Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

“No one’ll care. He wouldn’t have.” Mark twisted away from me, knocking his tie further askew. I surrendered and watched him storm off. He’d passed from pretending that he hadn’t seen his father’s life leak away on that cold kitchen floor to anger toward Trey-and toward the world. And I, friend to his father, bore the brunt of most of Mark’s wrath.

The back door slapped against the frame as he bolted onto the porch. I settled on the couch. The house had returned to a semblance of order after I’d found it in disarray yesterday afternoon. At first I’d figured we’d been burglarized, but nothing was missing. Drawers were pulled out, papers scattered, books yanked from shelves, pictures wrenched off the wall. A hurried, frantic search had been made.

Mama, first in my thoughts, turned out to be enjoying a visit to Candace’s cafe with Clo. Mark had been out for a long walk with Scott Kinnard. (I found that highly interesting, but Mark volunteered no details. I didn’t pry. If those boys could be friends, share memories of the man they’d both wanted for a father, I wouldn’t interfere.) No one had been home, no one had been hurt. I’d called the police and reported the break-in (apparently accomplished by knocking out a pane of the backdoor window) and had started a desultory cleanup by the time Sister got home. A good night’s sleep had done wonders for my constitution.

Now I reclined on the couch, watching Mark stare out at the yard. Sister came downstairs, dressed in a black skirt, a white blouse, and a black jacket (she didn’t have a proper black dress, and I felt a pang that maybe I don’t provide enough for her), and putting in her earrings. Her eye remained discolored. She’d applied makeup to the bruise, but a purplish half circle still shone beneath the cream.

“Not much makeup is going to do for that shiner,” I observed.

She didn’t break stride as she went to the window to watch Mark. “I tried to hide it, but I’m stuck with it. I’ll wear dark glasses.”

“Who hit you, Sister?” I might as well try again.

“I told you, no one.” She glanced at me in irritation.

“I know you’re lying. And I know you were at Trey’s house the morning of the murder.” I stood. I wasn’t going to stand there and smile like a wimp at her prevarication.

Her jaw worked. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I found a shred of fabric on a nail on the Kinnards’ back steps right after Trey died. It was from those batik print pants I gave you. You were wearing them that morning.”

Her shoulders gave a slow heave, as if creaking out from under a heavy burden.

Sister turned away from me to look out at Mark. “And what did you do with this scrap? Give it to Junebug? Is that why he took himself off the case?”

“No. I hid it.”

“Maybe that’s what our burglar was looking for.”

“I don’t think so. No one knows I have it.”

“And what are you going to do with it? When were you planning on giving it to the police?”

My throat felt dry. I thought when I confronted her with my shred of evidence that there would be protestations of innocence, pleadings, denials, possibly a full explanation-anything except this calm discussion. She was implacably set on her own unknown course, and nothing I said swayed her. “For God’s sake, tell me. Did you kill him?” With quivering hands she put on her sunglasses. “It’s nice to know your own brother thinks you’re capable of murdering someone.” She turned away and went outside on the porch, putting her arms around her boy. They held each other, lost in their own world of bereavement and betrayal. I stood and watched them until it was time to go.

Like nearly everyone, I don’t like funerals, although for some reason I find the Mirabeau cemetery peaceful and oddly reassuring. Perhaps I take comfort in knowing where my bones will lie.

Mirabeau’s new Episcopal church, St-George’s-on-the-River, had been finished just a few months ago to much fanfare. It was the first new church in town in fifteen years. (We local Anglicans, who’d been raised in churches in Bavary and La Grange, took great pleasure in its opening.) Although Clevey had strayed from the flock, Truda Shivers had remained a steadfast Episcopalian. Trey, although baptized, did not have a steady faith, according to Nola. Since he’d been married in the Episcopal church, a service at St. George’s seemed appropriate for him as well.

The church, not large to begin with, was packed. The celebrant, Father Greene, preceded the pallbearers wheeling the caskets into the church. The families of the dead men followed like hushed sheep. My arms around Mark and Sister, I walked down the aisle with them, faces leaping out at me from the crowd: Davis; his wife, Cayla; their son, Bradley, looking awkward and fidgety in a suit; Ed and Wanda (who had fortunately decided to bypass her Elvis regalia); Ivalou Purcell, frowning at us; Steven Teague, a look of professional sorrow on his face, standing with Eula Mae. One corner held my library contingent of Itasca, Florence, and even Gretchen, and I felt touched they were here. Candace’s parents sat in a row near the family reserve. Junebug’s clan was absent, still maintaining their ceaseless vigil at the hospital.

When we settled into our seats, the front left pews were full of Shiverses from near and far, while the right front pews held Sister, Mark, me, assorted relatives of ours, Candace, Hart Quadlander, and the Kinnards. I saw Nola shoot Sister a particularly venomous glance at one point, but Sister didn’t notice. Nola caught me looking and defiance crossed her face. She stared down into her lap, a lock of loose brown hair dangling over her forehead.

“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord,” Father Greene began as we joined in, prayer books in hand, those not used to the service fumbling to the correct page. I mumbled along, trying to convince myself I was actually saying these words for Trey and Clevey. My throat felt molten-this was the beginning of goodbye.

“O God, whose mercies cannot be numbered. Accept our prayers on behalf of thy servants Clevey and Trey, and grant them an entrance into the land of light and joy, in the fellowship of thy saints-” Father Greene implored, and I thought: Trey will find the fellowship of saints quite dull. A cousin of Clevey’s rose and stepped to the pulpit to read the usual passages from Isaiah and Lamentations. “The Lord is good unto them that wait for him,” he said, and I thought of minutes stretched into hours, into days, into years that we had waited for Trey.

Mark sat between Sister and me, my arm around him, my hand on her shoulder. She held her purse stiffly, staring straight ahead, ignoring both prayer book and Bible, her sunglasses hiding her marred face. I couldn’t see if tears moistened her eyes. Mark’s neck felt rigid against my arm. I watched Truda Shivers; she sat between her sisters, her head held high. She would see her son off in dignity.

I risked a glance over my shoulder. Hart Quadlander had a comforting arm around Nola Kinnard, who was dabbing at her tears with a wad of tissue and making snuffling noises. Scott held her hand and his eyes met mine. Oddly, he smiled shyly, then looked down again at his mother’s lap. It suddenly struck me that they had known an entirely different Trey than I had; a man with a family he’d abandoned, a past he’d just as soon not acknowledge. I wondered if he was happy with them, or if he was ever lonesome for his own child when he played with Scott, or missed the soft press of his wife’s arms when he hugged Nola. They were probably decent enough folks, but I didn’t think they were worthy substitutes for Sister and Mark. I admit to personal bias.

Hart caught me looking and I turned back toward the pulpit. While psalms were read, I thought again about what Thomasina Clifton had told me: Hart Quadlander was one of her clients, and she remembered at least one time when Rennie had gone out to the Quadlander farm to help her clean. I wondered if he knew the girl, or remembered her. But then wouldn’t Trey have known her? He’d always maintained Rennie was a stranger to him.