she was broke and had slim prospects for meaningful work. She had not spoken to her husband in almost three weeks. Occasionally, he would return home with a paycheck or some cash; usually, though, he was just drunk and needed to sleep it off.
Soon to be unemployed, with bills and people to feed, Lettie could have sat there listening to the organ and fretted over her future, but she did not. Mr. Hubbard had promised her more than once that when he died, and he knew his death was imminent, he would leave a little something for her. How little, or how much? Lettie could only dream. Four rows behind her, Jake thought to himself, If she only knew. She had no idea he was there, or why. She would later claim she recognized his name because of the Hailey trial, but she had never actually seen Mr. Brigance.
In the center, on the row directly in front of the casket, Ramona Dafoe sat with Ian to her left and Herschel to her right. None of their children, Seth’s grandchildren, had been able to make the drive. Their lives were just too busy; not that their parents had pushed too hard. Behind them was a row of relatives so distant they had to introduce themselves in the parking lot, and their names were quickly forgotten. Seth Hubbard’s parents had been dead for decades. His only sibling, Ancil, was long gone. There had never been much family to begin with and the years had decimated the rest.
Behind the family, and throughout the dim sanctuary, there were several dozen other mourners-employees of Seth’s, friends, fellow church members. When Pastor Don McElwain stepped to the pulpit precisely at 4:00 p.m., he and everyone else knew the service would be brief. He led them in prayer and recited a quick obituary: Seth was born May 10, 1917, in Ford County, where he died on October 2, 1988. Preceded in death by parents so-and-so; two surviving children, some grandchildren, et cetera.
Jake spotted a familiar profile several rows up and to his left, a man in a nice suit. Same age, same law class. Stillman Rush, attorney-at-law, third-generation prick from a family of same, blue bloods from the big leagues of corporate and insurance law, or as big as they could possibly be in the rural South. Rush amp; Westerfield, the largest firm in north Mississippi, based in Tupelo with offices coming soon to a shopping center near you. Seth Hubbard mentioned the Rush firm in his letter to Jake, and also in his handwritten will, so there was little doubt Stillman Rush and the other two well-dressed gentlemen with him had come to check on their investment. Typically, the insurance boys worked in pairs. It took two to perform even the most mundane legal tasks: two to file papers in court; two to answer a docket call; two for an uncontested hearing; two to drive here and there; and, of course, two to jack up the billing and pad the file. Big law firms vigorously worshipped inefficiencies: more hours meant more fees.
But three? For a quick funeral out in the boonies? This was impressive, and exciting. It meant money. There was no doubt in Jake’s hyperactive mind that the three had turned on their meters when they’d left their offices in Tupelo and were now sitting over there pretending to mourn at $200 an hour per man. According to Seth’s final words, a Mr. Lewis McGwyre had drafted a will in Septembe
r of 1987, and Jake figured he was one of the three. Jake did not know McGwyre, but then the firm had so many lawyers. Since they prepared the will, they naturally assumed they would probate it.
Tomorrow, he thought, they’ll drive over again, at least two but maybe another trio, and they’ll take their paperwork to the offices of the Chancery Court clerk, on the second floor of Jake’s courthouse, and they’ll smugly inform either Eva or Sara that they have arrived for the purposes of opening the estate of Mr. Seth Hubbard for probate. And either Eva or Sara will suppress a grin while appearing confused. Papers will be shuffled, questions asked, then a big surprise-you’re a bit late, sirs. That estate has already been opened!
Either Eva or Sara will show them to the new filings, where they will gawk at the thin, handwritten will, one that specifically revoked and denounced the thick one they so cherished, and the war will begin. They will curse Jake Brigance, but once they settle down they will realize that the war could be profitable for all the lawyers.
Lettie wiped a tear and realized she was probably the only person crying.
In front of the lawyers were some business types, one of whom turned around and whispered something to Stillman Rush. Jake thought this might be one of the higher-ups who worked for Seth. He was particularly curious about Mr. Russell Amburgh, described in the handwritten will as once the vice president of Seth’s holding company and the man with the knowledge of the assets and liabilities.
Mrs. Nora Baines sang three stanzas of “The Old Rugged Cross,” a somber, surefire tearjerker at any funeral, but at Seth’s it failed to provoke emotion. Pastor McElwain read from Psalms and dwelled on the wisdom of Solomon, then two teenage boys with pimples and a guitar strummed and hummed through something contemporary, a strained song Seth would not have appreciated. Ramona finally broke down and was comforted by Ian. Herschel just stared at the floor in front of the casket, never blinking, never moving. Another woman sobbed loudly in response.