Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [48]
For a moment or two I looked out the window at the familiar view, but it didn't seem the same. Something was missing. And then I noticed that the ten-acre stand of slash pine had disappeared—cut down and sold as firewood probably, and not replanted.
I lifted the stern-faced portrait of Grandpa off the desk and leaned it against the dresser. I wiped the surface of the desk with my handkerchief. After rummaging through the drawers, I found a cheap, lined tablet with curling edges. Sitting down at the desk, I took out my ballpoint.
It took approximately a half hour to write out a list of instructions for Judge Brantley Powell. I wanted to be sure that I covered everything completely so he wouldn't have any questions. After rereading the list, and making a few interlinear corrections, I folded the sheaf of papers and stuffed them into my hip pocket.
I went into the bathroom and shaved, planning on an immediate departure for town in order to catch the judge in his office before he went home for the day. After returning to my room, I was rebuttoning my shirt when a soft rap sounded at the door.
“Bubba,” Randall's voice called through the door. “How long're you going to be?”
I opened the door and looked quizzically at my brother. He was smiling a sly, secretive smile. Whenever Mother had caught him smiling that way, she slapped his face on general principles, knowing instinctively that he had done something wrong, and also knowing that she would never find out what he had done.
“Come on downstairs,” he said mysteriously. “I've got a surprise for you.” Still smiling, he turned away abruptly and descended the stairs.
I slipped into my corduroy jacket, put my hat on and followed him.
The surprise was Mary Elizabeth, the last person I wanted to see right then, standing at the bottom of the stairs, cool and crisp in a wide-necked white blouse, blue velvet pinafore and white sling pumps. Ordinarily, I would have stopped to see Mary Elizabeth first, before coming home, but I didn't want to see her at all when I was broke and without a car. My last visit home, when I had first made my vow of silence, had been a strained, miserable experience for both of us.
“Hello, Frank,” Mary Elizabeth said shyly, “welcome home.”
She hadn't changed a fraction in two years. She was every bit as beautiful as I remembered. Mary Elizabeth had pale golden hair, and dark blue eyes—which often changed to emerald green in bright sunlight—a pink-and-white complexion, fair, thick, untouched pale brows, and long delicate hands. Her figure was more buxom than it had been ten years before, but that was to be expected. She was no longer a young girl. She was a mature woman of twenty-nine.
A moment later Mary Elizabeth was in my arms and I was kissing her, and it was as though I had never been away. There was a loud click as Randall closed the double doors to the dining room and left us alone. At the sound, Mary Elizabeth twisted her face to one side. I released her reluctantly and stepped back.
“Your voice still hasn't come back.” It was a statement, not a question.
Slowly, regretfully, I shook my head.
“And you haven't been to a doctor either, have you?” she said accusingly.
Again the negative headshake, but accompanied this time with a stubborn smile.
“I've had a lot of time to think about it, Frank,” she said eagerly, “and I don't believe your sudden loss of speech is organic at all. There's something psychological about it.” She dropped her eyes demurely. “We can discuss it later at The Place. Randall's telephone call caught me just as I was leaving for school, and I don't think Mr. Caldwell liked it very well when I called him the last minute that way. When I take a day off without notice, or get sick or something, he has to take my classes.
“But I've packed a lunch, and it's still warm