Molly: House on Fire

by R. E. Bradshaw

  “Ma’am,” the woman drawled, “did you find everything you need?”

  Molly smiled. “Yes, I did, thank you.”

  The woman looked at the box Molly placed on the counter. “I see you’re wantin’ to get this to Georgia pretty quick. Guaranteed delivery tomorrow morning. Must be important, huh?”

  “Yes,” Molly replied. One-word answers gave no extra information and that was the way she would like to keep it, but it was not to be.

  Most southern folk were friendly and inquisitive by nature, especially when it involved a stranger. They would think no more of asking about personal business than what someone had for breakfast, but it was all wrapped up in what sounded like hospitality and good intensions. Molly used the technique to unnerve witnesses. Pleasant inquiries into seemingly innocuous subjects often led to bits and pieces of information she could use later. The woman behind the counter proved to be quite skilled in reconnaissance. She looked at the label as she typed into her computer, and began to ask questions about the package’s destination.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of Tybee Island, Georgia,” she said, still typing.

  Molly knew that being nice would leave less of a memory than being a stuck up city girl, so she smiled and answered the implied question. “It’s just off the coast of Savannah.”

  Satisfied, the woman moved on. “Do you want to insure the contents?”

  Molly almost laughed. If the shipping company knew what was in that package, they would never take responsibility for it and, if the coin was really as rare as Molly thought, no amount of insurance was going to cover its loss. Molly simply replied, “No.”

  The woman stopped typing and looked up at Molly. “Okay, that’s guaranteed delivery by ten a.m., the bubble wrap, and the box. Is there anything else?” Molly shook her head no, and the woman continued, “Then that’ll be ninety-three dollars and forty-two cents. How would you like to pay for this?”

  Molly had not used her name on the shipping label, inserting the law firm information and address instead. On the signature line, she used her initials. What she had not done was stop and get cash from an ATM. She was going to have to produce a credit card and more than likely an ID, because places that did not see a titanium Black-Card often always asked. She pulled out the small leather card case from her pocket and passed the woman her card. Molly saw the woman’s reaction and anticipated the request for identification, but that was not what the woman asked.

  “Are you Molly Harris? I swear when you walked in, it was like going back to fourth grade. You haven’t changed a bit. I’d know that dimple anywhere.”

  Molly stared in amazement. She was not sure what to say.

  “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Roberta Harris. I fell right behind you in the alphabet, so I sat in the seat behind yours for the first four years of school. We’re third or fourth cousins or something. I’ll have to ask momma, again.”

  Molly saw no way around admitting who she was. People were going to find out soon enough. She forced a smile and said, “Yes, I used to be Molly Harris and I do remember you. We called you Robbie, right?”

  “Yes, that’s me.” Robbie beamed at being remembered. “I used to get you to help me with my math. You were always so smart. You were smart enough to get the hell out of here and marry a rich lawyer, I see.”

  “What?” Molly was confused.

  “It says on the shipping label Kincaid Law Firm, and your name is Kincaid on your credit card.”

  Molly chuckled. “No, I’m not married. I was adopted. Kincaid is my name now.”

  “Well, good for you. Who needs a man anyway?”

  Molly answered without thinking, “Not me.”

  Robbie laid her head back and laughed, reminding Molly of the little girl that sat behind her. Robbie had been sweet, not too bright, but always nice to Molly. The kids that were not nice usually got their comeuppance on the playground. Molly was not a bully, but she would not be bullied either, or watch it happen to someone else. She landed in the principal’s office more than once for taking a bully to task.

  Robbie’s laughter died down and she said, “The rumors were flying about some rich lawyer Joe was bringing in to help Joey. All I knew was the last name, Kincaid, from up around Durham. I never dreamed it would be you. I should’a known you’d grow up to be somethin’.” Robbie handed Molly her card and receipt. She held Molly’s fingertips for a second. “You were the best friend a little fat girl could’a had. It wasn’t just me. You looked after all us misfits. I learned how to hold my head up from you. I just wanted to say thank you.”

  Molly met Robbie’s gaze. “I was a misfit too.”

  They shared a moment of remembered pain, the kind inflicted by children on one another. Robbie’s eyes misted over before she gathered herself and let go of Molly’s hand.

  “Look at you now,” Robbie said. “Thirty-nine wears a lot better on you than me.”

  Molly smiled and reassured Robbie. “You still have that same sparkle in your eyes and you look happy, that’s all we can hope for, isn’t it?”

  Robbie blushed with pride. “You got that right. See that man behind the deli counter, that’s my Bob.” She pointed at a short pudgy man with graying temples. “He’s as loyal as an old dog and sweet as candy. We have two girls in grade school and we own this place.” Robbie turned back to Molly. “Things turned out al’right for both of us, I guess.”

  “I guess it did,” Molly said. “It was good to see you, Robbie. I’ll stop by again while I’m in town. Maybe we could have coffee and catch up.”

  Molly did not know why she offered. She wanted to be as invisible as possible in her old hometown. It was apparent that the whole population knew an attorney named Kincaid was coming at Joe’s request. A quick search on the Internet and anyone could find who the mysterious lawyer was. Someone had done just that and recognized Molly. Robbie had known who she was the moment she walked in the door. Twenty-nine years had changed a lot about Molly, but evidently, she was still recognizable. It was also possible that Robbie already knew who Molly was before she ever stepped foot in Pop’s, only feigning surprise at finding Molly there. Robbie seemed sincere, though, and Molly might need an ally with an ear to local gossip.

  Robbie stepped around the counter, grasping Molly in a hug before she had time to move. “It’s so good to see you. Please come back. I’d love to hear what all you’ve been doing.”

  Molly returned the hug, and said, “I’ll be back, I promise.” She disengaged from Robbie’s embrace and backed away. “I have to go now, but I will sit down and talk to you soon.”

  Robbie waved and then did something so unexpected, Molly almost ran from the building. “Hey everybody, that’s Molly Harris. She’s a Kincaid now. She’s that lawyer Joe was talking about. She’s here to get Joey out of jail.”

  Robbie’s actions had no malicious intent. She was genuinely proud of her old friend and being the first with new fuel for gossip was a coup in a small town. Molly could not be angry with her. She just smiled and nodded at the few faces that seemed to know what Robbie’s information meant. Some of the expressions were welcoming, and some held a glint of apprehension behind a weak smile. The feeling that a few of these people knew a lot more than they should trickled across Molly’s mind. The sensation was justified when a man stood up at the corner table. Molly immediately saw the resemblance to Evan Branch.

  “So, my daddy’s bastard child made good. From white trash to driving a four-hundred-thousand-dollar sports car. That right there fellas is a fine example of the American dream and affirmative action.”

  Molly stopped walking. A hush fell over the room, while she tried to comprehend what she just heard. If Evan was this man’s father too, then he was also her half-brother. This was a possibility she had never considered. The man appeared to be younger than Molly. He obviously had the same temperament as his father and uncle, but instead of being afraid of him, she started to laugh.

  “Be nice to big s
ister and she might let you play with her toys.”

  “You’re no sister of mine. Don’t matter how much money you got. Your momma was still a slut.”

  Robbie stepped in front of Molly. She no longer needed Molly to handle her bullies. Robbie wagged a finger at the man. “Stick, you shut your mouth. Everybody knows your momma was three months pregnant when she got married and your daddy wouldn’t have walked down that isle if there weren’t a land deal tied to it. He was long gone before you were even born.”

  Stick narrowed his eyes. “You’d be wise to watch your tongue, Robbie. Uncle Jarvis won’t like you spreadin’ lies about his family.”

  Robbie did not back down. She bowed up to her full height of maybe five-feet-two-inches, and wagged her finger harder at Stick, but Molly got the impression she was letting it be known to all present where she stood. “People been afraid of the Branch family for two hundred years. You’ve bullied your way through life. Folks are sick of it. I’m making my stand right here. It’s like Joe said, the Branch family needs to fall in line with the rest of civilization.”

  Stick looked like he was going to explode. His cheeks were red and his chest heaved with each breath.

  Molly had to suppress a laugh when little Robbie took a step toward the much larger man, saying, “Make your move. Bob there was a Marine. He’ll put a bullet in you, sure as look at you. Now, go on, and don’t come back.”

  Molly glanced at Bob. Sure enough, he had a rifle laid across the counter, smiling quietly. She turned back to the glowering man. “Stick? Your name is Stick?”

  Robbie laughed heartily, slapping her thigh. “Yeah, he fell off the old tree.” She turned to Stick, who was by now about to blow. “Folks called him ‘Little Branch,’ and then they started calling him Stick and it stuck.”

  “It’s better than Twig, I guess,” Molly said, trying not to laugh.

  Robbie doubled over with laughter. The rest of the room was less boisterous in their amusement, but enough snickers could be heard to send Stick stomping toward the exit. He yanked the door open and spun back to Molly.

  “I’m the sole legal heir. Children of whores don’t count in the eyes of the law.”

  Molly laughed. “You think I came here to get what’s left of the great Branch estate. Oh my, are you that obtuse?”

  Robbie interjected, “That means stupid, thick-headed, or simple-minded, Stick. Just in case you’re not sure what she’s asking you.” She looked up at Molly and smiled. “I do a lot of crossword puzzles.”

  Molly refocused on Stick. “And about that law thing, I might know just a bit more than you about the estate distribution statutes in North Carolina.” Molly should have let it go at that, but that monster, rage, reared its head again. “I don’t want or need anything from the Branch family, but if you and your uncle continue your harassment tactics, know this,” she paused and leaned forward into her next words, “I have enough money to tie you up in court for the rest of your miserable life. I have Daddy’s signature on a birth certificate. Where is your signature, Stick? Oh, that’s right. Daddy went up in flames and straight to hell, before you were born.”

  Stick took one step toward Molly, before she heard the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked on a rifle. She saw Stick’s eyes dart to where Bob was holding him in his sights. He glared at Molly one last time before leaving, slamming the door behind him hard, rattling the panes of glass in the storefront windows. When the vibrations settled, the room let out a collective sigh, except for the three young men that had been sitting at the table with the retreating Stick. They ducked under their hats and followed their friend out the door. A few more wide-eyed people approached Bob to pay their bill. The remainder appeared to be older men and women who, from their facial expressions, also had enough of the Branch clan.

  Molly looked down at Robbie. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

  Robbie was nearly jumping for joy. “Oh no, thank you. I’ve wanted to do that since he was ten years old, and don’t get me started on that asshole Jarvis.”

  A stooped man walked by, wearing a dirty hat with a fertilizer logo on the front. He patted Molly on the arm. “Your momma was once a beautiful girl, just like you. Them Branch men are poison. You be careful, now.” He then moved away slowly, shuffling toward the register.

  Molly looked at Robbie. “Who was that?”

  Robbie’s expression saddened. “That’s Stick’s granddaddy, Clark Stovall, his momma’s father. He made the mistake of going into business with Jarvis. Jackass took everything Old Man Stovall owned, a little piece at a time.”

  “What happened to his daughter?”

  “Amber killed herself when I was a sophomore in high school. Drusilla, Evan’s momma, took Stick from her soon after he was born. Folks said that’s what drove her to it. No one really knows.”

  Molly stared after the old man, seeing the toll life had taken on his now fragile frame. He was a broken man. She almost could not believe what Jarvis was capable of, but then Molly dealt with psychopaths before. Not all of them were behind bars or serial murderers. There were psychopaths walking among the rest of society, of that Molly was sure. Ruthless, corrupt men and women squashed people in their wake every day, skirting the law, with no empathy whatsoever for the people whose lives they destroyed. These types of people were everything the term cold-blooded implied, devoid of the emotions for the pain and suffering they inflicted. Now, Robbie was suggesting Stick’s momma committed suicide just a few years before Sarah Harris was found dead.

  Molly clasped Robbie on the shoulder. “One day the law will catch up to Jarvis Branch, but until then, watch your back.”

  #

  Molly left Pop’s, but not before thanking Bob and promising Robbie to return soon. She half expected a broken taillight or mirror, when she arrived at her car. All she found was a big wad of spit oozing down her windshield. She climbed in and started the car, hitting the button for the windshield wash and wipers several times to clear the glass. The clock on the car’s display screen said, 9:00 a.m., two more hours until Randy arrived. Joe’s files rested on the passenger seat. She opened the one on her mother’s death, hunting an address. Molly told the navigation system where to take her, and let it lead her to the last place Sarah Harris was seen on this earth.

  The Simpson Funeral Home was on the west side of town, where the minorities and poor whites lived, where racial lines blurred first in the south. There was nothing more enlightening than walking in another man’s shoes. Scraping a living side by side, the less fortunate were the first to reach across racial barriers, accepting one another as simply human beings trying to get by. When it came to bigotry of any kind, whether it was racism, homophobia, or elitist social structure, Molly agreed with what Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said. “Men often hate each other because they fear each other; they fear each other, because they don’t know each other.” The Simpson family opened their doors to anyone, of any color. Zebediah and Nona took a little white girl in, treated her like family, and buried her momma when she could not do it herself.

  By the end of the drive, Molly had turned off the navigation system. She was surprised at how well she remembered the way to the funeral home. But then again, who forgets the first place they ever saw a dead body? Molly had been nine years old and bored. It was a hot summer day, the fish were not biting, and Evan was hanging around her house. Molly, as she often did when he was there, made herself scarce. It was one of those days where the air did not move, but hung thick and damp suffused with a non-stop symphony of summer insects. Molly felt like she was going to melt. It was the dry season, the river water shallow and hot in the only safe places she could swim. She knew not to venture into the fast moving deeper water. Only the day before, a teenaged black boy had been swept away not far from her favorite swimming hole. They found him tangled in a fallen tree downstream.

  Molly wandered down the railroad tracks and eventually made her way to the funeral home. Zebediah usually had a cold Coca-Cola for her when she visi
ted and the building was air-conditioned. She never used the front door, because that was where the mourners came and went. Molly wanted no part of the sadness the front of the building represented. Instead, she enjoyed hanging out in the back with Zebediah and the boys. The boys ranged in age from gray haired Old Jake to Zebediah’s sixteen year old nephew, Ja’don. Molly would help wash the big limousines and hearses, spending whole Saturdays polishing fenders until she could count her freckles in the reflection. They taught her how to play ball, all kinds. She owed those men for her athletic prowess. Sarah did not care where Molly was, but Zebediah and Nona did.

  Both of the Simpsons had college degrees, but passed up other careers for the thriving family business. Zebediah majored in Biology, Nona in Early Childhood Education. They took the time, not only to watch over Molly, but to teach her as well. Nona kept a constant stream of books in Molly’s hands. She talked to her about themes and context. When Molly found a particular topic interesting, Nona took her to the county library, signed Molly up for a library card, and taught her how to find what she was looking for. Zebediah explained the world to Molly. She brought him strange bugs and wonders from the forest. He would open his entomology books, letting her spend hours searching the marvels of the universe. He showed her how to look up the plant names and uses. By the time Molly was first tested in school, the teachers thought there had been some mistake and tested her again. Molly smiled now, knowing what a challenge she must have been in the classroom.

  When she turned into the funeral home parking lot, the memory of that hot August day flooded her mind. Molly had come down from the tracks running along the rear of the building. Nona said they timed the services so a train would not come screaming through and shake the body out of the casket. Molly always cackled with laughter when Nona said that. In a child’s eyes, a body falling out of a casket was cartoon funny. The reality was not, as Molly soon found out. Life and death became real to Molly that day.