Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

She regarded me with a critical gaze. “And how about you?”

“Fine,” I mumbled. “I mean, granted, it was horrible to see him the like that, but I’ll be just fine.”

One of her hands reached out for mine. She ran a fingertip along my unshaven jawline. “C’mon, babe. He was your best friend, at least when you were growing up.”

“Who told you that?”

She blinked. “Well, good Lord. Everyone says how close y’all were.”

“That was years ago! What does it matter?” I pulled my hand free and walked to the end of the porch. The little garden plot Mama used to plant every spring was barren and muddy. Dank elongations of water lay in the shallow hills between empty rows. I watched drops strike the surface, their tiny impacts spreading a circle of water until the next bead of rain fell.

“Why are you being so pissy to me, Jordan?” she asked my back.

“I’m sorry.” I turned to her, holding my palms out, fingers spread. “You don’t understand, Candace. There’s no point in me being upset. You said Trey was my friend. Well, the emphasis is on the past tense. He was an unforgivable asshole.”

She gave me her patented Doubting Candace look and crossed her slender arms. “I see. And since he was such an asshole, you’re not at all affected that he practically died at your feet?”

I shook my head in frustration. “I feel terrible that Mark saw that. I’ll never forgive myself for taking him over to that house. But at least-at least Trey told Mark that he loved him.” I stared out again at the rain. “I don’t know, Candace. Maybe Mark didn’t need to hear that. Maybe it would have been better if Trey had just died and he wasn’t anything more than a memory to Mark. Mark shouldn’t have seen that blood, that death. He’s just a kid. If I hadn’t-”

“That’s not your fault. So we should all only be concerned about Mark? You’re perfectly fine? Entirely unscathed by losing two old friends in two days?” Her tone was arch, one I recognized from when a fight was brewing between us.

“I will mourn Clevey,” I said, realizing I was gritting my teeth. “But what do you want from me? Should I scream? Tear my hair? Not over Trey Slocum. Not over that worthless son of a bitch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to call Steven Teague. Mark is going to need counseling. Maybe my sister, too. I have to take care of them. And I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and I need some aspirin, and maybe a nap.” I was tired of the ceaseless rain, tired of the moist smell of wet dead leaves, tired of talking nonsense. I headed for the screen door, for the warm comforting smells of casseroles and the lowered voices found in homes that death touches. She didn’t stop me.

I’m not good at mourning. The rest of the afternoon went in a haze. Sister wouldn’t talk to me; I’d tried once, knocking on her door. The sobs on the other side made me feel I was knocking on her heart. “Later,” was all she would say.

Mark played a children’s game in my room with a hushed Bradley Foradory. I watched their pieces slide and rise in the fortunes of the gameboard. Mark was treating Chutes and Ladders like grand-master chess. He only answered in monosyllables when I talked to him. Bradley favored me with a confused smile. I mussed his hair, told him to take care of Mark (who didn’t want to acknowledge my presence), and left them alone.

I fended off unneeded-and unwarranted-concern from Eula Mae, Clo, Truda, Cayla, Davis, and a score of other well-intentioned neighbors. Even my nemesis Gretchen; you’d think after all our battles, she’d have known me well enough to leave me alone. Ed and Wanda Dickensheets appeared, fresh from a Saturday peddling memories of the King. Wanda didn’t bother to change out of her Elvis getup that was her working uniform, and for the first time I wasn’t inclined to laugh at her. Ed moved like a man on tranquilizers.

Of course, Mark and Sister were indisposed in their grief, so I took the proffered pity for Trey’s death. I accepted kisses on my cheeks, squeezes of my hand, murmured expressions of sympathy for our loss. I cast my face in sorrow and nodded quietly a great deal, acting as the family spokesman. And the cynics say there’s no ironies in life.

Candace stayed-but she stayed away from me. Every now and then she caught my eye and I saw the forgiving concern in her face. I always broke contact first. I felt bad I couldn’t react the way she thought I was supposed to, but she was presuming I sustained some kind of affection for Trey Slocum. I knew she meant well. I knew she loved me. I just wanted her to let me be for a while.

My father, Bob Don, was in Las Vegas at an automobile conference. I missed him. I thought he, at least, would understand; he wouldn’t expect me to shed tears over a man I loathed.

Finally, the bearers of food and succor departed, leaving me, Clo, Eula Mae, and Candace sitting at a table overflowing with pies, casseroles, and sandwich makings. I made myself eat, but nothing had taste, not even Eula Mae’s Mirabeau-famous plum-and-whiskey cake. Clo took trays to Sister and Mark; she came back and told me they were sitting together in Mama’s room, talking quietly. Mama did not appear to be participating in the conversation; she, according to Clo, kept asking when Hawaii Five-O, her favorite show, would be on.

“Was Mark crying?” I asked Clo. She shook her head.

“That’s not natural,” I muttered. Candace coughed, but I ignored her.

“I’ll be glad to stay tonight, Jordy,” Clo offered. I nodded as Candace spoke.

“Clo, you’ve already been here all day. You must be exhausted, and I know you’ve got your granddaughter to look after. Why don’t I stay, and you can spell me tomorrow when I have to go to the cafe?”

I smiled at her. I did want her here; I just wasn’t going to get dragged into an argument over whether or not I was dealing normally with Trey’s death.

“Thank you,” I said. “Candace, if you’re going to stay, why don’t you run home and get whatever you need for tonight?” I checked my watch. “Junebug is expecting me.”

“Junebug?” Eula Mae demanded. “Ed’s going there. And Cayla mentioned that Davis was, too.” Her eyes shone bright with curiosity, only vaguely muted by the pall that hung over my house. “Excuse me, ladies,” I said quietly.

“Boys, we have to talk,” Junebug said.

He poured me a whiskey-not my first of the evening- and resumed his place on the sofa. The four of us gathered around the squat coffee table in Junebug’s den, as uneasy a group of mourners as I’d ever seen. Davis downed Jack Daniel’s into his big, football player’s frame, looking morose; Junebug frowned, funereally solemn; and Ed Dickensheets walked restlessly, his shock and grief propelling him like a ceiling fan turned up a notch too high. He paced around the table, crossing and uncrossing his arms.

“Goddamn it, Ed, you’re making me dizzy. Sit down!” Davis insisted. He rolled whiskey in his mouth and for one moment I thought Davis was going to spew the booze at Ed on his next orbit.

“I can’t,” Ed retorted. “If I sit down I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“Let him be, he’s not bothering you,” Junebug said quietly. Davis shrugged and sipped some more of his whiskey.

I held a glass of bourbon and water in my hand, but I’d left it untasted. I felt bone weary.

Junebug stood, glass aloft. “Here’s to Clevey Shivers and Trey Slocum, boys. May they rest in peace and meet us in heaven.”

The others stood, and for one brief moment I thought of not joining in. But it was for Clevey, too, and I felt heartsick that I seemed to be forgetting about him. I saw his easy smile, his laugh, the noticeable gap between his front teeth that would have kept him looking boyish at forty. I stood and clinked my glass against my friends’, the ringing of crystal brief and discordant. We sipped at varying speeds: Davis quaffing his in a gulp, his eyes averted, Junebug sipping slowly, Ed and I barely tasting ours. Davis was a little drunk and wasn’t done toasting.