Wanda slaps her pad shut and slips it back into her uniform pocket. “Just don’t go anywhere and come down to the station tomorrow. It’s on Oak Street by the Walmart.”
“Why?” TB asks.
That snarky smile returns. “Because I said so.” She moves to leave but pauses, sighs, and turns back. “We’ll look over the film footage from the store camera. Just want to wrap things up.”
I continue to send her a hostile stare but TB nods his head. Wanda doesn’t move, looks down on the ground like she’s pondering some deep idea. Finally, she looks at me as if she’s studying my DNA.
“Valentine?” she finally says. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to John Valentine?”
My heart returns to my throat, beating loudly, and my breath stops. Those shivers return and I gasp, trying to get air back into my lungs. TB places an arm around my shoulders, sensing my anxiety, and Wanda walks back toward the tailgate, staring intently.
“Yes,” I’m finally able to utter. “He’s my father. Why?”
Something larger is at work here and I’m now at its epicenter. Wanda gazes at me like she’s been fishing all day and just caught a thirteen-pound bass. TB’s whispering in my ear about breathing but all I can think of is my mother’s last words: “You’re not going to like what you find.”
Chapter Five
Considering the events of last night with the robbery, a flying tub of Blue Bell, TB getting shot, and a dark-haired apparition wanting time in the hot tub, I should have taken to sleep and wished the world away. But Wanda’s interrogation kept me up all night. My father was in McAllen, all right, and the subject of a police investigation.
So, I’m sitting at the kitchen table waiting for Aunt Mimi and Portia to wake up so I can get some answers, watching Stinky give himself a good cleaning on the couch; that thing he does with the paw over the head is mesmerizing. Aunt Mimi stumbles in first, looking like a newborn kitten with eyes half-closed and mumbling about coffee. I stand and pull out a chair which she gratefully accepts, then pour her a cup of coffee, black the way she likes it, and place the java before her.
As if on cue, Portia follows, although she’s fully dressed in black slacks and a nice shirt and sweater combination. She’s made up, too, looking as if she’s ready for work. I’ll never understand Southern women — we’re on vacation for goodness sakes. I’m thankful Aunt Mimi’s here so I can have one slovenly person in my court.
I let Portia get her own coffee because I haven’t a clue how she takes it, then sit down so I’m at the head of the kitchen table, gazing at them both. I fold my hands in front of me and stare. It takes Portia a couple of sips before she gets the message.
“What?” my sister asks.
Aunt Mimi follows her line of thought and gazes at me questionably.
“Something you two want to tell me about Dad?”
“Funny,” Portia says, “I was thinking the same thing.”
“You going to tell me you didn’t know what’s been going on all this time?”
Portia’s gaze steels as she looks at me. “I know exactly what’s been going on. Unlike you, I’m not blind.”
“Portia,” Aunt Mimi says quietly.
Portia acquiesces and looks away. She appears upset at my questioning, which unnerves me even more. The two remain quiet for an irritating few seconds and I shake my head in frustration.
“What?” I ask a bit too forcefully.
Portia bites the inside of her cheek while Aunt Mimi sighs. “Your dad had a drinking problem.”
Portia huffs. “Among other things.”
I knew Dad drank too much at parties and got sloppy drunk. He was never an ugly drunk, more like someone who would lean too close to your face and tell you how much he loved you. Nothing harmful, but irritating as hell to my mom. He always embarrassed her at parties, especially those uppity university soirees where appearances mattered. He embarrassed us kids too, especially when he appeared inebriated in front of our friends. I knew it was one of the reasons my parents divorced. Mom begged him to stop and he continually refused.
“You’re saying he did drugs?” I ask, although I suspect the answer after listening to Wanda’s questions for half an hour.
“Let’s just say he had a fondness for weed.”
“Marijuana?” I ask with a huff. “That’s hardly what I consider drug addiction.”
Aunt Mimi stares at the ceiling because she’s not one to turn away a joint when one’s presented to her but Portia crosses her arms about her chest. “You really are clueless, aren’t you?” she asks with a force I can’t understand.
“Why are you so mad? I’m the one being left in the dark here.”
“You wouldn’t be in the dark if you took the time to see what was in front of you.”
“Well, why don’t you show me, Portia?”
At this point, Portia stands and almost knocks the chair backwards. She grabs her cup of coffee. “I wasn’t allowed, Vi. I was the only lucky one who got to see it.”
She storms off to her bedroom and slams the door behind her, passing a sleepy TB in the hall.
“Good morning to you, too,” he says with a grin but it quickly disappears when he sees the look on our faces. “What happened?”
“Good question.” To Mimi, I ask, “What was that all about?”
Aunt Mimi exhales loudly, then rubs her eyes. I suspect it’s too early for her to be discussing such a tough subject.
“Your dad’s addiction goes back a long way, Vi,” she finally explains. “Your mom didn’t want you to know about it because of all the things you were going through.”
I think back to when my parents starting fighting, really fighting since they never seemed compatible in my lifetime, at least when my dad was drinking. He always had a flask about him but he started the serious drinking sometime after I got married and had Lillye. Now that I think about it, things took a turn around the time Lillye first got sick.
“I knew about the drinking,” I say. “Never saw him smoke a joint but then that’s not something he would do in front of me.”
TB sits down at the table with his arms full of coffee, creamer and a sugar bowl. The man likes it super sweet and creamy.
“What’s happening?” he asks as he turns his black coffee into white.
“What did you do to your arm?” Aunt Mimi asks instead.
TB’s about to explain the night before but I derail him. “First things, first. Finish your story about dad.”
Aunt Mimi takes a long sip of her own coffee, sighs, and leans back in her chair. For the first time this morning, she appears awake.
“He lost his brother, Sean. Do you remember?”
I nod. “When he was a kid.”
“Well, I don’t know if you know this but it was a terrible accident. They were trying to build a bonfire in the back yard — John’s idea — and the wind kicked up and blew sparks everywhere. Some of them landed on Sean’s clothing and started burning. Sean took off running, which is the worst thing you can do. He was badly burned and didn’t survive the night.”
TB’s eyes grow dim. “That’s horrible.”
“Your dad always blamed himself for it,” Aunt Mimi continues. “And I think his parents blamed him too. Then his mother died soon afterwards, some say from a broken heart, and that only made things worse.”
“I heard his dad was a real horse’s ass,” I add.
Mimi nods. “He pushed your dad hard. Your father wanted to be an ornithologist, study birds, but his father said that was for sissies and so John went into biology instead.”
I think back on all the times Dad and I went hiking and I got exasperated with him stopping all the time to study the bushes and trees with his binoculars. He loved birding, couldn’t get enough, but usually only had time every few weeks to follow his hobby.
I also recall Dad’s flask that he kept in his back pocket and how by the end of the day he was slurring his words.
His hobby. I know what it’s like to h
ave to push work you love to after hours. I wrote travel articles on the side, day trips and weekend excursions around my day job. I wonder how I would have felt covering cops and school board meetings for the rest of my life.
“Poor dad,” I mutter, although I still can’t forgive him for leaving us.
“The divorce was a blow, and his drinking got worse,” Aunt Mimi continues. “But what really sent him over the edge was….”
“…Lillye,” TB whispers.
TB and I contemplate this revelation, but there’s still so much left unsaid.
“I still don’t understand why he left. Katrina’s a category five hurricane heading our way and he takes off for a birding convention.”
Aunt Mimi looks down into her cup, twirling it around as if she’s studying the remnants. I can’t help but wonder if she’s reading something.
“Biology convention,” she corrects me, still intent upon her coffee cup. “Your mom thought it best. He was drinking heavily and they got into an argument and at the time we thought Katrina was heading toward Pensacola.”
“And that’s why he came here and disappeared?” I think back to Wanda’s conversation the night before. “He somehow missed the hurricane hitting New Orleans and then its aftermath on TV?”
No one says a word for several minutes until TB perks up. “Anyone hungry?”
These were the times my husband infuriated me with his inability to grasp simple things staring him in the face, but this morning I can’t help but laugh. Plus, I know he makes a mean breakfast. We all give our egg preferences and let him go to work.
“Don’t forget the Cajun potatoes,” Aunt Mimi adds.
I grab my coffee cup and head outside, checking out the pasture lands surrounding the house. The cows are nowhere to be seen and that haunting wind still blows, those funny little trees waving back and forth as if possessed. Ripples skid along the pool’s surface and the electronic pool cleaner hums along the bottom, but overall, it’s pretty quiet at the end of the world.
And then Dad appears and I nearly drop my coffee cup in surprise. He stands across the pool from me in a shaded spot, still garbed in his fishing jacket and looking confused.
“Where am I?” he asks, but before I can answer he gazes into my face and frowns. “What’s the matter, Sweetpea?”
It’s then I realize that tears are pouring down my face. I want to answer him but something large has lodged in my throat.
My dad ventures closer but his outline remains hazy and unclear. Still, I can make out the concern on his face.
“Are you getting enough sleep?”
I want to laugh because he’s asking me this?
“Dad, what happened to you?”
I wipe the tears away as I hear the sliding glass door open behind me. In seconds, his image disappears.
“Breakfast,” Aunt Mimi says. When she reaches my side and catches my countenance, she asks, “Was it your father?”
I can only nod and I feel a soft, ring-infested hand upon my shoulder and the tears return. I lean into my dear aunt’s shoulder and let her envelope me in her arms.
“You’ve had more than your share of drama,” she whispers in my hair.
We stand like this for a time until I get control of my emotions. I’m weary of crying but the pain of grief never abates. A wise counselor told me after Lillye died that grief never ends, it just becomes bearable. Right now, having my dead father speak to me from an unknown beyond is more than I can handle.
“The line between us and those we love who have passed is merely a veil,” Aunt Mimi finally says, as if she reads my mind. I never rule out that she can. “There’s a distance between us, and that’s painful, but they are still there and always will be.”
I nod into her shoulder, having heard this so many times from TB. But I’m a mother and I want to feel my baby girl, smell her precious head, savor those tiny arms around my waist. As a daughter, I want my strong father’s arms about me, keeping the crazy world at bay and telling me everything will be all right.
“All life is in transition,” she continues, wiping my face with the lacy sleeve of her loose gypsy blouse. “Death is not an ending, but another road to another place. We can’t follow them when they die, but we can gaze into the windows of their new home and make contact.”
I think of dad’s drinking, which apparently I never took seriously enough, and what Wanda suggested the night before.
“Do they bring their problems with them?”
When Aunt Mimi smiles, birds sing and flowers bloom and all is right with the world. She’s doing that now and my heart fills with love.
“No, honey. They return to the source which is always love.”
We start to walk back into the house when Mimi pauses. “I need to start teaching you the ways of the Craft. My coffee grounds indicated you’re ready.”
This perks me up — pun intended. “Will we be making altars, brewing spells, and riding brooms?”
Aunt Mimi’s smile fades.
“I was only kidding.”
She shakes her head. “I must have read them wrong.”
“Seriously, I’m ready.”
“And you wonder why I never told you?”
I start to argue as we head into the house when I see that Portia has returned, pouring herself another cup of coffee, her back to me. I think to sneak up from behind and give her a hug but to tell the truth, the woman scares me. She might turn around and bite. And yet, I can’t help thinking there’s more to this story, a reason why she treats me like she does. I walk over and touch her arm instead.
She doesn’t recoil so that’s a start.
“How about we find some time this trip to talk,” I suggest.
She turns and leans against the counter but doesn’t look at me, hiding her face behind the coffee cup. “Fine. But that works both ways.”
I’m not sure what she’s getting out but I say nothing while TB places plates of goodness on the table: scrambled eggs, spicy potatoes with onions and bell peppers, sausage links, and toast smothered in butter.
“Where did you get all this?” Aunt Mimi asks.
TB straightens, wipes his hands on his jeans. “In the fridge.”
Portia nearly blows her coffee across the room. “Are you crazy? That’s not for us.”
TB looks confused. “The food was in the fridge.”
“But it’s Mister Rodriguez’s food.”
“We can leave a twenty,” Aunt Mimi suggests.
“That’s not the point,” Portia says. “We can’t spend the next week just doing what we please.”
“That doesn’t give you the right to talk to him like that,” I say.
And off we go, arguing about details. Four people so different from each other, all with baggage —the emotional kind — traveling together. Going to be a fun week.
Finally, I give up, sit down, and delve into breakfast. “I don’t know about you all, but this is looking mighty fine to me.”
The trio calms down and joins me.
“What’s the plan for today?” Aunt Mimi asks after dolling out compliments to the chef.
“Dad came here for a biology convention, but of course took in the good birding opportunities,” Portia says. “I have credit card charges at the World Birding Center that’s located here, but there are nine different properties and the charges didn’t differentiate, so I guess we should take them one by one.”
“Some of those are along the coast and we can visit them on the way back to Louisiana,” TB says through bites of eggs. “There are three really good ones here. The Edinburg Scenic Wetlands has two ponds and a nature center but I don’t think the center is big enough to host a group from a convention, if John went there with other convention people. The Bentsen-Rio Grande Valley State Park in nearby Mission is the largest and would definitely be a place the group would meet and go bird watching.”
“Birding,” I correct him.
“Quinta Mazatlan, however you say that, has a Spanish Reviv
al adobe hacienda from the 1930s that’s close by and they have facilities that they rent out, so I vote for that place. That’s where I think this birding group met.”
The two women stare in amazement. I’m used to this by now. My apparently not-so-bright husband has a real knack for research. I send him an approving smile and he blushes.
“The hacienda, it is,” I say, sopping up my egg yolk with the last of my toast.
“Sounds like a plan,” Aunt Mimi reiterates, also sending TB a grin.
Portia stands and brings her plate to the sink. “Whatever,” she mutters and heads toward the bedroom.
“One last thing,” I shout out to make Portia pause and listen. “Sometime today we have to stop by the police station.”
Portia places her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. “What on earth for?”
TB empties his coffee cup and wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Because last night we thwarted a robbery at the nearby convenience store that’s apparently linked to some international drug activity and we’re suspects.”
Mimi stops eating and Portia’s eyes enlarge.
I nod. “And Dad is somehow involved.”
We pull up to the parking lot of Quinta Mazatlan and spot the lovely hacienda with the funny name. There’s a walkway leading inside that’s framed by what my father would call pollinators, flowers that attract birds, bees, and hummingbirds to pollinate the plants.
“It’s beautiful,” TB says admiring the house.
Aunt Mimi runs her hands over the flower tops and closes her eyes. I wonder if my witchy aunt is “communing” with nature. She looks at me, smiles, and nods. If that woman can read minds, I’m in big trouble.
Portia follows, arms folded, frowning. She’s still pissed about the trouble we got into the night before. TB and I explained how we stumbled upon the convenience store burglary and how TB’s quick thinking with the ice cream knocked the perp out but got him shot in the process. At that point, Aunt Mimi took a serious interest in his arm and insisted on treating it with a natural salve she carries everywhere. When I mentioned being questioned later, then Wanda surprising us with tales of my dad, Portia blanched.
Ghost Trippin' Page 7