t was almost fifteen years before I could make things right with Mrs. Slater. She still lived in that same house, so I was a little concerned about how Tory-boy would react when we had to go back past the place where all those ugly things had happened. But if he even recognized what was left of that burned-out shack, he didn’t show it.
I hadn’t needed to wait that long to stack up money; it was my timing that had to be perfect. Not only would I have to wait until Mrs. Slater needed something more than just my thanks, I knew I’d be facing some powerful resistance from her.
Lansdale had someone at the bank. That’s how I learned Mrs. Slater was a widow. And that her husband hadn’t carried any life insurance since he’d been laid off from his last job.
The house should have been paid off, anyway. The way the banks do it, you have to buy insurance from them, so that if you die that pays off whatever’s left on the mortgage.
But the bank said the policy only covered the face amount of the mortgage. With all the late charges the Slaters had racked up, plus the interest on that, never mind that they were already some months behind on their payments, by the time they finished playing with their computers Mrs. Slater owed almost three thousand dollars.
Still, she was working, and the bank could have written her a new note. Refinanced the property so that her payments wouldn’t be more than a few dollars a month.
But the bank knew real estate was really going up. Rich folks from the big cities were “discovering” towns like ours all over the state. Nice and cool in the summertime, with plenty of fishing.
And with all the work Mr. Slater had put into the house, it was worth a lot more than when they’d first bought it. The vultures floated high, riding the air currents, always watching with great care. They had to be sure their prey was really dead before dropping down to feed.
Foreclosure was the meal they planned on having.
With such a small balance left, Mrs. Slater could have just sold her house and walked off with a profit. But she wasn’t going to do that.
People around here, they don’t do that. It just doesn’t feel right to them.
Lansdale also told me Mrs. Slater had an old Ford. She didn’t owe anything on it, but it was damn near shot; probably wouldn’t see her through the next winter. Not only that, she had to drive about forty miles a day just to get to the only job she could find after her husband had stopped bringing home a paycheck.
When I asked Lansdale about her children, I admired the way he answered my question. “Never had any” is all he said.
The women around here can be crueler than the men. They can say things that cut to the quick, and they’re not reluctant to use that knife. When they talked about a married woman who had no children, they’d always use that sympathy-sounding voice that was nothing but gloating covered with fake skin.
“That poor Mrs. Johnson. The Lord never blessed her with children.” That was the nicest way they’d put it.
“It’s too bad about Mrs. Johnson never being able to give her husband any children.” That was a step up their cruelty ladder, but nowhere near the top.
The meanest—and their favorite—was to just shake their heads in false sorrow whenever they referred to Mrs. Johnson, always making sure the word “barren” found its way into their pretend-pity.
That really made me think on how—“prepared,” I guess is the word I’m searching for—on how well prepared Mrs. Slater had been to help me with Tory-boy when he first came.
hen we pulled up in the van, Mrs. Slater came out onto her porch. That’s the way folks do. No need for a doorbell when your driveway is gravel or chipped stone. Or if you have a dog.
She looked like most of the women around here do after a while: gaunt, hard lines cut into her face. Worn hands, suspicious eyes.
But all that changed when the van’s side door opened and the release system lowered my chair to the ground.
“Esau? Esau Till. Is that you? My goodness. And this is—”
“This is my little brother, Tory,” I said. “That’s why we chose Mother’s Day to visit. Had it not been for your saintly kindness, he wouldn’t be standing next to me right now. The way I always looked at it, you’re Tory’s real mother. I’ve been telling him about you since he was old enough to understand.”
She clapped her hand over her heart, like she was about to faint. “My goodness! I’d heard … Well, just listen to me! Like I was raised in a barn. Can you sit a spell?”
“Yes, ma’am. I came out here for that very reason. There’s something that’s been worrying at me for a long time, and now that I’ve been led to the righteous answer, this was the place I had to come to.”
I could see she was puzzled by what I said. And she drew quite a breath when she saw Tory-boy pick up me and my chair the way another man would pick up a newspaper.
He carried me up to the porch; then he pulled back Mrs. Slater’s chair for her. I believe that may have shocked her even more—good manners count for a lot around here, but the older folks never get tired of saying that young people just don’t know how to act anymore.
Both Tory-boy and me said we’d love a glass of the lemonade she offered. We weren’t lying, either—the month of May can get brutal around here.
We each took a little drink, and Tory-boy beat me to telling her it was delicious. I was never prouder of him than that day—there wasn’t a single thing he did that wasn’t perfect.
When I told Mrs. Slater I was deeply sorry for her loss, she just nodded. I took that for what it was: an acknowledgment, maybe even thanks. But nothing more than that. Showing the truth of herself—this was not a woman who would ever seek sympathy, especially from a man who knew all about suffering firsthand.
Still, me and Tory-boy bowed our heads. A moment of silence for the departed.
She understood without a word being said.
After that, we went back to visiting. In the midst of all the polite talk, I saw the opening I’d been waiting for.
I almost never went to church when I was young. Even the most devoted of the congregation—the folks who’d come and carry you to church if you didn’t have your own way of getting there—they never came near our shack on a Sunday. In fact, Mrs. Slater was the only one who had ever dared.
But I’ve read my Bible and taught myself. I can talk Christian with the best of them. I knew I’d have to call on that skill if I was to succeed on that special Mother’s Day. In a way, I was just like the sniper who fired at Lansdale. My intent couldn’t have been more different from his, but, like him, I’d only get the one shot.
“Mrs. Slater, the reason I’m here today is because I’ve done wrong, and you’re the only one who can help me put things right.”
“What could you have done, Esau?” I didn’t get my feelings hurt. In fact, I felt some pride. I knew Mrs. Slater. I knew she wasn’t questioning what a crippled man like me could do, not after knowing how I’d raised Tory-boy all by myself. No, she was speaking of my character, of my reputation.
“I don’t want to come off as some kind of boaster, ma’am, but … well, I’m generally considered to be a pretty intelligent man.”
“Intelligent? Esau, you’re the smartest boy we ever had come from here. It was in the papers when you won first prize at that Science Fair, and everyone says you’re doing so well, earning such good money with your business and all. I’m not sure exactly what it is you do—”
“I’m a consultant, ma’am. It’s work I can do from home, and, what with the Internet, I can deal with problems all over the country. All over the world, in fact.”
“I am not one bit surprised.”
“And I thank you for that, ma’am. But let me explain what I meant about doing wrong. Now, you know what is written: if a man is blessed with powers, he is obliged to use them only for good.”
I waited for her nod of agreement—and the confused look on her face that came with it—before I went on.
“Well, the good Lord has blessed me with a fine mind. And I’ve used that mind to make a good living, for myself and my brother.
