Sycamore Row

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.”



“Looks like it. Benjy in?”



“I think so.” Benjy dealt blackjack in a locked, windowless room behind the bar. Next to it, in a similar room, they were shooting dice at the moment and anxious voices could be heard. A comely white woman, with all limbs and other critical body parts intact and exposed, walked in and said to Ontario, “I’m here.”



“I thought you slept all day,” he replied.



“Expecting some customers.” She kept walking, and when she passed behind Simeon she gently raked her long, fake, pink fingernails across his shoulder. “Ready for business,” she cooed into his ear, but he pretended not to hear. Her name was Bonnie, and for years she’d worked the back room where many of the young black men of Ford County first crossed the line. Simeon had been there several times, but not today. When she was out of sight, he drifted to the rear and found the blackjack dealer.



Benjy closed the door and asked, “How deep, man?”



“A thousand,” Simeon said, cocky with the cash, a big player. He quickly spread the ten bills across the felt surface of the blackjack table. Benjy’s eyes widened. “Good God, man, you clear this with Tank?”



“No. Don’t tell me you ain’t seen a thousand bucks before.”



“A minute.” He took a key out of his pocket and opened the cash box under the table. He counted, pondered, worried, then said, “I guess I can do it. As I recall, you ain’t much of a threat anyway.”



“Just shut up and deal.”



Benjy exchanged the cash for ten black chips. The door opened and Ontario hopped in with a fresh beer. “You got any peanuts?” Simeon asked. “Bitch didn’t fix breakfast.”



“I’ll find somethin’,” he mumbled as he left.



Benjy, shuffling, said, “I wouldn’t be callin’ that woman no names, from what I hear.”



“You believe everything you hear?”



They split the first six hands, then Bonnie arrived with a platter of mixed nuts and another cold beer in a frosted mug. She had changed costumes and was wearing skimpy, see-through lingerie with black stockings and kinky platform high heels that would make a tart blush. Simeon took a long look. Benjy mumbled, “Oh boy.” Bonnie inquired, “Anything else you want?”



“Not right now,” Simeon said.



An hour and three beers later, Simeon looked at his watch, knew he should leave, but couldn’t force himself. His home was packed with freeloading kinfolk. Lettie was impossible. And he hated Rontell on a good day. All those damn kids running around.



Bonnie was back with another beer, one she delivered topless. Simeon called a time-out, said he’d be back shortly.



The fight started after Simeon doubled down on a hard 12, a stupid move in anyone’s how-to book. Benjy dealt him a queen, busted him, and pulled away his last two chips. “Loan me five hundred,” Simeon demanded immediately.



“Ain’t no bank round here,” Benjy said, predictably. “Tank don’t do no credit.”



Simeon, drunk, slapped the table and yelled, “Give me five chips, a hundred each!”



The game had attracted another player, a burly young man with biceps as round as basketballs. They called him Rasco and he’d been playing $5 chips as he watched Simeon throw around the big money until it was all gone. “Watch it!” Rasco snapped as he grabbed his chips.



Simeon had been irritated by Rasco’s presence to begin with. A high roller like himself should be able to play alone, one-on-one with the dealer. In a flash, Simeon knew there would be a fight, and in these situations he had learned that it was best to draw first blood, to land the initial and maybe decisive blow. He swung wildly, missed badly, and as Benjy was yelling, “Stop that nonsense! Not in here you don’t!” Rasco bounced from his chair—he was much taller than he appeared sitting down—and pummeled Simeon with two brutal shots to the face.