Sycamore Row

9:00 a.m., insist on meeting Seth for lunch at the same roadside barbecue hut ten miles north of Clanton, then follow him home where she was usually bored by 2:00 p.m. and back on the road by 4:00. Her two children, both in middle school (private), had not seen their grandfather in years. For sure, Herschel could claim nothing closer, but then he wasn’t sitting there crying fake tears and pretending to miss the old man.
    A loud knock at the kitchen door startled them. Two uniformed deputies had arrived. Herschel opened the door, invited them in. Awkward introductions were made at the refrigerator. The deputies removed their hats and shook hands. Marshall Prather said, “Sorry to interrupt you all, but me and Deputy Pirtle here were sent by Sheriff Walls, who, by the way, sends his deepest condolences. We brought back Mr. Hubbard’s car.” He handed the keys to Herschel, who said, “Thanks.”
    Deputy Pirtle pulled an envelope out of a pocket and said, “This here is what Mr. Hubbard left right there on the kitchen table. We found it yesterday after we found him. Sheriff Walls made copies but thinks the family needs to keep the originals.” He handed the envelope to Ramona, who was sniffling again.
    Everyone said thanks, and after another awkward round of nodding and handshaking, the deputies left. Ramona opened the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. The first was the note to Calvin in which Seth confirmed his death as a proper suicide. The second was addressed not to his children, but To Whom It May Concern. It read:
    Funeral Instructions:
    I want a simple service at the Irish Road Christian Church on Tuesday, October 4, at 4 p.m. with Rev. Don McElwain presiding. I’d like for Mrs. Nora Baines to sing The Old Rugged Cross. I do not want anyone to attempt a eulogy. Can’t imagine anyone wanting to. Other than that, Rev. McElwain can say whatever he wants. Thirty minutes max
.
    If any black people wish to attend my funeral, then they are to be admitted. If they are not admitted, then forget the whole service and put me in the ground
.
    My pallbearers are: Harvey Moss, Duane Thomas, Steve Holland, Billy Bowles, Mike Mills, and Walter Robinson
.
    Burial Instructions:
    I just bought a plot in the Irish Road Cemetery behind the church. I’ve spoken with Mr. Magargel at the funeral home and he’s been paid for the casket. No vault. Immediately after the church service, I want a quick interment—five minutes max—then lower the casket
.
    So long. See you on the other side
.
    Seth Hubbard
    After they passed it around the kitchen table and observed a moment of silence, they poured more coffee. Herschel cut a thick slice of the lemon cake and declared it delicious. The Dafoes declined.
    “Looks like your father planned it all rather well,” Ian observed as he read the instructions again. “Quick and simple.”
    Ramona blurted, “We have to talk about foul play, don’t we? It hasn’t been mentioned yet, has it? Can we at least have the discussion? What if it wasn’t a suicide? What if someone else did it and tried to cover it up? Do you really believe Daddy would kill himself?”
    Herschel and Ian gawked at her as if she’d just sprouted horns. They were both tempted to rebuke her, to taunt her stupidity, but nothing was said during a long, heavy pause. Herschel slowly took another bite of cake. Ian gently lifted the two sheets of paper and said, “Dear, how can anyone possibly fake this? You can recognize Seth’s handwriting from ten yards away.”
    She was crying, wiping tears. Herschel added, “I asked the sheriff about that, Mona, and he’s certain it was a suicide.”
    “I know, I know,” she mumbled between sobs.
    Ian said, “Your father was dying of cancer, in a lot of pain and such, and he took matters into his own hands. Looks like he was pretty thorough.”
    “I can’t believe it,” she said. “Why couldn’t he talk to us?”
    Because you people never talked to each other, Lettie said to herself in the shadows.
    Ian, the expert, said, “This is not unusual in a suicide. They never talk to anyone and they can go to great lengths to plan things. My uncle shot himself two years ago and—”
    “Your uncle was a drunk,” Ramona said as she dried up.
    “Yes he was, and he was drunk when he shot himself, but he still managed to plan it all.”
    “Let’s talk about something else, can we?” Herschel said. “No,Mona, there was no foul play. Seth did it himself and left notes