He hadn’t hit her in several years, but when you’ve been beaten you never forget it. The bruises go away but the scars remain, deep, hidden, raw. You stay beaten. It takes a real coward to beat a woman. Eventually, he had said he was sorry. She said she forgave him, but she did not. In her book some sins cannot be forgiven, and beating your wife is one of them. She had made a vow that she was still determined to keep—one day she would walk away and be free. It might be ten years or twenty, but she would find the courage to leave his sorry ass.
She was not sure if Mr. Hubbard had made a divorce more or less likely. On the one hand, it would be far more difficult to leave Simeon when he was fawning over her and following every command. On the other, the money would mean independence.
Or would it? Would it mean a better life in a bigger house with nicer things and fewer worries and perhaps freedom from a husband she did not like? Surely these were possible. But would it also lead to a lifetime of running from family and friends and strangers, all with their hands out? Already, Lettie was feeling the urge to run. She had felt trapped for years in her boxlike house with too many people and not enough beds, too few square feet. Now, though, the walls were really closing in.
Anthony, the five-year-old, shifted in his sleep down by her feet. Lettie quietly eased out of bed, picked up her bathrobe from the floor, put it on, and left the room without making a sound. The hall floor creaked under the worn and dirty carpet. Next door, Cypress was asleep in her bed, her mammoth body too big for the scrawny blanket. Her wheelchair sat folded next to the window. On the floor were two kids who belonged to a sister of Lettie’s. She peeked into the third bedroom where Clarice and Phedra slept together in a single bed, arms and legs dangling. Lettie’s sister had the other bed, and for almost a week now. Another kid lay knotted, knees to chest, on the floor. In the den, Kirk had the floor while an uncle snored on his sofa.
Bodies were everywhere, it seemed to Lettie as she turned on the kitchen light and stared at the mess from last night’s dinner. She would do the dishes later. She made coffee, and while it was brewing she checked the refrigerator and found what she was anticipating. Other than a few eggs and a pack of lunch meat, there was little in the way of food, certainly not enough to feed the masses. She would send her dear husband to the store as soon as he was up. And the groceries would be paid for not by wages earned by Simeon or her, nor by a government check, but by the generosity of their new hero, the Honorable Booker Sistrunk. Simeon had asked him for a loan of $5,000. (“A man drives a car like that ain’t worryin’ ’bout no five thousand bucks.”) It really wasn’t a loan, Simeon had said, but more like an advance. Booker said sure and they’d both signed the promissory note. Lettie kept the cash hidden in a saltine box in the pantry.
She put on sandals, tightened the bathrobe, and walked outside. It was October 15, and the air was chilly again. The leaves were turning and fluttering in the breeze. She sipped from her favorite cup and ambled across the grass to a small shed where they stored their lawn mower and other necessities. Behind the shed a swing hung by ropes from a hemlock, and Lettie sat down. She kicked off the sandals, shoved back with her feet, and began flowing through the air.
She had already been asked and the questions would return again and again. Why did Mr. Hubbard do what he did? And, did he discuss it with her? The latter was the easier—no, he never discussed anything with her. They would talk about the weather, repairs around his house, what to buy at the store and what to cook for dinner, but nothing important. That was her standard response, for the moment. The truth was that on two occasions he had casually and unexpectedly mentioned leaving something behind for her. He knew he was dying and that death was near. He was making plans for his exit and wanted to assure her that she would get something.
But why did he leave her so much? His kids were not nice people but they didn’t deserve such a harsh penalty. Lettie certainly didn’t deserve what he left her. None of it made sense. Why couldn’t she sit down with Herschel and Ramona, just the three of them without all those lawyers, and work out a deal where they split the money in some reasonable manner? Lettie had never had anything and she wasn’t greedy. It wouldn’t take much to satisfy her. She would yield most of the estate to the Hubbards. She just wanted enough to start another life.
A car approached on the county road in front of the house. It slowed, then kept going, as if the driver needed a long look at the home of Lettie Lang. Minutes later, another one came from the other direction. Lettie recognized it: her brother Rontell and his passel of rotten kids and bitch of a wife. He’d called and said they might be coming over, and here they were, dropping in too early on a Saturday morning to see their beloved Aunt Lettie, who’d gotten her picture on the front page and was everybody’s favorite topic now that she had wormed her way into that old white man’s will and was about to be rich.
She scampered into the house and began yelling.
As Simeon hovered over his grocery list at the kitchen counter, he caught a glimpse of Lettie reaching her hand into a box of saltines in the pantry. She withdrew cash. He pretended not to notice, but seconds later, as she went to the den, he grabbed the box and pulled out ten $100 bills.
So that’s where she’s hiding “our money.”
At least four of the kids along with Rontell said they wanted to go to the store, but Simeon needed some quiet time. He managed to sneak out the back door, hop in his truck, and leave without being seen. He was headed to Clanton, fifteen minutes away, and enjoying the solitude. He realized he missed the open road, the days away from home, the late-night bars and lounges and women. He would leave Lettie eventually, and move far away, but it damned sure wouldn’t happen now. No sir. For the foreseeable future, Simeon Lang planned to be the model husband.
Or so he told himself. He often did not know why he did the things he did. An evil voice came from nowhere, and Simeon listened to it. Tank’s Tonk was a few miles north of Clanton, at the end of a dirt road that was used only by those looking for trouble. Tank had no liquor license, no permit, and no Chamber of Commerce sticker in the front window. Drinking, gambling, and whoring were illegal in other parts of the county. The coldest beer in the area was kept in Tank’s coolers, and Simeon suddenly had a craving as he puttered innocently down the road with his wife’s grocery list in one pocket and their lawyer’s borrowed cash in another. Ice-cold beer and Saturday morning dice and cards. What could be better?
Last night’s smoke and debris were being cleared as a one-armed boy they called Loot mopped around the tables. Broken glass littered the dance floor, evidence of the inevitable fight. “Anybody get shot?” Simeon asked as he popped the top of a sixteen-ounce can. He was alone at the bar.
“Not yet. Got two in the hospital with cracked skulls,” replied Ontario, the one-legged bartender who’d been to prison for killing his first two wives. He was now single. Tank had a soft spot for amputees and most of his employees were missing a limb or two. Baxter, the bouncer, was minus an ear.
“Sorry I missed it,” Simeon said, gulping.
“I hear it was a right good scrape.”