Sycamore Row (10 page)

Simeon Lang was drinking but he was not drunk, a distinction that was often blurred but generally understood by his family. Drinking
meant behavior that was somewhat controlled and not threatening. It meant he was slowly sipping beer with glassy eyes and a thick tongue. Being drunk meant harrowing times with people running from the house and hiding in the trees. And, to his credit, he was often cold sober, the preferred state, even for Simeon.

After three weeks on the road, hauling loads of scrap iron throughout the Deep South, he had returned with a paycheck intact, tired and clear-eyed. He offered no explanation of where he had been; he never did. He tried to appear content, even domesticated, but after a few hours of bumping into other people, and of listening to Cypress, and of deflecting the rejections of his wife, he ate a sandwich and moved outdoors with his beer, to a spot under a tree beside the house where he could sit in peace and watch the occasional car go by.

Returning was always a struggle. Out there, on the open road, he would dream for hours of a new life somewhere, always a better life alone and unbothered. He’d been tempted a thousand times to keep driving, to drop his freight at its destination and never slow down. His father left them when he was a kid, left a pregnant wife and four children and was never heard from. For days Simeon and his older brother sat on the porch, hiding tears, waiting. As he grew, he hated his father, still did, but now he too was feeling the urge to run away. His kids were much older; they would survive.

On the road he often asked himself why he felt the pull of home. He hated living in a cramped rental house with his mother-in-law, two rotten grandkids he didn’t ask for, and a wife who nagged him for more out of life. Lettie had threatened divorce a hundred times in the past twenty years, and to him it was a miracle they were together. You wanna split, then let’s have a split, he said as he took a sip. But he’d said that a hundred times too.

It was almost dark when she stepped out of the house onto the rear patio and slowly made her way across the grass to his tree. He sat in one of two mismatched lawn chairs, his feet propped on an old milk crate, his beer cooler next to him. He offered her the other chair but she declined.

“How long you home?” she asked softly as she stared at the road, like him.

“I just got home and you’re ready for me to leave.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Simeon. Just curious, that’s all.”

He wasn’t about to answer the question so he took another sip. They were rarely alone together, and when they were they couldn’t
remember how to talk. A car passed slowly on the county road and they watched it as though fascinated. Finally, she said, “I’m probably gonna lose my job tomorrow. I told you Mr. Hubbard killed himself, and his family don’t want me around past tomorrow.”

Simeon had mixed feelings about this. It made him feel superior because once again he would be the principal breadwinner, the head of the house. He despised the way Lettie took on airs when she was earning more than he was. He resented her bitching and chirping when he was out of work. Even though she was only a housekeeper, she could get arrogant when acting like a white man trusted her so thoroughly. But, the family needed the money, and losing her wages would inevitably lead to trouble.

He struggled to say “I’m sorry.”

There was another long, silent gap. They could hear voices and noise from inside the house. “Any word from Marvis?” he asked.

She dropped her head and said, “No, it’s been two weeks and no letter.”

“Did you write him?”

“I write him every week, Simeon, you know that. When’s the last time you wrote him?”

Simeon seethed but held his fire. He was proud of himself for coming home sober, and he wouldn’t ruin it with a fight. Marvis Lang, age twenty-eight, two years in the pen with at least ten to go. Drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon.

A car approached and slowed, then slowed some more as if the driver wasn’t sure. It moved a few feet, then turned in to their driveway. There was enough sunlight left to reveal it to be an odd make, definitely foreign, and red in color. The engine was turned off and a young white man got out, alone. He was wearing a white shirt with a loosened tie. He carried nothing, and after walking a few feet seemed uncertain of where he was.

“Over here,” Simeon called out, and the young man stiffened as if scared. He had not seen them under the tree. He proceeded cautiously across the small front yard. “Looking for Ms. Lettie Lang,” he said loud enough for them to hear.

“I’m over here,” she said as he came into view. He walked to within ten feet and said, “Hello, my name is Jake Brigance. I’m a lawyer in Clanton and I need to speak to Lettie Lang.”

“You were at the funeral today,” she said.

“I was, yes.”

Simeon reluctantly climbed to his feet and the three exchanged awkward handshakes. Simeon offered him a beer, then returned to his seat. Jake declined the beer, though he would have enjoyed one. He was, after all, there on business.

Lettie said, without being edgy, “I’m sure you’re not just passin’ through our little corner of the world.”

“No, no I’m not.”

“Brigance,” Simeon said, sipping. “Didn’t you represent Carl Lee Hailey?”

Aw, the old icebreaker, at least with black folks. “I did,” Jake said modestly.

“I thought so. Good job. Great job.”

“Thanks. Look, I’m actually here on business, and, well, I need to speak with Lettie here in private. No offense or anything, but I have to tell her something confidential.”

“What is it?” she asked, confused.

“Why is it private?” Simeon asked.

“Because the law says it is,” Jake replied, fudging a bit. The law had nothing to do with this situation. In fact, as he muddled through this encounter he began to realize that his big news perhaps wasn’t so confidential after all. There was no doubt Lettie would tell her husband everything before Jake pulled out of the driveway. The last will and testament of Seth Hubbard was now a public record and would be scrutinized by every lawyer in town within twenty-four hours. Where was the privacy, the confidentiality?

Simeon angrily tossed a beer can against the tree, sending a line of foam across the trunk. He bolted to his feet, growling, “All right, all right,” as he kicked the milk crate. He reached into the cooler, grabbed another beer, and stomped away, mumbling and cursing under his breath. The shadows consumed him as he moved deeper into the trees, no doubt watching and listening.

Lettie, almost whispering, said, “Very sorry about that, Mr. Brigance.”

“No problem. Look, Ms. Lang, there is a very important matter we need to discuss as soon as possible, preferably tomorrow in my office. It’s about Mr. Hubbard and his last will and testament.”

Lettie bit her bottom lip as she stared wild-eyed at Jake. Tell me more.

Jake continued: “The day before he died, he made a new will, one that he dropped in the mail so I would receive it after his death.
It appears to be a valid will, but I’m sure it will be contested by his family.”

“Am I in his will?”

“You certainly are. In fact, he left a sizable portion of his estate to you.”

“Oh God.”

“Yes. He wants me to be the lawyer for his estate, and I’m sure that will be contested too. That’s why we need to talk.”

Her right hand covered her mouth as she mumbled, “Oh my Lord.”

Jake looked at the house where the light from its windows cut through the darkness. A shadow moved beyond it, probably Simeon circling around. Jake had the sudden desire to hop in the old Saab and cut a trail quickly back to civilization.

She asked, nodding, “Should I tell him?”

“That’s up to you. I would have included him but I’ve heard stories about his drinking. Didn’t know what shape he’s in right now. But, to be honest, Ms. Lang, he’s your husband and he should come with you tomorrow. That is, if he’s in good shape.”

“He’ll be in good shape, I promise.”

Jake handed her a business card and said, “Anytime tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in my office waiting.”

“We’ll be there, Mr. Brigance. And thank you for comin’ here.”

“It’s very important, Ms. Lang, and I felt like I needed to meet you. We could be in for a long, hard fight together.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I know. I’ll explain it tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brigance.”

“Good night.”

7

After a quick, late supper of grilled cheese and tomato soup, Jake and Carla cleared the table and cleaned the dishes (there was no dishwasher), and eventually settled in the den, which began where the kitchen left off, some six feet away from the dining table. Three years (plus) in tight living quarters required a constant reassessment of priorities and attitudes, along with a vigilance against edginess. Hanna helped tremendously. Small children care little for the material things that so impress adults; as long as both parents are doting, little else matters. Carla helped her with spelling and Jake read her stories, and as they tag-teamed through the evening they also caught up with the daily papers and the cable news. At 8:00 p.m. on the dot, Carla gave her a bath, and thirty minutes later Hanna was tucked snugly into bed by both parents.

Alone at last and wrapped together under a quilt on the rickety sofa, Carla said, “Okay, what’s up?”

Jake, flipping through a sports magazine, replied, “What do you mean ‘What’s up?’ ”

“Don’t play dumb. Something’s up. A new case maybe? A new client who can pay a decent fee, or perhaps even a huge fee that might rescue us from poverty? Please.”

Jake flung the quilt onto the floor and jumped to his feet. “Well, as a matter of fact, my dear, there’s a good chance we’ve just stiff-armed poverty.”

“I knew it. I can always tell when you sign up a good car wreck. You get twitchy.”

“It’s not a car wreck.” Jake was thumbing through his briefcase. He pulled out a file and handed her some papers. “It’s a suicide.”

“Oh that.”

“Yes, that. Last night I told you about the unfortunate demise of Mr. Seth Hubbard, but what I didn’t tell you was that before he died he did a quickie will, mailed it to my office, and designated me as the lawyer for his estate. I probated it late this afternoon. It’s now public record, so I can talk about it.”

“And this is the guy you never met?”

“Correct.”

“A guy you never met but you went to his funeral this afternoon?”

“You got it.”

“Why did he pick you?”

“Brilliant reputation. Just read the will, please.”

One glance and she said, “But it’s handwritten.”

“No kidding?”

Jake re-entangled himself with his wife on the sofa and watched her intently as she read the two-page will. Slowly, her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened, and when she finished she looked at Jake in disbelief and mumbled, “ ‘Perish in pain’? What a jerk.”

“Evidently so. Never met the man, but Harry Rex handled his second divorce and he doesn’t think much of Mr. Hubbard.”

“Most people don’t think much of Harry Rex.”

“This is true.”

“Who’s Lettie Lang?”

“His black housekeeper.”

“Oh my gosh, Jake. This is scandalous.”

“I sure hope so.”

“Does he have money?”

“Did you read the part where he says, ‘My estate is substantial’? Ozzie knew him and seems to agree. I’m driving to Temple early in the morning to meet with Mr. Russell Amburgh, the executor. I’ll be a lot smarter by noon.”

She sort of waved the two sheets of paper and asked, “Is this valid? Can you make a will like this?”

“Oh yes. Wills and Estates 101, taught for fifty years by Professor Robert Weems at the Ole Miss Law School. He gave me an A. As long as every word is written by the deceased, and signed and dated, it’s a real will. I’m sure it’ll be contested by his two kids, but that’s where the fun starts.”

“Why would he leave virtually everything to his black housekeeper?”

“I guess he liked the way she cleaned his house. I don’t know. Maybe she did more than clean.”

“Meaning?”

“He was sick, Carla, dying of lung cancer. I suspect Lettie Lang cared for him in a lot of ways. Obviously, he was fond of her. His two kids will lawyer up and howl about undue influence. They’ll claim she got too close to him, whispered in the old guy’s ear, and maybe more. It’ll be up to the jury.”

“A jury trial?”

Jake was smiling, dreaming. “Oh yes.”

“Wow. Who knows about this?”

“I filed the petition at five this afternoon, so the gossip hasn’t started. But I reckon by nine in the morning the courthouse will be alive.”

“This’ll blow the top off the courthouse, Jake. A white man with money cuts out his family, leaves it all to his black housekeeper, then hangs himself. Are you kidding?”

He was not. She read the will again as her husband closed his eyes and thought about the trial. When she finished, she placed the two sheets of paper on the floor, then glanced around the room. “Just curious, dear, but how are your fees determined in a case like this? Forgive me for asking.” She sort of waved a loose arm as she took in the narrow room, the flea market furniture, the cheap bookshelves sagging and overloaded, the fake Persian rug, the secondhand curtains, the stack of magazines piled on the floor, the general shabbiness of renters with better taste but no way to prove it.