by Jeff Abbott
This was not the answer Sister wanted. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to punch him for me, Junebug Moncrief. What with you being the law and all.”
“I’m not a mercenary, Arlene. Look, let’s get your hand doctored and you ought to get some rest.” He leaned down and pecked a kiss on her lips, then on her bruised knuckles. “Crazy gal.”
They went upstairs and I lay on the couch, listening to the noises of running water and slight laughter from Sister at one point. I turned off the TV and lay on the couch, taking deep breaths and feeling the tremor of thunder vibrate the house.
Eventually Junebug came down alone, wiping his hands with a towel. “Your mother’s asleep, and Arlene’s talking with Mark.”
“God, what a day.” I closed my eyes. “I feel numb.”
“She belted old Trey, did she?” Junebug sounded faintly amused. “I knew Arlene was a spitfire when she got riled, but I didn’t think she’d coldcock him.”
“I’m sure you’re delighted that she’s not running back to him with open arms,” I said, my eyes still closed. “What is Mark supposed to do, pretend his dad’s not back in town? He’s already made it clear that he wants to see Trey.” I sat up on the couch. “You want some decaf? I’ll make a pot.”
“Sounds good. I want to talk to you about Clevey, too.”
“Poor Clevey. He’s a hell of a lot worse off than Sister or Trey.” Junebug followed me into the kitchen and asked about Mrs. Shivers while I made the coffee. I told him who-all had shown up to render their sympathy. “Ed said you’d been by Mrs. Shivers’s place earlier. I thought you’d stop back by there when you got off duty.”
“I came by here first. I thought Arlene might need me more than y’all did.” He seemed embarrassed and kept his eyes on the counter. “I already saw plenty of Mrs. Shivers today.”
I changed subjects. “Did you know Clevey was seeing a therapist? A fellow named Steven Teague?”
Junebug shook his head. “Well, that’s not exactly the kind of thing a man shares with his friends. Especially someone like Clevey.” He shrugged. “I’m sure that he thought we’d all tease him about it.”
I watched the coffee brew. “That’s unbelievably sad, though, isn’t it, Junebug? We were supposed to be his oldest friends. Why couldn’t he come to us with his troubles?”
“Get real, Jordy. If you had a serious problem, would you go discuss it with Davis or Ed or Clevey?” He laughed. “I don’t think I would.”
“Still seems wrong to me.”
“You know, it’s not like you went straight to all those fellows when you found out Bob Don was your daddy. Why didn’t you?”
I shrugged. The coffee finished dripping and I poured us each a cup. “I don’t know. Davis would have wanted me to sue Bob Don for back support, I suppose. Ed would have given Bob Don a discount on his radio ads for being a friend’s dad or pointed me toward an appropriate Elvis song. Clevey would have made some stupid crack about it. And Trey—” I stopped. “It’s funny. Maybe only Trey would have understood. But he wasn’t here.”
“You said this therapist’s name was Teague?”
“Yeah, Steven Teague.” I handed Junebug the card and he pocketed it.
“I’ll have to give Mr. Teague a call. Find out what kind of problems Clevey was seeing him for.”
“Your privacy goes out the window when you die, doesn’t it?” I said.
He nodded. “Let’s talk about Clevey’s murder for a minute.”
Clevey’s murder. The possessiveness of those words— someone’s murder—has always struck me as odd. As if the murder was something that could belong to the victim, the final dignity as someone else emptied out his life.
“You said he was shot.”
“Yeah. Close range, in the right eye, one bullet, we think a thirty-eight caliber.”
I shuddered. Suddenly an image of Clevey in second grade, turning his eyelid inside out to gross out the girls, appeared in my mind. Memory is both damnation and blessing.
“Who found him?”
“A neighbor. She reported she’d heard a sound like a shot early this morning—around six—but didn’t think it was anything more than some kid shooting off a gun down on the river. She noticed Clevey’s car was still there in the driveway and thought he’d overslept, which he was prone to do. She found the door open and Clevey in the living room.”
“So why would anyone want to kill Clevey? Was it a robbery?” I couldn’t imagine the usually genial Clevey Shivers with an enemy. But he’d been seeing a therapist; how happy could his life be? Something must have been amiss for him to seek help.
“His place was ransacked, but the TV, the stereo, even the money in his wallet was still there. I don’t think this was a burglary that got interrupted. I ain’t sure what the hell to think.” Junebug stared down in his coffee. I’d known him long enough to see that a weight lay on his mind.
“You’re even more tense than I’d expect. What is it?”
“Whoever searched the house didn’t hit the bathroom too hard. I found this hidden in the bathroom, taped behind the toilet tank.” He went over to his briefcase. “You can’t tell anyone about this, Jordy. I’m only showing this to you ’cause you got a quick mind and you can keep your mouth shut.” He handed me an envelope, sealed in a plastic bag.
“Well, I can’t very well look in it. What is it?”
“Pictures and newspaper articles about Rennie Clifton.” He paused to let the name sink in. “I assume you remember her, Jordan.”
You never forget the first time you see death. I shivered, despite the warmth of the coffee. “Yes, I remember her. The girl who died in Hurricane Althea when we were kids.” I poked at the evidence bag. “Why would Clevey have this?”
He sat down again and rubbed his face. His skin looked sunburned despite the cool weather. “It’s not unusual that he might collect information on a tragedy that he was involved in. Maybe was going to write a newspaper story about it, although I can’t imagine for what reason. But if he was, why would he hide it on the back of the toilet tank?”
“What specifically is in it?”
“Newspaper clippings from when Rennie Clifton died. Our pictures, that awful group one of us the paper took after we found her body. An interview with her mother. A copy of the death certificate—killed due to a blow to the skull, probably suffered from flying debris during the storm.”
I sipped at my coffee. “But that was twenty years ago. And she died from an accident.”
“Maybe she did. But Clevey sure as hell didn’t.”
LONG, SLEEPLESS NIGHTS ARE NOT MY FAVORITES. Especially when spent alone. I’d called Candace at home after Junebug left; she’d closed up the cafe after a crawly-slow evening. I’d told her I didn’t feel I should leave Sister and Mark alone, and she agreed. I tried not to imagine how comforting her arms and lips and voice would be to me. I showered, pulled on a heavy robe against the cold, and slipped into bed.
Mark and Sister bickered into the night. Their voices floated through the wall, the thunder sometimes masking their words. Mark begged to see his father; Sister forbade him. I didn’t believe her approach was going to work; Mark sounded too determined. He might look like his daddy, but there was a lot of Poteet in him. I figured he was bound to get his way.
My domestic situation didn’t do a lot to keep my mind off Clevey. I kept thinking I should weep for him. But I couldn’t, not even in the dark privacy of my own room in the middle of the night. It was as though some veil had been drawn across my eyes and sadness wouldn’t seep through. His death still seemed unreal, although my friends and I had gone through the preliminary pantomimes of grief.
Rennie Clifton. I hadn’t thought of her in ages. That beautiful girl, unknown to me except in her death. I, of course, would never forget the horrible day my friends and I nearly died in the eerie rage of the tropical storm—or forget her eyes gaping at the greenish sky as Althea’s center passed over us. Clevey had run for Davis’s grandparents’ ho
use to fetch help while the rest of us waited, staring mutely at the body. I remembered Davis had thrown up, the sour stench of his vomit reeking in the humid air.
For a brief while we were celebrities in Mirabeau. I never want to be a celebrity again. When people asked what it was like to find a corpse, Rennie’s empty eyes would come back to me, lifeless as pebbles. My parents were terribly upset with me for sitting out the storm in a tree house, but the girl’s death tempered their rage; they knew it could have been me lying among the shattered trees, staring blindly up at the fortress of clouds. I remember my father spanking me, then stopping and embracing me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
In one of the wee hours of Saturday morning, I fell asleep and, thankfully, Clevey and Rennie stayed out of my dreams.
I awoke to a sky-shuddering thunderstorm, my skin feeling chilled under the comforters. I absently reached for Candace. Hell! I hate waking up alone now. I like to start my mornings with at least a kiss. Dragging the sheets above my head and trying to surrender to sleep didn’t help.
I found Mark downstairs, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the Austin paper. He tested the lip of the spoon against his mouth and watched me as I fumbled for coffee.
“Where’s your mother?” I asked.
“She went to the cafe. Said she didn’t trust that breakfast cook Candace hired.”
“She’s not going to have much business today.” I peered out at the rain. People who think Texas is the arid plain portrayed in Westerns need to come to Mirabeau and see one of our drenching, thunder-booming storms. Water pooled in our backyard, the hanging plants Sister kept on the back porch swaying in the wind. It was a cold, penetrating rain. I wrapped my hands around a warm mug of coffee.
I usually didn’t go into the library on Saturdays, but with both Itasca and Florence being out sick, I mentioned to Mark I might go. After, of course, a stop at the cafe to enjoy a few minutes of Candace’s company.
“Itasca called. She’s feeling much better and she’s going to open up this morning,” Mark said, watching me.
“Well, maybe I’ll go in later.” I sat down with my coffee and began to read the sports section. The lead story was a preview of the next day’s Cowboys game. I remembered with a jolt that the last game I’d seen at Texas Stadium was with Clevey and Ed. Ed had gotten tickets through a friend (those seats are like gold bullion) and we’d made a road trip to Dallas. This had been right before I moved to Boston to work for Brooks-Jellicoe, Publishers, and I remembered Clevey saying “this’ll be your last chance to see real football.” I wondered how many other reminders of Clevey lurked in my everyday life, waiting for me to lower my guard.
“Do you think Mom really hurt Daddy when she hit him?” Mark asked. He adopted a nonchalant tone to the loaded question.
“Probably not,” I said, although I figured it was a safe bet that Trey had a split lip and a sore jaw this morning.
Mark munched his cereal, but not for long. I could see him squirming in his chair, screwing up his courage. “Uncle Jordy, you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” His voice wasn’t much more than a hoarse whisper. It was the same tone I used to cajole my sister.
I looked up from the paper. “Within reason, Mark. Why?”
The floodgate opened. “I figured you would, and I don’t ever ask for anything—like, at least I don’t ask for much, but I need you to do something for me and I don’t know how to ask you, but—”
“Mark, what?”
He took a deep breath. “I want you to take me to see Daddy.”
I leaned back in the chair. “(Oh, that’s not a good idea, Mark. Your mother would hit the ceiling.”
“But it’s not fair! I should get to see him if I want to! I’m fourteen, don’t I have rights or something?”
“Look, it’s not a question of rights. It’s just that you need to let your mother calm down. She’s terribly upset right now and you visiting your father isn’t going to help her.”
“Never mind her. What about me?” Spoon clanked in bowl.
“That’s pretty selfish,” I said mildly.
“So? He’s my father. Mom doesn’t have to do diddly with him. Why does she have to decide for me?”
I leaned forward. “Mark, why do you want to see him? He left you, without warning, years ago. He hasn’t called, he hasn’t written. He hasn’t lifted a finger for you in all that time. So what’s the point?”
Mark stared down into his empty bowl. Thunder cracked like a giant’s bones over the house, and the kitchen table trembled. Lightning struck, and close. The hair on the back of my arms felt electrified.
Mark looked up at me, with eyes sadder than a fourteen-year-old should have. “I don’t know. I just want to see him. Isn’t that enough?” He paused. “What about when you found out Bob Don was your daddy? Didn’t you want to know him better?”
“Mark, that’s totally different.”
“Maybe so. You had grown up with a father. I haven’t.” His voice was soft and bitter.
“Then hop to it. You know he’s living at Dwight Kinnard’s—and old Dwight’s in the phone book. You could sneak over there. You just got to be prepared for the consequences.” I didn’t want to encourage him to disobey his mother, but I knew the idea had already entered Mark’s mind.
“But I don’t want to go by myself. What if he doesn’t want to see me?” He looked at me with his father’s dark eyes and thin-lipped frown. “Do you think he wants to see me?”
That was a question I’d sooner not answer. “If I take you to your daddy, your mother will skin my ass and make herself a wallet. And she’ll do the same to you.”
“She doesn’t have to know. If you go with me, she won’t get mad at either of us.” I didn’t quite follow that logic.
Mark explained, “She can’t stay angry. I’m her son and you’re her brother. She’d have to forgive us, right?”
“Pardon my skepticism. I saw last night just how tightly she holds a grudge.”
“Please, Uncle Jordy—you’ve known Daddy forever. Please go with me.”
I closed my eyes. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get in the middle of this feud. Taking sides was increasingly hard. I couldn’t forgive Trey for what he’d done, but in the two times I’d seen him, I’d sensed—what? Remorse? Or something deeper that made me feel leaving his family hadn’t been a simple jaunt in the rodeo? Maybe his accident opened his eyes to what was important. And Sister, she had every right to be angry—but to forbid Mark to contact his father was as much a punishment of Mark as it was of Trey. If Mark wanted to speak to his father, how could I stand in his way? I would give anything to see my daddy, Lloyd, who had raised and shaped me. I couldn’t; he was long dead. Now Mark’s father had come back from his self-imposed exile. Was I going to be a bystander to Mark’s pain—or a good uncle?
I got up and walked over to the phone before I could get all clever and analytical. I found Dwight Kinnard’s phone number in the book and dialed.
Trey answered. “Hello?”
“Hello, Trey, this is Jordan.” I saw the longing gleam in Mark’s eyes. “How are you feeling today?”
A moment’s pause. “Fine. Your sister’s got a hell of a right cross. But I’ve been hurt worse.”
And you’ve hurt others worse. “Look, I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’m going to put my balls on the line. Not for you, but for Mark. He would like to visit you.”
I heard a hard, long intake of hopeful breath on the other end. “He does? Arlene won’t approve of that.”
“Arlene doesn’t know, and she doesn’t have to find out until she’s calmed down. Do you want to see your son?” If you say no, you son of a bitch, don’t ever speak to me again. Mark hovered near me and I held my breath.
“Yes, God, yes, Jordy, thank you. Thank you.” The happiness in his voice was nearly physical.
“When would be a good time? I don’t think he’d feel comfortable around Nola and her son and her uncle.”
“How about
now? They’re all gone. Scott’s shooting baskets at that covered court over by the junior high. Dwight and Nola are running errands. Arlene’d be at her cafe, right?” Trey’s voice boomed with excitement.
“Let me see if I can get a friend to sit with Mama. We can’t leave her alone, and I’m not taking her out in this weather. Give us a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Jordy, God bless you. I knew you were still my friend.”
I hung up without further comment. Mark watched me, expectation in his whole face.
“Go get your jacket, and I’ll call Clo.”
He dashed for the closet, but found time to give me a quick hug on the way.
I’d been lucky—depending on your viewpoint. Clo Butterfield, Mama’s home nurse, was willing to come over for a short spell. Considering that she’s well paid by Bob Don to help us with Mama and that she’s the best nurse in Bonaparte County, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course it left me no final exit, no avenue of escape.
Mark and I ran through the rain, jumping quickly into my car. Dwight Kinnard didn’t live terribly far away (there are no vast distances in Mirabeau), and as I drove I watched Mark out of the corner of my eye. He fidgeted, fixed his hair, straightened his clothes.
“Uncle Jordy, do you think I ought to take him a present—since he’s been sick and all?”
A present. For the father who’d abandoned him.
“No, Mark. Trey ought to get you a present for being such a great kid.”
“Like I’m so great,” Mark snorted.
Yes, you are. I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and he stared out at the raindrops sliding down the glass.
We pulled up Moller Street and stopped in front of the Kinnard place. Moller’s one of the older streets in town, the pavement cracked and pitted. Cars on blocks didn’t decorate the front yards, but the grass was either overgrown or sparse from inattention. Backyards tumbled down to the overgrowth that surrounds the eastern bend of the Colorado. Mark stayed close to me as we ran through the downpour to the front door.