Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

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.”