Chapter One At an altitude of five hundred feet, a pilot could expect to experience occasional patches of scudding clouds misting against the windshield and ruffling like hazy feathers as they were chewed in voracious bites by the twin-engine Beechcraft. But the day was cloudless, the sky a vibrant blue. The early morning sun had scorched away the sporadic tufts of cloud and blazed through the cockpit, giving off a steady, baking heat that even the direct flow from the air vents could not dispel. It was a glorious day, the kind of day Cader Harris associated with dropping a baited hook from the fertile banks along the river and snagging a pike, or, with extraordinary luck, a meal-sized catfish. It was a good day for returning to his hometown of Hayden, Louisiana.
By squinting his eyes and looking off to the west, Cader could see the long stretch of hard-packed clay leading to the black-topped strip of the local small-plane airport. A glance at his fuel gauge assured him he had another fifteen minutes of flight time before the spiky needle pointed to empty. On a sudden whim, he banked to the left twenty degrees, heading east now, away from the airstrip. He hadn't called in to the flight tower for permission to land as yet, and he allowed his impulses to take him on a long, slow circle of the town. From his increased altitude of seven hundred feet, he imagined he would experience a new perspective on the place of his beginnings.
There, on the Louisiana Delta, on a lazy spur of the Mississippi flowing into the greater waters of the Gulf of Mexico, rested the town of Hayden. The white-spired steeple of the Baptist Church, circled by an expanse of new, lushly green lawn and dotted at its rear by neatly tended tombstones, was easily discernible. A peaceful town, populated by some fifteen thousand upright, law-abiding citizens, it was named for Jatha Hayden, its founding father, and had carried his name proudly for nearly one hundred seventy-five years.
Cader smiled to himself. Seen from up here it could be any small town in the country. The myriad styles of architecture from the Greek Revival to the New England saltbox represented a kaleidoscope of life styles. Even seen from the ground Hayden could have been anywhere in the continental United States, with its street names like Magnolia Drive and Chinaberry Circle, and Sunday dinners of fried chicken and pecan pie. But Cader knew it was the people, their values and prejudices, the highs and lows of their humanity that made Hayden what it was -- just another town.
Cader's sharp eye caught sight of the narrow strip of railroad tracks that divided the town. Deliberately, he veered his Beechcraft again, preferring to remain on the north side of Hayden, away from the overgrown tracts and rows of ramshackle hovels where he had been born. Instead, he concentrated his attentions on the more favored side of Hayden, the scrupulously tended lawns and neat rows of houses.
Cader remembered the markers the Junior Women's League had erected amid the tree-lined streets that denoted the supposed, rather than the exact, location of such historic and memorable events as: Jatha Hayden House, first established homesite, or the Jatha Hayden Library, founded by Jatha and Cloris Hayden, nestled in among other interesting and necessary tidbits of the town's history. Cader's back teeth clenched and he grimaced in a way that passed for a smile. In new-found, mature understanding he realized the only thing "historically accurate" about these markers was that the ladies agreed on where they should be placed.
The blacktopped roof of the Jatha Hayden High School tipped into view. Cader had attended the school for four of the most important years of his life: four years of fame and glory on the football field that eventually led him to college and ultimately into the flamboyant world of pro ball.
While a young student at Hayden High, Cader's ability for football had come into prominence. In spite of his poor beginnings, coming from the wrong side of the tracks as he did, he drew the notice of Foster Doyle Hayden, the last living descendant of the founding father to carry on the Hayden name. Football had always been Hayden's obsession, and when Cader had come into the limelight during his highschool career, Foster Doyle noticed him, taking vicarious pleasure in the young man's success. Rumor had it that Cader had been offered a scholarship to Tulane University and had accepted it.
Cader's mouth tightened to a grim line. Some might call what he'd done "selling out." Cader preferred to call it cutting his losses. And when Cader cut his losses, he cut everything, including Irene Hayden, Foster Doyle's white-skinned, golden-haired daughter. Irene, the original golden girl, with the autocratic temperament of a thoroughbred racehorse and the lusty appetites of a high-class whore. When Foster Doyle told Cader that Irene was pregnant with his child, Cader saw all his ambitions going down the drain.
Expecting Hayden to ride his back and demand he marry Irene, Cader visualized a future with himself under Foster Doyle's imperious thumb, running the bases at the man's whim. Instead, Hayden floored Cader by offering him an escape -- leave town...never see Irene again...and Cader would be rewarded with enrollment at Tulane University, tuition and all expenses paid, not to mention a very healthy allowance paid to a bank once a month.
Escape...a way out...a path with which Cader Harris was very familiar. More than an escape...a dream...something he'd wanted all his life and always believed was beyond his reach.
Tulane...the gem of the Southern universities...money for clothes, a car, enough left over to see to his drunken father's support. All he had to do was agree to Hayden's bargain.
Still, there was Irene to consider. Hayden had sneered at Cader's hesitation. Irene had a position to maintain and the family name to consider. Irene's problem could be solved.
Cader hadn't been able to reach an immediate decision. He loved Irene, but the lure of escaping his humble beginnings to the upper echelons of Tulane, paid for and supported by Hayden, was impossible to resist. He would have everything going for him. He already had the magazine looks, the physique to wear the magazine clothes and the athletic and sexual prowess to bring it all together. He would be a star! A football hero! Pursued by the girls, envied by the guys.
To Cader's own amazement, breaking ties with the hometown had proved to be difficult. While in attendance at prep school to gain the necessary credits to enter the university in the fall, he had subscribed to the town paper. It was there he learned of the surprising marriage of Irene Hayden and Arthur Thomas. The news depressed him. Despite the enthusiastic female attention surrounding him, his thoughts still clung to Irene. He admitted a sense of loss, a heartfelt regret, yet upon reflection he was relieved to have made his escape with so few scars.
One evening, after football practice with the Tulane team, he happened to read the Hayden paper. In the social column was the announcement that Irene Hayden Thomas had given birth to a son, Kevin Hayden Thomas. A quick count on his fingers gave him his answer. A son. His son.
When Foster Doyle had proclaimed he would "take care of everything," Cader had assumed he meant an abortion for Irene.
Looking out of the cockpit down on the town of Hayden, Cader brought himself back to the present. Somewhere, down in that green patchwork, was his son. A boy known as Kevin Thomas. And Cader would see him, find him.
He had merely cut his losses, Cader justified; he hadn't really traded Irene and his son for a chance to cross the tracks into acceptable society. And he'd kept his bargain, until now. Not even when his father had died had Cader returned to Hayden. Not that he would have been so inclined anyway. But he had kept his bargain, and if in a weak moment his conscience pricked him, he knew with supreme arrogance and utter confidence that with a snap of his fingers he could cancel it all out and Irene would come running. So far, he hadn't had to draw on his one last reserve; he'd never snapped his fingers.
Having flown beyond the limits of town, the landscape below had become low, flat plains; he was over the truck farms that skirted Hayden. Six or seven miles to the south the tall stacks of the catcrackers belonging to the Delta Oil Company were visible and the eternal flame of the flare-tower smoked hotly into the noonday sun like an angry, fire-breathing sentry. In a natural progression of thought, Cader smiled, squinting against the glare bouncing off his windshield as he accelerated his Beechcraft toward the offensive sight of gray steel and blackened machinery and sterile girders that were the Delta Oil Company. One thought just naturally seemed to follow the other these days; old man Hayden, the granddaddy of us all, and good ol' Delta oil.
Long before he approached the blackened ErectorSet construction of the oil refinery, Cader glanced down and was able to pick out the wide, three-mile strip of beach and the hundreds of acres of pampas grass behind it that were the bone of contention between the magnates of Delta Oil and the citizens of Hayden. It was there, on what had always been referred to as Jatha Beach, that Delta wanted to erect those ominous-looking and lethal-sounding, liquid natural gas holding tanks.
Although the title and deed for the innocent playground of the young people of Hayden rested in the town's hands, Foster Doyle Hayden, last living descendant of the original founding father to carry on the name, was bitterly opposed to the plan. His opinion weighed heavily in the small, sleepy town.
Foster Doyle Hayden was pleased when he heard himself referred to as the genteel, soft-spoken, white-haired town father. He was a paternal figure, upheld for his civic responsibility and generous endowments to his town. He was a paragon, a model of virtue. Secretly, he likened himself to Teddy Roosevelt, speaking softly and carrying a big stick.
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