Gap Creek (16 page)

I rinsed out the bucket and throwed the water in a flashing
streak across the yard. A hen got hit and run away cackling. Another hen rushed to peck where the water had splashed. The buggy stopped in the yard and I put the bucket down and hurried out to meet it.

“How do,” the driver in a black suit said and tipped his hat.

“Howdy do,” I said.

He stuck the whip in its socket and tied the reins to a ring on the side of the buggy. “My name is Jerrold James,” he said. “I’m an attorney from Greenville.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “My name is Julie Richards.” But a chill rung through me. I knowed a lawyer couldn’t be bringing good news.

“Is this the property owned by Vincent Pendergast?” he said.

“It is,” I said. “But Mr. Pendergast died last week and was buried on Wednesday.”

“Precisely,” the lawyer said. “Precisely.”

“I took care of Mr. Pendergast, and of the house,” I said. There was a cold wind coming down the valley, and I was starting to get chilled without my shawl.

“I saw the notice of Mr. Pendergast’s death in the Greenville paper,” the lawyer said. He took a sheet of paper out of his case.

“Do you represent Mr. Pendergast’s heirs?” I said.

“Not exactly,” Mr. James said. “Since Mr. Pendergast has no will, or at least not one anybody has found, it’s not clear who his heirs are. His stepchildren, wherever they are, may or may not have a legal claim to the property.”

“I see,” I said.

“For all I know your claim may be as good as theirs,” Mr. James said.

“My claim?” I said.

“By right of occupancy,” he said. “That would be for a court to decide.”

“We would have to go to court?” I said.

“Precisely,” Mr. James said. It was his favorite word, and he made it sound like a sharp knife cutting through fat.

“My husband and me don’t want trouble,” I said. I wished Hank was there to talk with him.

“But I’m here on another matter,” Mr. James said. “I represent the Bank of Greenville, which holds a lien against the property.” He took two more sheets from his case and held them out for me to see. I didn’t really look at them. I figured he would tell me what they said.

“Do we have to move out?” I said.

“Not necessarily,” the lawyer said. “That’s what I’m here to talk about.”

I invited Mr. Jerrold James inside. I was shivering in the wind. When we got into the living room I asked him to set down on the sofa and I throwed another log on the fire.

“Would you like some coffee?” I said.

“That would be splendid,” he said. “I did get a little chilled driving up the valley.”

There was still some warm coffee in the pot and I poured him a cup and brought it to the living room. Mr. James pulled his chair closer to the fireplace and took a sip of coffee. “I understand there was a fire,” he said.

“I was rendering lard and some grease caught fire,” I said.

“Was there much damage?” he said.

“The curtains burned, and some boards on the floor got charred,” I said. “I put it out with wet sacks.”

“And Mr. Pendergast got burned?”

“He got burned on his head and face, and on his hands,” I said.

“How did Mr. Pendergast get burned so badly?” Mr. James said.

“He was trying to put out the fire, and save his property,” I said. “A can of kerosene flared up and caught his hair.” And that was the truth. I wasn’t telling Mr. James a lie.

“Did Mr. Pendergast tell you where he kept his money?” the lawyer said. Wind made the house shudder and the windows rattle. A puff of smoke come out of the fireplace, as it always did when there was a gust from the north. The smoke reminded me all too much of the fire in the kitchen.

“He never did,” I said. And that was true. Mr. Pendergast had never let on he had money until he crawled into the fire to save the jar behind the stove.

Mr. James smiled at me. “What are you folks planning to do now?” he said.

“We will stay here and look after the place, until the heirs come,” I said.

“I can see that you’re honest folks,” he said.

“We try to be,” I said.

“That’s why I would hate for the bank to foreclose,” he said, and took another sip of coffee.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“We want to do the Christian thing,” he said. “But if the bank can’t collect the interest due on the loan, it will have to seize the property.”

“I wish my husband was here to talk to you,” I said.

“The case is very simple,” Mr. James said. “If the bank can’t collect the interest due on the loan it will have to foreclose.”

“But Mr. Pendergast’s heirs don’t even know he’s dead yet, as far as I know,” I said.

“I understand that,” he said. “But the bank will have to act in any case.”

“When Hank comes back you can talk to him,” I said, feeling flustered.

“I’m sorry to bring you bad news,” Mr. James said.

“We don’t have a place to move to,” I said.

“There’s no reason you would have to leave, if the bank can collect its interest,” the lawyer said.

“You mean we could stay here?” I said.

“As long as the payment was made, I don’t see why not,” Mr. James said.

It seemed to me I owed it to the heirs not to let the bank take the house before they even knowed Mr. Pendergast was dead. It was my job to look after the place until they showed up. I just wished Hank was there to help me decide what to do.

“I can see you’ve taken very good care of the house,” Mr. James said.

“I’ve tried my best,” I said.

“I’m sorry to surprise you this way,” he said.

“You have to do your job,” I said.

Mr. James finished his coffee and put the cup down on the floor. “I would like to help you if I could,” he said.

“Would you like another cup?” I said.

“No thank you, I’ll have to be going.”

I knowed there was something I ought to do; I had to do something. “When will the bank seize the house?” I said.

“They will have to act before the end of the year,” Mr. James said. “I’m sorry it has to be that soon.”

“What if you was to get the money,” I said, “for the interest?”

“If the interest was paid the bank wouldn’t act,” Mr. James said. “Could you pay the interest?”

“We don’t have much money,” I said.

“The heirs could reimburse you later,” Mr. James said, “when they’re found.”

“What if they ain’t found?” I said.

“Then you could keep living here, as far as the bank is concerned.”

I seen it was the thing to do, to pay the interest. It was the only thing to do, to not let the bank take the house before the heirs even
knowed Mr. Pendergast was gone. And if the interest was paid, Hank and me could keep living there.

“How much is the interest?” I said.

“That depends on the period you’re paying it for,” the lawyer said, “a month, a quarter, or a year.”

“How much for a year?” I said.

“I’ll have to check my papers,” Mr. James said.

“I think I might know where to get it,” I said.

“That would save us all a lot of trouble,” Mr. James said.

I got my shawl and hurried back through the kitchen. Mr. James followed me and stood on the porch as I run to the outhouse. Behind the two seats and the Sears and Roebuck catalog we kept to use as toilet paper, was the jar full of Mr. Pendergast’s pension money. Hank had put it there after Mr. Pendergast died. He said it was one place nobody would look for money.

The jar was cold as if it was full of ice. I carried it in both hands to the porch.

“That belonged to Mr. Pendergast?” Mr. James said.

“It was his pension money,” I said.

“Let’s count it and I’ll give you a receipt,” Mr. James said.

I lit the lamp in the kitchen and the lawyer poured the money out of the jar on the table. You never seen so many silver dollars and half-dollars and quarters, mixed in with dimes and dollar bills. There was even a five-dollar gold piece that sparkled in the lamplight. There was so much money I felt scared.

Me and Mr. James made separate stacks of all the different kind of coins. Some was so old and had stayed in the jar so long they felt sticky.

“Let’s make sure this is not Confederate money,” Mr. James said and laughed. When it was all counted there was forty-seven dollars and eighty-six cents.

“Is that enough for interest?” I said.

“That’s almost enough for a whole year,” Mr. James said.

I felt so relieved I almost cried, for I had found a way to save Mr. Pendergast’s house for his heirs. And Hank and me still had a place to live.

“The Bank of Greenville will remember that you helped us,” Mr. James said. “And we may just be able to help you in the future.”

Mr. James opened his case and took out a sheet of paper. With his fountain pen he wrote on the page several lines and handed it to me. “Received from Mrs. Julie Richards, $47.86, interest for the loan on Mr. Vincent Pendergast’s house on Gap Creek. Jerold James, Attorney.”

“Thank you for helping us,” I said.

“The Bank of Greenville knows it can help itself only by serving its customers,” Mr. James said. I walked out into the front yard with him and watched him climb into the buggy. He untied the reins from the post and said giddyup. I watched him turn the buggy around and start back down the road. I stood there and watched till he was almost out of sight before it got so cold in the wind I had to run back into the house.

ALL DAY AS I worked I thought about Mr. James and how he had come out of the blue and collected Mr. Pendergast’s interest for the bank. I was proud of what I had been able to do. Even though Hank wasn’t there, I had paid the interest and saved the house from the bank. But the whole thing appeared stranger the more I thought about it. I had expected Mr. Pendergast’s heirs to show up and demand the property and the money, not some lawyer from a bank in Greenville. There was something odd about the whole business, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. What the lawyer said made sense, but I dreaded to tell Hank what had happened. The more I thought
about it, the more I saw he wouldn’t be pleased that the money was gone.

I HAD RIBS and cornbread and fresh collards ready when Hank got home from the mill. I poured him a glass of sweet milk and set down myself before I told him about the lawyer and about the bank having a lien on the property.

“He said we have to leave?” Hank said.

“No, he didn’t say that,” I said. I listened to the wind outside. There was a steady roar on the ridge above the creek.

“What did he want?” Hank said.

“He said Mr. Pendergast owed interest to the bank,” I said.

Hank stopped eating and looked at me. He had grease on his chin. “You didn’t tell him Mr. Pendergast had any money?” he said.

“I paid the interest,” I said. “He said the bank would take the house if the interest wasn’t paid. But he was very nice about it.”

“I bet he was,” Hank said.

“He said we could stay if the interest was paid,” I said.

“You didn’t tell him about the jar of money?” Hank said.

“I give him the jar of money, for the interest,” I said.

Hank stood up. His mouth was full of cornbread, and he didn’t say anything for a long time. “You stupid heifer,” he finally said.

I felt ice around my heart when he said that. I felt a cold vise crush my heart in its jaws. “I had to,” I said. “He said they would seize the house. I had to pay the interest.”

Before I knowed it Hank swung back and hit me across the face. My cheek stung and my head rung, but I didn’t hardly feel it. It was Hank’s words that burned right into my heart.

“He snockered you,” Hank said. “You didn’t even know who that man was. He tricked you. He didn’t even know Pendergast had any money until you told him. You dumb heifer.”

And I seen it might be true. The “lawyer” had fished around until I went after the jar of money. And he had talked me into giving it to him. He had talked so convincing I had give it all to him. Tears squirted into my eyes and I run into the living room. I was ashamed of what I had done. And I was ashamed of what Hank had done. It was a shame I’d never felt before. It was a shame that cut through my stomach like a razor. I was so ashamed for Hank. Papa had never hit me, and Mama had never hit me since I was a little girl. When I was little Mama used to switch me with a hickory when I sassed her. But that was when I was maybe five or six.

I set on the sofa and put my head down on the arm. But I didn’t sob like a little girl that’s heart was broke. There was tears in my eyes, but I couldn’t empty my grief out in sobs. I guess I was too shocked, and too angry. I buried my eyes in my arm and expected Hank to come in and say he was sorry. I thought he would take me by the shoulders and stand me up and kiss me. He would comfort me, and then maybe we could go back to like it was before, before Ma Richards come, and before Mr. Pendergast died.

But Hank never come into the living room. I was ready for him to come put his hands on my shoulders and tell me how sorry he was. I was going to resist him at first. I was going to show how disappointed in him I was. I was going to make him work to win my forgiveness; I wouldn’t be so easy to woo back.

Instead of feeling his hands on my shoulders, I heard the back door slam. I raised up and listened. There was only the sound of the fire in the fireplace and wind brushing the eaves and the roof. Hank had gone out into the dark. Instead of comforting me, he had left me to my shame. I felt weak in my knees I was so disappointed. Worse than the shame of being slapped was the shame of being left alone.

I stood up and walked to the fire and held out my hands to the flames because I was cold inside. People are supposed to feel hot
with shame, but I felt my bones had turned to chalk. I felt I had shrunk to joints and knobs of chalk and ice. I stood by the fire and waited for Hank to come back in. I studied what I would say to him. For I was awful sorry for what I had done with Mr. Pendergast’s money. I had give away money that was not mine, money that would belong to the heirs by rights. I had done a foolish thing. The man that pretended to be Mr. James was a true shyster. And Hank had done a worser thing, when he raised his hand against me.