Bones of Contention

by Jeanne Matthews

  “Upstairs.” K.D. called out to her twin. “It’s your turn to take Cantoo for a walk, Thad. Do be mature and accept responsibility.”

  “Eat snot,” he shouted back and scuffed off down the lane.

  Eduardo bustled through the door carrying her suitcase in one hand and his Ned Kelly in the other. He dropped the suitcase, yoo-hooed for somebody named Mackenzie, and took Dinah by the hand. “Allons, cherie.”

  He led her through a dusky foyer and up a flight of narrow wooden stairs. There was a dank, fungal smell suggestive of a long wet season, the other extreme of the Dry that Jacko spoke of. They passed the first landing and headed up yet another flight. A rancid potpourri of mildew and must and dogginess emanated from the shabby carpet. When they topped out on the third floor, Eduardo ushered her down a long dreary hall with numbered doors on either side.

  “He’s in an artistic frenzy,” he said. “Très bizarre.” He rapped on the last door on the right and walked in without waiting for an answer. “Yoohoo! C’est nous.”

  Lucien sat in a wheelchair in front of an easel with a sullen frown and a loaded brush between his teeth. He didn’t look up.

  She said, “Hey, Dobbs. You don’t have to gush, but a smile would be nice.”

  He turned, trance-like, and seemed for a moment not to recognize her. He had a square jaw and deep-set blue eyes like his father, but there was a protean quality about his features that subverted the camera’s eye. No one had ever taken a good likeness of him.

  “Hey, Pelerin. Like a moth to the flame, huh?” Unlike herself, Lucien had never been self-conscious about his accent or tried to moderate it. His drawl was thick as grits.

  He put down the dripping brush and held out his arms. She hugged him as best she could while keeping clear of his bandaged, outstretched leg and the wet paint. His color was ashen, but she knew better than to go all fluttery and exclamatory.

  “How could somebody who was raised in the Okefenokee Swamp with copperheads and water moccasins for playmates let a little death adder sneak up on him? You should be embarrassed.”

  He grinned. “I am. Deeply.”

  Eduardo checked out his flawless appearance in the dressing table mirror. “I’ll go and do the social thing with Margaret and Neesha and leave you two to bemoan your miserable ancestry in private. Shall I send you up a snack from the kitchen?”

  “No thanks,” they answered in unison.

  “Then bye-bye until happy hour.” He blew a kiss over his shoulder and left.

  Dinah sat down at the end of the bed next to Lucien’s wheelchair.

  He said, “Eddie begged and wheedled until I said he could come and now all he does is bitch.”

  “He’s part of the family, too. He wants to help. We both do.”

  “Yeah, well. I couldn’t convince either of you that the best way to help me was to leave me alone. But then you’ve got bigger fish to fry, don’t you?”

  She tried to sound blasé. “Have you talked to Mom? She hasn’t changed her mind about coming, has she?”

  “Not to my knowledge. She sent Dad a farewell letter. The way he goes on about it, you’d think he sleeps with it under his pillow.”

  “That must frost Neesha.”

  “I can’t see how it wouldn’t. Let’s hope he doesn’t put you in her cross hairs by treating you as Mom’s stand-in.”

  “That’s not why he asked me to be here. Or if it is, he’s out of his gourd.”

  “Earth to Dinah. He’s always been out of his gourd and if he keeps crapping on everybody, we’ll all sing hosannas when he’s gone.”

  “I won’t. Jeez, Lucien, what’s wrong with you? You’ve had your differences, but if there was ever a time to mend fences…” She dabbed at a drop of red paint on his chin. “You and Cleon are just too stubborn to admit you love each other.”

  He scowled. “Why’d you come, Dinah? Really?”

  “I don’t know. To comfort you. To comfort Cleon. You know how good he’s been to Mom and me. I care about him. And I’m beholden.”

  “And?”

  “Okay. And I want him to fill in the blanks about my father.”

  “Your father did what he did, Di. You need to get over it and move on. Anyway, what makes you think my dad would know anything about your dad’s moonlighting? If Mom didn’t know about it, Cleon sure wouldn’t.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t know about the drugs, Lucien. But he and my father used to talk a lot. Men confide in each other sometimes, don’t they? Daddy might have said something to Cleon that he couldn’t or wouldn’t say to Mom. I have to know what was going on in his head that caused him to jeopardize everything he had for a sack full of money he didn’t need.”

  Lucien curled his lip. “Why’s everybody so fucking hung-up on the past?” He picked up his brush and slathered a thick stripe of carmine across the wet canvas. “What do you think of my new painting?”

  Baffled by his lack of sympathy but happy for a change of subject, she searched for meaning in the swirling shapes and drunken colors on the canvas. This was a radical departure from his usual work.

  “A monster? A red monster pointing a white stick?”

  “It’s a bone. You know about bone pointing?”

  “You know me, Lucien. Myths are my thing. Bone pointing is an Aboriginal hex. A way to kill somebody from a distance. I’ve read that some people believe the superstition so strongly that, if a shaman points the bone at them, they actually get sick and die. Mind over matter.”

  He applied another layer of red on top of the violent impasto. “I’ve been reading some Aboriginal myths myself. The deadliest of the bone pointers was a snake god called Taipan. If he got you in his sights, it was curtains.”

  “So that red blotchy thing is Taipan?”

  “You don’t sound impressed.”

  “Just puzzled by your change of style.”

  “When in Rome.” He leaned back and analyzed his handiwork. “It’s a little short on method, but I’ll get it. Anyhoo. This Taipan was a heavy-duty snake god. He could heal all kinds of ailments. He created blood and told it how to flow through the body so I painted him inside-out, all veins and raw meat.”

  “Lovely. What are those blue and green squiggles in the foreground?”

  “The wives. He had three of them, two water snakes and a death adder.”

  “Not too subtle.”

  He dipped a clean brush into a blob of white and scrawled a jagged Z pointing down from the Taipan’s other hand. “Maybe I’ve been possessed by the snake god. That’s how it is with a lot of Aboriginal artists. They don’t feel as if they’re physically doing the painting themselves, but some metaphysical force is moving their hands and speaking through them.”

  “Like a Ouija board.” She leaned back on the bed and propped on her elbows.

  “Could be. I’ve been reading a lot about Aboriginal art, too. Have you met Mack?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s got some pictures of snakes that’ll knock your eyes out. Speaking of snakes, there’s an actual snake called a taipan that’s fifty times as poisonous as a death adder. It would be a great way to snuff somebody.”

  “I hope your infatuation with snakes and death is a side effect of the meds you’re taking and will soon pass.”

  “Is that a comment about my character or my painting?”

  “It’s a comment on the climate. Everyone I’ve met today has been harping on murder.”

  “Murdah, murdah, murdah.” His voice rose to a girly falsetto. “Fiddle-de-dee, Miss Scarlett. This murdah talk is spoilin’ th’ fun at all th’ pahties this season.”

  She laughed and fell all the way back on the bed. The show of humor reassured her. “Not everyone’s obsessed. I met a hot bartender at the airport who bucked the trend.”

  “And are we meetin’ this hot bartendah again?”

  “Never you mind, big brother.”

  He grimaced. “Oh, I almost forgot.
Nick called.”

  “Nick!” She sat up as if she’d been stung. “How’d he get your international cell number?”

  “Beats me, unless you gave it to him.”

  Shit. She must have left it in the apartment.

  “He says to call him back ASAP. How’s ol’ Nick doing? The last time we talked, things between you two sounded serious.”

  “They weren’t. They’re not. Nick and I are kaput. If he calls again, tell him I’m in the wind. No forwarding address.”

  “Another one bites the dust.”

  “None of your gibes about my checkered past, Dobbs. I walked in on this one banging a redhead. What was I supposed to do? Give him a medal?”

  “Gosh, I dunno. Upbraid him severely?”

  “If I’d had a gun I’d have shot him dead on the spot.”

  “Now who’s harping on murder?”

  They both laughed and she felt better. She didn’t know how they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. “Now that I know the Taipan myth, the painting makes sense. Is that white zigzag coming out of his hand lightning?”

  “Yeah. Too bad I don’t have a tube of fluorescent white for the thunderbolt. Taipan zaps the wicked before he turns into a snake and disappears into the earth.”

  The door burst open with a loud crack. “Dinah, darlin’.”

  “Uncle Cleon!”

  “Come give us a kiss.” He held out his arms.

  She stood up and went to him. “Uncle Cleon, you look…fine.” He wore a quilted maroon dressing gown, a blue silk scarf tucked around his oak-thick neck, and a grin as wide and taut as a crossbow.

  “I ain’t hurtin’ none.” He enfolded her in a python embrace and planted a kiss on her forehead. His ruddy complexion and robust strength didn’t jibe with impending death.

  “Come on downstairs with me, doll, and let’s have a drink. We got ourselves some catchin’ up to do.”

  “I’m really frazzled. A drink would wipe me out.”

  “Bullpucky. If I remember rightly, you’ve got a head for spirits. You take after your daddy in that way. Your mama now, she’s apt to get a little too feisty on the firewater. I wish Swan could’ve been here. She’d sure liven things up.” He let out a wistful sigh. “But, no use bellyachin’. Lucien, your paramour sends word he’ll be up shortly to help you downstairs. Me and Dinah are gonna have ourselves a confab in the bar.”

  This wasn’t the Cleon she’d bargained on. Suddenly, she wanted an ally. “We can help you downstairs if you’ll join us, Lucien.”

  But Lucien shook his head and scowled at his painting of Taipan. “Y’all go on down and catch up. I’ll be down in a while.”

  “Take your time.” Cleon dragged her out the door. “Still woozy from the snakebite, I reckon. Or maybe he’s allergic to weasel fur. Did you know that’s what they make paint brushes out of? Weasels and squirrels. It can’t be healthy.”

  Chapter Six

  Cleon towed her down the hall, down the two flights of stairs, through the foyer and into a large, dim great room.

  “Name your poison, doll. Bourbon? Vodka? Scotch? I got a kind of genius for the classic gin martini. Dry as a nun’s fart. Will that do you? I asked the others to leave us to ourselves for a while. Too many mouths yappin’ and nobody gets a word in edgewise.”

  He stepped behind a tarnished mahogany bar and dropped some ice cubes into the scarred old silver shaker she’d seen him flourish so many times before. He’d carted that from Georgia, too. While he busied himself with the rituals of the perfect martini, Dinah perched on a bar stool and took in the ambience. Across from the bar a pair of murky windows looked out on rotting porch columns colonized by moss. Framing the view, faded green draperies draggled on the dirty wood floor. A pair of stuffed boars’ heads had been mounted on the wall on either side of the windows. Their dead eyes stared back at her with a penetrating hopelessness. A grouping of dilapidated leather chairs leaked gray stuffing onto the threadbare carpet and the dark paneled walls exuded the bleakness of a mortuary. Eduardo’s description of the place had been kind.

  Her reverie was broken by the sound of ice clattering inside the shaker.

  “You gotta bruise the gin to bring out the flavor, but you don’t want to inflict a mortal wound.” He unscrewed the cap and drizzled the icy gin into frost-rimed glasses. He clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s lookin’ up your record.”

  “Cheers.” Her initial plan to get blitzed and stay blitzed seemed the last best hope of cheer in this dump. She drained half the gin in a single gulp.

  Cleon sat down on the stool next to her and savored his drink. “Yes, I wish your mama was here to see me off to the hereafter, but it’s prob’ly for the best. Neesha don’t mind poor ol’ Margaret so much, but she’s tetchy about Swan. Can’t get it out of her head I loved her best.”

  Doesn’t, thought Dinah. Neesha doesn’t mind Margaret, you old liar. Did that slip out? The line between thought and speech had grown muzzy.

  She said, “This isn’t just another one of your all-inclusive Christmas parties, Uncle Cleon. At a time like this, any wife would want her husband all to herself. I’m sure that’s how Neesha feels. I know you and Margaret are still friendly, but you’ve been divorced forever. Couldn’t you have said what you had to say to her over the phone?”

  “Margaret and I were high school sweethearts. She was in on the ground floor. Havin’ her here with me now lends a kind of symmetry.”

  “You could’ve had your symmetry in Sydney and sent her home.”

  “We didn’t finish discussin’ our mutual creation, Wendell. Maggie frets that I don’t dote on her boy like I oughta. Thinks I play favorites. I wanted to talk with Swan about our mutual creation, Lucien. She mighta helped Lucien and me iron out a little misunderstandin’. But…” He chugged his martini, “I reckon a man can’t have everything he wants.”

  Dinah felt a pang of guilt. Her mother’s being here would have meant a lot to him. But she would have squelched all discussion of Hart Pelerin, the co-creator of Dinah. Call it symmetry or curiosity or plain old masochism, but once and for all Dinah wanted a discussion of her late father. There could be no reason to hold back now.

  Her mother had loved her father deeply, of that she was sure. Even when Dinah was a child, centered on her own grief and loss, she’d recognized the anguish in her mother’s eyes when the trooper told them he was dead. Swan hadn’t screamed or cried or put on a show of her grief. Not then. Not ever. There was a tensile strength in her, Seminole genes that wouldn’t surrender—to an invading army, to personal grief, to anything. She’d taken the hit, closed the wound, and gone on with her life. But for Swan, going on meant never looking back. She’d barred the door to the past. But the past didn’t belong to her alone. Part of it belonged to Dinah and she’d put off exploring it until the only other link to Hart Pelerin was on a fast countdown to oblivion.

  “What’s the matter, toots? Cat got your tongue?”

  “Why here?” she blurted.

  He erupted in laughter. “You ain’t changed a lick, doll. Run straight at it just like your mama. That’s what I’ve always loved about you.”

  She didn’t fault the man for his drawl, but the backwoods dialect was an affectation and after all these years it still irked her. Cleon was a senior partner in a prestigious international law firm with clients all over the world.

  She said, “You didn’t answer my question. Why not Sydney? Why not Oregon?”

  “I’ve got unfinished business in this neck of the woods. What’s on tap is gonna discombobulate some in the family.”

  “What kind of unfinished business?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” His blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

  Eduardo was right. He was up to something and he was enjoying it enormously.

  She couldn’t help but marvel at his zest for life, his determination to impose dominion over the House of Dobbs to his very last breath. For a few days more,
he would hold Death at bay and exert his earthly powers. Well, God bless him. If he left one heir a little more money than another or put a few strings on how his young widow could spend her bundle, so what? Amending his will was the last power he’d wield in this world and anyone who begrudged him the privilege was being petty.

  She said, “I hear you brought the Winslow Homers. What a beautiful idea.”

  “I reckon you’re the only one who thinks so.”

  “If they bring you pleasure, that’s all that matters.”

  “I ain’t got around to hangin’ ’em. We’ll have us an unveilin’ soon. Mack can scare us up some wine and cheese and make it festive like.”

  “Who’s Mack?”

  “He owns this place. I think of him as the cruise director for my final voyage. He keeps the deck chairs lined up, the liquor flowing, and our various druthers satisfied.” He refilled their glasses. “Lucien informs me you’ve got yourself a beau up in Seattle.”

  “Not anymore. We split.”

  “What’s the matter? He a dud in the sack?”

  “As the attorney I used to work for might say, your question lacks foundation and it’s way beyond the scope.”

  He cackled. “You’d be a hard witness to depose. Allow counsel to reframe the question. Are you well and truly shut of him or am I gonna miss your wedding?”

  “You won’t miss any wedding. Not mine. Not to…No, I’m definitely shed of him.” She was touched that the thought of missing her wedding would bother him. If she had married while he was alive, he would have been the one to give her away.

  “Uncle Cleon, I’d like to depose you about something. It doesn’t have to be tonight, but I want you to tell me about my father. The truth behind the facts.”

  “That’s a mighty fine distinction, sugah.”

  “You know what I mean. What was he thinking to botch up our lives the way he did?”

  Cleon skewed his mouth to one side and rubbed his jaw. “You asked me why here. I’ll ask you why now?”

  “I wanted the truth twenty years ago, but everybody coddled and there-thered me and I taught myself not to think about him. I had a secret mantra, one of Grandma’s Seminole sayings, and whenever his name popped into my head I’d say it three times to cast out his spirit.” She took a fortifying sip of gin. “It wasn’t very effective and, like they say, the truth makes you free.”