Sycamore Row (8 page)

“Yes.”

“And was that previous will prepared by a firm somewhat larger than yours?”

“Yes.”

“Then, if I were you I’d race to the courthouse and file the first petition to probate.”

“My client wants me to wait until after the funeral.”

“When’s that?”

“Tomorrow at four.”

“The courthouse closes at five. I’d be there. First is always better.”

“Thanks Harry Rex.”

“Don’t mention it.” He burped again and picked up a file.

Traffic was steady throughout the afternoon as the neighbors and church members and other friends made the solemn trek to Seth’s home to deliver food, to commiserate, but mainly to nail down the gossip that was raging through the northeastern edge of Ford County. Most were politely turned away by Lettie who manned the front door, took the casseroles and cakes, accepted condolences, and said time and again that the family “was thankful but not taking company.” Some, though, managed to step inside, into the den where they gawked at the furnishings and tried to absorb a piece of the life of their dear departed friend. They had never been there before, and Lettie had never heard of these people. Yet, they grieved. Such a tragic way to go. Did he really hang himself?

The family was hiding on the rear patio, where they regrouped around a picnic table and kept themselves away from the traffic. Their search of Seth’s desk and drawers revealed nothing of benefit. When quizzed, Lettie claimed to know nothing, though they were doubtful. She answered their questions with soft, slow, thoughtful responses, and this made them even more suspicious. She served them lunch on the patio at 2:00 p.m., during a break in the visitation. They insisted on having a cloth on the picnic table, and linens and silver, though Seth’s collection had been badly neglected for many years. Unspoken were
their feelings that, at $5 an hour, the least Lettie could do was act like a real servant.

As she buzzed about, she overheard them discussing who would attend the funeral and who would not. Ian, for example, was in the middle of rescuing an enormous deal that could, quite possibly, affect the financial future of the entire state. Important meetings were on tap tomorrow and missing them might cause problems.

Herschel and Ramona grudgingly accepted the reality that they could not avoid the service, though at times Lettie thought they were jockeying for a way out. Ramona’s health was fading by the hour, and she wasn’t sure she could bear much more. Herschel’s ex-wife would definitely not be there. He didn’t want her there. She had never liked Seth and he had despised her. Herschel had two daughters, one in college in Texas and the other in high school in Memphis. The coed could not miss any more classes, and Herschel admitted she really wasn’t that close to her grandfather. No kidding, thought Lettie as she removed some more dishes. The younger daughter was doubtful too.

Seth had one brother, their Uncle Ancil, a man they had never met and knew nothing about. According to what scarce family lore existed, Ancil had lied about his age and joined the Navy at sixteen or seventeen. He’d been wounded in the Pacific, survived, then drifted around the world at various jobs in the shipping business. Seth lost contact with his younger brother decades earlier and never mentioned him. There was no way to contact Ancil and clearly no reason to do so. He was probably as dead as Seth.

They talked about some old family relatives, none of whom they’d seen in years, none of whom they wanted to see now. What a sad, curious family, Lettie thought as she served them a selection of cakes. It was shaping up to be a small and quick funeral service.

“Let’s get her outta here,” Herschel said when Lettie returned to the kitchen. “We’re getting ripped off at five bucks an hour.”

“We? Since when are we paying her?” Ramona asked.

“Oh, she’s on our clock now, one way or the other. Everything’s coming out of the estate.”

“I’m not cleaning the house, Herschel, are you?”

“Of course not.”

Ian spoke up: “Let’s play it cool, get through the funeral and all, tell her to clean the house, then we’ll lock it up when we leave on Wednesday.”

“Who tells her she’s out of a job?” Ramona asked.

“I’ll do it,” Herschel said. “No big deal. She’s just a maid.”

“There’s something fishy about her,” Ian said. “Can’t put my finger on it, but she acts like she knows something we don’t, something important. Ya’ll feel that way?”

“Definitely something in the air,” Herschel said, pleased to reach a rare agreement with his brother-in-law.

But Ramona disagreed: “No, it’s just the shock and the sadness. She’s one of the few people Seth could tolerate, or could tolerate him, and she’s sad he’s gone. That, and she’s about to lose her job.”

“You think she knows she’s about to be fired?” Herschel asked.

“I’m sure she’s worried.”

“She’s just a housekeeper.”

Lettie arrived home with a cake, one graciously given to her by Ramona. It was a flat, one-layer sheet cake coated with store-bought vanilla icing and laden with slices of toasted pineapple, without a doubt the least appealing of the half dozen arranged on Mr. Hubbard’s kitchen counter. It had been delivered by a man from the church who’d asked Lettie, among other things, if the family planned to sell Seth’s Chevrolet pickup truck. Lettie had no idea but promised to pass along the inquiry. She did not.

She had seriously considered tossing the cake into a ditch along the route home, but couldn’t bring herself to be so wasteful. Her mother was battling diabetes and did not need another load of sugar, if she in fact wanted to sample the cake.

Lettie parked in the gravel drive and noted that Simeon’s old truck was not there. She did not expect it since he’d been away for several days. She preferred him to be away, but she never knew from one day to the next. It was not a happy house in good times, and her husband rarely made things better.

The kids were still on the school bus somewhere, headed home. Lettie entered through the kitchen and placed the cake on the table. As always, she found Cypress in the den, watching television for the umpteenth hour in a row.

Cypress smiled and stretched her arms upward. “My baby,” she said. “How was your day?”

Lettie leaned down and gave her a polite hug. “Pretty busy. How was yours?”

“Just me and the shows,” Cypress replied. “How are the Hubbards dealin’ with their loss, Lettie? Please sit down and talk to me.”

Lettie turned off the television, sat on the stool next to her mother’s wheelchair, and talked about her day. Not a dull moment as Herschel and the Dafoes arrived and walked through their childhood home, with their father gone for the first time. Then the traffic, the neighbors and food and the endless parade. Quite an exciting day altogether, as Lettie spun things, careful to avoid any hint of trouble. Cypress’s blood pressure was barely held in check by a collection of medications, and it could spike at the slightest hint of trouble. At some point, and soon, Lettie would gently break the news that she was losing her job, but not now. There would be a better time later.

“And the funeral?” Cypress asked, stroking her daughter’s arm. Lettie gave the details, said she planned to attend, and relished the fact that Mr. Hubbard insisted that blacks be allowed inside the church.

“Probably make you sit on the back row,” Cypress said with a grin.

“Probably so. But I’ll be there.”

“Wish I could go with you.”

“So do I.” Because of her weight and lack of mobility, Cypress rarely left the house. She’d been living there for five years, and gaining weight and becoming less mobile by the month. Simeon stayed away for many reasons, not the least of which was Lettie’s mother.

Lettie said, “Mrs. Dafoe sent us a cake. Would you like a small piece?”

“What kind?” Though she weighed a ton, Cypress could be a picky eater.

“Well, it’s a pineapple something or other, not sure I’ve seen it before, but it might be worth a try. Would you like some coffee with it?”

“Yes, and just a small piece.”

“Let’s sit out back, Momma, and get some fresh air.”

“I’d like that.” The wheelchair could barely squeeze between the sofa and the television, and it fit tightly in the narrow hallway into the kitchen. It rubbed alongside the table, inched through the rear door, and with Lettie pushing gently it rolled onto the sagging wooden deck Simeon had thrown together years earlier.

When the weather was nice, Lettie liked a late afternoon coffee or iced tea outside, away from the noise and stuffiness of the cramped house. There were too many people for a small house with only three tiny bedrooms. Cypress had one. Lettie and Simeon—whenever he was home—shared another, usually with a grandchild or two. Their
daughters somehow survived shoulder to shoulder in the third bedroom. Clarice, age sixteen, was in high school and had no children. Phedra, age twenty-one, had a kindergartner, a first grader, and no husband. Their younger son, Kirk, fourteen, slept on the sofa in the den. It was not at all uncommon for nieces and nephews to stay a few months while their parents sorted things out.

Cypress took a sip of instant coffee and picked at the cake with a fork. Slowly, she took a bite, and chewed and frowned. Lettie didn’t like it either, so they drank their coffee and talked about the Hubbard family and how confused it was. They poked fun at white folks and their funerals, and how they got in such a hurry to bury their dead, often within two or three days of death. Black folks took their time.

“You seem distant, honey, what’s on your mind?” Cypress asked softly.

The kids would be home shortly from school, then Phedra from work. This would be the last quiet moment until bedtime. Lettie took a deep breath and said, “I heard them talkin’, Momma, and they’re gonna let me go. Probably this week, not long after the funeral.”

Cypress shook her large round head and looked ready to cry. “But why?”

“No need for a housekeeper, I guess. They’ll sell the house because neither of them wants it.”

“Heavens.”

“They can’t wait to get their hands on his money. They never had time to come see him, but now they’re circlin’ like buzzards.”

“White people. Do it ever’ time.”

“They think he paid me too much, so they’re in a hurry to cut me off.”

“How much he pay you?”

“Now Momma.” Lettie had never told anyone in her family that Mr. Hubbard was paying $5 an hour, and in cash. Such a wage was indeed on the high end for domestic help in rural Mississippi, and Lettie knew better than to cause trouble. Her family might want a little extra. Her friends might talk. “Keep secrets, Lettie,” Mr. Hubbard had told her. “Never talk about your money.” Simeon, sorry as he was, would lose all motivation to bring home anything. His earnings were as erratic as his presence, and he needed no prompting to earn even less.

Lettie said, “I heard them refer to me as a servant.”

“A servant? Ain’t heard that in a long time.”

“They’re not nice people, Momma. I doubt if Mr. Hubbard was a good father, but his kids are sorry.”

“And now they get all his money.”

“I suppose. They’re sure countin’ on it.”

“How much he got?”

Lettie shook her head and took a sip of cold coffee. “I have no idea. Not sure anybody does.”

6

The parking lot of the Irish Road Christian Church was half-full when Ozzie’s relatively unmarked car turned in to it at five minutes before four on Tuesday afternoon. There were no words or numbers painted boldly on the car—Ozzie preferred a lower profile—but one glance and you knew it was the high sheriff. A collection of antennas; a small round blue light on the dash, partially hidden; a big brown Ford with four doors and black wheels, same as virtually every other high sheriff in the state.

He parked it next to the red Saab, which was parked away from the other cars. Ozzie got out as Jake was getting out and together they crossed the parking lot. “Anything new?” Jake asked.

“Nothing,” Ozzie said. He was wearing a dark suit with black cowboy boots. Jake, the same, minus the boots. “You?”

“Nothing. I guess the shit’ll hit the fan tomorrow.”