Shadows of Home: A Woman with Questions. A Man with Secrets. A Bayou without Mercy

by Deborah Epperson

Elita frowned. “What on earth could make him that angry?”

  “Royce has been on edge since last Friday when President Nixon announced American troops had invaded Cambodia.”

  “Uncle Matt and I watched the news reports about the protests at the universities. We feared sending the National Guard to Kent State would lead to trouble.”

  “Then you’ve heard about the clash between students and the Ohio National Guard?”

  “Four students dead and nine others injured. It’s hard to believe, but I don’t see how that constitutes an emergency for Royce.”

  “We were at the office when we heard the news about the shooting.” Cliff raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “At first, Royce didn’t say a word, then he went . . . crazy.”

  “Crazy? What do you mean?”

  “He started swearing and yelling how it wasn’t enough we’re sending boys overseas to die. Now, we’re killing our own right here at home. Royce kept repeating, ‘Now, we’re killing our own. Now, we’re killing our own.’ Then he took off before anyone could stop him.” Cliff stepped closer. “Me and a couple of the guys from work looked for Royce all afternoon. Around dusk, we found him at Paw Paw’s Tavern. It took the three of us to pull him out of that bar.”

  “He was that drunk?”

  “Yep.”

  “What happened when you got him home?”

  “He planted himself in front of the TV with a bottle of whiskey and insisted on watching the nightly news. It was weird.”

  “What’s weird about watching the news?”

  “Royce never watches the news because they always report on what’s happening in Vietnam.”

  “You mentioned that the day I visited Nettie.”

  “The longer Royce watched the television, the madder he got. He finished the booze just as a reporter began interviewing the parents of an injured student. Next thing I heard was glass shattering.”

  Anger flashed in Elita’s green eyes. “Damn it, Cliff, why didn’t you turn off the television and take away the whiskey?”

  “I tried, but I can’t control him when he’s like this.” Cliff rubbed his forehead. “I’ve put him in bed three times. Hopefully, this time he’ll stay there.”

  “If Royce is asleep, why do you need me?”

  “I want you to stay with him tonight so he doesn’t do something stupid.”

  Elita hadn’t seen or talked to Royce since that disastrous day at his office. Nine days ago if anyone was counting. And as much as she hated to admit it, she was. He’d called several times over the next three days, but she’d refused to talk to him. After that, he’d stopped calling. But now, as she watched light from his living room stream through the broken glass into the darkness beyond, she sensed his anguish. It weighed heavy in her breast, as if it’d originated in her own chest. That old chain that had once bound them as kindred spirits began wrapping itself around her heart, drawing her to him, pulling her closer to the intimate stranger he’d become.

  Elita sucked in a deep breath, blew it out. In a moment of clarity, she remembered the pain she’d felt when she’d discovered Royce hadn’t told her of his relationship with Starla. That pain still burned in her heart. Betrayal still lingered in her mind.

  “You’re his brother, you stay with him.” She headed for the door.

  Cliff grabbed her arm. “I have to drive to Houston tonight and I don’t think Royce should be alone. What if he gets up again and decides to go for a drive or take the boat out?”

  “Hide his keys before you leave.”

  “What if he falls or has an accident? He’s so drunk, I doubt he could phone for help.”

  “I’m sure Starla would be happy to stay with Royce,” Elita’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  “She can’t handle him.”

  “Then call Dorothea or the guys that helped you.”

  Cliff grunted. “Seeing Mother would upset him even more, and the guys work for Royce. In the mood he’s in, he’s liable to fire them. I can’t put them in that position.” Cliff laid his hands on Elita’s shoulders, looked her in the eyes. “You’re the only one I can ask. The only one I trust.”

  “Don’t do this to me.” She shook her fist at him. “I’m not his damn babysitter.”

  Cliff covered her fist with his open hand. “But you are his friend. You’re the one person he’ll listen to because he loves you.”

  “Loved. Royce loved me, but that’s all in the past.”

  “My brother loved you in the past. He loves you now. He’ll always love you.” Cliff rubbed his index finger across her knuckles until she relaxed her hand. “I’d wager you feel the same about him.”

  Elita pulled her hand away. “Do you really have to go to Houston tonight?”

  “Yes. Royce has spent months setting up a deal to purchase the drilling rights to a large tract of land in southeast Texas. We have a meeting in the morning to hammer out the final details and sign the papers.”

  “Can’t your Aunt Virginia’s husband do that? He is president of Sutton Oil.”

  “Something this big requires two signatures, Uncle Darwin’s and either Royce’s or mine. There’s no way in hell Royce will be able to make the meeting so I have to, but I can’t go unless I know someone is looking after him.” Cliff frowned. “Are you afraid of him? If I thought for a minute he’d hurt you, I wouldn’t ask you to stay.”

  “I’m not afraid of Royce.” Elita glanced at the window again. “I do owe you a favor for coming to my rescue that day at your office.”

  “Then you’ll stay?”

  She nodded, knowing she’d lost this battle the moment she’d felt Royce’s pain. “Do you have anything I could use to cover the window?”

  “There’s a tarp in the garage.” Cliff started for the back door, but Elita stopped him.

  “I’ll get it. You’d better be on your way. It’s a long drive to Houston. You’re not going alone, are you? You look exhausted.”

  “One of the guys from work is going with me. We’ll trade off driving.”

  She reached up and brushed a blond curl out of Cliff’s eyes. “Drive carefully. Watch out for deer and drunks.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” He hugged her. “I’m staying at Uncle Darwin’s new townhouse. I left the number for it and the glass company next to the phone.”

  Elita folded her arms across her chest. “It sounds like you were pretty sure you could talk me into staying.”

  “Actually, it was you I was betting on. No matter how angry you are with Royce, there’s no way you’d turn your back on him when he needs you. Right?”

  She let her silence confirm his statement.

  Cliff pulled his car keys out of his pocket. “There’s a flashlight in the bottom desk drawer. If Royce gives you a hard time—”

  “If that brother of yours gives me a hard time, I’ll lock him in the closet all night.”

  Cliff laughed. “That sounds like the Elita I used to know.”

  “We’ll be fine,” she said, hoping her prediction would prove true.

  * * *

  Elita turned on the light in Royce’s detached garage and switched off the flashlight. Shelves lined the entire west wall. Starting at the upper left corner, the letters of the alphabet had been stenciled along the wall above the section that held materials starting with that letter. Crates containing various kinds of balls rested beneath a large white B. Lanterns were located under the letter L. Just as she figured, Elita found several tarps folded neatly in a top section labeled T.

  The back wall held an assortment of ladders in ascending lengths, starting with a stepstool and ending with one eight feet long. Two longer ladders hung horizontally on the east wall above three fire-engine red Craftsman toolboxes that were clean enough to eat on. Everything shipshape and in its proper place. Typical Royce. This was the man she’d known and loved all her life—organized, meticulous, rational. So what internal demon caused him to drink to the point of losing control?

  Elita retrieved the stepstool,
climbed up on it, and rifled through the tarps until she found one that suited her. After hanging up the stool, she flipped off the light. A full moon and patio lights illuminated the path as she walked slowly back to the house. She was deep in thought, puzzling over Royce’s uncharacteristic behavior, when a sudden yelp startled her.

  She turned the flashlight on and pointed it in the direction of the sound. The water in the swimming pool shimmered with a greenish tint under the beam of light. A shed housing pool chemicals, potting supplies, and gardening tools stood fifteen yards beyond the pool. The flashlight’s ray didn’t extend that far, but the moonlight shone bright enough for Elita to give the small building a good once over. She saw no sign of movement and started toward the house again. The distinct sound of a twig snapping stopped her.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  Dead silence. Even the crickets hushed their serenade.

  She took two steps closer to the shed. “Is someone there?”

  The Caddo remained eerily quiet. The air around Elita thickened as she contemplated whether to return to the house or to inspect the small building. Her hesitation to march over and look for the source of the noise both annoyed and surprised her. When had she grown so cautious? Royce wasn’t the only one who’d changed.

  As suddenly as they had stopped, the night sounds of the Caddo started up again. Tree frogs presented a cacophony of overlapping croaks, while a great horned owl perched in the magnolia tree hooted its approval. In the distance, dogs barked repeatedly. Elita made another sweep with the flashlight. If some creature had been skulking behind the tool shed, it was gone now.

  Probably a deer or a stray dog, she thought as she hurried to the house. Once inside, she pulled the patio door closed. After a brief hesitation, Elita did something Caddo Lake natives seldom did—she locked the door.

  * * *

  Elita reeked of spilled whiskey. After covering the window, she’d decided to rid Royce of temptation by emptying his liquor cabinet. Some of the alcohol splashed on her shirt as she poured it down the sink. She needed a shower, but decided to check on Royce first.

  She entered the master bedroom expecting to find Royce passed out. Instead, she found his bed empty and the door to the side patio open. Worried he might have headed for the bayou, Elita raced outside.

  “Royce,” she shouted. “Royce!”

  “Here I am,” he called from the far end of the patio.

  She breathed a sigh of relief and walked over to where he sat on the ledge of a raised planter of perennials. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “The flowers needed wa … wa … watering.”

  Noting Royce’s lack of clothing and the absence of a garden hose, Elita quickly surmised how her drunken friend had watered the flowers. “With all the alcohol you have in your system, you probably pickled those poor plants.”

  He gave her a lazy grin. “When did you get here?”

  “About an hour ago.” She held out her hand. “Come on. Let’s go back in the house.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Cliff’s inside. Let’s stay out here and . . . cuddle.”

  “Cuddle?” She smiled to keep from laughing. “Since when did you like to cuddle?”

  “Starla likes to cuddle.”

  Elita’s jaw clinched. “Unfortunately for both of us, Starla isn’t here. Neither is Cliff. It seems you and I are stuck with one another.”

  “I’d rather be stuck with my . . . my Cricket than with anyone else . . . on earth.” Royce raised the palm of her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Her voice softened. “Let’s go inside.”

  Without warning, he grabbed the waistband of her shorts and pulled her onto his bare lap. “Let’s look at the moon and talk about . . . whatever . . . whatever pops up first.”

  “That’s a tired, old joke, Royce. It was never funny.”

  “I’m a tired, old man.” He rested his head against her shoulder.

  The weariness in his voice worried her. It seemed to stem from somewhere deep inside him. It was definitely more than the usual fatigue of the intoxicated. She lifted his face to see his eyes. “You’re not old, Royce. You’re just drunk.”

  “I’m drunk?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t feel drunk.”

  She chuckled. “You will in the morning.”

  He moaned and laid his head against her chest. “You smell good.”

  “I smell like bourbon and peppermint schnapps.”

  Royce nuzzled closer to her, nestling his face in the valley between her breasts the way a sleepy, suckled child would do.

  “Were you out by the tool shed earlier?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Did you hear me, Royce? I asked if you were out—”

  “We’re killing our own now,” he murmured as he tightened his arms around her waist. “Now . . . we’re killing our own.”

  An unseen hand reached into Elita’s chest and squeezed her heart. Cliff’s words describing the way Royce reacted whenever he saw a news story on Vietnam raced across her mind. Could the Kent State tragedy have triggered his memory of something that happened in Nam? He’d refused to discuss the war when he was sober, but maybe the booze would make him open up to her. She looked at him. He’d fallen asleep.

  Elita rested her cheek against Royce’s head. In a few minutes, she’d wake him, pull him to his feet, and wrestle him back into his bed. But for now, she’d take momentary refuge in his arms, savor the touch of his skin against her bare calves, and relish the tingle of his warm breath as it filtered through her thin cotton blouse.

  * * *

  Morning rays slipped through the half-drawn bedroom curtains waking Elita with a start. It took her a few seconds to remember how and why she’d ended up in Royce’s bed. His watch lay on the bedside table. Half past nine. She never slept this late, even on those rare days when she didn’t have to go to class or work.

  Royce stirred.

  She tapped his bare shoulder. “Are you awake?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She patted his shoulder harder. “Are you going to work today?”

  He moaned and pulled the sheet over his head.

  “I guess not.” She found her shorts and panties wadded up in the blanket at the foot of his bed. Her blouse lay on the hardwood floor. It’d been late when Cliff called, and she hadn’t bothered with a bra.

  Elita picked up her clothes and padded over to Royce’s side of the bed to gather his whiskey-soaked garments from the night before. She stood inches from him. “Are you going to get up and go to work?”

  He stirred. For a moment, she thought he might uncover his head and, seeing her standing there with only her bundle of clothes to shield her nakedness, pull her under the sheet with him and ravish her. She’d protest heartily if he tried. “Yeah, right,” she muttered, “the way you protested this morning.”

  Shortly before dawn, Elita awoke to find Royce fumbling with the zipper on her shorts. He’d managed to unbutton her blouse without waking her. She started to protest, to push him away, but his mouth had already latched onto her breast and his fingers had slipped beneath her panties and found their target. Her protest had been half-hearted at best.

  What was it about this man that caused her normally iron will to melt like butter in a hot cast iron skillet? She’d turned down several attractive doctors and an associate professor of literature without a second thought. And Keith—a man she’d fancied from their first meeting—courted her for a year before she’d agreed to share his bed. But all Royce Sutton had to do was touch her, whisper his need and her thighs parted. But then, she had needs of her own. Regardless of how much they fought or how painful their emotional roller coaster ride might be, she thought of him as her safe haven. When she was in his arms, no one could hurt her—no one but him.

  So around dawn, when his hands began to work their magic, she pushed him onto his back, mounted him and rode him hard. And she would’ve kept on ri
ding him except his bender from the night before diluted his usual self-control. It was just sex, she told herself as she drifted back to sleep, her own need satisfied but not fully sated.

  Now, as she watched the sheet rise and fall with the rhythm of his breathing, Elita felt a restless yearning followed by a moist stirring that signaled her body’s incessant craving to feel him inside her. I’m a fool for him. She took a last look at the lump that represented her slumbering lover before heading to the laundry room, mumbling, “It must be nice to be your own boss.”

  * * *

  Royce pulled out a dining room chair, eased his body into it. Elbows on the table, he rested his head in his hands. “Turn off those lights.”

  “There are no lights on.” Elita placed a cup of black coffee in front of him. “That’s the sun. It’s a beautiful day.”

  The sound of her voice made him glance up. “When did you get here?”

  “Around midnight.” She lifted his drooping head, forcing him to look at her. “Don’t you remember anything about last night?”

  “I remember fighting with Cliff.”

  “Was that before or after you broke the picture window?”

  “Huh?”

  She pointed at the window.

  He swiveled around. “What’s that . . . that thing . . . that green . . . .”

  “Tarp. It’s called a tarp.”

  “What’s it doing covering the . . . the . . . .”

  “Window.” She’d expected him to be hung over, but not this bad.

  He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “My mind feels as thick as my tongue.”

  She laughed and ruffled his hair. “I hung the tarp over the window last night to cover the glass after you hurled a Crown Royal bottle through it.” She gave him a few seconds to soak in the meaning of her words. “I called the glass company and gave them the dimensions. They’ll be out today to fix the window.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “They’ll be here. I told the manager it was for Royce Sutton.” She set a glass of orange juice next to his untouched mug of coffee. “The guy sounded positively giddy, so you can expect a nice fat bill.”

  “I mean, I probably threw a Jack Daniels’ bottle.” Royce yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been out of Crown Royal for a week.”