Nancy Bartholomew - Your Cheatin Heart

"Just drive, Vernell." I sighed and looked out the side window. He was impossible.

"Where to?"

"Keith lives three doors down from my place. I suggest we ride by, see if his truck is there, and if it isn't, check my place. Maybe she came back after I left." But I knew it was pointless. Sheila was in Holden Beach.

Vernell drove the truck like a sports car, careening around corners, sliding up on curbs, and running the truck flat-out and wide-open. If our mission hadn't been so serious, we might've enjoyed ourselves. It was like the old days, in high school, when we rode around the Virginia countryside, whooping out the windows and feeling the air fresh in our faces. Back then, we were reckless and carefree. Back then we would've done anything on a dare. Now our daughter had replaced us, and it was up to us to save her from herself.

"He's not there," I said. We were running down my street at fifty miles an hour, narrowly squeezing past cars parked on either side of the street. Vernell was either one hundred percent sober, or a very skilled drunk driver.

"Stop in front of my place and I'll run in and check."

Vernell stood on the brakes and skidded to a stop. "Hurry it up!" he said.

We both knew it was pointless. I ran up the steps, slammed the side of my fist into the front door, and stepped inside my darkened house.

"Sheila?" I called, switching on the light and moving rapidly toward the back of the house. No answer. "Sheila?"

Of course she wasn't there. Her room was undisturbed, except for the slight rumpling of the quilt where she'd lain sleeping the last time I'd seen her. I moved on to my room and glanced at the answering machine. No blinking red light. No messages.

"I'm having a bad feeling," I said aloud to the empty room. I picked up the phone and dialed the number that had stuck in my head, unwanted, since the first and only time I'd called it. "A really bad feeling," I said again.

"This is Corporal Marshall J. Weathers of the Greensboro Police Department," a familiar deep bass voice said. I sucked in my breath, about to answer him, but he went on. "I am away from my desk or out of the office. Please leave me a brief, detailed message and I will get back to you as soon as possible." There was a pause and then the familiar beep.

"Detective Weathers, this is Maggie Reid. Sheila's run off with her boyfriend, to Holden Beach, and I think she intends to get married, maybe in Myrtle Beach. She's underage, as you well know, and I don't like this guy. He's been arrested before, but I guess you know that. Can you call down there? Do you know anyone? I'm heading down there, but I don't know if I'll make it in time." I was running out of time and breath. "Oh, shoot, I know what. Never mind, I'll page you."

I hung up and dug deep in my jeans pocket for his card. "If you need me, page me," he'd said. I needed him. I punched in the number, waited for the series of beeps, and then punched in Vernell's cell phone number. I hesitated for a second, then punched in 911. "That oughta get you," I said to the lifeless phone, and ran out of the house.

Vernell was still sitting in the middle of the street, the Jesus satellite dish spinning around like a dancing girl on top of his truck. When he saw me, he gunned the engine and motioned for me to hurry.

"What'd you take so long for?" he asked.

"You got your cell phone on?"

Vernell gave me a "Do you really take me for an idiot?" look, and pointed to the cell phone that lay on the seat between us. A green light winked on and off. "Of course," he said. "I am never out of communication." He meant he was never off Jolene's leash, but I didn't say a word.

Lying under the phone was an assortment of papers and junk. A thick white envelope with a Flatiron and Scruggs, Attorneys at Law, return address caught my eye.

"Vernell," I said, pulling the envelope out from under the phone. "Aren't these Jimmy's lawyers?"

Vernell looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, technically, they're the attorneys for the business, but he used them to do his estate stuff, too."

"So, is this about Jimmy's estate?" I asked.

Vernell looked over at the envelope and changed the subject. "Let's not talk business," he said. "Not at a time like this, limes like this make me remember what we had, Maggie,"

"Vernell," I cautioned. But it was too late. We were headed out of town on Highway 220, in a fluorescent orange panel truck, with Jesus dancing on top of our heads, trying to save Sheila from a fate worse than death, and Vernell was choosing this moment to get nostalgic.

"Maggie, face facts. Jolene don't love me. She thinks I'm a withered up old man, made of money." I looked over at him, and was surprised to see that Vernell Spivey was actually crying. Tears ran down his weather-toughened cheeks.

"Oh, Vernell," I said, "now that just can't be so. She married you. She chased up after you for years." The words were hollow comfort, and I knew it as well as he did. Vernell had driven his ducks to bad market and they were coming home to roost.

My fingers picked at the envelope in my hands, bringing my attention back to it.

"Is this a copy of Jimmy's will?" I asked.

"No." He moaned. "She never did love me. Even Jimmy knew that. He tried to warn me right before he died." Vernell was milking this act, I could tell from the way he kept casting nervous little looks over at the envelope. He was trying to lead me away from the envelope, like a papa bird leading a cat away from the nest.

"Well, is it?" I asked.

"Is it true?" he said. "I don't know. I only have what Jimmy said to go on, and Lord knows he was jealous to beat the band."

"Vernell, answer me. Is this Jimmy's will?"

"Jimmy always said she wanted me for my money. Said she'd crawl up my back with spikes to get to the next best thing. Bleed me dry, is what he said. Jimmy done told me, I walked out on the best woman in the world and I-"

"Vernell, I'm gonna look for myself!" I lifted the flap and pulled out the sheaf of papers that filled it.

"Maggie! I'm trying to talk to you!" he said. "Don't you have a lick of respect for other people's privacy?"

I didn't listen; instead, I read the enclosed letter. Vernell had asked for a copy of the will. He wanted to contest it, the snake!

Highlighted in yellow were all the parts of the document pertaining to the business, including my name and Sheila's. Roxanne had been given a life insurance policy and set up with a trust fund which would dole out money monthly. Jimmy had signed over his portion of the satellite dish business to Vernell, so the lawyers seemed to feel Vernell couldn't do a thing about it. It was signed and witnessed, all legal and binding.

"Maggie," Vernell said, "it wasn't nothing personal."

I didn't even look at him. I was afraid I'd hit him if I saw that pitiful look he always wore when he knew he was in deep trouble with me. I stared at the will, forcing myself to concentrate on the paper. Signed and sealed, all good and proper. Bertie Sexton had notarized it, and Sheila's Keith and Don Evans had witnessed it, so Jimmy must've signed it in his office.

"Now, Maggie, honey, don't be mad."

I looked up at him. "Why should I be mad, Vernell? Because you want me to believe that you think you've made a terrible mistake leaving me? You can't break the will, so you want to con me into coming back to you? I don't think so, Vernell. I really don't."

"Honey, Jolene's the one started this whole mess. She called the attorney. Said we needed to make sure of our rights, and little Sheila's, too. I mean, what if Roxanne was to contest the will? And what if something was to happen to you, God forbid? I'd have to look out for Sheila's interests. She'd inherit the whole forty-nine percent. Lord." Vernell whistled. "Cain't you just see her, eighteen and loaded? You think that closet's full now!"