“Get him up,” Grady said.
“Let them go. It’s me Vick wants,” I said.
“It’s over. Accept it, Broussard,” Grady said.
I lifted Saber to his feet. He kept his weight on one leg, holding on to me, his face buried in my shoulder. “Two guys in a woody,” he whispered. “One block south. Greaseballs.”
I didn’t know how the information could help. But I knew that somehow the two assassins were related to our mutual fate, that their presence was part of the design, that somehow there was a doorway out of the black box we were in.
“Grady?” Valerie said.
“Yes?”
“Look at me.”
“There’s no point talking about it, Val.”
“Look at me, Grady.”
“What is it?”
“When you’re done with us, you’ll always be Vick Atlas’s tool. He’ll take everything you have. You’re weak. You need him, but he doesn’t need you. Why do you let him do this to you?”
“Shut your mouth,” Grady said.
“That’s it,” Vick said. He pushed Valerie and Saber out the door. Then he looked at the rain swirling in the trees. He picked up my hat from the floor and put it on. “Okay, you two, let’s take a ride. See you in a minute, Grady.”
I watched the three of them walk through the puddles in the driveway toward my heap. Saber was holding on to Valerie, his left leg almost collapsing with each step. Grady shoved me between the shoulder blades onto the porch. “We’ll cut through the side yard to the carriage house.”
A long ragged bolt of lightning split the clouds, and I saw the reflection glimmer on a station wagon parked one block south, just as Saber had said. We were about to enter the gate that gave on to the side yard and the swimming pool and the carriage house and Vick’s parked car. I was supposed to climb into the trunk and let Grady lock me inside. Down the street I heard the station wagon start up, backfiring once, like a wet firecracker. Then I knew what was going to happen. I was not prescient; I didn’t have an epiphany; it was the opposite.
I was at the side of my father the first time he went over the top. I was in a wheat field golden with heat and misty with blood, and among the martyrs like Felicity and Perpetua who died in a Carthaginian arena, and at the limestone wall among the farm boys from Ohio who charged into Confederate artillery with empty muskets. I knew that death wasn’t that bad after all, that it freed me from the earth and united me with brothers and sisters who were among the finest in the family of man.
I began running toward Valerie and Saber, waiting for Grady to take aim and fire at my back. But it didn’t happen. Instead, the driver of the station wagon pulled to the center of the asphalt and accelerated toward us, the car’s wake rippling over both curbs onto the lawns along the street. There was only one passenger. He was in the backseat, rolling down the window.
As he positioned himself and fitted the automatic rifle to his shoulder, I could see his white shirt, the bloodless pallor of his face, the delicacy of his hands, the flawless sweep of his hair over his tiny ears, the ease with which he sighted on his target and prepared to pull the trigger.
The weapon he held was known formally as the Browning automatic rifle and informally as the BAR. Its effect was devastating. As the station wagon closed on us, the line of fire was perfect. Probably two bursts would kill the four of us.
The driver clicked on his headlights, then hit the high beams, silhouetting Vick, my cowboy hat slanted on his head, his bandaged cheek as white as snow. I piled into Saber and Valerie and knocked them both to the ground and covered them with my body. The shooter opened up. There must have been at least one tracer round in the magazine. It streaked away into the darkness, maybe hitting the bathhouse in the side yard. The other rounds chewed Vick Atlas into pieces. His flesh, his hair, his clothing seemed to dissolve in the headlights, as though he were caught on wires. I could hear the ejected shells pinging against the station wagon’s window frame, the bullets thudding into a tree behind us. Then the station wagon drove away slowly, the profile of the shooter as sculpted and serene and immobile as a statue’s.
Vick had fallen into the water. I got up and pulled his body onto the swale and found the handcuff key in his pocket. I unlocked the cuffs from Valerie’s and Saber’s wrists and put Saber into the passenger seat of my heap. My hands would not stop shaking. I thought Valerie was crying. Or maybe laughing. Saber was grinning. I was sure about that.
Behind me I saw Grady running down the sidewalk, staring back at us like a frightened child.
Epilogue
THE POWER WENT back on, and one house after another filled with light, as though the Angel of Death held no dominion in this green-gray, moss-hung urban forest on the rim of the industrial world. I went back into the house and called the police. Then I made a second call, one I have never told anyone about until now.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, Miss Cisco.”
“Aaron? What kind of mess are you in now?”
“Long story. You have a key to Grady Harrelson’s house?”
She paused before she spoke. “What do you think?”
“Detective Jenks said he plans to go to Mexico. I bet he’d like to go there in a Caddy convertible. It’s pink. You’ll find it in Grady’s basement.”
The line went silent again.
“Did you hear me, Miss Cisco?”
“Where’s Grady?”
“He just barreled butt down the street. On foot. I don’t think he’ll be back for a while.”
“What’s happened, Aaron?”
“Vick Atlas got blown apart by the Atlas hit men. Vick shot my friend Saber in the foot. He and Grady were going to put us in a junkyard compactor after Vick chain-dragged me behind his automobile.”
“You’re making this up.”
“Suit yourself. It’s going to be raining cops and newspeople in a few minutes. If you’re interested in the Caddy, I’d visit a little later. I doubt they’ll pay it any mind.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You’ve got to do something for kicks,” I replied.
I NEVER SAW GRADY again. He avoided prosecution by tying up the process in the courts and eventually going bankrupt. Some said he was terrified of Jaime Atlas and hired bodyguards who beat him up and raped him and left him naked in a ditch. Five years later, I heard he married a former actress who produced pornographic films and lived in the Hollywood Hills. In 1967 he was found dead in a hotel on East Fifth Street in Los Angeles, a hypodermic needle in his arm.
Eighteen months after the shooting, I received a letter from Mexico City. It read:
How are you doing, kiddo? I hope you got your life straightened out. I can’t necessarily say I have, but at least I’m not putting the joy juice in my arm. You were a sweet kid and you got me a little bit excited on a couple of occasions, so I apologize to you for that, but hey normalcy was never my strong suit, which doesn’t seem to bother M. a lot. He says to tell you hello and to ride it to the buzzer. He’s on radiation and I’m on wrinkle remover, but we have oceans of money courtesy of you-know-who. Am I regretful for having been in the life? I’d have to think on that. As Benny used to say, “It beats the fuck out of pushing a bagel cart.”
The letter was unsigned.
Saber dropped out of school during the fall semester and joined the army. In the spring of 1953, he was MIA at Pork Chop Hill. His name showed up once on a list of POWs at Panmunjom, but he was not repatriated, and nothing was ever learned about his fate. There were rumors about American soldiers having been moved across the Yalu into China and perhaps even the Soviet Union, where they were used in medical experiments. Saber’s father died and his mother went to work at a record store in West University and for years wrote letters to the government and spoke to anyone who would listen about her son’s fate, until she went mad. I have always wanted to believe that Saber survived, that the trickster from classical folklore who had lived in our midst and hung his flop
per through the hole in the ceiling above Mr. Krauser’s head was still out there, screwing up things, ridiculing the pompous and arrogant, getting even for the rest of us. And that’s the way I will always think of him.
The following year the vice president of my father’s company invited him to go on a duck-hunting trip down at Anahuac. He asked because of my father’s genteel manners and his ability to speak with corporate people on any level about any subject. My father looked upon the trip as an obligation, not a pleasure. On the way back to Houston, he was sleeping in the passenger seat of the vice president’s Cadillac. The hour was late, the highway white with fog. The vice president rounded a curve and plowed into the back of a disabled truck. For reasons never explained, the truck driver had not placed reflectors or flares on the asphalt to warn oncoming traffic. My father was flown to Houston. He died the next day from a blood clot, while I was en route from college to be at his bedside.
My mother lived to be one hundred and two years and asked nothing from anyone and took care of herself until the end. I became a writer; I didn’t become a musician. But Loren Nichols did, and he dedicated a song to me and Valerie from the stage of the Grand Ole Opry.
What about Val and me? There is a certain kind of love that’s forever. It’s not marked by a marital vow, or social custom, or gender identity, or the age of the parties involved. It’s a love that doesn’t even need to be declared. Its presence in your life is as factual as the sun rising in the morning. You do not argue in its defense or try to explain or justify it to others. The other party moves into your heart and remains with you the rest of your days. The bond is never broken, any more than you can separate yourself from your body or soul.
At age seventeen Valerie and I became one person, unable to enjoy pleasure without the presence of the other. The changes in our lives, the geographical separations, the pull of the earth on our bodies, none of these things ever affected the contract and bond that took place in our youth; over the years neither one of us ever suffered a tragedy or bore a burden or celebrated a success without the involvement of the other. I could not draw breath without feeling that Valerie Epstein was at my side.
I guess I’ve learned by now that the past can be a prison. But there are memories you never give up. They remain painted on the air. They come to you in a song, a sunset on the ocean, a palm tree stiffening in the wind. When I hear of wars and rumors of wars and I tire of my fellow man’s destructive ways, I think about Valerie Epstein beside me in my heap on the last day of summer in 1952, the two of us roaring full-out down the boulevard on Galveston Island, the sun a molten ball sinking into the Gulf, the waves slate green, curling with foam just before they burst in an iridescent spray on the beach. The stars were already out, the drive-in where we met wrapped with yellow and red neon, the cars parked under the canopy glowing in the light like hard candy. When she pulled herself against me and held her head tight against my shoulder, her hands squeezing into my arm, I knew that neither of us would ever die, that life was a song, eternal in nature, and the smell and secrets of creation lay in the tumble of every wave that crested and receded into the Gulf. I also knew that the gifts of both heaven and earth would always remain where they had always been, at our fingertips and in the shimmer we see in the eyes of those we love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my editor, Ben Loehnen; my copy editor, E. Beth Thomas; and my daughter, Pamala Burke, for their invaluable help in making this novel one of the best I have written.
Simon & Schuster Reading Group Guide
The Jealous Kind
By James Lee Burke
This reading group guide for The Jealous Kind includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author James Lee Burke. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Introduction
In 1952, Houston, Texas, is as much a city of souped-up pink convertibles and Friday-night ice cream dates as it is a backdrop for violent class warfare and horrendous crime. As seventeen-year-old Aaron Holland Broussard discovers, offending the wrong person—in this case, Grady Harrelson, the son of one of Houston’s wealthiest men—can have deadly consequences. When Aaron gets between Grady and his girlfriend, the beautiful Valerie Epstein, he sets off a chain of events involving the darkest elements of Houston’s criminal underworld—a trajectory that tests his courage, honor, and capacity for violence.
Topics & Questions for Discussion
1. How does Burke’s portrayal of postwar Houston challenge or complement your preconceived notions about this time period?
2. In the opening scene of The Jealous Kind, Burke writes, “My experience with the jellyfish seemed to characterize my life. No matter how sun-spangled the day might seem, I always felt a sense of danger.” How does this statement set the stage for the rest of the novel?
3. While Aaron’s entrée into Houston’s criminal underworld is inadvertent, he doesn’t shy away from conflict with Grady and Vick Atlas; in fact, at times he dives headlong into the tension. Do you find Aaron sympathetic? What would you do if you were in his shoes?
4. The Jealous Kind takes place in the long shadow of both World Wars and in the midst of the Korean War. Discuss the legacy of wartime violence in the novel, and how the heroic tales of an older generation of veterans impact Aaron and his peers.
5. The fathers of Aaron, Saber, Valerie, and Grady all loom large in their respective lives. Compare and contrast how each of these characters are defined, inhibited, or inspired by their fathers.
6. What is the significance of Aaron’s “spells”? Do you think his memory loss makes him an unreliable narrator? Why or why not?
7. Discuss Burke’s portrayal of class conflict in The Jealous Kind. How are the characters defined by their socioeconomic status? What unlikely alliances bridge differences of class, religion, and race?
8. As two of the most important people in his life, Saber and Valerie exert a certain influence over Aaron’s decision-making; however, they don’t always see eye to eye. How do Aaron’s loyalties shift over the course of the novel? Do you agree with his treatment of Saber, in particular?
9. Aaron’s coming-of-age as a friend, lover, and son is at the heart of The Jealous Kind. How does Aaron evolve over the course of the novel? What major plot points shape his character development?
10. Aaron narrates the novel from an undefined moment in the future. How did his retrospective commentary impact your reading of the novel? Why do you think Burke chose to frame the narrative in this way?
11. The Jealous Kind features a vibrant cast of secondary characters, from the seductive and damaged Cisco Napolitano to scrappy Saber Bledsoe. Which character was your favorite, and why?
12. On p. 90, Valerie tells Aaron, “Some people are the jealous kind. . . . They don’t love themselves, so they can’t love or trust anyone else. There’s no way to fix them.” In light of this statement, what do you think is the significance of the novel’s title? Which characters are “the jealous kind”?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. Read another novel in the Holland family series (http://jamesleeburke.com/books/the-holland-family/) for your next book club meeting. How does this novel complement The Jealous Kind? Which did you prefer?
2. Look up the Houston neighborhoods mentioned in the novel and conduct a virtual tour via Google Maps. How does present-day Houston compare with Burke’s rendering in The Jealous Kind?
3. Cast your film version of The Jealous Kind. Which actors would you want to play the main characters, and why?
4. Learn more about James Lee Burke by visiting his website (http://www.jamesleeburke.com) or following him on Twitter (@JamesLeeBurke).
A Conversation with James Lee Burke
What was your inspiration for The Jealous Kind?
I
wanted to write a book that I believed was an accurate portrayal of the 1950s. I believe most of the books written and the films made about that seminal decade are fictions.
As a Houston native, did you draw on aspects of your own life to write this novel?
The characters and events in a story have their inception in the unconscious. Art is a different kind of reality and in many ways is more truthful than factual reality. Aaron Holland Broussard is one of my favorite protagonists. He’s an emblematic figure rather than a biographical one, as are the other players in the story.
Can you tell us a bit about your writing process? Does it vary from novel to novel, and has it evolved over time?
My writing habits have never changed. I start in the morning, work into the afternoon, rest for a bit, and work some more. I also work in the middle of the night. I do this seven days a week until the book is finished. I can write a book this way in about one year.
While you’re best known as a novelist, you’ve worked in a number of different industries over the years. Has your diverse work experience shaped your writing, if at all?
Yes, I learned a great deal in the oil fields of the Deep South and also as a case worker in Los Angeles. I also learned a great deal about how the poor are exploited.
If you could choose one message or lesson for readers to take away from The Jealous Kind, what would it be?
Love is eternal. So is courage. And sometimes we find both virtues in unexpected sources.
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