The Devil Casts a Long Shadow- Chapter Seven: This Triangle of Ours

Roman assigned one of his most promising junior attorneys to Jena's case.

Peyton was a striking, raven-haired woman in her early thirties, with an immaculate professional appearance and the unhurried confidence of someone accustomed to winning.

She was concise, thoroughly familiar with the relevant law, and possessed a competitive streak that bordered on cruelty.

Under ordinary circumstances, Jena might have found her intimidating.

Now she found the quality reassuring.

She had reached the end of her patience.

Ivy-Mae's court filings consisted of page after page of accusations, exaggerations, and outright falsehoods. Many seemed designed less to establish a legal argument than to humiliate Jena.

She was accused of neglecting Nate, exploiting his condition, and showing an appalling disregard for his welfare.

There were implications about her character, her marriage, and her fitness to manage anything of value.

Reading the documents, Jena had the peculiar sensation of encountering a fictional version of herself invented by someone who despised her.

Even the hearing date seemed calculated to inflict injury.

It fell on her wedding anniversary.

Ivy-Mae had always resented Nate and Jena's elopement. She believed she should have been consulted before her son married, as though his marriage had been a family acquisition requiring her approval.

Afterward, she refused to acknowledge their anniversary or participate in any celebration of it.

Now she had found a new way to commemorate the occasion.

Jena wondered whether Ivy-Mae had specifically requested the date or merely taken satisfaction in the coincidence.

Either possibility seemed characteristic of her.

There were people who could transform even a wedding anniversary into an opportunity for punishment.

Peyton handled most of the preliminary proceedings without requiring Jena's presence.

Jena was grateful.

She had little desire to spend her days driving to the courthouse, searching for parking, and listening to strangers debate her character as though she were absent from the world.

Besides, every hour spent attending hearings was an hour she could not work.

She had already lost enough money to Nate's misfortunes.

The final hearing, however, required her attendance.

Jena arrived wearing one of her better outfits, carefully pressed and chosen to convey the respectability she increasingly felt slipping away from her.

Ivy-Mae was already seated.

Her hair had been freshly permed, and she wore a smug expression that made Jena suspect she considered the outcome settled before anyone had spoken.

Beside her sat an attorney whose voice possessed the rolling cadences of a Southern evangelical preacher.

He delivered his arguments with theatrical solemnity, pausing at carefully selected moments and raising his voice whenever an accusation seemed particularly likely to offend.

Jena listened in disbelief.

According to the man's presentation, she was selfish, irresponsible, ungrateful, and morally unfit to be entrusted with her husband's affairs.

He stopped just short of accusing her of being the Devil incarnate.

Jena half expected him to produce a Bible and demand that she renounce Satan before the court.

The judge, an elderly man with an expression of weary self-importance, allowed the performance to continue.

At times, he even appeared entertained.

Jena glanced at Peyton.

Her attorney sat quietly, making occasional notes.

She did not object.

When it was her turn to speak, Peyton referred calmly to the documentation already submitted.

She identified contradictions in Ivy-Mae's claims and directed the judge toward the relevant records.

Her presentation lacked drama.

It was almost aggressively factual.

Jena found herself appreciating the contrast.

Unfortunately, the judge seemed considerably less interested in documents than in speeches.

Whenever Peyton pressed a specific legal point, he appeared eager to move along.

Jena began to wonder whether he had read the filings at all.

Ivy-Mae's attorney concluded with a final, extraordinary flourish.

He invoked an alleged incident involving one of Jena's relatives, presenting a distorted family anecdote with such ominous embellishment that the person sounded remarkably like the villain from the Friday the 13th films.

Jena stared at him.

For a moment, she almost laughed.

It was so absurd that she expected someone to intervene.

Nobody did.

The courtroom remained solemn.

The judge listened with the expression of a man receiving an important moral revelation.

Jena wondered whether the proceedings were intended to determine legal rights or identify a suitable witch for burning.

The only thing missing was a pile of firewood.

When the arguments concluded, the judge cleared his throat.

He sounded hoarse, as though a lifetime of speaking over other people had worn away the finer qualities of his voice.

He announced that the circumstances were complicated and that, although the legal considerations were important, he believed he must ultimately follow his heart.

Jena felt a flicker of alarm.

She had come to court expecting the law to matter.

The judge's heart had never been part of her legal strategy.

Peyton motioned for her to stand.

Jena rose obediently.

She felt less like a woman awaiting a civil ruling than a criminal standing before a sentence.

The judge began by acknowledging that Oklahoma recognized certain forms of common-law marriage and that Nate had consistently represented Jena as his wife in financial and tax records.

Consequently, he explained, her status as his spouse was not being dismissed.

She could continue occupying the marital residence and using the property associated with

their household.

She would also remain responsible for its ordinary upkeep.

Nate, after all, was still alive.

Or, as the judge put it after a peculiar hesitation, he was not dead.

Jena frowned.

The wording struck her as strange.

She looked toward Peyton.

Her attorney had already opened another file and was examining documents unrelated to the hearing.

The judge continued.

Because Nate's retirement accounts still named Ivy-Mae as beneficiary, those designations would remain in place unless properly changed or successfully challenged through the appropriate proceedings.

He also remarked upon the unusual circumstances of Nate and Jena's marriage, suggesting that Nate's failure to complete a more conventional domestic ceremony raised questions about how seriously he had regarded the relationship.

Jena felt her face grow hot.

The suggestion was insulting.

Nate had married her.

He had introduced her as his wife.

They had lived together as husband and wife for years.

Whether his mother approved of the ceremony was irrelevant.

Yet the judge seemed willing to entertain Ivy-Mae's preferred interpretation.

Jena thought of the retirement accounts.

Nate had established them when KT Construction was still in its infancy.

He had probably named Ivy-Mae before their marriage and never bothered to update the paperwork.

That would have been entirely consistent with his character.

Nate had always attended carefully to matters that interested him and neglected anything that did not.

His own comfort, reputation, and ambitions received endless attention.

Jena's future security had apparently never warranted the inconvenience of a few signatures.

She felt a sudden bitterness.

For years, she had told herself that Nate's wealth meant she was protected.

Now she was discovering how little protection existed in a life where every important decision belonged to someone else.

The judge finished outlining his ruling.

The existing account restrictions would remain in place pending further proceedings or Nate's death.

Jena would be permitted to continue using the house and vehicles, but she would not receive the broad authority over Nate's financial accounts that she had requested.

She would remain responsible for the expenses associated with property she occupied or used.

Any later distribution of assets would depend upon the applicable beneficiary designations, ownership arrangements, and estate proceedings.

Jena heard the words without fully understanding their consequences.

Then the judge adjourned.

The bailiff directed everyone toward the exit.

Ivy-Mae rose with an expression of unmistakable satisfaction.

Jena watched her go.

She wondered whether the woman had ever once considered what would happen to the house, the bills, or Jena herself if the money simply ran out.

Then she realized that Ivy-Mae probably had considered it.

And might have welcomed the result.

In the courthouse lobby, Jena hurried after Peyton.

"Peyton, wait."

The attorney continued walking.

"Could you please explain what that ruling actually means? In ordinary terms?"

Peyton stopped with visible reluctance.

"It means you can continue living in the house and using the vehicles, but you can't sell or transfer property that belongs to Nate without proper authority."

Jena nodded uncertainly.

"And the bills?"

"You're responsible for the ordinary expenses associated with the property you're using. Utilities, maintenance, applicable taxes, and so forth. You also need to avoid allowing the assets to deteriorate."

"But Nate has money for those things."

"His accounts are restricted."

"So I can't use his money to maintain his property?"

"Not under the authority you currently have."

Jena stared at her.

Peyton continued in the same brisk tone.

"Ivy-Mae may also pursue claims if she believes you've damaged or improperly depleted assets. Your husband's beneficiary designations remain unchanged. If he dies, those accounts will be handled according to their governing documents and the law."

Jena felt something inside her sink.

"So I'm supposed to take care of everything until it can eventually be handed over to her?"

"That's an oversimplification, but in practical terms, you need to preserve the property while the legal questions remain unresolved."

Jena could scarcely believe what she was hearing.

"I can't afford any of this."

Peyton glanced at her watch.

"I understand."

"No, I don't think you do. I barely make enough at the childcare center to buy groceries. I can't pay the taxes on that house. I can't maintain the cars. Nate has the money, but I'm not allowed to touch it."

Her voice began to tremble.

"I can't even sell anything to get out from under the bills. How am I supposed to live?"

Peyton's expression did not change.

"You can explore an appeal or seek additional relief through the appropriate court."

"With what money?"

"An appeal of this complexity would require specialized counsel. It could be expensive."

"How expensive?"

"Potentially tens of thousands of dollars in legal fees, depending on the scope."

Jena stared at her.

"That's impossible."

"Then you'll need to consider your options carefully."

Peyton adjusted the strap of her bag.

"Our firm doesn't handle that category of appeal. You would need another attorney."

"But Roman—"

"Roman assigned me to handle this proceeding. I've done that."

She stepped around Jena.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment."

Jena stood motionless as Peyton walked away.

The attorney did not look back.

Jena had the peculiar impression that she had become something unpleasant on the courthouse floor, an object people carefully stepped around to avoid carrying its contamination into their own lives.

A few minutes earlier, Peyton had represented her.

Now Jena was no longer a case to be argued.

She was simply a woman with insufficient money.

The courthouse continued its business around her.

Clerks moved through the corridors.

Attorneys spoke into telephones.

Families argued quietly on benches.

Somewhere, another person was waiting for a ruling that might determine the course of an entire life.

Jena wondered how many people had entered the building believing justice would be administered, only to discover that the proceedings themselves could become a form of punishment.

She had imagined Hell as a place where sinners stood before a terrible judge.

This judge had not required horns, flames, or a throne of bones.

He had merely needed a robe, a courtroom, and the authority to send her away with obligations she could not fulfill.

Jena was still contemplating the phrase kangaroo court when her phone rang.

She was driving home, barely aware of the familiar streets passing outside her windows.

The caller was Turner.

She hesitated before answering.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Jena. Roman told me court was finished. How'd it go?"

She was startled.

The hearing had ended less than an hour earlier.

For a moment, she wondered how Turner had learned the outcome so quickly.

Then the question disappeared beneath the weight of everything else.

"I don't know what I'm going to do."

Her voice broke.

She tried to steady it and failed.

"I can't afford any of this, Turner. I'm already supporting Beau's pregnant girlfriend, and I haven't been able to find decent work around here since we got back from overseas."

She wiped at her eyes.

"I think I'm going to have to move in with Mom. I don't know what else to do. Nate has all these bills, and I can't pay them."

Turner was quiet for a moment.

Then he asked, "Who's Beau's pregnant girlfriend?"

Jena blinked.

She had forgotten that Turner knew very little about the situation with Thallea.

"Oh, Lord."

She took a breath.

"Her name is Thallea. She's staying at the house."

"Why?"

"Because Beau's out driving, and Mom couldn't keep dealing with her."

Turner said nothing.

Jena felt compelled to explain.

"She's been making my life miserable. I just needed her out of the house for a few hours

every week."

"What does that have to do with me?"

Jena winced.

"Well, that's something I need to apologize for."

She hesitated.

"I got her a job at your ghost kitchen. The one near Central and Fourth."

"All right."

"I may have implied that you wanted her hired."

There was a pause.

Jena gripped the steering wheel.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have used your name. I just didn't know what else to do. She was running me ragged, and I thought if she had a job, she'd spend less time at the house."

Turner answered without irritation.

"I don't care if she's working there. The managers have hiring discretion."

Jena was momentarily speechless.

She had expected a reprimand.

Instead, Turner seemed barely interested.

"Look," he continued, "don't worry about the house."

Jena frowned.

"What?"

"The company already handles the expenses associated with Nate's properties. The payments are arranged. I'll make sure they continue."

"But the judge said—"

"The judge doesn't handle our accounts."

His tone remained conversational.

"The bills will be paid. The house stays maintained. You can keep living there."

Jena stared through the windshield.

For a moment, she could not comprehend what he was offering.

"You mean I don't have to pay everything myself?"

"That's what I said."

"But why would you do that?"

"It's already in order, Jena. There's no reason to complicate it."

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

Turner's generosity seemed almost impossible to reconcile with what she knew about him.

He had never been a particularly charitable man.

Years earlier, his relationship with Emily had ended in a scandal that people in Meadow

Partings still discussed only with extraordinary caution.

Emily had been his long-term girlfriend.

When she became pregnant, their disagreement over the future of the relationship turned ugly. Turner had refused to establish the domestic life she wanted, and Emily eventually terminated the pregnancy.

The details had grown distorted through years of rumor, but the essential story remained familiar.

Turner had been furious.

After their relationship collapsed, Emily disappeared from the social life of Meadow Partings.

People stopped mentioning her around him.

Eventually, even her name seemed to become something residents avoided saying aloud.

Jena had always found that peculiar.

Turner was a powerful man, certainly, but the town's reluctance to discuss Emily had seemed excessive even by local standards.

Now he was offering to maintain Jena's expensive home without asking for anything in return.

She felt an unfamiliar surge of gratitude.

"Oh," she managed.

Turner seemed satisfied.

"Take care of yourself, Jena."

Then he ended the call.

She continued driving.

For several minutes, she replayed the conversation in her mind.

The relief was almost overwhelming.

Her most immediate financial crisis had apparently vanished.

She would not have to abandon the barndominium.

She would not have to move in with Sue.

She would not have to sell the furniture, give up her car, or explain to acquaintances how thoroughly her life had collapsed.

Turner had taken care of everything.

Jena wondered why the arrangement felt so easy.

Then she decided not to question it.

She had spent the entire morning being told what she could not have.

For once, someone had offered her something she desperately needed.

She was too exhausted to examine the generosity too closely.

Even with her financial fears temporarily relieved, Jena could not bear the thought of returning home to Thallea.

She turned toward her mother's house.

Sue's home had always represented a kind of refuge in Jena's imagination.

It was where she had spent much of her childhood, and some part of her still associated it with the uncomplicated security of being cared for.

But as she approached, she began to reconsider.

Sue was already overwhelmed.

Beau's children needed attention.

Thallea had exhausted much of her patience before moving in with Jena.

And Sue's first instinct, whenever Beau's circumstances became difficult, was to protect him from further inconvenience.

Jena knew how the conversation would unfold.

Sue would listen sympathetically.

She might even become tearful.

But sooner or later, the discussion would return to Beau, his responsibilities, and how difficult things had become for him.

Jena would leave feeling guilty for having added to her mother's burdens.

Her problems would remain unresolved.

She slowed at an intersection.

Then she turned away.

Instead, she decided to visit her father.

It was something she rarely did.

By mid-evening, Jena reached the convalescent hospital where her father had lived for years.

The building stood beneath a dull sky, its windows illuminated in uneven rows.

Jena parked and remained in the car for a moment.

She had not come because she expected a meaningful conversation.

Her father's condition had deteriorated too far for that.

He required constant assistance and spent much of his time heavily medicated.

Jena had come because she needed somewhere to sit where nobody would ask her to solve a problem.

At the entrance, she explained to the security guard that she had been having trouble with her car and was waiting for roadside assistance.

She asked whether she might remain in her father's room until the tow truck arrived.

The guard considered her explanation, then allowed her through.

Jena thanked him.

The lie came easily.

That troubled her for a moment.

Then she dismissed it.

She wasn't hurting anyone.

She only wanted a place to rest.

Her father's room was dim and quiet.

He lay in bed, almost motionless.

Occasionally, he made a wet, slurping sound as saliva collected in his mouth.

At other moments, an arm or leg moved abruptly, without any apparent purpose.

He could not rise from the bed independently.

Jena sat in the reclining chair beside him.

She closed her eyes.

But sleep would not come.

Beyond the door, the ward was filled with unsettling sounds.

An elderly woman cried out repeatedly for someone who never answered.

Farther down the corridor, a man shouted in anger or terror.

Another resident began sobbing.

The voices rose and fell through the night.

Jena had always found the place distressing.

The building housed people who had outlived much of their independence, their memories, and sometimes their ability to recognize the people they loved.

Their bodies continued functioning while their former lives receded beyond reach.

She wondered what her father experienced.

Did he recognize her voice?

Did he know where he was?

Did he understand that the world outside his room continued without him?

She looked at his face.

There was no answer.

The cries from the hallway continued.

For a moment, the place reminded her of the descriptions of Hell she had heard in childhood.

Not because its residents were being punished for wrongdoing.

Most had done nothing to deserve their suffering.

That was precisely what made it dreadful.

Here were people who had lived ordinary lives, raised families, worked, loved, and endured countless disappointments, only to spend their final years trapped within bodies and minds that no longer obeyed them.

There were no devils tormenting them.

Only illness, time, and the terrible limitations of human care.

Jena found the distinction more disturbing than any sermon.

Near midnight, she noticed that her father had soiled himself.

She went into the hallway and found an orderly.

He accompanied her back to the room.

Together, they changed her father's bedding and cleaned him.

The orderly worked with the practiced efficiency of someone accustomed to unpleasant tasks.

He did not appear bothered by Jena's presence.

After a while, he glanced at her.

"You're still here?"

Jena hesitated.

"I must've fallen asleep in the chair. I didn't realize how late it was."

The orderly shrugged.

"Doesn't bother me. Extra help's always welcome."

He adjusted the clean sheet beneath her father.

"Besides, I don't blame anybody for not wanting to leave family alone in a place like this."

Jena looked toward the doorway.

Another distant cry echoed through the corridor.

The orderly gave a weary smile.

"I've worked the graveyard shift with dementia patients for years. Still haven't gotten used to some of the sounds."

"It must be difficult."

"Some nights are worse than others."

He straightened the blanket.

"Sometimes you walk down the hall and hear somebody calling for their mother. Somebody who's ninety years old, mind you. Then you remember they're frightened, and as far as

they're concerned, they're a little kid again."

Jena looked at her father.

The orderly continued.

"That's the part that gets me. They can forget almost everything, but they don't always forget being afraid."

Jena felt a chill.

She thought of Nate.

"I've spent nights at my husband's care facility," she said. "I think I find that even more unsettling."

The orderly glanced at her.

"Your husband's sick?"

"Very."

"What happened?"

"He had a medical emergency. Strokes, among other things. He's been unresponsive for weeks."

"I'm sorry."

Jena nodded.

"They have him on machines. He doesn't move. He doesn't respond when I talk to him."

The orderly's expression became thoughtful.

"Is he in a coma?"

"That's what they keep saying."

He hesitated.

"Well, there are different levels of neurological injury. Some patients can be completely unresponsive and still have brain function."

"I know."

"But they should be able to explain what they're seeing on his examinations."

Jena smoothed the blanket over her father's legs.

"They haven't explained very much."

The orderly considered this.

"Have they told you whether he has any brainstem reflexes? Whether he's breathing on his own at all?"

Jena looked up.

"No."

He frowned slightly.

"That's something I'd want clarified."

She stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because there's a difference between being deeply comatose and being declared dead by neurological criteria. They're not the same thing."

He paused, choosing his words.

"I'm not a doctor, and I haven't seen your husband. I wouldn't try to tell you what's happening from a description. But if he's as unresponsive as you're saying, I'd want the physician to explain exactly what his condition is."

Jena said nothing.

She remembered Nate's cold hand.

The extraordinary stillness of his body.

The nurse who had seemed uncomfortable discussing his prognosis.

The unusual transfer arrangements.

The way every question seemed to produce another carefully worded answer that explained almost nothing.

The orderly finished arranging the bedding.

"Sometimes families get told things in medical language and nobody stops to make sure

they understand it," he said.

Jena nodded slowly.

"I suppose so."

He looked toward the door.

"Anyway, you ought to ask."

"I will."

Neither spoke for a moment.

Then the orderly gathered the soiled linens.

"You should get some rest yourself," he said. "You look worn out."

Jena gave him a tired smile.

"That seems to be everyone's assessment lately."

He chuckled softly and left.

Jena remained beside her father.

The hallway noises continued.

A woman began calling for someone named Margaret.

Farther away, a man shouted that he wanted to go home.

Her father lay silently beneath his clean blanket.

Jena watched his chest rise and fall.

The movement was faint but unmistakable.

She thought of Nate again.

She could not remember seeing his chest move without the assistance of the machinery.

Perhaps she had simply failed to notice.

Perhaps his condition was more complicated than she understood.

Perhaps there were perfectly reasonable explanations for everything.

She wanted to believe that.

Yet she could not forget how little anyone seemed willing to tell her.

The room felt suddenly colder.

Jena drew her jacket around herself and leaned back in the chair.

She thought of the courthouse, where a judge had spoken of following his heart while leaving her financially helpless.

She thought of Ivy-Mae, whose indignation seemed inseparable from her desire to control

Nate's property.

She thought of Peyton, who had abandoned her the moment the hearing ended.

And then she thought of Turner.

Turner, who had asked so little.

Turner, who had offered so much.

Turner, who had somehow known the outcome of the hearing almost immediately.

His generosity had arrived at precisely the moment she was most desperate.

Jena considered calling him to thank him properly.

Then she decided it could wait until morning.

She was tired.

And the thought of questioning the one person who had offered to help her seemed almost ungrateful.

She closed her eyes.

Somewhere in the building, a patient began to scream.

Jena remained in the chair, listening.

She had always imagined that temptation would announce itself through some unmistakable wickedness, an invitation to do something shameful or cruel.

She had never considered that it might arrive as a pleasant telephone call, offering to pay the bills.

For the moment, however, she was simply grateful that someone would.

And with that comforting thought, she finally drifted toward sleep.