by Betsy Ashton
“Merry never forgave me for ruining her childhood.” I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“When we divorced, Carole called me some damned nasty names. I can forgive her because I was the one who wronged her mother.” Ducks stared at the wall, his eyes glazed over. “I can’t forget what she said, though.”
“She was very young and very angry. She was protecting her mother. Have you reached out lately?”
“No. The last time I called, she asked me to respect her wishes and never call her again. I have done so.”
“I tried to repair my relationship with Merry, but her brain injury exacerbated the bad feelings between us. We ran out of time. Eleanor gave me a do-over with Alex and Emilie. I won’t blow it this time.”
“I wish I could have a do-over with Carole.” Ducks washed his mug before setting it in the drainer.
“Perhaps in time you will. She didn’t come around when you remarried?” I washed and added my mug to the clean collection.
“How did you know?”
“Well, it was a no brainer. You were Stuart Duxworth in England. Now you have a hyphenated last name. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out you married a Ross.”
“Lesley and I married in Canada a year after I immigrated. Of all the crazy, impulsive things to do, we got married in Niagara Falls.”
I never assumed impulsive was part of Ducks’s DNA.
“Lesley’s a lovely name. You don’t hear it very often. Where is she?” I recalled one of the references mentioned an inheritance. Ah shoot. I stepped into the shallow end of Ducks’s private wading pool.
“Lesley died.” One slow blink.
Saved by Alex pulling the door open, scattering raindrops everywhere and thrusting his math test into Ducks’s hands, I left and returned to my dorm. Who was Lesley?
Could I find the woman born Carole Duxworth? Too bad I was a recovering Catholic and not a Jewish mother. Perfect job for a yenta. Or for my favorite private investigator, Tony Ferraiolli. I didn’t need anyone tailed like I did when we were gathering evidence to trap the man who murdered Merry, but I wanted information I was sure he could get. I called.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Mississippi, week of October 24
Alex lacked a project. I reached out to Pastor Taylor, who happened to be free in the late morning. He invited me for lunch.
“Come on in, Miz Davies. You’re a lot calmer than the last time you were here.” Pastor Taylor waved me into the multi-use building where a new floor fan circulated stale air. “I haven’t had much company since before the storm. I hope you like tuna salad and lemonade. Variety’s kinda scarce.”
He’d sent his wife and children up north before the hurricane made landfall and wouldn’t let them come home until he had more than an industrial building for a house. His forced bachelorhood hadn’t left him with much time or opportunity to entertain.
“How are the Habitat houses coming?” Pastor Taylor handed me a plate.
I rattled on about how rewarding it was for both Emilie and me to help provide housing for the dispossessed.
“Dispossessed. Good description. Most of my parishioners still have nothin’ they didn’t take with them. Pastor Washington doesn’t even know where most of his have landed—or how many died.” He poured lemonade over ice. “I thought, Miz Davies, you’d enjoy home-squeezed lemonade.”
“I would indeed, Pastor Taylor.” I sipped the tart beverage.
“I may not have hundreds of people over for lunch, but I remember my momma’s and wife’s training.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Serve something your guest will like.”
I nodded before taking another sip.
“I spend most of my time on the phone, hassling with the insurance company and trying to track down where my families went. I wish I knew a better way to find them than old church records and a poor memory.”
“Maybe they need something to look forward to, Pastor.” I speared a chunk of celery. “Wouldn’t coming home be that something?”
“It very well could be.”
“Or jobs?”
“And jobs.” Pastor Taylor gazed across the recreation building. Was he seeing it filled with his missing parishioners? Or was he seeing chairs that would be empty for a long time?
All of a sudden, Alex had a project. He had proven himself quite the forensic Internet investigator when he tracked the movements of his mother’s killer. I told Pastor Taylor about his skills—as well as what developed them.
“I’m a dinosaur around computers. I keep the church financials up to date and send e-mail, but nothing else. I’d be grateful for any help.”
I promised to drop Alex off soon so the pastor could get to know him. Then I moved to another Alex-related topic. I wanted him to be able to give something tangible to the community when the roadwork was done. Emilie and I had Hope Village; Alex needed something.
“Well, we used to have a park of sorts between St. Anna’s and Hope Village. After the storm, we piled everything in the space, thinkin’ we’d haul the debris to the dump. We saved some things, but mostly we had a huge bonfire.”
“That junk heap was once a park and playground?”
“More junk there now than anything. I hated to burn people’s belongings, but once they were soaked, they began to rot. It was the best way to prevent disease.” Pastor Taylor selected a slice of bread from the basket and spread butter across it.
“Now don’t you go tellin’ my wife I’m eatin’ butter. She’d have way too much to say about it. I’m not supposed to have butter or mayonnaise, or anything with a lot of fat.” Hanging his head in mock guilt, Pastor Taylor helped himself to another scoop of tuna salad. “Of course, I did use the best Southern mayonnaise in my tuna salad—Duke’s.”
“It’s delicious. Your secret’s safe.” I buttered a piece of bread. “You’re going to need someplace for children to play when Hope Village is complete. Do you think we could rebuild the park together?”
I could write a check for everything, but I didn’t want to. Not enough of a lesson for Alex. If Ducks and Whip helped him apply for a grant, he could design the park, select the playground equipment, and feel ownership of its outcome.
“Let me think on that. We don’t have much money, you know.”
“Let’s get the idea of a park going before we talk about what it will cost.” I ate more salad. When I looked up, doubt registered in the pastor’s eyes. “What?”
“How are you going to fund it?” Was that a hint of suspicion or curiosity in his voice?
“Let’s let Alex figure it out, shall we?”
“Isn’t he a bit young for such a task?”
“He’ll have help. He’s proven to be resourceful beyond his chronological years more than once.” When he wasn’t being holy-crap boy-child.
“What else is on your mind, Miz Davies?” Pastor Taylor’s twinkling blue eyes bored into mine.
“The feral teens.”
“Ah yes. Mind you, I can’t prove anythin’, but I think they’re behind the petty crimes we’ve been experiencin’ of late.”
“With all due respect, Pastor Taylor, murder and intimidation aren’t petty crimes.”
“You’re right, Miz Davies. I was thinkin’ more about the boys stealin’ anythin’ that’s not nailed down.”
“Do you know if more strays have arrived?” Did we have a combination of locals and those who’d drifted here from other places wrecked by the storm?
“Well, I’ve counted eleven up to now. I know seven of them. The others are strangers.”
“Are they dangerous?” My favorite worry of late.
“Not one-on-one, but in a pack, I’d be very wary.”
Pastor Taylor pushed his empty plate aside and walked to the window. He pointed to a battered copse of trees, behind which was a pile of rubble and a nearly destroyed shack, the same shack we watched from the compound daily.
“That used to be a house, although the health d
epartment should have condemned it long before Katrina destroyed it. Jake Montgomery lived there with two sisters and his momma. I don’t know if she and her girls survived or not. We haven’t found their bodies.”
Pastor Taylor’s concern for the loss of this family, both to the storm and to the grinding poverty endemic in this section of rural Mississippi, was palpable. I joined him at the window. A fleeting shape darted behind the rubble pile.
“That’s Jake. He can out-hide just about anyone around.”
“Em says he’s harmless. Is he?” Much as I wanted to rely on her special gift, I couldn’t. Not without substantiation.
“She’s right, but Jake can be manipulated. He wants so badly to belong. Be careful. He’s much stronger than he looks.”
I filed the warning away.
“I keep thinking that bringin’ your grandchildren into this wasteland took a lot of courage, Miz Davies.”
I’d have called it flippin’ stupidity had I known what to expect.
“Why didn’t you take them to New York?”
Hmm, another one who knew more about me than I realized. My license plate told the world I was from New York State. The vanity Reggie might have given the pastor a clue about my identity. Being Mrs. Reginold Davies didn’t seem to matter to Pastor Taylor, though. I let his comment slide.
“They need to be with their father. I made a decision last year after my daughter’s murder to keep the family together. I hadn’t thought what message the fancy RVs might give down here.”
Not for the first time I questioned their ostentation. To me they were an expedient way of providing roofs over our heads. To others they could be seen as flaunting wealth. And to even more, they could be glaring examples of outsiders coming in and throwing their weight around.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
I helped clear the table and stacked the dishes in the sink. I thanked Pastor Taylor for his information as well as his ideas about the park. I promised to have Alex meet with him about finding his parishioners.
“Go see Pastor Washington. He was over at the tent earlier this morning. He’s most likely still there.”
I thanked him again for lunch and headed off for the AME tent.
Hey, wait a minute. Tell anyone what about me? Who would Pastor Taylor tell? And why would anyone care? The only other local man I’d met was Pastor Washington. He wouldn’t see a rich white bitch butting in. He’d see a plain old white bitch butting in. Money didn’t seem to be a key differentiator in his dislike for pesky Northerners.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Mississippi, week of October 24
I sat in my favorite folding chair under Pastor Washington’s tent. When I told him what Alex would be doing to help Pastor Taylor, Pastor Washington said his church building, all its records, and most of its members disappeared during or right after Katrina blew ashore. As far as he was concerned, nothing could be salvaged that wasn’t already stacked under the tent.
“Look around, Miz Davies. There’s precious little of anything left.”
“I understand, but I came to ask for your support for a different project. Alex wants to rebuild the rundown park so it’ll be ready when children move into Hope Village.”
“You just hold on.” Pastor Washington held up a hand. “We got nothin’ left. Can’t give you anythin’.”
“That’s the point. You don’t have anything, but you have worshipers moving into the village, don’t you? They have children, don’t they? The community will be mixed, with blacks and whites living side by side, won’t it?”
“Likely as not. You have to remember, the law desegregated the South. That don’t mean we’re integrated.”
“I’m hoping we find a way to rebuild the park together. Children will need some place to play.”
“Why you harpin’ on somethin’ as silly as a park? We got bigger problems than that.” Pastor Washington stared at me, eyebrows drawn into a foreboding straight line, as if I hadn’t a clue about what was important. “This area’s been hurt in a deep-down, gut-wrenching sort of way.”
“You think a park is frivolous when you need everything.” I wanted to peel away the layers of the onion to get this distrustful man on my side.
The pastor nodded but remained silent, arms crossed across his broad stomach.
“It’s small, I agree, but if there’re a lot of children, where’ll they play? In the street? In the construction zone?”
Pastor Washington didn’t have to like me, but that wouldn’t stop me from finding a way for children to be children. Playing together without regard to age, sex, or race. Free range without restrictions or parents hovering and stifling creativity. Staying healthy through outdoor exercise.
“You don’t belong here, Miz Davies. What’s a rich lady like you doin’ livin’ in a trailer?”
“My son-in-law lost his wife last year. I’m here to help raise my grandchildren and see they learn something from their loss and this disaster.”
“I’m sorry. Hard to lose a wife. Illness or accident?”
Time to take the gloves off. “Neither. She was murdered.”
“Hard to lose a child. I’m sorry, but Miz Davies, we lost hundreds in the storm. You got no imagination what it was like.”
“Pastor Washington, you don’t much like me. You find me nosy and pushy. You think I’m meddling in your affairs.” I waited.
“Well, you’re all that. And more.” He pushed himself off his folding chair and paced the concrete slab that was once his church’s foundation. His worn shoes slapped. “You got no experience watchin’ people die. People screamin’ for help even when they were bein’ washed away.”
“You went through hell and came out the other side.”
“Mebbe.”
Now for the sucker punch.
“May I tell you a story?”
“Can’t stop you if I tried.”
“I have an office in lower Manhattan. On September eleventh, we were meeting when the first plane hit the World Trade Center. Before we could react, the second plane came in. I watched nearly three thousand people die horribly. I got out, but I’ll never forget the sound of bodies hitting the pavement. I had friends in those towers. They’re all dead.”
My cheeks burned. I knew from experience they were bright red with emotion. My eyes filled with unshed tears. I would never be able to unsee or unhear what I witnessed on 9/11.
“Don’t you dare judge me. I’ve been through hell too. I survived.”
Pastor Washington walked over and wrapped arthritic, work-hardened fingers around my hands. Neither of us said a word.
“We both got a heap of pain and tired built up in us.” The pastor swallowed hard to clear his throat. “I forget I’m not alone. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“Do you think we can put aside our differences and build something nice for the people who will come home?”
“You are a vexin’ woman. I suppose we can try to work together, if it don’t kill us both.” Pastor Washington looked toward the bare expanse that once held a bare-bones park. Other than a huge pile of rubble, the single identifiable item from the original playground area was a twisted, rusting swing set. Chains banged in the breeze. Even removing the reminders of the storm would be a huge improvement.
“We can. Where’ll we get money for the equipment? None of us got two dimes to rub together. Hell, I got a tent for a church.” The pastor waved his hand.
“Let my grandson worry about that. Will you help us? Maybe some of your flock as well?”
“Don’t have much flock left. Even fewer than Hodge does.” Pastor Washington hung his head. He paced the tent. Four poles held up the canvas—not much of a church but his nonetheless.
“At least one of your members is back. Mrs. Jordan’s working on a house in Hope Village. I helped her paint her living room last week. Let’s ask her when her husband’s coming home. She talks about him and their children all the time. If he wants to work on the road project, he’ll e
arn good money.”
Pastor Washington studied me. He didn’t trust me, but he was having difficulty finding nonexistent ulterior motives or holes in my argument.
“Pastor Taylor has a few worshipers who’ve returned. You know, a little sweat equity goes a long way in any community project.”
“You don’t understand. White churches and black churches never work together. It might be different up north where you’re from, but we’re really separate.”
I laughed. “My family priest back in Richmond used to say the most segregated time in the world was at eleven on a Sunday morning.”
“He’s right. Mebbe it’s time to change. Hell, if everything washed away, why not some of our outdated practices? I’ll give Hodge a call. If no one else comes out, I will.” We shook hands again. His calloused mitt told me Pastor Washington was no stranger to physical work. In a thinner, younger time.
I had a deal. “So will Pastor Taylor. He’s already agreed.”
“I was right about you. You meddled me right into what you wanted me to do.”
“I surely did.” I winked and went back to the Rover.
####
While Emilie put the final touches on dinner, I disappeared into my bedroom, where I found clown face makeup and painted my face. With a rainbow Afro wig, I was ready for dinner.
Emilie fell all over herself howling. I painted her face too. She texted Johnny and Charlie to come to the girls’ dorm. They weren’t spared attacks from the face paint. When we emerged, Alex demanded to be painted next; Whip and Ducks looked relieved to be spared.
“Charlie, Mad Max always says you’re never too old to have a happy childhood.” Alex got over his hurt feelings of being left out of a grand joke. “Do you agree?”
“You can’t do much about your first childhood.” Charlie pushed a red rubber nose more firmly on her face. “You’re in control of your second. How you decide to live it is up to you.”
“Mad Max decided to live it by being goofy.” Johnny twitched a black fright wig into a better fit. Too large, it slid down over his eyes. “Would any of you want to go back and relive your youth?”