Red Clover (9 page)

He drove down Diggens Street toward the outskirts of town. When he saw his uncle’s monogram, he slowed down, taking in the vastness of it. After continuing another mile until reaching Attenberg Road, he turned left and went another mile. He tried to imagine why his uncle had put so many signs around the property: there had to be at least a hundred of them. When he reached the end of the fence line, he pulled over and got out of his car. Unable to see the whole property from this vantage point, he hopped the fence and walked into the scruffy vegetation for a better look.

Twenty minutes later, when he had reached the highest point of the acreage, he realized the property was a mixture of wildflowers, prairie shrubs, grasses, and several small groves of trees. He stood there for several minutes, enjoying the cool breeze against his face, the sound of distant songbirds, and the satisfying feeling of standing on earth he actually owned. When he saw movement in the grass ten feet from him, he froze. And when he saw a black cat peeking from behind a low shrub, he laughed.

“Hey there, fella. What are you doing on my property?”

The cat ran off.

He scanned the property from one end to the other. “Now what the hell am I supposed to do with all this?” he said aloud.

Sighing deeply, he turned around to head back toward his car. About twenty-five feet in front of him stood a uniformed sheriff, his gun drawn, muscles bulging beneath his shirt.

“You’re trespassing, son,” the officer declared without removing his dark wraparound sunglasses.

Not exactly the Harvard, Illinois, greeting Lee had expected.

He put his hands in the air. “Actually, I’m not, Officer. You see, I—”

“Shut up. Kneel down, and put your hands behind your back.”

He did as he was told. The officer cuffed him, then helped him to his feet and patted him down.

“I can explain why I’m here, Officer.”

“You can explain it at the station.” The officer guided him along the fence line back toward the road.

“What about my car?”

“It won’t go anywhere.”

Lee got into the back seat of the sheriff’s car and kept silent on the ride to the station, his heart pounding high in his chest.

When they arrived at the station, Lee was escorted to a room no bigger than his Lake Geneva bedroom. The nameplate on the desk read BERNARD DERAM. The sheriff removed the cuffs and asked Lee for his ID. Lee handed over his driver’s license.

The sheriff stared at the document and took off his hat to reveal a military-style flat top haircut. “Winekoop,” he said. “Now would you like to tell me what you were doing trespassing on that property? And don’t lie to me. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a liar.”

“Nelson Sedgwick is, I mean
was,
my great uncle. He left me that property in his will.”

DeRam stared at him with a skeptical eye. “The man who owns that property is not a Sedgwick. That’s how much you know. His name is...never mind what his name is. Who do you take me for, boy, some kind of moron?”

Lee thought for a moment before responding, realizing he had better be careful what he said. “We can call my uncle’s attorney. He’ll vouch for me.”

“
We
don’t have to call anyone.
You
need to prove you have the right to be on the property. That’s how it works around here. Do you have a deed?”

“I don’t have it yet, but if you allow me to call my uncle’s attorney, like I said, I am sure he will straighten things out.”

The sheriff pointed to the phone. “Make your call.”

Lee explained his situation to the attorney, then turned to DeRam and asked, “Would you like verbal or a faxed written verification that I am the legal owner of the property?”

“Gimme the phone,” he grunted.

The sheriff took the phone and said nothing for several seconds. “How do I know you’re even legit?” After a few more seconds, he said, “No, that won’t be necessary. Goodbye.”

He slid Lee’s license across the desk. “You’re free to go.”

“What about my car?”

“What about it?”

“It’s across town. How am I supposed to get there?”

“It’s not that far. You can walk, can’t you...you being a Winekoop and all?”

Lee held his breath for a moment, wishing he could knock the mile-high chip on the sheriff’s shoulder right off.

“Thank you, Officer. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.” He turned toward the door and left the station. “Asshole,” he said under his breath when he was ten steps outside of the building.

“What did you say?” Lee turned around to see DeRam in the doorway.

“I said I’m certainly going to enjoy the walk back to my car, Officer.”

“You know, partner, it looks like you now own about twenty percent of this town, land-wise that is. I suggest you don’t let that go to your head.”

Lee smiled. “Wouldn’t think of it.” He gave the sheriff a sloppy salute before he turned toward the road.

It took him over an hour to find his car, having not paid attention to the location of the sheriff’s station in relationship to where he had parked. When he finally reached the vehicle, he slammed his fist on the front fender, wincing in pain afterwards and getting angry with himself for hurting his hand.

Once in his Datsun, he headed straight for Deer Bottom Inn, thinking a cold beer was just what he needed. Not to mention a friendly face, like that of CJ, the sassy bartender.

But the bartender on duty was an older man…wearing no smile.

“What’ll it be?”

“Budweiser.”

He handed Lee the beer.

“CJ’s not here today?” Lee asked.

“Not her shift.”

So much for a friendly face.

Lee glanced at his watch. The bar closed at two. If CJ worked the second shift, that meant she probably didn’t get to work until six or so. Disappointed, he finished his beer and went home to the lavish surroundings he hated more and more each day. As he drove up to the house, he pictured himself pitching a tent on his new property and living there instead, maybe next to the stream on the northwest corner.

Ha! I wonder what dear old Father would think of that.

 “You’ll know what to do with it to make it worthy,” Uncle Nelson had written. A tent could be considered worthy...well, maybe not to everyone.

He headed for the study to find a dictionary.

Worthy,
adjective

1. having adequate or great merit, character, or value.

2. of commendable excellence or merit; deserving.

Merit,
noun

1. claim to respect and praise; excellence; worth.

2. something that deserves a reward or commendation; a commendable quality, act, etc.

Value,
noun

1. relative worth, merit, or importance.

2. monetary or material worth, as in commerce or trade.

He ran out of words to look up, and he still didn’t know how to interpret his uncle’s message.

The phone interrupted his thoughts. Sonya entered the study to announce Mr. Basil Stonebugger as the caller. After a short conversation, Lee and Mr. Stonebugger had arranged to meet the following afternoon in Chicago. Lee looked forward to the meeting, hoping Stonebugger would be able to shed some light on what he was supposed to do with 684 acres of land.

Shaneta entered the study. “What would you like for dinner, Mista Lee?” she asked in her thick Jamaican accent. Shaneta, who looked to be in her fifties, had been with the family for more than ten years and knew what he did and didn’t like to eat.

What he really wanted for dinner was one of Deer Bottom Inn’s greasy cheeseburgers served to him by CJ, the only person in the world he could even remotely call a friend at this point.

“You know what I like, Shaneta. Just surprise me.”

He didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want Shaneta to cook for him. He didn’t want to run into the maid everywhere he went. He didn’t want to see the groundskeeper mowing the lawn or trimming the damn bushes.

He decided to wait until after eight o’clock to head back to the inn. If he spent a few hours there, by the time he got home, it would be time to go to bed. A fitting plan.

As soon as he walked in, he glimpsed CJ behind the bar.

“What’ll it be my friend? A Bud?” she asked before Lee had even sat down.

He nodded.

She had a toughness, yet also a softness, about her. “You got it.”

He took the bar stool on the end between the wall and the flip-top opening on the bar that allowed the bartenders to go in and out, presumably the least desirable seat at the bar for most people. Lee liked it because it put a safe distance between him and the other customers.

CJ slid the glass ten feet down the bar, making Lee smile when it landed directly in front of him.

“I don’t know how you do that every time.”

“Years of practice,” she said as she turned to wait on other customers.

A few minutes later, she came over to Lee and asked, “So what’s new in Lake Geneva?” She said the name of the town as if it left a bitter taste in her mouth. He wondered if she wanted to talk to him because she enjoyed his company, or if the generous tip he had given the previous time had something to do with it.

“Actually, I spent most of today in Harvard. Do you know anything about that town?”

She seemed to tense up at that question. Half grimacing, half smiling, she said, “The only thing I know about that town, darlin’, is their Milk Days.”

“Their what?”

“Every summer they have this major celebration, because they’re the milk capital of the world or something. At least that’s what they claim. With a parade and a dairy queen and tractor pulls and—this will getcha—they have bed races.”

“Bed races.”

“I swear to you. I couldn’t make that up,” she said as she slipped clean wine glasses in the overhead racks. “They race beds, and they whitewash the streets...to look like milk, I guess. I took my kids there last year for the first time, and they had a ball, but the whole thing seemed kinda lame to me.”

“Milk Days.”

“Milk Days. Hey, do me a favor.” She slid a quarter across the bar. “Play ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ for me, will ya?” She turned to wait on other customers.

When she returned twenty minutes later, she had a fresh glass of Bud in her hand. “On the house,” she said and walked away.

He watched her banter with the other customers—animated, always smiling, and quick with the smart-aleck remarks. She talked in slang and enunciated her words poorly, but for some reason, he didn’t find it displeasing coming from her. She had a figure that would beckon most men, but it was her uninhibited, easy-going style, and that zany sort of charm she had about her that Lee found most attractive. Or maybe it was her honest face or her no-nonsense approach to things. CJ was everything he wasn’t. Maybe that was it.

She made her way back to him. “You know what I think?”

Lee shook his head.

She leaned in and whispered, “I think you’re new at this.”

“With what?”

“You know, sitting at a bar in the middle of Boring Town USA and throwin’ back a few cold ones with the locals.”

He laughed. “So what gave me away?”

“Oh, just about everything, I suppose.” She smiled big and clapped her hands. “Hey everyone,” she shouted above the other conversations going on in the room. “This here’s Lee, and he’s new in these parts. Let’s make him feel like he’s one of us!”

Suddenly, he didn’t like CJ so much.

The room got quiet. He studied the other customers, all of whom were gaping at him with solemn faces. He forced his mouth into a weak smile and held on to it just long enough to let them know he had a sense of humor. They all returned his half-hearted smile. He raised his eyebrows. They all raised their eyebrows. He picked up his glass of beer and took a sip. Everyone in the bar did the same. Lee raised his shoulders and let out an audible sigh. So did everyone else.

“Okay, okay. You got me,” he said through a more genuine smile.

In amazingly close unison, they all said, “Okay, okay. You got me.”

CJ doubled over in hysterics behind the bar.

“You’re immature, CJ,” he said.

Everyone said, “You’re immature, CJ.”

“Okay, how do I get this to stop?”

Someone from the opposite end of the bar yelled, “Buy the bar a round!”

Lee didn’t know if the man was serious or not. “I think you should all buy
me
one for going along with this silly-ass prank!” he shouted.

With that, everyone laughed and went about their business. Joke over.

CJ waltzed over to him, still laughing, “So do you feel more at home now?”

“Very funny.”

“You know, you’re not half bad lookin’ when you smile.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I think deep down you enjoyed it.” She gave him a friendly smile. “Admit it.”

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

“Maybe.” She poured him another beer. “My father used to call it a little south of center.”

“South of center?”

“You know, when someone isn’t quite in the so-called normal range.” She paused a moment. “Know what else my father taught me?”

“What’s that?”

She leaned in close to him and whispered, “It should never be your goal to be normal. It should be your goal to be whole.” She backed away from him and stared at him for a few seconds. “Ya know what? I think from now on I’m going to call you Soc. S-O-C, for south of center. No, Socrates. Soc for short.”

“Soc?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re too clever.”

“I try.” She picked up a glass, washed it under the faucet, and dried it while she talked. “So, Socrates, what did you do in Harvard today that took all day?”

“I own some property there. I was checking it out.”

“Like it was going to go somewhere?”

“First time I ever saw it actually.”

“What kind of property?”

“A few acres of undeveloped land is all.”

“How many is a few?”