Sycamore Row by John Grisham Read Free Book Online

those male friends had kind things to say about their fathers. They had watched the old guys age and face death with little concern for the aftermath, and every one of them had been blindsided by grief.
    Herschel felt nothing; no sense of loss, no sadness at the closing of a chapter; no pity for a man so troubled he took his own life. He sat in his car and looked at the house and admitted to himself that he felt nothingfor his father. Perhaps there was a trace of relief in that he was gone and his death meant one less complicating factor in Herschel’s life. Perhaps.
    He walked to the front door, which was opening as he approached. Lettie Lang was standing in the doorway, touching her eyes with a tissue. “Hello, Mr. Hubbard,” she said in a voice straining with emotion.
    “Hello Lettie,” he said, stopping on the rubber doormat lying on the concrete porch. Had he known her better he might have stepped forward for a quick hug or some gesture of shared sympathy, but he couldn’t force himself to do it. He had met her only three or four times, and never properly. She was a housekeeper, and a black one, and as such was expected to stay in the shadows when the family was around.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said, backing away.
    “So am I,” Herschel said. He followed her inside, through the den, to the kitchen where she pointed to a coffeepot and said, “I just made this.”
    “Is that your car out there?” he asked.
    “Yes sir.”
    “Why did you park in the driveway? I thought you were supposed to park to the side over there, next to Dad’s pickup.”
    “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinkin’. I’ll go move it.”
    “No, forget it. Pour me some coffee, two sugars.”
    “Yes sir.”
    “Where is Dad’s car, the Cadillac?”
    Lettie carefully poured the coffee into a cup. “The sheriff took it in. Supposed to bring it back today.”
    “Why’d they take the car?”
    “You’ll have to ask them.”
    Herschel pulled a chair from under the table, sat down, and cradled his cup. He took a sip, frowned, said, “How’d you find out about Dad?”
    Lettie leaned against a counter and folded her arms across her chest. He quickly scanned her from head to toe. She was wearing the same white cotton dress she always wore, knee-length, a bit tight around the waist where she carried a few pounds, and very tight across her ample chest.
    She did not miss the look; she never missed them. At forty-seven years of age and after five childbirths, Lettie Lang still managed to get some looks, but never from white men. She said, “Calvin called me last night, told me what happened, asked me to open up the house this mornin’ and wait for you all.”
    “Do you have a key?”
    “No sir. Ain’t never had a key. The house was unlocked.”
    “Who’s Calvin?”
    “White man who works here on the property. Said Mr. Seth called him yesterday mornin’, told him to meet him down to the bridge at two o’clock. Sure enough, there he was.” She stopped her narrative long enough to dab her eyes with the tissue.
    Herschel took another sip. “The sheriff said Dad left a note and some instructions.”
    “I ain’t seen nothin’ like that, but Calvin saw it. Said Mr. Seth wrote he was takin’ his own life.” She began crying.
    Herschel listened for a while, and when she was quiet he asked, “How long have you worked here, Lettie?”
    She took a deep breath and wiped her cheeks. “I don’t know, ’bout three years. I started two days a week cleanin’, Monday and Wednesday, a few hours a day, didn’t take much because Mr. Seth lived alone, you know, and he was pretty neat, for a man. Then he asked me to cook for him, and I was happy to do it. More hours. I’d cook a buncha stuff and leave it on the stove or in the refrigerator. Then when he got sick he asked me to come in every mornin’ and take care of him. When the chemo was real bad, he’d stay in bed pretty much all day and night.”
    “I thought he was paying a