Close to the Broken Hearted (17 page)

“Owner of what?”

“The land Miss Sylvie's pa owned 'fore he died.”

“Wouldn't Miss Sylvie own it? I thought kids got whatever their folks had when their folks died.” That was my understanding of the whole thing.

“Miss Sylvie couldn't afford it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ranches cost money to upkeep, and Sylvie was only fourteen when her folks died. She was in no shape to look after the ranch alone, let alone worry about making the costs. She went into foster care.”

“What's foster care?”

“Nothing you don't ever need to worry 'bout.”

“Why would anyone want to live so close to Beemer's Bog?” I asked her, but she completely ignored me. She picked up the book and, leaving it open at one of the pages of the ranch Miss Sylvie's pa used to own, lugged it back to the desk where the clerk sat. “Mind if I bother you with somethin'?” my mother asked her.

The clerk smiled. “Of course not. That's why I'm here.”

My mother came around to her side of the desk and bent down, showing her the page and the square with the writing in it. “Right here,” she said, “where it lists ‘Owner.' Can you tell me what ‘Unlisted' means?”

The clerk looked confused. “I ain't never seen that 'fore.”

“Could it mean it's owned by the county? Because that's how I figure it
should
be. And the date of the record would be pretty near right.”

The clerk continued to look at it in confusion. “No . . . if it's owned by the county, it always says ‘Vacant,' not ‘Unlisted.' Don't ask me why. ‘County' would make more sense. But I don't know what ‘Unlisted' means. It's almost as though the owner wasn't put in the records, but I don't see how that's possible. It's public information.”

“That's what I thought,” my mother said. “Would there be somewhere else I might be able to find out who this property belongs to?”

“We can run a title search on it. That will involve sending off a form to the Mobile County public records office, but it usually doesn't take long to get a response.”

“And that will definitely have the owner listed?”

“It should. If
that
doesn't, something funny's goin' on. The next step would be to request a copy of the deed. That would list ownership for sure.”

“What's this dollar amount?” my mother asked.

“That's the amount the land was appraised at when this survey map was made. We keep the actual assessment records separate, so if you wanted a recent assessment record, I could get you that. But it shows here that, on March 2, 1981, this property was worth one hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

My mother thought this over. “Is there any way we can tell if there is a lien on the property?”

“We can request that information as part of the title search. I'm sorry, Officer—”

“Detective,” my mother corrected her. “Detective Teal.”

“I'm sorry, Detective Teal, Alvin's just too small to have a records office that keeps much more than just basic records. Would you like me to help you fill out the request for the title search? We can do it right now and save you a lot of time.”

“Sure.”

And so my mother did that while I went back and looked at the big map of Alvin hanging on the wall. As I did, my eyes were constantly being drawn upward and westward to that little spot of land in Blackberry Springs where I knew, right at this very moment, Preacher Eli was planning his next move.

And I was willing to bet dollars to dingbats it had something to do with that teenager who drove that strange silver car me and Dewey had seen parked beside the house.

T
he next day, me and Dewey rode our bikes down to Main Street just for something to do. We often did this—went for bike rides while we talked about this and that. It was nice having the wind on our faces and the sun on the tops of our heads, especially in the summer when it got so hot. We were in the middle of an especially hot spell, and sweat clung to my hair and occasionally ran down the sides of my face while we went along. Of course, both of us had our swords dangling from our hips. They'd become pretty much part of our standard wardrobe.

Today, Dewey had been doing most of the talking, going on about one of the inventions from his book. It was for an outboard motor he had developed (so far on paper only) that should work with the rubber dinghy he had in his dad's shed. “We can take the dinghy up to Willet Lake and I'll show you how it will work. That is, once we build it.”

I wondered why he chose Willet Lake. It was a nice enough lake and all, but the only way to get there was by walking through a narrow path in the woods that opened on Hunter Road pretty near a half block up from Preacher Eli's place. Alvin had two other lakes to choose from, Cornflower Lake and Painted Lake, but Dewey had to pick the one that sat on the doorstep of a convicted murderer. Somehow it just figured.

“I don't really like boats,” I said. What I really meant was that I didn't really like being shot to death in the middle of a lake by a crazy old preacher man.

“You'll like 'em when they have motors attached. Especially my motor. It'll go really fast. Did I tell you it uses a car battery and an electric egg beater?”

“No,” I said. At that point, I started tuning him out as he went on about the intricacies of motor building using household appliances and common garden supplies.

Finally, I couldn't listen to him go on about ridiculous ideas for motors anymore so I casually changed the subject.

“Guess what my mom told me yesterday.”

“Now how could I possibly guess something like that?” he asked.

“I didn't mean for you to really guess.”

“Then why did you say it?”

I rolled my eyes. “It's just somethin' people say. Like ‘Betcha don't know what I've been up to lately.' ”

“I wouldn't know that either.”

“I suspect you would have a better idea than anyone else would, though.” We were getting off topic.

“Well, if I had to guess what you'd been up to,” Dewey said, “I'd guess it would have somethin' to do with your ma bein' upset with you for catchin' you spyin' on Preacher Eli yesterday. She sure seemed mad.”

“Aw, she wasn't so bad,” I said. “I've had her much madder at me than that. Heck, all she did was force me to go to the records office with her.”

“The records office? What the heck for?”

I pedaled backward slightly and slowed down my pace. We were coming up on Vera's Old West Grill on our left and the air was full of the smell of burgers sizzling on the grill. My mouth watered and my stomach gave a little rumble.

Dewey saw that I was braking and matched my speed. He knew what I was about to say was important. “Now you can't tell nobody,” I said, trying to keep my voice to a whisper, even though it's impossible to hear somebody whispering when you're riding a bike. So I ended up just talking as quietly as possible.

A group of three men came out of Vera's, laughing. They were all wearing golf shirts and dress pants. I figured they probably worked together—maybe at one of the office spaces that would soon be coming up on our right. Likely, they were on their lunch break.

Dewey knew I was serious. He waited until we were well past hearing distance of the men before he spoke. “I won't. You know you can trust me.” Boy, did I have his interest now.

“My mom was checking out the land owned by Sylvie Carson's folks 'fore they died. I didn't know exactly what she was lookin' for, but from what I could catch, she seemed to think somethin' sneaky's goin' on. And all I could think of was that if there is anythin' weird, the obvious person behind it is Preacher Eli.”

“Of course,” Dewey said. “Did your ma agree?”

“I didn't ask her. But she did find out somethin' strange. Apparently, whoever owns the land isn't listed at the records office and the woman workin' there said that was quite unusual. She appeared rather concerned 'bout it, actually.”

We came to a stop at the intersection where Sweetwater Drive runs through Main Street. On the corner across the street, Fast Gas looked deserted. There were no cars at the pumps and I didn't even see an attendant working there. Looking at the gas station made me think of my pa and how he used to work at a gas station farther down Main Street during nights and how, if he'd worked days, he'd probably still be alive. I was glad that gas station he worked at wasn't around no more and that they'd built the Brookside Mall where it used to be. Judging by Fast Gas, it certainly seemed like working the day shift was a much easier job than nights. You didn't even have to be out front. You could just hide somewhere inside if you wanted.

“So what did your ma do?” Dewey asked as we started riding again.

“She sent off for more records from the Mobile office that's a lot bigger and has more information. The woman said they'd know for sure who owns the land. My mom was really suspicious 'bout the whole thing and didn't seem to like it one bit that there wasn't no one listed. I really got the feelin' Preacher Eli's gonna turn out to be somehow involved.”

“Wow,” Dewey said. “That's somethin'. I can't wait to hear 'bout those records when they come.”

The row of business centers came up on our right. There were three of them; each was a three-story cement building named after a hawk. There was Hawk Ridge, Hawk Point, and Hawk Landing. I didn't rightly know what hawks had to do with business. Each business center squatted back from the road surrounded by poplars and gardens full of rhododendrons and wild roses. The light wind picked up the sweet smell of the roses as we passed.

All three buildings had a sign saying O
FFICE
S
PACE FOR
L
EASE
out front. Ever since those structures went up over six years ago, they'd all had those signs in front of them. I doubted they'd ever find enough business folks in Alvin to lease three entire three-story buildings.

“Oh, and guess what else,” I said to Dewey.

Dewey started to speak but I cut him off. “Again, I wasn't really askin' you to guess. Anyway, my mom told me she's gonna take me and Carry to Georgia to meet my new grandma and granddaddy that my aunt Addison told us 'bout.”

I could see cogs spinning in Dewey's brain; he was thinking about something. “What?” I asked.

He brought his bike to a complete stop.

I stopped too, but had to walk it back to get alongside him. “What?” I asked again.

“It's just . . . I thought your ma was worried that Addison might not really be your aunt?”

“Oh, she doesn't think that no more. We got a background check on my pa and it showed he has a sister.”

“Yeah, but you said she was still thinkin' this might not be
the
sister but someone else pretendin' to be her.”

“That was 'fore she talked to her on the phone. Now she believes her.”

“But . . . what if she
isn't
your aunt. And what if these other folks ain't really your grandparents? What if they ain't related at all?”

“Now why would anyone go and pretend they're my relations?”

“I dunno. What if they're after some sorta inheritance?”

I laughed. “Dewey, we ain't got nothin' to inherit.”

“You got some things.”

“Like what?”

“Access to information pertainin' to all the inventions I told you 'bout.”

Laughing, I just shook my head. “You're 'bout as smart as a can of dew worms on a spring mornin' sometimes, you know that?”

Dewey got all indignant. “I'm only lookin' out for your best interests.”

“Don't worry, my interests are all fine.” I started pedaling again.

We were halfway up Main Street, just a little ways past the police department where my mother worked, when Dewey came up beside me again. “You know what? I got an idea.”

“Yeah? What's that?”

“Why don't you and me go to the records office and check what kind of information they have about your grandparents? I bet they at least have their names. Maybe even their pictures.”

I thought this over. It wasn't a bad idea. Not because I thought the people my mother wanted to take me to see weren't my grandparents, but because I would love to know as much about my family history as possible. It was the one thing I never really had in my life. Dewey now had me wondering exactly what kind of information they
did
keep at that records office about family stuff.

“Okay,” I said. “That sounds like as good a way as any of spendin' the afternoon.”

 

The same clerk was sitting behind the desk when we arrived at the records office. Neither her nor the desk looked so small today, as the piles of books and papers that had covered the top were gone. She had her hair the same and wore the same big glasses. Today she had on a blue shirt with frills around the collar. She recognized me right away. “You're that policewoman's son. Where's your momma?”

“At home.” Once again I was overwhelmed by the odor of musty books. They actually tasted like old dust on your tongue, although the room was clean enough. It looked like it had just been washed up. The windows sparkled with the afternoon sun pouring in.

The woman looked a bit confused. “Oh, is there somethin' I can help
you
with, then?”

“I, um, want to find out 'bout my family. You know, my past family and all.”

A wide smile spread across her face. “You mean your
genealogy
. Isn't that great! Is this something you're doin' for school?”

“No, ma'am,” Dewey said. “School's out for the year. It's the summer.”

Concern fell over her face. “Oh, that's right. So, this is just somethin' you're doin' on your own, then?”

I nodded. “Yep. Is that okay?”

“Absolutely. Although the only information you can get here is
public
information. Anything private, of course, isn't available from any of our records offices.”

I didn't rightly know what she was talking about, but I just nodded anyway. “That's fine. I just wanna know about my . . . I can't think of the word.”

“Ancestors?” she asked.

“That's right,” I said, smiling. “About my ancestors. Find out who they were!”

“Or
are,
” Dewey corrected. “That is, for the ones that are still livin'.”

“Okay, let's see what we can pull out for you.” She stood from the desk and it turned out she was wearing a black skirt as she came around. Once again she saw my and Dewey's swords.

“So are you
both
Peter Pan today? Or are
you
a Lost Boy?” she asked, turning her attention to Dewey.

Dewey looked at me. “What's she talkin' 'bout?”

I shook my head. “Forget it,” I mouthed.

She led us to a different section of the room than she'd taken me and my mother to yesterday. “This is our genealogy section,” she said. “Now, there's not a
lot
of information here. And it's pretty much confined to Alvin and the immediate outlying areas. We really don't go much farther out than Satsuma just because we don't have the room to store all the information. So, anybody in your family history who was born anywhere else might not show up. What's your last name?”

“Teal,” I said. “T-E-A-L”

She wrote that down on a piece of paper.

“And what's your momma's maiden name?”

“You mean her name 'fore she married my pa?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I had to think hard to remember. Finally, it came to me when I thought of Uncle Henry. His name was actually Henry Fowler, which was the name of my mother's dad. “Fowler.”

“Okay. So far, so good. And your name is?”

“Abe,” I said.

“And your ma's name?”

“Leah. L. E. A. H.”

“And your pa's name?”

“Billy.” I stumbled a bit. “He . . . died when I was two.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she said. Then with her pen over her paper, she thought for a second. “I'll use William. He's probably in the archives as William. If nothin' comes up, we'll search for Bill or Billy. Okay, do you know your grandpa's name?”

Her questions kept going like this until I couldn't answer them anymore, which didn't take long. I knew my mom's dad was called Joe, but I couldn't remember the name of her ma. And I didn't know the name of my other grandparents on my pa's side of the family. Heck, I hadn't even met them yet. I told her about Uncle Henry, who was actually my
mother's
uncle, and Aunt Addison, but she didn't seem too concerned with uncles and aunts.

“Okay, that probably gives me enough to go on,” she said. Pulling a large book from one of the shelves, she started turning pages. I watched from the side. Dewey tried to edge his way in and watch too, but I figured since we were looking up my family stuff, I should be the one who got to see what was going on. She kept flipping pages until she came to the F section and then found
Fowler
. Running her finger down the page, she came to the list of Joes. There were a lot of Joe Fowlers listed in that book.

“Do you know if your momma's pa was born in Alvin?” she asked me.

I shrugged. “I dunno.”

She sighed. “Let's try Teal. We'll probably have better luck there.
You
were born here, right?”