John Grisham - Sycamore Row

He walked to the front door, which was opening as he approached. Lettie Lang was standing in the doorway, touching her eyes with a tissue. “Hello, Mr. Hubbard,” she said in a voice straining with emotion.

“Hello Lettie,” he said, stopping on the rubber doormat lying on the concrete porch. Had he known her better he might have stepped forward for a quick hug or some gesture of shared sympathy, but he couldn’t force himself to do it. He had met her only three or four times, and never properly. She was a housekeeper, and a black one, and as such was expected to stay in the shadows when the family was around.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, backing away.

“So am I,” Herschel said. He followed her inside, through the den, to the kitchen where she pointed to a coffeepot and said, “I just made this.”

“Is that your car out there?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Why did you park in the driveway? I thought you were supposed to park to the side over there, next to Dad’s pickup.”

“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinkin’. I’ll go move it.”

“No, forget it. Pour me some coffee, two sugars.”

“Yes sir.”

“Where is Dad’s car, the Cadillac?”

Lettie carefully poured the coffee into a cup. “The sheriff took it in. Supposed to bring it back today.”

“Why’d they take the car?”

“You’ll have to ask them.”

Herschel pulled a chair from under the table, sat down, and cradled his cup. He took a sip, frowned, said, “How’d you find out about Dad?”

Lettie leaned against a counter and folded her arms across her chest. He quickly scanned her from head to toe. She was wearing the same white cotton dress she always wore, knee-length, a bit tight around the waist where she carried a few pounds, and very tight across her ample chest.

She did not miss the look; she never missed them. At forty-seven years of age and after five childbirths, Lettie Lang still managed to get some looks, but never from white men. She said, “Calvin called me last night, told me what happened, asked me to open up the house this mornin’ and wait for you all.”

“Do you have a key?”

“No sir. Ain’t never had a key. The house was unlocked.”

“Who’s Calvin?”

“White man who works here on the property. Said Mr. Seth called him yesterday mornin’, told him to meet him down to the bridge at two o’clock. Sure enough, there he was.” She stopped her narrative long enough to dab her eyes with the tissue.

Herschel took another sip. “The sheriff said Dad left a note and some instructions.”

“I ain’t seen nothin’ like that, but Calvin saw it. Said Mr. Seth wrote he was takin’ his own life.” She began crying.

Herschel listened for a while, and when she was quiet he asked, “How long have you worked here, Lettie?”

She took a deep breath and wiped her cheeks. “I don’t know, ’bout three years. I started two days a week cleanin’, Monday and Wednesday, a few hours a day, didn’t take much because Mr. Seth lived alone, you know, and he was pretty neat, for a man. Then he asked me to cook for him, and I was happy to do it. More hours. I’d cook a buncha stuff and leave it on the stove or in the refrigerator. Then when he got sick he asked me to come in every mornin’ and take care of him. When the chemo was real bad, he’d stay in bed pretty much all day and night.”

“I thought he was paying a nurse.”

Lettie knew how little Mr. Herschel and Mrs. Dafoe had seen of their father during his illness. Lettie knew everything; they knew almost nothing. However, she would be respectful, as always.

“Yes sir, he did for a while, then he got to where he didn’t like them. They were always changin’ nurses and you didn’t know who might show up.”

“So, you’ve been working here full-time for how long?”

“About a year.”

“How much did Dad pay you?”

“Five dollars an hour.”

“Five! That seems kinda high for domestic help, doesn’t it? I mean, well, I live in Memphis, a big city, and my mother pays her housekeeper four and a half an hour.”

Lettie just nodded because she had no response. She could have added that Mr. Seth paid her in cash, and often added a little extra, and had loaned her $5,000 when her son got in trouble and went to prison. That loan had been forgiven only four days earlier. There was nothing in writing.

Herschel sipped his coffee in disapproval. Lettie stared at the floor. Out in the driveway, two car doors slammed.

Ramona Hubbard Dafoe was crying before she cleared the front door. She embraced her older brother on the porch, and he, to his credit, managed to seem sufficiently moved: eyes tightly closed, lips pooched, forehead furrowed. A man in real misery. Ramona wailed in what seemed to be authentic pain, though Herschel had his doubts.

Ramona moved on and was soon hugging Lettie, as if the two were the natural-born children of the same kind and loving father. Herschel, meanwhile, was still on the porch and greeting Ramona’s husband, a man he loathed and the loathing was mutual. Ian Dafoe was a preppy from a family of bankers down in Jackson, the capital, the largest city, home to at least half the assholes in Mississippi. The banks were long gone (belly-up) but Ian would forever cling to the airs of a privileged boy, even though he had married lower, and even though he was now hustling to make a buck like everyone else.

As they shook hands politely, Herschel glanced over his shoulder to check out their vehicle. No surprise. A shiny, seemingly new white Mercedes sedan, the latest in a line of same. Thanks to Ramona’s drinking and loose tongue, Herschel knew that dear Ian leased his cars for thirty-six months and turned them in early. The payments caused a bind on their finances, but that didn’t matter. It was far more important for Mr. and Mrs. Dafoe to be seen around north Jackson in a proper vehicle.

They eventually gathered in the den and found seats. Lettie served them coffee and colas, then dutifully slipped into the shadows, into the open door of a bedroom just down the hall, a spot she often occupied when she listened to Mr. Seth on the phone in the den. From there, she could hear everything. Ramona cried some more and went on about how unbelievable everything was. The men just listened, agreeing, occasionally uttering a syllable or two. They were soon interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Two ladies from the church arrived with a cake and a casserole, and they were not to be denied. Lettie hustled around and took the food to the kitchen, and the ladies, without the benefit of an invitation, plopped down in the den and commenced trolling for gossip. They had seen their brother Seth just yesterday at church, and he had looked so good. They knew about the lung cancer and all, but, heavens, he seemed to have conquered it.

Herschel and the Dafoes offered nothing. Lettie listened from the shadows.

The church ladies were about to burst with all manner of inquiries: “How’d he do it?” and “Did he leave a note?” and “Who gets the money?” and “Any chance of foul play?” But, it was painfully clear such nosiness would not be well received. After twenty minutes of near silence, they lost interest and began their good-byes.

Five minutes after they left, the doorbell rang again. The driveway was being watched. The three cars were attracting attention.

“Get that, Lettie,” Herschel yelled from the den. “We’re hiding in the kitchen.”

It was the neighbor across the road with a lemon cake. Lettie thanked her and explained that Mr. Seth’s children were indeed there but “not taking company.” The neighbor loitered for a while on the porch, desperate to get inside and stick her nose into the family’s drama, but Lettie politely blocked the door. After she finally left, Lettie took the cake to the kitchen where it sat untouched on the counter.