Promises of Home (9 page)

Trey spoke first. “Hello, Arlene.” His voice was steady but not strong.

“Trey—” She got the one word out before her voice failed her. She drew a deep breath. “You look awful.”

“I know. You look great, though. Pretty as a picture.”

The compliment was ignored. “Why are you back, Trey, and why didn’t you let me know?”

“I wasn’t hiding from you, Arlene. I wanted to call, but I didn’t think you’d talk to me.” He maneuvered the chair so he could see both Sister and me. “I hear tell you’ve got this wonderful new diner. Maybe we can leave Clevey’s family and friends to grieve and go over there and talk.”

As much as it pained me, I agreed with Trey. He was trying to defuse the situation and keep Sister from humiliating herself—or him, for that matter. The inevitable tears and recriminations would be easier to mull over if they were displayed in private, like photographs of intimate memories.

“Look, Trey,” Sister said. “I just want to set the record straight. I don’t care that you’re back in town. I don’t care that you got hurt. All I care about is that you stay clear of my boy. You do that and we’ll be fine.” Great, I thought. Preemptive strike here at a house of mourning. Her shock must’ve fogged her judgment.

“I’m not staying away from my son, Arlene.”

“You don’t have any rights to him. You abandoned him. You gave up any claim on Mark and I intend to hold by that.” Her voice was more sure now, as though she’d slipped into her prepared speech.

“I didn’t abandon him. I sent you money every month for him—”

“There’s more to being a father than sperm and loose change.” Sister’s hands balled up into fists. “I’m sorry, but fatherhood isn’t like the rodeo. You don’t pass on riding the bull if he’s a little more ornery than usual. You have to get through the whole ride, Trey. You don’t have a boy, then leave him when he’s eight, then decide one day to come back.” She gestured at the chair. “Is that what this is? Hoping for Mark’s pity, now that you’re a cripple?”

“Sister, please!” I said.

Her glance at me had an edge to cut a throat.

“What are you afraid of, Arlene? That he’ll want to see me?” Trey smiled, but without an ounce of warmth. “I think that’s what you’re afraid of, baby doll. You’re worried he’s gonna forgive me and like me just fine. A boy wants a father, God knows that’s true.” Bitterness tinged his voice and he stared down at the ground for a long moment, then looked up. “I’ll bet you Mark wants to see me. That’s what this whole little scene is about, isn’t it? I still know you awful well, Arlene. That’s just like you.”

“You don’t know me. You don’t know a damned thing about me.” She pointed at his chair. “You’re not the same man you were when you left. Well, I’m not the same woman. I’m a whole lot tougher and smarter now, Trey. I’ve had to be. I’m not going to fall for any crap you give me about you wanting to be a father to Mark. If you cared about Mark, you wouldn’t have come home with a new family to rub in his face.”

“Nola and Scott have nothing to do with Mark,” Trey said tightly. “They’re fine people, and they’ve been good to me. But they’re not my family.”

“You’re so wrapped up in yourself you can’t even see how your actions hurt anyone else. That’s just like you, Trey.” Her voice mocked him, turning his words like a knife. “Go. Go somewhere else where you won’t be torturing your own child.”

“So, finally, you admit that Mark is mine. I have every right to see—” And that’s when Sister stepped in and belted Trey. Not a slap, but an honest-to-God punch. His
head snapped back. I heard Hart say “Jesus!” and Bradley cry out in surprise.

Sister pulled Trey back into an upright position by his shirt. “You get this straight, you son of a bitch!” She was yelling now. “You come near us and I’ll get a restraining order on you double-quick! Mark is
my
baby—
my
child! You gave up any and all rights to him when you decided a bunch of stupid cowboys were more important than we were. And I hope when you die, God sends you straight to hell and lets a bull stomp on you for eternity!” She let him go and turned, stumbling, sobbing. I chased her and grabbed her arm.

“Sister, for God’s sake!” I glanced back at Trey. His lip bled, speckling his shirt. He stared at Sister with stunned dark eyes. He buried his face in his hands—I couldn’t tell if in pain or in shame.

“Let me go, Jordy.” Sister tried to pull away. “Let me go home to my boy.”

“I don’t think you ought to drive.”

“I’m fine to drive.” She shrugged off my arm. She watched as Davis, Ed, and Hart humed toward Trey. “I see he still has his friends. They’re bigger idiots than I was … to care about him.”

“Sister, please, listen to me. I know you hate him. I don’t blame you. But I don’t think threatening him is going to do you or Mark much—”

“Jordy, just shut up.” She examined her right hand; the knuckles were beginning to swell. “It hurts. I never hit anyone before. I thought it was supposed to hurt them, not you.” Her voice sounded ragged.

“Please, let’s go home. I’ll follow you in my car.” I steered her to her Hyundai and got her inside. Davis ran up to me.

“Jesus, is she okay?”

“Yeah, I think.” Hart and Eula Mae tended to Trey, who wasn’t looking our way. Ed shuffled his feet nearby, shrugging helplessly at me. I saw Bradley on the porch, Mrs. Shivers standing by him, gently holding his arm. Wanda and her mother, Ivalou, took the scene in greedily, carefully
cataloguing each moment for later embellishments. Steven Teague stood apart from everyone else, watching with a clinically emotionless face. Cayla Foradory smirked at me for one strange moment, then went to Bradley’s side, ushering him into the house.

“See how Trey is—what his reaction to all this is,” I said to Davis, “and call me later.”

“Why?”

“Look, quit being a lawyer for a minute and be a friend. I don’t want him calling Junebug and filing assault charges against my sister.”

“Considering how Junebug’s sparking Arlene, I don’t think there’s much danger of that.” Davis smiled.

“Guess not. Look, I got to get her out of here.” Sister was already revving the Hyundai for all it was worth.

“Fine. I’ll call you.” Davis nodded. I got into my car. Sister wheeled out and I followed, peering once in my rear-view mirror to survey the hornet’s nest she’d stirred up.

Lightning flashed across the pitch-colored sky, its jagged edges cracking the vault of night. Time barely passed between flash and rumble; the storm was here, announcing its tumultuous debut. The rain began a slow but building patter on my windshield.

My heart skipped a beat when I got home and a police cruiser was parked outside. Sister screeched into the driveway and I followed in my Blazer. She got out and stormed into the house, not waiting for me.

“Damn it!” I yelled after her, following her in. The police were here, but it was Junebug, sitting on the couch with Mark, watching TV. Mark stood when Sister came in the house. And was nearly knocked to the couch as his mother, sobbing, seized him in a bear hug.

“Mom! Mom!” Mark complained, trying to breathe. She eased down, releasing him, covering his face with kisses.

“Good Lord, Arlene.” Junebug stood and took her bruised right hand in his. “What the hell have you been up to?”

I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t think Mark should know his mother had been beating up his father.

“Mom, what happened to your hand?” Mark asked, then light dawned. “Oh, shit, Mom, you didn’t go belt Daddy, did you?” What can I say—Sister didn’t raise no fool.

“Don’t say shit.” Sister sniffed through her tears. “It’s not nice.” She kissed Mark’s forehead once more and then leaned her head against Junebug’s chest, draping her arms over his shoulders and closing her eyes.

I could hardly miss the look of sheer bliss on his face from this endearment. Mark didn’t care. “You punched Daddy? He’s in a wheelchair, for God’s sake!”

“He’s lucky he’s not in traction. Now, Mark, go upstairs. I need to talk to Junebug and Uncle Jordy.”

“Go upstairs, go upstairs,” Mark mocked in a singsong voice. “Mom, you can’t always send me upstairs, I’m not a little kid anymore. We got to talk about Daddy.”

“Go on up, baby. I’ll be there in a minute,” Sister said. Mark’s eyes met mine; I shrugged. He went up, not looking pleased. I frowned. I’d never interfered with how Sister chose to raise Mark, but she was, in my opinion, still treating him like a toddler. He was fourteen, and while hardly grown up, couldn’t be dismissed from having his own opinion—especially as far as his father was concerned.

I sat down while Sister told Junebug what happened at the Shiverses’. He shook his head. “Gad, Arlene, I understand why you’d want to hit him, but I wish you’d just stay away from Trey. You both need to cool down.”

This was not the answer Sister wanted. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to punch him for me, Junebug Moncrief. What with you being the law and all.”

“I’m not a mercenary, Arlene.
Look,
let’s get your hand doctored and you ought to get some rest.” He leaned down and pecked a kiss on her lips, then on her bruised knuckles. “Crazy gal.”

They went upstairs and I lay on the couch, listening to the noises of running water and slight laughter from Sister at one point. I turned off the TV and lay on the couch, taking
deep breaths and feeling the tremor of thunder vibrate the house.

Eventually Junebug came down alone, wiping his hands with a towel. “Your mother’s asleep, and Arlene’s talking with Mark.”

“God, what a day.” I closed my eyes. “I feel numb.”

“She belted old Trey, did she?” Junebug sounded faintly amused. “I knew Arlene was a spitfire when she got riled, but I didn’t think she’d coldcock him.”

“I’m sure you’re delighted that she’s not running back to him with open arms,” I said, my eyes still closed. “What is Mark supposed to do, pretend his dad’s not back in town? He’s already made it clear that he wants to see Trey.” I sat up on the couch. “You want some decaf? I’ll make a pot.”

“Sounds good. I want to talk to you about Clevey, too.”

“Poor Clevey. He’s a hell of a lot worse off than Sister or Trey.” Junebug followed me into the kitchen and asked about Mrs. Shivers while I made the coffee. I told him who-all had shown up to render their sympathy. “Ed said you’d been by Mrs. Shivers’s place earlier. I thought you’d stop back by there when you got off duty.”

“I came by here first. I thought Arlene might need me more than y’all did.” He seemed embarrassed and kept his eyes on the counter. “I already saw plenty of Mrs. Shivers today.”

I changed subjects. “Did you know Clevey was seeing a therapist? A fellow named Steven Teague?”

Junebug shook his head. “Well, that’s not exactly the kind of thing a man shares with his friends. Especially someone like Clevey.” He shrugged. “I’m sure that he thought we’d all tease him about it.”

I watched the coffee brew. “That’s unbelievably sad, though, isn’t it, Junebug? We were supposed to be his oldest friends. Why couldn’t he come to us with his troubles?”

“Get real, Jordy. If you had a serious problem, would you go discuss it with Davis or Ed or Clevey?” He laughed. “I don’t think I would.”

“Still seems wrong to me.”

“You know, it’s not like you went straight to all those fellows when you found out Bob Don was your daddy. Why didn’t you?”

I shrugged. The coffee finished dripping and I poured us each a cup. “I don’t know. Davis would have wanted me to sue Bob Don for back support, I suppose. Ed would have given Bob Don a discount on his radio ads for being a friend’s dad or pointed me toward an appropriate Elvis song. Clevey would have made some stupid crack about it. And Trey—” I stopped. “It’s funny. Maybe only Trey would have understood. But he wasn’t here.”

“You said this therapist’s name was Teague?”

“Yeah, Steven Teague.” I handed Junebug the card and he pocketed it.

“I’ll have to give Mr. Teague a call. Find out what kind of problems Clevey was seeing him for.”

“Your privacy goes out the window when you die, doesn’t it?” I said.

He nodded. “Let’s talk about Clevey’s murder for a minute.”

Clevey’s murder. The possessiveness of those words—
someone’s murder
—has always struck me as odd. As if the murder was something that could belong to the victim, the final dignity as someone else emptied out his life.

“You said he was shot.”

“Yeah. Close range, in the right eye, one bullet, we think a thirty-eight caliber.”

I shuddered. Suddenly an image of Clevey in second grade, turning his eyelid inside out to gross out the girls, appeared in my mind. Memory is both damnation and blessing.

“Who found him?”

“A neighbor. She reported she’d heard a sound like a shot early this morning—around six—but didn’t think it was anything more than some kid shooting off a gun down on the river. She noticed Clevey’s car was still there in the driveway and thought he’d overslept, which he was prone
to do. She found the door open and Clevey in the living room.”

“So why would anyone want to kill Clevey? Was it a robbery?” I couldn’t imagine the usually genial Clevey Shivers with an enemy. But he’d been seeing a therapist; how happy could his life be? Something must have been amiss for him to seek help.

“His place was ransacked, but the TV, the stereo, even the money in his wallet was still there. I don’t think this was a burglary that got interrupted. I ain’t sure what the hell to think.” Junebug stared down in his coffee. I’d known him long enough to see that a weight lay on his mind.

“You’re even more tense than I’d expect. What is it?”

“Whoever searched the house didn’t hit the bathroom too hard. I found this hidden in the bathroom, taped behind the toilet tank.” He went over to his briefcase. “You can’t tell anyone about this, Jordy. I’m only showing this to you ’cause you got a quick mind and you can keep your mouth shut.” He handed me an envelope, sealed in a plastic bag.

“Well, I can’t very well look in it. What is it?”

“Pictures and newspaper articles about Rennie Clifton.” He paused to let the name sink in. “I assume you remember her, Jordan.”

You never forget the first time you see death. I shivered, despite the warmth of the coffee. “Yes, I remember her. The girl who died in Hurricane Althea when we were kids.” I poked at the evidence bag. “Why would Clevey have this?”