Kinfolk, page 5
“This isn’t nowhere,” Shug said. “Not to me.”
He stared into the thick forest, not far from where he had been raised. The sky was the color of a Steinway. The heavens were peppered with brilliant stars. It had been 5,572 days since he’d seen stars. All he’d done inside was count the days.
“This is home,” said Shug.
“You’ll freeze out here.”
“I could think of worse ways to go.”
“I have orders to drop you at the motel.”
“The motel is two miles from here. I need the exercise.”
The driver seemed to be thinking it through. “You realize, if you don’t get to that motel, you’re violating parole and it’s back in the can.”
Shug slammed the door. “Do you think I want to go back?”
The driver relented, muttered something about not getting paid enough. Then the Chevy drove away, taillights winking out in the distance.
The walk was glorious. Walking. Breathing. Existing. It was the art of being alive, something you could not do in a federal correctional facility. Shug heard the sound of a distant train. He heard the empty hiss of a breeze, fingering its way through dead branches. He walked along County Route 19, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. It had been over a decade since he’d held this duffel bag, a leftover from his army days. He spent two tours in Korea with this bag, carrying it over his shoulder, following the meandering Yalu River on foot, on countless midnight walks with his company. He had been an Explosives Ordnance Disposal Specialist. Uncle Sam sent him to North Gyeongsang to blow stuff up.
He walked two miles until he came to an interstate cutoff with a large, lit-up gas station, a Scotty’s Motor Inn, a Waffle House, and an interstate. It was all brand-new. None of this had been here fifteen years earlier. He felt a pang in his heart when he saw the Waffle House. He knew from letters his ex-wife sent that his daughter worked there.
He checked into the motel and left his duffel bag in his room. He stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and went for a walk.
The strangest addition to the landscape was the interstate. It was too much to take in. He wandered onto the concrete overpass, meandering along the busy shoulder, narrowly avoiding vehicles as they whizzed by. Motorists leaned on their horns when they passed. And it occurred to him that, even though millions of dollars had gone into creating one of the most elaborate road systems known to humankind, none of this highway was designed to accommodate foot traffic.
Another car shot past him and almost hit him.
He jogged across the bridge, out of oncoming traffic. He made it to the parking lot of the Waffle House, where he paused to catch his breath. He was in pitiful physical shape. Some guys spent their time in prison working out and lifting weights. He spent his reading Dashiell Hammett and Bill Shakespeare, trying not to get shanked in the exercise yard.
He pushed open the door to the Abode of Waffles. The dining room was mostly empty except for a few guys in the corner. The place was warm. Hank Senior was singing overhead, as though time had stood still in this room. A waitress reading a magazine barely looked up when he came in. He suddenly found himself nervous at the thought of seeing his little girl.
“Have a seat anywhere,” the waitress said as if by reflex.
He looked at the woman intently. Was this his daughter? No. This woman was too old to be his child. And much too short.
He sat in the empty booth and ordered coffee.
“Ain’t got no coffee,” she said. “We got tea.”
“No coffee?”
She shook her head. “We’re the only place that stayed open after the storm. We didn’t get power back on until yesterday. I got plenty of tea.”
He handed the menu back to her and told her he’d take some tea and some tomato juice if they had that. “Is Minnie Bass working tonight?”
“No.” The woman touched the tip of her pen to her pad. “What do you want to eat?”
“Just give me whatever you have.”
“You’re in luck,” she said, tucking the pad into her apron. “That’s our special tonight.”
The cook at the grill got busy. Shug admired the way the man worked his flat top. He wondered if this man had trained his daughter to do the same. The pleasing sizzle was a wondrous sound to his ears. The waitress brought him hot tea along with a tall glass of tomato juice.
Shug held the juice for a few moments, staring at it. The stuff looked thicker than oatmeal. It had been a long, long time since he’d consumed tomatoes in any form. He drank the juice the way some men shoot bourbon. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he looked at the glass absently. “Oh wow.”
The waitress gave a quizzical glare.
He looked at her. “Sorry. It’s been a while.”
“You want another glass?”
“Yes, please.”
No sooner had she returned with the glass than Shug noticed two men enter the establishment wearing suits and long, black wool coats. Black gloves. Black everything. Dressed in the kind of way people from Park did not dress. They locked eyes with Shug.
“Sit wherever you want,” the waitress said.
The men sat in the corner. They kept their hats and gloves on, never looking away from Shug. When one of them locked eyes with Shug, the man drew an index finger across his own neck.
Chapter 8
The Park Advocate reported that Nub’s truck had hit the water tower so hard that the impact damaged municipal plumbing beneath the pavement. A waterworks specialist had to be called from Birmingham to survey the damage. The city had to wait several days for crews to arrive because of the blizzard’s snowdrifts and lack of power. When the snow finally melted, the town was on a boil-water notice.
Clairmont Avenue shut down while work crews repaired the damage. An Alabama Department of Transportation crew removed surrounding asphalt so that specialized workmen from Tennessee could repair the water mains. Civil engineers had to be consulted. Ironworking specialists joined the party. The city had to rent not one but two crawler cranes to repair the tower. A mechanical engineer was hired. Then an electrical engineer. Then a water sanitation specialist was put on call. Entire crews of utility workers were brought in. Electrical linemen. Journalists. It was a big, hairy, fetid mess.
But the downtown merchants had it the worst. They were projected to lose big bucks in the weeks ahead since roadwork would be blocking all downtown shops during the height of Christmas-shopping season.
So Nub was a popular guy.
On the afternoon he had been released from Baptist Memorial, Deputy Gordon Burke had been waiting for him in the front seat of the county’s Toyota cruiser. The Toyota idled quietly, like a lawn mower. “What do you say, Nub?” Burke had said. “Take a free ride in a Japanese car?”
It was a long, silent ride home.
In any other city Nub would have been put in jail after being released from the hospital. But this was small-town Alabama. The sheriff’s department fined him and that was about all. Then the city hired Nub to repaint the tower so he could actually pay his fine. But when Judge Pittman sentenced Nub to psychotherapy twice every week to “deal with his drinking problem,” Nub was so mad he saw double.
And so it was that Nub entered the Ash County courthouse with his proverbial tail between his legs to begin paying off his fine. This morning the courthouse skeleton staff consisted of Judge Pittman and Marie, the county clerk. Marie sat behind her horseshoe desk with an unamused look on her face as she watched Nub walk through the front door. She was hanging Christmas decorations on the front of her desk. Little red balls and garland.
“Marie,” he said. “You look resplendent today.”
The old woman’s face didn’t change. “Where’d you learn such a big word?”
“I get around, Marie.”
“Is that what you call it?”
Nub smiled. Because what else could he do? He removed the checkbook from the pocket of his Carhartt and started making out a check to the City of Park like he would be doing once every two weeks until he died. Marie watched him carefully. At one time, Marie had been the prettiest thing in Park Union High School. That was hard to believe now, as Marie wore the most awesome head of gray helmet hair ever seen, bringing to mind Aunt Bee after a very long night.
He tore the check from its booklet and leaned onto her desk. “Run away with me, Marie. Let’s stop this charade. You know we’re both crazy about each other.”
“One of us is definitely crazy.”
“We can ditch this place, go to Honolulu, drink fruity drinks, watch the natives dance. Leave this sleet and snow behind us.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t look good in coconuts.”
“Then don’t wear any.”
She took the check from his hands but did not smile when she read it.
“You made the check out to Papk?”
“I think it has a nice ring to it.”
“You’re just full of fun, aren’t you?”
Nub smiled his bruised face at her. “Winning friends and influencing people, Marie.”
He took a seat in the waiting room, and while he was reading a women’s magazine that predated the Hoover administration, a familiar face entered the courthouse. He looked up to see the girl from the hospital.
Minnie Bass’s crow-black hair was pulled back. She wore no jacket, only a T-shirt. She clutched herself like she was chilly. Her pale, bare arms were marbled from the cold. On her feet were Chuck Taylors that had once been red but were now covered in duct tape and stickers and were barely holding together. They looked like size fifteens or sixteens. Her bare toes were showing through the scuffed canvas sides of the shoes. In a few words: she looked poor.
The young woman sat in the chair beside him. Nub caught a whiff of her. She smelled bad too.
“Well, well,” he said. “If it ain’t the one-woman choir.”
She said hello.
He nodded to her feet. “Your toes are sticking out of your shoes.”
She didn’t answer.
“Pretty cold out there to be walking around with bare toes showing, if you ask me. Your mama ought to be ashamed, letting you leave the house like that.”
Minnie did not reply.
Nub read from his magazine for a few more moments before tossing the magazine aside. “Look, I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For anything I might have said that was unsavory the last time we met. I’ve had a pretty hard week. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I just wanted to put that out there.”
No answer. The girl just continued to hug herself and shiver.
“What grade are you in?”
“Ain’t in no grade.”
“You dropped out?” he said.
“I work.”
“Good for you.”
Silence.
“How old are you?”
“Fi-teen.”
Nub was one of those guys who knew no personal boundaries. In another world he might have been a successful brick salesman or a Tupperware magnate. He removed a cigarette from behind his ear, wedged it between his lips, then clicked open his lighter. “Where do you work?”
“Waffle House.”
“On the interstate?”
She nodded.
“How tall are you?” he said.
“Six five.”
“You scared of ceiling fans?”
“Huh?”
It took a few moments for his remark to hit home, but it finally did. She laughed slightly. Nub felt like he had scored some kind of point. He was about to say something else when they were interrupted by a pimply young man in a suit. The court psychologist was staring at Nub. “Mr. Taylor?”
“Pardon me, miss,” he said. “I have to go talk about my feelings.”
She nodded.
Nub stood and removed his oversized Carhartt. He gave it to her. “Here.”
The young woman looked at him for a beat. Her eyes were big and beautiful. Her face was sculpted, reminding him of a Renaissance painting by some famous artist.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“It’s cold, sweetheart.”
She stared at the jacket.
“I don’t want your jacket.”
“I didn’t ask what you wanted.”
“It’s too small for me.”
“I’ll pretend not to be offended by that remark,” he said, draping the jacket across her lap. “If it’s too small, give it to the Salvation Army. That’s where I shop.”
Chapter 9
Emily’s late husband, Charlie Ives, was a jerk. There was really no other way to say it. He had always been a jerk. He had probably come out of the womb being a jerk.
Charlie Ives had been privileged, born with a silver spoon lodged in a familiar crevice of the body. His parents were old money, which was the worst kind. Charlie grew up believing he was a cut above other human beings. Superiority was in his DNA. He treated girls like garbage. He treated people who worked for him like third-world serfs. He treated his clients like toddlers.
A jerk.
And yet Emily had fallen in love with him. She wasn’t even sure how it happened. They’d gone to school together but had run in different circles. She was a science nerd in cat-eye glasses. He was a jock. They had nothing to do with one another for the first part of their educational careers. They were different animals. Then she went to Auburn to study trees and he went to the University of Alabama to chase skirts and drink directly from kegs. But somewhere around college, Emily blossomed from a gawky teen into a full-fledged woman. She started wearing formfitting undergarments, and guys in her college classes started paying attention to her, sometimes even rushing ahead to open the door for her. Such things rarely happened for biology majors.
She graduated with a degree in xylology, then she went to work for the American Longleaf Council as an intern, studying trees. She got to travel. She got to meet interesting people. Her life was going great.
But then he happened.
She and Charlie were reintroduced at a party in Park. He was twenty-two, already on his way to becoming a promising young attorney in his dad’s firm. He had a job in Montgomery, working at the capitol. Charlie Ives was going places. Everyone knew it. He was Park’s most eligible bachelor. Girls would have lined up just to listen to Charlie Ives burp over the phone. Handsome? Good God, yes. But it wasn’t just his looks. It was something else about him. Something in his mannerisms. A characteristic born of deep confidence. The kind of sureness that only money and lifelong Episcopalianism can buy.
The thing about Charlie was that he didn’t care whether you liked him or not, which is of course why all the girls did.
He had fallen in love with her first. He wanted her because she did not want him. And Charlie was not used to losing. Charlie never lost. So he wooed her. He bought flowers. He gave her things. He hired a musical group to sing her a song in a restaurant. He told her she was pretty. He employed the oldest tricks in the book, using status to impress her, and she took the bait. He bragged about how he’d met the governor multiple times, played golf with the president once, and had supper with the prince of Monaco. He told her about the lake cabins his family owned in Virginia, North Carolina, and Upstate New York. The irony was that Emily used to despise girls who cared about stuff like governors and Monacan princes. But each moment she spent around Charlie changed her.
The first thing that changed about her was that she started putting in a lot more time picking her outfits, not because she was worried about how she looked, per se, but because she was worried about how others thought she looked. After all, she was with Charlie Ives now. That carried a responsibility. Hordes of women in Park would have given their right kidney to be on his arm. These women would judge her silently. They would pick apart each ensemble she wore. They would criticize her hairstyle. Her figure.
So Emily started getting her hair done in Birmingham. She spent money on nice makeup that wasn’t drugstore junk. She started wearing contact lenses. She quit her job with the Longleaf Council so that she’d be in Park more often. No longer was she hiking through the woods with a clipboard, collecting tree specimens, studying the exotic properties of sap. She was making herself worthy of Charles William Ives II.
Emily married Charlie Ives at Saint Mark’s. There was a horse-drawn carriage at their wedding. He bought her a Buick. A nice house. A food processor. She had dinner with the governor a few times. She actually met the prince of Monaco.
She was blind. Love is blind. It doesn’t matter what the truth is about someone you love; you see what you want to see in them. She knew he was a jerk, yes. But she chose to see his good qualities. Charlie could be thoughtful, for however long this mood lasted. When he liked you, you were the sun and moon. You were life itself.
A few years later she gave birth to Charlie Jr. The young couple moved into his parents’ old house on the corner of Fifth and Bellville. She hired an interior decorator. She got a job at the high school teaching biology.
Nine years into their marriage, Charlie Ives died.
His death was labeled a freak accident by the Advocate. But it wasn’t a freak anything. Charlie’s boat battery died while he was fishing on Lake Jackson. He docked the skiff at the cabin dock in shallow water and used a plug-in charger, attached to shore power, to recharge the battery. Charlie hooked jumper cables to a 120-volt plug, grasped the leads, leaped into the water, and waded toward his boat. Holding two live wires in his hands.
He made Emily a thirty-six-year-old widow. He left her with a kid to raise and a six-bedroom house. A house that, right now, was hosting yet another party.
Life as an Ives was all about parties. It was what you did. It was who you were. Currently the mansion was alive with social energy, crashing against the walls like breakers on the shore. There were people everywhere, holding drinks, eating from trays.
This particular party was an annual thing the Ives family held for the Iron Bowl game. Charlie’s father had started the tradition. Downstairs, sixty adults and twenty-some kids were nestled in different sections of the house, drinking sodas, beer, and wine, eating corn chips, slopping up onion dip by the metric ton, ruining her carpets, laughing too loudly, and trying hard to impress each other.
