Chapter Sixty-one
Dusk in summer was the feature William most remembered about the Piney Woods of East Texas. It seemed to him that when the sun went down, a cast came over the landscape the color and luster of gray pearls and was never ending. Nowhere else did he think the light lasted as long before dying.
As a boy just come from France, he’d been grateful for this aspect of the region, for when his mother died, he became afraid of the dark. His father understood and left a light burning while he slept, but he could remember very clearly, at five or so, being ashamed of his fear. When he came to Howbutker, he sensed at once that he must say nothing of this to the tall, commanding woman to whom his father had sent him. The portly, gentle man he called Uncle Ollie would have understood, but not his aunt. He’d known instinctively that she was not one to tolerate weakness.
Or so he’d believed.
The first night, he’d fallen asleep long before darkness fell and was carried to his room in his uncle’s arms. But after that, all through the summer when going to bed, he’d raise the shade his aunt had pulled down and go to sleep by the light of the dusk. When fall came and shorter days, he worried that his aunt would turn off the light by his bed when she came in to say good night. But instead, she surprised him by asking with her small smile, “Shall we leave the light on a little longer?”
“Oui, Tante, s’il vous plaît.”
“Well, good night, then. See you in the morning.”
Thereafter, it became their routine bedtime exchange, and he’d awake in the mornings to find the lamp still burning. He’d thought she hadn’t bothered to return to switch it off, but he was wrong. One winter night several years later, he awoke to see her in the lamplight at the side of his bed. She was wearing a robe and looked like a goddess pictured in his mythology books. Her hand on the light switch, she asked kindly, “Shall we turn it off now?”
And it was then he realized that she’d been aware of his fear of the dark all along. “Yes, Aunt,” he’d said, recognizing that his fear was gone and had been for a long time. It had simply disappeared, wandered away with the other dragons of his childhood.
William glanced at his wife, snoring with her mouth open, the towel still up at her window. She’d begun to doze almost immediately after she saw how disinclined he was to talk of their new wealth. “Rachel will get over it, William, believe me,” she’d said, reading his worried mind as easily as her romance novels. “And it’s not like she’s been kicked entirely out of Howbutker. She can marry Matt Warwick and get Somerset back through him when Percy dies. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal, Alice, is that Somerset won’t go to Matt Warwick. Percy will have it removed from his estate. That’s why Aunt Mary left it to him. She knew he’d make sure Rachel never got her hands on it again.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I really think Percy’s got the right idea. I believe Aunt Mary was trying to save Rachel from that curse she spoke of back in ’56.”
“And you don’t know what it is?”
“No, but Percy does.”
He was thankful that once Alice was asleep, Armageddon couldn’t wake her. She would not have approved this detour onto a country road through the pine forests he remembered from his boyhood, and Jimmy was plugged into his Walkman with his eyes closed, too lost in the oblivion of his frenzied music to notice he’d turned off the interstate. This little jaunt would make the trip longer, but he might never pass this way again, and he had a hankering to linger in the twilight of the Piney Woods for as long as he could, revisit memories he wouldn’t be adding to after today. Close by over there, he recalled, was a creek where he and a buddy used to seine for catfish. God, the water moccasins and cottonmouths they’d draw up with their catch!
And somewhere around here ran a railroad track, the one that had taken him out of Howbutker when he made his escape forty years ago. His plan had been to hide in the bushes by the side of the track until the train started to roll, then jump on and buy his ticket on board. But the conductor had said the train was full and he’d have to wait for the next one. Amos, then a recently discharged army paratrooper on his way to Houston, had gotten off to stretch his legs before reboarding. William still remembered his surprise when he had shoved his ticket into his hand and told him to hop on. Once out in the oilfields of West Texas, he’d thought of the tall, gangly soldier from time to time, wondering what had possessed a stranger passing through town to part with his ticket to a kid he could tell was on the lam. He learned later from Aunt Mary that at fifteen Amos had tried to run away from home but was hauled back by ham-fisted deputies to a father who had punished him by strapping him to a post and whipping him publicly. Amos, unsure to what he’d be condemning him if he was caught, had made the decision to help him. That turned out to be a good thing for the old boy. He had stumbled into a town that had taken him in as one of their own—no mean achievement in Howbutker. Funny how things happen.
The pine-canopied road was quiet and peaceful—no sight or sound of another car—and he had the sensation of driving through a silent green tunnel, a good stretch to think. He kept recalling Aunt Mary’s words to him in the gazebo that summer of 1956: Be glad your children will grow up free of Somerset. What had she meant by that? He was convinced it was behind her decision to sever his daughter from her Toliver roots. To hell with Alice’s theory that she’d done it to keep her promise to him. Aunt Mary was free to change her mind at any time, and they’d both known she owed him nothing. He also couldn’t buy that she’d willed Somerset to Percy as an expression of regret. That bit had come as a shock—that they’d been lovers—but not when he thought about it. They had looked made for each other, and he had wondered at one time why Aunt Mary, a goddess, had chosen a cherub over a Greek god. Not that there was ever a better man than Uncle Ollie.
Then why, when she’d primed Rachel to step into her shoes, had Aunt Mary snatched them away?
Somerset has always cost too much, she’d said.
He now had an inkling of what she’d meant by that. Somerset had cost her Percy and God knew what else she had been alluding to that summer. In a way, it had cost her him. He’d have stayed if he hadn’t been made to work out at the plantation. God, how he’d hated the place—the chiggers and mosquitoes, the heat and sweat, the sucking mud in the rainy season and the clinging dust in drought, the burrs and constant fear of snakes coiled under the cotton bushes, the never-ending cycle of work, work, work. And someday, so he was made to understand—because he was a Toliver—it was all going to be his.
He shook his head as if a fly had penetrated his ear passage. He could not have abided it. No sirreebobtail. And now Somerset had come between his wife and daughter, and it would cost Rachel that fine Matt Warwick, too. They were another couple that went together like peas and carrots, if ever he saw one, but she could never marry a man whose grandfather possessed the land that she would always believe should have been hers. His aunt had meant well, but she’d blown it. Rachel would never forgive her, as Alice would never get past their daughter throwing in her lot with Aunt Mary.
He blew out a woeful breath. He could understand the costs, but what of the curse? What in blue blazes was the Toliver curse? How did it show itself? Had Aunt Mary saved Rachel from it? How would she know?
The winding, narrow road under its green awning swam before his vision. His senses swelled with a sorrow for the tragic barter of things… those cherishables folks traded away that could never be reclaimed. His eyes and ears and nostrils were so filled that he did not register the urgent blowing of the train whistle in the distance. The car windows were rolled up, his right view blocked by the towel and a hang-up bag in the back. The air conditioner hummed. A faint blare of Jimmy’s rock music leaked from the Walkman. When first he heard the cry of the train whistle, it sounded like a natural sound of the region, so much a nostalgic part of his childhood this hour of the day that the car was on th
e track before he realized that a freight train was bearing down upon them.
Alice and Jimmy never opened their eyes. For an illuminating instant before the train struck, William’s mind was fully alert, and he understood with perfect clarity the gist of the Toliver curse.
Chapter Sixty-two
Back in her room, hardly able to draw breath, Rachel climbed up on the bed, opened the green leather box, and carefully lifted out the last will and testament of her great-great-grandfather. It was dated May 17, 1916. She was aware that he had died in June of that year, so the document must have been drafted shortly before. A letter had been inserted between the pages. She unfolded the single sheet and glanced at the closing signature: “Your loving father, Vernon Toliver.” A chill grabbed her spine. She felt as if she’d found the key to a locked, forbidden room.
Dearest wife and children, she read.
I have never thought of myself as a cowardly man, but I find that I do not have the courage to apprise you of my will’s contents while I am still alive. Let me assure you, before its reading, that I love each of you with all my heart and wish, as deeply, that circumstances could have afforded a fairer and more generous distribution of my property. Darla, my beloved wife, I ask you to understand why I have done what I’ve done. Miles, my son, I cannot expect you to understand, but someday, perhaps, your heir will be grateful for the legacy I leave you and entrust you to retain for the fruit of your loin.
And Mary, I wonder that in remembering you as I’ve done, I’ve not prolonged the curse that has plagued the Tolivers since the first pine tree was cleared from Somerset. I am leaving you many and great responsibilities which I hope will not force you into a position unfavorable to your happiness.
Your loving husband and father
Rachel met her startled gaze in the dressing table mirror beyond her bed. This was the first written reference to a Toliver curse she’d ever come across. What did it mean? How was it manifested? And what was this legacy that Vernon Toliver had left his son? The chill gripping her backbone spread. With a growing sense of the unthinkable, she turned the brittle pages until she found the name Miles Toliver listed as sole beneficiary of a tract of 640 acres and a description of its location along the Sabine River.
No! No way! Aunt Mary couldn’t have… she wouldn’t have… She fixed her eyes on the paragraph again, rereading the words expressed in their legal jargon, her mind reeling from their implications. But there was no mistaking their meaning. Contrary to what her family had believed—to what Aunt Mary had allowed them to believe—Vernon Toliver had left a section of Somerset land to his son.
Rachel lifted her white face to the mirror. Aunt Mary had lied by omitting the truth of her brother’s inheritance. But why? What was the point of the secret? She’d have thought Aunt Mary would have wanted her father to know of the land Miles inherited, to encourage his interest and commitment. What happened to those acres? Had Miles Toliver sold them? Had Aunt Mary been ashamed of the sale and not wanted her nephew to know what he’d done?
There were two other envelopes in the box, held together by a rusted paper clip. The faded name above the return address of the top one caused her to lose breath. Miles Toliver. It had been mailed from Paris, but the postdate was too faint to read. She unclipped it, setting aside the other envelope without a glance, and carefully withdrew a letter dated May 13, 1935.
Dear Mary,
I am in hospital, having been diagnosed with lung cancer, a result of the phosgene gas I inhaled during the war. The doctors tell me that it’s only a matter of time now. I’m not afraid for myself, only for William, my son. He’s seven years old and the sweetest little fellow in the world. His mother died two years ago, and it’s been only the two of us since. I’m writing to say that I’m sending him to you and Ollie to take in and raise as your own, perhaps as a younger brother to Matthew. He looks exactly like a Toliver, Mary, and who knows but that someday he may grow up to appreciate and respect the family name with the enthusiasm his father lacked. I’d like you to give him a chance to try. I have made arrangements for him to arrive in New York on the Queen Mary June fifteenth. Attached is the dock information.
Also enclosed is the deed to the section along the Sabine that Papa left me in his will. As you can see, I have transferred it to you to hold in trust for William until he is twenty-one, at which time you’re to transfer the property to him to do with as he sees fit. I’m hoping by then, for your sake as well as his, he’ll be so entrenched in the Toliver tradition that he wouldn’t dream of parting with a nugget of his inheritance.
I am at peace knowing that he is going to a good home. Tell Ollie that I still consider him and Percy the finest friends a man ever made. I hope you will all remember me in the memories of the good times we shared.
Your loving brother,
Miles
Rachel stared at the letter in dumb disbelief, unable to grasp its shocking revelations. Irrelevantly, she recalled her father’s description of himself arriving in New York Harbor at seven years old, alone and afraid, looking foreign and speaking only French. She’d heard the story many times of how Uncle Ollie, his cherubic face wreathed in a smile, had hailed him from the waiting crowd on the dock and put him at ease immediately, buying him ice cream and sodas and regaling him with boyhood tales of Miles on the long train journey to Howbutker. Uncle Ollie had been sent alone to collect him because it was planting time at Somerset.
Feeling as if every corpuscle were jumping, Rachel picked up the other envelope addressed to Mary DuMont and instinctively, horrifyingly, guessed that the bold black handwriting belonged to Percy Warwick—perhaps because it had been clipped to the clear proof of betrayal and deception by the woman he loved. No return address, stamp, or postdate, which meant it had been hand-delivered. She slipped out the brief message, noting that it was dated July 7, 1935.
Mary,
Though I have misgivings, I believe I can see my way to agree to your proposal. I have gone to Ollie’s creditor, and he cannot be moved from his position. Therefore, I will buy the section we discussed. Let’s meet Monday at the courthouse at three o’clock, and we will take care of the matter. Bring the deed, and I will bring the check.
As ever,
Percy
Rachel drew back her shoulders, inwardly seeing the smokestacks and emissions rising from the site of Warwick Industries’ huge pulp mill and paper-processing plant bordering Somerset’s eastern boundary. On the other side of the complex lay the Sabine River. She had always thought its juxtaposition next to the Toliver plantation accidental, but now…
Dear God—was it possible? Did Percy’s note refer to her grandfather’s section along the Sabine, and had Aunt Mary sold it to him against Miles’s instructions? Were Percy’s misgivings based on knowledge that the land wasn’t Aunt Mary’s to sell? Rachel studied the date: July 7, 1935… two months after her father’s arrival in New York Harbor.
Another remote possibility, logical and less shocking, but no less shameful, nudged in. By the time William Toliver had reached twenty-one, Aunt Mary was well aware of her nephew’s lack of feeling for the plantation and his heritage. Had she simply incorporated his acres into the rest of Somerset and never mentioned them to him because she was afraid he’d sell his inheritance? If they did not abut Somerset and she hadn’t sold them to Percy, where along the Sabine were they located? Where was the deed? And what section, then, would she have sold to Percy?
Rachel pressed her cold hands to her hot cheeks. What had she discovered? Evidence of fraud? Or plain deceit and thievery? Was her father the culprit here? Had Aunt Mary transferred the deed as instructed and he’d sold it and the two of them kept his secret all these years?
No, never. He wouldn’t have allowed her mother to believe a lie that was at the root of her resentment against the Tolivers. But then—until today—she wouldn’t have believed Aunt Mary guilty of her crimes, either, and as for Percy Warwick… he was the most honorable man she knew. She gazed at the note and felt
sick to her stomach. Bring the deed…. Was it conceivable that he would agree to a proposal that would defraud a six-year-old boy of his inheritance?
At least she would get one answer when her father telephoned tonight. She’d tell him of her discovery and question the whereabouts of the deed, but she was certain he’d say he had no idea what she was talking about. He’d never known he was to inherit a section of land that had belonged to his father. And tomorrow, she’d go to the courthouse and check the record of deeds for the location of the land.
Car lights flashed across her bedroom windows, reflected off the closed garage doors. Sassie and Henry were home. She scrambled off the bed to let them in before they rang the bell and she’d have to explain the locked back door. She was halfway down the stairs when the kaleidoscopic play of a squad car’s blue and red lights struck the fanlight. She halted in midflight as other tires screeched to a stop before the verandah, followed by the slam of car doors and the urgent pitch of men’s voices—among them Matt’s and Amos’s. What in the world—?
The back doorbell buzzed. She barely heard the sound for the frantic beat of her heart as she rushed to answer the imperative summons of the front door chimes. The insistent ring came again as she struggled to wrench the cranky bolt from its antiquated casing and finally throw open the door. A contingent of men stared at her, Amos and Matt in the forefront, the county sheriff and two highway patrolmen behind them, their grimly set faces almost stopping her heart.
“What is it?” she demanded.
“It’s your… parents and… Jimmy,” Amos croaked, his Adam’s apple bouncing like a Ping-Pong ball.
“What about them?”
Matt stepped across the threshold and gripped her hand. “Their car was struck by a train, Rachel. They were killed instantly.”
PART IV
Roses Page 45
