At that moment, I knew that Mother was in more danger than any of us would have thought. She had no appetite. She was tired all the time. She complained mildly about pain in her ribs. Something was dreadfully wrong.
I ran to Millie’s, passing the dock where Trip’s boat was tied up. He must’ve gone to her too. She probably met him on his return and started giving him hell. I wondered if Mother was there too. I would know in moments, as soon as I got there. I slipped on the wet grass and nearly fell, catching myself, regaining my balance. My heart pounded against my chest and when I finally pushed open Millie’s door, I found them all in the living room. The altar door was open and the smell of burning incense was thick and strong. Millie was seated on one side of a folding card table; Trip and Mother were on the other.
“Sit on the sofa; don’t say a word,” Millie said.
I sat, watched, and listened. I had interrupted something. Millie held Trip’s hand and massaged it, as though she were reading his bones. She was.
“Sign this paper,” Millie said to Trip. “Read it out loud and sign it.”
“‘I, James Nevil Wimbley III, promise before God and all that is holy, to cooperate with authorities to put an end to the gambling ring in Columbia, renounce all ties with the men I know to be involved in it, give their names to the proper authorities, and to never gamble again. If I do not comply with this oath, I stand ready to receive the consequences.’”
Now, I had heard a lot of things in my day, but I had never heard Millie make someone take an oath. Maybe it was for extra protection, and Trip sure needed it. Trip was floating in some treacherous waters. Millie cleared her throat, handed Trip the pen, and he signed. She continued.
“How many men know your name?”
“Two,” Trip said. “There are about fifty guys in the racket, but just two control the names. Except for the runner—Jimmy Brown. He’s the guy who collects the money.”
“Write the names down here,” she said, and handed him another slip of paper. “How many men have your phone number?”
“The same two,” Trip said. He was so miserable that his voice cracked. “And Jimmy.”
I felt very sorry for him. Trip had never done a dishonest thing in his entire life and now this! It was stunning to all of us, but not one of us asked why or how. The focus was on an immediate solution.
“They both live up to Columbia?” Millie said.
“As far as I know,” Trip said.
Millie made some more notes and then said, “Give me some coins.”
Trip reached in his pocket, produced a handful of change. Millie took a penny, a nickel, and a dime. She got up and stood before her altar. She lit another candle, a red one, the candle of Oya. Oya is the queen of the spirit world, a warrior goddess and fierce protectorate of her children. She is also the patron of justice and the goddess of storms and hurricanes. The altar today held a bowl of red grapes, a large eggplant, and a bunch of dried comfrey, tied with a red ribbon. She held her arms wide and began to pray.
As powerful as the strong wind,
More fierce than the storm,
Oya, guard this man against the many fingers of evil!
Extend your weapon to protect him from destruction . . .
Trip began to weep, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. Mother put her arm around him and told him to shush, that everything would be all right. I remained quiet, sitting on Millie’s sofa, listening and watching—thinking to myself that no, everything was not going to be all right. I knew it in my bones.
Millie finished her prayer, blew out the candles, and turned to Trip. She wrapped the coins in the paper and handed it to him. “Put this in your pocket, the one where you carry your wallet. Leave it there for three days, then give it to the Edisto. If the paper comes off the coins before three days pass, throw it in as fast as you can.”
“Then what? What do I do until then?”
“You do as you promised, if you know what’s good for you,” Millie said. “I’m sorry for you if you don’t, yanh me, boy?”
“Thank you, Millie,” he said. Trip put the paper-wrapped coins in his back pocket and left the house.
Millie and Mother went to the window and watched him walk away.
“Stupid,” Millie said, and added a good “Humph!”
“That’s my only boy, Millie,” Mother said.
“Yeah, but he’s stupid,” she said.
“Yeah, he’s thick as a post. Is this gonna save him?”
“It ain’t up to me,” Millie said, “all depends on him.”
In front of the window, Millie looped her arm around Mother’s shoulder; Mother looped hers around Millie’s waist. They were better than friends, closer than sisters. Their affection for each other was nearly a palpable, tangible thing—a strong force that filled the spaces between us so fully with its warmth that you could nearly grab a handful of it. I wanted what they had for myself. I have no one in my life like that, I thought, and then realized that this was my life and their love was there for my taking. All I would have to do would be to indicate my need.
“Millie?” I said. “You got any tea in your refrigerator?”
They stopped and looked at me. My desire to belong to them and with them was all over my face. I stood rubbing my arms, waiting for a response.
“You pay attention to what just happened?” Millie said.
“I could repeat every word,” I said, knowing that she was asking me if I was staying, if I was still interested in her legacy.
“Why don’t you pour some tea for all of us?”
“I’ve made a decision,” Mother said. “Millie, you’ve inspired me.”
I took three glasses from Millie’s cabinet and filled them with ice from the ice maker. The pitcher of iced tea in her refrigerator was jammed with mint leaves. I poured and heard Millie reply from the next room.
“What?”
“Well, short of a magic wand to make those men in Columbia forget they ever heard my son’s name, he has a huge debt to pay, yanh?”
“I send them the hag, I did that, but that ain’t gone solve nothing really. Just makes me feel better.”
I handed Millie her glass and then Mother hers. “You’re a bad girl, Millie.”
“Humph! If I’m bad, what does that make them? Evil preying on the weakness of others. That’s the devil himself in action, girl. Don’t you forget it, yanh?”
“Caroline? Did you call Richard as I asked you?”
I shook my head.
“I figured as much,” she said. “Well, I had another thought. What about that boy, that Strickland fellow who became the policeman?”
“What about him?” I asked.
“Why don’t you see what he knows? I’ll bet you anything he knows about these men in Columbia! What do you think?”
It was worth a shot. I drank my tea to the bottom of the glass and said, “Millie? I’m going to go up to the house and call Matthew Strickland. Would you please look at the festering mole on Mother’s back and see what you have to dry it up? I’ll be back.”
“I’m going to pay his debt,” Mother said, announcing her plan.
“Good Lord!” I said, surprised.
“But, I’m going to make him take an oath, just like you did, Millie. It’s going to come out of his inheritance, but he’s going to have to join Gambler’s Anonymous or something like it. I’m going to set up a sliding scale for penalties, should he fail and gamble again. And, finally, I’m going to insist that he seek professional counseling.”
“God, Mother, that’s incredibly generous!” I was shocked that Mother had that kind of cash at her disposal. “But, it’s probably the only solution.”
“It won’t do for my only son to float to the bottom of Lake Murray in chains,” Mother said. She sighed with a kind of sadness I’d never seen her reveal to anyone before. It was a terrible sigh of deep disappointment and stoic resignation. “Perhaps we should insist that until he’s truly recovered an accountant handle all his mo
ney. Put him on an allowance?”
“Or, Frances Mae could probably do it. Hell, at least she’s free.”
“Free and with a brain that’s got all the judgment of a little bitty cornflake,” Millie said.
“Okay. Whatever you decide, I’m sure Trip will kiss your feet for it,” I said. “I’ll see you in a little bit.”
Millie and Mother said in unison, “Humph! He should!”
The sky looked a shade of blue more bold and vibrant than it had when I arrived. I wondered if state of mind affected perception of color. It certainly affected everything else. What would I say to Matthew Strickland? So, Matthew, what would you do if you had this “friend” who had unsavory “friends,” to whom he owed half a million sporting dollars, who told my “friend” that they were gonna rip out his throat if he didn’t cough up ten percent of it in one week? Not subtle enough. How about, Matthew? You’ve seen trouble before—To which he would offer a manly reply, That’s my life—trouble, that is—and I’d say, Oh, Matthew! Lord, I have a friend in trouble with some terrible men in Columbia and I swear, we—that is, Mother and I—we don’t have the first clue on how to solve his money trouble. Our friend is so dear but has this weakness! Oh, God, I thought, that’s demure enough to make Scarlett and Melanie gag. No, I knew what I would do.
I found his number and called him, leaving a message with my cell phone number on his voice mail. I decided to work in the garden some more and if he wanted to reach me, he could. He did. I was elbow deep in mud, dividing hostas, when the phone rang. I ripped off my gloves and flipped it open to answer.
“You’re under arrest,” he said.
“Charged with?” I said, and giggled.
“Failing to call me as promised,” he said, deadpan.
“Oh, fine,” I said, “arrest me. Where are you?”
“In your driveway. Want some company?”
“Sure. I’m in the rose garden. Come on out.”
I wiped the hair back from my face and by the time I stood up and straightened my T-shirt, he was coming toward me, across the lawn.
“Hey!” he called out, waving.
“Hey, yourself! Want something cold to drink?”
He nodded and waited until I reached him. I gave him a cheek peck and said, “Thanks for calling me back. Gosh, it’s nice to see you again!” I was as nonchalant as though we were old and dear friends. “Come on, I’ll make you a tomato sandwich!”
“Why are women always trying to feed me? Do I look haggard or something? Undernourished?”
“Hardly, honey.”
He was a pretty thing and I gave myself two seconds of hell for what the sight of him made me think. Two seconds. Don’t ever want to overdo hell.
In the kitchen, Matthew sat and I served him—two thick tomato sandwiches with mayonnaise and lots of salt and pepper and another mouthful of story. I just begged his confidence and let it roll. He listened carefully.
“Well, I’ll say this. You’ve got timing down to a science.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He leaned back and wiped his mouth with the red and yellow foulard Pierre Deux napkin I had placed next to his plate. His eyes never left mine.
“Okay, since we’re talking confidences here, I’m gonna give you some inside skinny. Between us only, okay?”
“Of course!” I sat at the table next to him and refilled his tea glass.
“In Jacksonboro, we look like a speed trap.”
“Hell, Matthew, half of South Carolina knows that.”
“Yeah, but there’s more to it in our neck of the woods. We’re talking drugs, abandoned airports, airstrips on plantations, deliveries by water—all of that funded by illegal gambling.”
“God, this is something so far removed from my life I can’t even begin to tell you.”
“We’ve been working with the FBI for a long time trying to indict the Columbia boys along with the Atlanta boys, who they suspect are tied into the Miami boys, who obviously have ties to South America. It’s the same old game these lowlifes have been playing since the sixties. Just different methods of delivery, different names—but it always leads back to drugs and illegal something. Your brother doesn’t understand that these fellows have less regard for human rights than the Chinese government. They’ll pop a fucking bullet to his brain just for the fun of it, pardon my French.”
“Jesus,” I said.
He had delivered his comments with a kind of boredom I found curious. Maybe he had used this blasé tone so I wouldn’t think of him as an ordinary patrolman, but see him as someone who faced mortal danger, rendering him more attractive. As if that were an issue.
“So, how can I help?” he said. “We are on the brink of indicting the Columbia guys and the Atlanta boys any day.”
“Well, the good news is that Mother is going to pay his debt, but only on the conditions that he turns over all he knows to the authorities, joins a gambler’s help group, never gambles again, and gets one-on-one counseling. I’m thinking you might be the authorities?”
“Caroline? You are even lovelier at forty than you were at twenty. You are clearly smarter and more unflappable than you were then. Tell me why I should save your brother’s ass and not haul him down to the jailhouse and throw him in the pokey.”
“Because this is a confidential conversation? Because it would ruin his life? Because Mother would be disgraced and because you and I are friends?”
He looked to the ceiling. Then he rapped his fingertips on the top of the table. Next he took a long drink of his tea and then he looked at me again. After what seemed to be years, he finally said, “Where’s your brother?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “around here somewhere.”
“Let’s find him.”
Matthew got up from the table and I followed him out the kitchen door, across the lawn, toward the dock. He was noncommittal about not involving Trip or taking him in for questioning. I had taken a risk on Trip’s security. I hoped to God that Matthew would just let Trip tell him what he knew and let the Columbia boys just take Trip’s money so we could be done with it. If Trip went to prison, he would be disbarred and then what would he do?
Trip wasn’t at the dock—his boat was, but he wasn’t. We walked over to the barn. Mr. Jenkins was there, at Daddy’s old desk, reading a Burpee catalog. It was the first time I had ever seen him reading. Suddenly I was proud of Mother for what she had done.
“Hey, Mr. Jenkins! This is my friend, Matthew Strickland.”
Mr. Jenkins stood up and Matthew extended his hand, shaking it soundly and smiling.
“Mr. Jenkins? They still got you over here working you to the bone?” Matthew said.
“Mr. Matthew Strickland,” Mr. Jenkins said, “I should say, Chief Strickland! I ain’t seen you since you was just a young buck! My goodness, I must be an old man if you’re this grown!”
“You ain’t old, Mr. Jenkins. You just hitting stride, that’s all!”
They looked at each other for a long while, remembering years long gone. I was remembering too—Matthew and me riding horses, waterskiing, teasing each other, all the fun we had enjoyed so many years ago. Matthew was one of those men who exuded competence, reliability, integrity, and enough masculinity for all the men of a small town. I was struggling to remember what it was he didn’t have enough of to hold my interest. I think I was so possessed with my own need for escape that he must have just disappeared from my radar screen. Yes, it had to have been something stupid like that. No, Matthew wasn’t someone to be taken lightly or to play with like Josh. He also wasn’t someone I could orbit around my planet either, reeling him in when it suited me and reeling him back out when I was temporarily finished with him for that moment.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear what Mr. Jenkins said? Trip took Eric out to shoot skeet. God, girl! Are you getting flighty on me?”
“No, I was just thinking about something else. Sorry.”
We stopped outside the barn. He grabbed my upper arms and looked at me.
“First, we solve this problem for your stupid brother and then we have cocktails at a party in Charleston then dinner later at my house. Is that okay with you?”
My insides felt funny, slightly gelatinous, squiggly. He made me nervous because I thought I was sure that dinner meant sex. Was it sex in return for saving Trip’s behind? Was I wrong? I was afraid to know the truth. This would not be a night where I would call the shots.
“Matthew? I’d love to spend the evening with you. I’d love you to solve Trip’s problems. But, I gotta tell you, I’m nervous.” Truth was the best policy, I had decided.
“You should be,” he said, smiling with one side of his mouth. “Let me go talk to your brother alone.”
“I’ll come with you to take Eric,” I said.
We walked in step, his stride and mine perfectly matched.
Later, when Eric was back in the house, and Matthew was long gone, and Trip had returned to Walterboro in a state of obvious relief, after Mother had read him the riot act behind closed doors in Daddy’s study—later when I was in the shower, and then dressing for Matthew to pick me up at six, I had some tiny truths revealed to me. I hadn’t allowed myself to be serious about Matthew because I had spent my entire life avoiding men like him. Superficial was safe. Matthew was dangerous.
This had nothing to do with me growing up with privileges or Matthew growing up the son of a shopkeeper and his wife, a bookkeeper. It had to do with risk. Would I continue on this road of self-serving love affairs like Mother? Was that really what she had done? Wasn’t she maybe just lonely? Was I?
I opened the French doors in my bedroom. The smells of Japanese honeysuckle drifted in. I watched the river for a few minutes, thinking of all that had been placed before me in just a few short weeks. I needed to deal from strength with all those things—Millie’s wishes, Trip’s trouble, Frances Mae’s attitude, Mother’s suspected illness, Eric’s education, and, most important—my legacy.
Plantation Page 36
