The Reckoning

by John Grisham

  A few hymns, a brief sermon, some scripture, and it was over in less than an hour, as promised by the minister. As Miss Emma Faye Riddle began her last mournful number, the congregation rose, and the closed casket was pushed down the center aisle, followed by Joel and Stella, arm in arm. Behind them Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney held each other and tried to keep themselves together. Behind them were other members of the Sweeney family, but no Bannings. Florry was at home in bed. The rest of the small family was rapidly dying off. Of course, none of the coloreds were allowed inside the church.

  As Joel trailed the casket, and the organ played, and the ladies cried, he was aware of the many stares. Near the rear, he glanced to his right, and in the back row was the prettiest face he had ever seen. Mary Ann Malouf had made the trip from Oxford with a sorority sister to pay her respects. Seeing her was the only pleasant moment of the day. Stepping into the vestibule, he told himself that one day he would marry that girl.

  An hour later, a small crowd gathered at Old Sycamore for the interment. Just the family, a few friends, Amos and Nineva, Marietta, and a dozen other Negroes who lived on the land. Florry insisted on being there, but Joel insisted that she remain in the pink cottage. Joel was very much in charge now, making decisions that he had no desire to make. After a prayer, some scripture, and the same haunting rendition of “Amazing Grace” by Marietta, four men lowered Liza’s casket into the ground, less than a foot from the one holding the remains of her husband. Side by side, they could now rest together for eternity.

  She was as responsible for his death as he was for hers. Above them, they left behind two fine children who didn’t deserve to be punished for the sins of their parents.

  * * *

  —

  The week after the funeral was Thanksgiving. Joel sorely needed to return to law school and start cramming for finals, though as a third-year student he was coasting with a much easier schedule. On Monday, he and Stella drove to Oxford. He met with the dean and laid it all on the table. Some rather complicated family matters had to be dealt with, and he needed to be excused for a few more days. The dean knew what was happening, was sympathetic, and promised arrangements could be made. Joel was in the top 10 percent of his class and would graduate the following May.

  While in Oxford, Joel invited Mary Ann to lunch at the Mansion to meet his sister. Driving over, he had admitted to Stella his feelings for the girl, and Stella was delighted her brother was finally involved in a serious romance. Since their mother’s breakdown and the death of their father, the two had talked more, and more openly. They leaned on each other and held back little. As Bannings, they had been raised to say almost nothing, but those days were gone. There had always been too many secrets in the family.

  The two young ladies were immediate friends. In fact, they bonded so quickly and talked and laughed so much that Joel was astonished. He said little during lunch because he hardly got the chance. Driving home, Stella told him he’d better get a ring on her finger before someone else did. Joel said he wasn’t worried. The lunch lifted their somber spirits, but by the time they crossed into Ford County they were thinking about their mother again, and the conversation died. When Joel turned in to the drive, he inched along the gravel and stopped halfway to the house. He turned off the motor and they looked at their home.

  Stella finally spoke. “I never thought I would say this, but I really don’t like this place now. The happy memories are all gone, shattered by what’s happened. I never want to set foot in that house again.”

  “I think we should burn it,” Joel said.

  “Don’t be stupid. Are you serious?”

  “Sort of. I can’t stomach the idea of Jackie Bell and her kids and that creep McLeish living here. He’ll become the gentleman farmer, a real big shot. That’s hard to swallow.”

  “But you’re never going to live here again, right, Joel?”

  “Right.”

  “Nor am I. So what difference does it make? We’ll come back when we have to and visit Florry, but after she’s gone I’ll never come back.”

  “What about the cemetery?”

  “What about it? How are we supposed to benefit from staring at old tombstones and wiping tears? They’re dead, and it’s painful because they shouldn’t be dead, but they’re gone, Joel. I’m trying to forget how they died and remember how they lived. Let’s remember the good times, if that’s possible.”

  “It seems impossible now.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “It’s all moot, Stella. We’re losing the place anyway.”

  “I know. Just sign the deed and get it over with. I’m going back to the big city.”

  * * *

  —

  The headmistress at St. Agnes was sympathetic too, and told Stella she would be excused for the week. She was expected back the Sunday after Thanksgiving.

  They stayed in the pink cottage and away from their house. Marietta roasted a turkey and prepared all the side dishes and pies, and they worked hard to get through the day in a grateful spirit. Florry was rallying and trying to enjoy the time with them.

  Early Friday morning, Joel loaded Stella’s bags into the Pontiac, and they hugged their aunt good-bye. They stopped at Old Sycamore and had a tear. At their house, Stella hurried inside for a hug with Nineva; then they were off.

  She had insisted on taking the train to D.C., but Joel would have none of it. She was quite fragile—weren’t they all?—and he did not want her sitting alone on a train for hour after hour. They needed the time together, so a road trip was in order. As they left the farm and turned onto the highway, Stella looked at her home and the fields around them. She hoped to never return.

  And she never would.

  * * *

  —

  Dead judges were replaced by the governor, who appointed interims until the next round of elections. Governor Fielding Wright, who had witnessed Pete’s execution two and a half years earlier, was flooded with the usual requests for patronage after the death of Chancellor Rumbold. One of Wright’s biggest supporters in north Mississippi was none other than Burch Dunlap, who was lobbying hard for a Tupelo sidekick named Jack Shenault. Dunlap had a plan to collect a quick, lucrative fee from the Banning case, and he needed Shenault on the bench.

  In early December, while Joel was sweating through final exams at Ole Miss, Governor Wright appointed Shenault the interim chancellor to succeed Rumbold. John Wilbanks and most of the other lawyers disliked the choice, primarily because Shenault did not live in the district. He said he planned to move.

  Wilbanks was pushing another candidate, but Wilbanks and Governor Wright had never been on the same team.

  Out of respect for the family, Dunlap waited a month after Liza’s burial before swinging into action. He convinced Shenault to convene a meeting in Clanton with John Wilbanks and Joel Banning, who was home for the holiday break and had been appointed substitute trustee for his father’s estate. They met in the judge’s chamber behind the courtroom, a place Joel would always detest.

  On the docket was Dunlap’s lawsuit seeking a judicial foreclosure of the land now held by Pete Banning’s estate, the last remaining salvo in the lengthy war over the property, and it was readily apparent that the new chancellor planned to move with haste.

  By reputation, Shenault was an office practitioner and not a trial lawyer, and was generally well thought of. He was certainly prepared for the meeting, and John Wilbanks suspected he had been well rehearsed by Burch Dunlap.

  According to His Honor, and Shenault even wore a black robe for the occasion, the scenario was straightforward. The hearing on the foreclosure would last only an hour or so, with both sides submitting documents and court orders, and perhaps a witness or two, but there was almost nothing disputed. He, Shenault, would most likely order a judicial sale of the property, which entailed an auction on the front steps of the courthouse. The high
est bidder would take title, with the winning bid going straight to Jackie Bell, who held the judgment of $100,000. No one expected a bid that high, and any deficit would remain on the books as a lien against the property.

  However, according to Mr. Dunlap, the plaintiff, Jackie Bell, was willing to accept a deed from the estate for the acreage, the house, and other assets in lieu of her claim.

  Also, if Shenault ruled in favor of Jackie Bell, as he obviously planned to do, the Banning estate could appeal to the Mississippi Supreme Court, a delaying tactic that had been used before. Such an appeal would be fruitless, in his opinion.

  Joel knew it too, as did John Wilbanks. They were at the end of the road. Additional delaying strategies would only postpone the inevitable, and drive up the attorneys’ fees.

  With everyone in general agreement, Shenault allowed the lawyers thirty days to work out the details, and scheduled the next meeting on January 26, 1950.

  * * *

  —

  In the spirit of the season, and with the promise of a brighter future, Jackie Bell and Errol McLeish were married in a small ceremony two days before Christmas. Her three children were dressed up and proud, and a few friends joined them in the small chapel behind an Episcopal church.

  Her parents were not invited. They did not approve of the marriage, because they did not trust Errol McLeish and his motives. Her father had insisted that she consult with a lawyer before the marriage, but she refused. McLeish was far too involved with her lawsuits and her money and she was certainly being set up for financial disaster, according to her father.

  And she was not attending church, which greatly disturbed her parents. She had tried to explain her crisis of faith, but they would not listen. One was either in church or not, and those on the outside faced damnation.

  Jackie was thrilled with the plan to leave Rome and return to Clanton. She needed space from her parents, and more important, she was eager to assume ownership of the Banning home. She had been there many times and never dreamed it would one day belong to her. After a life in cramped parsonages and rentals, a life where every house was too small and too temporary, she, Jackie Bell, was about to own one of the finest homes in Ford County.

  Chapter 48

  On a freezing morning two days after Christmas, Joel was walking through the fields after a visit to Old Sycamore. Pellets began landing around him. It was sleeting and there was a good chance of snow by late afternoon. He hustled to the house and was about to suggest a road trip somewhere to the south when Aunt Florry announced that she had decided to spend a couple of months in New Orleans as the houseguest of Miss Twyla. She’d been hinting about leaving. She was depressed about everything—Liza’s death and her involvement in it, the cold weather, the dreary fields and landscapes, and, of course, the handing over of Pete’s land, which she had to cross to get to hers. There were dark clouds everywhere, and she just wanted to get away.

  They left within an hour, as road conditions deteriorated, and barely made it south through Polk County before the sleet slacked off. By Jackson, the weather and roads were better.

  Along the way, they covered many important topics. Joel planned to propose to Mary Ann later in the spring. He had bought an engagement ring in Memphis and was excited about giving it to her. He was determined to live in Biloxi and thought he had a job with a small law firm there. Nothing definite, but he was optimistic. They worried about Stella and her nagging depression. She was spending the holidays with friends in D.C. and could not force herself to come home. Wasn’t the whole family depressed? The most urgent matter was what to do with Florry’s land in the upcoming spring. Neither had the stomach to approach McLeish about a deal. Indeed, Florry wanted to be absent for the next few months to avoid the man. They finally decided that Joel would negotiate a lease with Doug Wilbanks, John’s cousin. He farmed thousands of acres in several counties and would not be intimidated by McLeish. They were not sure what would happen to the Negroes on the property, but those poor folks had always managed to survive. McLeish would need them as field hands. No one would starve.

  And they couldn’t worry about everybody, could they? Their lives had changed dramatically since the killing, and there was no way to recapture the past. They had to take care of themselves. Florry admitted that for the past two years she had been talking about living for a spell in New Orleans with Miss Twyla, a dear old friend from the Memphis years. Twyla was older and getting lonelier, and her rambling town house in the Quarter had plenty of room.

  They talked for hours, always about the present or the future, and not about the past. But south of Jackson, some four hours into the journey, Joel said, “Stella and I believe you know a lot more than you’ve ever told us.”

  “About what?”

  “About Pete and Dexter, about Mom. About what happened. You know something, don’t you, Aunt Florry?”

  “Why is this important now? Everybody’s dead.”

  “The night Dad died, you went to see him at the jail. What did you talk about?”

  “Must we rehash this? That was one of the worst nights of my life.”

  “Typical Banning response, Aunt Florry. Take the question, duck it, and try to wiggle away without a response. Where did you and Pete learn to be so evasive?”

  “Don’t be insulting, Joel.”

  “I’m not. Just answer the question.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Why did Dad kill Dexter?”

  “He never gave me a reason, and, believe me, I pressed him hard. He was a very stubborn man.”

  “No kidding. I figure Mom had an affair with Dexter Bell and somehow Dad found out about it when he got home from the war. He confronted her and she was overwhelmed with guilt and shame. She cracked up or whatever, and he wanted her out of the house. Wilbanks convinced Judge Rumbold she needed some time away, and Dad drove her to Whitfield. After that, Dad could never accept the fact that his wife had been unfaithful, especially given the nightmare he survived in the war. Think about it, Aunt Florry, he was over there starved nearly to death, wiped out with malaria and dysentery, getting tortured and abused, then fighting in the jungles, and she’s home sleeping with the preacher. It drove him crazy, and that’s why he killed Dexter Bell. Something snapped in Pete’s mind. Your response, Aunt Florry?”

  “You think your father cracked up?”

  “Yes, and you don’t?”

  “No, I think Pete knew exactly what he was doing. He was not crazy. I’ll buy the rest of your story, but Pete was thinking clearly.”

  “And he never told you this story?”

  She took a deep breath and glanced out her window. The pause gave the real answer, but she did not. “No, not a word.”

  Joel knew she was lying.

  * * *

  —

  There was no chance of snow in New Orleans. The temperature was in the fifties, the air clear and crisp. Miss Twyla greeted them with a flurry of fierce hugs and loud hellos, and served them drinks as her maid unloaded the car. Florry brought enough luggage, all hastily packed, to stay for a year. Joel mentioned possibly getting a room at the Hotel Monteleone on Royal Street, but Twyla would have none of it. Her elegant town house had plenty of bedrooms and she needed some company. They sat in the courtyard next to an old fountain with water dripping from a cement tiger, and talked about this and that. As soon as Florry excused herself for a moment, Twyla whispered to Joel, “She looks awful.”

  “It’s been a rough time. She’s blaming herself for my mom’s death.”

  “I’m so sorry about that, Joel. Florry was hospitalized, right?”

  “Yes, for a few days. Chest pains. I worry about her.”

  “She looks pale and thinner.”

  “Well, I guess she needs some gumbo and jambalaya and fried oysters. I’ve hauled her down here; now you feed her.”

  “I can do
that. And we have better doctors down here. I’ll get one to look at her. The family genes are, how shall I say it, not too promising.”

  “Thank you. Yes, we tend to die young.”

  “And how is the lovely Stella?”

  “Okay. She didn’t want to come back so soon, so she stayed in D.C. It’s been a rough time.”

  “I’ll say. What you folks need is some good luck.”

  Florry was back, shuffling along as her large tent of a dress flowed behind her. She was already happier being with Twyla in the big city. On an old wooden table that supposedly came from a farmhouse somewhere in France, a maid arranged a platter of raw oysters and poured cold wine.

  They ate and drank and laughed deep into the night. Once again, Ford County was in another world.

  * * *

  —

  Late the following morning, Joel stumbled from his bedroom with an aching head and dry mouth. He found water, quenched his thirst, and badly needed coffee. A maid quietly showed him the front door, and he stepped into the bright sunshine of another perfect day in the Vieux Carré. He steadied himself, found his footing, and ambled down Chartres to Jackson Square and his favorite little café, where the coffee was strong and half chicory. He drank one cup, paid for another to go, and walked across Decatur, through the French Market, and up the steps to the levee walk, where he sat on a bench. It was his favorite spot in the city, and he loved to loaf there for hours and watch the river traffic.

  At home in his late father’s library, there was a picture book of New Orleans. In one photo from the 1870s, dozens of steamboats were docked side by side at the port, all laden with bales of cotton from the farms and plantations in Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana. As a kid who daydreamed a lot, Joel had convinced himself that the cotton from the Banning farm was on one of those boats and had been shipped to New Orleans for export. Their cotton was important and needed by the world. The people who worked on the boats and docks made their livelihoods because of their cotton.