Distant Blood

by Jeff Abbott

  Instead of returning the way that I came, I decided to support the fiction that I'd been exploring the whole island. So I continued my trek across Sangre, to the side closest to the mainland. Here the ground seemed a bit damper, with thickets of honey mesquites, bright freckles of lavender Texas vervain, fuzzy violet coast mistfiowers, and the yellowish-green spotted horsemint speckling the land. I held my arm away from my body—the scrape was messy and I didn't want to get blood on my clothes. I found a rough trail, probably worn by Rufus or Tom on their island perambulations, and headed back for the house.

  I stumbled along the trail, found one shady spot to sit, and eased to the ground. I figured I couldn't beat Philip and Wendy back to the house, so I might as well saunter in late. I wouldn't want them to wonder if I was lurking near their private confab.

  I forced myself toward calm. I closed my eyes. Wendy was chiseling money out of Uncle Mutt for Philip. I assumed she'd nab a percentage for her services. So the affectionate scene I'd witnessed between Wendy and Mutt in the kitchen was part of her ruse to wile away the cash from my uncle.

  Poor Uncle Mutt. He'd been thoroughly duped. The look on his face as he'd cradled Wendy in his arms had been one of unmitigated bliss, reflection on a lifetime of remembered joys. He'd held Wendy as tenderly as if he were still a young man. And he didn't have much time left for the physical pleasures—

  I blinked. Uncle Mutt was dying. If Philip needed money, why didn't he just ask? And why, if unwilling to ask, didn't he wait for the few months Uncle Mutt had left?

  Either Philip suspected he wasn't likely to benefit from Uncle Mutt's will, or there was another time pressure on him for cash. Uncle Mutt had referred repeatedly to Philip's business ineptitude. I supposed that once again Philip had bottomed out and Uncle Mutt refused to line the coffers. I decided it was time, if possible, to learn more about Philip's business ventures. He was from Corpus Christi; I should start my inquiries there.

  Dealing with my uncle was another matter. Uncle Mutt might easily believe Philip was up to no good, but would he accept Wendy's involvement in these machinations? I had no proof—and no idea how Wendy planned to pry the funds from Uncle Mutt's wallet. It depended on how much money was at stake. A few hundred? A few thousand? A million? I blew out exasperated breath. My stomach rumbled. I stood and headed back toward the dock.

  Time to see what Wendy had cooked up for lunch. I'd have preferred to know what she was concocting for my unsuspecting great-uncle.

  I don't have a career in espionage awaiting me. I snuck in the front door, thinking Wendy would be occupied in the kitchen. Wrong. She spotted me entering the house. She was setting the table in the dining room and she raised a perfect eyebrow at me—me. with my dirtied clothes and bloodied arm.

  “Good Lord. What happened to you?”

  I shrugged. “I was exploring and I took a tumble down a dune. I scraped my arm on a shell or something. I'm okay.” As soon as I manufactured this fib I thought: Shouldn't you have a little more sand in your hair? And clothes? And in the wound?

  Wendy didn't appear to notice my relatively sand-free state. She examined my arm critically. “We've got a first-aid kit in the kitchen. I'll clean that up for you, or I'll find Deborah. She'd probably be insulted if I didn't let her exercise her vocation.”

  “I'll tend to it myself,” I blurted. This woman made me uneasy. Wendy was no cowering servant girl from a Victorian novel. The coldness of her laugh, the educated way in which she spoke, the assurance she showed in dealing with Philip—it was a combination that didn't lend itself to domestic duties. And I'd detected concern in her voice for my injury. Who was this woman?

  Her perfect eyebrow arched again. “Unless you're limber enough to kiss your elbow, you can't tend to this. Here, sit down.” I waited while she fetched the first-aid kit. She cleaned the wound, tsking as she did so. “That's a big scrape, Jordan. You want to be careful and keep it disinfected.” I watched while she spread medication across the skinned arm and taped bandages to it. Her touch was surprisingly tender.

  “Thanks,” I said as she finished. “I'll try not to be such a klutz.”

  She closed the first-aid kit with a click and regarded me with curious eyes.

  The phone rang, and she sighed. “Probably another person calling to offer sympathy for Lolly's death. I think everyone in Calhoun County must be worried over Mutt.”

  “It's nice to be liked,” I offered.

  She shrugged. “He's important. I don't know if that's the same as being liked.” She answered the phone softly, explained that Mutt was unavailable, and began to make sympathetic assurances into the receiver. After a few moments she thanked the caller, jotted down the name and number, and hung up the phone.

  “All that concern for the living,” she said, half to herself. She glanced up at me. “They don't worry about the dead.”

  “They're beyond worry,” I offered. The words rang horribly callous to me and I blushed.

  “You're right. We can only help the living. That's a favorite saying of Mutt's.” Her gaze seemed locked on some faraway object, and I felt the unintended sting of her words. Bob Don was living; the man I called Daddy was dead. My mother was dead, too, although she maintained an illusion of life by filling her lungs with air and pumping blood through her veins. But the thoughts that wandered through her brain were homeless and ill-formed, and her memories were warped and unplayable, like a vinyl record album melted by the sun. It wasn't life.

  We can only help the living.

  Wendy saw pain in my face and gracefully changed the subject. “I'm afraid lunch isn't fancy—salad and sandwiches. It should be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I'll just go get cleaned up.” I excused myself and sauntered up the stairs; a backward glance told me Wendy eyed me speculatively, as though she found the story of my injury doubtful. Had she and Philip seen me in the grass and just played a joke on me? My name had come up rather abruptly, and I hadn't spied on them the whole time to see if they'd spotted me.

  I paused on the stairs. I could feel the weight of Uncle Jake's stare on my back. I glanced over my shoulder; he was watching me with the cool glare of someone who has seen a lot of pain in his life.

  “Your daddy's upstairs, I believe,” he said softly.

  Oh, God. Had he heard the venomous argument between Sass and me? The greenhouse, after all, was his favorite haunt. I wasn't eager to have my problems become fodder for this family's discussions.

  “Thanks. Maybe I'll go talk to him.” I could think of no other answer to offer.

  “Think that'd be a good idea, boy. Fathers and sons shouldn't be so far apart.” He thumped an arthritic hand against the pages of his book; his fingers curled like a talon. “Your father had a hard enough time with his daddy, don't make history repeat itself.”

  “I think history always does repeat itself,” I said. “We seem to make the same mistakes, over and over again.”

  “This family. This island. Yes.” Jake's eyes glittered with the hard light of truth. “You're a perceptive boy.”

  An unaccountable shudder ran along my spine. Creepy old man, sitting in the library like some warped oracle. I wanted to be away from him.

  “See you later, Uncle Jake,” I said, and scurried up the steps. I could feel the weight of his incessant stare on my shoulders, as dreadful as the gaze of a dead orb.

  Instead of going to my room or to Bob Don's, I headed to Candace' s. I knocked on her door. Her voice, strained, bade me wait a moment; then I heard the sound of a toilet flushing, and water gurgling in a sink. She opened the door with a damp washcloth pressed to her chin. Her skin was pale and her eyes had trouble focusing on me.

  “Hey, what's wrong?” I asked. She turned and sat on the bed. From the bathroom I could smell the faint, sour odor of vomit.

  “Oh, I'm okay. I ate a snack that didn't agree with me. I'm fine.”

  All the talk of poison made my heart stop at the mention of distasteful food. “You su
re? I'll get Deborah to take a look at you—”

  “No, I don't need Deborah. I'll be fine, really. It's nothing. Just let me lie down for a bit.”

  “Wendy's fixing lunch. How about some soup, sugar?”

  “Uh, no. I'm really not hungry.” She rubbed her eyes and sighed.

  “What'd you eat?”

  “What?”

  I took her hand. “Eat. What did you eat that made you feel queasy?”

  “It's really nothing, Jordan, I wish you wouldn't conduct the Spanish Inquisition over this. I think I ate some bad cheese or something. I'm fine.” She lay down on the bed and noticed my bandaged arm for the first time. “What happened to you?”

  I closed her bedroom door. Candace doesn't approve of me sticking my nose into other folks' business and I didn't want to admit to my recent exploration of the island, my discovery of the graveyard, and the conversation between Philip and Wendy. So I told her the same story I'd fed Wendy.

  “Good Lord. Well, be careful.” Candace covered her eyes with her wet terrycloth veil, but her tone of voice let me know she was staring at me right through the cloth. Women can do that, you know. “Maybe you shouldn't traipse around this island alone.”

  “It's fun. Like a boyhood adventure. I feel like Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn.” I tried to sound carefree.

  She raised one corner of the cloth to fix a baleful eye on me. “You quit being a boy quite a while back, darling. At least I hope so. Your behavior doesn't always support that conclusion.”

  “You're no fun.”

  “Have you apologized to Aunt Sass?”

  “I tried. We were getting along fine until she started chewing my ass out for not letting Bob Don in my life. Like she knows anything about it.” I didn't elaborate on Sass's rather valid reasons for disliking me. I wasn't too crazy about myself at the moment. I walked over to the window— the bay draws you like a magnet, especially if you grew up never seeing water wider than a river or a little lake—and contemplated the ceaseless rhythm of the waves.

  A long groan emanated from beneath the wet towel. “Jordan, please. I don't feel good. I don't want to hear you gripe about Aunt Sass just right this minute. Maybe later in the day, so I'll have something to look forward to.”

  Candace can be a tad sharp-tongued, but this was a new level of cattiness, even for her. Well, she said she wasn't feeling good and here I was blabbing away.

  “I'll let you rest. You let me know if you feel up to any lunch, okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Jordan. I'm sorry—I don't mean to be snappish. I think I'll just take me a little nap.”

  I patted her hand and left her to rest. No excuses now. I went down to the second floor and stopped in front of Bob Don and Gretchen's room. I knocked gently. No answer. I tried the door, found it unlocked, and eased it open. Gretchen lay softly snoring on the bed, one arm thrown away from her body, her small mouth agape. At least she was sleeping off the booze. After she was herself again, we could start to help her.

  Help her. The very thought rang alien when applied to Gretchen. She'd been a shrew to me the first few months that I'd learned Bob Don was my father. She'd resented me, belittled me, bullied me, and attempted to blacken my character in Mirabeau.

  But she'd changed.

  Slowly, as the sobriety took hold, she'd lived her life according to reason rather than rum. She'd had to reevaluate her priorities and her choices. It's easy to make horrendous decisions when you're ablaze with drink. She'd extinguished the fire of her addiction—or at least the blinding, burning heat of her craving—and laboriously rebuilt her life. And, even given our ongoing verbal skirmishes, she'd accepted me.

  I wasn't a drunk. I wasn't a terribly bitter person. Why couldn't/change? Why couldn't I shed the anger, the fear, the shock that Bob Don was my father and proceed apace with my life?

  Fuck you. You 're not worthy to be his son.

  The words still stung like the salt of tears on a childhood cut. Score one for Sass; if God stripped the flesh from my frame right now, He'd find a blackened mark across my ribs. She'd nicked the tenderest part of my heart.

  Unbidden, the memory came of Bob Don barreling into my house, smashing in a door to race to my aid, a murderer's gun swinging toward him, the harsh, unforgiving blast of the pistol, the dread crimson blossoming across his big chest, and the stunned light of realization in his eyes as he collapsed to the floor.

  You're a mistake.

  The mistake, I decided as I watched Gretchen sleep, was letting Sass bully me. No more. I'd stand my ground, and if she didn't like it, tough. I only had to get through Lolly's funeral, and then Candace and I were out of here. I'd never have to lay eyes on Sass or Philip or any of this misbegotten crew again. I'd swim to my nice quiet side of the gene pool and trouble them no more.

  I was gently shutting the door when I saw it. A small framed photo, standing on the table by the lamp. It drew me like metal to magnet.

  The girl was perhaps twelve years old, the wind whipping her brown hair about her head. The set of the eyes, the determined mouth, the perfect skin—I was sure this was Deborah.

  And next to her, Brian, perhaps four years younger, embraced her. He was talking to her, unaware of the camera, his face in profile, dark locks curling about his brow, his nose pert, his cheeks the ruddy red that only Irish blood supplies. He looked happy, laughing with his big sister.

  I studied the picture. Gretchen mumbled and stirred in her sleep. I retreated, the picture in my hands, and eased the door shut behind me.

  I hadn't finished my conversation with Deborah. The fight between Tom and Aubrey had cut it short. I left the photo in my room and decided now would be a good time to wrap up that talk.

  I found Deborah among a tense, quiet group in the kitchen. This was not to be a convivial summertime lunch. Why should it be? With Aunt Lolly dead, Uncle Mutt ill, Aubrey and Tom feuding, Philip and Wendy conniving, Deborah sneaking, Uncle Jake complaining, Sass terrorizing, Bob Don moping, Candace vomiting, and Gretchen drinking—with all that I didn't feel like a party.

  Wendy was assembling sandwiches while Aubrey watched, sipping self-righteously on a Coke. Deborah fixed iced tea and Philip nursed a Bloody Mary. All conversation ceased when I walked in.

  “Hi,” I offered.

  “How's the arm feeling?” Deborah glanced toward my bandage. “Wendy mentioned you took a nasty scrape.”

  “I'm fine.” I made my voice sound hearty and forced my smile to its greatest width.

  Apparently my fake enthusiasm was contagious. “Cousin Jordan,” Philip boomed, a cordial smile splitting his face. I wondered if the vodka had put it there. “I'm afraid I owe you an apology. I spoke rather harshly to you this morning and I really didn't mean to. We've just had so many shocks lately, I just wasn't myself. My apologies.” He offered his hand.

  I hesitated, then presented mine in return. He attempted to squeeze my fingers to bone dust with the fervor of his handshake, but I kept my smile in place.

  “I don't have any hard feelings, Philip. I don't expect y'all to just usher me right into the family.” Silence greeted this announcement. “Confession time. I'm not the world's easiest person to get along with, and I know Lolly's death has put a terrible strain on us all. Especially y'all, since you all knew and loved her.”

  Sorrowful glances—even from Philip and Aubrey—were exchanged among the gathered, and I sensed for the first time that despite all the travail and difficulties, the Goertzes still saw themselves as a family. Dysfunctional in the extreme, perhaps, but still connected by ties of blood and affection. Not healthy, troubled by some deep tumor within the familial body, but willing to live.

  Aubrey turned toward me and I saw the bandage on his forehead and the cleaned cut on his lip. One cheek had bruised beautifully, its colors like a tropical sunset. “I'll apologize right now for my mother, Jordan. She's had no call to treat you the way she has. I don't know what's gotten hold of her.”

  I shrugged. “She and I both care a lot about Bo
b Don. She's worried I'm hurting him. She's probably right. I could hurt him and he'd never tell me. Bob Don and I don't talk real honestly a lot of the time.” I quieted, embarrassed at my sudden rush of confession.

  Philip coughed. “Listen, Jordan, Aunt Sass has dealt out enough pain on her own.” He surprised me by putting a protective arm around Aubrey. “She don't got no call to be rough on you, just because she can't come to grips with Bob Don keeping you a secret.”

  I fumbled for an answer. “I'm sure Aunt Sass has Bob Don's best interests at heart. Aubrey, I really don't mean to quarrel with your mother. But she lectures without knowing the complete story.” Did she tell y'all he nearly died for me ? Did she paint me as an ingrate, an unfeeling bastard? I don't mean to be one. I don't.

  “That's a Goertz family failing.” Deborah spoke quietly. “You get accustomed to the endless advice after a while.”

  “Is that advice?” I asked, and for one moment there was a dead hush. Then Wendy tittered, and full-scale laughter broke out. Even Philip joined—or pretended to join—in. I felt the slightest bit more accepted. But I couldn't help but wonder what might motivate this new friendliness toward me. I didn't think an upsurge of appreciation for my wit and good manners had conquered their hearts.

  I could almost hear Candace chiding me for senseless paranoia.

  Lunch was a casual affair, the small group sitting around the big table, eating sandwiches and sipping tea. Uncle Jake joined us, but seemed content to chew and growl occasionally. He opted not to cast his ominous gaze my way. Rufus and Tom did not appear. I said Gretchen was “resting” (no one contradicted my story) and that Candace was feeling a little ill. Bob Don and Sass hurried out past our gathering, coming down the stairs. A lump coagulated in my heart as they left, not glancing toward us or even acknowledging our presence. The quiet seemed thick and I decided to break it. I'd decided to start investigating Philip's business concerns; there was no time like the present.