by Jeff Abbott
“The only good that could come out of this is if he went bankrupt, maybe Wanda would divorce him. That’d get both her and that vulture Ivalou out of his hair. I hate to see him throwing money away, Davis. Can’t you talk him out of this crap? You’re a lawyer. He’d listen to you.”
Davis preened a little at the compliment, like a peacock settling its plumage before a flock of hens. “I tried, but Wanda’s got him by the short and curly. I’m not sure what he sees in that woman.”
I shrugged. “Isn’t it awful, Davis? He hasn’t even started and we’re both already sure he’s going to fail again. I ought to have more faith in him.”
Davis shook his head and adjusted his wire-rim glasses. “It’s hard to have faith in Ed’s entrepreneurial sense when you know his history.”
I started to tell him about Junebug getting called away because of an emergency (this isn’t New York, and we don’t have that many emergencies on bright fall Friday mornings) when a tinkling bell announced the early arrival of my newest volunteer, Gretchen Goertz.
Technically, Gretchen is my stepmother, in that she is married to my biological father. However, since most of Mirabeau still regards the late Lloyd Poteet as my dad, Gretchen being my stepmother is not a relationship I’d advertise. Neither would she. We just dislike each other too much. She resents my presence in her husband’s life and any attention and time he pays me. I take exception to the attempts she’s made to blacken my character and run me out of town. It’s a love-hate relationship in that we love to hate each other.
Bob Don (despite his kindness to me, I still have trouble referring to him as “my father”) had come to me a couple of weeks back and suggested that Gretchen volunteer at the library. I’d sooner have invited Jack the Ripper to restock the crime shelf while Genghis Khan minded military history and Joseph Stalin handled psychopathology. But Bob Don pleaded with me.
“I just hate that you and Gretchen don’t get along,” he had said in his most coaxing salesman’s voice, twisting the gaudy diamond ring on his right hand, “and I think if y’all worked together you’d understand each other. She’s trying, Jordy, to accept that you’re in my life. She’s been squeezing in a therapy session over in Bavary between her Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and she says it’s helping her deal with her anger.”
“I think she’d like to deal with her anger by eviscerating me, Bob Don.”
“Please, Jordy. I have never asked you for anything, but I am asking you to give her a chance.”
I’d had to consider it, of course. Bob Don pays for my mother’s home health care, which keeps her out of a nursing home and prevents my pocketbook from being pirated. But aside from that—he is my father, and I felt I should endeavor to make the relationship work. I’d counted to ten and, forcing a smile, agreed on a preliminary basis. Anyway, I’d needed a new volunteer to replace Candace, who was resigning from the library to reopen the Sit-a-Spell. I’d just made sure I wore an athletic cup to work the first day Gretchen showed up. I figured she’d appear, grouse, and then I could dismiss her with a clear conscience.
It hadn’t quite worked out that way. Gretchen, to my surprise, proved a conscientious worker and a quick study. Her only failing thus far was her nearly fanatical adherence to every letter of the rules (which I interpreted as I damn well pleased) and an occasional criticism of me, always couched in the most diplomatic and helpful language.
The library’s not so big. With one glance Gretchen took in Old Man Renfro with an empty coffee cup at the periodicals, Bradley Foradory looking at a freshly cracked book, and me having a tete-a-tete with Davis instead of devising an improvement over the Library of Congress system. I could see her whole body frost in about one second.
She stuck her head in my doorway. “Need any help?” she asked. I wondered if she’d left the front door open; seemed a little chillier in here all of a sudden.
“No thanks, Gretchen,” I said.
Davis stood, saying he had to go, but manners made him pause and inquire about my mother. I answered his questions briefly and politely; I know folks don’t like to talk about Alzheimer’s. They act like it’s catching. The niceties completed, he retrieved his son.
“All right, Bradley. Dad’s wasted enough time here. Time to go home.”
And I saw it. For a moment nakedly sharp fear crossed Bradley Foradory’s face. He flinched as his father reached for him. The expression vanished in an instant, replaced by the amiable, empty look Bradley usually wore. He let his father guide him to the counter. Bradley gave me the picture book.
“Thanks, Jordy. That’s a pretty book.” Bradley’s manners are far better than most people’s. “Pretty book.”
Gretchen snatched the book from me as soon as Bradley handed it over. Like I said, his manners are better than most.
“Well, if you want to check it out, you come back by later and we’ll have it all ready,” I offered. He gave me one of his purely happy smiles. He seemed okay. But I felt uneasy as I watched Davis steer Bradley out of the library. Was that boy afraid of his father? A vague apprehension tugged at me as they left.
Gretchen permitted me five blissful seconds of silence before starting. “This book hasn’t been processed, Jordy. You’re not supposed to let anyone have it until it’s processed.” Gretchen would’ve made a great librarian in the Dark Ages, when they chained tomes to shelves to keep them from being stolen. God only knows what vengeance she would have exacted as Bradley’s late fee. Probably she would’ve lopped off his arm and mounted it, book still in hand, above the return desk as a dire warning to all others.
“Gretchen, I’m not in the mood for this. I thought you came in to help, not to lecture me.”
“Well, pardon me, Mr. Lose-the-Taxpayers’-Money,” she huffed. She clutched the book to her blue argyle sweater vest and glared with her steely-gray eyes. “These books don’t grow on trees, you know. That little retard could have wandered off with it or—worse—drooled all over it.”
I glared at her. “I don’t like that word, Gretchen, not one bit. Please don’t use it again in this library.”
She surprised me by looking ashamed. She ran her nail-polished fingers through her short permed gray hair. “I’m sorry. You’re right; Bradley can’t help the way he is. I don’t know the fancy words for his condition, so I call ’em like I see ’em.”
I was still amazed she wasn’t quarreling with me. I softened my tone. “You can say he has a disability without hurting his feelings.” She nodded as though it took an effort. I’d suspected Bob Don had pleaded with her plenty as well. I knew she loved my father, that she wanted to make her marriage work, and that she’d make peace with me for that end. She’d already sobered up—and stayed that way.
I gestured toward the new books. “Since you reminded me—correctly—that the books need processing, go ahead and do the paperwork.”
“Okay, I will,” she said, back to her usual stridency.
“Fine.” I pushed the restock cart toward the shelves. Suddenly, fraught with worries about Junebug wooing Sister, Candace making a go of the cafe, my friend Ed losing his shirt to his female Elvis, having an ill staff, feeling unease over Bradley, and dealing with my favorite volunteer, I had a hell of a headache. If Darwin ended up in the religious section today, I wouldn’t be surprised.
I’d hoped to escape the library for lunch right before noon, but to my eternal regret, I didn’t. Friday at noon is a terror so complete, so utter, and so deep that no adult should have to withstand it.
Friday is Story Day.
The kids start arriving about eleven-thirty. And once they’re inside, their volume controls never seem to get adjusted. Games of tag in the stacks are extremely popular, as are attempts to smuggle in crayons, either for vandalism or for a delicious prelunch snack. The periodical section, usually habituated by the elderly, clears out faster than an after-hours beer joint when the sirens approach. Whoever said old folks crave the company of children needs to come into this library on a Friday and s
ee how spryly these eldsters get away from the little tykes.
Don’t get me wrong. I love children. Well-behaved children. In the “Look What’s New” bin I’m always displaying books on child discipline and the virtues of celibacy. But they just don’t seem to move. I might try personally recommending selected titles to folks who should reconsider adding to their brood in the future.
To my never-ending astonishment, Gretchen lives for Story Day. She wanders among the future embezzlers and spouse cheaters, sweetly cautioning them to “put that down” or “don’t put that in your mouth.” She insists on the little darlings calling her “Aunt Gretchen” and me (shudder) “Uncle Jordan.” It might be easier if a lot of the mothers stayed for Story Day (and several of the sainted ones do), but too many moms see it as the Friday babysitting service and duck out to shop or have lunch or meet some trucker out at the Highway 71 motel (also known as the Mirabeau Mattress) for a little midday epic of their own.
Either Gretchen reads stories to the assembly, or Miss Ludey Murchison does. Miss Ludey’s certifiably insane, in my opinion, but she likes children. And they love her. She’s around eighty and has a wonderful reading voice that is frequently broken by coughing or gasps for air. I’ve tried to break her of her occasional habit of chomping pears while she recites, but she says she needs her vitamins. Fortunately I know both Heimlich and CPR, so our bases are covered.
A huddle of pint-sized literati swarmed around my knees as I worked my way across the room. I’m convinced the large number of children in Mirabeau is a direct result of the town’s limited entertainment options. People really should read more.
“I did a doodie,” a diaper-clad individual of undetermined gender informed me. The speaker straddled my shoe while making this announcement.
I moved my foot back. “How nice.” I smiled encouragingly. “Go tell Aunt Gretchen. I’m sure she’ll be interested.”
The child tottered off, its balance suddenly at risk. Lord give me strength. I honestly didn’t expect the day could go further south. Until, that is, Trey Slocum wheeled himself into my library and I felt the cold hardness of hate enter my heart.
WHEN I WAS A SENIOR AT RICE UNIVERSITY, I went to a friend’s Halloween party. His family was a large, rambunctious Louisiana clan and they’d gone all out, festooning the house with goblins and ghouls and sticky, fake cobwebs. They provided an open bar and a couple of fortune-tellers. My friend’s great-aunt was one of the holiday seers, a drunken old woman who in hindsight was pathetic but at the time seemed terribly amusing. We all must’ve been drunk not to pity her. She was laying out ta-rot cards between generous gulps of red wine, and as she tossed a card toward me it spun flat across the table, whirling a hanged man’s picture. I flicked at the card’s corner, snickering, and made it twirl back across the smooth cherrywood tabletop. The old lady’s hand had lashed out, catching my wrist in a death grip.
“Don’t you laugh at fortune, little boy, and don’t you make it spin,” she hissed at me, the smell of cheap grape heavy on her breath. “Fortune always spins back around in good time. There’s no need for you to jostle the wheel.”
I quieted at this unexpected pronouncement, and my date pulled me away from the table to dance to the latest Depeche Mode song. I’d never forgotten what that drunken lady had said to me, though.
God, did Fortune spin around.
Before Trey came in, I was helping two new patrons: an attractive but rough-looking woman in her midthirties, and an intense young man, around thirteen. Judging by her hearty, ruddy complexion and weathered hands, the woman apparently spent a lot of time outdoors. She had brown hair that would have been beautiful if she’d just left it alone; instead she’d teased and moussed the front of it so hard it resembled a rabbit’s frizzy tail. I’d noticed her eyes, too—chocolate-brown ones, clear and intelligent. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but when you live in a town where some of the same families have lived for generations, you aren’t surprised by nagging thoughts that you may have met someone before.
“You ain’t the librarian,” she politely said after telling me her son wanted to get a card. Her eyes appraised me frankly and she had a crooked, sexy smile. “You don’t got gray hair and a gingham dress.”
“Not today. I only wear the gingham on Wednesdays.” I pulled out a blank form for her and the boy to fill out. “I’m Jordan Poteet.”
“Well, hello. I’m Nola Kinnard, and this is my son, Scott,” the woman answered. Her son was around my nephew Mark’s age, a plain-looking, brown-haired boy with a shy demeanor, a pug nose, and clear hazel eyes. He mumbled a quiet hello and offered his hand after his mother gently elbowed him, giving me a curt handshake.
While Scott puzzled over the form Nola Kinnard chatted about how much she enjoyed being back in Mirabeau. I glanced away from her and that was when I saw Trey Slocum, in a wheelchair, easing himself through the front door.
My whole body iced, held cold for a minute, then began a quick thaw as shock and anger heated me. Shock that he was in a wheelchair and anger that he was even in town.
He didn’t see me at first; he was examining the posters I’d made to advertise the kids’ Christmas-break reading program. Nola Kinnard still prattled at her son; her voice sounded as far away as though she were on the other side of the river. Slowly, I turned to her and said, “I’m sorry. What?” My own voice, usually a little raspy, was hardly more than a croak.
“How many books can he check out? Scott’s had to go quite a spell without reading and he wants to catch up.”
“I like the Dune books.” Scott spoke up finally for himself. His voice stood on the edgy brink of change. “I only got through the first couple before we left Beaumont and I—”
I’m sure there was more, and if I’d been in my normal mind I would have gladly listened. Finding a teenager who enjoys reading is gold in my book. But my eyes left Scott and Nola and went back to Trey, whose gloved hands were poised above the wheels of his chair. He was staring at me, stock-still in his own shock.
Nola Kinnard glanced to where I was looking and said, “Oh, honey, I thought you were going to wait in the car.” She narrowed her eyes at me, appalled at my rude ogling at a crippled man. She didn’t have a clue.
“Honey?” I heard myself repeating her words, and my voice sounded as dulled as an old knife. “You know that man?”
She looked startled at my tone. “Well, sure. Do you know Trey?”
“Jordy, my God.” Trey pulled up his chair across the floor and stopped a few feet short of me. He looked much the same as the last time I saw him, six years ago: cham-bray shirt, glossy black hair under a cowboy hat, twilight-dark eyes, fancy boots, a mustache and beard. But the patch of chest underneath the open V of the shirt looked wasted, the legs in the boots seemed atrophied under the jeans, and the skin behind the beard shone sallow. He smiled thinly at me. “My God, what are you doing here, Jordy? I didn’t know you were back in town—”
I found my voice. “Hello, Trey.” I made myself look at his face and not the wheelchair.
“Well, how nice!” Nola perked up. “Are you old friends?”
“We were, once,” I answered before Trey could—I wanted the record straight. My hands gripped the edge of the counter. “Trey used to be my brother-in-law. I take it you’re with him?”
Nola looked confused. “Yes, I’m with Trey … your brother-in-law?”
“Jordy, maybe you and I should step outside and talk.” Trey’s voice was low.
I raised an eyebrow. Oh, God help me, I wanted to beat the crap out of this man. Even if it was in front of a woman and boy he’d taken as his own. I sensed a presence near my elbow: Gretchen. I heard the faint drone of Miss Ludey reading “Rumpelstiltskin” to the children. “And no one knows my name!” she said in a guttural voice tinged with evil. Then Gretchen broke through the stony tension.
“Jordy, is there a problem?” Gretehen’s interference I didn’t need right now.
“No, Gretchen, there’s
not. Thank you, though, for asking.” I stepped around the counter and the Kinnards, glaring down at Trey. My hands closed around the handles of Trey’s wheelchair and I steered it toward the door. “Gretchen, would you please get Scott his card? And if you’d be kind enough to show him where the science-fiction books are—he’s a Frank Herbert fan.”
“Trey?” Nola’s voice trembled, not sounding nearly as confident as before.
“It’s all right, Nola. I’ll be back in a minute. I need to talk to Jordy in private.” I didn’t give him another chance to talk; I began pushing the chair rapidly toward the doors. For one awful moment I thought of shoving him through the glass, possibly one of the meanest fantasies I’d ever had, and I swallowed at the cruelty of it. Instead, of course, I opened the doors, left them propped open, and wheeled Trey outside. I shut the doors behind me. When I turned back, Trey had moved over to a stone bench in the shade of an ancient live oak.
The cooling wind that hinted at a coming blue norther chilled me as I crossed my arms and sat on the bench. The clouded sky was the color of old pewter. The scent of approaching rain and thunder rode the air, smelling like pennies stuck too long in a pocket. I didn’t speak, waiting for two elderly ladies to navigate their careworn way past us, smiling a greeting, and go into the library.
I turned to Trey. He stared into my face and lit a cigarette, shielding the flame from the November breeze. He didn’t look like his lungs could inhale half a puff.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you it was good to see you, Plum,” he said softly.
“Don’t you call me that,” I snapped. My grandparents had nicknamed me Plum when I was young, and Sister still reverted to it when she was feeling particularly tender toward me. Trey’d used it on me when he’d married Sister, first to tease me, but then out of real affection. Or so I had thought. A sour taste was in my mouth and I wanted to spit.
“Sorry. I guess I’m more glad to see you than you are to see me.” He blew smoke out, away from me. I watched it dissipate.