What that “greater work” could possibly be the young minister had no idea. But that was typical of Uncle Sol. In his loud and commanding manner, he always filled his speech with great, sweeping statements of large-sounding import. Everything was big about him. She imagined—and how could she not?—that such a presence would live on and on. For how could someone so—well—so larger than life be gone so completely, so utterly, gone? Certainly, everyone knew he had heart trouble. She knew that too. He was a big man and he was the elder brother to her father. But to be gone so swiftly! Jo began to cry as full grief finally overwhelmed her. For now she was struck with the realization of the extent of her loss as if her mind had meted it out in portions that she could handle, bit by bit. What she had lost in the sudden departure was a lifetime of her uncle’s great love and full attention and complete concern. She would never have all this again. Not here on earth. Ever. Jo never broke down—she was too strong—but now she was crying steadily. Even so, she was thinking that, as soon as she could, she would call her father, but before that she must compose herself to be able to talk to him. That was Jo. Always cerebral, but with a passion in her commitments that ran deep.
But her concern for how and when to connect was unnecessary, as suddenly, in startling synchronicity, both the phone on her desk and her cell phone simultaneously began to ring.
4
Sobbing, Jo snatched up her desk phone, at the same time fishing in her purse for her cell phone. It was not her father, but her sister Daniela, who started right in, “Jo! Oh, I’m so glad you’re home. Listen, I have a very important party Friday night. Could I borrow the dress? It’s a masquerade and it’s a little long but I could have it taken up temporarily, so it fits and . . .”
Jo groaned, which is not easy to do when one is sobbing, but she managed it. “Daniela, listen . . .”
“What are you—crying? What’s the matter, Jo? I won’t have them shorten the dress if you’re that upset about it. Really, you hardly use it. You don’t need to get so worked up about it! All you have to say is no. I can certainly rent some . . .”
“Danny,” broke in Jo, “It’s Uncle Sol. I’ve just gotten terrible news—from his lawyer. Danny, he died.”
“What?”
“It’s true. The lawyer didn’t call—he just wrote me a letter—some official thing—it’s awful.”
“Uncle Sol,” said Daniela and paused. “What’s going to happen to his beach house?”
“Oh, Danny!” cried Jo.
After they hung up, Jo checked her cell phone call. It had been from her father. Jo punched the number without waiting to access the message. Her father answered on the second ring.
“Jo, I’ve just gotten terrible news. Did you receive a letter from Uncle Sol’s lawyer? I was sent a copy of it, too. If so, have you had a chance to read it yet?”
“I just did, Dad. I was just going to call you.”
“I’m so sorry, JoJo. Your mom and I will be right over.”
Living in the same town—and it being about midnight, so the usual traffic of the day had dissipated—brought her parents swiftly to her side. Jo was more composed now, but the ache was still new and her uncle’s absence as large in her heart as was Uncle Sol himself and his presence in her life. The three of them sat mourning, huddled together. Her stepmother took hold of her hand. Neither of her parents made any attempt to call her brother or either of her two sisters.
“Do you think we ought to let Ruby and Ben know?” asked Jo once.
“No,” said her father, sadly. “Tomorrow is plenty of time to bring them in on it. Ruby will process it swiftly. Ben wasn’t home when we left. And you’ve already told Daniela. She’ll certainly let the rest know. You were Uncle Sol’s favorite.”
“Yes,” said Jo. “That was always the case. I could never make head or tail of it. Uncle Sol was so active and—well—dynamic. I don’t know why he even noticed me. Ben is more like him—impulsive—always jumping into stuff headfirst. Ruby is the active one of us—he used to do all kinds of sports with her that I was no good at. Daniela’s always been the prettiest one of us. I don’t even know why he was interested in me.”
“He was looking for something, Joey, something your brother and sisters didn’t have but only you had,” said her stepmother, patting her hand.
Jo looked up in surprise and caught a look passing between her father and her stepmother. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Oh, oh, well, just, just something special in you that he appreciated,” her stepmother faltered and shot a nervous glance at Jo’s father.
“He was looking for one of you he could trust his property to is what your mother is trying to say,” said her father quickly.
“Yes, that’s it,” said her stepmother with what sounded to Jo like a nervous chuckle, laced with a kind of relief.
“It’s a sizable property,” said her father, centering in on the prospect of inheritance.
Jo considered that. “You know, it’s an answer to prayer. I’ve got so many things going here that need money. My salary, you know, is only start-up—it has a three year limit on the present grant. If the Spanish ministry isn’t self-sustaining by then I’d have to reapply, and there’s no guarantee it would be extended. I suspect that Toni and Ron are funding it at great sacrifice out of their own tithing. I know for a fact that they practice graduated tithing and are giving away something like a third of what they earn—and they don’t earn much as it is—on the low end of presbytery salaries. Besides that, I have all these programs I want to do—and stuff I need like new computers and ESL software for the program you’ve been helping me with, Dad, and . . .” She broke off. Her father was frowning.
“Did I say something wrong?” Jo faltered.
Her parents were looking at each other. Neither of them said anything for a while. Then her father looked at her intently and said simply. “Jo, please don’t make any plans about anything yet. Your mother is taking a leave from her work in the coronary care unit and I am dropping everything here. We are both needed there. We have to go immediately to the Dominican Republic—you know—to make arrangements and things. As the younger brother, I’ll be considered in charge, and they won’t do anything until I come. Give us about three days, then you come. One of us will try to meet you at the airport in Santo Domingo. If we can’t, we’ll send someone who will identify himself or herself as coming from me. That person will say, ‘Baiguanex has sent me for you.’ You will know then to go with her or him. They will bring you to Barahona and we will meet you there.”
Jo looked at her father with astonishment. But, before she could speak, he added, “And, Jo, you must make certain that you bring the ceremonial dress that your uncle gave you. You must not forget it.”
Jo’s mouth dropped open.
“It’s for the service, dear,” said her stepmother swiftly and, to Jo’s ear, a little glibly.
“We have to go now, Jo,” said her father, standing up. “Use the credit card that we have jointly. Don’t go searching unduly for cheaper flights on cheaper days, as I know you always do.” He smiled warmly at her. “Sweetie, I’m not telling you to throw away a lot of money, but the most important thing is that you come in three days. Whether anyone comes for you or not is not important. Rent a car and come yourself, if no one meets you. You know the way, for there is only really one road, and you’ve taken it since you were a child. I am telling you to get there any way you can and at whatever cost it takes. But only go with someone who says what I told you: ‘Baiguanex has sent me for you.’ Otherwise, come alone. And, Josefina, bring the dress—please don’t forget it.”
When her father was determined to leave, no force in Richfield or anywhere else could stop this otherwise mild-mannered man, and he was now