Randy White - Deceived

“Yes-sir-ee, Governor,” the driver said, capitalizing the word to show respect, as he probably had for years, this tiny man in a sporty black cap and wearing driving gloves, always eager to please. Then the hum of an electric motor sealed the passenger cabin with a pane of dark Plexiglas thick enough to be soundproof.

“What year’s that vehicle you’re driving?” Mr. Chatham asked. He was opening a cabinet of wood veneer that, in fact, was a tiny fridge. “Ford Explorer, isn’t it?”

I replied, “It’s not that old, and I’m a fishing guide. I need something with a trailer hitch that’s roomy and not too nice because I haul bait sometimes. Cast nets, too.”

Chatham, who was familiar with marinas and fishing, enjoyed that. “How about something to drink? I’ve got liquor, Coke-Cola, some bottled tea that’s not too bad, and fizzy water, too.”

I accepted a bottle of Perrier while he talked and poured Scotch into a heavy glass. “How’d you like to get out of that old Ford and into a new Toyota 4Runner? Payments wouldn’t be much. Or what about an Audi allroad? Plenty of room, still an SUV but a lot more stylish. A young woman pretty as you deserves stylish.” The man gestured to indicate where we were sitting. “Feels nice, doesn’t it? You look right at home riding in luxury. Not all women have the shoulders to handle it. Grace , I mean.”

I had attended bachelorette parties and had been in limos before, but never one as tasteful as this. The cabin smelled of leather and wood and had a flat-screen TV that folded into the headliner and plush seats on both sides, so Mr. Chatham sat facing me but with plenty of legroom between us.

I said, “Did you invite me along to sell a car or was there something you wanted to discuss?”

The man chuckled to show he valued directness, which people often do but seldom mean. Maybe Chatham was an exception, though, because he said, “Rance told me you weren’t shy about speaking your mind. I wouldn’t have wasted my time otherwise.” He leaned back, his eyes taking me in and seemed to approve of what he was seeing. “Sure you don’t want something stronger than that fizzy water? No need to pretend properness around me.”

“Mr. Chatham, I didn’t know who you were until twenty minutes ago. And I didn’t get the impression you and Joel Ransler are friends. Why in the world were you talking about me?”

The man had a friendly laugh, a sort of tympani rumble, his voice lower than most. “That’s often the way,” he said. “A lot of fathers and sons aren’t friends, exactly, but they find ways to get along. Sorta like bulls in the same pasture. Rance, he’s got himself a bad case of the Hannahs, so your name comes up. That boy’s goin’ places-you could do a lot worse. But it’s your mamma I wanted to talk about.”

I took a second to sort through what I’d just heard. “You mean Joel Ransler is like a son to you. He was born here, but his family moved to the Midwest. He told me that.”

Chatham’s expression said otherwise, then he explained, “Aside from Rance and me, you’re the only one who knows. His mother, God rest her soul, never told her husband. She’s where the boy got his good looks-that lady was something , I’ll tell you. But I’d like to think he got his brains and knack for people from me.”

Which sounded coldhearted, Chatham realized, so he tried to soften it by saying, “I suppose it was wrong for the husband not to know, but he wasn’t much of a man. First sniff of trouble, he packed up the family and hightailed it north. Then ran off and left them both a year later. Even Rance doesn’t know the reason they left Florida, so don’t bother asking me.”

I said, “Does he know you’re telling me this?”

“About me being his father, you mean? Nope. Didn’t decide to do it ’till just now after I’d sized you up.” The man unfolded his bifocals and put them on for the first time, then looked at me as if to reaffirm his decision. It took a few seconds. “You don’t favor your mamma, never did. But you’ve turned into a beautiful woman, Miss Hannah Smith. Remind me a lot more of your Aunt Hannah. And, by god, she was more than just something !”

I didn’t know whether to be angry on Loretta’s behalf or let it slide. What I did know was that men like Harney Chatham didn’t share damaging secrets unless they already possessed leverage of equal power. He’d had an affair with my mother, but that wasn’t exactly earth-shattering. Besides, the Chathams had money, so it was his reputation at stake, not Loretta’s or mine. There was only one explanation.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“See there?” he said. “That’s why I wouldn’t a’wasted my time on some ditzy-headed girl who didn’t have brains and a mind of her own. By god, Hannah, you do aim right for the heart, don’t you?”

“Not yet,” I said, giving him a look, “but I haven’t heard your answer.”

Chatham’s laughter was a tympani drum solo, nothing fake about it. He was still laughing when he touched a button on the armrest and told the driver, “Reggie? I believe I’ve finally met my match, so use that gas pedal. We want to get Hannah back before the funeral food’s gone or she’ll be chewing off my leg next.”

“Bound to happen one day, Governor!” the driver cackled, and didn’t slow down until he had to brake for the first S-curve on the road to Sulfur Wells.

NOW WE WEREbarely moving, idling past Munchkinville, the car’s tinted windows up so as not to be recognized, but I could see the cottages just fine on this breezy late afternoon. Captain Elmer Joiner was outside still mending nets, but the parking area was all but empty, most residents at the post-funeral potluck, which was being held at Judd Park off Pondella Road.

During the drive, Mr. Chatham had asked about Loretta’s health, had shared a few more secrets, saying he had followed my progress over the years and had seen me several times-at church, usually, him sitting in the back row-and at my uncle’s funeral, too, although I’d been too emotional for him to approach or to even notice his presence. Chatham had also spoken of his respect for Jake, but he admitted that my uncle had never warmed to him-said it as if he didn’t blame Jake either, which, so far, was as close as he’d come to acknowledging his affair with my mother.

Now, as we watched the cabins of Munchkinville file by, he got down to business, saying, “I got word that idiot Mica Helms told you that folks here are guilty of income tax evasion. Scared to death of the IRS ’cause of what went on back in the pot-hauling days. Or had stacks of cash buried away-some such nonsense.”

“It’s not true?” I asked.

“Nah!” Chatham said it in a way that dismissed Mica and his claims as absurd, then pressed the button again and told the driver, “Park at the marina, Reggie. Back us in so Miz Hannah and me can enjoy the bay.”

The man patted the seat next to him so I could look out the rear window, but I didn’t move. Nonetheless, he returned to his thread, saying, “See… the few folks that actually made a pile on dope got arrested or net-worthed years ago. Besides, you ever known anyone rich enough or smart enough to hide cash money ’till it was safe? Hell no. Especially a bunch of poor fishermen! That boy Mica, he was trying to hustle you. Boy’s desperate ’cause them drugs has shrunk his brain. There’s a lesson for you, Hannah, when you start raising babies of your own. If them Helms children would’a spent more time in church and less time smokin’ their daddy’s dope, they might still have the sense the good Lord gave ’em.” The man reflected for a moment before adding, “You and your mother still go to church? That’s what I hear.”