A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

“I feel like such an idiot.”

Alex and Abit had left for another driving lesson. Cleva and I were enjoying the relative quiet and a glass of Champagne. 

“Why’s that, honey?”

“I’m such a bad judge of character. I never saw through Kitt.”

“Well, maybe that’s just as well. You’re not meant to go around judging all the time. It wears a body down being too vigilant. Just pay attention and do what you can. That’s what you did, and it all worked out. At least for us, not poor ol’ Lucy. Besides, you don’t want to be so cynical that you suspect or dislike everyone, do you?”

I shook my head. I was tired of trying to outthink the world. I was feeling better every day—and grateful that I hadn’t had my recurring dream in over a week. I thanked Cleva again for sending out an SOS to all my customers.

“Well, you needed to see that you do belong to a community.”

After that, things started to settle down. We’d had a media frenzy for more than a week, with reporters from the Atlanta Constitution, Charlotte Observer, and other news services in town, filling up neighboring hotels, cabins, and restaurants. I even ran into an old freelance buddy of mine, who was covering the story for the AP. Brower was taking all the credit, and I was glad—that meant I could get on with my life. The only interview I granted was to Tony Benedict, who wrote a dandy series on the crime, from our local perspective, for the Mountain Weekly. He did such a good job, I heard he was on his way to Charlotte for a job with the Observer. I was happy for him—always glad to see a fellow member of the Fourth Estate excel.

Brower, on the other hand, had granted every interview he could talk his way into. He seemed to appreciate my bowing out, letting him have all the glory. I saw him buying a stack of newspapers in the drugstore, and he did that guy thing of holding up the paper and nodding at me. Man-speak for thank you.

And I’d sent my condolences to Izzy. When she got my note, she called, and we talked for a while. She’d heard from Brower earlier, asking if Lucy had ever mentioned Gregg to her. Of course, Lucy hadn’t even met Gregg until she came to Laurel Falls. To his credit, Brower did have the courtesy to follow up once Kitt was arrested. Izzy was wrestling with the idea that her father was likely murdered as well—or at least grossly neglected, all for his meager income. When she thanked me for getting to the bottom of her family’s story, I assured her I’d had lots of help. I invited her to come down again and meet Abit, who played such a big role. I didn’t mention Alex, but he deserved a lot of credit, too. And even Brower, hard as it was to admit. She said she would—and she’d call first to make sure I had plenty of chorizo in stock.

Alex had been back in D.C. for a while. He seemed moody, unsettled even, since we wrapped up our caper. I wasn’t sure why, since he had plenty of projects to work on, though he’d wisely chosen not to write about Kitt and her life of crime.

Later that afternoon, the phone rang. “Remember when I did that story a few years ago when the movie Gandhi came out?” Alex said, without as much as a hello. “The one about how much was fact and how much was Hollywood? I was always struck by the part in the movie when Nahari killed a child from a Muslim sect after the Muslims killed his Hindu son.”

He paused for such a long time, I finally asked, “Okay, and where are you going with this?”

“Gandhi told him, just a minute, I have it transcribed from the movie.” I heard papers shuffling, and then he said, “Gandhi told him, ‘I know a way out of Hell. Find a child, a child whose mother and father have been killed and raise him as your own. Only be sure that he is a Muslim and that you raise him as one.’ That’s what I need to do.”

“Raise a Muslim?”

“Dammit, Della, you’re being intentionally obtuse. Please, I’m trying to figure something out. It’s been rumbling around in my head, and I need to get it straight.”

Once he told me the rest of his idea, I couldn’t wait for him to come back down here.

Three days later, I was dreading our visit next door, even though Alex and I had what I considered great news to share with Vester and Mildred. I had a niggling feeling it wouldn’t go well. When we knocked on their door, we could see through the screen door that they were just finishing supper. Vester opened the door, welcoming us in his own way. 

Mildred offered peach pie and coffee, which were impossible to refuse, even though my stomach was churning. She waved away the fuss we made over her delicious baking. “They’re just last year’s peaches I’d put up.” Just.

After we chatted a while and finished our pie, I cleared my throat and said, “We’ve got something we wanted to share with you. Abit, I didn’t want to tell you about this before we talked with your folks.” He looked scared, and I saw a marked change in Vester’s expression. I looked at Alex.

“Well,” Alex said, clearing his throat. “It will come as no surprise that Della and I think the world of your boy.” Abit shot him a look that made Alex stumble. “I mean your young man, er, your son.” Abit nodded, though he still looked worried. 

“Well, I have an editor friend in D.C. whose son went to a school in Boone. A great school that’s affiliated with the university that’s for kids, er, young folks who need a little help with their schooling. It’s a remarkable program. Anyway, I told him about Abit and how much potential he has, and this editor, well, he owed me a favor. So he talked with the board members—he serves on the board. Cleva Hall also knows some of those board members from her school principal days, so she wrote letters and made phone calls. The board ...”

Alex paused. The tension in the room thrummed, and he was struggling for the right words. “... is offering a two-year scholarship for Abit. I know it’s a long drive, so Abit, with your permission, of course, could stay in one of the dorms there—supervised housing—and I want to pay for that. I made a big mistake a few years ago, and I have longed for a fresh start. I want to give that fresh start to Abit, which could help me heal, too, and do something worthwhile for your family at the same time. We could drive up there and I could show ...”

“Thank you, but we don’t take no charity,” Vester interrupted, spitting his words out like a bad taste.

No one said a word. A long, painful silence hung in the room, until Mildred finally spoke. “This ain’t no charity, Vester.”

“The hell it ain’t. We can take care of our own. These bigshots think they can come down here and show us the way. If that ain’t charity, I don’t know what is.” He untucked his napkin, threw it on the table, and stood up, his chair scraping on the linoleum floor.

Mildred stood too, looking him in the eye, her voice stronger than I’d ever heard. “It may be charity, but it’s Christian charity, and that’s not the same thing as what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Christian?” Vester said, sneering. “I bet that man ain’t seen the inside of a church since, since ...”

“Since you did?”

“Woman, whose side are you on?”

“Vester Junior’s. And you don’t have to go to church to love people and do the right thing.” She turned to Alex and said, “We accept. With open hearts—and broken hearts that we cain’t do it for him ourselves.”

Vester glared at her, then sat back down and sighed like a dying man. No one budged. Except for Abit. He jumped up, tears streaking his face, and threw his arms around his mother. Then he awkwardly hugged me and Alex, trying to get his arms around us both at the same time. Mildred dabbed at her eyes with her napkin.

Vester looked horrified when Abit headed toward him, and, without a thought about whether the man deserved it or wanted it, hugged his father as hard as Vester’s rigid body would allow. Abit wouldn’t let go. Slowly, Vester reached around his son’s back, and Mildred moved to stand by her family. We slipped away, down the steps toward home.