Sycamore Row (6 page)

“Do you have a key?”

“No sir. Ain’t never had a key. The house was unlocked.”

“Who’s Calvin?”

“White man who works here on the property. Said Mr. Seth called him yesterday mornin’, told him to meet him down to the bridge at two o’clock. Sure enough, there he was.” She stopped her narrative long enough to dab her eyes with the tissue.

Herschel took another sip. “The sheriff said Dad left a note and some instructions.”

“I ain’t seen nothin’ like that, but Calvin saw it. Said Mr. Seth wrote he was takin’ his own life.” She began crying.

Herschel listened for a while, and when she was quiet he asked, “How long have you worked here, Lettie?”

She took a deep breath and wiped her cheeks. “I don’t know, ’bout three years. I started two days a week cleanin’, Monday and Wednesday, a few hours a day, didn’t take much because Mr. Seth lived alone, you know, and he was pretty neat, for a man. Then he asked me to cook for him, and I was happy to do it. More hours. I’d cook a buncha stuff and leave it on the stove or in the refrigerator. Then when he got sick he asked me to come in every mornin’ and take care of him. When the chemo was real bad, he’d stay in bed pretty much all day and night.”

“I thought he was paying a nurse.”

Lettie knew how little Mr. Herschel and Mrs. Dafoe had seen of their father during his illness. Lettie knew everything; they knew almost nothing. However, she would be respectful, as always.

“Yes sir, he did for a while, then he got to where he didn’t like them. They were always changin’ nurses and you didn’t know who might show up.”

“So, you’ve been working here full-time for how long?”

“About a year.”

“How much did Dad pay you?”

“Five dollars an hour.”

“Five! That seems kinda high for domestic help, doesn’t it? I mean, well, I live in Memphis, a big city, and my mother pays her housekeeper four and a half an hour.”

Lettie just nodded because she had no response. She could have added that Mr. Seth paid her in cash, and often added a little extra, and had loaned her $5,000 when her son got in trouble and went to prison. That loan had been forgiven only four days earlier. There was nothing in writing.

Herschel sipped his coffee in disapproval. Lettie stared at the floor. Out in the driveway, two car doors slammed.

Ramona Hubbard Dafoe was crying before she cleared the front door. She embraced her older brother on the porch, and he, to his credit, managed to seem sufficiently moved: eyes tightly closed, lips pooched, forehead furrowed. A man in real misery. Ramona wailed in what seemed to be authentic pain, though Herschel had his doubts.

Ramona moved on and was soon hugging Lettie, as if the two were the natural-born children of the same kind and loving father. Herschel, meanwhile, was still on the porch and greeting Ramona’s husband, a man he loathed and the loathing was mutual. Ian Dafoe was a preppy from a family of bankers down in Jackson, the capital, the largest city, home to at least half the assholes in Mississippi. The banks were long gone (belly-up) but Ian would forever cling to the airs of a privileged boy, even though he had married lower, and even though he was now hustling to make a buck like everyone else.

As they shook hands politely, Herschel glanced over his shoulder to check out their vehicle. No surprise. A shiny, seemingly new white Mercedes sedan, the latest in a line of same. Thanks to Ramona’s drinking and loose tongue, Herschel knew that dear Ian leased his cars for thirty-six months and turned them in early. The payments caused a bind on their finances, but that didn’t matter. It was far more important for Mr. and Mrs. Dafoe to be seen around north Jackson in a proper vehicle.

They eventually gathered in the den and found seats. Lettie served them coffee and colas, then dutifully slipped into the shadows, into the open door of a bedroom just down the hall, a spot she often occupied when she listened to Mr. Seth on the phone in the den. From there, she could hear everything. Ramona cried some more and went on about how unbelievable everything was. The men just listened, agreeing, occasionally uttering a syllable or two. They were soon interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Two ladies from the church arrived with a cake and a casserole, and they were not to be denied. Lettie hustled around and took the food to the kitchen, and the ladies, without the benefit of an invitation, plopped down in the den and commenced trolling for gossip. They had seen their brother Seth just yesterday at church, and he had looked so good. They knew about the lung cancer and all, but, heavens, he seemed to have conquered it.

Herschel and the Dafoes offered nothing. Lettie listened from the shadows.

The church ladies were about to burst with all manner of inquiries: “How’d he do it?” and “Did he leave a note?” and “Who gets the money?” and “Any chance of foul play?” But, it was painfully clear such nosiness would not be well received. After twenty minutes of near silence, they lost interest and began their good-byes.

Five minutes after they left, the doorbell rang again. The driveway was being watched. The three cars were attracting attention.

“Get that, Lettie,” Herschel yelled from the den. “We’re hiding in the kitchen.”

It was the neighbor across the road with a lemon cake. Lettie thanked her and explained that Mr. Seth’s children were indeed there but “not taking company.” The neighbor loitered for a while on the porch, desperate to get inside and stick her nose into the family’s drama, but Lettie politely blocked the door. After she finally left, Lettie took the cake to the kitchen where it sat untouched on the counter.

At the kitchen table, it didn’t take long to get down to business. “Have you seen the will?” Ramona asked, her eyes remarkably clear now and glowing with intrigue and suspicion.

“No,” Herschel said. “Have you?”

“No. I was here a couple of months ago—”

“It was July,” Ian interrupted.

“Okay, July, and I tried to talk to Daddy about his will. He said some lawyers in Tupelo had written it and that we would be properly taken care of, but that was all. Did you ever talk to him about it?”

“No,” Herschel admitted. “It just didn’t feel right, you know? The old guy was dying of cancer and I’m asking about his will? I couldn’t do it.”

Lettie was lurking in the hallway, in the shadows, catching every word.

“What about his assets?” Ian asked, in cold blood. He had good reason to be curious since most of his own assets were so heavily mortgaged. His company built low-end shopping centers and strip malls, every deal loaded with debt. He worked frantically to stay one step ahead of his lenders, but they were always howling.

Herschel glared at his brother-in-law, the leech, but kept his cool. All three suspected trouble with Seth’s estate, so there was no sense in
rushing things. They would be at war soon enough. Herschel shrugged and said, “Don’t know. He was very secretive, as you’ve seen. This house, the two hundred acres around it, the lumber yard up the road, but I don’t know about his loans and such. We never talked business.”

“You never talked about anything,” Ramona shot across the table, then immediately took it back. “I’m sorry, Herschel. Please.”

But such a cheap shot from a sibling can never be left alone. Herschel sneered and said, “Didn’t realize you and the old man were so close.”

Ian quickly changed the subject with, “Does he have an office here, or a place he kept his personal papers? Come on. Why can’t we look around here? There’s bound to be bank statements and land deeds and contracts, hell, I’ll bet there’s even a copy of the will, right here in the house.”

“Lettie should know,” Ramona said.

“Let’s not involve her,” Herschel said. “Did you know he was paying her five bucks an hour, full-time?”

“Five bucks?” Ian repeated. “What are we paying Berneice?”

“Three fifty,” Ramona said. “For twenty hours.”

“We’re paying four and a half in Memphis,” Herschel reported proudly, as if he and not his mother wrote the checks.

“Why would an old tightwad like Seth pay so much for a housekeeper?” Ramona mused, knowing there was no answer.

“She’d better enjoy it,” Herschel said. “Her days are numbered.”

“So we’re firing her?” Ramona asked.

“Immediately. We have no choice. You wanna keep forking over that kinda money? Look, Sis, here’s the plan. We get through the funeral, tell Lettie to get things in order, then cut her loose and lock up the house. We’ll put it on the market next week and hope for the best. There’s no reason for her to hang around, at five bucks an hour.”

In the shadows, Lettie dropped her head.

“Maybe not so fast,” Ian said politely. “At some point, and soon, we’ll see the will. In it we’ll find out who’ll serve as the executor of the estate, probably one of you. It’s usually the surviving spouse or one of the kids. The executor will run the estate according to the terms of the will.”

“I know all that,” Herschel said, though he really didn’t. Because Ian dealt with lawyers daily, he often acted like the legal expert in the family. One of many reasons Herschel despised him.

“I just can’t believe he’s dead,” Ramona said, finding a tear to wipe.

Herschel glared at her and was tempted to lunge across the table for a backhand. To his knowledge, she made the trip to Ford County once a year, usually alone because Ian couldn’t stand the place and Seth couldn’t stand Ian. She would leave Jackson around 9:00 a.m., insist on meeting Seth for lunch at the same roadside barbecue hut ten miles north of Clanton, then follow him home where she was usually bored by 2:00 p.m. and back on the road by 4:00. Her two children, both in middle school (private), had not seen their grandfather in years. For sure, Herschel could claim nothing closer, but then he wasn’t sitting there crying fake tears and pretending to miss the old man.

A loud knock at the kitchen door startled them. Two uniformed deputies had arrived. Herschel opened the door, invited them in. Awkward introductions were made at the refrigerator. The deputies removed their hats and shook hands. Marshall Prather said, “Sorry to interrupt you all, but me and Deputy Pirtle here were sent by Sheriff Walls, who, by the way, sends his deepest condolences. We brought back Mr. Hubbard’s car.” He handed the keys to Herschel, who said, “Thanks.”

Deputy Pirtle pulled an envelope out of a pocket and said, “This here is what Mr. Hubbard left right there on the kitchen table. We found it yesterday after we found him. Sheriff Walls made copies but thinks the family needs to keep the originals.” He handed the envelope to Ramona, who was sniffling again.

Everyone said thanks, and after another awkward round of nodding and handshaking, the deputies left. Ramona opened the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. The first was the note to Calvin in which Seth confirmed his death as a proper suicide. The second was addressed not to his children, but To Whom It May Concern. It read:

Funeral Instructions:

I want a simple service at the Irish Road Christian Church on Tuesday, October 4, at 4 p.m. with Rev. Don McElwain presiding. I’d like for Mrs. Nora Baines to sing The Old Rugged Cross. I do not want anyone to attempt a eulogy. Can’t imagine anyone wanting to. Other than that, Rev. McElwain can say whatever he wants. Thirty minutes max
.

If any black people wish to attend my funeral, then they are to be admitted. If they are not admitted, then forget the whole service and put me in the ground
.

My pallbearers are: Harvey Moss, Duane Thomas, Steve Holland, Billy Bowles, Mike Mills, and Walter Robinson
.

Burial Instructions:

I just bought a plot in the Irish Road Cemetery behind the church. I’ve spoken with Mr. Magargel at the funeral home and he’s been paid for the casket. No vault. Immediately after the church service, I want a quick interment—five minutes max—then lower the casket
.

So long. See you on the other side
.

Seth Hubbard

After they passed it around the kitchen table and observed a moment of silence, they poured more coffee. Herschel cut a thick slice of the lemon cake and declared it delicious. The Dafoes declined.