A box of envelopes without a top had been left sitting in the open door, just a few inches above the floor. There were no envelopes, however. The box was filled with cash - one-hundred-dollar bills. Hundreds of them packed neatly in a box that was twelve inches across, eighteen inches long, and maybe five inches deep. He lifted the box, and it was heavy. There were dozens more tucked away in the depths of the cabinet.
Ray pulled another one from the collection. It too was filled with one-hundred-dollar bills. Same for the third. In the fourth box, the bills were wrapped with yellow paper bands with "$2,000" printed on them. He quickly counted fifty-three bands.
One hundred and six thousand dollars.
Crawling on all fours along the back of the sofa, and careful not to touch it and disturb anybody, Ray opened the other five doors of the cabinet. There were at least twenty dark green Blake & Son boxes.
He stood and walked to the door of the study, then through the foyer onto the front porch for fresh air. He was dizzy, and when he sat on the top step a large drop of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose and fell onto his pants.
Though clear thinking was not entirely possible, Ray was able to do some quick math. Assuming there were twenty boxes and that each held at least a hundred thousand dollars, then the stash greatly exceeded whatever the Judge had grossed in thirty-two years on the bench. His office of chancellor had been full time, nothing on the side, and not much since his defeat nine years earlier.
He didn't gamble, and to Ray's knowledge, had never bought a single share of stock.
A car approached from down the street. Ray froze, instantly fearful that it was Forrest. The car passed, and Ray jumped to his feet and ran to the study. He lifted one end of the sofa and moved it six inches away from the bookshelves, then the same for the other end. He dropped to his knees and began withdrawing the Blake & Son boxes. When he had a stack of five, he carried them through the kitchen to a small room behind the pantry where Irene the maid had always kept her brooms and mops. The same brooms and mops were still there, evidently untouched since Irene's death. Ray swatted away spiderwebs, then set the boxes on the floor.
The broom closet had no window and could not be seen from the kitchen.
From the dining room, he surveyed the front driveway, saw nothing, then raced back to the study where he balanced seven Blake & Son boxes in one stack and took them to the broom closet. Back to the dining room window, nobody out there, back to the study where the Judge was growing colder by the moment. Two more trips to the broom closet and the job was finished. Twenty-seven boxes in total, all safely stored where no one would find them.
It was almost 6 P.M. when Ray went to his car and removed his overnight bag. He needed a dry shirt and clean pants. The house was filled with dust and dirt and everything he touched left a smudge. He washed and dried himself with a towel in the only downstairs bathroom. Then he tidied up the study, moved the sofa back in place, and went from room to room looking for more cabinets.
He was on the second floor, in the Judge's bedroom with the \\indows up, going through his closets, when he heard a car in the street. He ran downstairs and managed to slip into the swing on the porch just as Forrest parked behind his Audi. Ray took deep breaths and tried to calm himself.
The shock of a dead father was enough for one day. The shock of the money had left him shaking.
Forrest crept up the steps, as slowly as possible, hands stuck deep in his white painter's pants. Shiny black combat boots with bright green laces. Always different.
"Forrest," Ray said softly, and his brother turned to see him.
"Hey, Bro."
"He's dead."
Forrest stopped and for a moment studied him, then he gazed at the street. He was wearing an old brown blazer over a red tee shirt, an ensemble no one but Forrest would attempt to pull off. And no one but Forrest could get by with it. As Clanton's first self-proclaimed free spirit, he had always worked to be cool, offbeat, avant-garde, hip.
He was a little heavier and was carrying the weight well. His long sandy hair was turning gray much quicker than Ray's. He wore a battered Cubs baseball cap.
"Where is he?" Forrest asked.
"In there."
Forrest pulled open the screen and Ray followed him inside. He stopped in the door of the study and seemed uncertain as to what to do next. As Forrest stared at his father his head fell slightly to one side, and Ray thought for a second he might collapse. As tough as he tried to act, Forrest's emotions were always just under the surface. He mumbled, "Oh my God," then moved awkwardly to the wicker chair where he sat and looked in disbelief at the Judge.
"Is he really dead?" he managed to say with his jaws clenched.
"Yes, Forrest."
He swallowed hard and fought back tears and finally said, "When did you get here?"
Ray sat on a stool and turned it to face his brother. "About five, I guess. I walked in, thought he was napping, then realized he was dead."
"I'm sorry you had to find him," Forrest said, wiping the corners of his eyes.
"Somebody had to."
"What do we do now?"
"Call the funeral home."
Forrest nodded as if he knew that was exactly what you're supposed to do. He stood slowly and unsteadily and walked to the sofa. He touched his father's hands. "How long has he been dead?" he mumbled. His voice was hoarse and strained.
"I don't know. Couple of hours."
"What's that?"
"A morphine pack."
"You think he cranked it up a little too much?"
"I hope so," Ray said.
"I guess we should've been here."
"Let's not start that."
Forrest looked around the room as if he'd never been there before. He walked to the rolltop and looked at the typewriter. "I guess he won't need a new ribbon after all," he said.
"I guess not," Ray said, glancing at the cabinet behind the sofa. "There's a will there if you want to read it. Signed yesterday."
"What does it say?"
"We split everything. I'm the executor."
"Of course you're the executor." He walked behind the mahogany desk and gave a quick look at the piles of papers covering it. "Nine years since I set foot in this house. Hard to believe, isn't it?"
"It is."
"I stopped by a few days after the election, told him how sorry I was that the voters had turned him out, then I asked him for money. We had words."
"Come on, Forrest, not now."
Stories of the war between Forrest and the Judge could be told forever.
"Never did get that money," he mumbled as he opened a desk drawer. "I guess we'll need to go through everything, won't we?"
"Yes, but not now."
"You do it, Ray. You're the executor. You handle the dirty work."
"We need to call the funeral home."
"I need a drink."
"No, Forrest, please."
"Lay off, Ray. I'll have a drink anytime I want a drink."
"That's been proven a thousand times. Come on, I'll call the funeral home and we'll wait on the porch."
A policeman arrived first, a young man with a shaved head who looked as though someone had interrupted his Sunday nap and called him into action. He asked questions on the front porch, then viewed the body. Paperwork had to be done, and as they went through it Ray fixed a pitcher of instant tea with heavy sugar.
"Cause of death?" the policeman asked.