Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

“I’m Mark’s ride today.” I smiled. “But I wonder if I might speak privately with you for a moment.”

“Certainly. Mark, why don’t you go on into my office and I’ll join you in a moment.”

“See you,” Mark said to me, and went into Steven’s office, shutting the door behind him.

“How’s Mark doing?” I asked.

Steven spread his fingers expansively. He was one of those people who talked as much with his hands as with his voice. “He hasn’t wept yet in therapy. He still has a lot of anger, a lot of denial to work through.”

“He doesn’t want to be around people much. He says so himself.”

“Mark’s doing his best to live up to what you and your family expect from him: strength, resilience, dealing with his own emotions.”

“He says he wants to be alone; being around other people, even boys his own age, seems to make him uncomfortable.”

“Mark’s feeling as though he’s different from everyone he knows. He’s been through a terrible experience that he feels others don’t share. I’m concerned about how this may isolate him. If he doesn’t express his grief, his shock, it can turn in on him. Painfully.”

I didn’t feel reassured by his prognosis. “What can I do to help him?”

“Make him understand it’s okay to have these feelings-the grief and the rage.” He straightened his eyeglasses. “I think Mark is very much like you in some ways, Jordan. Strong, determined to be independent. He doesn’t want to need anyone right now. Let him know that you’re there for him.”

“I will.” Yes, I could do that for Mark. Steven cleared his throat, obviously ready to go treat his patient. I thought about asking him why Nola was all over him like a cheap suit, but decided against it. Perhaps her campaign to win Ed was withering, and Steven was a backup. If not Nola as a topic-

“This house is very nice. I like it better than your old office in Mirabeau.”

Pallor crept across his face. “Excuse me?”

“You used to work at that Mirabeau Free Clinic, didn’t you? I remember it from when I was a boy. I was sure I’d seen you somewhere before.”

I saw the fight for control on his face; and then the mask of vague distance that I’m sure he wore with his patients fell into place. “You have an excellent memory, Jordan. I spent so little time in Mirabeau before, I didn’t expect that anyone would remember me.”

“Long memories in little towns, Steven.” I smiled. “It’s nice that you chose to come back.”

“Well, I was, er, sorry that the clinic didn’t work out. I, um, always thought I’d try to come back to Mirabeau to live. It’s a delightful town.” He seemed rather anxious to return to his office.

“I won’t keep you from your session with Mark. I’ll be back shortly to pick him up.”

“Excellent, yes, very good,” Steven sputtered, forcing a smile. He retreated into his office.

For a moment I worried about leaving Mark there. I chided myself for overprotectiveness. Steven Teague had lived in Mirabeau before, very briefly, and failed to mention it. That wasn’t a crime. When I’d mentioned it, he hadn’t denied it, just expressed surprise that I knew. He might just be a very private person about his past. There was, after all, nothing to tie him to Rennie Clifton or to Trey. Nola was probably an idle flirtation-and instigated by her. He’d been Clevey’s counselor, but that vague connection was his only one to the nightmare of recent days.

Nola had vanished from the parking lot when I stepped out into the rainy morning. I left, feeling better but not entirely at ease. Time to visit Elvis.

Theinstitute of Elvisology was open and ready for business when I parked in front of its garish neon sign that offered all that made the king special. Flocks of adorers, though, hadn’t materialized to beat the institute’s doors down.

I ventured inside, the door chiming the first strains of “Love Me Tender” instead of jingling bells. I didn’t see anyone gyrating forward to take my business, so I wandered for a moment, surveying the offered wares.

Elvis videos, from his earliest movies to later performances, ranged one wall. Albums-in vinyl, cassette, and CD formats-filled bins decorated with a montage of Elvis record covers. A bookshelf, filled with biographies of the King, stood against a wall that was decorated with tabloid headlines that suggested that Mr. Presley still walked among us. A beautifully framed family photo reproduction of Elvis, Priscilla, and the baby Lisa Marie hung centered over the cash register. Easels displayed an assortment of de rigueur black velvet paintings of Elvis in various settings (my favorite was Elvis as Mona Lisa), and a middle display area contained a variety of merchandise: Elvis key chains, Elvis cigarette lighters, Elvis bumper stickers, Elvis refrigerator magnets, Elvis clocks (one with his hips swaying on alternate seconds), Elvis calendars, and the all-important Elvis glassware.

Clothing racks held jackets, T-shirts, leggings, sweats, all adorned with the Presley icon. And on a far wall, a rack of metal shelves held the greatest oddities of all: a fingernail clipping floating in some jelled preservative, carefully catalogued locks of hair, an unchewed stick of gum mounted on a board like a captive butterfly and labeled with the date and the hotel room Elvis had allegedly left it behind in. Apparently this was Elvis DNA central-I’d have to alert the cloning researchers they could start here.

“Hello?” a voice trying to be deeper than it actually was bellowed from the back. I stepped away from the holy relics.

Wanda Dickensheets appeared from the back storeroom, apparently dressed like Elvis had in one of his early films: hip-hugging pants, silk shirt, cut jacket. Her hair was plastered close to her head and she was carrying her Elvis wig in one hand.

I presumed that I, too, would revisit old girlfriends if Candace started dressing like a man most of the time. If Wanda was worried about Nola, I could assure her that Nola seemed to have shifted her sights off Ed.

“Well, hello, Jordy,” she greeted me, her voice not particularly welcoming. “You don’t mind me not being entirely in costume here, do you? I peeked out and saw it was you. I know you ain’t exactly a big Elvis fan, so I didn’t think you’d care.”

I like Elvis Presley’s music as much as the next red-blooded American, but it was true I wasn’t a devotee of the magnitude of Wanda Dickensheets. Possibly Elvis himself wasn’t. “You look great, Wanda. Quite a setup you’ve got here.”

“Well, thanks. I’m right proud of it.” She gestured expansively. “I do like to think that Elvis himself would feel at home here.”

I didn’t know the likelihood of that-being in a store where your face grinned back at you from every item of merchandise would be disconcerting. “It’s very nice,” I said politely. “Is Ed around?”

Her face darkened. “No, Ed’ll be in later. He’s tired. He had a late night.”

I wondered if Ed’s late night was due to the Mirabeau police. I’d nearly hoped Ed would be absent. I wanted to talk to Wanda alone.

It was not to be. “Good morning, Jordan,” a frosty voice greeted me, also from the back. Ivalou Purcell came forward, her improbably tinted hair stacked high and her dark lips set in a frown. Her face was a carefully sculpted homage to makeup. A cloud of cheap, citrusy perfume wafted about her and I tried to keep from stepping back as she approached.

“How’s your mother doing?” Ivalou asked, obliquely to be polite. I always find the question well-meaning but bordering on tiresome. What answer do people expect? That she’s getting better? Ivalou’s reedy voice didn’t better my mood. I forced a mannered smile to my face.