Distant Blood

by Jeff Abbott

  “And your point is what, Philip?” I turned to face him, my arms crossed.

  He dabbed a coffee-stained napkin at his lips, which were oddly red, like a woman's. “Must be difficult, being around folks that got plenty and you ain't got diddly.”

  “It doesn't bother me none, Philip. Does it bother you?”

  The words jolted him. “I don't know what you mean.”

  “I'm just curious as to why you'd take all that guff from Uncle Mutt about your wasteful financial habits. Could it be you really, really need him to bail your ass out of the fire?”

  He glared at me with undisguised contempt. “Maybe I do. But at least I've got every right to his money. You don't.”

  “I don't want his money—”

  “Save it for morons like Gretchen and Bob Don.” He laughed. “You don't fool me for one blessed second. In fact, I'm not the only one who'd like to see some DNA proof or the like that you're really a Goertz. After all, we just got your word and Bob Don's. And while he's stupid as the day is long, even he might be able to cook up a scheme to get his hands on more of Mutt's money.”

  I leaned down and seized his collar, yanking his deadweight up from the chair. My strength surprised him—and me.

  “Listen,” I said softly to him. “You ever say anything bad about Bob Don again to me, and I'll clean up the floor with your ass. He's not a liar. And neither am I.”

  “My, my, physical threats. How very unlibrarianlike of you.” He met my stare with his own, his blue eyes lightless like pebbles in a stream.

  “Give it up, Philip.” I turned to leave, tired of his innuendo and threats.

  “You're not going to win, Jordan.”

  I paused by the door. “Win what? I told you, I'm not after Uncle Mutt's money. Get that through your thick skull.”

  Philip stood, straightening his polo shirt where I'd pulled on it and tucking a hand over the heavy, ugly, braided gold chain at his neck. “Don't cross me. It's a real serious mistake.”

  “Are you threatening me?” I asked in a low voice. I almost hoped he'd say yes; my fist ached to throw a punch into his sneering face.

  Philip Bedrich smiled softly. “Famous last words, cousin. Famous last words.”

  I STORMED DOWN TO THE BEACH, ANGER COURSing through my marrow. I despise bullies of any sort and I particularly disliked Philip. So much for cousinly accord. He'd struck a sore spot with me and I'd seen he knew so in his beady, damp eyes.

  I felt hot shame that Philip might have detected any vestige of greed in my face. I was here for Bob Don's sake; and no one else's. How could I have known that Uncle Mutt was dying? No one—

  I stopped dead in my tracks, nearly stumbling over the sand-gritted balloon of a beached jellyfish. Philip implied that I'd come here for the sole reason of cajoling my way into Uncle Mutt's will. But how was I to know his will would be put into use soon? I couldn't. No one knew that Mutt was dying—or did they? Had Philip known? Was that why he was willing to endure Mutt's jabs, knowing that they were destined to end soon? The thought gave me definite pause.

  And the hatred that oozed from this family: the venom of Aunt Sass, the callow threats of Philip, the deliberate spite that flowed from Aunt Lolly during her fatal dinner—why? Some force, unseen, warped this family as surely as an inexorable weight warps a support. I self-indulgently had supposed that it was simply me, the unwelcome bastard. But I suspected, despite Philip's baiting, that I was merely a bruise on the mortal wound of this clan. Thank God I had my sweetheart here to help me, to talk to me, to help me understand—

  My God. I realized, with a jolt, that I'd brought the only guest to this reunion. Philip, Tom, Aubrey, Sass, Deborah— why didn't they bring their significant others, their Can-daces—to a gathering of the Goertzes? Maybe they knew from experience no fun was to be had on this island.

  Why not? After all, the beach where I stood was the site of mass murder. I felt a cringe in my legs as I surveyed the beach, the remains of jellyfish scattered about like victims of a more recent massacre. Did those boys from the Reliant cry and beg for their lives, or did they stare straight ahead as the blades sliced open their throats and their blood ran like a crimson tide? The sand felt seductively warm beneath my feet; I didn't have to dwell on the dark past. The day was beautiful and the relaxing whoosh of the surf reminded me I was supposed to be on vacation, viciousness and death and secrecy aside.

  I skirted the littered jellyfish corpses and headed toward the dock. Mutt's second boat, the Little Brutus, bobbed in the waves. He'd taken the boat Rufus had ferried us over in to Port Lavaca.

  I could see Deborah and Candace still standing on the edge of the dock—but Candace stood with one hand on Deborah's shoulder, her head bowed with some great weight. She was crying.

  Sudden pain nipped at my heart. I can't bear to see women weep, and Candace's rare tears always drain me. I suspected I was the source of her distress and a hot flush of guilt crept up my face. I didn't mean to make her cry. We'd argued, but surely not intensely enough to evoke weeping. My throat dried and I stood still, unsure if I should encroach on her private moment. She might not want my brand of comfort.

  She wiped her eyes and saw me. She turned away, toward the bay and the wind. Deborah glanced over at me, a sad look painting her face.

  Hell's bells. I walked slowly onto the dock. “Candace? You okay?”

  “I'm fine,” she said softly, glancing back at me. “Deborah and I were just chatting and I got a little emotional. That's all.”

  I reached out for her shoulder; she didn't flinch away. “I'm sorry.”

  “Excuse me,” Deborah murmured. “I think I'll run up to the house and get a Coke. Candace, you're sure you're okay?”

  “I'm fine, Deborah, thanks.”

  Deborah smiled softly at me, turned, and hurried toward the house.

  “She's sweet,” I said, feeling awkward. I looked at Can-dace; she stared up at the vast vault of summer sky. The clouds resembled old, sculpted bone.

  “She is kind,” Candace finally said. “I like Deborah.”

  “I like her, too.” The topic of Deborah exhausted, I cast about for the words to frame my apology in. “Sugar, I'm sorry I blew up at you. I had no call to say what I did. I'm feeling awkward around these folks, I don't know how to be myself here, and I should have listened to you. I'm really sorry.”

  “Are you apologizing to me because I feel bad or because you feel bad, Jordy?” She kept her gaze on the whitecapped waves lapping at the beach. One strand of walnut-brown hair kept whipping around her face and I slowly guided it back into place. The cup of her ear felt warm against my fingers.

  “Both.”

  She smiled then, the vaguest trace of a grin, and she turned her face into my palm, her breath tickling my life line. I kissed her cheek and she kissed my hand.

  “I'm sorry,” I whispered into her soft hair. “I'm a real butt sometimes.”

  “I'm sorry, too.” Her voice was whispery and strong, like silk. “I should have told you how I got Arlene on the side of this trip so you wouldn't find out the wrong way. And I shouldn't have used that tactic—it wasn't kind.” She sighed. “You're in such a weird situation with these people, and I just mouth off with my free advice. You've got to decide what your relationship is with your father. I can't tell you what it should be, nobody can.”

  “No. You were right. I've pretended far too long that I can just sweep Bob Don under the rug, that he'll be satisfied with only being my friend. I've got to let him be a dad to me.”

  She stared up into my face with such tenderness I felt the breath in my throat halt. It's a terrible responsibility for someone to look at you with such love. I didn't deserve her—her strength, her kindness, her forgiveness of my multitude of faults. I specialized in alienating people and raising hackles. I couldn't walk past the anthill without kicking it over to see what ruckus I could raise. I could not be an easy man to love.

  One of her eyebrows arched. “Oh, babe, don't give me that look
. It wears me out for you to think I'm perfect.”

  I blinked to clear my face of any offending expression. “You may not be perfect, but you're the perfect one for me.” I bent down to her. As we kissed, her hands tangled in my hair. I reveled in the gentle scratch of her fingernails against my scalp, the pressure of her arm against my neck, the nip of her tongue against my lips. I lifted her up into my arms.

  “My big, tall boy,” she teased, then her tone grew serious. “Do you love Bob Don?” she asked, her voice a thrum against my neck.

  The dreaded question, given air at last. “I'm—I'm glad he's part of my life now.”

  “Well,/love him. He's a wonderful man. I wish my father was more like him. Kind, generous. You could be a father like him someday yourself,” she whispered in my ear.

  “Maybe I will be,” I said.

  “Maybe. Now, you put me down, all those folks in the house will be talking. And it's not right we be out here kissing on each other, after poor Lolly's death.”

  I set her down gently. “This isn't a house of mourning like any I've ever seen. Deborah, Gretchen, and Uncle Mutt seem upset, but the rest—they seem disconnected. As if they don't believe Lolly's dead. Or worse, that it doesn't matter.” I told her quickly about my conversations with Aubrey and Philip. I did tell her about finding Lolly's letter, but I left out the part about snooping after Deborah and getting caught by Wendy. No need for her to know just how much of an idiot I'd managed to be in one short morning. “I'm not sure dysfunctional's the word for this bunch.”

  “I don't understand why Lolly sent you the letters.”

  “I don't know what she hoped to gain, either.” I let the bay wind caress my face. “But she's dead now, and she can't hurt us.”

  “Jordan—” she began to speak, her upturned face earnest in the bright sunshine. She stopped.

  “What? What's wrong?”

  She shook her head. “It's nothing. Why don't we go back to the house? I'm sure Deborah's wondering if we've fallen off the deck.”

  “Fine.” I took her hand and we began to walk toward the house, my heart lightening ever so slightly, and for the first time since our arrival. The feeling didn't last long enough to savor. Because I saw Gretchen stumbling down from the house, the bottle in her hand glinting like a blade in the fierce summer glare.

  “Gretchen?” I ventured. We'd stopped on the path leading back to the house, and Gretchen nearly barreled into us, her gaze concentrated on some inward journey.

  “Oh, Jordy. Candace. Hi.” Gretchen awkwardly gestured with the bottle, a Texas vintner's Chardonnay, opened but recorked.

  Candace and I were silent.

  “Oh, the bottle?” She laughed, a feeble twitter like a bird's. “Oh, this. Yes. This. I was taking it to Tom and Rufus. They're scouring about on the other side of the island.”

  “You were going to walk a mile or so to take them a bottle of wine?” I tried not to make my voice sound accusing. I could smell the bitter tang of alcohol on her breath, covered up with the thin camouflage of mint gum. My heart sunk like a stone after its last skip on the water.

  She saw the fear in my eyes and swallowed.

  “Gretchen. Why have you done this to yourself?”

  “Done what? I—I told you, I'm taking this to Tom and Rufus. Thirsty work they're doing. Well, you wouldn't believe me anyway.” Her voice took an edge, like a newly sharpened knife. A sneer, one I had not seen in many months, curled her lip. “You little bastard. You just can't wait to manufacture a lie about me, can you?”

  “Gretchen. Let's go sit up in your room, have some coffee and a nice talk—” Candace attempted.

  Gretchen surrendered no ground. “No, no. Don't need that. Don't want that. I just want to go for a walk.” She wobbled on uncertain legs. “I don't feel so good.”

  I didn't speak. I just took her arm and steered her back toward the house. She stumbled along the first few steps, leaning against me for support. Then she wrenched away, as if I smelled foul and she couldn't bear another whiff. She pivoted and bolted down the path.

  I grabbed her arm and she didn't try to wriggle loose. She stood there, penitent, her head cast down in silent shame. Her muscles trembled beneath my fingertips, and her skin felt like a furnace.

  “Gretchen.” I kept my voice soft and nonjudgmental.

  “Just… just get me up to the house. Don't let nobody see me.” She leaned against me, dropping the wine. It fell onto the soft grass by the path and Candace retrieved it. I watched the liquid—poison to Gretchen's system-—roll languidly within the clear shell of the bottle.

  We smuggled her into the house, entering through a rear door near the kitchen. Uncle Jake sat in the study, in full view as we tried to ascend the staircase with the stealth of burglars.

  “What's wrong?” he called.

  “Nothing,” I answered. “The sun just got to Gretchen.”

  Uncle Jake didn't challenge us further, but I could feel the weight of his stare against my back.

  Bob Don wasn't in their room. I eased Gretchen down on the bed. Her eyelids fluttered and she let out a small moan.

  “Gimme something damp,” she begged, and I hurried to the bathroom, rinsed out a washcloth, squeezed out the excess water, and laid it across her forehead.

  “I'll go find Bob Don,” Candace said.

  “No, don't,” Gretchen murmured, but Candace was already gone.

  I am usually a resourceful man, but my limbs and mind felt numb. I didn't want to sit through Gretchen's drunk. I wanted to bellow at Gretchen, but I kept my mouth shut. I sat next to her on the bed, watching the gentle flutter of flesh beneath her eyelids. Slowly those eyes opened and fixed upon my face.

  “I don't understand how it happened,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than a sigh. “I didn't want to drink anything. I didn't. Never again.”

  “What upset you?” She didn't answer me. Perhaps Lolly's death had nudged Gretchen back toward the demon rum. Seeing her die in front of all of us had been one of the most unnerving experiences of my life. I couldn't blame Gretchen for wanting to dull her own pain, but I felt disappointed in her.

  “Gretchen, you don't need booze. We'll go over to the mainland tonight, find an AA meeting in Port O'Connor. You need to talk to folks about why you drank.” At least I assumed she did. What I knew about AA was gleaned entirely from television. I had done little to participate in Gretchen's sobriety other than offering unobtrusive support. I knew, with a keen and sudden tightness, I could have done more.

  “Not AA. Not right now. Later.” She put her hand on the cool wetness of the cloth. “I don't understand. All I drank today was a little coffee and then a couple of Dr Peppers. Then—all of a sudden—I felt funny, craved a hit of wine. Couldn't—couldn't help it, Jordy! I couldn't help it!” She began to sob, a deep crying like she'd lost a part of herself that could never be regained.

  I surprised the hell out of myself by taking her hand. She clasped my fingers hard. I bent over, whispering, “It'll be okay. It'll be okay.”

  “No, no, it won't. He'll leave me. Bob Don said he couldn't take me drinking, he'd leave me if I fell off the wagon.” Dread widened her eyes. “Oh, God damn me for drinking!”

  I squeezed her hand and said, “God won't desert you. Neither will Bob Don, or any of us.”

  “Why”—she swallowed—”must you be so like him? Why? I can't give him a baby, I never could.” Her words slurred together like voices raised in distant hue and cry. Her drawl slowed and deepened; she almost sounded like a man.

  “I'm sorry, Gretchen.”

  “Oh, Jesus, don't be. I wanted his baby to grow inside me. Never could. Not meant to be, my mama said. She said God knew I'd make a lousy mother. God doesn't give babies to drunks.” Her eyes stared past my shoulder, riveted to the arabesque swirls on the ceiling. “Now Bob Don's got you, he's got his child. I don't got nothing.”

  “You have your husband, Gretchen.”

  “He'll leave me—” she sobbed, then hiccu
ped loudly. She covered her mouth with her fingertips and belched softly, a tear running down her cheek. Fear made her body as rigid as a board.

  “He won't leave you. I won't let him,” I soothed. “Now, how much did you drink?”

  She swallowed. “One whole bottle, and part of another. I snuck it out of the bar. I drank it up here. It made my mouth all cold, so I wanted to get warm. I decided I wouldn't— couldn't stay in the house. So I wanted to go to the beach, on the other side of the island. I could drink down there, yes I could. Maybe take a swim. A long swim …” She closed her eyes again, her breathing labored, her words mumbled. “I used to swim down there, when I was younger. Tom told me the sand's still soft. I used to swim there with Paul. We'd watch the egrets fly. We'd laugh at them clowning around in the shallows, scaring up fish.”

  Her memories seemed as delicate as old lace. “Who's Paul?”

  Her eyes were distant. “I thought I saw him again last night.”

  “Who? Paul? Who is he?”

  She shook her head.

  I held her hand and didn't know what else to do. “And you don't know why you drank?”

  “I was drunk before I knew it,” she muttered, absently rubbing her eyebrows. “I'm sorry I hit you this morning. I lost my temper. Stupid of me.”

  I released her hand and walked over to the vanity, where a glass of Dr Pepper sat in its puddle of condensation. Some soda, its color lightened by melting ice cubes, remained in the bottom. I sniffed at the glass. Nothing. I sipped cautiously, rolling the liquid in my mouth. I went and spat the mixture in the sink just as Bob Don came in, followed by Candace and Aunt Sass.

  Sass took one look at Gretchen. “Oh, dear. Drunk again.” She said it without malice, but also without pity. Pain stiffened Bob Don's face. Gretchen turned her face away into the comfort of her pillow, her shoulders hunched.

  “Not exactly,” I said softly. “Her soda's been laced with Everclear. Someone set Gretchen up to drink.”

  Bob Don convened an unlikely war council in Aunt Sass's room. Gretchen was napping off the wine, calmed and reassured by Bob Don that he wasn't bailing out of their marriage. Sass, Candace, Bob Don, and I sat on Sass's unmade bed. I kept a fair distance from Sass. I don't believe either of us had forgotten the harsh volley we'd exchanged after breakfast.