The Chamber (Page 83)

"How did you feel when she told you the story? I mean, how did you react to it?"

"I hated your guts."

"And how do you feel now?"

"Different."

Sam slowly rose from his seat and walked to the end of the table where he stopped and stood with his back to Adam. "That was forty years ago," he mumbled, barely audible.

"I didn’t come here to talk about it," Adam said, already feeling guilty.

Sam turned and leaned on the same bookshelf. He crossed his arms and stared at the wall. "I’ve wished a thousand times it hadn’t happened."

"I promised Lee I wouldn’t bring it up, Sam. I’m sorry."

"Joe Lincoln was a good man. I’ve often wondered what happened to Ruby and Quince and the rest of the kids."

"Forget it, Sam. Let’s talk about something else."

"I hope they’re happy when I’m dead."

Chapter 30

AS Adam drove past the security station at the main gate the guard waved, as if by now he was a regular customer. He waved back as he slowed and pushed a button to release his trunk. No paperwork was required for visitors to leave, only a quick look in the trunk to make sure no prisoners had caught a ride. He turned onto the highway, heading south, away from Memphis, and calculated that this was his fifth visit to Parchman. Five visits in two weeks. He had a suspicion that the place would be his second home for the next sixteen days. What a rotten thought.

He was not in the mood to deal with Lee tonight. He felt some responsibility for her relapse into alcohol, but by her own admission this had been a way of life for many years. She was an alcoholic, and if she chose to drink there was nothing he could do to stop her. He would be there tomorrow night, to make coffee and conversation. Tonight, he needed a break.

It was mid-afternoon, the heat emanated from the asphalt highway, the fields were dusty and dry, the farm implements languid and slow, the traffic light and sluggish. Adam pulled to the shoulder and raised the convertible top. He stopped at a Chinese grocery in Ruleville and bought a can of iced tea, then sped along a lonely highway in the general direction of

Greenville. He had an errand to run, probably an unpleasant one, but something he felt obligated to do. He hoped he had the courage to go through with it.

He stayed on the back roads, the small paved county routes, and zipped almost aimlessly across the Delta. He got lost twice, but worked himself out of it. He arrived in Greenville a few minutes before five, and cruised the downtown area in search of his target. He passed Kramer Park twice. He found the synagogue, across the street from the First Baptist Church. He parked at the end of Main Street, at the river where a levee guarded the city. He straightened his tie and walked three blocks along Washington Street to an old brick building with the sign Kramer Wholesale hanging from a veranda above the sidewalk in front of it. The heavy glass door opened to the inside, and the ancient wooden floors squeaked as he walked on them. The front part of the building had been preserved to resemble an old-fashioned retail store, with glass counters in front of wide shelves that ran to the ceiling. The shelves and counters were filled with boxes and wrappings of food products sold years ago, but now extinct. An antique cash register was on display. The little museum quickly yielded to modern commerce. The rest of the huge building was renovated and gave the appearance of being quite efficient. A wall of paned glass cut off the front foyer, and a wide carpeted hallway ran down the center of the building and led, no doubt, to offices and secretaries, and somewhere in the rear there had to be a warehouse.

Adam admired the displays in the front counters. A young man in jeans appeared from the back and asked, "Can I help you?"

Adam smiled, and was suddenly nervous. "Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Elliot Kramer."

"Are you a salesman?"

"No."

"Are you a buyer?" No.

The young man was holding a pencil and had things on his mind. "Then, may I ask what you need?"

"I need to see Mr. Elliot Kramer. Is he here?"

"He spends most of his time at the main warehouse south of town."

Adam took three steps toward the guy and handed him a business card. "My name is Adam Hall. I’m an attorney from Chicago. I really need to see Mr. Kramer."

He took the card and studied it for a few seconds, then he looked at Adam with a great deal of suspicion. "Just a minute," he said, and walked away.

Adam leaned on a counter and admired the cash register. He had read somewhere in his voluminous research that Marvin Kramer’s family had been prosperous merchants in the Delta for several generations. An ancestor had made a hasty exit from a steamboat at the port in Greenville, and decided to call it home. He opened a small dry goods store, and one thing led to another. Throughout the ordeal of Sam’s trials, the Kramer family was repeatedly described as wealthy.

After twenty minutes of waiting, Adam was ready to leave, and quite relieved. He’d made the effort. If Mr. Kramer didn’t want to meet with him, there was nothing he could do about it.

He heard footsteps on the wooden floor, and turned around. An elderly gentleman stood with a business card in his hand. He was tall and thin, with wavy gray hair, dark brown eyes with heavy shadows under them, a lean, strong face which at the moment was not smiling. He stood erect, no cane to aid him, no eyeglasses to help him see. He scowled at Adam, but said nothing.

For an instant, Adam wished he’d left five minutes ago. Then he asked himself why he was there to begin with. Then he decided to go for it anyway. "Good afternoon," he said, when it was obvious the gentleman would not speak. "Mr. Elliot Kramer?"

Mr. Kramer nodded in the affirmative, but nodded ever so slowly as if challenged by the question.

"My name is Adam Hall. I’m an attorney from Chicago. Sam Cayhall is my grandfather, and I represent him." It was obvious Mr. Kramer had already figured this out, because Adam’s words didn’t faze him. "I would like to talk to you."

"Talk about what?" Mr. Kramer said in a slow drawl.

"About Sam."

"I hope he rots in hell," he said, as if he was already certain of Sam’s eternal destination. His eyes were so brown they were almost black.

Adam glanced at the floor, away from the eyes, and tried to think of something noninflammatory. "Yes sir," he said, very much aware that he was in the Deep South where politeness went a long way. "I understand how you feel. I don’t blame you, but I just wanted to talk to you for a few minutes."

"Does Sam send his apologies?" Mr. Kramer asked. The fact that he referred to him simply as Sam struck Adam as odd. Not Mr. Cayhall, not Cayhall, just Sam, as if the two were old friends who’d been feuding and now it was time to reconcile. Just say you’re sorry, Sam, and everything’s fine.

The thought of a quick lie raced through Adam’s mind. He could lay it on thick, say how terrible Sam felt in these, his last days, and how he desperately wanted forgiveness. But Adam couldn’t bring himself to do it. "Would it make any difference?" he asked.

Mr. Kramer carefully placed the card in his shirt pocket, and began what would become a long stare past Adam and through the front window. "No," he said, "it wouldn’t make any difference. It’s something that should’ve been done long ago." His words were accented with the heavy drip of the Delta, and even though their meanings were not welcome, their sounds were very soothing. They were slow and thoughtful, uttered as if time meant nothing. They also conveyed the years of suffering, and the hint that life had ceased long ago.