Retribution (5 page)

“So what's this lady's name again?” Bill asked.

Ted remained focused on the street. “Lillian Hunter. She just got a faculty job at Francis Marion University.”

“What's she like?” Roger hoped he sounded only mildly curious, as he would for any new guest, but he wanted to know Ted's impression of his nemesis.

“Trina's the one who booked her. I talked to her for the first time a couple of hours ago when she called to update me on her location.”

A car approached.

A crackling and wheezing sound came from the wicker as Ted lifted from the chair.

The approaching car slowed and then passed the house as it moved up the street toward the square.

Roger let out his breath. “What's this Lillian Hunter like?” he repeated.

“She seems nice enough.” Ted slumped back into the chair.

“Isn't she the one that's coming from Cleveland?” Bill asked. “I can't keep track of these people coming and going.” The big man leaned over and placed his empty glass on the floor.

Roger grabbed the arm of the swing, the tipping motion reminding him of a Ferris wheel. He never liked Ferris wheels, not since his mom threatened to toss him off one if he didn't quit crying. He had been six at the time, and hadn't stepped foot on a Ferris wheel since.

Even after Bill sat back in the swing, Roger maintained his death-grip on the arm, tightness building in his chest.
Come on Lillian, come on.

~*~

Flashing lights stabbed her eyes as the cruiser passed. The officer extended his arm out the driver's window motioning her to follow.

Wishing she were invisible, Lillian pulled onto the road. Squat houses and stores lined both sides of the street. They looked old, weathered by heat, history and time. Teen Mission. Nick's BBQ. A funeral home with a white limo parked alongside. Someone's flower garden still full of roses. A single railroad track, flanked on the left by a long, gray building with a picture of cotton painted white on the front.

Just before the orange barricades that blocked off rows of vendors, the patrol car turned right.

The two lanes of Broad Street were squeezed into one, the space filled with crowds: walkers, adults pushing strollers, a toddler tethered to a leash as a plush dog face anchored the straps to the child's back. Middle aged people. Teens. The smell of grease and cotton candy. Voices. Laughter. All headed toward the square.

“Hey Paul!” A man waved toward the cruiser.

The officer waved back. Then the cruiser's siren burst out a short wail, scattering those milling in the middle of the street like birds from an approaching cat.

Slinking down in her seat, feeling like an oddity on display, she followed in the wake of the patrol car. After another block, the crowd thinned to couples and families, all walking on the edge of the road, heading toward town. Cars filled the front parking lots of the closed hardware and farm and feed store.

Another left turn onto Irby Street. Mature trees, single family houses, small front yards, and potential quietness. Spanish moss hung in thick clumps like gray lace draped across the arms of Victorian ladies. She lifted her face, welcoming the warm air, so unlike the biting chill of Cleveland.
Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

Two more blocks and a right turn onto Cashua. The houses were large, ornate, and appeared well cared for. Sidewalks separated the yards from the road, some flanked by wrought-iron fences. Dark leaves of magnolia trees stood in contrast to the white and pink flowers adorning camellia bushes. At one house, yellow and orange mums in ceramic pots graced the steps leading to the front door.

Officer Paul pulled into the drive of a large brick house with a wide front porch. The pulsing lights from the cruiser cast a surreal glow, as though all was not exactly as seen.

The knot in the pit of Lillian's stomach tightened and she swallowed against the acid that rose in her throat.

Three men were on the porch, all staring at her. Coated in blue, they appeared bloodless and monster-like.

If I step out of the car, there will be no turning back. God, what should I do?

Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be back in Cleveland.

4

Icy fingers skated up and down Roger's spine and he shivered with anticipation. Finally, the moment had come. When man manipulated what should be, life had a way of normalizing itself. Justice created by the social norms of a few eventually collapsed under the weight of the many. He was here to correct a failure, a hero of the common man.

Officer Studler jogged to the car and leaned into the window. When the man stood again, a wide grin spanned his face.

Roger gritted his teeth. No one had a bigger mouth than Paul Studler.

“Hey!” the officer shouted as he headed back toward his vehicle. “Brought y'all a guest.” The man's slow southern drawl pulled at Roger's nerves.

Bill leaned across the wooden railing. “Why the escort?”

“Saved her from a traffic jam at the square. Sweet Potato Festival. Roads are closed.” Officer Studler climbed back into the cruiser, turned off the lights, and drove the car behind the house where the drive ended at a small alley.

Standing by the swing, Roger wiped his palms on his pants.

Bill ambled to the porch stairs and stopped.

Ted continued out into the yard, his back stiff, arms rigid at his sides.

The car door opened.

Roger held his breath.

As though on cue, the sun, in a last show of power, streaked the graying horizon with orange and bathed the woman in gold.

Roger stared at the false goddess. Just as the sun would set, so would Lillian fade from existence. Would she remember him? He didn't think so, or he wouldn't be there. Two years ago he had stayed in the background, and with the beard…still, his heart raced. This would be the final test.

As Lillian and Ted approached the porch, the woman's steps slowed. Ted's words were swept away before they could reach his starving ears.

She was different somehow. Wrinkling his brow, forcing memories that he had thought he would never forget, he resurrected the Lillian of the past, the woman who had been able to hold groups captive by the power of her personality. This Lillian, the one standing in the yard, seemed faded by comparison, like a dowdy twin, edgy, unsure of herself.

His mind hardened.

Ted murmured and she shook her head.

Sandy red curls framed a pale, oval face. She was shorter than he remembered, and thinner. Gauntly thin. Time had diminished the woman who, two years ago, had set his fate.

Lillian preceded Ted up the porch steps. “This is my father-in-law, Bill Iver.”

Lillian accepted Bill's outstretched hand, hers quickly becoming lost in the man's over-sized paw. “Mr. Iver.” Her voice still held the familiar timbre, but it lacked the force of authority; the power had been stripped. The darling of the court would no longer influence the fate of others.

“Please, it's Bill. Not much formality around here.”

Ted turned to introduce him.

Life narrowed, as though all of reality was being sent through a funnel, and only the critical essence slipped through the narrow hole at the end: he and Lillian. Nothing else existed. Not the sounds of traffic, the music from the square, the other men on the porch. All were all gone. Left were just he and the woman he had been taught to hate. An unquenchable fire blazed in his chest.

Over the past months, he had visualized this moment thousands of times: how it would feel to have her in front of him, to force her to meet his eyes. Dozens of lines had been practiced, and he had crafted her response to each. Imagination had strengthened him as he had waited.

Now, well-rehearsed words lay heavy, unsaid, as he stared into hazel eyes that shouted sadness more loudly than words ever could. But she didn't recognize him.

As the screen door screeched, Roger's private world vanished.

“I'll show you to your room,” Ted said, standing in front of the open front door, “and when you're settled, feel free to join us on the porch…if you want to.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “You don't have to, but if you want to.”

Lillian glanced toward the drive. “What about my car?”

“I'll move it to the back for you.” The floor creaked under Bill's weight.

Hesitating, Lillian finally dropped her keys in Bill's outstretched hand.

“I'll haul your luggage to your room, too.”

The first time Roger had been in the house was when Ted and Trina had invited him for lunch after church. At that time, the entry walls had been sixties orange. Scraps of plaster molding hung from the ceiling, more gone than present. Deep scrapes had created raw wounds in the hardwood floor. The house had felt old. Dying.

All things have a season. Wasn't that what Preacher Steve had said in one of the few sermons Roger had actually listened to? A time to live, a time to die? Over the past few months, the necrotic house had been reborn.

As soon as he entered the house, the hair on the back of his neck bristled. Glancing around, he spotted a vase of fresh red roses on the table in the center of the foyer, most likely Trina's touch. Childhood memories of sneaking through a gap in the backyard fence played with his mind. The fence had been covered with twining roses, and the gashes on his arms always gave away his forbidden escape.

“You look just as I imagined,” Lillian said to Ted.

“Oh, really?” A tinge of heat colored the man's cheeks.

“When I heard you were a painter, I imagined you as tall and lanky.”

“The starving artist concept?”

“Maybe.” She turned away. “It's just what came to mind.”

Ted cleared his throat. “Well…to the right and left are the parlors. Feel free to use either one whenever you want.”

The room on the right held an overstuffed couch and two chairs and, just inside the door, a worn leather recliner. A comfortable place for the family. On the left, period-style, high-backed chairs covered with turquoise fabric, and thin-legged end tables had been arranged to face the fireplace. Too museum-like for Roger's taste, but it seemed a lot of ladies preferred it.

After one more glance toward the road, Ted turned to Lillian. “Let me show you your room.”

The entry was separated from the long hallway by leaded glass doors that were pushed back against the wall. Lacking access to direct light, the inner space felt cool. Lined in walnut paneling that gleamed from recent polishing, the long central hallway extended the remaining length of the house and ended at the kitchen door. The inner space felt almost like a medieval church with its diminished light, wide façade, and the sound of echoing footsteps. Two ceiling fans gently rotated overhead.

“This door goes to the dining room.”

Light spilled into the hall from the opening on the right. In the center of the room stood the old table flanked by ten chairs. Ted pointed to a pair of corner hutches.

“My father-in-law discovered a cellar under the house. This china had been hidden there since the War Between the States. Trina and Sandra washed all of it and placed it into the cabinets. We use it for special occasions.”

Was Lillian remembering her loss? Did Ted's tour bring back memories of her home? Although her expression never changed, he knew the self-control she once possessed. It would be well for him to not forget her strengths.

“It's a lovely room, and what a wonderful family history.”

Ted grinned. “Trina would love nothing better than to tell you about the house. Between her and Sandra—”

“Sandra? Does she work here at the Bed and Breakfast?”

“No, Sandra's a family friend. Another one of those stories Trina can share with you. In the meantime,” Ted turned to the left and ran his hand along the turned railings and a handrail worn smooth from fifteen decades of use, “these are the stairs to the second floor. It's called a lady's staircase and Trina can fill you in on that too.”

“From what I've seen so far, your home is beautiful. Your wife mentioned that the two of you did most of the restoration yourselves.”

A door slammed followed by thumping footsteps. Bill's bulky form soon filled the kitchen door. “Ms. Hunter?”

Roger stiffened. He didn't like the look on Bill's face. Something was wrong.

“Is this all you have?” A black suitcase dangled from Bill's hand.

“That's it.”

“Are you sure?”

Lillian's eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

“OK.” He stared at her for a second before heading to the second floor.

“We might as we follow,” Ted said.

Roger forced slow breaths in and out of his lungs as he tagged along with them up the stairs. Had it been a mistake bringing Lillian here? What could Bill suspect from one piece of luggage? He loosened his clenched fists, needing to act the part of the family friend.

At the top of the stairs, Ted turned left and stopped at the first door to the left. “This is our premier room, according to Trina. It's big and faces the back yard.” Ted turned to Lillian and whispered, “She just likes it the best.”

The walls had been painted warm blue, and the original oak floor, sanded and waxed to a shine, had been partially covered by an old wool rug. To the left stood a refurbished metal bed, floral paintings mounted in distressed white frames hung on the wall above the headboard. On the opposite side of the room, an armoire, tall and stiff, looked like a sentry stationed to guard the sleeper.

Lillian stood just inside the door. “It looks very comfortable,” she finally said.

Bill placed the suitcase on the tapestry strips of the luggage rack at the foot of the bed.

“When you're settled, feel free to join us on the porch if you want.” Ted looked around the room. “Do you need anything else?”

“I'm fine, thank you.”

Roger positioned himself to leave the room last. As he glanced back, Lillian stood with eyes clenched, rivulets of water running down her cheeks. He had never seen her cry before. Indeed, he hadn't been sure she was capable. Tears signified weakness, his mother had always said, and he had learned early on to never cry. Not even when hidden in bed feeling very alone. Seeing Lillian's tears, he knew that she was as damaged as he.