Foreclosure Time

By James Crouch

In his second year as the lay pastor of a small country church Tim Sloan once again is confronted with a mysterious death. This time his own nightmare-driven depression and the chronic poverty of his Appalachian community force him to face the reality that he too may be facing foreclosure time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Crouch
• Release date: Jul 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311659095

James Crouch

Like the protagonist of his novel, James E. Crouch is an outsider living in Appalachia. In a previous lifetime he had an academic career in the field of religious studies, teaching in locations as disparate as Oklahoma and Japan. More recently he has been translating theological works, primarily from German to English. With the publication of Family Values he is beginning a new career.

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P R E F A C E

Readers of my novel, Family Values, may recognize some of the characters in this book. Tim Sloan is still the lay pastor of the Shepards Chapel Baptist Church. Otis Sanders is still the sheriff of Dumfries County. Jimmy Lee and Benny are still hell-raising deacons. And life goes on.

jec

Prologue

Tim looked at his visitor with disbelief. Are you saying I’m under arrest?

Some people are sayin’ you ought to be, Otis responded, still standing in the doorway of Tim’s home. I’ve even got a prosecuting attorney lookin’ over my shoulder and makin’ noises. But no, I’m not takin’ you in. … At least not yet.

On what charge? the preacher protested. I haven’t done anything wrong.

I hope not, the sheriff said. But there’s evidence that somebody broke the law, and a lot of it is pointing at you.

There was a long pause while Tim digested what was happening. Finally he said, If you were to arrest me, what would the charge be?

That would depend on the prosecuting attorney. And, of course, the grand jury. It could be voluntary manslaughter. Maybe even murder.

That’s harsh, Otis.

I doubt it will come to that, the sheriff replied. I’m thinkin’ you’ll be charged with assisted suicide.

Is that a crime in this state?

There’s no statute on the books, but common law? Yeah, it’s a crime. A man would think you’d have known that before you did it.

I do know that, Otis. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill her, and I didn’t help her kill herself.

The preacher studied his visitor’s face, looking for some sign of agreement, but he saw none. Otis Sanders had a severe expression that was hard to read. Finally, Tim said, Did you know Leta?

Don’t think I ever met her.

She was not a pretty woman, Tim explained. Kinda scrawny. Not the kind of woman a man would be attracted to. … But you know, I came to admire her. She was a courageous woman. And … and I can only describe it as love. Not the kind of attraction I’ve felt before. Certainly not the way I love Juni. But still, I can’t think of any other word for it. Then he added, as if it mattered, She even wanted me to have her funeral. Had the scriptures and hymns already picked out.

You’re not still thinking you’ll have her funeral, are you?

Why shouldn’t I? You know something I don’t?

The prosecuting attorney wants me to release the body to her husband, Mickey, by tomorrow at the latest. Says he knows who did it and how it was done so there’s no need for an autopsy.

You gonna let him get away with that?

Otis smiled. He won’t be able to. The medical examiner already has the body.

Don’t know what Mickey’s problem is, but my guess is he’ll have her in the ground before I even know what he’s doing. I hope he has somebody pray over her.

The two men fell silent while Tim looked out the window, lost in thought. Speaking more to himself than to Otis, he muttered, If only I hadn’t stopped to talk to Juni that day. Then he looked back at the sheriff. Did you find fingerprints?

Mickey’s prints were all over the place. No surprise there.

Any other prints?

Only yours. A couple on the bedside Bible and some on the plastic bag.

No others?

No others.

I’d expect mine would be on the tent. I wanted to see if she was still alive. I even checked to see if there was a pulse.

Was there?

No. She was dead. But it hadn’t been long; the body was still warm.

Mickey says when he got there you were standing looking down at her and after you left he pulled the bag off and tried to revive her.

Mickey said that?

The sheriff nodded.

He’s lying.

Why, Otis wondered, would Mickey lie about something like that?

Tim massaged his forehead, then buried his face in his hands. When he looked up he said, I don’t want to fight you, Otis; we’ve been through too much together. His voice grew hard. But by damn! I didn’t kill Leta. I’ve never killed anybody, and I certainly wouldn’t have killed her, even if she’d asked me to help her do it. And you know that!

I don’t know that, the sheriff responded. "I might want to believe it, but I don’t know it. In fact, I remember—and a lot of people around here remember—that when you came to town two years ago you were planning to kill somebody."

It was a statement Tim could not deny, and he fell silent again for a long minute. When he spoke he asked, What killed her?

It was helium. A couple of tanks of helium, some tubes, and a plastic bag. Whoever did it knew what he was doing.

Doesn’t that leave me out?

Not at all. There are books that tell you how to do it. There’s even a video on it. … Besides, the prosecuting attorney thinks you had professional help. There’s talk about your friendship with the foreign doctor. What’s his name? Singh?

Yeah, it’s Singh. Ibrahim Singh. … Oh hell, Otis. I did take him out there once. Well, maybe twice. Just to see her and to prescribe some pain medication for her.

Seems to me that’s strange behavior for a staff physician at the hospital, Otis observed. Did he have a private practice?

Damn it, Otis! They had no money, no insurance. They needed help, and they were too proud to ask for it. I even paid him for his time out of my own pocket.

The sheriff could not hide his surprise. "You actually paid him to go out there? He might get off with probation, but you know, don’t you, that this doesn’t make things look any better for you?"

Tim shook his head. "If only I hadn’t stopped to talk to Juni, I would have gotten there when they were expecting me. Maybe I could have prevented it. … She was dead when I got there. You say, and I agree, that she couldn’t have done it herself. And I can’t believe Mickey did it. He’s a jerk, but I’m not ready to say he would kill his own wife. That means somebody else did it. After Mickey left, but before I got there, somebody who knew the place went in with the tanks and the plastic bag and killed her."

You’re gonna have trouble convincing anybody else that it happened that way.

Then it looks like it’s up to me to find out who killed Leta Qualls.

P A R T    O N E

natsu kusa ya

tsuwamono domo ga

yume no ato

(Basho, 1644-1694)

the summer grass

is all that’s left

of warriors’ dreams

One

People knew that Wade Pendleton was Tim Sloan’s biological father; they just didn’t talk about it. What they did talk about was Wade’s move from his ancestral cabin in the hollow to Tim’s bungalow close to town.

Even before the members of the Shepards Chapel Baptist Church voted to call him to a second year as their pastor Tim had invited the difficult veteran to live with him and had signed another year’s lease with his landlord.

Soon friends started dropping by to welcome Wade to his new home. Where’s the poor man supposed to sleep? Sharon Lucas protested to her pastor when she looked at the bare space that was to be Wade’s bedroom. By the next day her husband, Echol, and Tim were assembling a used bed in the room, and two days later Sam Mullins pulled into the driveway with a dresser in the back of his pickup truck.

When asked if he was satisfied with the furnishings, Wade nodded. Anything’s OK, as long as they’s room fer Dog.

Edna Mae Witt complained that the room needed color. She forced from Tim a promise that no one else would hang curtains at the window until she had time to make some.

Only an offer of help from the church’s master gardener, Laura Jane Mullins, was refused out of hand. She tried to talk the two men into starting a late garden, but Wade declared simply, Gardenin’ is ’oman’s work.

When Maud Robinette heard from her brother that Tim and Wade might need some cleaning and cooking, she appeared at the door offering her help. Tim invited her in and introduced her. Wade, this is Miz Robinette, Sheriff McNabb’s sister.

Oh, I know Mr. Pendleton already, Maud announced. "Known him for years. When my husband was still alive, we went to all of the high school basketball games. At least all the home games. Why, everbody knowed Wade Pendleton. He was the star of the team." She appeared not to notice that Wade had no idea who she was.

Of course, she went on, turning to Tim, my brother’s not the sheriff anymore. He retired a couple of years ago.

Tim ignored the comment. He knew that Orban McNabb was no longer the sheriff, just as she knew that Tim and the former county strongman were not the best of friends. It was here in Tim’s own home that Orban McNabb had been shot by the mobster Claude Martin.

It was soon agreed that Maud would give the house a thorough cleaning once a week and change the sheets at the same time. Tim allowed as how he could buy a washing machine so they could do their own laundry. Maud also agreed to come three times a week to cook a meal and to leave a casserole or something else the two men could warm up on the odd nights.

Only it must be during the week, she explained. "I always cook Sunday dinner for Orban and Joyce and spend time with them. When folks ask me to work on the Lord’s Day, I tell them I just can’t do it. Never on Sunday! That’s my motto."

Tim smiled and glanced at Wade, but the older man was not part of the conversation.

Never on Sunday, Tim mused aloud. Wasn’t that the title of an old movie?

Don’t know, Maud said innocently. Never saw it. What was it about?

Again Tim glanced across the table, but Wade was still in a different world. It was about a woman, Tim began. I suppose you could call her a professional woman. She never plied her trade on Sunday.

Well, I do cook on Sunday, of course, Maud explained. "For family. I just don’t charge for it on Sunday."

Once again Tim looked at Wade, but there was no one with whom he could share the moment.

• • •

The people of Cairns Grove were most surprised to realize that—to outward appearances, at least—the two men tolerated one another. Comments such as Don’t see how they get along were frequently accompanied by perplexed shakes of the head. One of ’em’s stubborn as a mule, an’ the other’s sick in the head.

Few of them knew that Wade Pendleton had killed his former girlfriend—Tim’s mother, Linda Powell—thirty years ago while nearly mad from the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. All they knew was that he’d returned from Vietnam wounded in body and soul. And since he was a local boy and a war hero, folks tended to grant him a great deal of respect.

Even Tim was protective of the old veteran. He had been so young when his mother disappeared that he did not remember her. He’d also grown to understand she’d hardly been a loving person and, at the time of her death, had been trying to blackmail a wealthy county resident named Preston Begley, who was no saint either. Over the last difficult year Tim had come to terms with the fact that what Wade Pendleton had done belonged in the past, and he was determined to keep it there. Luckily no evidence existed that would ever change that.

Seldom did the two men get caught in a power struggle, and when they did Tim usually settled it by declaring a house rule.

We will not, he announced early on, have a television set in the living room. You watch TV, you do it in your room. Wade started to argue but appeared to decide it was not worth the effort. This way, he rationalized, he could watch TV whenever he wanted.

On most other issues Wade got his way. Who cuts the grass? Tim does. When does Wade eat? Whenever he wants to—although it was Tim who did the woman’s work of heating food and putting it on the table.

In short, Tim gave Wade space to live his own life. Nothing was ever said about going to church, and Wade did not. Once, in late summer, after the political conventions had been held, Tim asked Wade how he was going to vote in November’s presidential election. You gonna vote for the ticket headed by a black man, or the party with a woman in the second spot?

Wade scratched his beard and appeared to give the question some thought. Probly won’t vote atall. None a them politicians has ever done anything good fer me.

By the end of July Tim had also learned not to broach the subject of veterans’ health care or the possibility that Wade might visit a VA hospital.

• • •

When Juni Lyons got out of her aging Chevrolet with her son, Tommy, and German shepherd, Vergie, Wade looked out the window and asked, Ain’t that the woman that brought supper over to the house that time?

It is, Tim offered, without further explanation.

Wade and Dog headed out for a long walk through the back door while Tim went out front to greet his guests.

When Wade returned later, the guests were gone. He ate his supper without comment, then sat silently in the yard until it was almost dark. On his way to his room for the night he ventured, An’ is she yore girlfriend?

She is, Tim admitted. She’s also Sheriff Otis’s cousin. And a school teacher. Next time you might as well hang around and let the dogs play. This is your home too, you know.

The next day the threesome was back, settling into the house as if they belonged to it. This time Wade sat on the front step as the dogs ran in the yard and engaged in mutual sniffing. Juni sat with him for a while. She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt rather than her work clothes and hardly looked like a high school English teacher. Her black hair was pulled back from her face, and her features—Tim no longer thought of them as too thin—were free of makeup.

Don’t you men think you need some color around the front of this house? she said. How about potted geraniums on the porch?

Wade grunted a reply but avoided all eye contact.

It was Tommy who broke through Wade’s reserve. With his mother inside the house talking to Tim, the boy joined the veteran on the front step to watch the dogs.

Does Dog ever pee in the house? he asked. Vergie did once, and Momma was really mad.

Not yet she hasn’t, Wade answered. Leastways not in this house.

Where do you and Dog go when you’re out walking?

Wade glanced sideways at the boy. One of these days you and Vergie can go with us and have a look-see.

Even when he cast an inquisitive gaze at Wade’s weathered face and salt-and-pepper beard, the boy was gentle and unthreatening. Wish I could grow a beard.

The old man smiled. Someday you will.

At dinner Juni chatted about the gig her musical group had the next week. She mentioned that she was grateful to have a babysitter for Tommy with Lillian Mann and the girls in the apartment upstairs.

That ain’t right! Tommy protested with a deep frown.

"You mean, that isn’t right, Juni corrected. What’s not right about it? I thought you liked Lillian and the girls."

"I do. But I ain’t … I’m not a baby anymore, and I don’t need a babysitter."

But Tommy, you’re not old enough to stay home alone.

I’m seven years old now.

That’s still not old enough. What shall we call Lillian if you don’t like the word babysitter?

Why can’t we just say I’m going upstairs to play games with Annie?

Sometime in the second week Wade spoke to Tim when the two men were alone. Next time yore girlfriend comes over … he never referred to Juni by name, … y’all wont me to take a long walk so you can … you know …?

Tim Sloan reddened and stammered, Uh … nah. That’s OK. Besides, Tommy would still be here.

When they showed up the next day, Wade said to Tommy, Let’s you and me and the dogs take a walk in the woods.

Yay, Tommy cheered, and ran to tell his mother—tell, not ask—that he and that man were going to take the dogs for a walk.

Juni gave Tim a worried look. Do you think it’s safe? she whispered.

Tim nodded. I’m not gonna tell them they can’t go. Look how excited they are. All of them. … Besides, you ever watch Wade when he’s with Dog? He’s a different man. If he’s ever sane, it’s when he’s with that dog. I don’t know anything about mental health, or PTSD—or whatever the hell they call it—but I’d say … yeah, let ’em go.

When Wade, Tommy, and the dogs were leaving the yard, the boy studied a bird’s nest hanging from an attic vent. How’s that nest stay up there? he wondered aloud.

Hit stays up there, the veteran said, ignoring the question, so the birds can use it again next year.

Juni watched out a window until her son and the old man had crossed the field. Why do you suppose Wade’s doing this? she asked Tim.

I think he really does like the boy. Then, after a moment, Tim added, I also think he wanted to give us a chance to be alone.

Tim looked at Juni for a long time, then took a deep breath and ventured, I have been missing you, you know.

But I’ve been here almost every day.

That’s not what I meant.

She gave him a cool smile. You mean sex?

You do have a blunt way of putting it.

I have been wondering, she admitted, "when you were going to think about that. Do you realize what you’ve done? What we’ve done? I’ve got Etta Dickerson next door and Lillian and the girls upstairs. And now you’ve got no privacy here. Between my son and your father there’s not going to be much time for us."

Tim winced. I was hoping we wouldn’t call him that.

What would you rather we call your father?

What’s wrong with Wade? Just Wade?

When Wade, Tommy, Vergie, and Dog returned from their walk, Tommy rushed into the house waving a small object and yelling, Mommy, look what Pops gave me.

Juni kneeled to be at the boy’s eye level and studied the tarnished army medal he held. That’s nice, Honey. But what did you call him?

For a moment the boy’s forehead wrinkled, then he brightened. I called him Pops. But it’s OK. He said I could.

Juni looked up at Wade’s face, and the old veteran nodded.

Later, while he and his mother and Vergie were backing out of Tim’s driveway in their car, Tommy rolled down his window and waved at the lone figure standing on the porch.

‘Bye, Pops, he called.

Goodbye, Son.

Two

Wade stirred his coffee and looked absently at the red-headed waitress across from him. Hazel had one eye on the Dumfries County Patriot lying in front of her on the table and the other on the last of the morning’s customers. When the customers left, she folded the newspaper and said, More coffee, Wade, Honey?

The old veteran shook his head and said, I’m good. At his feet his sleeping dog lifted one ear.

Two, sometimes three times a week when Wade was feeling restless, he followed his morning walk by loading Dog into his rusting pickup truck and driving to Granny’s Kitchen. By mid-morning the breakfast crowd had cleared out, and he usually had the restaurant to himself. He spent the time visiting with Hazel and her sisters, Granny and Mabel, although in his world visiting usually meant sitting quietly and saying little.

Sometimes he ate a late breakfast; sometimes he merely drank coffee. He never paid, and if the health authorities knew a dog was visiting the restaurant on a regular basis, they said nothing about it.

On this morning he had eaten a full breakfast, slowly and methodically, because he knew Juni was at the house having what she euphemistically called quality time with Tim while Tommy was at Vacation Bible School.

Hazel stood up. Nice of you and Dog to come visit us, she said, clearing Wade’s plate off the table. Stay as long as you like.

• • •

For days Tommy had been pestering Juni to let him go to the daily Vacation Bible School at one of the large churches in town because, as he said, All the other kids are gonna be there.

So Juni overcame her reluctance to expose Tommy to any form of church life and let him walk with a couple of friends the three blocks to the church across from the courthouse. She rationalized that the time spent with his friends would be good for the boy.

After an awkward embrace with Tim upon her arrival, Juni laughed nervously while Tim locked the front door. Don’t know why I’ve got this funny feeling, she said. It’s not like it’s the first time or anything, but … why don’t we have some coffee first?

Fair enough, Tim agreed, taking her by the hand. It has been a long time since … that other time.

When they finally did venture into Tim’s bedroom, they undressed quickly and got into bed, but they were tense, even clumsy. Maybe it was the daylight, maybe it was the occasional passing traffic outside, but afterward they both agreed that it had not been as good as their earlier encounter at Juni’s place. Still, Tim said while he was pulling on his pants, we got the job done.

Juni scowled at his back and thought well, screw you, Buster, then laughed at herself when she realized that was what she’d just done. She dressed quickly, kissed Tim, said see you tomorrow, and walked out the front door of his house.

Less than an hour later Tim’s cell phone sounded. The call, he read, was from Juni, but she was well into a rant before he could even recognize her voice. It was strident and harsh. Before he could say hello she was already shouting, And you can forget about tomorrow!

Wait a minute! he was finally able to say. Who is this? Is this Juni?

Of course it’s me, the voice came back at him. Who in the hell did you think it was?

Not sure, he said. The Juni I know doesn’t talk this way.

Well, this one does, so you’d better get used to it.

OK, Tim said. Just calm down and tell me what’s happened.

I’ll tell you what happened, Juni declared, but I’m not calming down.

OK. What happened?

"Tommy just got home from Vacation Bible School, and—you won’t believe this!—he came running into the house saying, Mommy, Mommy, I’ve been saved."

Whatever else she had to say Tim did not hear because he was too busy laughing. Finally, he broke into his girlfriend’s tirade and said, So Tommy came home thinking he’s been saved. Is that all?

It was not the right thing to say. "What do you mean, is that all? I sent my son over there for some Kool-Aid and cookies, and maybe a harmless Bible story, and those … those … assholes dared to lay their slimy hands on my son’s soul!"

This again was language he had never heard from Juni. Tim was no longer laughing. Those people, he said, are just doing what they think is right—probably what somebody else told them they’re supposed to be doing.

I should’ve known you’d stick up for them, she sputtered. You’re all alike.

You mad at me too? he asked. When she did not answer, he launched into a lengthy description of how he was different from those other people. Finally, he realized he was talking into dead air. Juni? Juni? At some point—he had no idea when—she had hung up.

Guess there’s no such thing, he mused, as a harmless Bible story.

That afternoon Juni left a message on his answering machine. I called to say I’m sorry for what I said about you. You’re not like those other people. But I’m still mad as hell.

• • •

If Wade missed life in the cabin where he’d lived for most of his life, he did not show it. Only once during the summer did he express a desire to go back and visit the old homestead.

They drove to the site in Tim’s pickup truck with Wade sitting in the passenger’s seat and Dog perched on his lap. The summer had been dry so Tim had no trouble gunning the 4 x 4 through the creek bed. At the cabin Wade and Dog got out of the truck with scarcely a backward glance. For a full moment Wade stood sniffing the air while Dog searched the ground for fresh scents. When Wade strode around the cabin Dog followed him, and soon the two were walking past the decaying outbuildings to the other side of the hollow.

By the time Tim joined them they were already retracing their steps. Dog nosed perfunctorily at the skeleton of the deer Wade had killed earlier in the year, and they skirted the outhouse that, Tim surmised, was probably free of the stench of human excrement for the first time in its history.

In the cabin Tim hung back and let Wade walk alone through the empty rooms. The old man’s steps echoed a past that, except for some scenes from his childhood, even he could no longer remember. After a few minutes he came to the door and motioned to Tim to join him. It’s gone, he murmured. All gone. Whether he was talking about material possessions or the life lived in the rooms, he did not say.

At the kitchen end of Granny Pendleton’s room Tim lifted the iron skillet from the shelf. I thought we took this with us the last time we were here.

Must not of, Wade said.

Well, let’s take it. It’s too valuable to leave here.

Outside again they took shelter from the angry sun on the porch between the two rooms. Tim recalled that it was here that he’d had his first real conversation with the man he still could not bring himself to call his father.

Leaning against the weathered logs of the house they ate the sandwiches Tim had brought. He’d also brought some dry dog food, which Dog ate before trotting to the creek to look for water.

There was an emptiness to the place Tim had not sensed in his earlier visits. Even the land felt deserted. Who would want to live here? he thought. Still, he hazarded the comment: Now that Granny’s gone, I suppose the place belongs to you.

Probly did even before she died, Wade said, but I’m thinkin’ it ain’t worth much.

Maybe not the cabin, Tim agreed, but the land’s got to be worth something.

Wade looked at the exhausted logs against which Tim was leaning and said, I like the cabin jest fer the oldness of it. Hit’s probly worth something only to me. He closed his eyes and was lost in thought. Or maybe he had drifted off to sleep.

When the stillness was broken by the distant sound of a barking dog, Wade opened his eyes and said, Thet would be Nannie Ervin’s dog.

Tim could not resist saying, You want to go up there and see her?

Except for a smile at the absurdity of the question, Wade did not answer.

On the drive home Tim said, Tomorrow—or the next day at the latest—I’ll be coming out to this part of the county again. Got a church member who’s dying of cancer, and I’m needing to see how she’s doing.

• • •

In Tim’s eyes the world had not changed in the weeks since he had visited Leta and Mickey Qualls. He bounced along the same rutted driveway to the same drab mobile home in the woods. The same dogs were barking, and Leta—bone thin and obviously not well—was still sitting in the shade of an old tree smoking a cigarette. If she was not wearing the same washed-out dress, the difference was lost on Tim. Only the flowers blooming in the circular beds were different.

Again they sat in the aluminum lawn chairs. Again they struggled to make small talk. Again they skirted the subject of Leta’s cancer.

You’re looking good, he said.

She nodded. I feel perty good. Most days. Sometimes a body could even imagine I wuz gettin’ better. Or that I’m not … . She struggled to think of the right word. Finally she came out with, … or that I’m not sick.

After a quiet moment in which they both looked at the flowers, she added, Although I think I’ve lost a few pounds. She looked at her thin arms and smiled. Weight I didn’t really need to lose.

It was, they both agreed, powerful hot.

So you’re stayin’ at the church, she declared. It was more a statement than a question, although Tim wondered how she had heard the news. Her deacon husband had been conspicuously absent from the Shepards Chapel Baptist Church for quite some time.

I am, he agreed. At least for another year. The folks voted the first Sunday in June.

She looked at him until he made eye contact. Well, we’re all mighty glad you’re stayin’.

Tim nodded, remembering that she had said she wanted him to conduct her funeral. Then, more to cover his discomfort than to look for something, he turned and glanced over his shoulder.

You want to talk with Mickey, she said, he’s down with his bees. He was sayin’ this morning some of them was fixin’ to swarm. When it’s quiet, a body can hear ’em buzzin’ from clear up here.

Tim showed no inclination to get up. "Haven’t been