Sycamore Row

5

By noon Monday the entire bar association of Ford County was buzzing with the news of the suicide and, much more important, with the curiosity of which firm might be chosen to handle the probate. Most deaths caused similar ripples; a fatal car wreck, more so for obvious reasons. However, a garden-variety murder did not. Most murderers were of the lower classes and thus unable to fork over meaningful fees. When the day began, Jake had nothing-no murders, no car wrecks, and no promising wills to probate. By lunch, though, he was mentally spending some money.

He could always find something to do across the street in the courthouse. The land records were on the second floor, in a long wide room with lined shelves of thick plat books dating back two hundred years. In his younger days, when totally bored or hiding from Lucien, he spent hours poring over old deeds and grants as if some big deal was in the works. Now, though, at the age of thirty-five and with ten years under his belt, he avoided the room when possible. He fancied himself a trial lawyer, not a title checker; a courtroom brawler, not some timid little lawyer content to live in the archives and push papers around a desk. Even so, and regardless of his dreams, there were times each year when Jake, along with every other lawyer in town, found it necessary to get lost for an hour or so in the county’s records.

The room was crowded. The more prosperous firms used paralegals to do the research, and there were several there, lugging the books back and forth and frowning at the pages. Jake spoke to a couple of lawyers who were doing the same-football talk mainly because no one wanted to get caught snooping for the dirt on Seth Hubbard. To kill time, he looked through the Index of Wills to see if any Hubbard of note had handed down land or assets to Seth, but found nothing in the past twenty years. He walked down the hall to the Chancery Clerk’s office with the thought of perusing old divorce files but other lawyers were sniffing around.

He left the courthouse in search of a better source.

It was no surprise that Seth Hubbard hated the lawyers in Clanton. Most litigants, divorce or otherwise, who ran afoul of Harry Rex Vonner were miserable for the rest of their lives and loathed everything about the legal profession. Seth wasn’t the first to commit suicide.

Harry Rex extracted blood, along with money and land and everything else in sight. Divorce was his specialty, and the uglier the better. He relished the dirt, the gutter fighting, the hand-to-hand combat, the thrill of the secret phone recording or the surprise eight-by-ten snapshot of the girlfriend in her new convertible. His trials were trench warfare. His alimony settlements set records. For fun he blew up uncontested divorces and turned them into two-year death marches. He loved to sue ex-lovers for alienation of affection. If none of the dirty tricks in his bag worked, he invented more. With a near monopoly on the market, he controlled the docket and bullied the court clerks. Young lawyers ran from him, and old lawyers, already burned, kept their distance. He had few friends and those who remained loyal often struggled to do so.

Among lawyers, Harry Rex trusted only Jake, and the trust was mutual. During the Hailey trial, when Jake was losing sleep and weight and focus and dodging bullets and death threats and certain he was about to blow the biggest case of his career, Harry Rex quietly stepped into Jake’s office. He stayed in the background, spending hours on the case without looking for a dime. He unloaded volumes of free advice and kept Jake sane.

As always, on Mondays, Harry Rex was at his desk eating a hoagie for lunch. For divorce lawyers like him, Mondays were the worst days as marriages cracked over the weekends and spouses already at war ramped up their attacks. Jake entered the building through a rear door to avoid (1) the notoriously prickly secretaries and (2) the smoke-laden waiting room filled with stressed-out clients. Harry Rex’s office door was closed. Jake listened for a moment, heard no voices, then shoved it open.

“What do you want?” Harry Rex growled as he chomped on a mouthful. The hoagie was spread before him on wax paper, with a small mountain of barbecue potato chips piled around it. He was washing it all down with a bottle of Bud Light.

“Well, good afternoon, Harry Rex. Sorry to barge in on your lunch.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of a beefy hand and said, “You’re not bothering my lunch. What’s up?”

“Drinking already?” Jake said as he backed into a massive leather chair.

“If you had my clients you’d start at breakfast.”

“I thought you did.”

“Never on Mondays. How’s Miss Carla?”

“Fine, thanks, and how’s Miss, uh, what’s her name?”

“Jane, smart-ass. Jane Ellen Vonner, and she’s not only surviving life with me but seems to be having a ball and thankful to be so lucky. Finally found a woman who understands me.” He scooped up a pile of bright red chips and crammed them in his mouth.

“Congratulations. When do I meet her?”

“We’ve been married for two years.”

“I know, but I prefer to wait five. No sense rushing in when these gals have such a short shelf life.”

“You come here to insult me?”

“Of course not.” And Jake was being honest. Swapping insults with Harry Rex was a fool’s game. He weighed over three hundred pounds and lumbered around town like an old bear, but his tongue was stunningly quick and vicious.

Jake said, “Tell me about Seth Hubbard.”

Harry Rex laughed and sent debris flying over his desk. “Couldn’t have happened to a bigger asshole. Why do you ask me?”

“Ozzie said you handled one of his divorces.”

“I did, his second, maybe ten years ago, about the time you showed up here in town and started calling yourself a lawyer. Why should Seth concern you?”

“Well, before he killed himself, he wrote me a letter, and he also wrote a two-page will. Both arrived in the mail this morning.”

Harry Rex took a sip of beer, narrowed his eyes, and thought about this. “You ever meet him?”

“Never.”

“Lucky. You didn’t miss a damned thing.”

“Don’t talk about my client like that.”

“What’d the will say?”

“Can’t tell you, and I can’t probate until after the funeral.”

“Who gets everything?”

“I can’t say. I’ll tell you on Wednesday.”

“A two-page handwritten will prepared the day before the suicide. Sounds like a five-year lawsuit bonanza to me.”

“I sure hope so.”

“That’ll keep you busy for a while.”

“I need the work. What’s the ol’ boy got?”

Harry Rex shook his head while reaching for the hoagie. “Don’t know,” he said, then took a bite. The clear majority of Jake’s friends and acquaintances preferred not to speak with a mouthful of food, but such social graces had never slowed down Harry Rex. “As I recall, and again it’s been ten years, he owned a house up there on Simpson Road, with some acreage around it. The biggest asset was a sawmill and a lumber yard on Highway 21, near Palmyra. My client was, uh, Sybil, Sybil Hubbard, wife number two, and I think it was her second or third marriage.”

After twenty years and countless cases, Harry Rex could still floor people with his recall. The juicier the details, the longer he remembered them.

A quick chug of beer, then he continued: “She was nice enough, not a bad-looking gal, and smart as hell. She worked in the lumber yard, ran the damned thing, really, and it was making good money when Seth decided to expand. He wanted to buy a lumber yard in Alabama and he started spending time over there. Turns out there was a secretary in the front office who had his attention. Everything blew up. Seth got caught with his pants down and Sybil hired me to scorch his ass. Scorch I did. I convinced the court to order the sale of the sawmill and lumber yard near Palmyra. The other one never made money. Got $200,000 for the sale, all of which went to my client. They also had a nice little condo on the Gulf near Destin. Sybil got that too. That’s the skinny version of what happened, but the file is a foot thick. You can go through it if you want.”

“Maybe later. No idea of what his current balance sheet looks like?”

“Nope. I lost track of the guy. He laid low after the divorce. The last time I talked to Sybil she was living on the beach and having fun with another husband, a much younger man, she claimed. She said there were rumors that Seth was back in the timber and lumber business, but she didn’t know much.” He swallowed hard and washed it all down. He burped loudly, without the slightest trace of hesitation or embarrassment, and continued, “You talked to his kids?”

“Not yet. You know them?”

“I did, at the time. They’ll make your life interesting. Herschel is a real loser. His sister, what’s her name?”

“Ramona Hubbard Dafoe.”

“That’s the one. She’s a few years younger than Herschel and part of that north Jackson crowd. Neither one got along well with Seth, and I always got the impression he wasn’t much of a father. They really liked Sybil, their second mom, and once it became apparent Sybil would win the divorce and make off with the money, they fell into her camp. Lemme guess-the old man left them nothing?”

Jake nodded but didn’t say a word.

“Then they’ll freak out and lawyer up. You got a good one brewin’, Jake. Sorry I can’t wedge in and get some of the fee.”

“If you only knew.”

A final bite of the hoagie, then the last of the chips. Harry Rex crushed the wrapper, the bag, the napkins, and tossed them somewhere under his desk, along with the empty beer bottle. He opened a drawer, withdrew a long black cigar and jammed it into the side of his mouth, unlit. He’d stopped smoking them but still went through ten a day, chewing and spitting. “I heard he hung himself. That true?”

“It is. He did a good job of planning things.”

“Any idea why?”

“You’ve heard the rumors. He was dying of cancer. That’s all we know. Who was his lawyer during the divorce?”

“He used Stanley Wade, a mistake.”

“Wade? Since when does he do divorces?”

“Not anymore,” Harry Rex said with a laugh. He smacked his lips and grew serious. “Look, Jake, hate to tell you this, but what happened ten years ago is of no significance whatsoever in this matter. I took all of Seth Hubbard’s money, kept enough for myself, of course, gave the rest to my client, and closed the file. Whatever Seth did after divorce number two is none of my business.” He waved his hand across the landfill on his desk and said, “This, however, is what my Monday is all about. If you wanna get a drink later, fine, but right now I’m swamped.”

A drink later with Harry Rex usually meant something after 9:00 p.m. “Sure, we’ll catch up,” Jake said as he headed for the door, stepping over files.

“Say, Jake, is it safe to assume Hubbard renounced a previous will?”

“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.”