Ford County_ Stories Part 22

"Thank you, Emporia. And thank you for lunch. I need to lie down now."

At 3:00 p.m., Emporia met with Reverend Biler in his office at the church. Such a meeting in such a place could only mean trouble, and not long after the initial pleasantries the reverend got to the point, or at least to one of them. "I hear you've been seen in Willie Ray's whiskey store."

This was no surprise whatsoever, and Emporia was ready. "I'm seventy-five years old, at least thirty years older than you, and if I choose to buy medication for a friend, then I'll do so."

"Medication?"

"That's what he calls it, and I told his family he'd be properly medicated."

"Call it whatever you want, Emporia, but the elders are upset over this. One of our senior ladies seen in a whiskey store. What kind of example is that for our youth?"

"It's my job, and this job won't last much longer."

"There's a rumor you've invited him to wors.h.i.+p with us."

Thank you, Doris, Emporia thought but didn't say. Doris was the only person she'd told about inviting Adrian to church. "I invite everyone to wors.h.i.+p with us, Reverend. That's what you want. That's what the Bible says."

"Well, this is a little different."

"Don't worry. He ain't comin'."

"Praise the Lord. The wages of sin is death, Emporia, and this young man is paying for his sins."

"Yes, he is."

"And how safe are you, Emporia? This disease is sweeping across our country, across the world. It's highly contagious, and, to be honest with you, there are grave concerns in our community over your safety. Why are you running this risk? Why take this chance? It seems so unlike you."

"The nurse tells me I'm safe. I keep him clean and fed, and medicated, and I wear rubber gloves when I do his laundry. The virus is spread through intercourse and blood, both of which are being avoided." She smiled. He did not.

He folded his hands together and set them on the desk, very piouslike. His face was hard when he said, "Some of our members are uneasy around you."

She had antic.i.p.ated everything but that, and when she realized the meaning of it, she was speechless.

"You touch what he touches. You breathe the same air, eat the same food, drink the same water and tea, and G.o.d knows what else these days. You clean his clothes and laundry and bedsheets, and you wear rubber gloves because of the virus. Shouldn't that tell you how great the danger is, Emporia? Then you bring the germs here, to the house of the Lord."

"I'm safe, Reverend. I know I'm safe."

"Maybe so, but perception is everything. Some of your brothers and sisters here think you're crazy for doing this, and they are afraid."

"Someone has to care for him."

"These are wealthy white people, Emporia."

"He has no one else."

"We'll not argue that. My concern is my church."

"It's my church too. I was here long before you came, and now you're askin' me to stay away?"

"I want you to consider a leave of absence, until he pa.s.ses."

Minutes dragged by without a word. Emporia, her eyes wet but her head high, stared through a window and watched the leaves of a tree. Biler remained motionless and studied his hands. When she finally stood, she said, "Then let's call it a leave of absence, Reverend. It'll start now, and it'll be over when I decide it's over. And while I'm absent, I'll walk in the whiskey store anytime I choose, and you and your little spies can gossip all you want."

He was following her to the door. "Don't overreact, Emporia. We all love you."

"I feel the love."

"And we'll be prayin' for you, and for him."

"I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear that."

The lawyer's name was Fred Mays, and his was the only name in the yellow pages that Adrian recognized. Adrian spoke briefly with him on the phone, then wrote him a long letter. At four o'clock on a Friday afternoon Mays and a secretary parked in front of the pink house. Mays unloaded his briefcase. He also unloaded a case of wine from the nicer liquor store on the other side of the tracks. Emporia walked across the street to visit Doris so the legal matters could be tended to in private.

Contrary to the varied rumors floating around, Adrian had nothing in the way of a.s.sets. There was no mysterious trust created by long-dead relatives. The will prepared by Mays required all of one page, with the remnants of Adrian's dwindling supply of cash going to Emporia. The second doc.u.ment, and the more important one, set forth the burial arrangements. When everything was signed and notarized, Mays hung around for a gla.s.s of wine and some idle talk about Clanton. The gla.s.s of wine didn't last long. Mays and his secretary seemed anxious to conclude the meeting. They left, good-byes and nods but no handshakes, and as soon as they were back in the office on the square, they were describing the boy's dreadful condition.

The following Sunday, Emporia complained of a headache and announced she would not go to church. It was raining, and the weather gave her another excuse to stay home. They ate biscuits on the porch and watched the storm.

"How's your headache?" Adrian asked.

"It's better. Thank you."

"You told me once you haven't missed church in over forty years. Why are you staying home today?"

"I don't feel too good, Adrian. It's that simple."

"You and the preacher have a falling-out?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"I said no."

"You haven't been yourself since you met with him the other day. I think he said something to offend you, and I think it was something to do with me. Doris comes over less and less. Herman, never. Isabelle hasn't stopped by in a week. The phone doesn't ring as much. Now you're staying away from church. If you ask me, I'd say Lowtown is giving you the cold shoulder, and it's all because of me."

She didn't argue. How could she? He was telling the truth, and any objection from her would ring false.

Thunder rattled the windows and the wind turned, blowing rain onto the porch. They went inside, Emporia to the kitchen, Adrian to his room, with the door closed. He stripped to his underwear and reclined on the bed. He was almost finished with As I Lay Dying As I Lay Dying, Faulkner's fifth novel and one Adrian had seriously considered skipping, for obvious reasons. But he found it much more accessible than the others, and unexpectedly humorous. He finished it in an hour, and fell asleep.

By late afternoon the rain was gone; the air was clear and pleasant. After a light supper of peas and corn bread, they drifted back to the porch, where Adrian soon announced that his stomach was in disarray and he need some wine, per First Timothy, chapter 5, verse 23. His designated winegla.s.s was a cracked coffee mug with permanent chicory stains. He'd taken a few sips when Emporia announced, "You know, my stomach is a bit unsettled too. I might try some of that."

Adrian smiled and said, "Wonderful. I'll get it."

"No. You sit tight. I know where the bottle is."

She returned with a similar mug and settled into her rocking chair. "Cheers," Adrian said, happy to have a drinking buddy.

Emporia took a swallow, smacked her lips, and said, "Not bad."

"It's a chardonnay. Good, but not great. The best they had in the store."

"It'll do," she said, still cautious.

After the second cup she started giggling. It was dark and the street was quiet.

"Somethin' I've wanted to ask you," she said.

"Anything."

"When did you realize that you were, you know, different? How old were you?"

A pause, a long sip of wine, a story he'd told before but only to those who understood. "Things were pretty normal until I was about twelve. Cub Scouts, baseball and soccer, camping and fis.h.i.+ng, the usual boy stuff, but as p.u.b.erty loomed down the road, I began to realize I wasn't interested in girls. The other boys talked about girls and girls, but I just didn't care. I lost interest in sports and began to read about art and design and fas.h.i.+on. As I got older, the boys got more involved with girls, but not me. I knew something was wrong. I had a friend, Matt Mason, a great- looking guy who drove the girls crazy. One day I realized I had a crush on him too, but, of course, I never told anyone. I fantasized about the guy. It drove me nuts; then I started looking at other boys and thinking about them. When I was fifteen, I finally admitted to myself that I was gay. By then, the other kids were beginning to whisper. I couldn't wait to get out of here and live the way I wanted."

"Do you have any regrets?"

"Regrets? No, I don't regret being what I am. Wish I wasn't sick, but then so does everybody else with a terminal illness."

She set her empty cup on the wicker table and gazed into the darkness. The porch light was off. They sat in the shadows, rocking slowly. "Can I tell you somethin' private?" she said.

"Of course. I'll take it to my grave."

"Well, I was sorta like you, except I never liked boys. I never thought about bein' different, you know, and I never thought somethin' was wrong with me. But I never wanted to be with no man."

"You never had a boyfriend?"

"Maybe, one time. There was a boy hangin' around the house, and I felt like I needed to have a boy, you know. My family was gettin' worried 'cause I was almost twenty and still single. We went to bed a few times, but I didn't like it. In fact, it made me sick. I couldn't stand bein' touched like that. You promise you won't tell, now."

"I promise. And who would I tell?"

"I trust you."

"Your secret is safe. Have you ever told anyone else?"

"Lord, no. I wouldn't dare."

"Did you ever fool around with a girl?"

"Son, you just didn't do thangs like that back then. They'd s.h.i.+p you off to the nuthouse."

"And now?"

She shook her head and thought about this. "Ever' now and then, there's some gossip 'bout a boy over here who won't fit in, but it's kept real quiet. You hear rumors, you know, but no one ever comes out and lives openly, know what I mean?"

"I do indeed."

"But I've never heard of a woman over here who goes for other women. I suspect they keep it hidden and get married and never tell a soul. Or they do like me-they just play along and say they never found the right man."

"That's sad."

"I'm not sad, Adrian. I've had a happy life. How 'bout just a touch more wine?"

"Good idea."

She hurried away, anxious to leave the conversation behind.

The fevers returned and did not go away. His skin leaked sweat, then he began to cough, a painful hacking cough that gripped him like a seizure and left him too weak to move. Emporia washed and ironed sheets throughout the day, and at night she could only listen to the painful sounds from his room. She prepared meals he could not eat. She put on gloves and bathed him with cold water, neither bothered by his nakedness. His arms and legs were like broom handles now, and he was not strong enough to walk to the front porch. He no longer wanted to be seen by the neighbors, so he stayed in bed, waiting. The nurse came every day now, but did nothing but check his temperature, rearrange his pill bottles, and shake her head gravely at Emporia.

On the last night, Adrian managed to dress himself in a pair of twill slacks and a white cotton s.h.i.+rt. He neatly packed his shoes and clothing in his two leather suitcases, and when everything was in order, he took the black pill and washed it down with wine. He stretched out on the bed, looked around the room, placed an envelope on his chest, managed a smile, and closed his eyes for the last time.

By ten the next morning, Emporia realized she had not heard a sound from him. She pecked on the door to his bedroom, and when she stepped in, there was Adrian, neatly dressed, still smiling, eternally at rest.

The letter read: Dear Emporia:Please destroy this letter after you read it. I'm sorry you found me like this, but this moment was, after all, inevitable. The disease had run its course and my time was up. I simply decided to speed things up a bit.Fred Mays, the lawyer, has taken care of the final arrangements. Please call him first. He will call the coroner, who will come here and p.r.o.nounce me legally dead. Since neither of the funeral homes in town would handle my body, a rescue-squad ambulance will take me to a crematorium in Tupelo. There, they will happily incinerate me and place my ashes in a container made for the occasion. Standard container, nothing fancy. Fred will then bring my ashes back to Clanton and deliver them to Mr. Franklin Walker at the funeral home here in Lowtown. Mr. Walker has agreed, reluctantly, to bury me in the black section of the cemetery, as far away from my family's plot as possible.All of this will be done quickly, and, I hope, without the knowledge of my family. I do not want those people getting involved, not that they will want to be. Fred has my written instructions and plans to deal with them, if necessary.When my ashes are buried, I'd be honored if you would offer a silent word or two. And feel free to stop by my little spot occasionally and leave some flowers. Again, nothing fancy.There are four bottles of wine left in the fridge. Please drink in remembrance of me.Thank you so much for your kindness. You've made my last days bearable, even enjoyable at times. You're a wonderful human being, and you deserve to be what you are.Love, Adrian Emporia sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, wiping her eyes and even patting his knee. Then she collected herself and went to the kitchen, where she threw the letter in the trash and picked up the phone.

If you enjoyed Ford County: Stories

please read on for an exciting early look at John Grisham's searing new thriller

The Confession

Coming in hardcover from Doubleday in October 2010

The custodian at St. Mark's had just sc.r.a.ped three inches of snow off the sidewalks when the man with the cane appeared. The sun was up, but the winds were howling; the temperature was stuck at the freezing mark. The man wore only a pair of thin dungarees, a hand-me-down summer s.h.i.+rt, pre-owned hiking boots, and a light Windbreaker that stood little chance against the chill. But he did not appear to be uncomfortable, nor was he in a hurry. He was on foot, walking with a limp and a slight tilt to his left, the side aided by the cane. He shuffled along the sidewalk near the chapel and stopped at a side door with the word "Office" painted in dark red. He did not knock and the door was not locked. He stepped inside just as another gust of wind hit him in the back.

The room was a reception area with the cluttered, dusty look one would expect to find in an old church. In the center was a desk with a nameplate that announced the presence of Charlotte Junger, who sat not far behind her name. She said with a smile, "Good morning."