Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (7 page)

“And my dad—the man I thought was my dad—was Pete's brother?"

Silas Coan nodded, picked up the two coffee cups and went to his secretary's office for refills, giving Tim a few minutes alone to cope with this bombshell.

“You okay son?” the lawyer asked on his return.

“No. It's going to take time for all of this to sink in. I can't believe that my saintly mother, who drug me to the Baptist Church every Wednesday night and twice on Sundays, would..."

“I know. It's always hard for us to realize our idols have feet of clay."

After an uncomfortable period of silence, Silas Coan proceeded. “We have a long day ahead of us, Tim. You need to go over the will carefully. There are documents to sign, bank accounts to change, and one hell of a check to write for inheritance taxes. If you're up to it, I see no need to drag it out any longer than necessary."

Tim nodded his agreement.

“Before you get into the legal necessities, I want to give you two pieces of advice. What you do with it is your business."

“Okay."

“The word is you've been telling people you are going to sell the farm and store and move on. Of course, at the time you didn't realize the value or the extent of the estate. I urge you to make Dot your home. With just a little management, you won't have to work another day in your life, and the town needs you."

“The idea of never having to work again may excite me when all of this sinks in,” Tim responded. “But if a man doesn't have work to do, where is the challenge, the reason to get out of bed in the morning?"

Silas smiled broadly. “You're Pete's son all right. He never slowed down. Never even stopped to enjoy his money until after his wife died. I asked him one time how much money he needed to be satisfied. He said he heard Jerry Lewis once answer a similar question by saying, ‘Just a little bit more.’ You can take your inheritance and double it—maybe triple it. Who knows?"

“Or lose it all. Mr. Coan, I know nothing about any of this—farming, stocks and bonds, retailing, rentals—nothing."

“Neither did Pete when he started out. He learned by the seat of his britches. I always handled his business details, but he was the idea man."

“If I decide to stay, will you handle the business details for me?"

“No."

“No?"

Silas smiled. “Son, I'm nearly eighty years old. I figure I have another thirty good years left I and plan to spend them enjoying life with my bride."

Tim laughed, and then realized that perhaps he shouldn't have.

“You don't think I'll live to 110?"

“I hope you do, sir."

“What line of work are you in, Tim?"

“I am ... I was a school teacher. It had gotten to be largely a baby-sitting job. I'd been thinking about getting out of that racket for a long time. When I received your letter I decided the time had come."

“College professor?"

“No, high school. I taught basic business courses like typing and bookkeeping."

“Son, you're a natural. Get you one of those computer things to track your assets and plan your projects. Work when you feel like it and play when the mood strikes."

“It does sound tempting, but I'd be more inclined to seriously consider your advice if I knew I could count on you to guide me."

“I'll be around for a while to get you started and answer your questions, and my son might be of some help to you."

“Your son?"

“Yes.” Silas smiled and his eyes seemed to transport him to another time and place. “Yes,” he repeated. “My one and only baby boy is finally coming home. Of course, at fifty years of age, he isn't a baby any more. After law school, he went to work for Reynolds Tobacco Company in Winston-Salem. Good job. Good pay. You know what has happened to the tobacco industry. The pressure is getting to him. He has agreed to come home and take over my practice."

“I will certainly need his help.” Tim paused, considering the words that just slipped out of his mouth. Had he just agreed to stay in Dot? “You said there were two pieces of advice you wanted to give me?"

“Yes, and this one's a bit of a shocker too. Your uncle, father, whatever, was appreciated by folks around here, but he was feared and hated too. In some respects he was a fair man, but always paid for goods and services at rock bottom prices. If somebody needed financial help, Pete gave it to him or her, but often at a great price. It became especially bad after your aunt was bedridden. He sometimes required sex in payment for a loan. Many a man in this community has seen his wife ride off with Pete Harlow, knowing what was going to happen. Their personal guilt and resentment carries over to you. These people need the money flow your fortune can bring to the community, but they're hoping you will not mimic your uncle's harsh repayment requirements."

“This man I've been calling my uncle, this Pete Harlow, was one royal son-of-a-bitch."

“Yes. However, he was a hell of a guy in some respects. You couldn't ever tell about Pete. When the community church burned, Pete paid to rebuild it and when old Doc Bronson dropped dead, Pete went out and found Dr. Honneycutt so the town wouldn't be without medical help. When Lizzie Lane's husband died in a tractor accident, Pete gave her a job at the hardware store. Nobody ever heard of a woman working in a hardware store at that time. He sent her two kids to college, too."

“I'm more confused than ever about my so called uncle, but if I decide to stay here, the people will just have to accept that I'm Tim Dollar, not Pete Harlow."

“That's my point. Folks are hoping you're not Pete Harlow, but they hope you have Pete's good traits. You're going to have to show them who, and what, Tim Dollar is."

Sandra and Bobby got a late start to Charlotte. Sandra preferred to ride in the Cavalier, rather than Bobby's pickup. Bobby refused to drive the Cavalier until he carefully checked it out and changed the oil. Then Sandra wanted to give the red beauty a bath and vacuum out the musty smells from the interior. During the two hours the preparation of the automobile required, a mutual respect unexpectedly was born.

Sandra was dismayed when they drove into the Charlotte traffic, but Bobby knew his way around. Getting the drivers’ license required little time. She spent a few minutes in the waiting room studying a road sign chart in preparation for the eye test she knew would be required. The helpful examiner punched into the computer terminal the name “Sandra Hutchinson,” verified the existence of the license, and amicably made out the new license in her “married” name.

Bobby was less knowledgeable about the locations of women's clothing stores, so Sandra agreed to settle for Wal-Mart. They ate at the lunch counter and filled up the trunk of the Cavalier with bras, panties, shorts, pants, blouses, sweaters, make-up, tampons, combs, brushes, bubble bath, condoms and other items Bobby would have preferred never to have seen. The shopping trip ended with a stop at the Food Lion grocery next to Wal-Mart.

“Wasn't that Tim's Mustang that just passed us?” Sandra asked halfway back to Dot.

“Yes."

As the extent of his inheritance began to sink in, Tim realized that Silas Coan's suggestion that he acquire a computer was a good one. A Mr. Tom Anthony, the Dot branch manager of the BB&T bank, suggested Microchip World as a good place to purchase computer equipment, and gave him directions to the Charlotte business.

A gangly, pimply-faced youth with a ponytail was the only unoccupied salesperson Tim could find.

“Excuse me. I'm looking for a computer, but I have no idea what kind I want to buy."

The friendly youngster broke out in a broad toothy smile. “Let's start with your computer experience and your needs."

“Well, I used to teach some business courses in high school, but the most modern equipment I was ever provided was the old 386 processor type. As for what I need—like I said—a computer."

The kid laughed loudly. “I meant what do you want to do with a computer?"

“Oh,” Tim responded with some embarrassment. “I will be working out of my home tracking rental property, stocks and bonds, home finances, stuff like that. I know I want a spreadsheet program, maybe a database, and, of course, a word processor."

“Are you going to be dealing with just a few records, or lots of them?"

“I'm not sure."

“Will you want to carry the computer with you, or will you do all of your work at a desk?"

“I haven't thought about it. I imagine most of my work will be at my desk, but it might be nice to have portable capability."

As he spoke, the young man was steering Tim to another section of the store. “My name's Sean."

“I'm Tim Dollar."

“Tim, this is the computer I recommend for you. It is portable, as you can see. The manufacturer rates the battery life at four hours. Two hours is more like it, but if you close the lid while not using the notebook, the battery will last longer. Of course, it has a color ten-inch screen. More importantly, it comes with 32 megabytes of memory and 500 megabytes of hard disk space. The screen is a little small for me. I would suggest you also get at least a fifteen-inch color monitor to plug in while working at your desk and a standard keyboard too. Now this model comes with a built in high-speed modem, a floppy drive and a CD-ROM drive. It's a fast little baby too, with a Pentium 150 chip."

Tim eyed the $3,500 price tag and said, “I assume this is the top of the line notebook computer and will not be outdated soon."

“Tim, this computer is already outdated. They come out with new computers so fast these days that a computer is out of date the moment it rolls off the assembly line."

Tim did not like the use of his first name by this computer nut, not yet old enough to shave, but he did like the kid's honesty. “Does it come with software?"

“Yeah. The operating system is Microsoft Windows 95. I expect Windows 98 will be available soon, but the upgrade won't cost but a few dollars. You can download the upgrade free from the Microsoft Internet site when it is available. It also has some games and other stuff—all junk."

“Junk?"

“Junk. I suggest you buy Microsoft's Office 97 Professional software. That will give you everything you need—word processor, database, spreadsheet, scheduler and a whole bunch more, including Internet access."

“If I decide to buy this computer will you load the software for me?"

“Sure, but we charge extra for that."

“Okay. I want to be certain that when I take it out of the box at home, it is going to work, and work right, when I plug it in."

The youngster laughed. “I'll check it out for you, but it takes a while."

“When do you close?"

“9:00 o'clock."

“It's not going to take that long, is it?"

The kid laughed again. “You are going to need a good printer. We have a sale on the Lexmark 2050. It's a color inkjet and does a nice job. Let's see now, you are also going to need a printer cable, carrying case, and some how-to books. I recommend the ‘Dummies’ series."

Tim was beginning to feel like a dummy. He watched carefully as Sean connected the computer, printer and modem. Loading the software did take a long time, but did not seem to be as difficult as Tim expected. The kid's demonstration of the equipment was too fast—his fingers flew across the keys and display images disappeared before Tim could read even half of the screen.

Tim was most interested when Sean accessed the Internet. In just minutes, a series of the dirtiest pictures Tim had ever seen appeared on the fifteen-inch monitor. “I thought the Internet was the
Information
Super Highway,” he said.

Sean grinned as a new image downloaded. “The World Wide Web is a part of the Information Super Highway, but everybody learns to use the Internet by searching on ‘sex.’ You'll have an e-mail address after you obtain an Internet provider. I think you'll like e-mail."

The only real problem occurred when Tim tried to pay for the purchase with one of his new counter checks. He explained that he had just opened the account and had not yet received imprinted checks. Sean took the check to his manager, to whom Tim also explained, suggesting that a telephone call to Tom Anthony would provide verification. The manager, not wanting to lose a sale, looked up the bank manager's home telephone number and received confirmation that the check was good.

“Where the hell have you been?” Sandra complained when Tim arrived at the house after 7:00 p.m. “I cooked you a good, old fashioned fried chicken dinner, but it's cold as ice now."

“I like cold chicken,” Tim replied grinning.

“It's not funny,” she scolded.

“Get off my back,” he shot back, no longer trying to make peace. “You knew I had a long day scheduled with the lawyer."

“You weren't with the lawyer all day. We passed you about 3:30 on our way back from Charlotte."

“You're not my damned keeper. You're a freeloader, damn it. Get off my back."

“Kiss my ass,” she spit back and fled to the kitchen.

He followed, took her in his arms and pressed her head to his shoulder. “I should have left you a note. It just didn't occur to me."

“I'll warm up the mashed potatoes and snap beans, but there's nothing I can do about the chicken."

“I actually do like it cold,” Tim insisted.

While Sandra rescued the evening meal Tim moved the boxes of computer equipment and the documents acquired from Silas Coan to the study. While eating, he told Sandra about his meeting with Coan, leaving out the part about cash assets, stocks and bonds.

“Was there any cash?"

“Yeah—enough to live on for a while."

“How much?"

“You're not my wife, Sandy. I like you, and I'm doing what I can to help you, but I didn't take you to raise."

We'll see, she thought to herself as she bit off a large bite of chicken breast. Umm. He's right. Cold fried chicken
is
delicious.

“I'm beat, Sandy. I'm going to soak in the Whirl Pool for a while. I'll do the dishes later."

“I'll do them,” she purred.

While the tub was filling with hot water, Tim laid out on the bed the clothes he would put on after his bath. He followed that by stripping and tossing the soiled clothes in the hamper. He eased into the hot, churning water, bathed, and then laid back into one of the tub's carefully designed cradles. The pulsating jets of water massaged his muscles. He could actually feel them relax. The hum of the motor was soothing. He drifted towards sleep.