Chapter 8
Shelby
My mind isn’t where it should be - on Mrs. Haley’s will. Instead, I’m thinking about the man who left my office as she came in. Sullivan’s been occupying more of my attention than he should, but what a welcome distraction that man is.
As I look over the papers she’s brought, I softly sigh. This is the type of shit I hate doing, but it pays the bills. Thinking of a person no longer living has always been a trigger for me. I don’t like considering end-of-life measures or procedures, but it’s part of the job. A well-paying one, at that.
Especially when I don’t have people knocking down my door to be represented.
Don’t think about it, Shelby. You’ve never been in it for the money.
But, my mind argues, it’s something we need to have in order to live and eat.
“I don’t want my grandson to get anything, Shelby.” She slaps her frail hand down on my desk.
“I’ll make sure of it,” I assure her for the hundredth time.
Her hand; the sight of it causes my stomach to clench. What I know were once strong are now bony, with paper thin skin stretched over top. Little brown blemishes dot here and there. A wedding ring, looking as if it’s been molded to her, still sits on her left hand.
“Mrs. Haley. How long has your husband been deceased?”
I can’t stop myself from asking the question. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had anyone who wanted to marry me, but my brain won’t quit focusing on it.
“Goin’ on twenty years now.” She smiles sadly. “Didn’t think I’d make it this long without him, but I’ve surprised everyone, including myself.”
“Why are you here?” Another one that I can’t keep from asking. “He’s been gone so long, why are you rewriting the will?”
I’ve wondered this since the first time she came into my office. The original will she placed on my desk had been drafted almost forty years before. It was weathered; the pages were yellowed on the edges and smelled of cigarette smoke. She’s never been honest with me when I ask, but I continue to. Someday she’ll have to tell someone.
She shifts in the seat, crossing one thin leg over the other, leaning toward my desk. The way she slumps emphasizes the slight hunch in her back. “My grandson,” she starts.
It’s on the top of my tongue to ask about her children, but I stop myself, letting her tell the story in her own way.
“He’s my next of kin. I’ve outlived my husband and my daughter.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Haley.”
Her brown eyes get a faraway look and the sides crinkle. I wonder what she’s remembering as she smiles.
“My daughter, Isabelle, passed away ten years ago this winter. The breast cancer got her, and now it’s gotten me,” she whispers, eyes moving down toward the floor.
God, this gets worse the more I hear.
“I always thought I had time,” she continues. “Would be able to get my grandson to make changes in his life, but my time is running out.”
“What do you mean?” I need to have a full view of the picture before I can help.
“The doctors have said the cancer has spread. There’s nothing else they can do. Soon, they’ll be calling in hospice care and I’ll see my husband and daughter again. I can feel it.” She rubs her arms. “The chill as I near the end of my life. Knowing I won’t be here for the holidays, or to see another birthday, but I’m resigned and ready.”
“What is it you exactly want to do?”
“I want to make sure Frank Gentry doesn’t get anything of mine. Whether it be money, property, or the toilet paper I wiped my ass with.”
It’s tough, but I manage to hide the laugh that threatens to escape. She may be eighty-six-years-old, but she’s spry, and obviously has hard feelings toward her grandson. “Is there anything I should know about?” I pull my legal pad closer to my body, pen poised to take notes. “If he might hurt you, I need to know about it.”
She gets that far-off look in her eyes again. “It’s not me he might hurt.” The sigh that escapes her chest rattles with the sound of a thousand secrets she must be keeping. “It’s his wife,” she whispers. “I want to leave everything to her, but only if she divorces him.”
My head snaps back on my neck. These were the last words I expected to hear from her. “I’m sorry? You want her to divorce him?”
“Yes, she’s a sweet girl and she doesn’t deserve what he does to her.”
My mouth gets dry, throat tightens. “What does he do to her, Mrs. Haley?”
She licks her lips, like she has the same reaction as I did. Getting up, I get us both some water, before I sit back down.
“It’s imperative I know. That way I can be prepared if he chooses to fight.”
“Can he do that? I thought making the will would prevent him from doing so.”
“He can try, but I won’t let him win,” I assure her. “Having said that, I need to know what he does to his wife. What does he do to you?”
Mrs. Haley’s hand shakes as she sets down the glass of water. I’m unsure if it’s from old age, or fear. Either of them piss me off. She finally speaks.
“He doesn’t do anything to me. I haven’t let him in years. It’s his wife. The things he does to her...” She shakes her head.
“Please tell me.”
“He beats her,” she whispers. “He beats her badly. For some reason Montana won’t leave. She loves him.”
Furiously, I scribble on my legal pad. “It happens to a lot of women. Their abusers isolate them, and they start to believe the only person they can count on is the abuser.”
She nods. “That’s exactly what he’s done to her.”
It makes me sick to my stomach when I hear about things like this. “Okay.” I jot down a few notes, trying to think on the go. “We need to prepare in case he does fight her getting your estate. Have the police ever been called on him?”
“Yes, like clockwork every two weeks. That’s the longest he can seem to go without punishing her.”
“What’s he punishing her for?”
“I don’t know.” She rubs at her face. “I’ve tried to ask and he acted like he wanted to get violent with me.” Her voice shakes. “If he were to hit me the way he hits her, he’d kill me with the first punch, so I stopped asking.”
“Every two weeks?”
“Every two weeks.”
“I’ve got some good information here. Let’s meet again on Tuesday. Is that good for you? I’ll have a draft of the will and hopefully I’ll have some information on Frank. Is Frank his real name?”
Her eyes lower, like she’s ashamed for telling me about him.
“It’s normal, Mrs. Haley. It’s normal to feel as if you’re tattling on a loved one. Part of the abuse. Trust me when I say you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last. Perhaps, though, you can save Montana’s life. I’d have to think no one else has thought about her in that way for a while.”