by Jeff Abbott
“So how much is my land worth to you?” We’d slipped into the gentle flirting we’d done so well and so often back in Boston. We used to stay up late, munching popcorn and watching videotapes of the Thin Man movies—and exchanging verbal salvos as if we were Nick and Nora.
I could hear Clo rumbling around upstairs, obviously preparing to join us. And the chicken enchiladas smelled nearly ready.
“I can’t make the offer. That has to come from Greg. Maybe he can meet with you tonight.”
“Let’s eat first, then discuss this further.” I called upstairs to Clo, then went into the kitchen. “You’ll stay for dinner, of course,” I said. I went into the kitchen and opened the oven door. Lorna leaned over my shoulder, sniffing at the casserole dish.
“Maybe I will stay.” Lorna peered at the bubbling mix of cheese, jalapeños, and tortillas that smelled like a corner of heaven. “It just depends on what the hell’s on the menu.”
Watching Lorna eat her first bona fide Mexican meal while juggling conversation with Clo was a great entertainment value.
“Mrs. Butterfield, Jordan tells me you do a wonderful job with his mother.”
“Try to.”
“So, are you a lifetime resident of Mirabeau?” Lorna asked as she filled her plate with two thick, cheesy chicken enchiladas.
“Yes.” Clo had obviously taken her monosyllabic pill while upstairs. She watched Lorna guardedly and began to eat.
Lorna gave me her don’t-we-have-a-live-wire-here look and I smiled. It bothered me, though, that I could still interpret Lorna’s glances so easily. Under the circumstances, it made me damn uncomfortable to have such easy nonverbal communication flashing about. How readily could she read my face? I suddenly felt as naked as a newborn.
“So tell me, Mrs. Butterfield …” Lorna attempted again. “You must get a tremendous amount of satisfaction out of nursing.”
“I see why you like him.” Clo jerked her head toward me. “You talk just as much as he does.” With that, she popped half an enchilada into her mouth and began to chew with great dignity.
That silenced Lorna long enough for her to try Sister’s culinary treat. She surveyed the spicy quagmire on her plate, scooped some on a fork, and popped it into her mouth. Popped is the correct verb, as her eyes then proceeded to pop in surprise and she rapidly popped the top on a new bottle of beer and began to gulp down the icy brew.
Clo and I smiled over the peppers on our forks and proceeded to eat them with great relish, little sweat, and no beer. When Lorna’s vocal cords quit smoldering she stared at me with one eyebrow raised. “It’s that war thing, isn’t it? You lost, so when one of us comes down here you try to rupture our internal organs with this Tex-Mex concoction.”
Clo made a choked chuckle and I was saved from replying literally by the bell. I scooped up the phone receiver, swallowed my mouthful of enchilada, and said a hello.
“Jordy, you must honor my request!” It was Miss Twyla and she was apparently reliving her previous life as a Byzantine empress. She clearly expected me to fetch every time she barked.
“Calm down, Miss Twyla. What’s the matter—”
“The crowd will be such at tonight’s meeting that my little living room can’t hold them all. May we use the library instead?”
“I suppose so.” I checked my watch. It was a little past seven. “Still starting at eight?”
“Yes, dear. Nina, Tiny, and I will call everyone and let them know of the change in plans.”
“Excuse me. Did you say Tiny is there?”
“Yes, Jordy, and what a wonderful help he’s been. I’m sure the meeting will be an orderly one with Tiny’s help. I’ll leave a note on my front door for those we can’t reach by phone. Perhaps you can meet us at the library a little before eight.”
“Certainly. See you then.” I hung up. Oh, great. Now Miss Twyla had gotten Tiny Parmalee involved. My evening was complete. I would spend my evening with my ex-teacher with a cause, an environmentalist windbag who bossed folks around, and the fellow who’d bullied me and every other kid at Mirabeau Elementary. I’d have to make sure I’d hidden my lunch money before I headed over to the library.
Clo had finished eating and was rinsing her plate in the sink. Lorna’s plate was also clean, except for the pile of sliced jalapeños she’d pushed to the rim.
Clo excused herself to check on Mama. I told her I’d be gone for a while, but should be home by ten. She agreed to stay with Mama until I returned, then went upstairs.
“Delightful woman,” Lorna observed. “A graduate of the Nurse Ratched School, I take it?”
“Clo doesn’t like Yankees.”
“I don’t get this Yankee garbage. Why do Southerners continue to mope about the war? I’m a little tired of being referred to as a Yankee and having it sound like I’ve got a venereal disease. People down here don’t try to get to know you before they make judgments—”
“Sorry, but no sympathy. Now you know what I went through in Boston. Like the times folks made fun of my accent by repeating back everything I said, all the times I was asked how many oil wells I owned, all the times people wondered aloud if I was a member of the KKK.” I cleared our plates and began to wash them. It wasn’t easy using my one good hand, but I managed.
She was very close behind me before I realized it. “Then how about our own little Appomattox? I suggest an immediate peace treaty.” Her palms, generous as the rest of her, slid up and down along my sides in a gentle rhythm. My body began to respond before my mind did. By that time her hands were in full exploratory mode and I dropped the plate I’d been trying to wash into the soapy lake of the sink.
“Lorna—” I whispered as I turned to her.
Her mouth covered mine and goddamn it, I let it. I’ve no excuse. It felt like we were back in her apartment in Boston, the ever-present noise of traffic outside her kitchen window. But as hard as she was kissing me, I was kissing back and cussing myself for doing so. After several seconds I broke the kiss and turned my head.
“My arm hurts when we get that close.”
“I didn’t even touch your arm.”
“I’m—involved with Candace, Lorna. I care about her. I think I’m in love with her.”
“You think! Love isn’t something you think. It’s something you know.” She pulled back from me. “Look, Jordan, I’m not good at this confession stuff. I don’t lay out my heart very easily. But I was wrong, dead wrong, to let you come back here without a fight. What was I supposed to do—say no, don’t go take care of your mom? What kind of selfish monster would I be if I said that? I never loved you more than when you said you had to come back here to help your family. Everything you were willing to give up for the people you loved, it just amazed me. You’re the most kindhearted man I’ve ever known.” She broke eye contact with me and stared at the floor. “I can’t compete with a sick woman who desperately needs you. I haven’t known what to do for months now. I was paralyzed. Then I end up going to work for Intraglobal and I nearly died when Greg told me we were coming to Mirabeau to do this deal. I couldn’t believe it. The coincidence just seemed too great. Then I realized: some things are just meant to be. God’s dropping you back in my lap, Jordan. Your land and the condo deal—they don’t matter except that they’ve allowed us to be together again.”
I could still taste her on my lips. Turning away from her, I wiped my wet hands on a dishrag. For once in my life, I was speechless. In three years Lorna had told me she loved me maybe once or twice. She was not a woman given to emotional pronouncements. I was even less likely to voice the L-word, and I couldn’t believe I’d confessed a depth of affection for Candace to someone else. I couldn’t still love Lorna; I couldn’t. I didn’t need the complication. So why did I suddenly feel so weak-kneed?
Miss Twyla had provided me a coward’s perfect escape route and I took it. “I have to go to a meeting at the library. Some folks aren’t much in favor of this condo development and want to hash it out. I’m not taking their s
ide yet, but I owe it to them to hear what they have to say.”
“Don’t.” She reached out and turned my head back to her. God help me, I wanted to kiss her again. “Listen, babe, I know this has to be a shock to you. Seeing me again like this. But don’t turn away, please, not again. Not when you can be so much more.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s incredible that you’re taking care of your mom, and that you’ve found your dad. But what else does this place offer? I expect you to want a hell of a lot more.”
“More? More what?” I asked, my throat feeling raw. “I don’t need to be in the corporate game again to feel like I’m accomplishing something, Lorna. I take care of my mother; we’ve only had Clo’s help for a few weeks. I run a library, and even a small one’s a big concern. And my relationships with Candace and Bob Don have taken time and effort. I think what’s raising your hackles is that I’ve found a niche and it doesn’t automatically include you.”
Lorna released a breath she’d obviously been holding for several moments. “I see. Well, I was right. Our relationship should be put on hold while we’re discussing business. I apologize for kissing you and for resurrecting our past. I’ll let you get to your meeting.” She turned on her high heels and went back into the living room. “Thank you for dinner,” she called as I heard her shuffle papers back into her briefcase. “Please give Arlene my regards, and tell her I hope to meet her while I’m in town.”
I came into the living room, not knowing what to say. She finished her packing perfunctorily, nodded, and left. The door slam echoed in my mind for a long while.
CHAPTER FOUR
I’VE NEVER BEEN A FAN OF MEETINGS, BUT FOR Miss Twyla’s sake, I put on my best public-librarian smile. I’d heard Lorna’s side of the development issue—and fairness demanded I listen to Nina.
I’d arrived in time to unlock for the three of them. Tiny Parmalee stood close by Nina Hernandez and it wasn’t hard to see why he’d evinced sudden interest in riverfront development. She was just the plain kind of woman that he always fell for.
Every time I see Tiny, I recall our first instance of quality time. He’d always been bigger than all the other kids, even since first grade (hence his nickname). He’d also been dumber. That’s not a crime in itself, but coupled with his stupidity was a particular brand of meanness. Tiny was damned unpleasant and he took comfort in that.
Our first and only fight had been in third grade. Naturally it was at recess, the only time in the scholastic day that Tiny ruled as king. The boys played softball or touch football and the girls played tetherball or tag, chasing each other with screeches of delight. It was the autumn of 1971 and Mirabeau schools had finally settled into integration. It had been a surprisingly easy process; most people in Mirabeau who objected (and let’s be blunt, most people did) had decided that it was inevitable and they might as well go along. Kids being kids, necessity won out over prejudice; to have two teams for softball during third-grade recess, every able-bodied boy was needed. So the whites graciously agreed to play with the blacks, and the blacks graciously agreed to play with the whites.
Tiny was not exactly on the cutting edge of societal change, then or now. If memory serves, he objected to his team losing because of a run batted in by a boy named Michael Addy. Michael was a fair fielder but a great batter, and his skin was as dark as an eggplant’s.
Even in third grade Tiny towered over the other boys, and when he’d decided to beat up Michael for hitting in that run, no one seemed inclined to interfere. Michael was the biggest of the black boys but still no match for a genetic oddity of size like Tiny. He had Michael, his nose bleeding and mashed, in a headlock. The black boys stood in a group of their own, none daring to take on the giant. The girls, both white and black, huddled together, watching the dusty display of male violence with distaste and horror. I clearly remember one of the black girls screaming at the boys to do something. A few of the white boys stood in open approval of the spectacle, while others stayed silent, toeing the dirt of the field. And no one, including myself, dared to fetch the teacher, knowing what Tiny’s ire would bring on us later.
I don’t know what made me do it. I was not tall in those days; my growth spurt didn’t hit until I was in high school. I didn’t care too much if the white kids and the black kids got along. Michael Addy wasn’t a friend of mine. I only remember thinking that if my daddy found out I stood by while another child was beaten, how disappointed and mad he’d be. I knew that from experience.
“Say it,” Tiny huffed to the prisoner of his arms. “Say it slow, like I told you to.”
To this day, I can hear the crack of Michael Addy’s voice, his throat trapped in Tiny’s heavy arms, a voice that begged for release: “I’m—I’m a dumb nigger.”
“Good. Now say it loud so ever-body knows what you are.”
I put my hand on Tiny’s shoulder. “Stop it.”
The shock in the crowd was not nearly as great as the shock on Tiny’s pug face. He wore his hair in a crew cut then, and his hair was so white he nearly looked bald. He glanced at my hand on his stout shoulder. “What the hell you doing, Bo Peep?”
Tiny had altered my surname to Bo Peep and got no end of amusement from this ingenious pun.
“You made him do what you wanted. Leave him alone.” I tried reason. “You better let him go before the teacher gets out here.”
Tiny looked at me as though I’d just announced that he himself was a dumb nigger. He dropped Michael Addy, who promptly and wisely took the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Tiny, scrabbling across the softball field grass to relative safety.
“You takin’ up for that nigger, Bo Peep?” Tiny squared his shoulders and looked down at me. I suddenly felt very fragile, but all of a sudden I was madder’n hell. Tiny had never bullied me physically, but I’d grown tired of that nickname and the way he pushed people around like checkers on a board.
“Just leave him alone. He didn’t do nothing to you.”
“I don’t like losin’ to an uppity nigger.”
“You don’t like losin’, period. Well, ever-body has to lose sometimes. You can’t always win.” I wanted to turn and walk away, my speech complete, but I knew that I could not turn my back on Tiny Parmalee.
He wiped a bit of spit off his lip, his hand forming into a fist as he dragged it across his mouth. “You just love them niggers, don’t you, Bo Peep.”
“I just don’t like you pushing people—” and that was as far as I got before he belted me. I fell to the ground, my lip cut and bleeding instantly. I’d never been walloped in the mouth before, and damn if it doesn’t hurt like the dickens.
Instead of sitting there and crying about the agony in my lip like any sensible boy would have done, I instead meted out more punishment for myself by tackling Tiny, low near the ankles. He didn’t have good balance because of his size and he fell, fortunately not landing on me. There was an ooh from the crowd and several boys, from the safety of distance, began yelling encouragement to me.
Tiny only knew power, not strategy, and I didn’t know much about either. I had been in only one other fight in my life—and I’d lost. And my struggle with Tiny quickly degenerated into rolling around in the gritty dirt of the batting area, surrounded by screaming and cheering schoolmates who surged back and forth in rhythm with the fight like a fickle tide.
I was losing, though. We’d tussled past the fence that marked the boundaries of the old baseball lot, rolling onto unmowed grass. Tiny huffed and puffed like a dragon trying to rouse up a steamy breath of fire. I could tell his anger was boiling over; he should have dispatched me easily, but I was quicker and stronger than he had figured. If he didn’t win soon, his standing would fall in the playground, and that he could not tolerate. Cussing, he pinioned me on my back and his hands closed around my throat.
“I’m a-gonna squeeze real hard, Bo Peep, unless you tell everyone what a nigger-lovin’ faggot you are.” His eyes softened, not in an
y mercy but in that he sensed victory. A drop of his sweat fell into my eyes, like Chinese water torture. His raggedy fingernails pressed crescents into my throat. I thought about all of Tiny Parmalee’s weight crushing on my windpipe and tried not to be scared.
“No,” I gasped. “No.”
Tiny leaned down harder on my throat and dark circles began to form over his face. The screaming of my classmates was far closer, but seemed to be growing distant I felt his fingers digging into my neck, seeking out the air in it like it was an intruder. And, shockingly, I saw the glint of murder in Tiny Parmalee’s eyes. His rage was so intense that, had we been alone, I’m certain he would have killed me. He was the sort of boy who would set a worm on fire and laugh at its wriggly dance of death. I stared back into his eyes and he saw that I saw what he was, the gaze between us as intimate as lovers. His grip tightened.
My hands lashed out and my right one caught metal. I had a vague memory of a stake thrust in the ground, tied with a yellow ribbon at the top, marking a corner of the softball field. Only an adrenal surge gave me the strength to pull the stake out and bring it down in Tiny Parmalee’s back.
Honestly, I didn’t do much damage. My aim was horrendous and I didn’t hit his back so much as pierce his side. It didn’t even crack a rib, though it cut through some flesh and bled profusely. I’ve no doubt that it hurt like hell.
What undid Tiny was his scream. He howled as that stake scored him, and his scream was like a girl’s—high-pitched and full of powerlessness and fear. Breaking his throttlehold on me, he reeled away, holding his side and screeching at the blood that spilled from him. He was the only one screaming on the playground now; the other children were stunned into silence.
I didn’t do a victory jig. I opted to roll over, gasp repeatedly, and finally throw up in the mashed grass of the field. I lay there, unmoving, until a teacher cradled my head in her lap and told me I was okay.