Promises of Home

by Jeff Abbott

  “Jordy.” Trey wheeled himself over. His face was ashen. “Jesus, I’m just sick about Clevey. I can’t believe he’s dead. Would you please wheel me in and go with me to see Mrs. Shivers?”

  The silence on the porch was thick. I didn’t know what to say. After my confrontation with Trey this afternoon, the last thing I expected was the olive branch of friendship. I glanced away from Trey, from Hart, from my friends, and blinked, Clevey’s face flashing before me. Our friend was dead. So I took hold of the handles of his chair before I could think further and gently pushed him through the open doorway.

  “Sure. Let’s go,” I heard someone with my voice say. I felt a soft pat on my shoulder and the bump of rings told me it was Eula Mae.

  Mrs. Shivers, of course, was glad to see Trey but was shocked over his condition. She hugged his spare form a long time, almost cradling him in his chair. He described his accident—in more detail than he’d given me. It happened in Beaumont. The bull had thrown him, then trampled over him. He mentioned vertebrae I hadn’t heard of before and that surgery wasn’t going to be a help. There was no self-pity in his voice, and Mrs. Shivers responded to that, his troubles supplanting her own for the briefest of minutes. I lingered for ten or fifteen minutes until I felt the need for fresh air. I stumbled back out to the porch.

  “Jordy, got a minute?” Hart Quadlander was by my side. I saw Eula Mae had once again cornered Steven Teague, who was placidly eating a piece of pecan pie. Davis and Ed squatted on the porch steps. Bradley softly crooned “Rock of Ages” to himself, swaying back and forth on the porch swing to his own beat.

  “What, Hart?” I stepped off the other end of the porch, suddenly feeling exhausted. I was ready to go home.

  “I know seeing Trey’s got to be hard on you. It’s damned hard on me, too.” Hart removed his hat and ran a hand through his brown-and-gray hair. “His father was my best friend, and that boy didn’t even come back for his own daddy’s funeral.”

  “Now you know who you’re dealing with,” I said. “Trey’s no saint. He must be the most selfish person alive.”

  “You think what you want about Trey. But he has come home, and I for one am glad. He feels sick over not having been here for his daddy—”

  “Or his wife or child,” I quickly added.

  “Okay. He hasn’t been here for anyone that cared about him. But he’s home now, and he’s hurting, Jordy. More than just being crippled. He’s hurting ’cause he knows he did wrong. He wants to make up for it.”

  “Well and good, Hart, but don’t you think that he ought to be the one apologizing, not you?”

  “I’m not apologizing for him. I’m just saying what I reckon’s brought him back. He faced death in that rodeo arena and it’s a damned scary sight. He’s come home to heal. I want you to help him, Jordy.”

  “Home to heal. That’s rich. He left gaping wounds here—and now he wants to be admitted to some emotional trauma ward. Well, maybe he should talk to Steven Teague. Coddling Trey just isn’t high on my list of priorities.”

  Hart pushed back his Stetson. “Look, all I’m asking is—”

  “Oh, no. No,” I said as a car screeched to a halt in front of the house, nearly smashing Hart’s truck. I’d have recognized that red Hyundai anywhere. Sister had arrived, and I could tell when she got out of the car she was in a killing mood.

  “ARLENE, SUGAR, HOW ARE YOU?” EULA MAE tried to intercept Sister like a Patriot missile, but Sister was not to be easily downed. I saw her scan the porch, then beeline toward me and Hart Quadlander. I sensed Hart tense up and I can’t say I blamed him.

  She barreled down on Hart, not even greeting him in this place of mourning. “Where is my ex-husband?” she demanded. I surmised she was past her shock over Trey’s return.

  “Arlene, hello.” Hart really should have taken that foreign service test; he’s a natural diplomat. “I know you must feel awfully upset—”

  “Shut up, Hart, and just tell me where Trey is,” Arlene snapped. “I don’t want to hear from you.”

  Now, I’d be the first to note that Sister can be a tad sharp-tongued. I’ve been sliced, diced, and julienne-fried by her more than once. But rude; that’s never been her style. I stepped forward and took her shoulder. She slapped my hand away.

  “Let me be, Jordan. I’m not about to be patronized by you.”

  “I’m not about to patronize you,” I shot back. “Listen to me, Sister. This is not the time or place for you to confront Trey. People are grieving here, including me. Now, if you have any common sense left or respect for the dead, you’ll go on home. How on earth did you know Trey was here?”

  “A little birdie named Ivalou called me. He’s in the house?” She’d ignored everything I’d said. “Fine. Either you get him out here or I’ll go in there and fetch him. Your choice.” She crossed her arms and I could practically see the roots shoot out of her feet. She wasn’t budging.

  Hart remained silent, and I saw the group on the porch had become still. I leaned in close to Sister’s implacable face. “Sister, please don’t do this. Please don’t do this to Mrs. Shivers. For God’s sake, her boy’s been murdered. You’ll embarrass yourself and our whole family.”

  Her mouth crinkled, but she wasn’t to be diverted. “I’m only interested in one former member of the family right now, Jordy. Go get him, please.”

  I knew from her tone that there was no arguing with her. All I could try to do was minimize the damage. I glanced at Hart and headed up to the house.

  Under other circumstances, Trey might consider me fetching him a rescue. He’d been cornered by Wanda Dickensheets and her mother, Ivalou Purcell. Ivalou’s not one of my favorite people. She always sweetens you up with honeyed words, but she’s so mean her folks fed her with a slingshot. I was not pleased she’d decided to phone Sister and stir up trouble. When I came in, Trey had a tired, indulgent smile on his face while Ivalou bragged about the fortune Ed and Wanda were going to see from their new Elvis emporium.

  Ivalou leaned in over Trey and patted her helmet of tightly curled gray hair.

  “I’m so glad you could come see poor Truda in her time of need. Of course it’s too bad you didn’t get to see Clevey before he passed away. Bad timing, I guess. Anyhow, I should go out and say hello to Hart. I haven’t seen him in several weeks.”

  Probably because he saw you first, I thought, but didn’t say. Ivalou was one of the more piranhalike of the local widows, avidly seeking bachelor flesh to sink her teeth into. Trey glanced up at me, clearly recognizing that he was caught between a rock and a hard place.

  “Ladies.” I nodded to Wanda and Ivalou. “If y’all will excuse us, I need to talk to Trey privately.”

  Ivalou Purcell kept her pasted-on smile glued in place. Wanda took the hint and steered her mother into a conversation with Cayla Foradory. Ivalou followed her, but not before sharing with us: “Yes, I’m sure you two boys have a great deal to catch up on. Seen your family yet, Trey?” She didn’t wait for an answer; she wasn’t interested in one, anyway. I waited until Ivalou was out of striking range before I leaned down to Trey’s ear.

  “Look, Trey, Arlene’s outside and she’s insisting on seeing you. If I don’t come back with you, she’s coming in here with both guns blazing, and I don’t want anything to upset poor Mrs. Shivers any further. So I’m sorry, but you’re going outside to talk with her.”

  I could feel tension surge through his body. “Why— why’s she here now?”

  “I don’t know. It’s your problem now, not mine.” I wasn’t about to get in between the irresistible force and the immovable object. I pivoted his chair on its back wheels and rolled him outside. His fingers, white with strain, gripped the armrests. Arlene wasn’t on the porch; she stood off a ways, on the grass. Hart Quadlander was talking to her, but she ignored him, her arms crossed against the cold. I saw Davis, an arm looped around Bradley; Eula Mae acting fretful; Steven Teague talking softly with Ed, who sat perched on the porch railing. Davis moved forward and
helped me carry Trey and the chair down the porch stairs. I pushed Trey toward Sister, the wheels rolling softly across the winter-dry grass, the ebbing breeze chilling my arms.

  I couldn’t look at Trey as I wheeled him to his ex-wife. Despite the anger I still felt for him, it smacked too much of serving the Christian to the lion. He was confronting the woman he’d abandoned, and there was no escape, and I wanted her to give him the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. But at the same time I felt sorry for Trey. And no, it’s not that men always stick together. He’d acted unforgivably. But there was something so terribly implacable in my sister’s face, even as the wreck of the man she’d loved was set before her. I prayed Candace never looked at me that way.

  Sister uncrossed her arms and put her hands behind her as I stopped Trey’s chair. She wavered for a moment; seeing him was unnerving; I knew that from experience. This was not the Trey she’d loved and bedded and bore a child with and grew to hate. This was some other man to her, and I could see the confusion cross her face. She looked at me; I shook my head. She glanced at Hart, who suddenly found a need to go up on the porch. I didn’t want to leave them alone, although I knew I should.

  Trey spoke first. “Hello, Arlene.” His voice was steady but not strong.

  “Trey—” She got the one word out before her voice failed her. She drew a deep breath. “You look awful.”

  “I know. You look great, though. Pretty as a picture.”

  The compliment was ignored. “Why are you back, Trey, and why didn’t you let me know?”

  “I wasn’t hiding from you, Arlene. I wanted to call, but I didn’t think you’d talk to me.” He maneuvered the chair so he could see both Sister and me. “I hear tell you’ve got this wonderful new diner. Maybe we can leave Clevey’s family and friends to grieve and go over there and talk.”

  As much as it pained me, I agreed with Trey. He was trying to defuse the situation and keep Sister from humiliating herself—or him, for that matter. The inevitable tears and recriminations would be easier to mull over if they were displayed in private, like photographs of intimate memories.

  “Look, Trey,” Sister said. “I just want to set the record straight. I don’t care that you’re back in town. I don’t care that you got hurt. All I care about is that you stay clear of my boy. You do that and we’ll be fine.” Great, I thought. Preemptive strike here at a house of mourning. Her shock must’ve fogged her judgment.

  “I’m not staying away from my son, Arlene.”

  “You don’t have any rights to him. You abandoned him. You gave up any claim on Mark and I intend to hold by that.” Her voice was more sure now, as though she’d slipped into her prepared speech.

  “I didn’t abandon him. I sent you money every month for him—”

  “There’s more to being a father than sperm and loose change.” Sister’s hands balled up into fists. “I’m sorry, but fatherhood isn’t like the rodeo. You don’t pass on riding the bull if he’s a little more ornery than usual. You have to get through the whole ride, Trey. You don’t have a boy, then leave him when he’s eight, then decide one day to come back.” She gestured at the chair. “Is that what this is? Hoping for Mark’s pity, now that you’re a cripple?”

  “Sister, please!” I said.

  Her glance at me had an edge to cut a throat.

  “What are you afraid of, Arlene? That he’ll want to see me?” Trey smiled, but without an ounce of warmth. “I think that’s what you’re afraid of, baby doll. You’re worried he’s gonna forgive me and like me just fine. A boy wants a father, God knows that’s true.” Bitterness tinged his voice and he stared down at the ground for a long moment, then looked up. “I’ll bet you Mark wants to see me. That’s what this whole little scene is about, isn’t it? I still know you awful well, Arlene. That’s just like you.”

  “You don’t know me. You don’t know a damned thing about me.” She pointed at his chair. “You’re not the same man you were when you left. Well, I’m not the same woman. I’m a whole lot tougher and smarter now, Trey. I’ve had to be. I’m not going to fall for any crap you give me about you wanting to be a father to Mark. If you cared about Mark, you wouldn’t have come home with a new family to rub in his face.”

  “Nola and Scott have nothing to do with Mark,” Trey said tightly. “They’re fine people, and they’ve been good to me. But they’re not my family.”

  “You’re so wrapped up in yourself you can’t even see how your actions hurt anyone else. That’s just like you, Trey.” Her voice mocked him, turning his words like a knife. “Go. Go somewhere else where you won’t be torturing your own child.”

  “So, finally, you admit that Mark is mine. I have every right to see—” And that’s when Sister stepped in and belted Trey. Not a slap, but an honest-to-God punch. His head snapped back. I heard Hart say “Jesus!” and Bradley cry out in surprise.

  Sister pulled Trey back into an upright position by his shirt. “You get this straight, you son of a bitch!” She was yelling now. “You come near us and I’ll get a restraining order on you double-quick! Mark is my baby—my child! You gave up any and all rights to him when you decided a bunch of stupid cowboys were more important than we were. And I hope when you die, God sends you straight to hell and lets a bull stomp on you for eternity!” She let him go and turned, stumbling, sobbing. I chased her and grabbed her arm.

  “Sister, for God’s sake!” I glanced back at Trey. His lip bled, speckling his shirt. He stared at Sister with stunned dark eyes. He buried his face in his hands—I couldn’t tell if in pain or in shame.

  “Let me go, Jordy.” Sister tried to pull away. “Let me go home to my boy.”

  “I don’t think you ought to drive.”

  “I’m fine to drive.” She shrugged off my arm. She watched as Davis, Ed, and Hart humed toward Trey. “I see he still has his friends. They’re bigger idiots than I was … to care about him.”

  “Sister, please, listen to me. I know you hate him. I don’t blame you. But I don’t think threatening him is going to do you or Mark much—”

  “Jordy, just shut up.” She examined her right hand; the knuckles were beginning to swell. “It hurts. I never hit anyone before. I thought it was supposed to hurt them, not you.” Her voice sounded ragged.

  “Please, let’s go home. I’ll follow you in my car.” I steered her to her Hyundai and got her inside. Davis ran up to me.

  “Jesus, is she okay?”

  “Yeah, I think.” Hart and Eula Mae tended to Trey, who wasn’t looking our way. Ed shuffled his feet nearby, shrugging helplessly at me. I saw Bradley on the porch, Mrs. Shivers standing by him, gently holding his arm. Wanda and her mother, Ivalou, took the scene in greedily, carefully cataloguing each moment for later embellishments. Steven Teague stood apart from everyone else, watching with a clinically emotionless face. Cayla Foradory smirked at me for one strange moment, then went to Bradley’s side, ushering him into the house.

  “See how Trey is—what his reaction to all this is,” I said to Davis, “and call me later.”

  “Why?”

  “Look, quit being a lawyer for a minute and be a friend. I don’t want him calling Junebug and filing assault charges against my sister.”

  “Considering how Junebug’s sparking Arlene, I don’t think there’s much danger of that.” Davis smiled.

  “Guess not. Look, I got to get her out of here.” Sister was already revving the Hyundai for all it was worth.

  “Fine. I’ll call you.” Davis nodded. I got into my car. Sister wheeled out and I followed, peering once in my rear-view mirror to survey the hornet’s nest she’d stirred up.

  Lightning flashed across the pitch-colored sky, its jagged edges cracking the vault of night. Time barely passed between flash and rumble; the storm was here, announcing its tumultuous debut. The rain began a slow but building patter on my windshield.

  My heart skipped a beat when I got home and a police cruiser was parked outside. Sister screeched into the driveway and I followed in my
Blazer. She got out and stormed into the house, not waiting for me.

  “Damn it!” I yelled after her, following her in. The police were here, but it was Junebug, sitting on the couch with Mark, watching TV. Mark stood when Sister came in the house. And was nearly knocked to the couch as his mother, sobbing, seized him in a bear hug.

  “Mom! Mom!” Mark complained, trying to breathe. She eased down, releasing him, covering his face with kisses.

  “Good Lord, Arlene.” Junebug stood and took her bruised right hand in his. “What the hell have you been up to?”

  I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t think Mark should know his mother had been beating up his father.

  “Mom, what happened to your hand?” Mark asked, then light dawned. “Oh, shit, Mom, you didn’t go belt Daddy, did you?” What can I say—Sister didn’t raise no fool.

  “Don’t say shit.” Sister sniffed through her tears. “It’s not nice.” She kissed Mark’s forehead once more and then leaned her head against Junebug’s chest, draping her arms over his shoulders and closing her eyes.

  I could hardly miss the look of sheer bliss on his face from this endearment. Mark didn’t care. “You punched Daddy? He’s in a wheelchair, for God’s sake!”

  “He’s lucky he’s not in traction. Now, Mark, go upstairs. I need to talk to Junebug and Uncle Jordy.”

  “Go upstairs, go upstairs,” Mark mocked in a singsong voice. “Mom, you can’t always send me upstairs, I’m not a little kid anymore. We got to talk about Daddy.”

  “Go on up, baby. I’ll be there in a minute,” Sister said. Mark’s eyes met mine; I shrugged. He went up, not looking pleased. I frowned. I’d never interfered with how Sister chose to raise Mark, but she was, in my opinion, still treating him like a toddler. He was fourteen, and while hardly grown up, couldn’t be dismissed from having his own opinion—especially as far as his father was concerned.

  I sat down while Sister told Junebug what happened at the Shiverses’. He shook his head. “Gad, Arlene, I understand why you’d want to hit him, but I wish you’d just stay away from Trey. You both need to cool down.”