Good kids, Harold Stumbo thought.
He nodded goodbye to the
female FBI agent in the Jeep Cherokee as it swung around in his white gravel
driveway, and he caught a glint from his neighbor’s house across the pasture.
Probably the rascal was watching through binoculars, hoping his new friends
would be escorting Harold away in handcuffs.
The agents were
investigating violent mob activity and found him inadvertently. Even though he
had retired, they asked to see tax returns for the past five years. Well, he
didn’t have any of those, did he? Check account statements? Well, he didn’t
have a checking account, either. Never did. He wasn’t lying because you never
lie to the FBI—that’s a crime they’ll nail you with in a heartbeat. So that he
could recall what he had said to them, he had recorded the entire interview.
Harold waved toward the Jeep
now passed from sight, flipped a bird in the direction of the neighbor, stepped
inside the front door, and lifted a daypack stuffed with envelopes.
The agents would return
later with a search warrant and probably an indictment for tax evasion. It’d be
a quick search because he kept no written records whatsoever, and anyhow, he
wouldn’t be here. They couldn’t give a damn about his career illegal bookmaking
on horse racing and other sports. The government only wanted their tax money,
plus interest and penalties, and they’d imprison him for longer than he’d live.
The boy, leading his own
horse, Jasper, approached from Harold’s barn. “Okay, Mr. Stumbo, I’m ready for
the envelopes.”
“You’re not riding your
bicycle?”
“Pony express.”
Harold laughed too loud. He’d
desperately miss the boy who had been helping him and his wife around their
gentleman’s farm for the past two years, ever since the hurricane devastated
the island. “I posted a letter to your dad yesterday, certified mail. It’s your
gift from Norma Jean and me.”
“Thank you.”
“It entails responsibility.”
The boy wouldn’t find out
until Harold and his wife were well on the way to a cabin in eastern Kentucky Roanoke Island farm, including the house, barns, and
twenty-one acres. Norma Jean had reminded Harold over breakfast this morning
that, because they were childless, a year ago they deeded the property to the
boy in a trust, anticipating when the government someday might attempt to seize
their assets.
“You’re taking the
thoroughbreds?” the boy asked, following with a quick grin, not able to conceal
his excitement that the stallion, mare, and their colt might be his.
“You’ll have to wait.”
Harold evaded because he didn’t want a scene. No happy dances, cheers, or
blubbering. No awkward words, please. “Start with my neighbor. His letter says
I’m giving him the power tools and lumber for his silly woodworking projects.
It doesn’t say I hope they’ll make him feel guilty.”
“You’re giving away
everything?”
“Almost.”
“You won’t ever be back,”
the boy said, his voice quivering. He dropped Jasper’s reins and marched up the
steps toward Harold like he might hug him. Norma Jean pushed open the screen
door, rescuing Harold by taking the hug herself and sniffing like she expected
to sneeze. The boy lurched to try again to hug Harold, who thrust out the
daypack for a barrier.
Harold cleared his throat,
but couldn’t say anything.
The boy slipped on the pack,
pounded down the steps, and leaped up into the saddle. Jasper fidgeted and they
trotted off toward Neighbor Guy, who crept outside to meet them. Yep, the
neighbor—what’s his face—had been watching.
“Is the Land Cruiser loaded?”
Harold asked Norma Jean.
“Last night. I told you,
already.”
“My Alzheimer’s?”
She bobbed her head.
“How many years have we
lived here?”
“Umm… Eighteen.”
“Well, say goodbye to the
place.”
He wrapped his arm around
hers and they strolled to the garage. He hit the remote key button and the door
rumbled open. As they drove out, his neighbor was looking down, distracted with
skimming his letter, and the boy had already ridden away. Harold turned left
from the driveway onto the highway access road. Norma Jean opened up her
romance paperback, and Harold put some Old Time music on the radio.
“How will we survive, Jimmy?”
Norma Jean asked after a few minutes. “You’ll have to work again. Can I call
you Jimmy now, Mr. Gant?”
“If I can call you Marilyn.”
Her face brightened with an
unexpected smile, reminding Harold of when she was young and pretty.
“It won’t be easy,” she
said. “We haven’t gone by our real names since we were married. Umm… It’s
simple not to lie when you don’t remember anything. If you’re working again, I
need to help. I’m good with faces and math.”
“You are good with them, and directions. Put the book down and look at
your map, so we don’t get lost.”
“I will. By the way, Jimmy,
my real name isn’t Marilyn, either.”
Harold drummed his fingers
on the steering wheel. “Please jog my memory, dear.”
END
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