Sycamore Row

comprehend,” Jake said. His initial reaction was “What does he want?”—and now, minutes later, Jake was still wondering.
    “The service is tomorrow,” Jake said after a long heavy pause.
    “That’s right. Another nightmare.” Jeff’s eyes were red and weary and proof he had not slept in days. He could not maintain a direct stare, but chose instead to look down at his knees. He gently tapped all ten fingers together as if in deep meditation. He finally said, “We received a very nice note from Lettie Lang. It was hand delivered by Sheriff Walls, who, I must say, has been wonderful. He said the two of you are friends.” Jake nodded, listened, offered nothing. Jeff continued, “The note was heartfelt and conveyed the family’s sense of grief and guilt. It meant a lot to Evelyn and me. We could tell that Lettie is a fine Christian lady who’s horrified at what her husband did. Could you please thank her for us?”
    “Of course.”
    He again stared at his knees, tapped his fingertips, breathed slowly as if even that was painful, then he said, “I want you to tell them something else, Jake, if you don’t mind, something I’d like for you to pass along to Lettie and her family, even to her husband.”
    Sure. Anything. What would Jake not do for such a grief-stricken father?
    “Are you a Christian, Jake?”
    “I am. Sometimes more of one than others, but I’m trying.”
    “I thought so. In the sixth chapter of the Gospel of Luke, Jesus teaches the importance of forgiveness. He knows we’re human and our natural tendency is to seek revenge, to strike back, to condemn those who hurt us, but this is wrong. We’re supposed to forgive, always. So I’d like for you to tell Lettie and her family, and especially her husband, that Evelyn and I forgive Simeon for what he did. We’ve prayed about this. We’ve spent time with our minister. And we cannot allow ourselves to live the rest of our days filled with hatred and ill will. We forgive him, Jake. Can you tell them?”
    Jake was too stunned to respond. He was aware that his jaw had dropped slightly, that his mouth was open, and that he was looking at Jeff Roston in disbelief, but for a few seconds he couldn’t adjust. How could you possibly, humanly forgive a drunk who slaughtered your two sons less than seventy-two hours earlier? He thought of Hanna, and the almost incomprehensible visual of her in a coffin. He would scream for bloody revenge.
    Finally, he managed to nod. Yes, I will tell them.
    Roston said, “When we bury Kyle and Bo tomorrow, when we say good-bye, we will do so with complete love and forgiveness. There’s no room for hatred, Jake.”
    Jake swallowed hard and said, “That black girl out there is Lettie’s daughter. Simeon’s daughter. She works for me. Why don’t you tell her?”
    Without a word, Jeff Roston rose and walked to the door. He opened it, and with Jake following he stepped into the reception area and looked at Portia. “So you’re Simeon Lang’s daughter,” he said, and she almost flinched. Slowly, she stood and faced him and said, “Yes sir.”
    “Your mother sent me a very nice note. Please thank her.”
    “I will, yes, thanks,” she said nervously.
    “And will you tell your father that my wife, Evelyn, and I forgive him for what happened?”
    Portia cupped her right hand over her mouth as her eyes suddenly moistened. Roston took a step closer and gently hugged her. Then he abruptly stepped back, said again, “We forgive him,” and walked out the front door without another word.
    They stared at the door long after he left. They were speechless, overwhelmed. Finally, Jake said, “Let’s lock up and go home.”

31
    The effort to validate the handwritten will of Seth Hubbard continued to unravel late Sunday morning, though Jake and its proponents had no way of knowing it. Randall Clapp was sniffing around the town of Dillwyn, in extreme south Georgia, some six miles from the Florida line, when he finally found a black woman he’d been tracking for a week. Her name was Julina Kidd, age thirty-nine, a divorced mother of two.
    Five years earlier, Julina worked in a large furniture factory near Thomasville, Georgia. She was a clerk in payroll, earned $15,000 a year, and was surprised to hear one day that the company had been bought by a faceless corporation with an Alabama domicile. Not long afterward, the new owner, a Mr. Hubbard, showed up and said hello.
    One month later, Julina was fired. One week