by John Grisham
"Yes, they were. The best years of my life. You reckon we could find some more business here at Quiet Haven? I know in prison they set aside one day a week for conjugal visits. Ever thought about the same here? I could bring in a couple of girls one night a week, and I'm sure it would be easy work for them."
"That's probably the worst idea I've heard in the past five years."
Sitting in the shadows, I see her red eyes turn and glare at me. "I beg your pardon," she hisses.
"Take a drink. There are fifteen men confined to this place, Miss Ruby, average age of, oh, let's say eighty. Off the cuff, five are bedridden, three are brain-dead, three can't get out of their wheelchairs, and so that leaves maybe four who are ambulatory. Of the four, I'd wager serious money that only Lyle Spurlock is capable of performing at some level. You can't sell sex in a nursing home."
"I've done it before. This ain't my first rodeo." And with that she offers one of her patented smoke-choked cackles, then starts coughing. She eventually catches her breath, just long enough to settle things down with a jolt of Jim Beam.
"Sex in a nursing home," she says, chuckling. "Maybe that's where I'm headed."
I bite my tongue.
When the session is over, we quickly get through a round of awkward good-byes. I watch the Cadillac until it is safely off the premises and out of sight, then finally relax. I've actually arranged such a tryst once before. Ain't my first rodeo.
Lyle is sleeping like an infant when I check on him. Dentures out, mouth sagging, but lips turned up into a pleasant smile. If Mr. Hitchcock has moved in the past three hours, I can't tell. He'll never know what he missed. I check the other rooms and go about my business, and when all is quiet, I settle into the front desk with some magazines.
*
Dex says the company has mentioned more than once the possibility of settling the Harriet Markle lawsuit before it's actually filed. Dex has hinted strongly to them that he has inside information regarding a cover-up—tampered-with paperwork and other pieces of evidence that Dex knows how to skillfully mention on the phone when talking to lawyers who represent such companies. HVQH says it would like to avoid the publicity of a nasty suit. Dex assures them it'll be nastier than they realize. Back and forth, the usual lawyer routines. But the upshot for me is that my days are numbered. If my affidavit and photos and filched records will hasten a nice settlement, then so be it. I'll happily produce the evidence, then move along.
Mr. Spurlock and I play checkers most nights at 8:00 in the cafeteria, long after dinner and an hour before I officially punch the clock. We are usually alone, though a knitting club meets on Mondays in one corner, a Bible club gathers on Tuesdays in another, and a small branch of the Ford County Historical Society meets occasionally wherever they can pull three or four chairs together. Even on my nights off, I usually stop by at 8:00 for a few games. It's either that or drink with Miss Ruby and gag on her secondhand smoke.
Lyle wins nine games out of ten, not that I really care. Since his encounter with Mandy his left arm has been bothering him. It feels numb, and he's not as quick with his words. His blood pressure is up slightly, and he's complained of headaches. Since I have the key to the pharmacy, I've put him on Nafred, a blood thinner, and Silerall for stroke victims. I've seen dozens of strokes, and my diagnosis is just that. A very slight stroke, one unnoticeable to anyone else, not that anyone is paying attention. Lyle is a tough old coot who does not complain and does not like doctors and would take a bullet before he called his daughter and whined about his health.
"You told me you never made a will," I say casually as I stare at the board. There are four ladies playing cards forty feet away, and believe me, they cannot hear us. They can barely hear each other.
"I've been thinkin' about that," he says. His eyes are tired. Lyle has aged since his birthday, since Mandy, since his stroke.
"What's in the estate?" I ask, as if I could not care less.
"Some land, that's about all."
"How much land?"
"Six hundred and forty acres, in Polk County." He smiles as he pulls off a double jump.
"What's the value?"
"Don't know. But it's free and clear."
I haven't paid for an official appraisal, but according to two agents who specialize in such matters, the land is worth around $500 an acre.
"You mentioned putting some money aside to help preserve Civil War battlefields."
This is exactly what Lyle wants to hear. He lights up, smiles at me, and says, "That's a great idea. That's what I want to do." For the moment, he's forgotten about the game.
"The best organization is an outfit in Virginia, the Confederate Defense Fund. You gotta be careful. Some of these nonprofits give at least half their money to build monuments to honor the Union forces. I don't think that's what you have in mind."
"Hell no."
His eyes flash hot for a second, and Lyle is once again ready for battle. "Not my money," he adds.
"I'll be happy to serve as your trustee," I say, and move a checker.
"What does that mean?"
"You name the Confederate Defense Fund as the recipient of your estate, and upon your death the money goes into a trust so that I, or whomever you choose, can watch the money carefully and make sure it's accounted for."
He's smiling. "That's what I want, Gill. That's it."
"It's the best way—"
"You don't mind, do you? You'd be in charge of everything when I die."
I clutch his right hand, squeeze it, look him firmly in the eyes, and say, "I'd be honored, Lyle."
We make a few moves in silence, then I wrap up some loose ends. "What about your family?"
"What about them?"
"Your daughter, your son, what do they get from your estate?"
His response is a cross between a sigh, a hiss, and a snort, and when they are combined with a rolling of the eyes, I know immediately that his dear children are about to get cut out. This is perfectly legal in Mississippi and in most states. When making a will, you can exclude everyone but your surviving spouse. And some folks still try.
"I haven't heard from my son in five years. My daughter has more money than I do. Nothing. They get nothing."
"Do they know about this land in Polk County?" I ask.
"I don't think so."
This is all I need.
Two days later, rumors race through Quiet Haven. "The lawyers are coming!" Thanks primarily to me, the gossip has been festering about a massive lawsuit under way in which the family of Ms. Harriet Markle will expose everything and collect millions. It's partially true, but Ms. Harriet knows nothing about it. She's back in her bed, a very clean bed, well fed and properly medicated, properly supervised, and basically dead to the world.
Her lawyer, the Honorable Dexter Ridley of Tupelo, Mississippi, arrives late one afternoon with a small entourage that consists of his faithful secretary and two paralegals, both wearing suits as dark as Dexter's and both scowling in the finest lawyerly tradition. It's an impressive team, and I've never seen such excitement at Quiet Haven. Nor have I seen the place as spiffed-up and shiny. Even the plastic flowers on the front desk have been replaced by real ones. Orders from the home office.
Dex and his team are met by a junior executive from the company who's all smiles. The official reason for this visit is to allow Dex the opportunity to inspect, examine, photograph, measure, and in general poke around Quiet Haven, and for an hour or so he does this with great skill. This is his specialty. He needs to "get the feel of the place" before he sues it. Anyway, it's all an act. Dex is certain the matter will be settled quietly, and generously, without the actual filing of a lawsuit.
Though my shift doesn't start until 9:00 p.m., I hang around as usual. By now the staff and the residents are accustomed to seeing me at all hours. It's as if I never leave. But I'm leaving, believe me.
Rozelle, working late, is busy preparing dinner, not cooking, she reminds me, just preparing. I stay in the kitchen, pes
tering her, gossiping, helping occasionally. She wants to know what the lawyers are up to, and as usual I can only speculate, but I do so with a lot of theories. Promptly at 6:00 p.m., the residents start drifting into the cafeteria, and I begin carrying trays of the vapid gruel we serve them. Tonight the Jell-O is yellow.
At precisely 6:30, I swing into action. I leave the cafeteria and walk to room 18, where I find Mr. Spurlock sitting on his bed, reading a copy of his last will and testament. Mr. Hitchcock is down the hall having dinner, so we can talk.
"Any questions?" I ask. It's only three pages long, at times written clearly and at times loaded with enough legalese to stump a law professor. Dex is a genius at drafting these things. He adds
just enough clear language to convince the person signing that though he or she may not know exactly what he or she is signing, the overall gist of the document is just fine.
"I suppose so," Lyle says, uncertain.
"Lots of legal stuff," I explain helpfully. "But that's required. The bottom line is that you're leaving everything to the Confederate Defense Fund, in trust, and I'll oversee it all. Is that what you want?"
"Yes, and thank you, Gill."
"I'm honored. Let's go."
We take our time—Lyle is moving much slower since the stroke—and eventually get to the reception area just inside the front door. Queen Wilma, Nurse Nancy, and Trudy the receptionist all left almost two hours ago. There is a lull as dinner is being served. Dex and his secretary are waiting. The two paralegals and the company man are gone. Introductions are made. Lyle takes a seat and I stand next to him, then Dex methodically goes through a rough summary of the document. Lyle loses interest almost immediately, and Dex notices this.
"Is this what you want, Mr. Spurlock?" he asks, the compassionate counselor.
"Yes," Lyle responds, nodding. He's already tired of this legal stuff.
Dex produces a pen, shows Lyle where to sign, then adds his signature as a witness and instructs his secretary to do the same. They are vouching for Lyle's "sound and disposing mind and memory." Dex then signs a required affidavit, and the secretary whips out her notary seal and stamp and gives it her official blessing. I've been in this situation several times, and believe me, this woman will notarize anything. Stick a Xerox copy of the Magna Carta under her nose, swear it's the original, and she'll notarize it.
Ten minutes after signing his last will and testament, Lyle Spurlock is in the cafeteria eating his dinner.
*
A week later, Dex calls with the news that he's about to meet with the big lawyers from the corporate office and engage in a serious settlement conference. He's decided he will show them the greatly enlarged photos I took of Ms. Harriet Markle lying in a pool of her own body fluids, naked. And he will describe the bogus record entries, but not hand over copies. All of this will lead to a settlement, but it will also reveal to the company my complicity in the matter. I'm the mole, the leaker, the traitor, and though the company won't fire me outright—Dex will threaten them—I've learned from experience that it's best to move on.
In all likelihood, the company will fire Queen Wilma, and probably Nurse Angel too. So be it. I've seldom left a project without getting someone fired.
The following day, Dex calls with the news that the case settled, confidentially of course, for $400,000. This may sound low, given the company's malfeasance and exposure, but it's not a bad settlement. Damages can be difficult to prove in these cases. It's not as if Ms. Harriet was earning money and therefore facing a huge financial loss. She won't see a dime of the money, but you can bet her dear ones are already bickering. My reward is a 10 percent finder's fee, paid off the top.
The following day, two men in dark suits arrive, and fear grips Quiet Haven. Long meetings are held in Queen Wilma's office. The place is tense. I love these situations, and I spend most of the afternoon hiding in the kitchen with Rozelle as the rumors fly. I'm full of wild theories, and most of the rumors seem to originate from the kitchen. Ms. Drell is eventually fired and escorted out of the building. Nurse Angel is fired, and escorted out of the building. Late in the day we hear the rumor that they're looking for me, so I ease out a side door and disappear.
I'll go back in a week or so, to say good-bye to Lyle Spurlock and a few other friends. I'll finish up the gossip with Rozelle, give her a hug, promise to drop in from time to time. I'll stop by Miss Ruby's, settle up on the rent, gather my belongings, and indulge in a final toddy on the porch. It will be difficult to say good-bye, but then I do it so often.
So I leave Clanton after four months, and as I head toward Memphis, I can't help but succumb to smugness. This is one of my more successful projects. The finder's fee alone makes for a good year. Mr. Spurlock's will effectively gives everything to me, though he doesn't realize it. (The Confederate Defense Fund folded years ago.) He probably won't touch the document again before he dies, and I'll pop in often enough to make sure the damned thing stays buried in the drawer. (I'm still checking on several of my more generous friends.) After he dies, and we'll know this immediately because Dex's secretary checks the obituaries daily, his daughter will rush in, find the will, and freak out, and soon enough she'll hire lawyers who'll file a nasty lawsuit to contest the will. They'll allege all manner of vile claims against me, and you can't blame them.
Will contests are tried before juries in Mississippi, and I'm not about to subject myself to the scrutiny of twelve average citizens and try to deny that I sucked up to an old man during his last days in a nursing home. No, sir. We never go to trial. We, Dex and I, settle these cases long before trial. The family usually buys us off for about 25 percent of the estate. It's cheaper than paying their lawyers for a trial, plus the family does not really want the embarrassment of a full-blown bare-knuckle trial in which they're grilled about how much time they didn't spend with their dearly departed.
After four months of hard work, I'm exhausted. I'll spend a day or two in Memphis, my home base, then catch a flight to Miami, where I have a condo on South Beach. I'll work on my tan for a few days, rest up, then start thinking about my next project.
FUNNY BOY
Like most of the rumors that swept through Clanton, this one originated at either the barbershop, a coffee shop, or the clerk's office in the courthouse, and once it hit the street, it was off and running. A hot rumor would roar around the square with a speed that defied technology and often return to its source in a form so modified and distorted as to baffle its originator. Such is the nature of rumors, but occasionally, at least in Clanton, one turned out to be true.
At the barbershop, on the north side of the square, where Mr. Felix Upchurch had been cutting hair and giving advice for almost fifty years, the rumor was brought up early one morning by a man who usually had his facts straight. "I hear Isaac Keane's least boy is comin' back home," he said.
There was a pause in the haircutting, the newspaper reading, the cigarette smoking, the squabbling over the Cardinals game the night before. Then someone said, "Ain't he that funny boy?"
Silence. Then the clicking of scissors, the turning of pages, a cough over there, and the clearing of a throat over here. When delicate issues were first brought to the surface at the barbershop, they were met with a momentary caution. No one wanted to charge in, lest he be accused of trading in gossip. No one wanted to confirm or deny, because an incorrect fact or an erroneous assumption could quickly spread and do harm, especially in matters dealing with sex. In other places around town, folks were far less hesitant. There was little doubt, however, that the return of the least Keane boy was about to be dissected from a dozen directions, but, as always, the gentlemen proceeded cautiously.
"Well, I've always heard he didn't go for the girls."
"You heard right. My cousin's daughter was in school with that boy, said he was always on the queer side, a regular sissy, and soon as he could, he got outta here and went off to the big city. I think it was San Francisco, but don't quote me on that."
("Don'
t quote me on that" was a defensive ploy aimed at disclaiming what had just been said. Once properly disclaimed, others were then free to go ahead and repeat what had just been said, but if the information turned out to be false, the original gossiper could not be held liable.)
"How old is he?"
A pause as calculations were made. "Maybe thirty-one, thirty-two."
"Why's he comin' back here?"
"Well, now, I don't know for sure, but they say he's real sick, on his last leg, and ain't nobody in the big city to take care of him."
"He's comin' home to die?"
"That's what they say."
"Isaac would roll over in his grave."
