The commotion in the car had silenced as Kerry, once demure and sweet, tore into Coreen with all cylinders smoking. Even the driver had given up on the escape and was peering at Kerry from the front seat, wondering when Coreen was going to spit on her or hit her or something—because those words were fighting words.
Meanwhile, the onlookers on the outside of the car had already made the first seconds of the argument a viral event. The bombshell news Kerry revealed in her rant had dropped on social media—Jamison Taylor had a “bastard” son. But what was the boy’s name?
“You can call my son a bastard if you want to, but remember to also call him Jamison,” Coreen said. Her invoking the boy’s name sent chills up Kerry’s spine. She’d heard it before, but every time she even thought of the name it made her hot with fury and scorn all over again. It was the most aggressive thing Coreen had done to slap her in the face. Coreen flicked her hair behind her ear and went on, “And while you’re at it, don’t forget to call my son, Jamison junior, rich . . . because all that money you bitches got when his father died, some of it is his and I’m going to make sure he gets it. That’s the only reason I’m here. I don’t even care who killed Jamison. I just want my money.” She looked at Val, who was back to fighting to get out of the SUV after hearing Coreen call her a bitch. “I told you not to play with me. Don’t play with my son’s money and don’t play with me.”
Val had gotten away from Lebowski and now Kerry was holding her back. The poor assistant in the front seat had seen the damage done to her boss’s shirt, so she was less than anxious to help out.
Kerry let out a surprising laugh that would be noted in the viral reports.
“What the fuck is so funny about what I said?” Coreen asked.
“You just played your last card,” Kerry said. “Without even knowing it, you played your last weak card. You let the secret out and now you have no more cards to play. You want money? Fine. But you won’t get it from me the way you got it from Jamison. We’ll see you in court.”
When the SUV made it to Thirjane’s house where Tyrian was waiting in the front window for his mother, Kerry insisted that Val come inside to talk about what had happened at the jail with Coreen. But really, everything was clear to her about the incident. She’d put the pieces together about the ten thousand dollars and decided she would wait until Val brought it up. In truth, the somewhat forced visit wasn’t about Coreen or the money or Val; it was because Kerry felt right then that she needed a friend. Some bestie or buffer, a third party to mediate the one thing about getting out of jail she wasn’t sure about facing: her mother.
Reminding Kerry of why she so desperately wanted Val there, when Thirjane opened the door to let Kerry in, she was all tears and cries of joy. Her arms were extended toward Kerry and she made Tyrian stand there and wait as she hugged Kerry.
“My child is home!” Thirjane cried. “Thank you, Jesus!” she added, rocking Kerry and blocking Tyrian from getting to her. Kerry looked over her mother’s shoulder and smiled at Tyrian as tears began to fall from both of their eyes. And maybe it was more touching, more meaningful than it might have been had they been in each other’s arms. Because the gaze, the look on his mother’s face from inches away was something Tyrian would remember for the rest of his life.
In his memory, so quickly he would then find himself in her arms. He could smell her again. He’d thought he’d forgotten what she’d smelled like, but there it was. His mother’s scent. Indescribable but so immediate and fused into his being. Then the feeling of her tears wetting his back.
She released him and she was busy wiping his tears as hers fell.
“Hey you,” Kerry said. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too, Mama,” Tyrian said, with his grandmother standing behind him then, and Val behind Kerry.
Thirjane was, of course, eyeing every inch of Val and wondering why she was in her house. That and how she was getting home—that black SUV had rolled away.
“You know what I was thinking when I got the news that I was coming home?” Kerry asked Tyrian. “That I was going to see you. That’s all I was thinking. That’s all I wanted.”
Kerry pulled her son into her arms again.
“I love you so much, baby,” she said to him in his ear. “And I’m so sorry for all of this.” She looked into his eyes again. “But your mama is back home now and I’m never leaving again. Not ever.”
“Company? I didn’t know we were having any company,” Thirjane said with her eyes still locked on Val, who was returning the stare, but had something else hidden in the scrunched-up frown aimed at Thirjane. The two had been in each other’s presence a little over a handful of times when they’d bumped heads, trying to get Kerry out of jail and then in a brief struggle for power at Rake it Up before the CEO less than politely told both women he wouldn’t be taking direction from either of them. The company was just remaining afloat with the scandal concerning Jamison and Kerry and if they wanted to keep it from drowning, they needed to step back and off.
“Yes, Mama,” Kerry said to Thirjane. “I invited Val to stay to have lunch with us. I figured we could show her a little Georgia hospitality for everything she’s done for our family.”
“Lunch? I let Ethel leave for the day. I guess I could pull something out of the freezer,” Thirjane said drily.
Val rolled her eyes and stopped herself from saying something nasty, for Kerry’s sake. Thirjane didn’t like her and that was okay with her. This was about class and Thirjane thinking she was better than Val. If only she knew that Val had gotten word of her murder-for-hire plot, she’d snap in line and run to the kitchen to heat up whatever Val wanted to eat to keep her secret from Kerry, who obviously had no idea about what her sweet Southern mama had been up to. Thirjane should’ve been serving up steak and potatoes. Veal and fresh tomato sauce. Whatever. Val thought that and smirked.
“Mama, I want to show you something on my iPad,” Tyrian said, jumping up and down with excitement in front of Kerry.
“On your iPad? What is it? A new game?” Kerry smiled and picked a piece of lint from Tyrian’s hair.
He looked at Thirjane and then back at his mother to say softly, “It’s a secret. I can’t tell you in front of everyone.”
Thirjane jumped in with, “Boy, you don’t have any secrets in my house. I’ve told you that. Children don’t get to keep secrets. When you get a job, you can have secrets.” Thirjane laughed, but Kerry kept her attention on Tyrian.
“Oh, Mama, he’s just wanting to show me something. That’s all he meant by it.” She took Tyrian’s hand. “Where’s your iPad, sweetheart?”
“In my room,” he replied, pulling her toward the steps that led upstairs to the bedrooms.
Excusing herself, Kerry asked Val if she minded if she spent a few seconds with Tyrian and then followed him upstairs to find the tablet.
Val watched Thirjane boil as Kerry and Tyrian played freeze tag up the stairs and then loud thuds could be heard from upstairs as they padded toward the bed.
“Sounds like a whole football team up there,” Thirjane said, getting louder with each word, so they could hear her upstairs. “And Kerry knows better. I didn’t raise her to walk like an elephant. Not in my house.”
Val listened and noted how Thirjane sounded like she was talking about a little girl or someone she could control. She giggled, but not because she thought anything Thirjane had said was funny. She giggled at Thirjane. There was a difference.
And Thirjane, a person who specialized in conversational shade and knew too well how to make someone the butt of any joke, knew that difference.
She eyeballed Val to consider what she could be laughing at.
“Hmm,” Thirjane offered, pursing her lips at Val. There was a time when someone like Val, with a dress so tight and with earrings dangling so close to her shoulders, wouldn’t be allowed in Thirjane’s house—or at least they’d know never to come. Thirjane eyed Val’s long nails and the ring on her i
ndex finger and announced quite uncomfortably, “Guess we should go sit in the parlor and wait for Kerry.”
“Sure,” Val agreed smugly. “Sounds like a plan to me.” She followed Thirjane to the parlor (which was really just a living room), looking at the assiduous decorator’s elaborate collection of interestingly placed antiques and cultural trophies. Everything looked so expensive and delicate. A huge painting of a black female slave being baptized in a river hung over a couch loaded with so many pillows Val had no choice but to sit on the edge.
Thirjane sat across from her in a chair with wooden eagle talon feet and crossed her legs like she was beginning an interview.
“So interesting how this all turned out. You getting Kerry out of jail,” Thirjane started speaking and her tone was so flat it sounded like she was just trying to fill the silent moment with sound. “You know I’ve been meaning to be more helpful with things, but having Tyrian here—that was a lot. I’m saying if you had children, you’d understand. It’s a lot of work. A mother’s work is never done. Raised one and here I am raising another.”
“Well, now that Kerry’s home, you won’t have to worry about that anymore. Right?” Val quizzed.
“Oh, yes I will. That boy needs more guidance in his life. My Kerry is a good mother, but she’s no disciplinarian. Neither was that Jamison. And with things the way they are now, all Tyrian’s got is me and his mama.”
“Yes. It is sad that Tyrian lost his father under such—” Val stopped and grinned at Thirjane for effect “—circumstances. Good thing he had a good grandmother like you at home to help take care of him. Especially since the killer is still out there.”
Thirjane looked at Val like she’d peeked under her dress.
“What?” Val followed up. “Haven’t you thought about that? The reality that whoever killed Jamison may be an insane serial killer planning to kill off everyone Jamison loved?”
“I doubt that. It was just an isolated incident,” Thirjane said, obviously perturbed by Val’s morbid analysis.
“How do you know? Hmm?”
“Someone said it—on the news or one of those detectives, maybe. Someone,” Thirjane stuttered out.
“How could they know that? I mean, come on—they don’t even know who did it. No leads.” Val leaned toward Thirjane in the chair and spoke so low and sharp she sounded like a witch whispering a spell into a cauldron boiling over with remnants from a magic potion. “The killer could be planning anything. He could be anywhere. At any time.” She sat back and looked around. “Could be in this very room.”
“What? Hunh?” Thirjane looked flustered—like she was sitting in the stand in a court of law and going through cross-examination for a crime she committed.
Val had decided she wasn’t going to tell Kerry about her mother’s plot to have Jamison killed. She figured she would leave that to Leaf. But with Thirjane and her constant airs and putting on sitting in front of her squirming, she thought she could at least have a little fun. Especially since Thirjane had no idea her plan had failed and really thought her actions had led to Jamison’s demise.
“We could know the killer. It could be one of us,” Val announced shadily. “How do you know it’s not me? How do I know it’s not you?”
Thirjane started coughing and looking around the corner for Tyrian and Kerry. “Where are they? Taking so long up there.” Thirjane tried to change the topic, but Val ignored her.
“It could be anyone. The killer is out there.”
Thirjane looked back at Val and started getting up from her chair. “You want some tea? I want some tea,” she asked erratically.
“I’m not thirsty,” Val said. “But you look like you could use something to drink.”
Thirjane was out of her chair and had her back to Val as she took steps toward the foyer that led to the kitchen on the other side.
“A drink . . . or a priest,” Val added.
Thirjane stopped straightaway, but did not turn around.
“I know,” was all Val said.
“I didn’t do it.” Thirjane turned around.
“No. But you ordered the hit,” Val said, getting up from her seat and walking toward her.
“Who told you that? How do you know that?” Thirjane asked.
“A little birdie told me,” Val joked. She got in close to Thirjane. “It whispered in my ear that you had Jamison killed. Hired someone else to do your dirty work. Not a surprise, either. I bet you have someone clean this house too. Make your bed. Clean your ass. Bail your daughter out of jail—I did that for you.”
For the first time in her life, maybe, Thirjane worked as hard as she could to look innocent and maybe weak. “Did you tell her?” she asked.
“No,” Val revealed. “Not going to. I thought you could handle that dirty work yourself. You should be the one to tell your daughter you had her ex-husband, the father of her son, murder—”
Before Val could finish, Kerry came bouncing around the corner, all smiles.
“Hey!” Val switched her tone and looked at Kerry. “How’d it go upstairs? What did he have to show you on the iPad?”
“I didn’t get to see it. The darn battery was dead,” Kerry answered. “We plugged it in. It’ll be up in a minute.” Kerry looked at Thirjane, who was standing right beside her in the entryway to the foyer. “You okay?” she asked. “You look like you just got bad news. Come on, I’m home! That’s the best news ever.”
“I know. I’m just worried about lunch,” Thirjane managed. “Just wondering how we’re going to feed our guest.”
“God, Mama. You’re always worrying about stuff like that. I’ll split mine with her,” Kerry said. “Come on. Let’s go eat. I’m starving. I haven’t had a decent meal in months.”
Everyone laughed. Val laughed the loudest.
“Come downstairs to eat, Tyrian,” Kerry hollered upstairs as she led Thirjane and Val to the kitchen. “Wash your hands and leave that iPad upstairs.”
Chapter 11
Something bad was coming. Or something bad was going. At least that’s what Mama Fee thought. Val knew this because a few days after Kerry was released from jail, she woke to the smell of sage, cedar, and sweetgrass burning in the house. It meant Mama Fee was smudging, burning dried herbs in tiny terra-cotta bowls in the corners and side spots everywhere to fend off some negative energy or bid it farewell. When Val was a little girl, she’d witness her mother wrapping the furry, soft green sage sprigs in her prayer closet sometimes after a funeral and other times days before someone had died. Mama Fee was young and beautiful then, and she’d pin some of the herbs in her bun. Like her mother, Mama Fee taught her daughters about burning and smudging when she’d finished combing their hair and forced them to collect every single fallen nap from the floor, comb, or brush to add to her smudge bowl and be burned immediately.
One time, Val asked Mama Fee how she knew trouble was coming or going and what she should burn. When and where. Mama Fee was braiding sweetgrass then. She leaned over to Val. An extra braid of sweetgrass was dangling from a feather at the base of her scalp. Val’s older sister had always told people they were part Chippewa to explain the ornaments neighborhood kids witnessed hanging from their mother’s hair. “I smell kitten’s breath and hear the drum in my sleep, baby,” Mama Fee said to Val. “That’s how I knows what to do. The world tells me.”
Val had gotten a cryptic and shaky phone call from Leaf the night before the smudging scent filled the house. He wanted to meet with her and Kerry. He had new information, something big that led him to lock himself up in his summer cabin in the woods in Dahlonega up in North Georgia near the Chattahoochee National Forest. On the phone, Val was half asleep and complained about the hour drive out to the middle of nowhere where black people hardly went and white people probably still hung the Confederate flag on the front porch. She’d asked him why he couldn’t just come meet her and Kerry in the city over a cup of coffee, but Leaf insisted on it and told Val to make sure she told no one else about the meeting a
nd ensured they weren’t being followed on their trip up to the mountains.
In the days since Kerry was released from jail and the media was going crazy trying to figure out why the DA would kill himself in a hotel room, leaving behind only a note to his wife that read I’m sorry, Val was telling herself there was no reason for her to continue to be involved in the mystery behind Jamison’s death. She’d done her part. Paid her debt to Kerry in a sleazy airport hotel room with her legs in the air and forwarded all of the photos she’d taken of the DA to his cell phone with the words Let her out or I’ll let these out. Her part was done. And though she was still grateful for Kerry helping her when she was at her lowest after Jamison kicked her out, she knew in her heart that neither Jamison nor Kerry would have gone that far for her had she been the one behind bars or thrown from the top of a building. While her baby was dying in her stomach and Jamison was out in the street drinking and calling Kerry all times of night, she realized she was just a point in their love triangle. But with Jamison gone from the top of the geometric shape, Val was made far more important in Kerry maintaining her own balance. It seemed like Kerry now thought of Val as a friend, an ally, a confidante. Since she’d been out, she’d been calling Val, seeking her out, telling her secrets. And again, Val explained to herself that Kerry was out of jail. There was no reason to answer the phone or listen to annoying mothers and boys who were just like their fathers. But there was something about Kerry’s attention that made Val feel less alone in her predicament. They were both grieving the same loss in different ways. Missing the same man. There was something kindred in that. Something sisterly. It was a feeling Val, even with two sisters all her own, never knew.
But still, why should she care about what happened to Jamison? She certainly didn’t believe he was alive like Kerry had been telling everyone. And, like Lebowski, she thought Kerry was simply listening to those underground theorists who crowded Internet shows, blogs, and podcasts with theories of Jamison’s every move that Kerry was now tracking in a notebook, because she couldn’t accept that he was dead. But he was. Val had gone to the hospital. While the coroner said there was nothing left of his face that could be identifiable and what he could show Val would give her nightmares for the rest of her life, she did see Jamison’s bloody clothes, his wallet, his hands, his feet. It was him. She was sure of it. He was dead.
His Last Wife Page 16
