Pamela Tracy - Clandestine Cover-Up

Stepping out of his truck, he walked leisurely over to Tamara’s little red Jaguar. The sound of country music carried on the wind. She turned the car off before gathering up some papers and her purse plus a couple of shopping bags. He took the bags from her, half expecting her to protest, but maybe both the warnings and the mouse had subdued her.

He followed her to the bottom of an outdoor staircase. When Lydia had moved into the brick house, she had converted the upstairs to an apartment complete with its own entrance. Vince’s mother said Lydia not only knew how to manage her money but how to create ways to make money.

Vince’s mother was too busy trying to manage her sons to manage her money. When Vince was ten, his father had abandoned the family. That same year Vince’s older brothers had moved out. For the next two years, Vince and his mother had moved from one apartment to another. They hadn’t had much money. During that time, his mother had remarried, had Vince’s little brother Jimmy, and got divorced. Vince became the man of the family.

When they got to the top of the stairs, Tamara unlocked the door, disappeared inside for a moment and then returned to relieve him of the bags.

“Thanks,” she murmured softly. “I was getting a little spooked back there at the church. You made some pretty bad moments not so horrible. I do appreciate your help.” Then she smiled and closed the door.

Leaving him outside, feeling as if he’d just missed an opportunity he hadn’t even realized was offered. That realization was followed by the certainty that his initial attraction to her flowing red hair was really nothing.

Nope, it was her smile that did him in.

For the first time in months, Tamara fell into bed without going through a paranoid routine of checking her front door’s lock and all the windows about a dozen times.

Tonight when she crawled into bed, her last thought was I’m tired. She didn’t make it to I wish I could fall asleep. Instead, she fell asleep.

For two whole minutes.

And then, her eyes went to the clock by her bedside.

Midnight.

It had all started at midnight. William Massey’s first phone call. Tamara burrowed under the blankets and, even though her clock didn’t make any noise, she covered her ears.

She almost wished she could blame Massey, but tonight what kept her from sleeping was the sudden realization that most likely Massey wasn’t involved with the threatening warnings she had received.

No, he struck at midnight.

On Saturday morning, Vince drove to Tamara’s apartment to check on her.

Her car was gone. There was no cause for worry, he thought. He headed for the church. But her car wasn’t there either. Okay, a slight cause for worry. He checked the only other place he could think of—her sister’s house. She wasn’t there. Finally, he spotted her car. It was the first time he’d ever felt relief at finding who he was looking for at the police station.

Checking his watch, he grimaced. Today was pretty much mapped out thanks to a promise he made his mother to help his great-uncle Drew. He turned his truck toward what used to be the outskirts of town.

Vince pulled into the dirt driveway leading up to his uncle’s trailer. Drew opened the front door once Vince started taking things out of the bed of his truck. Slowly, Drew stepped down onto his front step, glared and spit on the ground. “What are you doing, boy?”

In his younger days, according to those who remembered, Drew had been over two hundred pounds, six foot two and a contender with attitude. Now, past eighty, Drew was a walking advertisement for skin and bones and bad attitude.

Drew knew exactly why Vince had shown up this morning.

Vince answered anyway. “I’m cleaning up your yard. You only have thirty days, remember, before you start getting hefty fines.”

Drew clutched at the screen door. It kept him steady. “I’ll shoot anyone who comes on my land in thirty days.”

Sad thing was, Vince almost believed the old man. “Uncle Drew, just let me take care of this and then you won’t need to worry.”

Like his uncle had once been, Vince was over six foot, weighed just over two hundred pounds and had attitude. The difference was, Vince had learned to control his attitude. Not that a good attitude was helping to deal with Drew today.

Even with his missing weight, stooped height and outward frailty, Drew’s voice still had a guttural edge. “Ain’t worried. Don’t need any help. Git.”

“I’m not gitting.” Vince didn’t move, and Drew stomped into the trailer—no doubt heading to the phone to call Vince’s mother. He wouldn’t get far there. She was terrified at the thought of Drew winding up homeless and showing up on her doorstep.

Mom still had Jimmy at home, and right now Jimmy was at what his mother called an awkward stage. He still needed approval but insisted he could make his own decisions. From what Mom said, most of Jimmy’s decisions right now were wrong.

Vince wasn’t too worried. He’d survived puberty.

Come to think of it, maybe Vince should have a talk with Jimmy.

If nothing else, getting Jimmy out here to help pull weeds might be an opportunity that benefited both of them. Vince could pay Jimmy, and Jimmy could start saving for the car he wanted. One brief phone call later, Vince knew that idea was a bust.

Even at age sixteen, Jimmy was terrified of Uncle Drew.

Vince started pulling the weeds growing past his knees in the front yard. Every twenty minutes or so, as perfectly timed as a cuckoo on a clock, Drew would open the screen door, curse and spit and then retreat.

Things got even more interesting a few hours later when Miles Pynchon, minister of the Main Street Church, pulled up in a fairly new pickup and shouted, “Need some help?”

“I’ve got a handle on this,” Vince said. “You might not want your sons to hear what my uncle Drew has to say.”

“They’ve heard your uncle Drew many a time,” Miles said. “We live just over the fence. Drew’s inspired a sermon or two. Anytime you want to attend services and come listen, you’re invited. Now, the boys and I have about three hours to spare. Tell us where to start.”

“So far, I’ve been working with two guidelines. If it’s trash, throw it away. If it’s too heavy to move, leave it alone.”

“All of it looks like trash,” one boy muttered.

It only took five minutes for Drew to notice his visitors. Funny, Vince had grown up in a world where cursing was the rule not the exception. Never had he noticed just how bad it sounded, at least in front of kids. It made him wish more than ever that Miles and his sons would leave and let Vince work in peace.

Instead, Miles sang while he loaded old pieces of wood, broken buckets, all kinds of signs, cans of paint and smelly tarps into the back of Vince’s truck. He started with tunes from the Beatles, switched to James Taylor and, by the time the sun started to descend, he’d worked his way to gospel songs. Some Vince knew; others he did not.

In between songs Miles invited Drew and Vince to attend church on Sunday. Drew had two words for the invitation; the second word was no. Vince also shook his head. His mother had gone to church a time or two. She’d never felt welcome. He doubted he’d feel much different.

“I can even offer Drew a ride,” Miles offered.

The teenage boys gave each other the guarded look that all teenagers share when it comes to the actions of their parents. Vince couldn’t help it. He laughed.

“We all appreciate you cleaning up his yard,” Miles said. “He scares most of the neighbors. Some complain just because they hope it will somehow cause him to move.”

“That’s not going to happen. The more people complain, the more he’ll dig his feet in,” Vince commented.