Forbidden Son (3 page)

Chapter
Five

Tripp
whistled a nameless tune as he let himself into the kitchen of his parent’s
stately home. What made the house, though, was the back porch, which his
grandfather had closed in with glass panels. Even in the middle of winter it was
warm and cozy on the sun porch. Between the porch and his mother’s green thumb,
plants thrived there as if living in a greenhouse. Beyond the porch, in the
backyard, was a swimming pool and a well-groomed garden of flowering plants,
stone paths, and dribbling water fountains, his mother’s pride and joy.

He
went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk and helped himself to a
man-sized scoop of peach cobbler. He could hear the television going and the
sound of a familiar newscaster’s voice as he reported on the unrest in
Southeastern Asia. Specifically a place called Vietnam.

He
ambled toward the den and sank deep into the plush leather sofa made of
hand-tooled Moroccan leather. “Think there’ll be a war?”

Tripp’s
father cast his son a casual glance. “The way politics are running now, there’s
no doubt about it. My guess is it’ll be a money war.”

“What
about my draft status, Dad?”

“Nothing
to worry about, son. You still have your college eminence. That and my
political influence will keep you on the home front. Can’t have your mother all
upset and worried about her only child going off to war, now can we?”

Tripp
didn’t think of himself as a coward. He just didn’t see much sense in getting
killed for a senseless cause. “No, sir. The last thing I’d want is to cause
mother unnecessary upset.”

“She’s
a true southern belle, as delicate as those hothouse flowers she’s so fond of.”

“Joe
Brimley quit college to join the Marines.”

The
elder Hartwell swiveled around to face his son. “The devil, you say.”

Until
she spoke, neither son nor father was aware of the delicate-boned woman who
stood in the doorway with her hands clutched at her throat. “
La,
Nancy
Carol is surely beside herself with grief.” She sat on the arm of the sofa and
placed her hand on Tripp’s arm. “I couldn’t bear it if you went off to war. We
have a long and esteemed heritage of brave family members who served our
country. Some didn’t survive. Promise me, son, promise you won’t...” A sob tore
from her throat.

Tripp’s
father pushed from the overstuffed chair, made of the same leather as the sofa,
and went to the liquor cabinet, where he removed a bottle of amaretto. He
filled a snifter and handed it to his wife. “There...there, Mary Alice. No need
to fret yourself. Our boy will attend Harvard just as planned.”

As
he handed his wife the glass, he glanced over her head to his son. “Tripp, why
don’t you escort your mother upstairs? Tell her about the girl you took to
dinner tonight.”

Tripp
nodded. He lifted his mother’s free hand into his. “I met a girl with the most
unique name.”

“
La
,
is that so? What is it?”

“Miss
Honey Belle Garrett.”

“Garrett.
I once knew some Garretts from Tennessee. I believe they were sharecroppers.”
She wrinkled her nose as if the word
sharecropper
had soured in her
mouth.

“She’s
a true-blood South Carolinian, mother.”

“Honey
Belle is a sweet name. I’d love to meet her, Tripp. Shall I arrange a small
soirée?”

“Not
yet, mother. We only met yesterday.”

“Where
did you meet this young woman?”

“I
stopped in for a hamburger. We, ah, bumped into each other.” He didn’t dare
tell his mother that Honey Belle worked at a burger joint. Southern aristocracy
frowned upon common laborers. Come to think of it, why would a girl who lived
in a beautiful antebellum home on Barrington Street have to flip hamburgers?
She did say her father was sick. She did drive a beat-up old truck. With the
world getting ready to turn upside down over unrest in Southeastern Asia, and
with the drop in the economy, times were hard. Maybe she was earning college
tuition. He shoved the thought aside.

At
the top of the stairs, Tripp guided his mother to her bedroom suite. He kissed
the top of her head. “Goodnight, Mother. Rest well.”

When
he turned to leave, she said, “I’m not as addle-patted as your father thinks.
It’s just, sometimes, I seem to have a fog that covers my brain and I forget
things.”

The
doctor had said Tripp’s mother suffered from early on-set dementia. Tripp had
been a change-of-life baby, born on his mother’s forty-first birthday. Now at
the age of sixty-three, she was a diminishing shadow of the woman who had loved
afternoon tea parties with her lady friends, researching family heritage, and
doting on her son and husband. He’d do anything to protect her.

His
father, on the other hand, was a hardened criminal attorney, now a judge, who
brooked no nonsense for those who broke the law. Even if Tripp hadn’t planned
to follow in his father’s footsteps, it was expected that the day he graduated
from Harvard Law School he would join his uncles at Hartwell, Hartwell, and
Calhoun, Attorneys at Law.

Walking
down the hall to his room, Tripp brushed his teeth, folded his clothes, and put
on a fresh pair of boxers before climbing into bed. With his hands cupped
behind his head, he replayed the evening with Honey Belle. She reminded him of
an unrefined gem who needed a little polishing. He liked this girl and intended
to ask her out again.

****

It
was late, and Honey Belle knew her mother would be furious. Her mother’s
philosophy was
as long as you live under my roof, you’ll abide by my rules.
And the rule for Honey Belle was, “Home before midnight on the weekends and
home straight from work during the weekdays.”

She’d
often thought about getting an apartment, moving out on her own. Minimum wage
didn’t bring in much. Between her own and her mother’s salaries, together, they
managed to keep up with staying one month away from being evicted on the rent,
from having the electric shut off, and with paying a little each month on her
father’s ever-growing mountain of doctor bills.

Moonlight
passed through the broken window in her bedroom. With no money to replace it,
she’d placed duct tape over the crack to keep the glass from falling in.

Wound
up tighter than a corkscrew, Honey Belle knew she needed to sleep fast. She
held the clock toward the moonlight. The hands indicated midnight. She set the
alarm. Her wake-up time would come before she was ready. Sweat pooled between
her breasts and she shucked off her nightgown, pulling the sheet up to cover
her nude body. Her mother had once called her a Jezebel when she’d found her
daughter sleeping buck naked. Honey Belle had responded with, “At least Jezebel
is better than being named after a tangerine.”

And
then she’d asked, “Why did you name me after a citrus fruit?”

Her
mother had heaved a sigh. “It’s an elegant name. Be proud of it because it’s
the only worthwhile thing I’ll ever have to give to you.”

The
remembrance hurt. She wondered why she’d meant so little to her mother.

Honey
Belle concentrated on the ceiling fan’s whirring noise. She reached up and
pulled the chain, turning the fan to a higher speed. A lot of good it did. For
all the blades’ movement, hot air stifled the room. She’d stake her life that
Tripp’s entire house was air conditioned. She longed for air conditioning. For
her, such a luxury was as far away as the moon.

Drifting
off to sleep, her thoughts centered on Tripp, she remembered he was two years
older than herself. He had the chiseled features of a movie star. He was
observant. His eyes seemed to watch everything. Maybe that’s why he decided to
become a lawyer. She found it bothersome that he seemed to read her every
thought.

He
was tall and strong. Not like some of the milksop college guys who patronized
the Burger Bin. She liked everything about Tripp Hartwell the Third. Most of
all she liked his voice. It was the kind of voice that announced football
games, or belonged on the big screen. It was a voice that would make members on
a jury sit up and listen.

In
her heart she knew he was the kind of man she could trust to share her
innermost secrets—her hopes and dreams for the future—and he would listen
intently, promising to make them all come true. She hoped.

A
cloud drifted in front of the moon, shutting out the light. She listened to the
clock’s rhythmic tick-tock, and imagined it saying,
He loves me, He loves me
not, He loves me
.

Before
drifting into sweet oblivion, she thought about how special the day had been,
how special he was, and the warm way she had felt when he’d placed his hand on
the small of her back and guided her toward the restaurant and her first taste
of expensive wine. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. It
was all too wonderful.

A
shiver rippled through her body. For no good reason, she felt like crying. She
pulled the sheet up and tucked it under her chin. Her mother had once said that
sooner or later all good things come to an end. Meeting Tripp was a good thing.
She hoped her mother was wrong.

It
seemed she’d barely closed her eyes when she heard her mother’s voice. The
shrillness intruded into her dream, and she tried to shut it out. The voice
shouted, this time more insistent. Honey Belle groaned. Surely it wasn’t time
to go to work.

“Honey
Belle, help me.”

Honey
Belle sat up in bed. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes in the darkened
room. Remembering she was naked, she groped the end of the bed searching for
her nightshirt.

“Honey
Belle, wake up. It’s your father.”

She
pulled the nightshirt over her head, struggling to find the armholes. She
stubbed her toe on the door jamb and crow-hopped to her parent’s bedroom. “What
is it, Mama? Another heart attack?”

“I
don’t know. Get the truck. We’ve got to get him to the hospital.”

Honey
Belle raced back to her room, switched on the light. She grabbed a pair of
jeans and tugged them on under her nightshirt, then slipped her feet into a
pair of sandals.

Slamming
the back door behind her, she ran to the neighbor’s house and, with both fists,
banged on the front door. “Mr. Jimmy, wake up. We need your help.”

She
continued pounding on the door and calling the man’s name until a light
switched on and the door opened.

“It’s
two in the morning, girl. This’d better be important.”

Honey
Belle stepped back as the towering six-foot-five giant glared down at her.
“It’s daddy. Help me get him into the truck.”

“Heart
attack?”

“Maybe.
Won’t know until we get him to the hospital.”

“Damned
shame ambulances won’t come to Shanty Groves.”

Honey
Belle ran to keep up with the giant’s long strides.

“Couldn’t
afford one even if they did. Besides, I can get him to the hospital quicker if
I drive.”

Once
they had her father settled on the front seat, Honey Belle thanked her neighbor
and promised to bring him a sack of hamburgers with extra pickles as payment
for his assistance.

She
put the truck into gear and spewed dirt as she spun out of the driveway. The
truck bounced and bucked as she tried to ease over the bumps. She spoke through
gritted teeth. “Damn these potholes and double damn the county for not fixing
them.”

“Stop
your cussing, girl. Concentrate on gettin’ us to the hospital in one piece.”

When
the wheels hit the asphalt pavement, Honey Belle gunned the accelerator,
praying the old motor wouldn’t let her down because of the strain.

She
heard the warning bells and saw the railroad crossing arm’s red flashing lights
as she approached the train tracks. She didn’t have time to wait on a
twenty-car freight train to inch by at a snail’s pace. Her daddy’s life
depended on how fast she could get him to the emergency room.

“Trains
comin’, Honey Belle. I can see the engine’s light.”

Ignoring
the tension in her mother’s voice, Honey Belle said, “I’m not stopping, Mama.”

“The
cross arms are comin’ down, girl. You can’t bust through ’em. The law’ll put
you in jail.”

Honey
Belle pressed down on the accelerator, asking the truck for more speed than she
knew it had to give. “I’m driving around them, Mama. Hold Daddy tight and hang
on.”

She
touched her father’s arm. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I don’t mean to hurt you.”

The
pain in his eyes flashed panic through her. The odometer read 60 miles per
hour. Honey Belle had to beat the train to the crossing arms. She needed to get
over the track before the arms came completely down. The thrum in her heart
matched the pulsating veins in her temples. What if she didn’t beat the train?
She wiped a sweat-drenched palm down her jeans and then switched hands to dry
the other one, too. She gripped the steering wheel.

The
train whistle blasted, the engine’s light flashed like a one-eyed Cyclops.

Honey
Belle pushed for more speed—seventy miles per hour. It was a neck-and-neck
race, with the train gaining. Seventy-five miles per hour...eighty. “Hold
tight, Mama.”

Honey
Belle held the steering wheel in a death grip as the truck’s tires hit the
tracks with a vengeance. She didn’t have time to see the terror in her mother’s
eyes as the truck went airborne.

Sparks
flew from the truck’s front bumper when it landed with a bounce that nearly
jarred Honey Belle from the seat. She managed to glance over her shoulder to
see freight cars whizzing down the track. She’d beat the train with only
seconds to spare.

Her
father moaned again. She listened to him struggling to breathe. “We’re almost
there, Daddy...you okay, Mama?”

“Besides
being scared out of ten years of my life and hitting my head on the ceiling,
I’m no worse for wear.”