PART 20 – When I Thought About Calling Carlton, I Remembered the Screen Door and Decided I Needed the Truth Before I Faced the Family Again

I considered calling Carlton on a Tuesday morning.

I had the telephone in my hand before I stopped myself.

I knew the number.

For years, I had heard Henrietta speak to him on Sundays.

Sometimes she would tell me afterward what he had said.

She had always seemed pleased when he called.

I had believed that his regular telephone calls meant he cared deeply about her.

Perhaps he did.

I could not know everything about their relationship from the outside.

But I had seen how he behaved after the funeral.

That was something I knew.

I put the telephone down.

There was no reason to call him before I understood the record.

I didn't want to ask a question I could not explain.

I didn't want to hear an answer and have no way of knowing whether I had understood it correctly.

Most of all, I didn't want to let the hurt of that morning turn a conversation into an argument.

I had spent too many years trying to be fair to people to abandon that principle now.

Still, I wondered whether Carlton knew what Henrietta had arranged.

Had she spoken to him about it?

Had he read the record?

Had he decided that the matter was finished when he handed me the check?

I had no answers.

I could only remember the way he had stood behind the screen door.

He had not invited me inside.

His brothers had remained in the kitchen.

I had watched them through the narrow opening as though I were looking into a room that no longer had any place for me.

That image had stayed with me longer than the check itself.

I had worked in that kitchen for years.

I knew the counter where they leaned.

I knew where Henrietta kept the coffee.

I knew the drawers where she stored her utensils.

I had helped keep the house in order, but I had never mistaken that work for ownership.

I had never believed the family owed me a place at their table.

Yet being shut out so abruptly had made me feel that all the ordinary kindness between Henrietta and me had been erased.

Now I was trying to separate that hurt from the questions about the record.

They were connected, but they were not the same.

Carlton's behavior had hurt me.

Henrietta's arrangements required me to find out more.

One did not prove the other.

I reminded myself of that while I made breakfast.

After I ate, I took the notes from the drawer and laid them on the table.

I read them slowly.

I checked the questions I had already asked Rosella.

There were still details I wanted clarified.

I wrote down one more question about what the record required of me, if anything.

I did not want to assume that being named in an official entry automatically meant I had to take some particular action.

I wanted Rosella to explain the situation in plain language.

If she could not answer something, I would ask what information was needed.

That seemed sensible.

I had lived long enough to know that a confident guess could cause more trouble than an honest question.

Later that morning, I went to the grocery store.

I bought only what I needed.

On the drive home, I passed a road that led toward the highway and, farther along, the Lockridge property.

For a moment, I thought about turning that way.

I could have driven past the farmhouse.

I could have looked at the house from the road.

But I didn't.

There was nothing to be gained by doing that.

I wasn't ready to see the place again.

Not while the memory of Carlton's dismissal remained so fresh.

I drove home instead.

The afternoon passed quietly.

I washed clothes and folded them on the bed.

I put away the groceries.

I watered the plants.

Then I sat down with the telephone beside me.

I decided I would call Rosella the following morning.

I wanted to ask whether there was anything else I needed to know about the record and what steps, if any, came next.

I would not ask her to predict what the Lockridge sons might do.

That wasn't her responsibility.

I would not ask her to promise me an outcome.

She could not do that, either.

I would simply ask her to help me understand what Henrietta had put in place.

That evening, I called Alfreda.

I told her I was planning to speak with Rosella again.

My daughter sounded worried.

"Mama, I don't want you getting your hopes up."

"I understand."

"Those men won't like being questioned about their mother's property."

"I don't intend to question them yet."

She was quiet.

I could hear ordinary household sounds in the background.

I pictured her moving around her kitchen, doing the things that needed doing.

She had a life of her own.

I couldn't expect her to put it aside because I was facing an uncertain situation.

"I just want to know what the record means," I said.

Alfreda sighed.

"All right. Just don't let them push you around."

I held the telephone closer.

"I won't."

That was the first time I had said those words without immediately wondering whether I could keep them.

I was not promising to become aggressive.

I was not promising to fight anybody.

I was promising myself that I would ask for an explanation before accepting somebody else's judgment.

After we hung up, I returned the telephone to its stand.

The kitchen was quiet.

I looked at the envelope containing Carlton's check.

Then I looked at the notes from Rosella.

I had come a long way from the woman who had sat in her car crying after leaving the farmhouse.

I was still hurt.

I was still worried about money.

I still had no idea what the final outcome would be.

But I was no longer willing to believe that my only choices were to accept Carlton's dismissal as the end of the matter or start a fight with his family.

There was another choice.

I could learn the truth.

I could take my time.

I could make decisions based on what Henrietta had actually arranged, not on what I feared her sons might do.

I turned off the kitchen light and went to bed.

The next morning, I would call Rosella.

And this time, I would be ready to listen without allowing fear to answer the questions for me.

Click here to continue reading: PART 21: I Called Rosella One More Time, Determined to Understand What Henrietta Had Recorded Before I Decided What Her Sons Might Think