Gospel According to Prissy

by Barbara Casey

  Jake switched his gaze from Stanley to Mark. “We are in the process of working it out. There won’t be any trouble. You have my word.”

  “I can assume, then, that you won’t contest the divorce – if it comes to that – and there won’t be any court proceedings.”

  “It won’t come to that,” said Jake trying to laugh.

  Mark ignored Jake’s comment and stood up. “Things have a way of getting ugly. You know, he said and she said, he did and she did. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Mark walked over and opened the door to the outer offices. He had made his point and didn’t care to discuss the matter further.

  “You planning to be at the Kiwanis meeting this afternoon?” asked Stanley, following Mark out of Jake’s office. Several of the secretaries looked up from their work. “N.C. State’s basketball coach is going to talk.” The implication of Stanley’s question wasn’t lost on Jake. The Caldwells were strong supporters of the community. They expected their employees to be equally so. Now, with all the rumors flying around town about Lara having left Jake, he’d better not fuck up something else.

  “He’d better do more than talk if he’s going to beat Virginia this Saturday,” said Jake. Discussing rivalries within the Atlantic Coast Conference was a safe topic. He smiled good-naturedly at the secretaries hoping they hadn’t been able to pick up on any of the previous conversation.

  “See you there,” said Mark, taking Jake’s comment as a yes.

  After the two men left, Jake went back into his office and shut the door. He realigned the red leather chairs the two men had been sitting in, making sure they were pushed back to their original positions. Ox blood red the decorator had described the chairs when Jake picked them out. The color of royalty. He straightened a picture hanging above his credenza – a broad, golden leaf of tobacco that had been pressed and shellacked under glass and framed with cherry wood. He stared out of the large window overlooking a conglomeration of buildings, grain storage bins, and the fields beyond. He tapped out a cigarette from the package he always kept in his left shirt pocket, lit it, and drew on it deeply. Everything for as far as he could see belonged to the Caldwells, and that was still only a small portion of what they owned.

  Caldwell AgriServices in Rocky Mount was Jake’s first major account after working for Ernst and Young, CPAs, in Raleigh for almost nine years. Of course Jake knew why he had been given the account. With his own rural background, the partners in the firm felt he could communicate with these wealthy farm boys, that he would be able to talk their language.

  The day he was given the account, old man Steinmetz, senior partner of Ernst and Young, had jokingly remarked, “You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.” Jake had resented the hell out of it, but he flashed his much-practiced smile like it was the most clever thing he had ever heard. He had learned early on that he could use his country boy act like a suit of clothes, pulling it out and wearing it whenever he felt it would be to his advantage. But more often than not, he preferred to keep hidden the fact that he was the eldest son of a poor dirt farmer from eastern North Carolina. The people he wanted to be associated with didn’t respect dirty fingernails and mud-encrusted boots, or weekends lost in a drunken haze. Certainly not the Caldwells.

  The Caldwell family consisted of three elderly sisters, all in their late seventies. Evelyn was married, Louise was widowed, and Margaret was an old maid. There were three sons as a result of the two marriages, and from what Jake could gather from personal observation and local scuttlebutt, two of them were gay. “The whole damn family is living some kind of alternative lifestyle,” Jake had told Lara when she asked about them. Joe Pearson, the husband of Evelyn, was more or less a flunky who played the role of a big land owner, driving around in his black Lincoln and accepting gifts of home-baked pies and jars of jam from the wives of the farm hands. Joe, Jr., lived in New York with his gay lover. Stanley, the only son of Louise, and who was also gay, lived in a large red brick Georgian mansion not too far from his mother. It was Stanley and Mark, Joe’s younger son, that Jake reported to. It was these two who had the most to gain from Jake’s endeavors. They also had the most to lose since they would inherit everything after the three Caldwell sisters died. Not even Joe, Jr., would be cut into the inheritance. A trust that had already been established would take care of him and his needs for as long as he lived.

  From the first day Jake met the Caldwells he knew that they had everything he wanted. The respectability that brings with it a certain amount of intimidation and envy, the wealth, the power and control, and a place in society. He had tried hard to bury his own background deep. An uneducated father who was drunk more than he was sober, an uncaring, over-worked mother, and four younger brothers and sisters, one of them retarded.

  After leaving home, Jake never returned. Nothing was there to interest him. That and the fact that he could never quite forgive his parents for being poor. He joined the Navy right out of high school and after his discharge, enrolled in college full time to study business administration and accounting. With little or no money, Jake worked nights and weekends doing odd jobs – parking cars, yard work, short-order cook and bar tender. The Navy had taught him a lot. Always quick with a smile and the good old boy routine when it was necessary, he learned how to manipulate and control. It was so easy to work people, to make them laugh, and to get what he wanted. He was thirty-one years old when he graduated from college. This maturity along with his experience gave him a bit of an edge when it came to finding a job with Ernst and Young. It took another eight years to get promoted to Senior Accountant and his first major account.

  Two weeks after Jake took over the Caldwell account, he uncovered the embezzlement. Ray Gilbert, the bookkeeper for Caldwell, had been keeping a double set of books and secretly managing a separate retail business on the side. It was mostly stuff he had stolen from the Caldwell farm store that he was selling, which meant a profit for him of one hundred percent. That and the money he had deposited over the years into his own personal bank account rather than the Caldwell business account had given him quite a nest egg. It was so obvious it was ludicrous, especially for someone with Jake’s training and bent for finding weakness in the powerful. He took enormous pleasure in calling a private meeting with Stanley and Mark since they were the ones responsible for overseeing the operation. Showing just the right amount of remorse and consternation, Jake laid out the facts that bright October day on the eight-foot-long mahogany table in the conference room of the Caldwell executive offices. Within the hour, Gilbert was fired. The Caldwells insisted that there was no need to bring the law into it. Scandal was something they would have no part of.

  Over the next few weeks Jake sensed something was in the air. Several times Mark invited him to Rocky Mount to attend various social functions, all designed to allow the three Caldwell sisters to get to know him. It was on one of these occasions, a dinner party at Margaret’s lavish home in Lakeside, Mark had suggested that Jake bring his wife, Lara.

  The family was getting close to making their decision, Jake knew. And he had no doubt that Lara would be his trump card. She was young, educated, and beautiful. She had traveled all of her life as well which gave her a sophistication beyond her years. It was one of the things that had first attracted him to Lara – her sophistication. That and her dynamite figure.

  The dinner couldn’t have gone any better than if Jake had planned it. Lara made a tremendous hit with the old ladies, and Mark seemed a little bit more than casually interested. Jake liked that. Having something Mark might want.

  Two days following the dinner party Jake was offered the position of president of all of the Caldwell operations: the farm retail and implement store, thousands of acres of cultivated and uncultivated land, real estate and development, and five hundred sixty-eight employees at his beck and call. Jake asked for and got a six figure salary, complete freedom in running the operations, including the hiring and firing, selling and
expanding. Any selling and expanding, however, would require the approval of the Board consisting of Mark and Stanley and the three old ladies. But Mark and Stanley assured Jake that this was only a formality. The one thing Jake asked for but didn’t get was part of the company. He wanted shares in his name. But the Caldwells were clannish and tight-fisted when it came to letting someone from outside of the family into their kingdom. They would give him everything else – new cars and trucks to drive, medical benefits, bonuses and 401-Ks, and a salary that eclipsed what the president of the North Carolina Consolidated University System earned. But the kingdom belonged in the family. And in spite of what Jake had done for them in uncovering the embezzlement and what he could do for them in the future, he was still an outsider.

  Jake knew when to back off. There would be plenty of time later to work his way into the family. This was just the beginning. And, or course, there was Lara.

  Things had gone well. Jake worked hard learning everything about the business – and the Caldwell family. He was satisfied to delegate and identified quickly which employees were loyal and could handle responsibility. He also made it a point to be visibly involved. He would be seen in a field of rain-soaked tobacco just as often as behind the big mahogany desk in the fancy office he had been given. He pushed Lara as much as the field hands, expecting her to frequently entertain on a regular basis the womenfolk of all the men who worked for him. Lara explained that she wanted more out of her life. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the women, but she really didn’t have that much in common with them. Local gossip and long, unending conversations about babies, the weather, and recipes were leaving her feeling unsettled and isolated – and bored. Jake was seldom at home. Or when he was, he was drinking – something he had continued from his accounting days.

  Jake had been hard on Lara when she told him about getting a job at the small college nearby. After all, he was making plenty of money. What did she need to work for? What would people think – that he couldn’t even take care of his wife? He had bought her a mansion to live in, for Christ’s sake, and he expected her stay in it where she belonged, helping him and supporting him, and entertaining those goddamn women. It didn’t seem that much to ask. She took the job anyway. He didn’t say anything about it after that. He had to make up to her some how for losing his temper.

  Jake didn’t see it coming and the timing couldn’t have been worse. Two days after Mark’s and Stanley’s visit, the divorce papers along with a restraining order were delivered by a town cop to Jake while he and Mark were having lunch together at the country club where the Caldwells were members. Everyone who was having lunch at the club that day saw what happened, meaning the whole town of Rocky Mount would now know as well. Jake thought he handled it pretty well, considering. It was just a little misunderstanding, he again insisted to Mark, knowing how the family felt about sensitive matters. He could straighten it out.

  But he didn’t. The only way he could communicate with Lara at all over the next few days was through her attorney, not that he didn’t try. Lara didn’t back down. Each time he went to see her at the college, some whacko redhead got in his way. And no one seemed to be able to find out where Lara was staying. So, what Jake had explained to Mark as just a little misunderstanding was suddenly very close to blowing up in his face. And he knew that Mark’s and Stanley’s little visit to his office had been the only warning he would get. If he contested the divorce, it would not only destroy all of his chances with the Caldwells, he would be ruined in North Carolina.

  He reached into his desk drawer and ripped off a piece of paper from a note pad. Talk to Lara, he scribbled, and then crammed it into his pocket.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE NEXT FEW days were relatively quiet for Miriam except for the reporters showing up all hours and disrupting things. She continued to send them away. She was not going to allow them to make Prissy their story.

  When she first agreed to take the job at Braden, she had worked out a schedule with her deputy and assistant deputy where each of them would rotate weekends off. As much as she enjoyed her work, she knew that in order to maintain the proper perspective and balance not only in her private life but in being the best she could be for the girls, she occasionally needed time to herself. The approaching weekend would be her scheduled time off.

  She still hadn’t decided how to handle the incident with Lynda, but with the reporters pretty much under control, she managed to get the rest of the monthly reports completed and sent out freeing up her time to counsel the inmates the next day. It would be a good way to end up the week.

  Finished for the day, Miriam left work a few minutes earlier than usual. She wanted to stop at a farmer’s produce stand on the way home so she could pick up some fresh fruit and vegetables. Even though she didn’t consider herself a vegetarian, she could have easily existed without meat of any kind.

  “How’s things goin’, Miss Miriam.” The Johnsons had been selling produce at their own stand along Hwy. 301 for as long as she could remember. She had come there as a little girl with her mother, buying their produce and catching up on the latest gossip; and even back then they had called her Miss Miriam.

  “Things goin’ fine, Ed.” She picked out several bunches of fresh leaf lettuce and put them in her basket. “How’s the family?” She nodded and smiled at the two women who were helping Ed at the stand. Other members of the family.

  “Just fine. That new grandbaby is crawling now. Can’t let him out of our sight. He’s a strong little rascal, too.”

  Miriam smiled. She had lost count a long time ago of the number of grandkids that seemed to sprout from this one family. It was twelve now she believed. She picked out a few new potatoes and some early yellow squash. The squash wouldn’t have as much taste as the later spring crop, but it would still be good. A few tomatoes, a green pepper, and a head of cabbage.

  “We should have some strawberries next week. They’re running a little late this year, but they should taste all right. And I’ve been holding back some okra for you. The first of the crop.” Ed reached under a table and produced a sack.

  “Thanks, Ed. I will certainly enjoy these.” Miriam peeked into the sack. “By the way, I am planning to go through some closets over the weekend. I’ll bring you some things next Saturday.”

  “I appreciate that, Miss Miriam.”

  With a family the size of Ed’s, there was always someone who could wear whatever Miriam gave them. The Johnsons owned a seven-thousand-acre tract of land that straddled the Nash-Edgecombe County line. Caldwell AgriServices bordered the land on three sides, and the State owned the land to the east where the Braden facility was located. The majority of the Johnson land had been left in its natural wooded state, with only part of it actually being cultivated primarily for growing soy beans, peanuts, and corn. There was a small patch of tobacco, some fruit trees and a strawberry field, and, of course, the large vegetable garden that provided the fresh produce they sold each week when it was in season from their own stand. At some point they had added a hot house, which explained why they had fresh produce to sell earlier than the other local farmers. Apparently it was enough to take care of the family that had grown up on the land and depended on nothing else.

  Old man Johnson first bought the land before Rocky Mount was even a town. Then as the family grew, they simply kept adding on to the old farmhouse that was already on the property. Now it was a sprawling monstrosity of mostly unpainted clapboards, but it was their home. All of the Johnsons it seemed had farming in their blood. It was what they did, and it was what they loved. It was Ed Johnson who had donated a small parcel of the land to the women’s prison – the farm – some of which was being worked by the inmates to grow flowers and vegetables. It was Miriam’s hope to eventually put horses on some of that land as well.

  “It’s a shame about that young woman who works at the college – losing her baby like that, and now going through a divorce.”

  Miriam didn’t know many of the peopl
e working at the college, so she wasn’t sure who Ed was talking about. It didn’t matter. Local gossip didn’t interest her. “I’ll bring those things by next weekend, Ed. Give my best to the family.”

  Back home, Miriam rinsed everything and put it in the refrigerator. The tomatoes she placed in a shallow wooden bowl, a biscuit dough bowl that had belonged to her grandmother, and put it on the kitchen counter. She liked how they looked – the red against the warm brown wood. Besides, the tomatoes would taste better if they were kept at room temperature. It was still daylight, and not wanting to start on the work she had brought home yet, she decided to do some weeding in the flower beds. The pine straw was really starting to fall now, and soon she would be able to rake it up and put fresh mulch in all the beds. She loved this time of year when there was a slight crisp feel to the air first thing in the morning before turning comfortably warm. It even had a special smell, the smell of renewal.

  The old gray stone house with the unusual English “hip” roof and detached garage had been built in the 1920s for a doctor. When he decided to move up north to be closer to his grown children, Miriam’s parents bought the place. It had been through several hurricanes, a couple of tornadoes, and countless droughts. Through it all, the beautiful slate roof never faltered, and the stone work on the house and garage – gray river stone that had been quarried in the Blue Ridge Mountains – had only required minimal repairs.

  The inside of the house was dry and tight, and it had that rich smell of wax, magnolias, and oldness. Other than some paint to freshen the walls, and a few minor repairs throughout, the old place had been easy to keep up. Miriam couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. At some point, she realized, she would have to decide what to do with the house and the acre of land on which it was built once she passed on. The closer she got to that dreaded age of 60, the more she seemed to be thinking about it. Always, though, her thoughts would only take her so far and then she would put them aside for another day. There would be plenty of time later to make those arrangements. Right now, as she dug into her flower beds, uprooting pesky weeds and pinching stems on plants that were too ungainly, her mind was on another matter. She wanted to play her hand with the governor exactly right; there wouldn’t be room for any mistakes. She would have to get things in place before it got close to the elections, before he got too involved in the actual campaign. If she waited until the right moment, she might even be able to convince him that funding a work program for Braden would make a good campaign issue. After all, considering what other states were going through with their correction facilities, Braden was a little jewel.