Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

“Wherever she dumps me.” His eyes didn’t hold bitterness about the statement. “Until Trey came along. He made mom take me with them.” He glanced around. “Your, uh, sister, she’s not here, is she?”

“No, she’s not. She and my nephew are out.”

“Well, okay. Mr. Quadlander said her car wasn’t in the driveway, so I thought maybe it’d be okay if you and I talked.” He fished in his knapsack. “I found these. Actually, Trey showed them to me a while back. I don’t have no use for them, so I figured y’all would want them back.”

He handed me a stack of photos. I started sorting through them, my mouth feeling dry. A wedding photo of Trey and Sister, both of their faces aglow with the expectation of a life to be lived together. Sister looked beautiful and happy. Pictures of Mark, at least ten of them, in various stages of childhood: crawling, toothless-grinned baby; waddling toddler; graceful boy smiling into the sunshine, shading his face with the flat of one hand, a baseball mitt on the other. An old photo of Sister, Trey, and Mark together, when Mark was barely a year old. The pictures were worn with handling.

The final two photos were surprises. A picture of Mama and Trey, from some vaguely remembered Fourth of July family celebration, Mama caught unawares by Trey and smiling broadly into the lens, Trey hugging her close. I recalled, suddenly, vividly, taking this picture myself. As I’d lowered the lens Trey had kissed Mama loudly on the cheek, saying, “You just got to share her with me, Plum, since I don’t got a mama of m’own.” He and Sister were newlyweds then and Trey was drunk with the joy of having a family that consisted of more than an inebriated father. I remembered the blush that had crept up Mama’s cheek at his words and the nearly solemn way she’d hugged him.

The final photo was of me. It was a picture made when I’d come home from Houston during college. I stared at the photo for a long minute. It showed me drinking a beer in the backyard, Daddy in the distance, coaxing flame from a grill. I looked heavier from a diet of college food and cold beer, and I looked irritated, as though I couldn’t be bothered having my picture taken. I remembered Trey’s words as he took the photo: “Smile like you’ve gotten smart at school, Plum.” My grin, solely for the camera, looked forced and blank. Trey and Sister were married by then, and I was going to prestigious Rice and never coming to live in Mirabeau again. My snotty attitude showed clearly on my face.

That was what he had to remember me by. I turned the photo over, OUR SCOLER PLUM was written in Trey’s close scrawl, in faded black ink. Never could spell cat to save his life.

I felt a tinge of nausea and stood.

“Thanks, Scott, thanks for bringing these by. It was thoughtful of you.”

“I don’t have no use for them,” he said quietly.

“Scott.” I waited till his eyes met mine. “I want you to tell me why Trey came home.”

He stared at the weathered boards of the porch.

“Scott, did you hear me?”

“He came home to get better. Okay? I don’t know anything else!” He got up, a flurry of activity.

“What do you mean, anything else? What else is there to know?”

“Look, Mr. Poteet, I brought you the pictures. Okay? I didn’t have to do that! I don’t want to be involved in whatever’s going on here.” He glanced at me over a shoulder and I could see he was close to tears. “I can’t do nothin’ to help Trey now. I wish I could, but I can’t. Mom and I are leaving soon. I just wanna forget we ever came to this stupid town.”

“Do you know something, Scott? Because if you do, you better tell the police right away.” Practice what you preach, I scolded myself again, thinking of the fabric safely tucked away upstairs.

“Yeah, right.” Scott huffed. “My mom says the police chief dates your sister. And my mom thinks your sister killed Trey.”

“I’m sure your mother must be very upset. I could tell she cared about Trey-”

“She loved him, okay? He was good to us, never hit her, never hit me. He acted nice.” He wiped burgeoning tears away with his sleeve.

I guided him to a chair and made him sit. I went back to the screen door. “Candace, could you do me a favor? Could you get a glass of milk and a piece of that pecan pie for Scott?” She hollered back her assent and I went and sat down again with Scott.

“I don’t want no pie.” He sniffed.

“It’ll do you good. Unless you’re diabetic. Eula Mae’s pies require an insulin chaser.”

He managed a vague smile.

“Where are y’all staying at, Scott?” I couldn’t imagine they were still staying at Nola’s uncle’s house, with its pervading air of death.

“Well, last night we stayed at this neighbor lady’s place. But she’s got a ton of cats and it makes Mom sneeze. So we’re moving this afternoon out to Mr. Quadlander’s farm. Soon as the police let him, Uncle Dwight’s moving back to the house. He said he don’t care ’bout no one getting shot, it’s his house. Mom and I’ll probably head back to Beaumont.” Scott glanced through the window at Hart Quadlander, deep in conversation with Clo. “Mom likes Mr. Quadlander. He’s a nice man.”

“Yes, he is. You know, Trey and I used to ride horses out at that farm when we were about your age. Trey taught me to ride.”

He looked at me grieving. “He was gonna teach me. When it got warmer. He never explained how he was gonna do that from a wheelchair, though.”

“I’m sure he would have found a way.”

Candace brought out a generous slice of pecan pie and a tall glass of milk and set it on the end table by Scott. I introduced them and Candace shook hands with Scott rather gravely. She sat down, giving me a cautious glance.

Scott ate his pie in steady bites without talking. I filled the silence with nervous chatter, explaining to Scott that Candace owned the Sit-a-Spell Cafe and telling Candace that Scott was staying at Hart’s farm.

“That’s good,” Scott said around a final mouthful of sugar, crust, and sticky, nutty filling. “My mom isn’t much for baking stuff like pie. ’Less it comes out of the freezer.”

“Nothing like homemade pie. We’ll give you some to take home, Scott.” Candace patted his leg.

Scott’s hazel eyes widened. “Oh, no, Mom doesn’t know I’m here. She’d kill me.”

“That was a nice gesture, bringing us those pictures.” I glanced at Candace. “I’m sure your mom won’t be mad at you.”

He ignored the napkin Candace had brought with the pie and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. The crumbs on his plate seemed to hold undue fascination for him. I glanced again at Candace. She touched his shoulder gently. “Hon, is there anything else you want to tell us?”

Men have always responded to Candace. Beauty can drive men to distraction, but real kindness will snare them every time, especially if life hasn’t always been kind. Combine them like Candace does and the mixture is potent. There’s a quality in her voice, a commanding trust, that you can’t help but answer. Unless you’re just plain stubborn.

Scott wasn’t a mulish kid. He looked up at her like his heart was breaking. “My mom…”

“You don’t think your mom had anything to do with Trey’s murder?” I blurted, and Candace shot me a look that ricocheted from between my eyes. I shut my mouth. God, how could I have suggested that to a kid?

“Oh, no. Mom wouldn’t hurt anyone. And she loved Trey.”

I wanted to point out that love and hurt were not mutually exclusive states, but another pointed glance from Candace stilled my tongue.

“It’s just that… Mom’s real sure that your sister killed Trey. And if she thinks I’m suggesting different, she’d be pissed at me.”