Second Chance at Life

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  I also wanted to ask Poppy more questions about his visit to the Wentworths.

  “Well, then, could I take you to the funeral on Monday? You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am, but I’ve already accepted an offer from someone else who’s going.”

  His tone changed from cajoling to grating. “I’m striking out on all my at-bats, aren’t I?”

  Normally, I would have explained that I’m never this busy. However, his tone irked me. He sounded as though I was doing something wrong.

  “As I said, maybe we can go to dinner another time.”

  “That might be difficult,” he said. “Actually, I’m moving house. As you lot say, ‘I’m blowing this popcorn stand.’ The publisher accepted my final version of my book. I have a big fat deposit in my checking account, and a sure bestseller on the horizon. My people in New York have told me they plan to make a huge media splash. They’re sending the book to the press early. They've already sold the international rights. So I’m going home, back to London. Can't wait to shove this up the snog of the journalistic establishment. Local boy makes good and all that.”

  His smug attitude further rankled me. I really didn’t care whether I ever saw him again or not. Out of politeness, I said, “Good for you. How thrilling.”

  “Isn’t it just? You’ll be able to tell people that you knew me when. If you come to one of my book signings, I’ll wave you to the front of the queue.”

  That wasn’t likely to happen. First of all, I read almost everything on my Kindle these days, and second, I couldn’t imagine standing in line for a signature by Adrian Green. No way.

  “I’ll hold you to it,” I said, trying to make nice. “When I’m in the back of the line, I’ll tell the bookseller that I knew you in a previous life. Too bad about the rain check.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Perhaps I can work you into my busy schedule before I leave town.”

  You do that, buddy, I thought, as I ended the call. But I’m not holding my breath.

  CHAPTER 73

  5:30 p.m. on Sunday

  Poppy’s house in Stuart, Florida

  ~Cara~

  Poppy shuffled to the door and opened it enough for me to slip through. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed. He definitely needed a shave. His peck on my cheek left my skin smarting as though he’d scrubbed me with a Brillo pad. As he ambled over to his La-Z-Boy, I noticed that he needed a haircut and a shower.

  I considered tying him down in the back of his truck and driving him through a car wash.

  The air inside his bungalow smelled stale. A pile of dirty dishes teetered on his coffee table. A plastic basket of rumpled clothes blocked the path to his garage. Half-eaten bags of chips littered the flat surfaces. To sit on his sofa, I had to shovel piles of newspapers onto the floor. In the middle of the stack, I found a desiccated slice of pizza. Goodness knows how old it was.

  “You aren’t taking care of yourself,” I said. “That wasn’t our deal.”

  “I got back from vacation only a few days ago. Tomorrow’s the anniversary of your grandmother’s death. I think even you could cut me a little slack, Miss Perfect Goody-Goody Two Shoes.”

  Oh, boy.

  I’d traded dinner with an eligible bachelor for a smack-down with Mr. Grouchy Pants. Perfect. Considering all the ways I could have been spending my Sunday night, I’d obviously made a wrong choice. Or was it simpler than that? If I was honest with myself, I’d acknowledge that any time spent with Poppy would be fraught with tension. My grandfather was not an easy person to love. When he wasn’t taking care of himself, he was even more difficult. His diabetes caused him to get grouchy.

  Even so, Poppy had his pride. He didn’t want to admit he needed help. Okay, I got that. However, I could not allow him to live in squalor. This house was a dump. Soon the cockroaches would get wind of his neglect. They would move in by the thousands and multiply by the millions.

  As for his personal hygiene, well, he looked like a homeless person—and that really got me worried. When he’s healthy, he usually takes great pride in his appearance.

  Poppy was not handling his temporary retirement well. Cooper had promised my grandfather a job as a mechanic when the new gas station was up and running, but until then Poppy had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Watching the old Gas E Bait being torn down had to be torture for him. In many ways, that gas station had been the center of Poppy’s existence.

  I needed to get more involved in his life. But how would I find the time?

  “Where are we going for dinner?” I asked, hoping to brighten his spirits.

  “Your choice. Can’t be nothing fancy, because I ain’t dressed for it.”

  “How about if you go and take a shower? I can wait.”

  “Miss Bossy-Boots.” He glared at me.

  “What’s put you in such a bad mood?” I asked.

  “You won’t be satisfied until you stick your nose into my business, will you? That durned Detective Lou Murray’s been here for the past hour asking me one question after another.”

  “About the Senator?”

  “Who else? Santy Claus? Of course, he asked about the Senator. Old Jenny Beth is accusing Yours Truly of poisoning her hubby. Which I did not do. I coulda snapped that dried up twig’s neck if I’d wanted to. I didn’t need no poison to send him to the devil.”

  I raised my eyebrows and shook my head at him. “Why on earth would an intelligent man like you talk to a homicide detective? You should have called an attorney. Or called me and let me call an attorney.”

  “Don’t make any difference. I didn’t do it. I didn’t touch that man. Didn’t give him no poison neither.”

  “Did Lou believe you?”

  Poppy lifted his shoulders and let them fall expressively. “Heck if I know. He asked all sorts of questions about Jenny Beth. What she was like. Then he started up about Josiah. Wanted to know what it was like when we were young. Who he ran with. I told him I don’t run with the Jupiter Island crowd. He thought that was funny. A real knee-slapper.”

  “That doesn’t sound too threatening to me.”

  “Nah,” he agreed. “More irritating than threatening. Like he was poking around in the dark with a stick to see what jumped out at him.”

  “Speaking of which, can I show you something?” Out of my purse, I took a copy of the photo that Kathy Simmons had purchased. “Do you recognize anyone in this picture?”

  I knew it was a long shot, but I figured that since Honora, Poppy, Josiah, and Jenny Beth were all contemporaries, maybe the boys in the picture were the children of their friends. Or local kids. Back in the day, Poppy coached Little League. In fact, he tried to turn me into a softball player, but my first time on the baseball diamond, I got smacked in the face with a stray ball. That did it for me.

  “Got to find my reading glasses,” said Poppy.

  That launched a forty-five minute search. Ten minutes in, I grabbed a black garbage bag from under his sink. Throwing newspapers away made more sense than simply shuffling them around. I also took two armfuls of dishes to the sink and started a load of clothes.

  The reading glasses were lodged between two cushions on the sofa. Once Poppy had them, he perused the photo eagerly. “That there is Josiah Wentworth in his salad days. See how perky he looks? A real spritely fellow. He had more energy than a bunny rabbit running across the lawn.”

  “And the boys?”

  “Can’t tell.” He moved over to a lamp and held the picture under the light. “By gee-golly-whiz. That’s PeeWee Heckler! In the flesh! Would you believe that?”

  “Who or what is a PeeWee Heckler? Someone small who makes a nuisance of himself as an audience member?”

  “Huh?” My grandfather’s face scrunched up. “Girl, where do you come up with this stuff? E’ry good Floridian knows PeeWee Heckler. One of the few who made it out of Dozier. Best ballplayer this state ever produced. Had an arm like a bazooka gun. Could steal bases like a raccoon steals garbage outta a trash can
. People would line up outside of stadiums for blocks to get in and see PeeWee play.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “You wanna go visit?”

  “Sure, why not. We can pick up food on the way, right?”

  CHAPTER 74

  I suggested that we swing by the drive-up window at Pollo Tropical. I love their chicken on the grill. I ordered grilled chicken on top of brown rice, beans, green peppers, onions, and tomatoes. Poppy ordered their rib dinner and baked plantains. We washed our food down with large cups of their tropical iced tea.

  While my grandfather drove, I told him about the problems I was having with Dom.

  “Your father was a great one for getting ever’thing on paper,” said Poppy. “I can’t imagine him not having a signed document to go with an agreement.”

  “Normally, I’d concur, but I looked back on the calendar in my iPhone. We got Mom’s diagnosis the same week that Dom and Dad met to hash out the details of Tommy’s schooling.”

  “You’re thinking that Thomas wasn’t himself?”

  “I’m not thinking it; I’m telling you as much. When Dad heard that Mom’s cancer was terminal, he was inconsolable. You know Mom. She was sad, but she was such a strong woman. Tough as they come. Dad, being the emotional one, he went nuts. I thought he’d never stop crying.”

  “Yeah, he called me. Couldn’t make out a word he was saying. Finally put your mama on the phone. She told me. No beating around the bush.”

  “Dad never got over the diagnosis. I expected him to calm down, live with it, and carry on for her sake, but he fell apart.”

  “Really?” Poppy shot me a sideways glance.

  “Really. He kept trying to go with her to the doctor’s office, but he would get so upset that he’d just start bawling. Eventually, I started driving both of them. Even then, one doctor asked Dad to stay in the car. He upset the other patients that much.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” Poppy’s hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white.

  “I couldn’t handle one more responsibility. It was hard enough to take care of Mom, calm Dad down, and get Tommy off to school, much less deal with all the employees at the restaurant. Another person would have brought me to my knees. I couldn’t risk having you get nasty with me or Mom or Dad. I had to tough it out. Keep one foot moving at a time, you know? Does that make sense?”

  “I guess.”

  I didn’t care whether he understood or not. I was tired of dancing around Poppy. Trying to make sure he didn’t go ballistic. He was a big boy. Either he could take the truth or he couldn’t, but it wasn’t my job to baby him.

  I must be growing up, because I’ve come to the realization that if you have to tiptoe around a person, you can never have an honest relationship. Toe shoes are for ballerinas to wear on stage. They don’t work so well in real life.

  Poppy and I rode along quietly for a while, thinking our separate thoughts. Then he asked me, “Did you look through all the papers in the safe deposit box? The one down here?”

  I dropped a bite of chicken in my lap. “There’s a safe deposit box down here?”

  “Used to be. In that there bank that got gobbled up by PNC. National City, I think it was.”

  “Then the box would have been moved to a PNC branch. But I’ve never seen a key!”

  “I got it.”

  “You were planning to tell me this when?”

  “When I got around to it. Didn’t seem to matter much. Mostly it’s got to do with your sister. You know all about Jodi.”

  “I know she exists. I know I don’t like her. I hardly think that’s the same as ‘knowing all about Jodi.’”

  “That might be a gracious plenty.”

  CHAPTER 75

  The route Poppy was taking to Port St. Lucie seemed familiar. I had come here once with my mother. A long, long time ago.

  Poppy parked next to a tiny church on the hill. The aqua water, the green grass, and the white building were picture-perfect. Even the graying headstones seemed to have been chosen with an artistic eye. Only the rectory seemed out of place, situated as it was in the middle of the graveyard. We got out of Poppy’s truck and ambled down the walkway dividing the cemetery into. The silken rustle of the palm leaves soothed us. The scent of paw-paws and chocolate flowers was almost overpowering.

  Poppy led the way to a grave on the left, as you faced the water.

  The cold stone monument told me nothing of my grandmother’s personality. On reflection, I’d learned more about her from Honora than I’d ever heard from my mother or Poppy.

  Poppy stood there, staring at the patch of grass. He didn’t say a word. I didn’t feel like talking either. A grave is a lonely place, a reminder that everyone you love will leave you. We must do what we can for each other in the short span we call a lifetime.

  My grandfather wiped away a tear. I felt embarrassed by his emotion. After noticing a few weeds around the headstone, I got down and pulled them. Overall, the place was in great shape, well-tended and clean, but it’s not an elaborate graveyard. Just a pleasant resting spot with a view of the endless, eternal water.

  “Does PeeWee live close by?” I asked, after a respectful silence.

  Poppy glowered at me, his overgrown eyebrows shading his eyes. “Still on that, huh?”

  “I’m getting eaten up by mosquitoes. Sorry.”

  “Huh.” He stalked off in the opposite direction. Moving between the graves, taking care not to step on them, I followed him around to the other side of the rectory.

  “That there is PeeWee Heckler’s house,” said Poppy, pointing to a gravestone with a baseball bat carved into the marble. “His permanent home. He’s one lucky fellow to be admitted here.”

  “Because of the marker?” I wondered. Having buried my parents, I knew that most cemeteries had stringent rules about markers. The trend was low and small, so as not to overpower one’s neighbors.

  “Nope.” Poppy sighed. “He’s lucky because he committed suicide, and they still let him into this place.”

  I didn’t know what to say about that. So we stood there, thinking our separate thoughts. Finally, Poppy led the way back to his truck. We rode in silence for several miles.

  "I think PeeWee musta told the priest here about what happened to him at Dozier. That's the only reason I can figure that they took pity on him and buried him in that cemetery," said Poppy.

  CHAPTER 76

  "Tell me more about PeeWee," I asked. "You sound like you knew him well."

  "I did," said Poppy. "Baseball teams have used Florida for spring training since 1888 when they first did a camp in Jacksonville. In the late 40s, they had 15 teams that came here and 15 that went to California. Seems like they were always needing umpires. A friend told me about an opening, and I got in. I needed to keep my skills sharp between seasons, so I volunteered to referee local kids’ games. That's where I first saw PeeWee. He was this scrawny kid, foul-mouthed, and with a grin that split his face from ear-to-ear. But boy, oh, boy, that little fella could play."

  The way back to Stuart took us down tree-lined roads in a meandering path. I kept my eyes on the scenery while Poppy talked.

  "It was in the middle of the season, I remember. A big game. PeeWee never showed up. Afterwards, I asked around. Turns out he'd missed a couple of days of school. Overslept. See, his folks used to drink and party all night. The kid never knew what he was coming home to. He was on his own to get up and get himself to school. A truancy officer caught up with him, and before you knew it, he was sent to Dozier."

  "Wait a minute. That sounds pretty harsh. Why didn't his parents protest?"

  "Because they didn't much care. There were six other kids at home. Feeding one less mouth was good news. They didn't have the money to spend on chasing PeeWee down."

  "What did you do?"

  "Wasn't nothing I could do." He sighed heavily. "I wasn't family. I didn't have any status to speak of. Couldn't even give him a visit. Then your grandmother
died shortly after, and you know how it is when you lose someone. I wasn’t thinking straight."

  I didn't like where this was going. There was a sadness in my grandfather's eyes that foreshadowed a bad ending. Sure enough, he continued, "I didn't see PeeWee again for years. He made it into the minor leagues. I hung around after a game, wondering if he'd even remember me. He did. We went out drinking together. Musta closed down a couple of bars. He was a sloppy drunk. Who could blame him? After all he’d seen and been through."

  "What did he tell you about Dozier?"

  "Unspeakable things. Things so bad that I won't repeat them to you. I didn't believe him at first. I couldn't. Shook my faith in mankind. Especially my faith in this here State of Florida.”

  "Unspeakable things? That covers a lot of ground.”

  "Those poor boys were abused in ways I can't even begin to think about. The sort of cruelty and depravity…" Poppy paused. “The State was asked to look into problems, time and time again. But the mistreatment went on for more than one hundred years! Can you believe that? As a state, we were caretakers for these boys, but not one of our governors could admit there were problems—big problems—with how those children were handled. Makes me sick. I could puke thinking about it.”

  The horror of the situation twisted his features into an angry knot.

  Thinking of my own son and imagining him being mistreated, I felt queasy. “More than one hundred years?”

  “That’s right,” said Poppy. "When I heard that PeeWee killed himself, I didn't wonder why. He told me that night that he could scarce stand to see his own reflection in the mirror."

  CHAPTER 77

  Sunday afternoon

  Stuart Police Department