The Good Morrow Read online

  Chapter 12

  I

  Viola Jackson and the predominantly black congregation shook the foundations of a small church with a soulful rendition of “Jesus Is Real To Me.”

  In an open casket before the altar lay the body of Jesse. Foster, Lee and Kathleen were standing respectfully with Bubba in his wheelchair at the back of the church.

  “Real, real, you know

  Jesus is real to me.

  Oh,oh,yes

  The Lord God gives me victory.

  Oh, well, well,

  So many people doubt Him;

  You know

  I can’t live without Him;

  And that is why I love Him so.

  Jesus is real to me.”

  Bubba watched the faces of the black congregation with a mixture of admiration and melancholy. Foster stood behind him – his eyes closed and his head swaying to the irresistible beat of the music. A tear ran down one cheek.

  After the service they drove back home through the most exclusive resort community in the South. Yachts and sailboats filled the marina. Cadillacs and Mercedes glided past security guards towards the hotel, restaurant, clubhouse, swimming pools, tennis courts and custom homes. Shoppers ambled through the arcade, and the sun sparkled on the bay.

  II

  An air conditioner hummed monotonously in the window overlooking the garden in what used to be Foster’s room. It had been converted into the accounting office, complete with metal filing cabinets, ledgers, adding machines and stacks of invoices.

  Foster sat at a desk, making entries into a ledger. Another accountant sat nearby working out on a calculator. She finished tallying up a long column of figures and then pushed back from her desk with a long sigh.

  “Well, I’m going to break for lunch. Will you join me?”

  Foster did not even look up from his work.

  “No thanks.”

  “Can I bring you anything?”

  “No thanks.”

  The accountant started out of the room, pausing to look at Foster bent over his books.

  “You really should eat more. You’re gonna waste away.”

  The sound of the door shutting behind her as she left seemed to break Foster’s spell. He looked up and stared first at the air conditioner in the window and then at the clock on the wall. He looked back down at his work and started to enter another figure in the ledger.

  Suddenly he exploded. With an anguished scream he rose to his feet grabbing the front edge of his desk and turning it over, scattering his work all over the floor. He seized his chair, swung it around and threw it through the plate glass window above the air conditioner.

  He grabbed the adding machine and a typewriter from the accountant’s desk and threw them through the window. He swept up all of the papers from her desk and threw them out the window. The he attacked the filing cabinet, throwing armfuls of papers out the window.

  Invoices and check stubs fluttered through the air like a flock of starlings descending on the garden.

  The accountant came out the back door with a half-eaten sandwich in her hand looking up to see what is going on.

  III

  Foster paced up and down in front of the fireplace talking to the portrait of Annabelle.

  “Listen to me, woman. I’ve been waiting around here taking shit from Ruthie hoping you would show up, and you’re still off sulking somewhere just because of what we had to do at the hospital. Maybe you found somebody else there who was crazy enough to play by your rules and stay there with you forever. Well, you know what: I don’t care anymore if you come back. You’ve been playing your games with me long enough. In fact I don’t even think you’re real. Look at me standing here talking to a goddam picture. Maybe I do belong in the looney bin. I’m through with you though; that’s for sure. You hear that? You know, I could be living a damn nice life here if it weren’t for you. I used to be the owner of this place, you know, until you came along. You think I like working for Ruthie? The only reason I put up with her is so that I could be here for you, and you’re so high and mighty you can’t condescend to come back here…”

  He was interrupted by a grating voice from the hallway.

  “Foster!”

  Ruthie came storming into the living room, and Foster turned to greet her with a big smile.

  “H’you.”

  “Don’t you ‘h’you’ me. You’re fired, and I swear to God if you step so much as one inch out of line around this place, I’ll have you locked up so tight you’ll never see the light of day. I’ve had it with your foolishness and smart-ass pranks.”

  Foster looked at her with a weary directness and spoke calmly.

  “I feel sorry for you, Ruthie.”

  “I ought to press charges against you.”

  Foster laughed.

  “I think maybe the time has come for the South to Rise Again.”

  Foster smiled broadly, and Ruthie tried not to look worried about what he might do next.

  IV

  Foster burst into Bubba’s room and paced around as Bubba rotated his wheelchair in a futile effort to follow him.

  “I’m ready!”

  “For what?”

  “To take her to court.”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  “Ruthie. I want you to file a suit against her.

  “I’d love to, but what for?”

  “For having me illegally committed and stealing my inheritance.”

  “Believe me, I tried all that. You’d have to prove you didn’t need psychiatric care.”

  “I’ll prove it. Can you get us a jury trial in this county?”

  “Stand still, goddamit. I’m getting dizzy.”

  Foster stopped circling Bubba and faced him.

  “Can you get me a jury trial in this county?”

  “Yes. And I could get Sam Magill to be the judge. But you’d still have to persuade them you were sane.”

  “No problem. I can do it.”

  “Why didn’t you do it earlier when she first put you away or right after you got out?”

  “Because of Annabelle.”

  Bubba knew he must tread lightly.

  “And now?”

  “I’m ready to do it now. I don’t have anything to lose.”

  Bubba was still skeptical, but he was more than game to mount the show. His only concern was whether it might be too much of a strain on Foster.

  V

  Van Merkle was on the witness stand. Sam Magill was presiding, and Bubba was scooting around the courtroom in his wheelchair as he questioned Van Merkle.

  The jury box was filled with people who attended Foster’s engagement party, including the musicians and Mrs. Dawson, who appeared to be the foreman.

  Ruthie sat on the defendant’s side flanked by Thaxton Weatherby and a staff of young, overdressed hotshot lawyers.

  The back of the courtroom was packed with spectators representing just about every species of humanity to be found in the area.

  “Dr. Van Merkle, how long have you known Foster Abernathy?”

  “I first met him in August of last year.”

  “And how often have you seen him since that time?”

  “I only saw him that one day.”

  “I see. And how much time did you spend with him on that day?”

  “An hour or two.”

  “An hour or two. How well would you say you got to know Foster during that hour – or two?”

  “The purpose of my visit with him was to diagnose his mental condition, and I was able to do that.”

  “To your satisfaction.”

  “To my complete satisfaction.”

  “Dr. Van Merkle, was there anything about Foster when you saw him, for an hour – or two, that made you fear he might become violent or dangerous in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think that someone without your medical training who met Foster as you did that day, for an hour – or two, would have come away thinking Foster was miser
ably unhappy?”

  “Probably not. On the surface he gave the impression of being quite happy. He was compulsively buoyant.”

  Bubba turned towards the jury.

  “I see. Then what you are telling us, Dr. Van Merkle, is that after spending one hour – or two, with a person who seemed happy and quite harmless, you felt obliged to recommend that he be forcibly taken to a hospital and given drugs.”

  There was a murmur among the spectators, and even some of the jurors were visibly suspicious of Van Merkle.

  “You are greatly oversimplifying. The young man was suffering from delusions which indicated a severe emotional disturbance. When I say he appeared happy on the surface, I am not saying that he was healthy or functioning effectively in the real world.

  “Dr. Van Merkle, were you paid for the time you spent with Foster?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  VI

  Ruthie was on the stand smiling condescendingly at Bubba.

  “Now Miss Coleman, after you had arranged for Foster to be admitted to Sunnyside hospital and assumed the responsibility for administering the estate on his behalf, would you please tell the jury what you did?

  Thaxton objected to Bubba’s question even though he knows the objection is futile.

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Well I… after considering all the possibilities, I chose the course which seemed to provide the greatest benefit to all members of the family.”

  “Which was?”

  “I had the house fixed up, first of all. We put over $200,000 into renovating the house.”

  “Yes?”

  “And then I arranged to have part of the property which was totally unusable swampland developed into a beautiful community.”

  “Who handled the development?”

  “The Coastal Development Corporation.”

  “The Coastal Development Corporation is a subsidiary of the New York International Finance Corporation. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the actual financing for Southern Shores came largely from foreign investments. Is that correct?”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “I think so. I’m not really sure.”

  “Do you know what percentage of the money was German as opposed to Iranian?”

  Sam had to bang his gavel to quiet the spectators.

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “I really have no idea where the money came from.”

  Some spectators hissed, and Sam banged his gavel again.

  “Mrs. Coleman, are you currently employed?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “For whom to you work?”

  “I work for Southern Shores.”

  “You are managing director for Southern Shores. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your salary is $75,000 per annum plus fringe benefits and bonuses?”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “I don’t see what my salary has to do with any of this.”

  Someone in the audience laughed out loud.

  “Mrs. Coleman, would you be so kind as to tell us what you did prior to your employment with Southern Shores?”

  “I was a wife and mother.”

  “Is it correct that your last job was as a jewelry salesperson?”

  “That was before I was married.”

  “One final question: When did you first discuss with C.D.C. the possibility of developing Bellevue plantation?”

  “I don’t recall the exact date. Sometime in the summer of last year.”

  “Before Winston Abernathy’s will was out of probate?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “But it was definitely before Foster entered the hospital. Is that correct?”

  “I was contacted by some people I knew at C.D.C. because they knew the land might become available.”

  “So you knew if you got Foster out of the way, you would be able to make a very lucrative deal.”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled”

  “No further questions.”

  VII

  Foster sat comfortably in the witness stand and smiled. He seemed relaxed, good humored and totally sane. Thaxton approached the stand.

  “Mr. Abernathy, do you know a Miss Annabelle Jordan?”

  Foster corrects his pronunciation.

  “Jordan.”

  “Jordan.”

  “I suppose you could say I know her.”

  Ruthie glanced at the other lawyers sitting with her.

  “How would you characterize your relationship with Miss Jordan?”

  “I’m her creator.”

  Thaxton was a little baffled by this, but he felt confident they were headed in the right direction.

  “Could you elaborate on that for us please, Mr. Abernathy? Exactly what do you mean?”

  “I made her up.”

  Foster turns to play to the jury in his best, folksy, downhome style.

  “You see, Annabelle was an imaginary fiancée I invented as a practical joke on Cousin Ruthie. Only I guess she doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, and she started telling folks I was crazy.”

  Ruthie was starting to get a little worried.

  “Thank you. Mr. Abernathy would you…”

  “The thing was, it was all in good fun until she got the troopers to come and take me to a hospital where they filled me so full of drugs I didn’t know what was happening.”

  Sam Magill covered his mouth with his hand in order to suppress a smile. Thaxton sensed that things were getting out of control.

  “Mr. Abernathy, are you a poet?”

  “You can’t imagine. One day we’re having some fun on Ruthie and the next I’m being shot full of drugs and treated like a three year old. You know it took me months to get out of that place.”

  “Mr. Abernathy…”

  “I guess some folks just can’t take a joke.”

  “Do you recognize this?”

  Thaxton handed Foster a Xerox copy of some of his writings. Foster glances at them and smiles.

  “Sure.”

  “Did you write this?”

  “Yeah, now this is a perfect example of where Ruthie was coming from. Anybody in their right mind looking at this would know it had to be a joke. But Ruthie went sneaking around and Xeroxed this stuff and got a bunch of weirdo doctors to say it was proof I was crazy.”

  “That will be all, Mr. Abernathy. Thank you.”

  “You know, I wouldn’t have minded being locked up for a few months; but Ruthie used it as an excuse to destroy the wilderness around Bellevue.”

  VIII

  Sam Magill banged his gavel to restore order in the courtroom as the jury filed back into the box.

  “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

  “We have, your honor. We find in favor of the plaintiff.”

  Pandemonium broke loose. Somebody in the back of the courtroom struck up Dixie on his harmonica, and all manner of paper airplanes and spitballs rained down upon Ruthie and her lawyers.

  Ruthie looked as though she didn’t know what hit her. Her lawyers were putting on a good show of being disgusted by the whole charade, but Ruthie was too stunned and too humiliated to do anything other than let her lips twitch. Something in her eyes indicated that her mind might be toying with the idea of taking refuge in insanity along with the rest of the world.