Jeff Abbott: Promises of Home

The phone rang under my fingers. “Jordy. This is Junebug.” His voice sounded grim.

“Hey, Junebug. I have a question for you. Is tarring and feathering officially illegal or just frowned upon?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I told him quickly about Trey’s reappearance. “God almighty,” he finally said.

“So, if I want to run him out of town on the rails, what are my legal options? Tying him into a saddle and then giving the horse a whack to make him run a fair distance couldn’t get me in trouble, could it?”

“Jordy, stop it,” Junebug said. “I’m calling with some real bad news. Real bad. You better sit down. I couldn’t call earlier ’cause his mama was in Houston today and I couldn’t call you and the others till we notified next of kin.”

“What? Who?”

“You know that emergency I got called out to this morning on Old River Road? Well, it was Clevey Shivers. Someone shot him dead,”

Small towns have a ritual for death. People gather, as though drawn by a lingering spirit of the departed. The relative closest to the deceased finds his or herself drafted into the dual roles of mourner and host. For some reason, large amounts of food are required, although no one seems to have much of an appetite. I’ve noticed that the men congregate on the porches no matter the weather, while the women claim the homey territories of kitchen and living room. Children are banished to the upstairs or the yard, as if grieving didn’t become them. My memories of mourning carry the smell of fresh-fried chicken, the taste of a green-bean-and-mushroom-soup casserole, the odor of old-lady lavender water and talcum powder, and the rough feel of my grandmother’s porch swing as it creaked a slow and solemn dirge.

All of this activity is much, much easier if the death is expected.

Shortly after Junebug’s phone call, I found myself driving out to Mrs. Truda Shivers’s house, down by the river on Bavary Road. I hadn’t eaten dinner; I didn’t have much appetite. I felt terrible about leaving Mark and Sister behind, but they obviously did not want to go and I sensed they wanted time to themselves.

The air felt heavy, as though rain were just a breath away. Distant thunder sounded from the east, and I could see a dark line of clouds, swollen with grayness, on the horizon. We’d have a downpour before morning, I guessed.

Several cars were already parked in Truda’s crushedgravel driveway when I arrived Junebug’s police cruiser was not among them. He was busy starting the investigation into Clevey’s death.

I stopped the engine and took a deep breath, steeling myself. Clevey, one of my oldest friends, was dead. I waited for the sting of tears, but none came-and that made me feel more miserable. I shut my eyes and a torrent of memories came forward: Clevey and I wrestling in mud and getting spanked by our mothers because we were in our Sunday best; Clevey and I, as young boys, going through confirmation classes at little St. Michael’s Episcopal Church in Bavary (the Shiveises were one of the few other Anglican families in Mirabeau); Clevey’s terrified face, staring into the storm’s darkness the night Hurricane Althea nearly killed us all; the pit my stomach fell into when, at fifteen, Clevey told me he was madly in love with Gina Fontenelle and I’d been French-kissing her the night before at a party he’d skipped.

But those were all distant memories. I’d had only sporadic contact with Clevey since I’d moved home. He’d been polite when we’d seen each other, but he’d acted nearly as if he had a bad cold he didn’t want to pass on. I’d seen him twice in the past week-once, stewed to the gills at the Bierhaus Brewpub in Bavary. I’d hardly spoken to him; he was drinking alone and didn’t seem overly pleased when Junebug and I’d joined him. I’d seen him again only yesterday morning when he’d stopped by the Sit-a-Spell to give Sister and Candace a thorough teasing about my eating too many free meals there. It had been the closest to the Clevey of old that I’d seen in years.

A bullet-probably from a. 38-had smashed directly through his right eye, destroying brain and thought and reason. I felt sick. And there was no gun lying near Clevey’s body. Murder. Clevey was a registered owner of a. 38, but the gun was missing from his house. Junebug told me it was likely the killer had used Clevey’s own weapon against him.

I forced myself out of the car. The promised norther had come, and I pulled my denim jacket closer around me. I steadied my grip on a peach cobbler Sister had baked earlier at the cafe and that Candace’d given me to take to Mrs. Shivers. I walked up to the front porch, where, despite the cooling evening temperature and the occasional gust of wind, the men had gathered, true to form.

I recognized several of Clevey’s cousins from La Grange. Our greetings were little more than nods from me to them, and thanks from them to me for coming. Little Ed Dickensheets sat on a porch swing, his eyes red from crying. Men don’t generally cry in front of one another here, and I thought Ed had decently gotten his tern’s shed in private. I went over and put my arm around his shoulder and he leaned into my denim jacket, embracing me hard for a moment, weeping silently. I shook my head; Clevey’d nearly teased him to an early grave, and here was Ed, solitarily shedding tears.

“Sorry,” Ed said, pulling away and blinking up at me. Ed’s five-five, so he’s always looking up at folks. I wondered how he kept from getting crushed by a big old gal like Wanda when they were in the sack. Oddest things you think about in the midst of death. “I’m gonna make you drop that cobbler.”

“Don’t you worry, Ed. How you holding up?”

“Fine. Wanda’s in there with Mrs. Shivers.” He nodded toward the weathered screen door, where I could hear the gentle murmur of women’s voices. I suppose Ed thought that I’d be as interested in Wanda’s current coordinates as he was.

“Well, I better get this cobbler in,” I said, heading for the door.

“Davis said he was coming. Junebug’s already been by-he had to get back to the station,” Ed said as I went in; I smiled to let him know I’d heard. I suddenly wanted to see all my friends very badly.

The Shivers house was old, pre-World War I, built of white-painted boards and native stone. The comforting smell of cinnamon pervaded the rooms, and in spite of myself I nearly smiled; I could remember long afternoons when school was out, watching TV here with Clevey, playing touch football on the cool green yard, staying up late when we were older and blustering about the women we’d have someday.

I found Clevey’s mother, Truda Shivers, sitting in the living room, surrounded by many women. She was always a polite, gracious lady and she was not going to be undone by death-even that of her son. I marveled at her composure, especially since she’d already buried her husband and her one other child, who’d died in infancy when Clevey and I were four. Clevey’d gotten his fiery-red hair and bulk from his mama, but gray heavily streaked her auburn perm. She rose to hug me with her thick arms.

“Oh, Jordan, sugar, I’m so glad you’re here. Seeing everyone who loved Clevey is making this easier for me to bear. And what a lovely cobbler.” Her manners weren’t going to be dented by tragedy.

“Miz Shivers. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” I whispered into her frizz of hair. I hugged her tight. She’d always been really considerate to me and I remembered her many kindnesses since Mama had gotten ill. She didn’t deserve this grief, and for the first time I felt a hot anger overcome my shock. I didn’t want this kindhearted woman to feel the horrible pain of losing her child.