Life Everlasting

by Robert Whitlow

  “What should I do if Detective Porter comes back?”

  “Call Sean.”

  Alexia opened a drawer in her desk and took out some papers, which she handed to Rena.

  “This is an information packet I ask my clients to complete in divorce cases. I already have all your personal data, but put it on these sheets so it will be in the proper format. Of course, you can ignore the sections about children. As soon as I get this back from you, I can prepare the petition.”

  “Do I need to pay you any more money?”

  Alexia thought a moment. “Not now, but send a retainer to Pruitt immediately. I have enough to get us through the first stages of the divorce. I’ll be asking the court for interim payment of my fees from Baxter’s assets.”

  “Both Ezra and Jeffrey have written me checks in the past week.”

  “Really? How much?”

  “Ezra’s was an odd amount—about thirty-two thousand. He put the word ‘dividend’ and the name of a company I didn’t recognize on the bottom of the check. Jeffrey gave me twenty thousand.”

  “Okay. You realize their payments will stop when you file for divorce. They’ll both be mad at you.”

  “Not Jeffrey.”

  Rena’s comment aroused Alexia’s old suspicions. “Why not?”

  “We have an understanding about it, but even if he cuts me off, no amount of money is worth the suffering I’ve been through during the past few months.” Rena put the information sheets under her arm. “I’ll get busy on my homework.”

  After Rena left, Alexia sat staring at the far wall of the office. Gwen looked tentatively into the room.

  “That was a marathon session,” the secretary said. “What happened?”

  Alexia gave her the sprinter’s version. When she finished, Gwen nodded.

  “You did the right thing. Rena is practically a kid. I have the sense she’s had a hard time growing up and nobody ever stood beside her before.”

  “Yeah, she was raised by a stepfather near a little crossroads in the mountains outside Greenville. There’s no telling what happened to her as a kid. I’ve been frustrated with her, but you may be right that she deserves a second chance. Whether good or bad, I’m in.”

  Gwen put some pleadings on Alexia’s desk. At the top of the first page was Rena Sue Richardson v. Baxter Calhoun Richardson. It was a petition for divorce.

  “When did you do this?” Alexia asked in surprise.

  “Earlier today. It didn’t take long, and I thought you’d need it to get started.”

  Alexia smiled. “So you were sure I wouldn’t withdraw?”

  “Not one hundred percent, but I’ve never seen you back down from a fight yet. This one was harder to predict because it’s got more angles than usual. But with that lawyer from Charleston involved, you’ll manage.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Alexia drove to the house on King Street and parked in the narrow, concrete driveway. She walked slowly across the small yard. The front of the house was obscured from the street by a row of massive crape myrtles that had pushed beyond the ornamental stage and become small trees. She touched the smooth bark of a limb and gently bent a twig, feeling the hidden life that remained in the tree. The last of the small leaves from the crape myrtles lay in compacted piles on the ground beneath them. The first time Alexia visited the house, a few purple blossoms still clung to the tips of the branches. Now the trees were bare. Rachel had a plan to remove several plants and shape the others so they framed the house instead of hid it.

  In the yard, sandy soil peeked through the spotty grass, but it would take only a bag of seed, some fertilizer, and an underground sprinkler system to turn the yard into a luxurious carpet. The soil around Santee never produced much cotton, but it grew great grass. The advent of the golfing communities allowed the soil to produce what it grew best. Alexia looked forward to kicking off her shoes at the end of a long day and taking a brief walk across the yard to enjoy the prickly feeling of grass beneath her toes.

  Alexia hadn’t put the key to her future office on her key ring. She rummaged around her purse for the loose key until she found it. Unlocking the front door, she went into the empty house. A slightly musty smell had taken over between occupants. She flicked on the lights in the dining room that would become her office. It wasn’t hard to visualize her new desk in the center of the room with the art objects from her travels nestled in appropriate corners and attached to the generous wall space. The room was half again as large as her office at Leggitt & Freeman, and it would be nice to work in a less confining space. Although often specific in application, the law was innovative in theory, and it was easier to concoct new approaches to a problem in surroundings that didn’t crowd out ideas.

  She walked down the hall to the kitchen in the back of the house. The sink was old-fashioned but salvageable. The cabinets would need to be removed and replaced with storage space for office supplies. Taking her PDA from her purse, Alexia jotted down several ideas for the renovation. Even if her romantic involvement with Ted Morgan warranted caution, she still needed to give him direction concerning the renovation.

  On the drive home, she didn’t slow down when she reached the road leading to the Sandy Flats Church. She’d do well to take her relationship with Ted from personal to professional as quickly as possible. She’d cracked open the door of her heart to the minister, but she had time to ease it shut with minimal damage. She would dictate a memo to Gwen outlining some of her ideas for the renovation. Ted could read it, provide advice, and sign it.

  Ted Morgan emerged from the crawl space beneath Marylou Hobart’s house. The confined space could have been the movie set for a horror film on arachnids. In some places, the thick cobwebs hung from the floor joists all the way to the soil. Ted didn’t suffer from any phobias about spiders, but he rubbed his head to remove the sticky strings that clung to him. Mrs. Hobart was standing outside, anxiously waiting for him.

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  “Some old termite tunnels, but no sign of current infestation. Do you remember when you had it treated?”

  “Of course not, or I wouldn’t have asked you to check it. Harriet Gibson up the road told me termites got into the wood under her back porch, and I couldn’t sleep at night worrying that they might be chewing on my house.”

  “I can do a preventive treatment. Do you ever see any spiders in the house?”

  “I got a splinter in my foot the other day, but it was my own fault. I shouldn’t be walking around barefooted at my age. When I was a little girl, I never wore shoes and my feet were tough as rawhide leather, but the older I get, the more my skin turns to paper.”

  Mrs. Hobart’s hearing deficiency sent normal conversations veering off in tangents. Sometimes Ted followed the tangents. Today, he tried to return to the initial topic. He spoke louder.

  “I said spiders! Do you ever have spiders in the house?”

  “Yes, that’s another reason I shouldn’t go barefooted. I stepped on one the other day in the kitchen. Good thing I had on my shoes. If I’d been barefooted, you’d probably be making my funeral arrangements. Did you get bitten while you were crawling around under there?”

  “No, but there are a lot of cobwebs. It might be a good idea to spray under the house.”

  “Is that expensive?”

  For sake of the old woman’s dignity, Ted would occasionally charge Mrs. Hobart less than his supplies actually cost. Even then, she often complained at paying a price more consistent with 1950 than the present. Her reactions led Ted to a different strategy—let the older woman set her own price.

  “I’ll have to check and let you know. How much can you afford?”

  Mrs. Hobart squinted in thought. “I get my check on the fifth. They used to mail it to the house, but now they can send it straight to my bank. It’s a wonder they don’t get it confused with all the other mail, but a nice girl at the bank told me it was better to do it that way. I agreed to try it for a couple of
months, and so far they haven’t missed a payment.”

  “The church does that too.”

  Mrs. Hobart opened her eyes wide. “I didn’t know the government sent money to the church. I thought that was illegal. Not that I think it’s wrong,” she added quickly. “I know the Lord would bless this country if we quit trying to tell him that we don’t need him. I know I do. I pray every morning and at night before I go to bed. I used to get on my knees, but recently I’ve started sitting on the bed when I pray because of my arthritis. I don’t lie down because I’d go right to sleep, but I still close my eyes. Do you think that’s alright?”

  “Yes ma’am. What can you afford to pay to get rid of the spiders?”

  “Oh, about thirty-five dollars, if it also includes the termites.”

  Ted nodded. “That’s a good price. I can do it for that.”

  Mrs. Hobart smiled. “Do you want some tea?”

  “Yes. That would be nice.”

  They walked to the back porch. A large sink stood in the corner of the screened area. In years past, the sink served farm workers who washed their hands before sitting down to a generous noontime meal included as part of their wages. Vegetables picked from the garden could be cleaned before bringing them inside. The property hadn’t been a working farm in a generation, and Mrs. Hobart longingly reminisced about the big vegetable gardens of the past. As a result, Ted had set out a few tomato, squash, and okra plants that produced enough vegetables for Mrs. Hobart’s personal use and extras she could proudly give to friends.

  The old woman’s tea was sweet, even by Southern standards. Ted always put a lot of ice in his glass and let it melt to cut the syrupy brew before drinking it. Extra lemon helped too.

  “I’ll get my own ice and cut up the lemon,” he offered.

  Ted knew his way around Mrs. Hobart’s kitchen as well as the roof, toilet, windows, and now the crawl space. They sat down at a small kitchen table with the back door open to let in the cool afternoon air that drifted in from the porch.

  “Are you cold?” Ted asked. “We can shut the door.”

  “No, you’re probably hot from all your work. I’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Hobart took a sip of her tea. Ted shook his glass to hurry up the melting process.

  “How is Alicia doing?” Mrs. Hobart asked.

  “She’s busy at work. She bought a house, and I’m going to fix it up for her.”

  “Where does she live now?”

  “Another house near the marsh. This house will be her office. It’s on King Street near the courthouse.”

  “She’s a lawyer, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Hobart sipped her tea. “They make a lot more money than preachers, except for the ones on TV. If everybody who watches the show sends twenty dollars, it could add up to a right smart sum of money. If you and Alicia get married, I hope you won’t stop working on people’s houses. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Ted laughed. “We haven’t talked about getting married or what I would do if we did. I like her a lot, but I’m not sure if I’m involved in her life primarily to help her in her faith or if our relationship will lead to something serious.”

  Mrs. Hobart didn’t respond. It was a long, complicated thought to communicate to the older woman, and Ted didn’t expect a response. The ice in his tea had sufficiently melted so he could take a sip without risking the health of his teeth. He took a drink, thankful for a strong hint of lemon.

  “You need to marry the right person,” Mrs. Hobart said emphatically. “That’s true for everybody, but you’re a man of God, and I believe when you meet the woman who fits you, it will be clear as a morning after a rain.”

  Ted lowered his glass to the table. He leaned over and patted the older woman’s wrinkled hand. “Thank you. You’re right. And when you’re sitting on the edge of your bed at night with your eyes closed, will you add that to your prayers?”

  Exhausted after the encounter with Giles Porter and the pressure of Alexia’s threatened withdrawal, Rena went home, collapsed on the sofa in the living room, and went to sleep. But she didn’t rest. Every time she heard a car come up the driveway, she feared the detective had returned. Each time she looked, however, she discovered the nurses changing shifts. Suppertime had arrived by the time she awoke from a few fitful minutes of sleep. She went into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, she took out a peach yogurt. She’d lost over ten pounds since Baxter was hurt, and her appetite was fickle. Trying to get rid of Baxter appeared impossible, and now fleeing Santee the only viable option.

  She flipped through the day’s mail and picked up one of Baxter’s wine magazines. The cover featured a man wearing a sweater and standing in a vineyard in California. Every wine magazine was identical—always a hillside of lush vines on the cover with the location rotating between California, France, Italy, or another European country. In the middle of the picture would be a man or woman with a relaxed expression and no cares in the world. The rain always fell in perfect increments on magazine vineyards. Rena tossed the magazine aside and sorted the rest of the mail. A few envelopes contained bills. Underneath, Rena uncovered the slip of paper on which Ezra had written his private phone number. Rena put it in a drawer. Picking up the phone, she called Jeffrey’s cell phone. When it came to her desire for freedom, Rena could be stubborn. It was time to be blunt with her brother-in-law.

  “What’s going on?” he asked in a cheerful voice.

  “This is a serious call.”

  Jeffrey’s tone changed. “Is Baxter okay?”

  “Yes, but I’m not. I can’t go on living this way, and I’ve decided to file for divorce. Alexia Lindale is going to prepare the papers.”

  Jeffrey was silent for a few moments. “Do you realize this will have a negative effect on our plans?”

  “No, I think it will help. Alexia can use the divorce proceeding to do what you wanted her to do in a suit against Ezra. She can ask questions and request information about business stuff that will put the same kind of pressure on your father as if I sued him directly. All you want him to do is back off from manipulating Baxter’s interests so you can take more control, right?”

  “So we can take more control,” Jeffrey corrected.

  “Forget the act,” Rena responded. “You don’t want me as a business partner any more than I want to be involved with you. If I can help you in your power play with your father, I’ll do it, so long as you give me the money to finance my exit from Santee. I’ll get something from Baxter in the divorce case, and then I’ll be on my way.”

  “How will you manage Alexia Lindale?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want her prying into our affairs. If she thinks there is money to be found, she’ll go after it. That’s her reputation.”

  “I can tell her to stop whenever you want and say it’s because I don’t want a messy divorce. She’s tired of the whole situation anyway. I was barely able to convince her to keep helping me at all.”

  “I don’t like it. My plan is better.”

  Rena had tried the businesslike approach, but now she shifted tactics. Her voice wavered. “You don’t realize what I’m going through. I’m going to do this no matter what.”

  “Don’t test me, Rena.”

  Rena bit her lip. “If you’re talking about the videotape, I’ve hired a lawyer in Charleston and told him all about it. He told me it wasn’t a problem.”

  “Really? I’d think you’d be more concerned now that the theft and murder case against Quinton is going to be dismissed.”

  “How do you know that?” Rena asked in surprise.

  “You’re not the only person with a lawyer in Charleston.”

  “Did you talk to Sean Pruitt?”

  “I don’t know him, but I received word this afternoon that Quinton is off the hook, except for some charges related to a fight at a nightclub. If that’s true, the police are going to be looking for someone else to prosecute, and I don’t k
now a more likely suspect than you.”

  Rena shut her eyes as if the loss of sight would cut off her hearing too. “Stop it!” she exploded.

  Jeffrey laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m kidding. You’re much more help to me sitting at your kitchen counter than in a jail cell. I’ll think about the divorce angle and let you know. You may be right. It might work just as well as a direct suit against my father, but I don’t like being pressured into doing something.”

  Rena clicked off the phone and slammed it so hard against the counter that the back cover flew off and the battery slid across the floor. She stared out the window over the sink. She hated being trapped. She would find a way to deal with Jeffrey. She picked up the pieces of the phone and put it back together. As she was about to return it to its cradle, she had an idea.

  Opening the drawer, she took out Ezra’s number and dialed it. After five rings, she was about to hang up when a recording invited her to leave a message.

  “This is Rena,” she said in what she hoped was her respectful daughter-in-law voice. “Thanks for giving me this number. I’ve talked to Jeffrey and need to meet with you as soon as possible.”

  24

  “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

  JEREMIAH 29:11

  Wednesday afternoon, Alexia inwardly debated whether to attend the music-therapy session scheduled at midnight. Already feeling left out because she didn’t have anything musical to contribute, she felt even greater apprehension over Ted’s apparent interest in Sarah Locklear. She wavered between a pout and hurt feelings. Gwen buzzed her.

  “Preacher-man Ted is on the phone.”

  “Put him into my voice mail.”

  Gwen continued. “We’ve already had a nice chat. He wanted to consult with me about your specific likes and dislikes and had no idea how much you crave watermelon. I suggested he order one from South America for a Christmas present.”