83

Corn, beef cattle, corn, dairy cows, corn, and then more cornfields was the view that greeted Gina as she sped west along pancake-flat Interstate 80. Her flights had been on time and she had been able to doze a little on the way to O’Hare. There had been no wait at the car rental counter. Now she was enjoying the seventy-mile-per-hour speed limits, a rarity in the Northeast. She glanced every few minutes at her phone to assure herself the Waze app was working. It was. The silent message was, just keep going straight.

It was a mixed blessing that Paula Stephenson’s mother had not gone through the boxes sent from Durham. It would be more work for Gina to sift through them, but it reduced the chance that any key evidence had been thrown away. What exactly was she hoping to find? She didn’t really know. If Paula was communicating with somebody about increasing her REL News settlement, Gina was crossing her fingers that at least some trail still remained.

She exited off the highway and came to a sign welcoming her to Xavier, population 1,499. A mile later she came to a downtown area comprised of a diner, several granaries, two gas stations, and a small grocery store. While stopped at what appeared to be the lone traffic light, she looked at a two-story office building to her left. Two doctors, two lawyers, one dentist, one accountant, and one insurance office peacefully coexisted under one roof.

Gina glanced at her phone. It was a few minutes before five o’clock. She decided she would drive the remaining three-quarters of a mile to locate the house before doubling back to the diner for a cup of coffee. She wanted to be alert when she spoke to Paula’s mother.

The downtown area ended almost as quickly as it began. Small houses, most in need of paint jobs, were spaced widely apart on each side of the road. Pickup trucks of varying sizes rested on the unpaved driveways.

The voice from the navigation system announced, “You have reached your destination.” Gina slowed to a halt and glanced to her right. A small home that looked like an oversized packing box was set back about seventy-five feet from the road. Three uneven steps led up to a covered porch that spanned the front width of the house. The front lawn, if the term applied, looked as if it had not seen a mower in months. To the right of the front door the number “8” was hanging straight while the number “2” dangled at an odd angle. An ancient pickup truck, rust protruding from its crooked back fender, was hibernating at the top of the gravel driveway.

The door opened and a stocky woman with straight gray hair stepped out onto the porch.

“Are you Gina?” she yelled as Gina lowered the passenger’s-side window.

“Yes,” Gina answered as she shut off the engine.

“You’re early,” the woman shouted back. Before Gina could apologize, the woman continued. “Give me about ten minutes,” she said as she disappeared back into the house.

There goes my cup of coffee, Gina thought to herself, as she pressed the button to put the window back up.

Fifteen minutes later Lucinda Stephenson walked down the driveway, pulled open the passenger’s front door, and slung herself into the seat. She pulled the door shut and with effort scrambled to extend the seatbelt over her substantial frame. Her straight graying hair hung loosely to her shoulders. Despite the chilly weather, she had no topcoat. She wore a faded Cornhuskers sweatshirt adorned with the University of Nebraska logo. Soiled blue jeans and worn black sneakers completed the ensemble. Whatever tasks had taken fifteen minutes inside her home, applying makeup was not one of them.

Her first words were “I hope you don’t mind driving.”

“No, not at all,” Gina said as she tried to ignore the smell of alcohol that seemed to grow stronger each time her passenger exhaled.

“Do you know Barney’s Steakhouse?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. This is my first time in this area.”

“That’s all right. It’s about ten minutes from here. I’ll direct you. Start by turning around.”

Barney’s was in a converted barn. About ten tables were spaced around the almost windowless structure. A bar with seating for six was on the left. A Hank Williams tune played softly from an ancient jukebox.

After they seated themselves, a waitress came over, greeted Lucinda by name, and handed them menus. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”

Lucinda looked at Gina. “You’re buyin’, right?”

“Yes, I am,” Gina responded, once again wishing the magazine was covering her expenses. Lucinda ordered a Scotch while Gina contented herself with a Pinot Grigio, the only white wine they carried.

“I know what I want,” Lucinda said. “Why don’t you take a look so we can order when she comes back.”

Gina glanced at the menu then put it down. “I want to thank you again, Mrs. Stephenson, for agreeing to meet me on such short notice—”

“Call me Lucinda. Everybody does. My daddy named me that because he loved to play ‘Lucinda Waltz’ on his accordion. It was about the only song he knew,” she said breaking into a loud laugh.

“Okay, Lucinda it is. We spoke briefly on the phone last night. Are you familiar with the MeToo movement?”

“They talk about that a lot on TV.”

“That’s right. They do. For a lot of years women who were taken advantage of, abused, in the workplace either suffered in silence or left the company and never shared their story with anyone. They thought correctly that the deck was stacked against them and no one would believe them.”

“Did this happen to my Paula?” Lucinda asked in a voice now filled with sadness.

The waitress placed their drinks in front of them. Gina ordered the eight-ounce filet; Lucinda the twenty-six-ounce prime. They continued after the waitress walked away.

“I’m almost certain it did. But thanks to MeToo, women who come forward with complaints are now being listened to. In most cases, their accusations are taken seriously. All companies hate bad publicity. Many choose to make confidential cash settlements with the victims to keep everything quiet and make it go away.”

“Are these big settlements, more than a hundred thousand dollars?”

“Yes, they are.”

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

Lucinda caught the eye of the waitress, jiggled her now empty glass, and turned back to Gina.

“My son Jordan, Paula’s baby brother, three years younger, he got caught up in the opioid mess.”

“I’m so sorry. Is he,” she paused, “all right?”

“He’s doing much better. The treatment, if you can find it, is so expensive, more than I could ever afford.”

“When did this happen?”

“Last year.”

“Did you reach out to Paula for help?”

“I did, but not right away. Paula and I loved each other in our own way, but we didn’t always get along. She was a neatnick. I was the opposite. She wasn’t but twelve or thirteen when she started getting on me about drinking too much. We fought about that a lot. Maybe I should have listened to her.”

“I haven’t heard any mention of Paula’s father. Is he in the picture?”

Lucinda took a long sip and slowly put the glass down on the table. “He’s gone, thank God. He drove his truck into a ravine two years ago. Of course, no seatbelt and drunk as usual. It’s because of him Paula and me stopped talking.”

“What happened?”

“Paula was always smart as a whip. She got herself a full scholarship to University of Nebraska in Lincoln. She was a beautiful girl and was working at the college TV station. Her senior year she came home for Christmas break. Her father and I had stopped,” she paused searching for the right words, “being husband and wife a while ago. Lloyd came home late, I’m sure really drunk, went into Paula’s room and tried to get in her bed. There was a lot of yellin’ and fightin’. Thank the Lord nothing really bad happened.”

“What did you do?”

“Lloyd said he just made a mistake about which room he was in.”

“And you believed him?”

“It’s not easy when two family members who hate each other are both asking you to take their side.”

“What did Paula do?”

“She took off the next morning, went back to Lincoln to finish her senior year. She left me a note saying she was never coming home again. Don’t bother to look for her.”

“Did you ever see her after that?”

“No, but when her brother was going through his troubles, I tried to find her, hoping maybe he’d listen to her. A friend who was visiting relatives in Dayton saw her on the TV. She wouldn’t take my calls or answer any messages so I wrote her a long letter about Jordan’s problems.”

“Did you finally connect with her?”

“Yes and no. Next thing I know a lawyer from town comes knocking on my door and met with me and Jordan. Paula had sent the lawyer a check for one hundred thousand dollars. The money could only be used for Jordan to go to a facility to get himself clean.”

“Did Jordan do that?”

She smiled. “He did. I told you Paula was smart. She set it up so that if after treatment Jordan made it to one year of sobriety, he could keep the rest of the money for himself. Jordy made it. Now he’s working and using it to finish college at night.”

The waitress arrived with their orders. Lucinda pointed at her empty glass. “I’m ready for another. How about you?”

Knowing that she had a lot of work ahead of her, Gina declined in favor of a club soda.

“In New York they’d charge forty to fifty dollars for a steak like this,” Gina announced while savoring her first bite.

“Get out of here!” Lucinda responded.

“I’m not kidding. Tell me, Lucinda. Did you grow up around here?”

For the next twenty minutes Lucinda shared details of her life growing up on a farm, getting married at eighteen, and having her first child a year later. Motherhood in the early years was a happy experience; 4H clubs, school plays, and barn dances were pleasant memories. The whole town would show up for high school football games. Jordy was the quarterback and star player.

There was no conversation during the first half of the drive back to the house. Lucinda broke the silence by asking, “I know I asked you last night, but what are you hoping to find in those boxes?”

“If I can, I want to find out who Paula dealt with when she agreed to her settlement. Even more important, I want to confirm my belief that she was in the process of renegotiating, and if she was, who she was talking to.”

“My Paula was a good girl,” Lucinda said, as much to herself as to Gina. “She saved her brother’s life. After she died that same town lawyer came knocking on my door. After her condominium was sold, almost two hundred thousand dollars was left. In her will she left half of what she had to the trust the lawyer made up for Jordan. The other half she left in a trust for me. Same deal. If I get treatment and get sober for a year, I get to keep the rest of the money.”

“What are you going to do?”

“You may not believe me after tonight; I owe it to my little girl to give it a try,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye.

As they approached the driveway, Lucinda said, “When those boxes arrived, I just shoved them in Paula’s bedroom. After you called last night, I slit them open. Most of them have clothes, books, dishes, and the like. I separated the ones with papers and put them by the door. I’d invite you in, but I’m a little embarrassed. I’m not much of a housekeeper.”

“It’s okay. I’d rather take them to a hotel room where I can spread them out and sort through them. I’ll drop them back off in the morning.”

“If I’m not here, just leave ’em on the porch.”

Five minutes later four boxes were in the trunk or backseat of the rental car. After saying goodbye to Lucinda, Gina tapped on her phone and made a reservation for a hotel thirteen miles west on Interstate 80.