Promises of Home jp-3

by Jeff Abbott

  “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.

  I rapped gently. No answer. Again. The rain began a sharper patter on the roof and the thunder cried out against the wind.

  “Trey? It’s Jordan. And Mark.” I knocked harder. Mark looked like he was going to wet his britches.

  “Maybe it takes him longer to get around in his wheelchair,” Mark ventured. From our phone conversation, I expected Trey in the front yard, rain-drenched and waiting for us.

  I tried the doorknob. The door eased open. “Trey?” I called, sticking my head into the Kinnard living room. It was unkempt, newspapers in an untidy heap by the door, a pizza box and crushed beer cans tottering on the coffee table, a Winnie the Pooh cartoon playing mutely on the ancient TV set, the couch made up for sleeping with rumpled sheets.

  “Daddy?” Mark called, the word sounding unfamiliar in his throat. It wasn’t much more than a whisper.

  I’m not sure what impelled me forward; the slightest sound of a groan, or maybe the faintest smell of blood or gunpowder. Some atavistic sense kicked in and I hurried across the living room, into the kitchen.

  Trey had dragged himself across the floor, smearing a dark red trail on the dirty tiles. He was pulling himself toward the open back door, and his eyes, dimming of life, looked up at me. Blood streaked his face and his beard. Breath faintly gurgled in his throat.

  Mark collapsed by his father. “Dad! Dad!”

  “My God, Trey, who did this?” My legs gave way and I knelt by him. I saw three terrible red splashes on his back. The stench of gunfire hung thick in the air. A colored stain caught my eye on the

  faded striped wallpaper of the hallway. Written in blood were the words: 2 DOWN.

  “He’s shot, he’s shot!” Mark moaned. I stood and grabbed the phone. I barked the address to the 911 dispatcher, telling them we had a man shot and needed an ambulance immediately. The operator asked me to stay on the line. I knew that the emergency headquarters was roughly fifteen feet away from Junebug’s office and I wished that my friend were here.

  Cradling the phone against my shoulder, I hunched down by Trey. He rolled on his back, his thin chest moving in ragged dance as he tried to draw air. I swallowed when I saw the wounds; maybe a lung, maybe the stomach. Oh, God, where was the ambulance?

  Mark sobbed, clutching one of his father’s bloodied hands in his. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” he mewled, like a small child would, rocking back and forth on his heels. I leaned in close over Trey; his eyes sought mine, pulling away from Mark’s for a moment.

  “Trey! Who shot you? Who?” I yelled into his face. “Can you hear me? Who shot you?”

  His eyes, flecked with blood, tore away from mine and found Mark’s. One hand closed around his son’s; the other touched the tears on Mark’s cheek.

  “Muh-muh,” he tried, the spittle and blood foaming on his lips.

  “Who?” I cried again. Oh, God, this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t going to die in front of us. A distant siren grew closer.

  “Mull-my boy,” Trey coughed raggedly, squeezing Mark’s hand.

  “Yes, I’m here, Daddy, please, please hang on. Please.” Mark wept, trying to wipe the blood from his father’s cheek, chin, throat.

  “Luh-love you, Mark,” Trey grunted. “Love you.” His head, raised to look into the face so much like his own, dropped to the cold kitchen floor.

  And with those words, he died.

  6

  Mama sometimes said I didn’t have sense enough to come in from the rain. I was glad she didn’t see her grandson and me standing out in the easing mist that morning. I couldn’t leave Mark, not for one second, and I wasn’t about to ask him to go back into that house of death.

  The paramedics had arrived, attempted their useless rituals, and pronounced Trey dead. We waited on the scraggly, unkempt front lawn. A fine veil of uncertain rain kissed our skins. Mark stared at his hands, his fingers daubed with his father’s blood. My daddy always kept a handkerchief in his pocket and I wished I’d picked up the habit. I tried wiping the blood off with the corner of my jacket, thinking: I must get Trey’s blood off him. I can’t leave his hands like this. Mark looked up at me from his gory palms, dark eyes welling with trembling tears.

  “Why? Why?” he screamed. I hugged him hard to me and let him weep, feeling his heart pound through the thin fabric of his windbreaker. Trey told Mark he loved him instead of telling me who killed him. Did Trey even know who shot him?

  I saw some of the Kinnards’ neighbors venturing out onto the lawns, drawn by the shrill siren of the ambulance and the police.

  I don’t know how long I held Mark. Eventually his weeping subsided and he just took long, slow breaths. I didn’t know what to say; I didn’t know what to do. Where is the survival manual for this sort of horror? Sister, I thought. Mark needed Sister.

  I heard the pang-pang of a bouncing basketball and looked up from Mark’s shoulder. Scott Kinnard stood there, holding a basketball and staring at us in the fine rain.

  “What’s happened? Why are you here?” Scott asked me, glancing at the whirling lights atop the ambulance. “Where’s Trey?”

  Mark pulled his face from my shoulder. The two boys looked blankly at each other. Scott whispered, “Are you Mark?” Mark just kept staring.

  I tried. “Listen to me, Scott, you can’t go in there. Trey is-”

  The basketball fell from Scott’s fingers, rolling on the rain-splattered pebble driveway. He blinked at me and ran for the house.

  “Scott! Don’t!” I yelled, but he paid me no heed. He yanked open the screen door and barreled inside. I bit my lip; surely the police would escort him back out, and then I’d have two traumatized boys to deal with. I took a long, fortifying breath.

  After a moment Junebug brought Scott outside. Where Mark had given a primal scream, Scott seemed choked into silence. He pressed his hands into his face, pushing his eyeglasses askew. Junebug gently guided him to the porch steps.

  “That’s the boy he was living with, ain’t it?” Mark asked me in a dead voice.

  “Yes. His name is Scott Kinnard.”

  “He’s stupid looking,” Mark observed, watching the other boy begin to cry in short, staccato heaves. Junebug glanced over at me, a helpless look on his broad, unshaven face.

  “I want to go home. Please, let’s go home,” Mark begged.

  I didn’t like the tone of his voice-tentative, breathy, like a small child who’s just learned the words. I knelt by him and turned his face to mine. Blood decorated his cheek, like a swath of war paint, and I remembered Trey stroking his son’s face in those final awful moments.

  Mark’s dark eyes were horribly vacant, retreating from death, looking inward for solace.

  “Mark. Listen to me, son. We’ll go home, okay? But I think that, if you can, you should help me and tell Junebug everything we saw. So we can catch whoever-whoever did this to your daddy.”

  Mark gaped at me as if I were speaking Finnish. I repeated myself and this time the words took hold.

  “Okay, talk to the police,” he said, dragging the back of his hand across teary cheeks. “Just like on TV, right?”

  “That’s right, Mark, just like on TV.” I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be there, and yo
ur mom’ll be there. Okay? It’ll be all right.” I was babbling, I knew I couldn’t possibly be comforting to him, but I didn’t know what else to say. Jordan Poteet, he of the vaunted quick wit and sharp tongue, and I was as dulled as a rusty old potato knife. His hand closed on mine and I felt, sickeningly, the wetness of blood pressing between our palms.

  I could see a garden hose entwined by the side steps that led from the house to the driveway. I stood and started to ease him toward the house. We’d just rinse the redness from our hands. The first step, I thought. The first step.

  He refused to budge. His grip tightened, and his rain-cool fingers dug into mine. “No! No!”

  “Okay,” I said. “Wait here. I’m just going to get the garden hose. I’m not leaving your sight.”

  He nodded miserably. I turned and jogged to the coiled hose, turning it on, splashing my bloodstained hands underneath the cool cascade of water and rain. I watched the traces of Trey wash off my skin, staining the gray stones of the driveway. I pulled a length of hose to take over to Mark. That’s when I saw it and my heart really stopped beating for the day.

  A nail stood slightly askew on the rickety bottom step, not driven quite home by a sloppy carpenter. A shred of fabric, a long triangle of thin colored cotton in a muted brown-and-green batik print, was tangled on the crooked nail, dangling like a flag of the defeated. It was just like a print on a pair of pants I’d given Sister a month ago for her birthday. She said they were the most comfortable britches she’d ever owned. I remembered her walking around the living room in delight, modeling them for an amused me and an indifferent Mama.

  Before my mind could calculate all the terrible implications, my hand shot out, pulled the scrap free, and shoved it into my pocket. I got up and glanced over at Junebug; he was still trying to comfort Scott. I brought the gurgling water hose over to Mark and made him rinse his hands.

  “Dad, Dad,” he whispered.

  There was nothing to dry him with and I just let him sop his hands against my jacket. I needed to get him out of here. I needed to get out of here myself. I took a long, steadying breath, trying to calm myself. I couldn’t crack now; Mark needed me.