Chapter 2 - The Coffee Can in the Wall
And on the front of the envelope, written so hard the pen had almost cut through the paper, were the words: Do not give this to your mother. Give it to a lawyer.
Lily’s breath hitched behind me, a wet, ragged sound. The flashlight beam wobbled, casting long, erratic shadows up the warped cedar studs of the old barn wall. Rain hammered the corrugated tin roof in a deafening, rhythmic assault, but inside the narrow confines of the tack room, the air had gone dead quiet. It smelled of ancient dust, dry rot, engine oil, and the faint, sweet memory of alfalfa that had been gone for three years.
My fingers were stiff from the cold, bleeding slightly where a cedar splinter had gouged my palm. I sat down heavily on an upturned wooden crate, my back against the sturdy support beam, and laid the contents of the rusted Folgers can across my knees.
The paper was cold and crisp. I unfolded the yellow legal pad first. Grandma Ruth’s hand was unmistakable—slanted, firm, the heavy downstrokes of a woman who had spent fifty years hauling milk pails, wringing chicken necks, and turning thick Kansas clay with an iron spade.
My Dearest Carter and Lily, the letter began, dated August 14th, three years prior—just four weeks before the stroke took her speech, and six months before her heart finally stopped.
If you are reading this, I am gone, and the house has fallen into the hands of people who do not know what it costs to build a life. Carter, you are seventeen or older now, if my math serves. You have your grandfather’s shoulders and his bad habit of carrying burdens that aren’t yours to hold. Lily, my sweet girl, keep your heart soft, but keep your chin up. Don't let them make you small.
I know what your mother is. I know what she married. Ray is a hollow man, and hollow men consume everything around them to fill up their own void. When I realized what he was doing to your mother’s mind—how he turned her timid, how he made her look at her own children like strangers—I knew I couldn't leave this farm to the four of them equally. If Ray gets his hands on this land, he will sell it to the grain conglomerate for pennies, drink his share, and leave you two with nothing.
So I made a change. I had to be quiet about it. Your Uncle Dave and Uncle Mark are no better; they’ve been waiting for me to die since the winter of ’08 so they could clear the timber.
Look at the deed packet in this tin. It is a Transfer on Death deed, signed, notarized, and filed with the Ellsworth County Register of Deeds by Mr. Arthur Vance in town. It leaves the farm—all eighty-four acres, the house, the barn, and the water rights to the creek—jointly to Carter Thomas Miller and Lily Ruth Miller. It bypasses your mother completely.
The key taped to the card goes to Safe Deposit Box #114 at First National Bank on Main Street. Inside is the original land patent signed by Ulysses S. Grant to your great-great-grandfather, and a ledger. That ledger shows every dollar Ray 'borrowed' from your grandfather’s estate while he was acting as power of attorney during his illness. He owes the estate $42,000. He thinks I never found out.
Do not let them drive you out. The land is yours. Stand on it.
Love always,
Grandma Ruth
I read the letter twice, my eyes burning in the harsh light of the flash. Lily was hovering over my shoulder, her chin resting on my head, cold raindrops dripping from her hair onto my collar.
"Carter?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What does it mean? Does it mean we don't have to go back?"
"It means we own this place," I said, the words feeling thick and strange in my mouth. "It means Ray doesn't own a single splinter of wood under our feet. Neither does Mom. Neither do Uncle Dave or Uncle Mark."
"But... Ray said Mom owned a quarter," Lily said. "He said they were selling it next month to pay off his debts."
"He lied," I said grimly. I picked up the notarized document. The seal was raised, crisp, and official. Grandma Ruth had gone behind everyone's back—her sons, her daughter, her son-in-law—and secured the property exclusively for us.
"Why didn't she tell us before she died?" Lily asked.
"Because I was fourteen and you were eleven," I said, looking around the decaying barn. "Because if Ray had known, he would have forced Mom to challenge it in court while Grandma was too sick to fight back. She hid it where only someone who really knew her would look."
I remembered the three small notches carved into the cedar wall. Grandma used to mark the jam jars that way—three small ticks with her pocketknife meant blackberry reserve, the good stuff, saved for when things were rough.
Lily sat down on the dirt floor, leaning her head against my knee. The storm outside seemed to recede slightly, the thunder rolling farther east toward Salina.
"I'm scared, Carter," she murmured. "What happens when Ray finds out? He’s going to come down here when he realizes we aren't at a friend's house. He knows this is the only place we could walk to."
May you like
I reached out and wrapped my arm around her shivering shoulders, pulling her close. The small brass key to Box #114 felt hot and heavy against my palm.
"Let him come," I said, staring at the dark doorway of the barn. "This isn't his house anymore. It never was."
