The Jezebel Remedy (8 page)

The residue of the alcohol's pernicious claim crept into Friday as well, but Lisa, frazzled and woozy, nevertheless left the office early and drove to Mt. Olivet Elementary School for her volunteer tutor's gig, same as she'd been doing for the past eleven years, and she met this year's student, a bony girl-child—eyeglasses crooked, a tooth chipped—at the door to a classroom. The child, a fifth-grader named Montana Triplett, snatched Lisa's hand and right away commenced prattling, gushed run-on fragments about her teacher and a report card and the several free throws she'd scored during her basketball game and a prankster who'd toted a live guinea pig to school in his backpack.

They spent almost an hour at the city library sorting through school assignments and selecting a new book for Montana to read, then finished off the evening at McDonald's, the girl wasting most of her burger, scarcely interested in food. Before they married, Lisa and Joe had decided they weren't suited for raising children, and they'd never seriously regretted their choice, no more than an occasional speculation at Christmas or a generous envy when moms and dads e-mailed photos of a darling newborn. Still, Lisa had filled a lot of gaps caused by shiftless parents. She'd bought her fair share of tennis shoes and fashionable mall jeans and always shuffled appointments and trials if she could help chaperone a field trip. She enjoyed her commitment, appreciated the chance to ride shotgun on exuberance and shining possibility, to witness it firsthand and tap into it around the margins, never once put off by the realization that many of the kids' deficits were so unruly that they wouldn't be tamed by a few hours a month with a pretty lawyer-lady volunteer.

“You look tired, Mrs. Stone,” Montana informed her as they were stacking their wrappers and tall cups onto a tray, ready for the garbage.

“Really? You think so?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, sweetie,” Lisa told her, “I can promise you this: You'll leave me better than you found me. Seeing you pepped me up. Made my day. Thanks. It's nice to have you as a friend, you know?”

Soon afterward, around seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, she found Joe in the kitchen with Brownie, and as she came past the pantry Joe told her to stop where she was. To emphasize the request, he straightened a traffic-cop arm in her direction. He was wearing striped flannel house pants and a ratty T-shirt, standing near the stove, the dog sitting on his black haunches. “Check this, Lisa. Old dog, very new trick.”

He slowly lowered a piece of bacon toward Brownie, and the dog's tail quivered and he Gatling-gun sniffed and he keened his head, but he stayed rooted to the floor, didn't lunge or snap at the food. Joe kept closing the distance and placed the bacon squarely on the animal's nose, and remarkably, Brownie—amped, drooling, excited—didn't budge, didn't gulp it down until Joe said “Eat,” and then the dog ducked his snout and grabbed the meat straight out of the air, snatching it so rapidly it was as if he'd never moved.

“Damn right. Smart boy,” Joe praised him. “How about that, Lisa? Cool, huh?” He knelt and rubbed and patted and scratched Brownie, who soon tumbled over onto his back, all four legs pointing at the ceiling.

“Don't say it,” Lisa muttered, too late.

“Heckuva job, Brownie,” Joe said. He glanced up at her. “Say what?”

“I've told you a million times I hate the ‘heckuva job' line. It's so annoying. Same as how you think it's hilarious to blow the horn and startle me whenever I'm anywhere close to the front of the car.”

“It's part of my impish charm,” Joe replied, unfazed. “Makes me the unique, lovable rascal you married. You'd miss it if I quit.”

“I'm willing to take the chance,” she said. “It's so stupid.”

“And Brownie loves it, don't you, boy?” Joe stood, and the dog
rearranged himself on the kitchen tile. An oval of tepid dog spit had dampened the floor. Joe ignored it and poured himself some coffee. “Want a cup?” he asked cheerfully. “It's fresh. I had it ground at the coffee shop on the way home yesterday.”

“Yeah, sure, thanks. I hope it's not the Colombian—that's too strong.”

“Nope. It's the blend you like so much: Jamaica Me Crazy. Bought it just for you.”

A month into 2011, on a dreary February morning, Neal VanSandt, Lettie's son, was seated in Joe's office, waiting for Lisa to join them, his winter gloves resting one atop the other on his lap. While his mother came off as a clamorous and flamboyant human carnival, Neal was so ordinary as to almost not be there. He was around five-eight, with thinning brown hair and nondescript glasses that slid slightly down his nose and were never adjusted. He was neither heavy nor thin. His clothes fit him well enough but were dull, humdrum. He was cautious, quiet, polite, skittish, almost a vapor. Brownie had scarcely stirred when he entered.

For the past six years, he'd worked at a pest control company in Atlanta, a desk job, scheduling appointments so the technicians could kill roaches and termites and fog whole homes with strong chemicals. According to the last report from Lettie, he'd been dating a woman he met at a flea market booth, a “clean lady with a reliable car.” Truth be told, though, Lettie had never mentioned him all that often.

He tucked his gloves under an arm and stood and shook Lisa's hand when she came in. “Hi, Mrs. Stone,” he said, briefly meeting her eyes. He simultaneously broke their clasp and began withdrawing into his chair.

“Neal.” Lisa nodded at him. “Sorry to see you under these circumstances. Hope your trip was tolerable.” They'd exchanged a few words at Lettie's memorial service, which only six people attended, including the preacher. Lisa had also met Neal in 2007, when Lettie was sick with pneumonia and he was staying at her trailer to watch over her horde of animals and tend to her while she recovered.

“Thanks,” he replied. A glove fell to the floor, and he bent down and retrieved it.

“Well, I'm glad you were finally able to make it to Martinsville so we can take care of your mom's affairs,” Joe noted. “I was getting worried.”

“Yeah, I'm sorry I took, uh, a…” He'd confirmed and rescheduled three other appointments. “Busy at work, you know. A tough drive too. Holidays. Thanks for bein' so understandin'.” He had a noticeable southern accent, blurred and mashed the last syllables of several words.

“No problem,” Joe told him. “Again, we're so sorry about Lettie.”

“She thought the world of you, Mr. Stone,” Neal quickly added. “ ‘You can always count on Joe Stone' was how she put it.”

“She was quite the lady,” Joe said. He paused for a moment, then found a paper clip on his desk and began bending it straight. “As for the business part of things, Neal, like I told you—”

“Do you think it would be okay if I had the reports about Mom? The DNA? Do you have them? The actual papers showin' it was her who died?”

“I do. Absolutely. We'll give you a copy.”

“Great. It's just, well, it's just the kind of stuff I guess a person should have if it involves your mom.”

“Of course,” Joe said.

“I don't mean to be a nuisance.”

“You're not,” Lisa assured him. “We understand.”

Joe had twisted the clip into a straight silver line with two tiny kinks that wouldn't disappear. “As I was saying, I don't have any interest in claiming Lettie's estate. None. The holographic will—the handwritten paper Sheriff Perry found—was created a few days before the date the coroner set for her death. Technically and legally, it's valid and her last will. It specifically states it trumps the document I prepared for her here in the office. I admitted it to probate because it's a legitimate legal document and because someone needed the authority to manage her affairs and pay her debts. That said, I don't intend to accept any benefit or cause any complications for you concerning her property.”

“Thank you,” Neal said. “Awful decent of you.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“There're a lot of strays,” Lisa remarked.

“Yeah,” Neal answered. “A bunch.”

“Have you thought about what you're going to do with them?” Lisa asked.

“Sort of.”

“I've been able to find homes for about half the dogs,” Joe informed him. “The cats are a tougher sell, and despite our best efforts we've had a couple unexpected litters.” He smiled; he and Lisa were planning to take a pair of rambunctious tuxedo kittens to patrol their barn. “The folks from PAWS in Patrick County are going to remove a few more dogs as soon as space opens. In the end, though, you're looking at a serious problem. There are eighteen dogs left, and most of them are old or surly, and several are crippled or missing a leg or some such. One hound mix is blind as can be. Not what the average happy family dropping by in the minivan is looking to adopt. The damn cats seem impossible to place. We've unloaded most of the kittens for you, but there're probably thirty adults still there.”

“Lettie was insistent they be taken care of,” Lisa told him. “You can't dump them or haul them to the pound to catch a needle.” She pinned him with a long stare until he acknowledged her. “Okay?”

“I'm pretty sure I've found a spot in Florida, a rescue kinda deal, and they said they have room. It's called the Ross Sanctuary.” He tipped to his right, reached into his front pocket and removed a folded sheet, printed from the Internet. “I contacted them, and they say they'll help. They'll even come and pick everything up.” He reached forward and offered Joe the paper. “It's in Bradenton. A man named Ross donated the money.”

Joe dropped the paper clip and unfolded the single page and read for several seconds. “Great. This seems perfect. And you've actually talked to them?”

“Yeah.”

“And they'll drive all the way to Virginia to make this happen?” Lisa asked.

“I have to give 'em five hundred dollars for expenses. Fuel and so forth.” Neal glanced at Lisa, then Joe. He jammed his hands together, palm to palm, and began churning and twining them. His fingertips colored red with blood, some underneath his nails. “I'd sorta planned to use the cash in her bank account to pay 'em.”

“Well, Neal, that's just fine; it's your cash.” Joe folded the paper in
half and laid it on his desk. “But you understand we've spent down the money to feed these animals and pay the funeral home and Lettie's last bills? I sent you an accounting. Of the original six thousand dollars, there's only around seventeen hundred left.”

While Joe and Neal were discussing Lettie's bank account, Lisa had swiveled toward Brownie and made rapid, damp, clicking sounds, her tongue soft-tapping against the roof of her mouth, and he'd ambled to her from his pad beside the heat vent. He was parked on his hind legs, and she was raking the black fur all along his neck. “Speaking of assets and money, Neal, we were never able to locate Lettie's strongbox. There might be several hundred dollars hidden in the trailer.”

“I hope I can find it,” Neal said. “Boy, would that ever be nice.”

“So let me know the details,” Joe said, “and we'll help load the animals for this Ross place, and the moment that's done I'll sign a document and renounce my interest. That's the legal term:
renounce
. If there's no will, she would be deemed intestate, and her estate would go to you as her only heir at law.”

“Okay. Yeah. You mentioned how it all works at her service. Thanks for, uh, explainin' it again.”

“Then, it'll be yours,” Lisa added. “The house, the land, her money, her personal property. Together with whatever else she might have.” She stopped rubbing and scratching Brownie, who glanced up, his ears perked, his mouth opened slightly. “Is something the matter, Neal? You seem really uncomfortable.”

“Yeah…yes, ma'am, lawyers make me jumpy. Legal stuff, bein' here. I never had to visit a lawyer before. Not ever. This whole situation makes me right smart nervous.” He licked his lips, then wiped a wrist across his mouth, part shirt cuff, part skin. The lenses of his glasses distorted his eyes, caused them to appear a size or two out of scale.

“No need to worry or be nervous,” Joe told him. “Everything's settled and on track. We're almost at the end.”

“Thanks.” Neal was standing as he spoke. “Thank you both. For now and for your kind help in the past.”

“Are you aware of any other assets?” Lisa asked him. “Anything Joe's giving up that I haven't mentioned?”

“Uh, no. No. Why?” He hesitated and lowered himself back into his chair, tugging at his collar.

“Just curious. Covering the bases. I'm a lawyer, Neal. It's what I spent three years in law school learning to do. Nothing personal.”

“
Is
there something else, Lisa?” Joe asked impatiently. “Do you know something we don't?”

“No. As far as I'm aware, there's nothing else. I'm not trying to be a jerk, but this is Contracts 101. Basic. I figured I should ask.” Her voice was muted, almost meek. “Who knows, maybe Lettie won the lottery before she died. Or has a famous, expensive dog among her collection of curs and strays. Or used her considerable intellect to concoct a potion that will cure whatever ails us. Perhaps there's buried treasure under the mobile home or a long-lost share of a family fortune you're throwing away without even being aware of it. Or…well, you get the picture.”

“Since I handled most of Lettie's business, I have a fairly good idea of what she owned.” Joe twisted his mouth to the side. “But, sure, okay, I suppose we should check. Do you know of anything not on the list I sent you, Neal?”

“No, Mr. Stone. No. The list is right. I don't have any idea about other belongings beyond what you told me she had. There's nothin' else. Nothin'. You know more than I do probably.” He wouldn't look at either Joe or Lisa for very long. “I want to be honest with you.” He gripped the gloves, twisted them as if he were wringing them dry. “The trailer and land and her bank account. Her vehicle. That's it.”

“There you go,” Joe remarked. “I'm sorry if we've upset you. Lisa's simply looking after me. Nothing against you. You calm down and catch your breath, and we'll have this finished and behind us as soon as the animals are taken care of.” Joe stood. “Come on, I'll walk you to the door.” He reached for the sheet with the sanctuary details so he could return it to Neal.

“My apologies as well, Neal,” Lisa said. “I'm sorry you lost your mother and sorry if I seemed pushy. I hope you understand. Joe can occasionally be a little too casual, and I'm very protective of my husband. He's always had a blind spot where Lettie's concerned.” She stood and took a step toward Neal, rested a hand on his shoulder. “I hope you're not cross with me.” Her tone was gentle, soothing. She smiled at him and quit touching his shoulder. He remained in his seat, uneasy about standing with her so close.

“Let's get you out of here,” Joe said. He came around his desk and inserted himself in front of Lisa and walked with Neal down the hall, wished him safe travels and watched as he skedaddled to a small, gray Chevrolet with Georgia plates.

“Damn, Lisa,” he upbraided her when he returned, “the guy's scared of his shadow, a fucking milquetoast, and you decide to grill him. For no reason other than you disliked his daffy mother.”

“Grill him?” she said. “Hardly. I couldn't have been any less confrontational, could I? Seriously? I didn't intend to upset him. I was almost whispering.” She turned her head, briefly glanced off. “I had no idea he'd be so sensitive. And, for sure, I did need to check, right? Ask a few basic questions? Heck, I don't want you suing me for malpractice because I let you give away the store.” She grinned at him.

“I guess so.” They were standing at the threshold to her office, nobody else within earshot. “I appreciate the concern. But what did you expect—can you imagine being reared by Lettie? He's lucky he's as functional as he is.”

“Well, I should've given you a heads-up so we'd have been on the same page, instead of just asking him and blindsiding you. My bad.” She shrugged. “At any rate, at least we'll soon be rid of everything VanSandt. Hallelujah.” She took his hand, swayed into him. “You're a good man, Joe Stone. Somebody has to take care of the simpletons and nuts and cast-off animals.” She kissed his cheek.