Out the Summerhill Road: A Novel

The Funeral

184 Out the Summerhill Road The Funeral Victor tosses the newspapers onto Jackson’s step and, whistling , strolls toward the construction site. There’s not a cloud in the sky. Today will be a scorcher. But the framing is finished , and he’s hoping the weather will hold so they can finish the roofing by Friday. The shingles are on site, and they’re running a little ahead of their target dates. Despite the heavier than usual rainfall they have had in May, the work is progressing satisfactorily. Victor enjoys the onsite inspections of Jackson’s house because Jackson is that rare client who understands that the purity of house design comes about when design springs organically from the site. While Victor’s business relationship with Jackson is pleasant, he recognizes that this client’s personal life will remain private . However, he often wonders what enticed Jackson back to a small East Texas town after having lived in some of the great cities of the world. On Monday, the cypress is to be delivered. Last week he had gone to Jefferson to check on it and had stayed an hour or more admiring the wood—its wonderful variations of color, its scarred imperfections. The wood they’ve chosen has integrity . Dredged up from the swamps of Cypress Lake, it has a strength and beauty no other Texas wood has. It will endure. It will serve Jackson well. Standing inside the framing, he looks up at the twenty-fourfoot joists in the great room, admiring the two huge roof support beams and the angled windows around the top. When he finishes the inside inspection, he walks around the outside of the house, studying it from every angle. He feels an enormous satisfaction about this project. He believes it will be his finest design, as understated and as interesting as Jackson. After making some notes for the meeting he and the contractor will have this afternoon, he jogs to the riverbank to Part 4: 1980 • The Murder 185 watch the sun’s changing reflections on the river. The reflections he sees, their ever-changing earth tones, might well be used in the interior of the house. He will mention this idea to Jackson. When he returns to the trailer, Jackson is sitting on the steps reading the paper, a cup of coffee by his side. Wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, Jackson looks rugged. The Marlboro Man. Turning a page of the newspaper, “Good morning, Victor,” Jackson says. Then, folding the paper for more comfortable reading, he glances at it. “Oh, no. Oh, my God! No!” he whispers . Taking off his reading glasses, he stares blankly at Victor , then holds the paper close to his eyes, frowns, shakes his head, trying to comprehend the import of what he has read. The color drains from his face. His shoulders sag. He drops the paper, cradles his head in his hands and furiously begins to rub it. “What is it? Jackson, what’s the matter?” “A woman’s been murdered. God. I can’t believe this. Nine or ten days ago.” He looks at the paper again. “Ten days ago. Her body was found in the woods close to her house.” Beseechingly , he looks up at Victor. “I knew her in high school. I called her after I went to Shreveport. Oh, my God! What day was it? It must have been on the 18th. Or maybe the 17th. She sounded formal, as if she didn’t remember me. I told her I remembered her fondly from high school and said I’d like to drop by for a visit.” He picks up the paper and turns more pages. In his trembling hands the paper takes on a trembling life of its own. “See! Here’s her obituary,” he says, jabbing at the paper with his forefinger. “It’s short.” He begins to read: “Mercer, Mary Martha. Born July 14, 1929 and died May 18, 1980. ” He swallows, moistens his lips and begins again. “She is preceded in death by her parents: William Floyd and Maud Evelyn Mercer. A memorial service 186 Out the Summerhill Road will be held for Ms. Mercer today at 2:00 o’clock at St. Alban’s Episcopal Church on Pine Street. ” As he finishes reading, his voice is almost soundless. Then, “Lord God Almighty, have mercy. Have mercy on us all,” he whispers. Rubbing his neck...