Promises of Home (16 page)

A man staggered out from the trees in the creek, weaving and walking as though yanked every few moments by invisible strings. Hatless, he kept one chambrayed arm over his eyes against the springtime brightness. He shuffled along toward the main house, barely staying on his feet I saw a leaf tangled in the man’s dark hair and suspected that if I was closer, I’d smell cheap whiskey.

I didn’t say anything; I stared down at the saddle horn. Fafnir snorted.

“Trey—”

“Never mind, Jordy.” There was ice in his voice. “Shit. And it ain’t even noon yet.”

I watched Trey’s daddy yank open the screen door to the Quadlander house and totter inside.

Sitting on the horse made me feel bold. “Why does Mr. Quadlander put up with it, Trey? Why do you?”

He might have punched any of his other friends for such bluntness, but instead he looked up into my eyes and then quickly averted them. “Hart’s a good man. And Daddy only gets drunk some of the time, it ain’t always.”

I remembered when Mama’s uncle Buell drank too much at Christmas a few years back and then was gone from town for a while. Sister and I’d finally found out
he’d gone to a rehab place in Bryan, where he quickly dried out and found a new addiction to Jesus. Well, better that than whiskey. Sober and sanctimonious was preferable to drunk and disorderly.

“Trey, listen to me for a minute. There are places your daddy could go, help he could get—”

“Get off the horse, Jordy, I got to go tend to Daddy.” He stared at the house.

“Trey—”

“Look. I know you mean well. I do. But this is my problem. It ain’t yours.” His bottom lip vanished into his mouth and his face couldn’t hide the anguish. “Please.”

I swung down from Fafnir. “I’m sorry. I just want to help you.”

“I don’t need your help, Jordy. Go back to your perfect father and let me tend to mine.” He took Faf’s reins from my hands. “Why—why don’t you just wait out here? I’ll get Faf situated and I’ll call your folks to come pick you up.”

“I could help you with your daddy,” I said softly. “I could brew him some coffee. I remember when Uncle Buell—”

“I don’t want your help!” he screamed at me, and Fafnir whinnied, eyes rolling in panic at the noise. The horse’s reaction brought Trey back. “Please. I can take care of my own problems. I don’t need anybody’s help. Just wait out here.”

“All right.” I turned toward the oaks and creek. I wondered how many bottles of whiskey Louis Slocum had emptied, sitting between the gnarled roots of the trees. Then I heard the gunshots.

I whirled around. The world shimmered with unreal light. The farm was gone. The grass was gone. Fafnir was gone. There was only Trey, a grown man, dying, lying with three wounds in his back, staring helplessly at me through a mask of blood.

I snapped awake in bed, the gasp of horror caught in my throat. Dim moonlight silvered my bedroom. Long, shuddering breaths emptied my chest. The November chill
pressed against the window and I felt the uncomfortable dampness of sweat cooling the sheets. I pushed the bedclothes away and pulled on a robe. I sat by my window and stared out at the crescent moon, hanging like a cut nail above the fingers of the trees. The clouds had scudded away, to take rain and darkness south toward Victoria and Corpus Christi.

I put my face in my hands. The dream had been eerie in its exactness, more like a half-waking memory than some Jungian exercise in symbolism. Why on earth would I remember that incident now? It had teen the first real time I’d gone horseback riding, the first of many happy hours riding with Trey. It’d also been the first time Trey’d spoken openly of his father’s drinking. The drinking that had finally put Louis Slocum in his grave five years ago, nearly a year to the day that Trey walked out of all of our lives.

I thought over the dream again, smiling faintly at the memory of Fafnir’s bite and Trey’s gentle coaxing of the horse. What had happened to that boy? Why had he turned into such an irredeemable loser?

I glanced at the clock—nearly three a.m. I thought of creeping down the hall, waking Candace, telling her about my dream, but I didn’t think she’d understand. Besides, what was there to say?

Finally I crawled back into my bed, pulling the sheets around me. They made a thin cocoon against the night.

I slept late, and when I came down, I found Candace and Clo sitting and drinking coffee at the kitchen table. Mama sat in the living room, watching the morning news chatter with the sound turned low, the way she liked it.

I stood for a moment, watching her and feeling a ridiculous resentment. Here was our family: grieving, nearly paralyzed by the past two days, and she sailed through the rooms of our house with nary a thought for the rest of us, for our bereavement. Life went on for her in its never-ending cycle of forgetfulness, and for one brief moment I resented the hell out of her. Then I envied her. Then shame
welled up in me and I went over and kissed her cheek. She smiled faintly at me, like a queen to a footman for a simple service performed well, and her gaze went back to the television.

“Good morning, Clo. Hi, sugar.” I leaned down and pecked Candace on the lips. “Sorry if I have morning breath.”

“You do, but that’s okay. Clo’s coffee is very strong and should wash away even Jordan Poteet industrial-strength fumes.” I permitted myself a smile as she teased me. “How you doing this morning? Did you sleep okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. I wondered if that answer was starting to sound like a litany. “Are Sister and Mark still asleep?”

“No. Arlene decided to follow your advice. She called Steven Teague this morning, and he offered to make a special appointment for Mark. They’re at his office now.”

“That’s good.” I poured myself some coffee. Maybe today would be better than yesterday. It had to be.

Candace pursed her lips and glanced over at Clo, who was sitting as silently as a sphinx. “Actually, I talked to Mr. Teague after Arlene called him. He suggested to me that maybe the whole family should attend counseling.”

I froze. The last thing I wanted was to divulge my feelings about Clevey and Trey’s deaths to some sympathetic social worker with a bunch of consonants behind his name. But if it would help Mark … “I’ll consider it. It would probably be helpful for Mark and Sister.”

“Okay,” she said softly. I could feel her watchful gaze on my back. Then she shifted the subject. “I’m not opening the cafe today. It didn’t seem appropriate. Mirabeau can survive a day without Arlene’s chicken-fried steak.”

I began to sip coffee without further comment. Today was Sunday, and the library would be closed. My Dallas Cowboys would be playing; I could take refuge in the game. I glanced at Candace. She still favored me with that I’m-worried-about-you-and-don’t-you-pretend-you-don’t-know-it look, piercing me like a needle. If I stared unflinchingly at the screen for every second of all four
quarters (including time-outs and beer commercials) it would drive her nuts and she’d leave me alone. Maybe Mark would have lost interest in playing games he’d shunned for nine years and want to watch the Cowboys with me. We’d cheer Troy, yell for Emmitt, call for Moose, and applaud Bill Bates. We’d pretend we had normal lives, for just a while.

Unfortunately the game wasn’t on till midafternoon. Clo and Candace watched me. I began to read the
Austin American-Statesman
sports section with extreme concentration.

It didn’t work.

“Truda Shivers called early this morning,” Candace said, ignoring that I was obviously reading an article of great importance. “She wanted to know what the funeral plans were for Trey. She suggested that since Trey and Clevey had so many of the same friends, that we might consider a double funeral. At St.-George’s-on-the-River.”

I set down my cup on the paper. I couldn’t hide. I shouldn’t hide. “What about Nola? She might have plans for his funeral.”

“We don’t even know how long he and Nola have been together,” Candace said. “I think that Mark has more of a right to plan his father’s funeral than Nola Kinnard does.”

The doorbell rang. I hurried to answer it. I found Hart Quadlander and Scott Kinnard together on my porch.

Scott looked much better than the last time I’d seen him, fetally huddled on the rain-soaked porch of the house Trey died in. He wore faded jeans, sneakers, and a threadbare plaid shirt that needed mending. A ragged knapsack hung over one bony shoulder. His brown hair was neatly combed, but redness rimmed his hazel eyes. He looked tired.

Hart stood behind him, ill at ease. He was nattily dressed in a dark jacket, jeans, and a stiff white button-down shirt, looking every inch the gentleman rancher. Hart I’d expected to see; he was a friend of Trey’s. Scott I hadn’t. Considering how his mother had been railing
against Sister in the police station, I wouldn’t have thought she’d permit her son within ten feet of our house.

“Hi, Scott. How are you doing?” I felt a sharp pang of regret. I’d promised myself I’d check on Scott after I took care of Mark. I hadn’t. Nola’s ranting voice in the police station hadn’t made me feel like I could call up her kid and see how he was. But I shouldn’t have ignored Scott because his mother was a nutcase.

He shrugged. “I guess okay. I haven’t slept real well since Trey died.” He glanced up at Hart Quadlander. “I—I told Mom I wanted to go out and see the horse farm, but I really wanted Mr. Quadlander to bring me over here. Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Uh, sure,” I said, opening the door. “Hart, would you like some coffee? Or pie? We’re about knee-deep in pies and casseroles. Scott, can I get you something?”

“No.” Scott looked at the tables full of food. He blinked solemnly at me. “Y’all must have a lot of friends. Only one lady brought any food to our house, and it wasn’t very good. Tuna casserole.”

My heart felt like a stone. Even if Nola and her son were strangers in town, Mirabeau should have reached out. We hadn’t. “Well, would you like something to eat?”

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

Hart’s eyes met mine. “Scott has something to give you, Jordy.”

“Maybe we could talk in private?” Scott asked.

I nodded and ushered him toward the back of the house. I meant to introduce him to Clo and Candace, but he walked straight past them with such singular purpose that I just followed him.

The air on the back porch felt cool and fresh, as though the long days of rain had scrubbed it clean. I treated myself to a deep, cleansing breath.

“This is a nice house,” he said. “I miss having a regular house. Mom and I tend not to stay in one place long.”

It struck me then that Scott seemed more like a shrunken adult than a growing boy. His eyes took in the details of our home with a mature detachment as opposed
to youthful enthusiasm. Maybe all the zest was gone from Scott right now. I remembered how I’d seen him crying to break your heart and I’d done nothing. Would he have let me help him? I watched Scott, sensing he felt uncertain of how to begin now that we were alone.

“I take it y’all traveled around to the rodeos.” I gestured toward a white wicker chair and he sat nervously on the edge of the cushion.

“Yeah, sometimes. We got to see a lot of places, mostly Texas and Louisiana and Oklahoma. Sometimes Mississippi. Sometimes I go with her, sometimes not.”

“Where do you stay if you’re not traveling with her?”

“Wherever she dumps me.” His eyes didn’t hold bitterness about the statement. “Until Trey came along. He made mom take me with them.” He glanced around. “Your, uh, sister, she’s not here, is she?”

“No, she’s not. She and my nephew are out.”

“Well, okay. Mr. Quadlander said her car wasn’t in the driveway, so I thought maybe it’d be okay if you and I talked.” He fished in his knapsack. “I found these. Actually, Trey showed them to me a while back. I don’t have no use for them, so I figured y’all would want them back.”

He handed me a stack of photos. I started sorting through them, my mouth feeling dry. A wedding photo of Trey and Sister, both of their faces aglow with the expectation of a life to be lived together. Sister looked beautiful and happy. Pictures of Mark, at least ten of them, in various stages of childhood: crawling, toothless-grinned baby; waddling toddler; graceful boy smiling into the sunshine, shading his face with the flat of one hand, a baseball mitt on the other. An old photo of Sister, Trey, and Mark together, when Mark was barely a year old. The pictures were worn with handling.

The final two photos were surprises. A picture of Mama and Trey, from some vaguely remembered Fourth of July family celebration, Mama caught unawares by Trey and smiling broadly into the lens, Trey hugging her close. I recalled, suddenly, vividly, taking this picture myself. As I’d lowered the lens Trey had kissed Mama loudly on the
cheek, saying, “You just got to share her with me, Plum, since I don’t got a mama of m’own.” He and Sister were newlyweds then and Trey was drunk with the joy of having a family that consisted of more than an inebriated father. I remembered the blush that had crept up Mama’s cheek at his words and the nearly solemn way she’d hugged him.

The final photo was of me. It was a picture made when I’d come home from Houston during college. I stared at the photo for a long minute. It showed me drinking a beer in the backyard, Daddy in the distance, coaxing flame from a grill. I looked heavier from a diet of college food and cold beer, and I looked irritated, as though I couldn’t be bothered having my picture taken. I remembered Trey’s words as he took the photo: “Smile like you’ve gotten smart at school, Plum.” My grin, solely for the camera, looked forced and blank. Trey and Sister were married by then, and I was going to prestigious Rice and never coming to live in Mirabeau again. My snotty attitude showed clearly on my face.

That was what he had to remember me by. I turned the photo over,
OUR SCOLER PLUM
was written in Trey’s close scrawl, in faded black ink. Never could spell
cat
to save his life.

I felt a tinge of nausea and stood.

“Thanks, Scott, thanks for bringing these by. It was thoughtful of you.”

“I don’t have no use for them,” he said quietly.

“Scott.” I waited till his eyes met mine. “I want you to tell me why Trey came home.”