Last in a Long Line of Rebels (3 page)

I put a shaking hand on the bookcase and pushed it open. Light spilled in, and I saw Benzer's face, serious and sad. I wondered if mine looked as bad as his.

We closed the bookcase, and I put the Bible back on the shelf, then we tiptoed to the front door.

I didn't trust myself to speak until we'd cleared the porch and walked around the yard, through the wooden gate, and into the junkyard. Luckily, no customers were around. I stopped in the shade of the scrap metal pile.

“Lou? Are you okay?” Benzer asked.

It suddenly occurred to me I should sit down before my legs gave way. I plopped in the dirt.

“Lou?” Benzer said again, softly. “What are you going to do?”

I looked around me at the junk piled everywhere. The back of my house was visible over the wooden fence, and over the roof of my house the top of the old oak that brushed against my window and kept me up at night. I tried to imagine the house gone, knocked down and carted off in dump trucks like the one we owned.

I shook my head and answered honestly. “I don't know yet.” But one thing was for sure, I was not about to sit around and let this all become history.

From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew
January 1861

Father has gone again, this time to Nashville
to stay with friends and gather news about our possible secession. Although Walter's family owns
no slaves, he agrees that secession is the route
Tennessee must also take. He speaks of tariffs and taxes. I confess much of it goes right over my head.

W
eekends are Daddy's busiest time, due to all of the yard sales and auctions. Our town doesn't have a Goodwill or Salvation Army store, so we get called to pick up anything that's not sold.

“You ready to go, Chief?” Daddy asked as he started the truck. The engine roared to life, vibrating the cab and causing old Vienna sausage cans and empty chip bags to dance across the floorboard.

“Ready!” Breakfast had been interesting. My parents had laughed and teased like they didn't have a care in the world. I wondered how they got so good at hiding things.

“Do you have the directions?” Daddy asked.

I nodded and held up a worn notebook.

I'm the official navigator. Zollicoffer itself doesn't have a lot of people, but Grey County is one of the largest in Tennessee. Nobody uses street names; they just leave messages on the phone like “take the bypass, pass the convenience store, and turn left at the grove of pine trees.”

Isaac normally helped, but he had family in town, so Daddy insisted he take the day off. There'd been an award ceremony at the bank the night before, where they had given away the annual Pride of Zollicoffer scholarship, and I thought Isaac was a shoo-in to win.

“Do you think the paper sent a photographer to the award ceremony?” I asked. “I want to see what Isaac's face looked like when they called his name.”

“Probably.”

I turned to look at him. “Why does your voice sound weird?”

He shrugged. “Let's just say I'll feel better once I know Isaac actually won.”

“Daddy! Of course he won. It's guaranteed!”

He smiled. “I'm old enough to know nothing is guaranteed and not to count your chickens before they hatch. But you're probably right. As soon as we hear, you can start leading the charge to erect an Isaac statue in the middle of town.”

“Deal!”

We drove through town, stopping at Betty Sim's house for an old air conditioner, two broken stools, and a box of clothes, size twenty. Betty had recently joined Weight Watchers, and it was paying off. You can tell a lot about a person from her garbage.

There were several more stops, mostly unexciting, except for a box of
Seventeen
magazines from Tracy Kimmel's house. My friend, her brother, Franklin, was standing in the driveway.

Daddy rested his elbow on the edge of the door. “Look who it is—Zollicoffer's own Bobby Fischer.”

I stared at my dad, confused. “Who the heck is that?”

Franklin tossed a bag of trash over the side. “Bobby Fischer is considered by some to be the greatest chess player that ever lived.”

“Do you even play chess?”

Franklin threw another bag. “I have a working knowledge of the game, but I believe your father was referring more to the intellectual pursuit than any real skill I might have.”

Daddy laughed. “Franklin, I swear you beat all. You're probably going to be the governor of Tennessee one of these days.”

Franklin turned pink. “Thank you, Mr. Mayhew. It's one of my five long-term goals.”

“I tried calling you all night last night,” I said.

“I'm sorry. Tracy and I drove our parents to the airport, and we didn't get home until late.”

“Are they going to be gone long?” Daddy asked.

Franklin shook his head. “No, sir, just two weeks. Our grandmother is coming to stay with us.”

“Well, call us if you need anything, Franklin,” Daddy said in his serious voice. “I know you're the smartest twelve-year-old this town has ever seen, but everyone needs help now and then.”

Franklin peered up from under his glasses. “Thank you, but I'm sure we'll be fine. I'll see you tonight, Lou.”

We waved bye and started down the long, tree-lined driveway. Mr. and Mrs. Kimmel were the richest people in Zollicoffer and were constantly heading off on cruises or vacations to Europe. Tracy, Franklin's perfect and popular sister, was a cheerleader and last year's Homecoming Queen. Her sweet sixteen party had been written up in the Nashville
Tennessean
 . . . most of it, anyway. Franklin gave us the secret details—like that the seniors got grounded for drinking spiked punch and puking in his mother's flower beds. Not that he was invited; he'd watched it all from his upstairs window.

Next we went to pick up Benzer. He lives in the only subdivision in town because his parents say they feel more comfortable with people around. They're the only family I know that keep their doors locked in the daytime.

Benzer has to mow the yard every Saturday before he can work at the junkyard. Normally he walks the half mile to our house, but since Daddy needed our help at an auction, we said we'd pick him up. He was sitting on the front stoop, grass clippings clinging to his tennis shoes, trimming his nails with a pocketknife when we pulled to the curb.

“Morning, Benzini. You ready to work?” my dad asked.

“Yes, sir.” He opened the truck door. “What'd I miss?”

“Nothing much,” I said, scooting over on the bench seat to give him room. “Some fashion magazines from Tracy Kimmel's.”

He made a gagging sound and mimed throwing up out the window.

“Before I forget, Mr. Mayhew,” Benzer said. “Dad wanted me to tell you that he could use a good computer if you come across any.”

“I might have one or two in the shop,” Daddy said over the hum of the engine. “I'll test them out over the weekend and see what I can find. You guys ready for a burger?”

I nodded. It was barely eleven, but we'd been up since dawn. We pulled into the parking lot of Dixie's Burgers.

“I'll be right back. Y'all want the usual?”

We nodded, and he shut the door.

“So, find out anything new?” Benzer asked. He smelled like soap, and his hair was drying into curly, dark flips around his collar. Had it always been that thick? I slid across into Daddy's seat.

“Not really. I looked online and found out ‘Pete' is Peter Winningham, county commissioner. But there was nothing about him that would explain why he'd want to steal my house.”

“I think that's Blake Winningham's dad. I've seen him at Little League games. Blake stinks, by the way.”

“That's helpful.” I could see Daddy at the counter giving our order. “The whole thing is just so weird. Why would anyone want our house?”

“Good question.” Benzer began playing drums on the dashboard. “I hope he remembers to get extra ketchup.”

“You always say that, and he always does. What am I supposed to do?”

“Why don't you just ask your parents what's going on? Or Bertie. I bet she knows.”

“Right. I'll just tell them we were eavesdropping. They'll probably only ground me until school starts. That will really show Sally Martin.”

“That's it!” Benzer smacked the dashboard. “Lou, we prayed for an exciting summer. The prayer is already working!”

I frowned. “This is not what I call exciting.”

Benzer shrugged. “Well, it's not exactly boring, either. We weren't real specific about the kind of excitement.”

I rubbed my eyes. I didn't care why it was happening. I just wanted to know how to fix it.

“Did you tell Franklin?” Benzer asked. “If anyone will know how to handle this, it will be him.”

“I couldn't say anything with Daddy there,” I said. “I'll tell him and Patty about it tonight. You're coming, aren't you?”

Daddy came out carrying two bags, and I scooted back next to Benzer.

He nodded. “Right after ball practice.”

Daddy drove to the city park, pulled under the canopy of a large tree, and turned off the engine.

“We've got thirty minutes before we need to be at the auction,” he explained.

Local auctioneers hire Daddy to remove anything left over from their sales. We take the stuff home and then appliances are repaired and sold to vendors in Cookeville or Monterey; furniture is stripped, painted, and resold. The best money is in scrap metal.

I went through the bags and handed out burgers, onion rings, and little packets of ketchup.

“Hey, Mr. Mayhew,” Benzer said, tearing the wrapper off his burger, “you think we'll get anything good today?”

Daddy winked. “You know, Benzer, I've got a feeling we just might.”

“That's right,” I piped in. “Daddy says Mr. Wilson is from the Chandler Wilson line. Civil War descendants.”

“Or the War Between the States, as your grandmother likes to call it,” Daddy said.

Benzer shook his head as if to clear it. “What you're saying is this was an old geezer with a lifetime of junk?”

“Exactly,” Daddy answered.

“Daddy,” I said, “why didn't you and Mr. Wilson like each other?”

He looked surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“Last night Bertie said he's probably having a heart attack in Hades 'cause you might make a buck off his stuff.”

“Oh, just old family animosity. It's ancient history, really.”

Benzer leaned forward. “What happened? Did somebody run off with his wife?”

Daddy laughed. “Nothing like that.” He paused, taking a long sip of his cola. “Years ago, the Mayhews owned a lot more land than what you see now. It was all pastures and woods back then, of course. After the war, our family had to sell off just about everything—the horses, most of the land and livestock. The worst part, though, was selling family heirlooms. Guess who bought most of that?”

“The Wilson family!” I said.

“That's right.”

“What happened?” Benzer asked.

Daddy wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Times were tough, I reckon. When Louise Mayhew died, her son sold off some stuff. Families do what they have to do. It probably wasn't too different from the auction we're going to today.”

“I've never heard this story. Was Louise the one I was named after?”

“That's the one.”

I was puzzled. “If they held an auction, why didn't they sell the house?”

“The family sold most everything, but not that,” Daddy said, a grim line to his mouth. “Somehow, we managed to hang on to that.”

He didn't say it, but the phrase “so far” hung in the air.

The Wilson property was about eight miles from town. We parked in an open field next to several rows of cars.

“I'll get some boys to help with the heavy stuff,” Daddy said, jumping down from the truck. “Y'all make yourselves useful.”

We spent the next hour running back and forth between the house and Daddy's truck. We had to wait for Daddy and the auction workers to load a beat-up freezer and a dryer missing its door before we could start throwing the smaller stuff in the back.