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Stacks of documents surrounded Willard Blanchard when Frank walked into his office. “Have a seat,” the attorney said as he nodded toward the one chair that was free of paper.
“Looks like you’re involved in a big case,” Frank said.
“Divorces of the rich and famous—they get complicated.”
The mention of divorce still brought a sinking feeling to the pit of Frank’s stomach. He kept trying to analyze the depressing effect. It wasn’t that Darlene was the love of his life. They had settled into a non-confrontational remoteness years ago, and he hadn’t felt anything for her in years like the thrill at the sound of Monica’s voice. Maybe the end of any relationship was a downer, even when it wasn’t a happy one.
Blanchard must be finding time to work on his case; he had been called in for some reason. “You asked me to come in. Have you heard something from Darlene’s lawyer?”
“I think we have a settlement pretty well worked out. I wanted to discuss a few of the major points with you, and then you can take the papers home and go over them carefully. We’re not settling anything unless you agree, you understand?”
Frank nodded. “I understand.”
“The house is yours, of course, since it’s your inherited property. Also the acreage with the little house in Medina County. The furniture and household goods from your parents are part of your inherited property and not part of community property. She did return those things, didn’t she?”
“Yes, there were all returned.” Frank felt again the rush of relief at getting his possessions back. “I’m putting my house in order and gradually buying the linens and kitchen supplies I need.”
“Good. As far as future income goes—how old are you?”
“Fifty-nine.”
“You’ll draw Social Security eventually. She’ll draw some on your record. It won’t affect the amount you draw. The only drawback to the agreement is that she’s asking for half of your union pension. Were you married when you started working through the union?”
“Yes, we were married for a couple of years before I got my electrician’s license.”
“She’s going to have a legal right to half of that pension, since this is a community property state.”
“I expected it. And I feel she is due that much. She stayed home, kept the house, and raised the children while I worked. I wouldn’t want her to be without funds in case things don’t work out with the reverend.”
Blanchard looked up from his papers. “You’re amazingly agreeable about all this. Especially since she’s involved with another man.”
“Passion, or rather my lack of it, is the key. I think you have to be passionate about someone in order to have those angry feelings. Part of me is very glad she’s gone.”
“And the other part?”
“I find myself feeling down when I confront the reality of it.”
The attorney nodded. “When a relationship dies, no matter how superficial, there’s a feeling of loss.”
Superficial. That was a good word for it. No matter what his affair with Monica was, it would never be superficial. “Is there anything else?”
“Your bank accounts, and the debts. They’re proposing that you keep the bank accounts and pay the debts, which isn’t altogether fair, since . . .”
“That’s fine. That’s the way I want it. Anything to get it over and done with.”
“Your total assets, excluding your real property and the money in your union pension fund, added up to seven hundred fifty-nine dollars when you first came to see me. This was your checking and savings combined. Your debts exceed ten thousand dollars.”
“I’ve made some progress paying those off since Darlene’s gone. I’ve reduced them to below eight thousand.”
“You want coffee?” Without waiting for an answer, Blanchard pushed a button on the intercom and asked the receptionist to bring some. “You have made progress, then. I’m guessing the big financial problem in your household was Darlene.”
“You’re right. I’ll have them paid off next year, and your bill, too, if nothing unforeseen happens.”
The receptionist came in with coffee. Blanchard helped himself and passed a cup to Frank. “I hope the reverend can afford to keep her. I’ve made some inquiries, and he has the money rolling in right now, with his TV evangelism. These things can be pretty precarious, however.”
“That’s why I want her to have part of the pension and Social Security. She can’t get either till I retire, though, and that may be a while. I’d like to get a nest egg saved up. Darlene may have to work for a while if things don’t work out with Abingdon. He still comes to San Gabriel every week to preach at the Temple of the Holy Redeemer. He’s raking in every penny he can.”
“Take these papers with you and read them over at home. See that everything is okay, and then we can move on this.”
“How soon will it be final?”
“Early next year. The courts slow down to a crawl during the holidays. They’ll get cranked up again in January. You don’t have any immediate plans for remarrying, do you?”
Frank sipped the last of his coffee and thought about it. “No, but there is a woman . . . did I tell you about Monica?” Blanchard shook his head and Frank continued. “We’ve gotten pretty close. I’m not sure what will come of it, but we’re close. I may ask her to move in with me eventually. We’ll get to know each other for a year or so, and then we’ll see about marriage.”
“You asked me about your easement problem, too. I’m not an expert in that area, but I don’t think you have a chance of fighting it. City Hall, you know . . .”
“How can that be? Mrs. LaTour couldn’t sell her house because no one seems to be able to get a loan. The problem is such that no mortgage company wants to take a chance on it. Surely there’s something that can be done.”
Blanchard shrugged. “I can recommend a lawyer that deals in easement and land problems. Charles Whitley, at the Texas Bank Building. Tell him I sent you. Maybe he’ll be able to help.”
Frank set down his empty cup. Fighting City Hall seemed to be a way of life these days. And fighting the crime and drugs and corruption that kept creeping into his neighborhood like some nasty fungus was even more of a battle. He sighed. The Medina property seemed like a possible refuge at times, but would he ever be able to sell his home in San Gabriel?
#
Monica had been right. Give city officials enough lead time combined with the threat of exposure, and you can get some action out of them. She had set the date weeks ago for the meeting between the Citizens’ Advisory Committee and the mayor and council members. The plan was to discuss the committee’s recommendations, one by one, to see whether progress had been made. The news media were there, too.
Now Luz Alarcon, a fellow committee member, questioned the panel of officials about drainage on Smithson Road while Frank tried to keep his attention focused on the matter at hand. Monica hadn’t come yet, and she was always early for any appointment or meeting. He ignored a whisper of uneasiness and concentrated on drainage.
Frank Morales, council member from the district which included Smithson Road, was smiling as he followed Luz at the microphone. He was more than happy to report the committee’s recommendations had been followed and work had started on the project, which would assure the road would be passable after heavy rains.
Frank wondered when the work had started. No doubt it began after Monica called the meeting. At least it was underway. His turn came and he quizzed Pauline Washington about drainage improvements in the San Carlos subdivision and an illegal tire dump on Hempsted Road. He had been watching progress on these projects and knew they were almost finished. The councilwoman’s report confirmed this information. Lupe Villarreal, her secretary, took notes. Still no Monica.
The next committee member asked about street lights for a dark, unpaved street, and a council member stood up to answer. Frank heard the door of the meeting room open behind him, and he turned to see Monica come in. She sat down quietly at the back of the room and smiled at him, letting him know she was okay.
When the meeting ended, Lupe Villarreal came up to him before he had a chance to reach Monica. “I hear the crack house burned,” she said. She was smiling.
He nodded. “We’re rid of that problem, at least for now. We’re trying to get the vacant shack next to it torn down also. It was damaged in the fire.”
Lupe leaned close and murmured, “The Councilwoman’s working on that. She’s going to get it taken care of.”
“Anything I can do to help . . .”
“We’ll let you know. You’re in a good neighborhood for taking action on things. Your demonstrations were drawing a lot of interest. I had a lot of calls on them.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I keep a list of all the calls that come in. Mrs. Washington needs it. We have Caller ID, of course, so it’s easy to keep a complete list of names and phone numbers.”
Monica greeted a few people in the room and then came and stood by Frank’s side. “You know each other?” he asked, and they did.
“Would you have that list with you,” he asked Lupe. Then, turning to Monica, “She has a list of people who’ve called about the demonstrations.”
“I brought it, in case anything about the crack house came up tonight.” She pulled a legal pad from her briefcase.
Frank and Monica looked at the sheet. “Thornberry. Noel Thornberry. The third name.” Where had he heard that name? Of course, the old man. His mentally incompetent old buddy who liked Church’s Fried Chicken. Could there be some connection?
Monica was pointing at the name. “I need to write this one down.” She jotted the name and phone number on a pad. “Thanks, Lupe.”
“Where were you earlier?” Frank asked after Lupe joined Pauline Washington on the other side of the room.
“We need to talk. Can we get something to eat? I’m starving. I didn’t have lunch. Was the meeting okay?
“Life’s problems do get settled at times. The meeting went well. They’ve actually started every project we recommended. You do know how to get action.” He squeezed her arm.
“Let’s go down the street to Tres Amigos. Have you eaten?”
“No, I’m hungry, too.”
It took only minutes to reach the restaurant. They decided what they wanted and waited for the waitress to come back. “I had a long talk with a woman from the Adult Protective Service after work,” Monica said. “I thought I’d never get her off the line, but she wanted to tell me all about James Thornberry and his family. Of course, I wanted to hear about them, since it was his car that ran me off the road.
“Did she look into his situation?”
“Actually, a neighbor called about him two years ago. This neighbor was worried he wasn’t getting enough to eat. She kept taking him food, but her roof had started leaking, and her son was taking her away to live somewhere else, so she was worried.”
“So the APS investigated?”
“Yes. The old boy has several children. They think six, although that’s not certain. They’re all questionable characters. Anyway, Noel Thornberry is one of them. And you’d never guess . . .”
“Who?”
“Mary Williams, from the crack house. She was a Thornberry.”
“Jesus. I figured she was involved in running you off the road. I thought possibly it was Hugh Andrews who was responsible for my problems, but he doesn’t even know you.”
“We don’t have any real proof, since Thornberry claims the car was stolen. But Noel did time for a drug-related shooting, along with Warren Williams.”
“Mary’s husband?”
“Yes. He’s still in prison. Noel was released a few months ago.”
The waitress interrupted with their enchilada plates. Frank took a long drink of iced tea. “It might have been Noel who let Mary Williams know when demonstrations were planned, since I kept Lupe up-to-date on that.”
Monica shrugged. “Possibly. Or maybe he was just a backup for Bobby Ledbetter.”
Frank put down his fork. “Is the APS going to do anything now about helping Thornberry?
“They’re signing him up for Meals on Wheels. And since he’s on Medicaid, they’ll be able to arrange for someone to come in every day and clean up, check on him, so forth.”
“They weren’t able to help him two years ago when his neighbor called?”
“He refused to let them in the house then and said he didn’t need any help. He was agreeable to their overtures this time.”
Frank reached across the table and took her hand. “Maybe now that the crack house burned down, Mary Williams will leave us alone. I was worried about you this evening.”
“I hope she’ll leave us alone. We’ll still have to be cautious, but then we always do, here in the city”
As they finished their food, Frank fantasized about moving away with Monica to Medina County. It would be a peaceful life in the country. They would drive into town to work, the two of them together, and then back to the quiet life each evening. He’d bring it up with her eventually.
They headed back to the Carver Community Center to get Monica’s VW bug. As soon as they pulled into the street from the restaurant parking lot, they could see fire trucks pulling away from the community center. “Now what the hell?” Frank said.
Monica began to cry. “My car,” she sobbed. Where the VW had been sitting, all that remained were sodden ashes and a burned-out metal shell.
