The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(17)



“My grandmother, Margaret Louise, married Fred Potter,” Elliott said. “He was the youngest son of the Piney Creek Potters. My mother, Madeline, she was their only daughter, married Walter Emerson. Madeline and Walter Emerson were my parents.”

“Well you certainly have a sizeable amount of history,” I said. “It must be hard to keep track of all those Lannigans, Potters and Emersons.”

“Not at all,” he answered. “We Lannigan men take considerable pride in our heritage, don’t we, Will?” He looked over at my brother and winked like there was some secret to which only they were privy.

At that point I’d had about enough of the pompous Elliott Emerson, so I excused myself and trotted off on the pretext of lending a hand with dinner. Becky was hiding out in the kitchen and from the look on her face I knew she’d already had quite a few tipples of sherry. “Isn’t that man awful?” she said, then poured herself another sherry and set out a glass for me.

“Arrogant, for certain,” I answered.

“A month now, he’s been hanging around here; keeps following Will room to room, talking about how he’s always loved farming—claims it broke his heart when we sold the farm.” Becky took another gulp of sherry which, no doubt, was how she’d found courage to speak up as she was. “Just look at that man’s hands, why he’s never done a lick of work in his life. Certainly not farm work.”

“Could be he’s lonely for some kinfolk,” I said. True, I’d already developed a dislike for Elliott Emerson, but I felt I ought to make an effort for Will’s sake.

“Lonely?” Becky sneered, “Hah! More likely he’s looking to get something out of that farm. Mark my words, he’s a man who’d chew a person’s skin off then start on the bones—a scavenger, worse than a river rat!” She took a real big swig of the sherry then said, “I worry about your brother, Abigail. He’s too trusting.” She heaved a deep down sigh, like the weight of the world was square on her shoulders, then she switched over to her secret-telling voice. “If something happens to me,” she whispered, “you keep an eye out for him.” Becky wasn’t one for crepe-hanging conversation, so I probably should have realized something was wrong, but I didn’t. Many a time I’ve thought back to that day and wished I’d asked what she meant by such a thing.

All through dinner Elliott went on about how he was so successful and had all these bigwig contacts. When I’d had my fill of it, I asked, “And, just exactly who do you work for?” You’d guess a chicken bone was stuck in his throat the way his face turned bright red, but I knew the question had flustered him. Maybe I should have left it at that, but I didn’t—I stared him right in the eye, and waited for an answer.

“Well actually, I’m self-employed. I do consulting,” Elliott finally said.

That answer didn’t surprise me one bit. Consulting is what most people claim to do when they don’t really have a job. Elliott struck me as the type of person who was looking to avoid work rather than find it. He was a sly one all right. Thing is, you don’t get to be my age without having a few tricks up your own sleeve. While we were having the butterscotch pudding I brought up the subject of Margaret Louise. “I trust your grandma taught you to be a good and faithful Baptist, like Papa taught us.”

“Yes, indeed.” Elliott answered. “And I am a devout Baptist to this day.”

Will’s eyes opened real wide and Becky sniggered quietly.

“That’s nice to know,” I said and took another spoonful of pudding. The rat was in the trap as far as I was concerned. Everybody knew Papa was a staunch Methodist and the only thing he hated more than vagrant Negroes was Baptists. Papa always claimed that the Baptists were a bunch of rabble-rousing hillbillies using the house of God to cover up their sins. Papa had more than a few sins of his own, but in his mind being a God-fearing Methodist equalized any transgressions.

After dinner, I helped Becky do the dishes then took my leave. On the drive home I turned the car radio to the Revival station and added my voice to those of the Gospel Singers. Each time they’d bellow about the Lord God lifting them across the river of sin, I jumped in with a chorus of Amens. I felt right good about what I’d done.



Dear sweet Becky died three months later. Looking back, I’m certain she knew about the cancer that day in her kitchen. I suppose it was pretty far gone by then and she probably thought telling me wouldn’t have made any difference. If I’d known, I’m sure I could have done something—but, maybe not.

Will fell apart after that. He’d sit in the chair and stare at the television, not even taking notice of whether it was turned on or not. When I came over that Saturday, two weeks after the funeral, he was sitting there watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I snapped the TV off and said, “When’s the last time you took a bath?” You could actually smell him as soon as you came through the front door.

“I forget,” Will answered.

“Did you also forget to change your underwear? Eat dinner?” I knew I was being a bit harsh, but when someone’s grieving the way he was, you have to do something to help them snap out of it. When nothing seemed to work, I told him; “Will, you’re gonna have to come to Middleboro and stay with me.”

He looked up and his eyes were so sad they about broke my heart. “Okay,” he said. And that was how it happened. We loaded his clothes into my car and drove back to Middleboro. He followed me out the door of that house and never looked back again.

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