Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

I remembered Steven Teague. He would know about grief counseling. I’d call my friends to tell them of Trey’s death first, then call Steven. “That’s an excellent idea, Clo. Thank you.”

She patted my arm again. “I tell you what. I’ll stay and help you, okay?”

I would have kissed her, but she would have hated that; so I didn’t. Clo was innately kind, but she kept nearly everyone at an arm’s length. Life hadn’t always been kind back to her. “What about the funeral arrangements?”

“I don’t know who’s supposed to be making those. Us? Nola Kinnard?”

“And where’s Arlene at?”

“She’s running errands or something for the cafe,” I said, perhaps a little too brightly. Clo watched me, her dark eyes surveying the twitchy territory of my face, and then she pushed the phone along the kitchen counter toward me.

“I think you better make them calls now, Jordy.”

I picked up the receiver and dialed Davis Foradory’s house.

When Davis answered his voice sounded broken, like a pane of glass starred and cracked by a blow. “Huh- hello?”

“Davis?”

I heard the noise of flesh on flesh-a long, slow drag of his finger across his lip. “Yeah, Jordan, hey, how are you?”

For a moment I wondered if Davis had been drinking-he sounded dulled. I told him briefly what had happened, excluding again the blood-scribed words on the wall; I didn’t think that I should jump to any conclusions about what 2 DOWN meant.

He was silent a long while. “They say these things come in trees, Jordan.”

“Trees?” His words were slurring together and I couldn’t understand him.

“Threes. You know, death comes in threes.”

Davis didn’t have a future writing sympathy cards for Hallmark. “That’s not exactly a comforting idea right now, Davis. Are you okay? You sound sick.”

“I’m just stunned over what you’ve told me. God, first Clevey, now Trey. We got some serial killer running around here?”

“I don’t know. Listen, Mark’s not in the best shape. He’s playing the tough guy right now. He asked if Bradley could come over and watch TV, just hang out with him.”

“Well… I don’t know…” I heard movement and a brief recounting of Trey’s death from Davis. His wife, Cayla, came on the phone.

“Jordy? My God, this is horrible. I am so sorry. How are Arlene and Mark?” Distance colored her voice more than sympathy. Each word seemed forced from Cayla’s mouth, as though concern was an unpleasant exercise to be completed.

“Coping,” I answered. I wasn’t about to get into a discussion with Cayla Foradory, our local ice queen, about how my family felt over Trey’s death. “Cayla, would it be too much trouble to let Bradley come over? Mark could sure use his friends right now.”

Cayla hesitated. “Yes, I suppose that would be okay. I’ll bring y’all some food, too.”

I thought of saying no. But when you’ve had a death, telling Mirabeau people not to bring food is like trying to say no to breathing air. I thanked her instead.

“I can’t believe it. Two murders in two days. What’s happening to Mirabeau?”

“I don’t know, Cayla.” Her tone gave me the creeps.

“Jordy, one moment. Let me speak to Arlene.”

I pressed my lips hard together. What to say? “She can’t come to the phone right now, Cayla.”

The coolness in Cayla’s voice deepened. “Of course, I understand. Tell Mark we’ll be over shortly.”

“Thanks, Cayla.” I paused, then decided to ask her a question. “Is Davis okay?”

There was the slightest of pauses. “Davis is fine, Jordy. You’re sweet to ask about him. I think he’s still in shock over Clevey’s death and this latest tragedy is just hitting him very hard.”

“Of course. See you in a bit, Cayla.” I hung up the phone, not entirely convinced she was being frank with me. Davis Foradory didn’t sound like the self-assured lawyer I knew. I rubbed my temples; as if I didn’t have enough to worry about, I was ready to take on Davis’s imagined problems. I finished making my phone calls.

Grief and shock do not lend themselves to originality. Nearly everyone I called said the same empty words: Oh my God, I can’t believe it, or How terrible, or an occasional Well, I didn’t know he was back in town! I had my own set speech, telling them that I didn’t know quite yet what the funeral arrangements were going to be and that yes, Mark was bearing up okay (that I didn’t know about, but what else could I say?) and that, why, yes, I was fine.

People promised to stop by. I kept hoping Sister’d be back by then.

I checked on Mark. He was lying on his bed, light from the window casting a dim square on his shirt. He stared at his ceiling, listening to an R.E.M. song that advised him to try not to breathe. His cheeks were dry and his eyes, although reddened from his earlier outburst, weren’t damp.

“Mark? You okay?”

“Sure. Fine.”

“Bradley’s coming over shortly. That still okay with you?”

“Yeah. Mom home yet?”

“No, Mark, not yet. She’ll be here soon.”

“I just hope nothing happened to her, the way it did to Dad.”

Ice coated my throat. “Oh, Mark, I’m sure she’s fine. She’s-she’s just out running errands or something.”

“Okay.” He turned away from me. “Let me know when Bradley gets here.” He got up and pulled a box out from deep in the chaos of his closet. A dusty, battered, cracked box with chutes and ladders in faint print across the front. He smiled thinly at me.

“It’s a fun game. Want to play?”

“Maybe later, Mark.” The fourteen-year-old I knew would sooner have bamboo shoved under his fingernails than play a kindergartner’s game. I tried to convince myself he just wanted to do something simple that Bradley could enjoy. I couldn’t shake the dread that Mark was in serious retreat.

I left him alone and crept to Sister’s room, feeling like a thief. I closed the door behind me and opened her small closet. Pants and jeans hung in neat lines, draped over hangers; Sister’s never been a slob. I rummaged among the selection. The batik slacks weren’t in there. I quickly checked her dresser drawers, feeling like a pervert as I pawed through her undergarments and other apparel. No trace of the missing pants, Likely she still had them on. But they were of thin material, and this was a cool day. Why would she wear them in the November chill?

I went to my own room and put the scrap in a small blue stationery envelope, and after a moment’s hesitation, hid the envelope in a thick book on Texas history. I then stuck the book in the middle of the tower of books by my bedside-my ever-tottering to-read stack. I promised myself some time to contemplate before I mentioned that shred of cloth to Sister. Or to Junebug.

I went downstairs, still uneasy over Mark and Sister. People-mostly older women-had started arriving, bringing food and sympathy. Truda Shivers and Eula Mae Quiff had been among the first folks I’d called, and they’d resummoned the cavalry. Some of the callers still wore the looks of solicitude I’d seen at Truda’s house last night. It seemed unreal to have them here, lamenting a man who hadn’t set foot in this house for six years. But regardless of what had happened between him and Sister, he was still Mark’s father, and to these fine, bighearted women, this was still a house of mourning in need of support in the form of tender hugs, plum cakes, buttermilk pies, and broccoli-cheese-rice casseroles. There were seven ladies lingering, dithering over Mama (who didn’t seem too confused by the presence of these friends she used to know) and nodding remorsefully at Clo as she talked, “Oh, honey.” Dorcas Witherspoon came to me and hugged me. She’s one of Mama’s oldest and dearest pals. “I’m so sorry. How are Mark and Arlene? Are they upstairs?”