Sycamore Row

earlier. Several farmers were mentioned, but only out of habit. They had “family money,” which, by the late 1980s, meant they owned sections of land but struggled to pay their bills. A man named Willie Traynor had sold
The Ford County Times
eight years earlier for $1.5 million, and there were rumors he’d doubled his money in the stock market. However, few rumors about Willie had ever been taken seriously. A ninety-eight-year-old woman held bank stock worth $6 million. As the contest wore on, an anonymous list appeared in a court clerk’s office and was soon faxed all over town. It was cleverly labeled “Forbes Top Ten List of Richest Ford Countians.” Everybody had a copy, and this fueled the gossip. The list was edited, enlarged, detailed, amended, and modified and even fictionalized, but through it all there was no mention of Mr. Seth Hubbard.
    The town’s exercise in speculation went on with enthusiasm for several weeks before running out of gas. Not surprisingly, Jake had never seen his own name on the list.
    He chuckled to himself as he thought of Ms. Lettie Lang and her forthcoming and rather dramatic entry onto the list.

9
    For her last day on the job Lettie arrived half an hour early, and she did so in the hopeless belief that such punctuality might impress Mr. Herschel and Mrs. Dafoe; that they might somehow reconsider and allow her to stay on. At 7:30, she parked her twelve-year-old Pontiac next to Mr. Seth’s pickup truck. She had stopped calling him Mr. Seth months earlier, when they were alone anyway. Around other people she used the “Mister,” but only for appearances. She took a deep breath and clutched the wheel and hated the thought of seeing those people again. They would be leaving soon, as soon as possible. She’d heard them gripe about being forced to spend two nights there. Their worlds back home were crumbling, and they were desperate to get away. Burying their father was such a nuisance. They despised Ford County.
    She had slept little. Mr. Brigance’s words “sizable portion of his estate” had rattled noisily around her brain throughout the night. She had not told Simeon. Perhaps she would later. Perhaps she would let Mr. Brigance do it. Simeon had badgered her about what the lawyer wanted, what he’d said, but Lettie had been too bewildered and too frightened to try and explain anything. And how could she explain what she didn’t understand? As confused as she was, Lettie knew the most foolish thing she could do was to believe in a positive outcome. The day she saw any money would be the day she believed, and not a moment before.
    The kitchen door off the garage was unlocked. Lettie entered quietly and paused to listen for sounds of activity. The television was on inthe den. Coffee was brewing on the counter. She coughed as loudly as possible, and a voice called, “Is that you, Lettie?”
    “It is,” she said sweetly. She stepped into the den behind a fake smile and found Ian Dafoe on the sofa, still in his pajamas, surrounded by paperwork, lost in the details of some looming deal.
    “Good mornin’, Mr. Dafoe,” she said.
    “Good morning, Lettie,” he replied with a smile. “How are you?”
    “Fine, thanks, and you?”
    “As well as can be expected. Up most of the night with this,” he said, sweeping an arm over his beloved paperwork, as if she knew exactly what it all meant. “Get me some coffee, would you? Black.”
    “Yes sir.”
    Lettie took him coffee, which he accepted without a nod or a word, lost once more in his deal. She returned to the kitchen, poured herself some coffee, and when she opened the refrigerator to get the cream she saw a bottle of vodka, almost empty. She had never seen liquor in the house; Seth didn’t keep it. Once a month he brought home a few beers, stuck them in the fridge, and then usually forgot about them.
    The sink was full of dirty dishes—how could they possibly be expected to load the dishwasher with a servant on the payroll? Lettie got busy with the cleaning, and presently Mr. Dafoe stopped at the door and said, “I think I’ll get a shower now. Ramona is not feeling well, probably caught a cold.”
    Cold or vodka? Lettie thought. But she said, “I’m sorry. Can I do anything for her?”
    “Not really. But some breakfast would be nice, eggs and bacon. Scrambled for me, not sure about Herschel.”
    “I’ll ask him.”
    Since they were leaving, as was the servant, and since the house was about to be locked up,