Do Unto Others

by Jeff Abbott

  The phone jangled, interrupting my thoughts. Candace scooped it up. “Mirabeau library, Candace speaking,” she said. Her eyes frosted lightly. “Why, yes, Ruth, he is. One moment.” She handed me the phone. “Your little friend in white. Although why she’s allowed to wear that color I don’t know.”

  Old Man Renfro and Gaston stared at this unusual ferocity from Candace. She smiled sweetly at them.

  “Hello, Ruth?” I said.

  “Jordy, hi. Listen, I only have a minute. I understand from Junebug that you found Shannon Harcher today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you might want to know her condition.”

  “I tried earlier, but they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  “She’s in a coma,” Ruth said, her voice lowering. “She’s got a depressed skull fracture. There’s been a lot of bleeding around the brain. She’s going to need surgery.”

  “My God! Do you think she has a chance?” I thought of telling Mark that she didn’t and dreaded it.

  “Yes, I do,” Ruth said. “The bullet didn’t actually penetrate Shannon’s brain. It hit and deflected at a fairly thick part of her skull. Her face is going to need some fixing later, but if they can relieve the pressure around the brain, I’d say her chances are good. She’s young and strong. They’re getting in a specialist from Austin tonight.”

  “Oh, God, I hope she makes it,” I breathed. “Thanks for calling and letting me know.”

  “I knew you’d be worried about her,” Ruth said, her voice sweetening. “And I have a selfish reason for calling, too. I hoped you might be able to come by the hospital now. I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “I don’t know, Ruth. We just reopened the library and I’m pretty backlogged.”

  “I’m sure Candace can handle that. She seems extraordinarily capable of taking care of all those mundane, boring details,” Ruth said. “Please, Jordy, it’s important. I’ll expect you here in about fifteen minutes. Meet me in the front lobby.”

  I hesitated, then decided to take her up on her offer. “Okay, fine. I’ll be there. Goodbye.” I replaced the phone receiver in its cradle. I looked at the trio before me. “Shannon Harcher’s in a coma right now, but they think she has a chance. She’s undergoing brain surgery.” That last part seemed a good segue, so I added: “They need me to come down to the hospital.”

  Candace’s eyebrows arched. “They do, do they? Are they looking for a brain donor?”

  “Yes, I mean, no,” I muttered. “Look, Candace, can you keep this place open just another hour or so? I really do need to go down to the hospital and see how Shannon’s doing.”

  “Sure, why not?” she said. “It’s not like I had any other pressing engagements this evening.”

  I thanked her, and thanked Gaston and Old Man Renfro for their help. Picking up my notebook on Beta, I dashed into the late afternoon sunlight.

  I hate the smell of hospitals. I tried to ignore the heady mix of antiseptic, bland food, and general illness that pervades that mecca of modern medicine, Mirabeau Memorial. Ruth met me in the front lobby, holding a Baby Ruth candy bar that she said was her snack for a quick break. She munched on it as we walked through the hallways.

  “Junebug has Shannon Harcher under police guard,” she told me. “Whoever hurt her isn’t going to get another try.”

  “You know they’ve made an arrest?” I asked.

  She shook her head. I told her about Eula Mae.

  For a moment, there was complete shock on Ruth’s finely featured face. She blinked and the surprise dropped away like flaky makeup. “I suppose they must have had good reason for that. Yes, I can see Eula Mae killing someone.”

  I stopped and waited for an overweight aging candy-striper to lumber past us, out of earshot. “Really? I thought you looked surprised there for a second. Were you expecting someone else to be arrested? Bob Don? Matt? Me?”

  “I’m sorry Eula Mae was arrested. I know she’s your friend. You don’t have to take your anger out on me.” Ruth pouted, her pretty little lip trembling.

  I frowned. I don’t like pouters and I especially don’t like fake pouters. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to blame you. Now what was this business that was so darned important, Ruth?”

  The lip slid back in like it was automated. Ruth took my hand, looked both ways down the empty hospital hallway like she was crossing a street, and led me into a room. It was an empty private patient’s room, the only light burning a dim one from the bathroom. She leaned against the heavy door and it slowly closed.

  “Ruth—” I began, but her mouth didn’t let me finish. She pulled my head down to hers, kissing me hard, tangling her fingers in my hair. It’s no excuse, but I hadn’t been kissed like that in ages. Her mouth tasted of warm chocolate and caramel. My body responded while my mind continued to mull over the implications.

  Her hands ran across my body, feeling, lightly exploring. Fingernails nipped playfully at sensitive areas and I gasped, pulling her closer. She broke the kiss but kept her mouth scantly off mine.

  “See there? We make a good team. I knew we would,” she breathed softly into my face. “See? I can help you and you”—she squeezed my buttocks—“can help me.”

  “Okay, Ruth,” I said, restraining the urge to kiss her again. This sounded more like negotiations of commerce than declarations of affection or even lust. “What do you mean by all this?”

  She kissed me hard again. I pulled back.

  “How would you like,” she said, pressing her breasts against me, “to be sure your mother’s never in a home?”

  It wasn’t the question that I was expecting. My mouth opened in surprise and she covered it with her own. She pulled away and flicked her tongue across my bottom lip. I closed my mouth and pulled away from her.

  “What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Be at my house around ten tonight, and I’ll tell you,” she said.

  “No, Ruth, tell me now. I came all the way over here—”

  “So I could let you know how I felt. And see how you felt.” She laughed, sliding her palms along my back. “And you feel wonderful. This is just a warmup, darling. We need privacy.” She jerked her head toward the door, and I heard a faint murmur of voices beyond, talking about an IV drip.

  “Ten? Be there, Jordy, you won’t regret it.” She gave me a quick, decorous kiss. “Now I’m going to walk out. You walk out about a minute later. I don’t want my coworkers to gossip about me.” She turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the darkness. I stood there, counting to sixty, then walked out into the brightness of the hallway. Ruth stood at the far end of the hall at the nurses’ station, talking over a chart with a young nurse. I turned and walked the opposite way.

  I sat in my Blazer for a few minutes. Ruth sure liked to dangle carrots in front of your face, hoping you’d take a bite. She knew from my response that I was attracted to her. I was, physically. But I didn’t care much for this secretiveness. If she thought it was alluring, she was wrong. I wiped her lipstick from my face with my handkerchief. I wasn’t sure that I would go see her at ten.

  I started up the engine, but I didn’t particularly feel like heading back to the library and seeing Candace. I didn’t feel guilty per se, but I wasn’t comfortable about talking to Candace right after I’d been kissing another woman. And I hadn’t even kissed Candace. Go figure.

  Instead of heading back to the library, I drove in the direction of Bob Don Goertz’s house. I’d meant to get back to see him, but I hadn’t had a chance. Seeing Ruth reminded me about the fight she claimed to have witnessed between Beta and Bob Don. I thought it was high time I found out a little more about that particular incident. Odd the whims that take us, and forever change our lives.

  I HEARD GLASS SHATTER AS I WALKED UP TO the Goertzes’ front door. The door was made of thick wood and beveled, frosted panes that you couldn’t see through. My first thought was that someone had dropped a glass in the kitchen, but my finger hesitated above
the doorbell. I wasn’t even sure what I’d heard. I stepped back from the door and looked up at the sprawling colonial home. The car business didn’t seem to be hurting too badly, I thought. I put my head back to the door, leaning my forehead against it, strangely reluctant to ring the bell. I heard voices raised, Bob Don’s among them, pleading. I pressed the button and the bell rang, echoing inside the home. I heard a shouted “No!” and stepped away from the door, thinking this was not the time for a social call.

  I’d made about three backward steps when the porch light snapped on and the door opened. It wasn’t just an entrance; it was a crutch. A woman I recognized from the framed photos in Bob Don’s office leaned against the door; she would have fallen if the door hadn’t been there. In the pictures in her husband’s office she looked like a typically meek, quiet small-town housewife. Now she looked like a street-worn harridan. The hair-sprayed halo in her pictures was gone; a lank length of graying dark hair hung past her shoulder. She was in a rumpled pink housecoat that looked as if she’d slept in it. Her eyes, dulled as dusty marbles, blearily blinked and found me in the porch light.

  “Mrs. Goertz—” I began, ready to beat a hasty retreat. I wanted no part of a drunken scene. Sister was right; I could smell the whiskey on Gretchen Goertz like she’d bathed in it.

  “Well, here you are. I know you. I know you.” Her voice sounded like a thumb scraping a dry, empty bottle. I couldn’t remember that I’d had the formal pleasure of meeting Mrs. Goertz; Lord knows she would have made an impression on pert’ near anybody.

  “Mrs. Goertz—” I tried again, taking another step back.

  “You come in here. You come in here and watch me kill him,” she rasped. I stopped moving backward. She swayed in the doorway like a snake and I decided to try charm. I’d talked a drunken high-school friend down from the water tower when I was a teenager; I could handle a wasted Gretchen Goertz.

  “You doing okay, Mrs. Goertz? You feeling all right?” I said in my most syrupy, friendly good-ol’-boy voice.

  “Fuck you,” she said in clear, ladylike enunciation. “I told you to come on in here and watch me kill him.”

  “Now, you’re not wanting to kill anyone, are you, Mrs. Goertz?” I wheedled. God, no wonder Bob Don smoked heavy and kept a pint at work, if this was his domestic life. She was scaring me, and now I wondered what might happen to Bob Don if I didn’t check on him and get her sobered up. He hadn’t come to the door, and I didn’t think most men would let their wives hold drunken tête-à-têtes with the neighborhood.

  I moved back onto the porch, and she flung the door wide open. In better light she looked worse. “C’mon in, kid. C’mon in and see all the hell you’ve caused me.”

  I was firmly of the opinion her hell was a private matter between her and Jack Daniel’s. I went into the entry hall, moving past her, not looking at her. I saw a living room ahead and headed for that.

  The living room was blasted with light. It was oblong, with a fireplace in the middle, pale and uninspired furniture on each end, and a wet bar on the side of the living room that led toward the kitchen. The carpet was a light beige and I wagered it was well worn by Gretchen’s slippers as you got closer to the bar. An oil painting of Gretchen Goertz hung above the cold fireplace, where a shattered glass sparkled. Broad swipes of paint made the portrait look better than the model.

  Bob Don huddled on the couch, his broad face in his hands. He was crying. It was not a hysterical kind of sobbing, but a slow, methodical weeping, like he was cleaning out the closet of his soul. I could see the mark of fingernails cutting across his cheek, bisecting one of his long sideburns.

  I stepped to his side. “Bob Don? You okay?”

  He looked up at me, not registering me for a moment. He blinked tears from his reddened eyes. “Oh, Christ!” he said, his usual heartiness gone. “Oh, mother of Christ! You got to leave, Jordy. Just leave.”

  I knelt by him. “Listen, Bob Don. Gretchen’s drunk and saying she’s going to kill you. Why don’t I help you get her settled if you want, and—”

  “You have to leave!” Bob Don screamed. He jumped to his feet, nearly knocking me over. I balanced myself, putting a hand out to the carpet. He leaned down and seized my shoulders in his beefy hands. He yanked me to my feet.

  “Get out, get out, get out,” he kept crying, not demanding, but begging.

  Major-league domestic problem, I decided, congratulating myself on my quick and reliable insight. I thought: none of my concern. He’s not dead so she hasn’t carried out her threats and she’s too drunk to hurt him. Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Goertz, and have a lovely evening.

  Bob Don hustled me to the entrance like I was a steer straying from the herd, but Gretchen cut us off. She pressed wet, liquor-reeking hands against my chest while Bob Don tried to push from behind. I jerked away from them both. Gretchen slammed the front door shut.

  “Don’t leave, Jordy. Don’t leave,” she whispered. Stepping toward me, she looked horrible. I could see now that makeup was smeared across her face, as though she’d tried fixing herself up long after the daily bottle was opened.

  “Jordy has to go now, Gretchen,” Bob Don insisted, trying to pull me away from her. “Just go out the back, Jordy, and I’ll call you tomorrow about that truck you wanted—”

  “You are not … selling him … any damn car!” Gretchen Goertz screamed. I will never forget that scream as long as I live. It sounded the way you might scream if you were dead and buried for a year, and then God let you have feeling and voice back. Her voice scraped down my spine. Bob Don wasn’t pulling me anymore. I was moving on my own accord.

  “Quit pretending!” she said, more hoarsely. “Don’t you leave this house, you little bastard. Not after all the trouble you’ve caused me. Don’t you walk out, Jordan Poteet,” she spat out my name like it was phlegm. “Not after you’ve ruined my life, you little shit.”

  I stopped back in the living room. She followed me in. “You’re drunk, Mrs. Goertz, so I’m not going to pay heed to anything you say. I suggest you go to bed and get some rest.” I steadied my voice. “You’re upset and you’ve upset Bob Don. I don’t know what I’ve done to hurt you, but I won’t trouble you further. I’m leaving.” With what dignity I could muster, I turned my back on her and headed for the kitchen. I figured there’d be a back door and I could get out.

  “You stay, you stay, you stay,” she sobbed at my retreating back. “I’ll leave, and you stay.”

  I paused and heard Bob Don behind me say, “Gretchen, listen—”

  “Shut up!” she howled at him. Sobs racked her. “Shut up! He can stay, and I’ll leave! That way you’ll have some quality time with your precious bastard son!”

  I stopped in my tracks in the darkened kitchen, as though her words were glue sticking me to the floor. I heard a body hit the floor and over my shoulder, I saw Gretchen crumpled on the carpet, weeping uncontrollably.

  Air felt thick in my throat, as though it was something alien and vaguely threatening. She’s drunk, I told myself, and she’s deluded. Bob Don collapsed to his knees, cradling Gretchen in his arms. My legs didn’t want to respond to the instructions my brain sent, but finally they moved and they didn’t head to the back door. I stared down at Bob Don.

  “What did she mean by that? Gretchen, you better explain—” I started, but Gretchen wrestled free from Bob Don. She staggered to the other end of the living room into a hallway that presumably led to bedrooms. She turned back to us, her eyes trying to focus.

  “Leave here, Bob Don, and take him with you. I changed my mind. I ain’t leaving my house. Take your things and your bastard boy with you. I don’t ever want to see you again.” She fled down the hallway, running along the side. I could hear her body scraping the wall. A door slammed down the hall.

  Bob Don stared at the floor. Anger burst out of me, unexpected and reckless.

  “Goddamn it, look at me! What the holy hell is going on here? What’s wrong with her? Why is she saying this shit?”

/>   He looked at me, looking older and more tired than I’d ever seen anyone look. “Forgive me, Jordy. God, God, please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you? It’s your wife that’s damned crazy.” My voice cracked in fear. “What the hell do I have to forgive you for?” He didn’t answer and the silence fell hard. I stepped away from him, but not to leave. “You better tell me what’s going on here, Bob Don. I want an explanation.” My voice was hoarse and shaking.

  “I—” he started, and his voice broke in pain. Slowly, he rose to his feet and faced me. “I am your father.”

  “You’re lying,” I said when I found my voice. It didn’t sound like my voice, but a boy’s. My throat felt like ice. “Why are you doing this? Why?”

  His eyes met mine and he blinked them clear of his tears. There was a thin line of blood down his cheek where his wife had raked him.

  “No, I am not lying to you. I’m your father. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

  “You’re as drunk as your wife, obviously,” The ice in my throat moved to my voice. “My father is Lloyd Poteet. And I don’t appreciate the slur, against my dead daddy or my mother. I was starting to regard you as a decent person, but you’re not. I suggest you and your wife both get professional help. If you like, I’ll help you by pouring out all the liquor in your house. And I suggest you bandage up your face ’cause you’re bleeding all over yourself. Good night.” I turned to leave.

  “You can’t walk away from me. You just asked for an explanation and goddamn it, you’re going to listen to one.” He grabbed my arm and shoved me down onto the couch. It stunk of whiskey.

  “I’m not staying—” I began, but he pushed me back down and leaned hard on my arms. I twisted my face away from his.

  “Do me the courtesy of listening to me, Jordan Michael Poteet,” he hissed, and I sat there, thinking: I am not going to sit here and listen to a bunch of goddamn lies. I tried to move away, but my muscles felt like jelly. I stared into his face.