Sycamore Row - John Grisham

After the second, Herschel’s stepmother fled the place and settled in Jackson. Seth hung
on to the home, along with the land around it. For this reason, Herschel was forced to
revisit the nightmare of his childhood when he went to see Seth, something he had done
only once a year until the cancer arrived. The house was a one-story, ranch-style,
redbrick structure set back from the county road and heavily shaded with thick oaks and
elms. There was a long, open front lawn where Herschel had played as a child, but
never with his father. They had never tossed a baseball or a football, never even set up
a kids’ soccer goal, or played tackle football. As he turned in to the driveway, he looked
at the wide lawn and was once again surprised at how small it now seemed. He parked
behind another car, one he did not recognize, one with Ford County license plates, and
for a moment stared at the house.
He had always assumed he would not be bothered by his father’s death, though he had
male friends who had warned him otherwise. You grow into an adult; you’re trained to
control your emotions; you don’t hug your father because he is not the hugging type;
you don’t send gifts or letters; and when he’s dead you know you can easily survive
without him. A little sadness at the funeral, maybe a tear or two, but within days the
ordeal is over and you’re back to your life, undamaged. And those male friends had kind
things to say about their fathers. They had watched the old guys age and face death with
little concern for the aftermath, and every one of them had been blindsided by grief.
Herschel felt nothing; no sense of loss, no sadness at the closing of a chapter; no pity
for a man so troubled he took his own life. He sat in his car and looked at the house and
admitted to himself that he felt nothing for his father. Perhaps there was a trace of relief
in that he was gone and his death meant one less complicating factor in Herschel’s life.
Perhaps.
He walked to the front door, which was opening as he approached. Lettie Lang was
standing in the doorway, touching her eyes with a tissue. “Hello, Mr. Hubbard,” she said
in a voice straining with emotion.
“Hello Lettie,” he said, stopping on the rubber doormat lying on the concrete porch.
Had he known her better he might have stepped forward for a quick hug or some
gesture of shared sympathy, but he couldn’t force himself to do it. He had met her only
three or four times, and never properly. She was a housekeeper, and a black one, and as
such was expected to stay in the shadows when the family was around.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, backing away.
“So am I,” Herschel said. He followed her inside, through the den, to the kitchen
where she pointed to a coffeepot and said, “I just made this.”
“Is that your car out there?” he asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Why did you park in the driveway? I thought you were supposed to park to the side
over there, next to Dad’s pickup.”
“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinkin’. I’ll go move it.”
“No, forget it. Pour me some coffee, two sugars.”
“Yes sir.”
“Where is Dad’s car, the Cadillac?”