Among the fallen, p.13
Among the Fallen, page 13
Orville Hawke and Wilbur Corvid stood in the mud and watched the Rover careen over the railing of the bridge above, and tumble end over end nearly two-hundred feet to the Green River. Before it hit the water, they joined wills to slip the driver from his doomed vehicle and sent him to a better place. Frank Bonner would not be happy upon his arrival there, but Hawke and Corvid Associates had faith that he would consider his condition an improvement over being drowned.
Go fetch it, Orville thought to his associate. Wilbur thought back, Why is it always me? and waded into the river, undeterred by the swift current, kept walking as the water closed over his head. He was breathing the air from another world, the same place where Frank Bonner had flown. When he reached the submerged Rover, lying on its side in the middle of the river, Wilbur peered through the windshield and saw, floating just inside the glass, the brief case containing Frank Bonner’s money. Bonner had meant for it to buy Boyce Miller’s steep farm, and Hawke and Corvid Associates intended it to fulfil that purpose. By the time the river filled the Rover’s interior, Wilbur had appropriated the briefcase and stood holding it on shore.
“Good Lord, it’s gone. Can’t see it at all,” someone shouted from the bridge. They didn’t see Orville and Wilbur. They were staring at the spot where the Rover had been swallowed by the flood. They wouldn’t have spied the bedraggled duo with the briefcase, in any case. Nobody saw Hawke and Corvid when they didn’t want to be seen.
Not far down the river, an old fishermen’s shack teetered on the brink of collapse, but the patched roof held out most of the rain. In the relative dry, Orville opened the case. He counted out enough of the money inside to pay for two new suits, and closed the case on the rest, handed it back for Wilbur to carry. When the rain slacked, They began climbing the slippery path up toward the parking area beside the highway. They could hear sirens behind them, wailing down toward Green River Bridge.
Boyce Miller showed up bright and early to sign over his farm and collect Frank Bonner’s money. Willie was still unlocking the front door at Mountain Realty while Betty stood by, arms loaded with the morning mail, as Boyce parked his ancient International pickup beside Betty’s sleek and shiny Miata.
“Morning, children,” Boyce called as Willie opened the door and stepped aside for Betty and his client to enter.
“Morning, Mister Miller,” Betty said as she disappeared inside.
“Morning, Boyce,” Willie said as lights began coming on, the fluorescents buzzing and flickering in the cool, settling into a pale shimmer as Willie ushered the old man into his office.
“Coffee, youns?” Betty asked, pouring water into the Bunn.
“You’re a good girl, Betty,” said Boyce, slumping into a chair in front of Willie’s desk. She interpreted his appraisal of her virtue as a yes.
“Thanks, Betty,” Willie said. “You’ve saved my life.” He set a cardboard box in front of Boyce and opened it to reveal the sticky buns he’d picked up at the Feral Flour Bake Shop on his way to work.
“Don’t mind at all,” said Boyce, as he took two of them, one with carob icing and set them on the napkin Willie provided, to await union with his coffee and person.
Willie retrieved a fat folder from a file cabinet and sat behind his desk, opened the folder and arranged the papers between them. Little pink tabs peeked out on all the appropriate pages. Betty, whatever her shortcomings might be in the real world, was competent and thorough in the office. Willie thought that Boyce was right. Betty was a good girl indeed. He feared Brian wouldn’t recognize her worth.
Willie beamed at the old farmer. “Well, sir, today’s the day. Bonner should be pulling in any time now.”
Boyce nodded, speechless. His mouth was full of chocolate covered sticky bun. Even if his mouth had been free, he wouldn’t have told Willie that he’d been expecting Frank Bonner at Potters Shoals two hours before. Bonner had come to see Boyce the same day he wrote the check in Willie’s office for his binder, offered to pay Boyce in hard cash if he’d consent to cut the realtor out of the deal and spare the commission. Bonner didn’t show, though. Boyce had kept his appointment in hopes that at the end of the day, he would have gained something more than coffee and sticky buns.
Twenty-Two
Nearly two hours beyond their appointment time, after repeated calls by Willie and Betty to Frank Bonner’s mobile number went unanswered, Boyce Miller stood up to leave. “Can I keep his binder fee if he backs out of the deal?” Boyce queried as he slipped on his jacket.
“It’s all yours, in that case,” Willie assured. “We’ll keep calling. Something must have happened to hold Bonner up.” Boyce stopped half-way through the door. stood pointing as the big wrecker from Hyatt’s Road Service and Repair rumbled up the street with a mangled Rover lashed to its back.
“Is that . . .” murmured Betty.
“Could be. Hard to say,” said Boyce.
“I do hope not,” said Willie, seeing his big commission evaporating into the brisk autumn air.
A familiar black Lincoln with tinted windows followed close behind the wrecker and pulled into the parking area in front of Mountain Realty. The Devious Duo got out and flashed their dangerous smiles at the trio standing in the door. Orville Hawke led the way with Wilbur Corvid at his heels carrying a fat briefcase that looked like someone had left it out in the rain.
“Don’t leave on our account,” Orville Hawke waved as if they were all good friends. “We’ve come bearing grist for the Miller.”
Willie and Betty stepped aside and Boyce backed through the door as Hawke and Corvid strode into the office. Betty hastily retrieved the splattered papers as Wilbur set the briefcase, still dripping river water, on the desk. Orville opened the case, revealing bundles of fresh green currency. Willie’s eyes widened. Betty gasped. Boyce grinned like a man just saved from hanging as Orville said, “We’ve come to buy your property, Mister Miller, for as much money as this bag holds.”
“We have a binder on this property from Frank Bonner,” Willie said, “We’re trying to contact him now to close the sale.”
“You’re not likely to get through to him where he is now,” said Wilbur Corvid.
“Mister Bonner is no longer resident in our story,” Orville Hawke announced, still casting his toxic smile upon them all, “If I were you, Mister Graham, I’d cash his check before his bank is informed of his current status.”
“Count it first,” growled Boyce Miller.
Chief Longshadow had barely sat to supper with his father when the phone rang. Warren, poised to beg a blessing, waited while he listened to his son’s side of the ensuing conversation, “Yes, it was Bonner’s Rover that went off the bridge, according to State Patrol . . . No, they haven’t found the driver. There will be divers on the river first thing in the morning . . . It’s nearly a two hundred foot drop down there, Willie. If Bonner was in the vehicle, he’s out of this world . . . Yes, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know. Why this urgent interest? You have another buyer . . . What? Who? . . . No, I won’t spread it around, but I’m glad to know. Thanks for calling . . . Bye.”
Omar sat back to table, stared at his coffee, muttered to himself more than to Warren, “Well.”
“Well?” said Warren, after another silence.
“Ask the blessing Dad, and I’ll tell you.” Omar said, adding, “And say a prayer for all the bad people in our town.”
Warren closed his eyes, lifted his face and raised his arms. “Great God of Heaven, teach us to be thankful for the love at this table and the food on our plates. Strengthen our wills and wash clean our hearts, and steer those who mean hurt or ill far from our door until such time they be changed and reconciled.”
When he opened his eyes, his son gazed at him with a quizzical expression. “You sure, Dad, all those apostate souls will be reconciled?” Omar wore a half-smile, for he’d already heard his father’s answer.
“Nothing is ever lost to God, Son. Not us. Not them. Not any. The Maker of all is in all and will claim His own in each and every world He’s wrought.”
“Amen,” said Omar, half convinced and hoping against experience to see it come true. He lifted his cup and sipped at his coffee which was still hot enough to startle.
Wilbur Hawke produced from one of the voluminous pockets in his black coat a contract covering a straight transfer between two parties with no mention of a realtor. Willie opened his mouth to protest but before he could speak, Orville speared him with a devastating smile and handed him a bundle of currency equivalent to his commission, as he and Betty discovered later when they counted it alone. Willie returned his own smile, much less convincing and persuasive than Hawke’s, and he and his secretary sat by mute and still while Boyce Miller signed away his farm and his family’s legacy and departed happily with a damp briefcase full of soggy cash. By the time he got it home and opened it to gloat, he would find the green paper all fuzzy with blue and pink mold.
Hawke and Corvid left shortly afterward, making courtly bows to Betty and clapping Willie on the back heartily as they departed. “Welcome to our little entrepreneurial family, Willieboy,” Hawke crowed, squeezing Willie’s thin shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “The world is finally turning your way. Stick with us and it will continue in that direction.”
Willie rubbed his sore shoulder and would have told them he was not their relation, even in business, but they were away before he could gather his thought, much less the words to say it. He and Betty sat down and counted the money three times. Betty stared at the stack of one-hundred-dollar bills on the table between them and said softly, “How should I enter this on the ledger?”
“I’ll do it later, Betty,” Willie said, and took three bills from the top of the stack and put them in her hand. “You’ve worked as hard for this deal as I have,” he murmured. “You deserve to share the reward for our labors together.”
Betty smiled at Willie the kind of smile Willie had been longing to see longer than long, tucked her three hundred dollars into her purse, then accepted Willie’s invitation to dinner, sending him into such a paroxysm of ecstasy that he tripped over his words, “We’ll cebrelate,” he piped like a birthday child.
“Yes, we will,” Betty beamed back, apparently as unaware of his tangled syllables as Willie.
Willie didn’t have reservations, but he checked his Apple Grove app and found they had a table open, which he promptly claimed. His luck was changing, his Shadow assured him. As they drove the short mile to Apple Grove Restaurant, Willie thought Betty seemed different somehow, more at ease in his company. Perhaps it was just that this was the first time they had shared space on a social basis. She kept up a constant stream of chatter, walked closer to him than she would have at the office. Crossing the Apple Grove parking lot, she reached up and took hold of his arm, although when he placed his hand over hers, she turned him loose. Willie didn’t want to be turned loose.
Entering the restaurant, Chloe Toibin stood smiling to usher them to their table. To Willie’s great relief, she didn’t act surprised to see him in female company. Her hair was still purple, but a darker, muted shade, that complemented her dress. Willie tried not to show his surprise at the dress.
“You’re not working at Home Ground now, Chloe?” he asked as they sat and she handed them menus.
“I’m just there mornings, now, Mister Graham. Evenings, I move up in the world.”
“Don’t we all,” murmured Betty. Willie marveled silently at his promotion to Mister Graham.
Chloe flawlessly recited her well-rehearsed spiel regarding dinner specials. She seemed to be genuinely enjoying it. Willie had a hard time reconciling this engaging, borderline elegant young woman with the Chloe he knew at Home Ground Suds and Java. Context is everything, whispered his Shadow, Flow with it.
Chloe interrupted his inner dialogue. “What would you like to drink while you peruse your menus?” she said smoothly, her highlander accent calibrated to charm city ears. Betty ordered a chardonnay and Willie, though he wanted coffee, ordered an oatmeal stout. He’d read somewhere that coffee made for unpleasant breath. “Leon will be your server,” Chloe lilted and was away to place their drink orders, leaving Willie helpless in Betty’s gaze.
Willie was terrified he wouldn’t be able to maintain entertaining conversation during dinner, having never talked much to Betty apart from work details. He could hardly tell her about his infrequent discussions with his dead mother, which up until now had been major points of interest in his exceeding dull and predictable personal life. His fears turned out to be unwarranted. Betty sustained a non-stop monologue about Brian and his exploits in the automotive realm. An occasional smile and nod or monosyllabic response sufficed to get Willie unscathed through Betty’s puttanesca and wine and his steak and salad to dessert.
For dessert, Willie settled for a double espresso, as it was way past his bedtime now and he was already feeling overfed and sleepy. Betty was three spoons into her chocolate mousse when she suddenly stared open-mouthed past Willie’s shoulder, as if she’d been confronted by a ghost. Willie was turning to see what had startled her, but she put out her hand and hissed, “Don’t look.”
So he looked at Betty instead, watched her open mouth morph to a grim clinch as her pale face cycled past pink to mauve. The effect was unnerving. Willie had eaten and drunk way too much. He thought his stomach might be about to overthrow him. He had never been so close to someone who appeared to be losing their mind.
Betty prodded his hand with her spoon, a not entirely painless gesture. “Look and see who is that woman,”
“You told me not to look,” Willie whispered back, though there was no need to whisper in the chatterful restaurant.
“Who’s that woman with Bryan,” she hissed, stabbing him again with her spoon. “Look and tell me.” Willie was glad she hadn’t ordered pie for dessert and been wielding a fork.
He turned enough to glance around the room, saw Betty’s boyfriend and his apparent date as they were being seated near the door.
“It’s Helen Troy,” he informed Betty, “She used to be the church secretary at Justice Fork Baptist Church before it burned down. She works for Restoration Crusade now.”
Betty stood, gathered her purse and jacket, “Thanks for the lovely dinner, Willie. She said sweetly. “You’re a good man.” Then she picked up her full waterglass and walked toward the door. If Brian saw her coming, he pretended not to, until with a graceful flourish, she emptied the glass over his head as she swept past his table.
Willie sat where he was, relishing the spectacle as he finished his espresso, both disappointed and relieved that he had been spared the potential ritual of a good-night kiss. His bladder was full and his stomach was upset and he wasn’t at all sure that tonight he would have been up to the task.
Once relative tranquility had been restored to his environs, Willie’s Shadow persuaded him, subtly, of course, that he wanted another shot of espresso. When Leon Ogle came by his table again, Willie ordered it, along with a slice of key lime pie, just because he could, though his Shadow cringed inside his head. Leon headed for the kitchen and Willie fled to the men’s necessary.
By the time he returned to his table, he was in a state to enjoy his pie at leisure and wonder about his sudden craving for caffeine. Brian and Helen never once glanced in his direction. He guessed they hadn’t spied Betty before the dousing. Leon was a watchful waiter, returned with the check as soon as the last bite of pie disappeared. Willie gladly handed off his plastic, figured the evening had been a worthy investment.
The crowd was thinning as he left the restaurant. Chloe smiled at him at the door. “Your girlfriend is right fierce,” she whispered as he passed. Willie stopped, returned her smile. “Betty isn’t my girlfriend, Chloe. I wouldn’t want to be drowned in public. We were just celebrating closing on a big deal.”
Chloe’s smile didn’t look convinced. “Have a good evening, Mister Graham. Thanks for coming by.” Willie figured she appreciated the evening’s entertainment he’d provided as much as his business. He stepped out into the cool evening, looked up as a scrap of cloud slid across the face of the moon. It appeared to Willie that the moon winked at him. He was definitely on a roll, he thought. For the first time, he found himself wishing that his mother would come visiting. Tonight, he would have lots to tell her.
Not if I can help it, thought the Shadow behind his eyes, She knows too much already.
“On the other hand,” whispered Willie to the dark, “Maybe I’ll just keep Betty to myself for now.”
Before he came in sight of his house, Willie knew his mother was waiting for him. Her acrid presence simmered on the edge of his awareness like a salty stew forgotten and left too long on the fire. The air reeked of her anger. It seemed to Willie that his mother had always been angry, in her life as well as in death. Angry at his father for being hard. Angry at Willie for being soft. He wished he might have had siblings to absorb some of Evelyn’s scathing rebuke. Perhaps if she had daughters to disappoint her, she might have found some quality in her son to like.
As Willie walked across his yard, he felt his Shadow stir and rise into a dark wall behind his eyes, opaque, featurless. All his secrets would be safe from his mother’s disapproval tonight. He climbed the porch steps and there she was, but not quite as formidable as he remembered, a bit more transparent than usual, not as heavy and oppressive on his perception. The old rocker she sat in was still tonight, as if Evelyn couldn’t quite raise enough breeze to set it in motion.
Willie . . . she wheezed and he tensed and braced himself for the inevitable Willieboy, which this time never quite emerged. Instead, she paused, flickered in the dim light, gathered herself and sighed, William, you’re not yourself tonight. What have you gotten into?
