Making Waves (10 page)

As I walked up the long brick walkway to the front of the house, I noted that in spite of the overall tackiness, there was a really spectacular porch, going all the way across the front and around the right side, heavily latticed like icing on a cake. I'd never really noticed it before because the Clarks would never lower themselves to sit outside like ordinary folks around here do, so I'd never been on the porch. I saw for the first time elegant rattan furnishings and showy giant ferns, looking almost like something you'd see in New Orleans. Wait a minute—the reason I'd not noticed it before had to be that it wasn't there. Well, the porch was, but not the furnishings. Evidently they'd started using it after all.

Which was the case, because as I climbed the curved brick steps leading up to the house, out of the corner of my eye I could see someone waiting for me on the side porch. Suddenly I felt my insides contract and a wave of nausea hit. Welcome home, old boy. As usual, I felt the urge to run instead of facing up to my two years' absence. Swallowing hard, I made myself turn away from the front door and head straight toward the porch on the side of the house.

Damn—it was only Sonny. He was standing there on the porch, hands in pockets, watching me the whole time. We stared warily at each other for a minute, then I stuck out my hand to him.

“Well, well. Cousin Sonny. How are you?” False, hearty smile. Hypocrisy runs in the Clark family.

Sonny shook my hand quickly, as though I were contaminated and he couldn't wait to get his hand back into his pocket, which he did immediately. I looked him over carefully, trying hard to conceal the smirk I felt coming on. He always brought that out in me.

Sonny had put on weight, quite a bit actually, looking a lot like Elvis in the later years. His jowls were becoming prominent, and the famous sleepy eyes rather saggy now; looking, as folks in Zion County say, like he'd been rode hard and put up wet too many nights. I'd never understood why the girls thought Sonny good-looking, suspecting it was because he was the only real Clark heir. Cat said he was sexy, but I never saw it. He looked like a plain old redneck to me.

Still, I had to admit to some improvement now, in spite of the added weight. Sonny's dark hair was neatly cut and sleeked back stylishly. And his dress—he was wearing starched khakis, loafers, and an Izod instead of his usual jeans and Bama tee shirt. Old Sonny was finally settling down. My smirk widened.

“How you, Taylor?” was all he could manage to say. As usual, though, he looked me over with disgust and disapproval.

“Me? The question is, how are
you
, Sonny? I understand that congratulations are in order.” I tried hard to keep from grinning like a jackass. Even more so when Sonny actually preened at my comment, intended sarcastically.

“Yep. I finally got roped into matrimony—tied the knot,” he said with a grin. Jesus—after all the girls chasing him, here was Sonny acting like he'd pulled in big bass by catching old Ellis! There was something weird going on here. Surely
she
wasn't pregnant.

“I can't wait to see your blushing bride again. Aunt Della first thought you'd married Glenda, but when I found out it was Ellis instead—well! I just can't tell you how astonished I was.”

“Ellis is looking forward to seeing you again, too—she just stepped in to get us a drink.”

Sonny was trying hard not to, but he couldn't keep his eyes off my hair. Finally I could stand it no longer.

“What the hell you looking at, Sonny?” I was determined to be civil to all of them, for Aunt Della's sake, but it was going to be difficult.

“How come you come over here with that faggy hair, Taylor? And dressed like that? I swear! You know Daddy Clark will have a shit-fit.” Sonny wouldn't look at me; instead, with hands jammed deep into his pockets, he turned from me and stared out over the manicured lawn.

“It won't be the first time. Everything I do gives him the squirts.”

“My God—he's an
old man
now, Taylor. Why can't you grow up?” Sonny glanced sideways at me, then back at the lawn.

“Like you have? Spare me.” Anger burned under my damp tee shirt, causing my face to flush hotly.

“Why'd you come back here anyway?” His voice was low and I barely heard him.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me—why in the hell are you here?”

“You folks been asking that ever since your dear Aunt Charlotte got knocked up by a Cajun bartender,” I said, smiling at him. He didn't smile back but glared at me instead.

“Oh, crap, Taylor. I could feel sorry for myself, too, you know—most anybody could. Take somebody like Ellis—”

Fortunately I was spared the rest of Sonny's philosophical remarks. As if on cue, the front door opened and a woman came through it, carrying a silver tray. It was Ellis Rountree Clark—I'll be damned! I tried not to stare, but my mouth fell open and my eyes bulged. Old Ellis, the Baptist preacher's prissy secretary! It couldn't be.

“Why, Taylor Dupree!” This strange creature smiled broadly, setting the tray down and turning to face me. She stood right in front of me as I gaped at her. “What a surprise—I couldn't believe it when Aunt Frances Martha told me you were back in town and coming for dinner tonight. It's been a long time.”

Sonny's change was in his added weight and new preppy appearance; he was still the same redneck-looking Sonny to me, in spite of that. But old Ellis Rountree—I would not have known her. Never.

Ellis was as tall as Sonny, a big-boned country girl with large flat feet and really prominent boobs, undoubtedly her best feature. When I last saw her as the preacher's secretary, she was dowdy and painfully plain, dressed in homemade polyester dresses and clodhopper shoes. Makeup and haircuts were against her religion, so her mousy hair had never been cut, and she wore it sleeked back and pinned in a tight bun. Her face was obscured by big dark-rimmed glasses. You'd have never noticed her except to marvel how anyone could be so out of date and fashion. Only in Zion County.

However, marriage to Sonny had evidently transformed the old Ellis into the society queen of Clarksville. The glasses were gone, replaced with bright purplish-blue contacts, and the once-unadorned face was as heavily made up as a country singer's. No more tight prim bun—her hair was cut short and stylish now, dyed a Dolly Parton silvery-blonde. Diamonds sparkled in her ears and on her fingers, and she was decked out in an expensive white linen sundress. I struggled to remember who she reminded me of, and conjured up my tacky Aunt Opal, whom Sonny's dad had married off the farm and brought to live with him in the big city of Clarksville. Holy shit. Ellis was Aunt Opal thirty years ago—Sonny had married his mother!

Ellis stuck out a diamond-ringed hand to me and I grabbed it blindly, still gaping at her like a fool.

“Ellis—,” I finally managed to stammer, “I-I wouldn't have known you.”

“I brought you boys drinks,” she said as she smiled, motioning to the silver tray she'd placed on a rattan table. “Would you care for some sherry?” I'd forgotten her habit of enunciating her words precisely, as though taking old-fashioned elocution lessons. She held her pert little nose elevated, her head tilted; that, along with the prissy way of speaking, gave her a snooty air.

Sonny guffawed before I could answer. “Good going, Ellis. I'm sure Taylor sits around the French Quarter and sips sherry during happy hour every single day.”

Ellis blinked thickly mascaraed eyes at him and frowned, puzzled. I shot Sonny a look of disgust and turned back to her. “Actually, I adore sherry,” I said. “Happens to be my favorite.”

Ellis poured me a tiny, gold-rimmed glassful and I forced myself to kill it. Sonny laughed like hell.

“Sugar, how about pouring me some burgundy instead?” he said with a snort. “I don't have Cousin Taylor's refined tastes, evidently.”

I ignored him and turned back to Ellis. In spite of her friendly greeting, now that we were actually face to face, I saw that she was uncomfortable. Unless she had gone senile, she'd
have
to remember our last encounter, and remember it with shame. She didn't look my way but fiddled with the tray of drinks instead.

“So, Ellis. You are now one of the family,” I said. “How did you and Sonny come to marry? I didn't even know you were going together.”

At this, Sonny moved in protectively to his new bride and put a big flabby arm around her. “A good friend fixed us up. Luckiest day of my life.”

He grinned his lopsided Elvis grin at her and I stared in astonishment. I'll be damned. I believed old Sonny might be in love after all!

However, I couldn't resist goading him. Old habits die hard. “I hear that you are not only blissfully married, Sonny, but also that you're actually working now. With Uncle Cleve, driving the hearse.”

Sonny preened at this and ducked his shiny, sleek head, looking at Ellis shyly. “That's right. Gotta provide for the little woman here.”

They continued to moon into each other's eyes and I continued to marvel. Sonny didn't like it that I was watching them, for he turned suddenly and jumped my ass.

“Now listen, Taylor. After that last stunt you pulled, things are just beginning to settle down here. I don't know what kind of crap Aunt Della is telling you, but we're all fine. Perfectly fine. We don't need you coming in here and stirring everything up again.”

“That's the last thing I want, Sonny.”

“Daddy Clark's health ain't so good either, though he never lets on. He sure don't need you messing everybody's life up again.”

“Since when did you get so solicitous of Daddy Clark, Sonny?”

“He's getting on in years, and as I said, his health—”

I laughed at that. “Oh, come on. The old fart will outlive both of us and you know it. I just want him to lay off Aunt Della. That's the only thing I'm concerned about. She wants to stay where she is, not have him stick her in some smelly nursing home.”

To my surprise, Ellis turned sharply and glared at me, her nostrils actually flaring like a feisty mare. “You don't know what you're talking about, Taylor! I figured Miss Della was telling people that. Nobody's trying to force her to do anything. You just don't know how she's gotten lately.”

I was about to tell Ellis to mind her own prissy business when Sonny laughed rudely.

“How could he know? He's not been here to see about her; we have. He's so worried about her, when he's the one who almost put her in an early grave. She was doing fine until two years ago, when he almost killed Tim Sullivan—”

Ellis grabbed Sonny's arm as I took a step toward him. As usual, Sonny took a step back. “Shut up, Sonny,” I snarled at him. “You shitass—just shut up about that.” Damn. And I was determined not to blow my cool.

Saved by the bell. At that very moment, the front door banged open and my Aunt Frances Martha came out onto the porch. Without hesitation, she squealed my name and held out her arms to me. “Taylor—oh, precious baby Taylor!” She'd always called me “Tay-were,” which folks around town thought cute as hell.

I rushed into her fat open arms, safe and sheltered again by a dear old aunt who'd been another mother figure to me. She crooned and patted my back and hugged the breath out of me, as Sonny and Ellis stood there in disgust.

Aunt Frances Martha would be the village idiot if she weren't a Clark and such a sweet old thing. Instead, she was everybody's pet. Evidently some mild brain damage at birth caused her vacancy, for she'd been like this all her life. Sweet, simple, completely uncomplicated, incapable of any malice or guile. She turned to Sonny and Ellis and smiled over my shoulder as she patted it happily, like she used to burp me as a baby.

“Oh, look who's here—mine and Sister's baby boy! Mine and Sister's wittle baby boy, come home.”

Sonny rolled his eyes and downed his burgundy.

Aunt Frances Martha had come out to call us in to supper. It was typical that Daddy Clark hadn't come out. I'd have to pay homage to him in his lair; he'd never condescend to greet me. Pulling me by the hand, Aunt Frances Martha dragged me into the house and then to the dining room, where Daddy Clark stood waiting at the head of the table.

“Come on in, Taylor, baby. Here's your Granddaddy Harris waiting to see you,” Aunt Frances Martha lisped as she pulled me right up to him. Good thing she did. My knees suddenly went weak on me as I approached him. I hated like hell to let go of her soft protectiveness to face the godfather.

Daddy Clark stood glaring at me, probably madder at me for holding up his supper than for returning to Clarksville. Unlike Sonny and Ellis, he hadn't changed one bit. He was a massive old man, bald as a coot, with a stern bulldog face, always looking to me like an unforgiving Old-Testament God.

Daddy Clark was no Southern Big Daddy, drinking and cussing and womanizing, no sirree. Part of the fear he instilled was from his puritanism. He was straitlaced as a Southern Baptist, disapproving of anything he considered unchristian or un-American. He had been chairman of the board of Clarksville's First Methodist Church as long as anyone could remember, and his word was God there, like it was in most local business dealings. Daddy Clark, the God of his little world, Zion County.