Chapter 9 - The Anatomy of a Collapse
By Tuesday morning, the freeze had broken across Wake County.
The sleet that had glazed the pines turned to that soft, yellow Southern rain that smells of wet pine needles and red clay. Down on Martin Street, the heavy oak doors of the original Caldwell & Associates office were locked with three separate padlocks, each bearing the red wax seal of the Wake County Superior Court.
I didn't go down there to look. People who spend their time watching their neighbors' houses burn usually end up with soot on their own collars.
I spent Tuesday morning where I belonged: in the basement of Garner United Methodist Church, helping the ladies pack ninety-six plastic tubs of Brunswick stew for the shut-ins who couldn't get out after the ice storm.
My phone rang at eleven-fifteen. It was Julian Cross.
"Evelyn," his voice was crisp, backgrounded by the muffled click of keyboards and the low murmur of men with briefcases. "The preliminary audit on the Caldwell estate was filed ninety minutes ago. Richard’s personal assets have been frozen under a preliminary injunction. The Cary house will be on the foreclosure docket by the fifteenth of January."
I wiped a splash of tomato broth off the sleeve of my cardigan. "How is Brooke?"
Julian paused. For three seconds, there was nothing on the line except the hiss of long-distance static.
"She’s at her mother’s townhouse in North Hills," he said, his tone neutral as a ledger entry. "She tried to file an emergency petition for separate maintenance in the family court this morning, claiming Ethan had abandoned the marital home. Ethan’s lawyer—I retained Thomas Vance from the Durham branch for him—counter-filed with the certified copies of the bank withdrawals she authorized on the construction account."
"And?"
"The judge threw her petition out in eight minutes, Evelyn. Thomas told her in the hallway that if she tries to touch the trust assets, we’ll depose her father on the stand regarding the nineteen-eighty-two tax filings. Her uncle—the one on the district court bench—called Richard at nine o'clock and told him that if he didn't sign the voluntary dissolution agreement by noon, the family would not be providing bail when the Department of Revenue concludes its review."
I leaned against the stainless-steel prep table in the church kitchen. Around me, four women in hairnets were humming *What a Friend We Have in Jesus* while they ladled lima beans and shredded chicken into three-quart plastic containers.
"Did Ethan sign?" I asked.
"Ethan signed his part at nine-thirty," Julian said. "He’s currently at the Durham office with Thomas, signing the documents that reconstitute the Oak & Iron trademark under the Ross Family Trust. The initial payment of four point eight million will be wired to the State Employees’ Credit Union in Raleigh this afternoon. It will sit in an escrow account under your name until the trust administration board is established."
"Julian," I said, "I have forty-two dollars in my checking account at the Credit Union right now. If four million dollars shows up there, poor old Miss Hattie behind the counter is going to have a stroke right onto her deposit slips."
Julian’s laugh was low and dry over the receiver. "Miss Hattie has already been notified, Evelyn. I called the branch manager myself. Your account has been flagged for private wealth services. You can draw on it whenever you need to buy lard."
"Lard’s four dollars a tub, Julian," I said. "I don't need four million dollars for that. What does Ethan need?"
"Ethan needs to work," Julian said. His voice lost its legal precision, softening into that old, gravelly timber of a man who had known my family since the days when Raleigh was just a railroad crossing with four hardware stores. "He’s his father’s son, Evelyn. He doesn't know how to sit in a room and look at numbers. I offered him a position as the supervising construction liaison for our twenty-two regional sites. He’ll be on the road four days a week, checking framing, pouring concrete, and making sure the kitchen layouts match Walter’s original designs."
A knot in my lower back—one I hadn't even realized was tight—suddenly let go.
"Did he take it?"
"He took it on one condition," Julian said.
"What’s that?"
"He told me he wouldn't drive a company car. He said he’s buying Walter’s old seventy-two Ford F-100 out of your barn, having the transmission rebuilt, and driving that."
I looked down at my hands. The skin across the knuckles was red from the steam, but they didn't shake.
"The transmission in that truck is fine," I said. "Walt had the second gear replaced right before he died. It just needs a new battery and two gallons of fresh gas. Tell Ethan to come by the house before five o'clock if he wants the keys. I’m not leaving them under the mat."
"I’ll tell him," Julian said. "And Evelyn?"
"Yes, Julian?"
"The first Oak & Iron location under the new trust will break ground in Smithfield in March. Exactly four miles from where Minnie Ross used to run her smokehouse."
"Good," I said, looking out through the church basement window at the rain falling on the red clay bank. "That’s where the elderberries grow best anyway. The Cary dirt never had the right acid for them."
I hung the receiver back on the wall mount, tied my yellow apron tighter around my middle, and picked up my ladle.
"Clara," Mrs. Abernathy called out from the stove, her voice cracking over the sound of eighty gallons of bubbling corn and meat. "Is that boy of yours coming to the Wednesday night supper?"
May you like
"He’ll be there, Martha," I said, dipping the big steel spoon into the pot until the handle burned through my oven mitt. "And set out an extra plate. He’s been eating out of boxes for three years, and he’s got thirty pounds of catching up to do."
***
