by John Moore
Sarah received a call from Detective Baker and found out that Mark had been released on bail. Holy shit. How is that possible? The bastard’s a dangerous stalker. Politics, politics, I’m sure. It’s not what you know; it’s who you know in this city. Baker said the police would increase patrols in Sarah’s neighborhood to watch for him. Mark did have to wear an ankle monitor so the police would know if he violated the conditions of his bond since he was ordered by the judge not go within 500 feet of Sarah’s office or her house. He was also ordered not to drink alcohol and required to take random breath tests. The judge felt like those conditions would be enough to ensure Sarah’s safety. I wasn’t so sure. Mark’s arraignment date was set for the Tuesday after Mardi Gras. Plenty of time for the fix to be put in place, I suspected.
Later that day Sarah called me into her office and asked me to sit down. She put Dan Broussard on speakerphone.
“So sorry to hear of your loss, Alexandra,” Broussard said.
“Thank you for your concern,” I replied.
“Sarah tells me you’ve found the perfect get up for the Rex Ball.”
Oh shit, I cringed. He’s probably gotten his credit card bill and wants me to take it all back and make my own dress. My mind messed with me like that.
“That’s wonderful. I’ll bet it looks beautiful on you. Can’t wait to see it. Let me know if you need anything else. Bye now.”
Sarah could see the relief in my face. She looked at me with that motherly thing she does and asked, “Did you ever call Tom?”
“No,” I murmured, shifting my eyes away from hers.
“Why don’t you call him now and ask him to the Rex Ball?”
How did she know that I wanted to ask Tom? Holy shit, she has powers!
OK, then, dammit, I will. I entered Tom’s number in my phone and pressed send. I was a little shocked that he answered his phone. I thought for sure I would get his voice mail. After the mandatory small talk, I came out and asked him, “Tom, will you be my date for the Rex Ball?”
“When is it?” he asked.
I gave him all of the details and he agreed to go with me. I think his words were, “I’d be honored!” Honored? Wow! I am getting closer to being Cinderella. But, she didn’t have Jimmy Choo shoes like I did.
Things were getting better. Or so it seemed.
Chapter Seven:
Pesticide Pollution
I stayed at Sarah’s for the next couple of days. Sarah’s troubles and the excitement of Mardi Gras had temporarily pushed my Indiana life out of my mind. Then, UPS notified me that my package from Indiana had arrived. I was equally excited about and afraid of what might be in the cardboard box and the wooden box. What did my mom put in that wooden box? What secrets hidden from me would the documents from the attic cardboard box reveal? I wanted to know. I needed to know. At the same time, I was also scared to know. But my fear had to step aside. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I brought the box home and placed it in the middle of my living room floor. I stared at it. Enough of this nonsense, I thought, open the damn thing.
I summoned my courage and opened the package. Bravely, I looked in. Just as I’d packed it. Enough papers for many days’ reading and my mother’s wooden box looked back at me. I grabbed the wooden box, but couldn’t recall what I’d done with the key. Then I remembered throwing it in the cardboard box with all of the other documents. I started pulling wads of papers out and stacking them on the floor. I stopped when I ran across mortgage forms. Mortgage forms? These were legal documents. I read the words in disbelief. My father had mortgaged the family farm. Why would he do that? Did he pay it off? This damn box has nothing but trouble in it. Why the hell didn’t I just leave all of this stuff in Indiana and enjoy my Cinderella life in New Orleans? Frustrated, I dug deeper and, voila, there it was, the shiny silver key.
My hands shook as I put the key in the lock and turned it slowly. I had stepped back into the past, a journey that I promised myself never to take. A life that I had left so many years ago was overtaking me again, like a big wave at the shore. I lifted the lid and saw a small book, similar to a diary. It wasn’t a diary. It was a hardbound letter from the grave written to me, only me. My mother’s words. I felt like I was conducting a séance and my mother’s spirit had just entered the room. I was spooked, my entire body shaking. I hesitated and reassured myself that my mother would not be coming forth from this book. She was in heaven, not in this wooden box. My entire body trembled as I reached for the small book. I wondered how an inanimate object could possess the power to draw my hands closer and closer. But it did. It was compelling me to read it no matter how much pain it might bring.
The pages, brown with age, and the blue ink dotted with small splash marks looked back at me as if they recognized me. Marks made by my mother’s tears.
Now, shaking uncontrollably, I read the first page.
“Alexandra, let me start by telling you how much I love you. You are my little miracle child. I wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant. You see, I had severe endometriosis. But, I wanted a child to love and to share the innumerable joys that life offers. When I was trying to get pregnant, your father and I traveled to Chicago many times to see specialist after specialist, only to get the same answer each time. I would not be able to have a child. Disappointed, we accepted that maybe adoption was our only option.
“You must not have heard the doctors’ opinions because somehow you fought your way into this world. Even as a little sprout you did anything and everything you set your mind to do. You drove the tractor with your father. You baked cakes with me. You threw elaborate tea parties for all of your dolls. You beat the boys in baseball. Whatever you decided to do, you did it well. No mother could have had a more wonderful child than you, Alexandra.
“I’ve watched you grow into a young lady and I’ve been so proud. You are smart, strong, you know who you are and you care about other people. What else is there? But as joyous as my life with you has been, today I am incurably sad. Heartbroken, because I will not be able to see you graduate from high school. I will not be at your wedding. I am dying, Alexandra. I have brain and liver cancer. I have fought to live but am close to the end now.
“I want you to know that my dream has always been to see you graduate from college. No one in our family has ever attained a college degree. You, you, Alexandra, are the one. You will succeed where others in our family have failed. I want so much to be seated in the front row in a new dress, smiling as my beautiful Alexandra walks across the stage a college graduate. My heart will be there, but I will not.
“The doctors have informed me that I have from one to three months left. They say that if I go through chemo, maybe another year or two. Maybe. There’s no chance of a real cure, not that I can see.
“I want you to know some things about my illness and the choice I must make now. Your father and I learned that our land was poisoned by ACC. Years ago we were asked by the county agent to participate in a test program that would increase the yield of corn on our land. He assured us that it was safe. He even brought ACC’s rep., Mr. Bart Rogan, to our farm to explain the risks and benefits to us. Honey, we needed the money. Mr. Rogan guaranteed us that ACC tested these chemicals in India, and they were safe. They increased corn production by 25 percent, much to the delight of the landowners and the Indian government. A huge increase in production like that meant we would be able to set aside enough for your college education. I felt my dream for you would come true.
“We later learned that those same miracle chemicals seeped into our water well and poisoned all of us. Your father and you were not affected as I was. These chemicals gave me cancer. We hired a lawyer in New Castle to file a claim against ACC. But, as time went by, we learned we could not conclusively prove the chemicals caused my cancer. But I know they did. I know they are responsible for my death. They kept me from seeing my dreams for you come true.
“
Your father and I decided to end our claims against ACC and take the $75,000 cash they offered us. Your father wanted the money for my treatment, but I refused. I put $50,000 aside for your college education and the rest for his care. These were my choices. Life should give everyone a second chance. My life has been cut short by the bad decision your father and I made to allow experimental chemicals to be sprayed on our land. My second chance is you. Your father was suffering from dementia and was not mentally competent enough to make sound decisions. I will die knowing that my dream for you will come true. You will be a college graduate. I will look down from heaven beaming with pride at my lovely, sweet Alexandra as she gets her college diploma.
“I want you to have a great life. Do not be upset with your father for not insisting that I get treatment. His mind is not well. He doesn’t understand the reality of my condition. All of these decisions were mine, including joining the ACC test program. This was my mistake. Life teaches us all valuable lessons. I just learned mine a little too late. I hope my words will keep you from making the same mistake. Alexandra, when you make a deal with the devil, the devil always collects. My fate was sealed from the moment I met Bart Rogan.
“I must leave this world in body, but I will live in your spirit. You have always been my angel. Soon I will be yours. I will watch over you and be with until we are someday reunited.
I will always love you,
Mom.”
A tidal wave of grief overtook me. The tears flowed and flowed down my face, like rain from a hurricane that stalled in the Gulf just offshore, pelting the ground, never losing strength. Images of my mother in her final days flooded my mind, lying in bed, struggling to smile at me, and speaking in a shallow voice. She paid for my college with money that could have prolonged her life? Why would she do that? Didn’t she know she was more important to me than any amount of education? I thought about the classes I skipped, the tests I could have studied for harder, and the way I was living my life. Would she have approved? Oh God, this was too much for me.
I slammed the wooden box shut and called Sarah. Once again, Sarah dropped everything and came to my condo. I showed her the mean, wooden box and she read its contents. She cried like I cried. We both cried.
When the crying finally subsided, she asked, “Would you like to come to my house for the night?”
I thought for a few seconds and said, “No, I want to stay home. Would you stay with me here at my condo tonight?” I asked.
“Of course I will.”
We sat in my living room in total silence for a few moments, the sounds of occasional cars passing on the street.
“Sarah, I don’t know how to feel about this letter from my mother. I hate the fact that she denied herself treatment. How did she know chemotherapy wouldn’t have cured her? If she declined treatment to send me to college, why didn’t she include me in the decision? I shouldn’t be mad at her, but I am. And what about my father? How could he let this happen? Why didn’t he tell me what happened over the years since my mother passed?”
“Alex, I don’t have answers to your questions. Life deals us difficult hands, and we must make the best choices we can. It’s clear that your mother loved you so very much. She wanted you to have what she did not, a college education. She felt like her time on this earth was short and all she could do to ensure your education was to deny herself the treatment. As much as it hurts you to know the truth, it was her choice to make, her life. Cancer treatments in those days were horrific ordeals that often had horrific consequences to parts of the body other than those affected by the disease. I can’t say that I wouldn’t have made the same choice in her shoes. As for your father, he was suffering from early Alzheimer’s. His dementia didn’t allow him to make rational decisions. Your mother was protecting him from knowing the whole truth, I’m sure. I can only imagine how difficult life was for her carrying these burdens.”
“I miss her so much. It just isn’t fair. Those bastards from ACC killed her. How can they get away with that? I thought the government protected us from dangerous chemicals and reckless assholes like them.”
“The government does try to protect us. We have the EPA and the FDA. They seem to be too slow to react to new chemicals. Just look at the BP oil spill in the Gulf. There are regulations in place to guard against oil spills. Are they sufficient? Not usually. But, we don’t know until some tragedy like the Deep Water Horizon spill happens. After the worst occurs, politicians conduct hearings, finger pointing begins, and a few scapegoats get blamed. Eventually, a new story hits the front page. We all forget and life goes on. You know how it works, Alex. We are a part of that whitewash business.”
“Sarah, I know you are right, but I don’t know if I can keep doing it.”
“Alex, life is not always fair. The best you can hope for is to insulate yourself from some of life’s miseries. BP didn’t mean to pollute the Gulf or kill the workers who died on the oil rig. They were trying to drill for oil to power the world we live in and make money for their stockholders. I’m certain that ACC wasn’t trying to poison your family’s farm. They were probably trying to find a way to produce more food to feed a hungry world and make money for their stockholders too.”
“I miss her, Sarah. Why didn’t she talk to me about her choices?”
“She probably thought you were too young and the burden of the decision would be more than you could handle. Besides, she had already made up her mind. Knowing you would go to college was more important to her than another tortured year of life. You couldn’t have influenced her decision. We all have choices in our lives. They are ours to make, and we must live with the consequences. Our choices are made with goals in mind. Your parents chose to participate in a test study to improve corn yield on your land to open new opportunities for you. When unforeseen circumstances occurred, your mother made a difficult choice to achieve her goal of sending you to college. She must have passed knowing her life’s purpose was met.”
“I know you are right, but I can’t help but be mad at ACC and want to hold them accountable,” I said.
“What good would that do?” Sarah asked. “From what I read in your mother’s book, the matter is closed. The poisoning happened long ago, and the legal matters were settled. All you would do is cause yourself more pain by opening old wounds. Alex, you shouldn’t worry about things in the past that you can’t change. You have a brilliant future ahead of you. Your focus should be on doing things that will help you reach your goals. Your goals, Alex, not someone else’s.”
“You’re right, Sarah. I was doing well before I went back to Indiana. I love my life in here. I would never be able to go to Mardi Gras balls and parades if I were in Silbee,” I said.
We opened a bottle of wine Sarah brought and talked about the Rex Ball and Mardi Gras for the rest of the night. The rest of the night consisted of wine, stories and pizza. Holy shit, that pizza was good. Got to love New Orleans. We had a pizza delivered with a king cake. Where else in the world could you get that done?
Sarah is wonderful. Just having her with me made me feel better. It was reassuring to hear her feelings about my mother’s words. Sarah was like a mother and best friend rolled into one. She dropped whatever plans she had tonight to be with me. Her words rang true; I could not change the past. I can only live in the present and work on my future. With Sarah’s help, I think I can put this behind me and focus on my life.
Still, I wondered in the very back corner of my mind what my mother meant when she wrote, “When you make a deal with the devil, the devil always collects.” No matter. Sarah is here, and the Rex Ball is on the horizon.
Chapter Eight:
Sugar Time Happy Time
“Alexandra, get in here,” Mr. Jenkins yelled, his voice echoing through the entire office. Ahhh, I thought, life is back to normal, the familiar sound of the old grouch about to make more unreasonable demands. That is, if anything in New Orleans can be said to b
e normal. I abandoned cubo-home and trotted into his office. Google Maps ought to mount those cameras they use on people’s heads and send them around to map all of the cubicles in the world. Then you could see where people really live, not the homes and neighborhoods they visit between working hours.
Sarah was in his office smiling at me as I entered. Can’t be bad news, I thought.
“You are going to Vegas,” Jenkins said.
Stunned, I waited for an explanation, shifting my eyes back and forth between Sarah and Jenkins. He had already moved on and picked up his phone to make a call. Jenkins didn’t do details. He looked at Sarah as if we should have read his mind and said, “Go, get out of here. I’ve got work to do. Get her ass in gear. Time is money.”
Typical Jenkins, never explaining himself. He loved to bark orders and let Sarah fill in the particulars. How old school, I thought. Like most businessmen who started businesses in the 1950s he needed a support squad, assistants and assistants to assistants. For my generation, technology filled many those roles these days. There was comfort, though, at how normal his antics felt after the last few weeks. My work with Jenkins’ PR firm had gotten me accustomed to one crisis or impossible PR campaign after another. I followed Sarah to her office, knowing the smile she flashed me earlier meant she had a hand in all of this.
“Vegas?”
“Yep, Food and Beverage Expo. You are going to Vegas this Thursday,” she said.
“I thought none of our clients asked us to send anyone to the Food & Beverage Processing Expo this year,” I said.
“They didn’t till this morning. We weren’t sending anyone but Superior Sugar asked us to send you. Not just anyone, you. Mr. Morris called Mr. Jenkins this morning personally to request you,” Sarah said.
