Death's Half Acre

CHAPTER 10

No one knows what’s going on. A sense of drama

Seems inviting, but nothing happens.

—Paul’s Hill, by Shelby Stephenson

FRIDAY NOON

When Dwight and I remodeled the house to add a new bedroom, bath, and two walk-in closets, he’d had the usual male reaction while helping me switch closets.

“I didn’t know I was marrying Imelda Marcos,” he said. “Who needs twenty-three boxes of shoes?”

I laughed. “This from a guy who has about three dozen old ties hanging in his own closet?” I took the boxes from him and stacked them on the shelves, happy that he hadn’t noticed that at least four of those twenty-three boxes held two pairs of summer sandals.

Fancy Footwork is the moderately priced shoe store that used to get a big chunk of my income till I became an old married lady. I haven’t dared step foot in it since I ordered satin slippers to match my wedding dress back before Christmas, but they were having their big semiannual sale, so I decided to skip lunch that day and feed my shoe appetite instead. Besides, I rationalized, hadn’t I broken the heel on my favorite pair of boots? This was the time to replace them. And I hadn’t spent a penny on the blue plaid summer dress Aunt Zell made me, so surely I’d still be ahead if I accidentally came across shoes that matched the scrap of blue cloth in my purse?

As I drove through town, headed for the mall on the outskirts of Dobbs, I saw in the lane far ahead of me a beat-up old red pickup. Trucks like that are by no means unique to the area, which is why Daddy likes his so much. Goes with the I’m-just-a-poor-ol’-farmer image that he likes to hide behind. More than once, I’ve overtaken similarly battered trucks only to see a complete stranger at the wheel, so I didn’t bother to try to catch up to this one, especially when it continued on past the first entrance to the mall parking lot.

While I waited in the left turn lane for the green light, I saw that pickup signal for a left turn at the far end of the parking lot and when I had parked and glanced down that way, I saw my father’s tall figure, topped by his trademark straw panama. For a brief moment, I hesitated between shopping for shoes and seeing if he wanted to grab a bite of lunch together.

Shoes won.

The store was crowded and yes, there were bargains, but none I could justify and nothing that really called out to me. I did find a pair of boots that were exactly what I wanted. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any left in my size. I put my scrap of blue cloth next to several pairs of sandals and was amused to see Jamie Jacobson on the other side of the rack trying to match the same sandals to a blue silk scarf. We agreed on the difficulty of finding the right shade of blue and that we ought to get together for lunch again soon.

“Have a good weekend,” she said as she held her scarf next to a pair of aqua flats.

“You, too,” I said.

Ten minutes after entering the store, I was back outside and in my car. Two minutes after that, I was parking it alongside Daddy’s truck.

I hadn’t watched to see which store he’d gone into. It was a fairly safe bet though that he wasn’t there for maternity clothes or computers. That left the pawnshop in the middle and before you start thinking cheap guitars and zircon rings, think again. This one was more like a consignment shop for expensive jewelry and tabletop accessories such as silver boxes and leaded crystal candlesticks.

As I entered the store, several women were browsing the front display cases and a clerk was helping a white-haired woman select from a tray of antique cameo pins. I saw Daddy in consultation with someone at the rear. They were so absorbed in the object on the counter between them that they were not immediately aware of my presence and I heard the other man say, “—estate jewelry in New York. Maybe thirty thousand retail, but down here in this market, I could only get twenty for the pair.”

“Hey, Daddy,” I said and the object disappeared into his pocket, but not before I caught the flash of a glittery earring.

The other man immediately dropped his jeweler’s loupe into the breast pocket of his jacket.

I felt suddenly awkward, as if I’d crashed a party to which I was definitely not invited.

“I saw you come in and thought I’d see if you wanted to come have a sandwich with me,” I said.

“Naw,” he said brusquely. “I ate ’fore I come. You go on ahead though. I reckon you need to get back to the courthouse.”

I knew from that tone of voice that there was no use asking any questions and at that point, I was too confused to know what to ask.

Instead, I stood on tiptoe to kiss his leathery cheek and said maybe Dwight and I would see him that weekend.

Then I went back outside and drove my car out the nearest exit onto the highway where I merged with traffic, circled the block, and reentered the parking lot a fair distance from that store. I slid into a space amid a bunch of similar cars and scrunched down in the seat to watch. It was another seventeen minutes before Daddy came out and got in his truck.

What the hell was he up to? And where did he get a pair of diamond earrings worth twenty thousand retail? The only jewelry he had ever given my mother were modest tokens of his love—a gold bracelet, earrings set with tiny sapphires, a silver necklace. So far as I knew, her only diamonds had been a band of small ones on their twenty-fifth anniversary, a ring that could not have cost more than a couple of thousand tops.

When he pulled out onto the highway, I was six or seven cars behind him. I stayed way back and followed him through town until it seemed apparent that he was headed back toward Cotton Grove and home.

By then it was ten minutes till I was due to resume court, so I did a U-turn in front of a service station.

No shoes, no sandwich, no notion as to what my daddy was up to.