“Don’t assume I know what happened because I don’t. For the first few weeks all was well. Pete was still recovering and getting stronger by the day. They were happy; things seemed to be fine. Then they weren’t. I was not aware of their troubles until long after they had started. Nineva told Marietta that they were fighting, that Liza was acting crazy, prone to long bouts of foul moods and time alone in her room. They stopped sleeping together and your father moved into your bedroom. I wasn’t supposed to know this so I couldn’t really ask. And you know it’s a waste of time to ask your father anything about his private matters. I’ve never been close to Liza and she would never confide in me. So, I was in the dark, and, frankly, that’s not always a bad place to be.”
A long pull on the whiskey and Joel said, “Then she was sent away.”
“Then she was sent away.”
“Why, Aunt Florry? Why was my mother committed to the state mental hospital?”
Florry sloshed her gin around her glass and studied it at length. Then she took a sip, grimaced as if it was awful, and set down the glass. “Your father decided she needed help, and there’s no one around here. The professionals are at Whitfield, and that’s where he sent her.”
“Just like that? She got shipped off?”
“No, there were proceedings. But let’s be honest, Joel, your father knows the right people and he’s got the Wilbanks boys in his back pocket. They talked to a judge; he signed the order. And your mother acquiesced. She did not object to the commitment order, not that she had a choice. If Pete insisted, which I’m sure he did, she could not fight him.”
“What’s her diagnosis?”
“I have no idea. Being a woman, I guess. Keep in mind, Joel, that it’s a man’s world, and if a husband with connections feels as though his wife is suffering through the change and depressed and her moods are swinging right and left, well, he can send her off for a spell.”
“I find it hard to believe that my father would have my mother committed to a mental institution because of the change. She seems kind of young for that. There’s a lot more to it, Aunt Florry.”
“I’m sure there is, but I was not privy to their discussions and conflicts.”
Joel returned to his stew and gulped a few bites, followed with more of his whiskey.
In a futile effort to change the subject, Florry asked, “Are you still seeing that girl?”
“Which girl?”
“Well, I guess that’s enough of an answer. Any girl in your life these days?”
“Not really. I’m too young and I have law school in front of me. You said on the phone that you’ve spoken with John Wilbanks. I assume he’s taken charge of the defense.”
“He has, or what there is of it. Your father is not cooperating. Wilbanks wants to use an insanity defense, says it’s the only way to save his life, but your father will have none of it. Says he’s got more sense than Wilbanks or the next lawyer, which I won’t argue.”
“More proof that he’s crazy. He has no choice but to plead insanity, there’s no other defense. I did the research myself at the law school yesterday.”
“Then you can help Wilbanks. He needs it.”
“I’ve written him a letter and I thought about seeing him tomorrow.”
“That’s a bad idea, Joel. I doubt he works on Sundays, and you cannot be seen around town. Your father would be upset if he knew you were here. My advice to you is to leave town as quietly as you sneaked in, and not to return until Pete says so.”
“I’d like to talk to Buford and check on the crops.”
“You can’t do a thing to help the crops. You’re not a farmer, remember. Besides, Buford has things under control. He reports to me; I plan to run by the jail and report to Pete. We’re in the midst of a good harvest so don’t try to screw things up. Besides, Buford would tell your father that you’re here. Bad idea.”
Joel managed a laugh, his first, and swigged his whiskey. He shoved his bowl away, which prompted her to say, “Half a bowl. You should eat more, Joel. You’re finally filling out but you have a ways to go. You’re still too thin.”
“Not much of an appetite these days, Aunt Florry, for some reason. Mind if I smoke?”
She nodded and said, “On the porch.” Joel stepped outside with a cigarette while she cleared the table, then she refreshed her drink, laid another log on the fire in the den, and fell into her favorite armchair to wait for him. When he returned, he grabbed his flask, joined her in the den, and sat on the worn leather sofa.
She cleared her throat and said, “There’s something you should know, since we were discussing the cotton. I suppose it’s no real secret since there is a public record of it in the courthouse. About a month ago, your father hired a lawyer in Tupelo to write a deed transferring ownership of his farm to you and Stella jointly. My land, of course, belongs to me and was not involved. John Wilbanks told me this last Wednesday in his office. Of course, you and Stella would one day inherit the land anyway.”
Joel thought for a moment, obviously surprised and confused. “And why did he do this?”
“Why does Pete do anything? Because he can. It wasn’t very smart, according to Wilbanks. He was moving his assets to protect them from the family of a man he was planning to murder. Plain and simple. In doing so, though, he handed a gift to the prosecution. The DA can prove at trial that the murder was premeditated. Pete planned everything.”
“Is the land protected?”
“Wilbanks doesn’t think so, but we didn’t go into it. It was the day after and we were still stunned. Still are, I guess.”
“Aren’t we all? Wilbanks thinks Bell’s family will come after the land?”
“He implied that but didn’t say it outright. It might be fodder for your research, now that you’ve found the law library.”
“This family needs a full-time lawyer.” He took a drink and finished his flask. Florry watched him carefully and loved every ounce of his being. He favored her side, the Bannings, tall with dark eyes and thick hair, while Stella was the image of Liza, both in looks and in temperament. He was grieving, and Florry ached with his pain. His happy, privileged life was taking a dramatic turn for the worse, and he could do nothing to correct its course.
Quietly, he asked, “Has anyone talked about Mom getting out? Is it even a possibility? Dad sent her away, and now that his influence is rather limited, is there a chance she can come home?”
“I don’t know, Joel, but I’ve heard nothing about that. Before this, your father would drive to Whitfield once a month to see her. He never said much, but on a couple of occasions he mentioned his visits, said she was not getting any better.”