Jeff Abbott - Distant Blood

He didn't throw his arms around me. He didn't whoop for joy. “Why now? Why the change?”

I couldn't admit to him that I knew he'd killed his brother. Not now. Perhaps not ever. I took one of his hands in mine; his was large and warm and every finger was cal-lused from the hard work he did on his property on the weekends, ridding himself of the stress of the car dealership. And no doubt, the stress I'd inflicted on him over the past months.

“Because I need a dad. And I need to be your son.”

“But you already had a father. You told me you didn't need another.” His voice was hushed. I couldn't blame him for not accepting my turnaround immediately. I'd dithered and railed too long for him to risk the hurt of me changing my mind.

“Candace has pointed out to me that I've tended to put my father on a pedestal. One does that with the dead sometimes.” But not in this family, I silently added. “Daddy wasn't perfect. If he was, he would've saved some money so that we weren't in such dire straits when Mama got so sick.” I shrugged. “He was a good man, but he wasn't an ideal man. Only I made him that way.”

Bob Don was silent, staring at my hand clasping his. His pale face might've been carved of ivory.

The memory rose to my lips before I could stop it. “When I was twelve, I stopped confiding in Daddy. I'd come home from school one afternoon and told him”-I smiled a little at my folly-”that whenever I looked at my English teacher-she was a beautiful young woman named Pamela Guenther-my pants hurt because they got too tight because my talleywhacker got hard.” Bob Don didn't smile, but I thought I saw a brief, flitting bit of mirth in his eyes. I continued: “Daddy took all this quite seriously and sat me down and gave me the sex talk. He was very kind and factual and told me I had nothing to be ashamed of.

“That night, Daddy and his poker buddies had their weekly game at our house. They played out on our enclosed porch when the weather was nice, and it was a beautiful night. I'd come down to say good night before going to bed, and Mama asked me to take the men a tray of beers. So I did.

“I came out and began setting the beers down and-they could hardly keep their laughter in. I'd set the last beer in front of Royce Collins and he said, 'Hey, Jordy, your pants hurtin' you these days?' I froze. And then Bertram Wells asked me, 'You gonna be the teacher's pet, Jordy?' They all exploded in laughter. Daddy couldn't even look at me. Lucas Behr informed me that if I put grease on Captain Tal-leywhacker and stayed out of school, maybe my pants wouldn't hurt me so bad. And they all laughed again, and the sound drifted past our porch screens and across the whole neighborhood.” I stopped for a moment. Bob Don squeezed my hand tightly.

“I'd never felt such deep humiliation in my life. I laughed along, because that's what you do to be one of the guys, backing away from them with the tray. I wanted to kill Daddy for breaking our confidence. He saw something in my eyes and just stared down at his hand of cards. The others laughed and wished me a good night. I'm sure they didn't mean harm; it was their way of acknowledging me as a growing man. But I'd told Daddy a secret I wanted him to keep, and he hadn't kept his mouth shut for a whole five hours. Maybe I was a hypersensitive kid. But it hurt, all the same, and Daddy should have known how I'd react. That night, lying in bed, I decided the only people I could ever entirely trust again were Mama and my best friend Trey.”

And y 'all are both lost to me now, Mama in sickness, Trey in death. When maybe I need you the most. Why did God take you both from me? I stared at the floor, not wanting to look at Bob Don. “Pretty silly to get upset about, right?”

“No, it's not,” Bob Don answered softly. “I'd have been embarrassed, too. And you were a sensitive kid. Everyone knew that. Never could abide much teasing.”

My words came in a gush: “I mean, in the whole scheme of my life, that one night doesn't matter. I still loved Daddy, I still do. He was a wonderful father. But he was as capable of hurting me as anyone else.”

Bob Don reflected for a moment. “Your daddy loved you fiercely. Remember that most of all. But he was a man who did what he thought other people wanted him to do. That poker talk probably went around to sex and he didn't think telling that tale on you was breaking a confidence, he probably thought it was just adding to the conversation. Maybe he was proud of you for becoming a young man.”

I shrugged. “If I ever have a son, I'll never do that to him.”

Bob Don finally smiled. “No, you'll make a whole other mess of mistakes he'll complain about. All part of the package, Jordan.” I didn't answer right away and the quiet hung between us.

“By the way,” I said at last, “that cure Lucas Behr recommended-greasing up Mr. Happy. It doesn't work.”

Bob Don exploded in nervous laughter. “I'll keep that in mind,” he said, color rushing into his cheeks.

“And my pants still hurt me sometimes. Like when I look at Candace.” Bantering. I felt the connection between us take hold. I sent a silent wish toward heaven: I'm not betraying you, Daddy, by taking him into my heart. I know I'm not. Please don't hate me. I glanced at the man who gave me life.

“I'm sorry for the trash I talked earlier,” I whispered. “If I could take them back, I would. I believe you loved my mother. And I know she loved you, too. I'm sorry I suggested it was anything cheap.”

“That was your anger talking.”

“Yes,” I said. Other words failed me.

“I'm so sorry I slapped you. I'll never do it again.”

“That's true,” I agreed. I didn't know how to convey the surge in my heart./ have a father again. The jumble of feelings, of hurt and fright and giddiness I'd experienced in the past year smoothed into a warm, mellow sensation of acceptance. “I think when we get back to Mirabeau, I should let folks know that you're my father. I mean, some folks already know, but they don't speak of it. We can speak of it now.”

Tears braced in his eyes. “Okay.”

“I'll keep the name Poteet, if you don't mind.”

“Whatever you want, son.”

“Son,” I echoed. I glanced, almost shyly, at his face. There is no mark of Cain there. I can't believe this man killed his own brother, even in self-defense. And I'm not going to let anything, anything happen to him. “I suppose if you're going to call me son, I should call you something other than Bob Don.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“I'd feel a tad odd calling you Daddy,” I ventured. “What did you call your father?”

He smiled, almost as shyly as I had. “I called him Daddy.”

I laughed. “Of course. Why is it Southerners are so unimaginative with nicknames for parents and so imaginative with nicknames for grandparents?” I thought of the photo of my great-grandfather I'd examined so closely in Lolly's room, seeing so much of his face in mine, and my odd intuition that I would've called him Pop-Pop. “Hey. What about Pop?”

“Ain't pop what Yankees call Cokes?”

“Well, yes,” I answered.

He rolled the word about in his mouth, as though tasting it. “Pop. Well, if that's what you want to call me, I guess I'll get used to it.”

I could tell the endearment wasn't entirely to his taste, and felt an unexpected relief he hadn't adopted it immediately in mindless gratitude-perhaps the days of putting me unreachably aloft were over. We could deal with each other as men now. “Well, why don't we try it out and see how it fits?”

“Okey doke,” he finally said, and then spoke for us both: “This kind of all feels funny, doesn't it?”

“Yes. It's a strange family to be joining.”

A momentary flash passed over his face, as though the mention of the rest of the Goertzes cast a dark shadow across this long-awaited moment. “Oh, God, son. Let's all just leave. Just go back to Mirabeau and pick up our lives. There's nothing for us here.”