As Jackson left, kissing his mom on the top of her head but ignoring her insistence that he should eat something real, he trailed a faint stink of cigarettes.
The door slammed. Mazie looked a little ashamed. I got the feeling something was up. She tossed the last of her coffee down and got up without meeting my eye.
We went out. As she locked the front door behind us, I said, “You know, if Jackson’s ever in trouble, I’d gladly talk to him. I know sometimes kids his age talk easier with folks who aren’t their parents.”
“We’re fine,” she said. “Or, I mean, as good as we can be.” She headed down the steps, still talking as I walked with her to her rusted-out car. “When Karl came by last week, things got a little rough. He’d been drinking.” She rammed her car keys into the lock and pulled the door open. “Jackson had to defend himself. And me, a little bit.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “No boy should be getting a black eye from his own father.”
She turned and looked up at me. “I know you’re sorry,” she said softly. The sunlight caught her eyes, which in high school had been a brighter shade of blue. Life had worn every part of her down. She looked away. “I gotta go. Another day, another parking ticket paid off.”
She got in and slammed the door. I waited until the engine turned over—it sounded like I wasn’t the only one with car trouble—and then walked back to my Chevy.
As I put my seat belt on, I realized she hadn’t used hers. Maybe she was past caring, or maybe it was just broken. I wished I could toss some money her way to help out. But it’s true what they say about putting on your own oxygen mask first.
Before I shifted into drive, my phone rang. It was Roy.
“Hey there,” I said. “I’m on my way. I read those depositions last night, and I think we got what we need to bring the insurer to the table. Have you and the client talked settlement numbers yet?”
“Oh,” he said, like he had completely forgotten about the insurance case. “Yeah, thanks. Sounds good. Hey, you won’t believe what I heard this a.m.”
“What’s that?”
“I stopped by the sheriff’s,” he said. “To see about that fundraiser for his reelection campaign. He told me Karl Warton’s boat was found on St. Helena Island, run aground. No sign of Karl.”
“Huh,” I said. I was glad Mazie was already gone.
“You a gambling man? I got fifty bucks says Karl’s the floater that washed up yesterday.”
I said, “Wouldn’t that be something.” Some people have a poker face; I have a poker voice. I didn’t want him to hear anything from me but semi-interested politeness. “Well, anyway, I’ll be in shortly.”
I hung up, wondering about Jackson’s injuries and the anger in Mazie’s voice.
3
Tuesday, June 11, Later That Morning
I passed through our tiny historic downtown, which had more charm than I could afford, and headed out Sea Island Causeway with my windows down. The smell of the tidal marsh was a constant, so strong with salt and muck and life that you’d catch a whiff as soon as you exited the airport in Charleston. Back when we could afford to travel sometimes, that smell was how I knew I was home.
I tried not to think about Karl. With his motorboat being found on the island, the way the currents ran made it more than reasonable to think the washed-up body was his. I figured he must’ve gone out boating and fallen. Liquor and boats weren’t a good combination.
I knew what it was like to lose people. If the father of her child was dead, I didn’t want Mazie to get the news from anyone but a friend. That pretty much left me. I reached for my phone. As hers rang, though, I reminded myself there wasn’t any actual news yet. Her phone went to voicemail, and I hung up.
Seagulls squawked as I turned into the little six-car lot that showed, along with a sign, that the gray bungalow beyond it was a lawyer’s office and not some old-timer’s home. The sign didn’t have my name on it and never would. This was Roy’s territory. If the sign didn’t make that clear enough, the point was repeated by the “ROY 1” vanity plates on the steel-blue BMW 760 parked out front.
This morning a silver Mercedes was parked beside it. A client, I supposed. I hoped the day would come soon when I’d have clients who drove cars like that.
Roy had mentored me when I was in law school, back when older partners like him wrote briefs longhand on yellow legal pads or dictated them to their secretaries. He’d just made name partner at that point, making the firm’s name Benton & Hearst. Now old Mr. Benton had died, and Roy reigned supreme. Our long-ago connection was the official reason he’d taken me on: a desire to help someone he still saw as a kid, despite my thinning hair flecked with gray.
The unofficial reason, which was as tangible as the humidity but not something he’d ever admit, was that witnessing my daily humiliation—my ancient Chevy, my phone that never rang—made him feel all the more successful himself. Sixteen years in Charleston, appearing on the news to announce wins against major criminals, and I was still his underling.
As I walked in, I smelled coffee. Roy’s secretary, Laura, always made a fresh pot when clients were expected. From his office I heard laughter
