Jeff Abbott: Only Good Yankee

“Then how about our own little Appomattox? I suggest an immediate peace treaty.” Her palms, generous as the rest of her, slid up and down along my sides in a gentle rhythm. My body began to respond before my mind did. By that time her hands were in full exploratory mode and I dropped the plate I’d been trying to wash into the soapy lake of the sink. “Lorna-” I whispered as I turned to her. Her mouth covered mine and goddamn it, I let it. I’ve no excuse. It felt like we were back in her apartment in Boston, the ever-present noise of traffic outside her kitchen window. But as hard as she was kissing me, I was kissing back and cussing myself for doing so. After several seconds I broke the kiss and turned my head. “My arm hurts when we get that close.” “I didn’t even touch your arm.” “I’m-involved with Candace, Lorna. I care about her. I think I’m in love with her.” “You think! Love isn’t something you think. It’s something you know.” She pulled back from me. “Look, Jordan, I’m not good at this confession stuff. I don’t lay out my heart very easily. But I was wrong, dead wrong, to let you come back here without a fight. What was I supposed to do-say no, don’t go take care of your mom? What kind of selfish monster would I be if I said that? I never loved you more than when you said you had to come back here to help your family. Everything you were willing to give up for the people you loved, it just amazed me.

You’re the most kindhearted man I’ve ever known.” She broke eye contact with me and stared at the floor. “I can’t compete with a sick woman who desperately needs you. I haven’t known what to do for months now. I was paralyzed. Then I end up going to work for Intraglobal and I nearly died when Greg told me we were coming to Mirabeau to do this deal. I couldn’t believe it. The coincidence just seemed too great.

Then I realized: some things are just meant to be. God’s dropping you back in my lap, Jordan. Your land and the condo deal-they don’t matter except that they’ve allowed us to be together again.” I could still taste her on my lips. Turning away from her, I wiped my wet hands on a dishrag. For once in my life, I was speechless. In three years Lorna had told me she loved me maybe once or twice. She was not a woman given to emotional pronouncements. I was even less likely to voice the L-word, and I couldn’t believe I’d confessed a depth of affection for Candace to someone else. I couldn’t still love Lorna; I couldn’t. I didn’t need the complication. So why did I suddenly feel so weak-kneed? Miss Twyla had provided me a coward’s perfect escape route and I took it. “I have to go to a meeting at the library. Some folks aren’t much in favor of this condo development and want to hash it out. I’m not taking their side yet, but I owe it to them to hear what they have to say.” “Don’t.” She reached out and turned my head back to her. God help me, I wanted to kiss her again. “Listen, babe, I know this has to be a shock to you. Seeing me again like this. But don’t turn away, please, not again. Not when you can be so much more.” “I don’t know what you mean.” “It’s incredible that you’re taking care of your mom, and that you’ve found your dad. But what else does this place offer? I expect you to want a hell of a lot more.” “More? More what?” I asked, my throat feeling raw. “I don’t need to be in the corporate game again to feel like I’m accomplishing something, Lorna.

I take care of my mother; we’ve only had Clo’s help for a few weeks. I run a library, and even a small one’s a big concern. And my relationships with Candace and Bob Don have taken time and effort. I think what’s raising your hackles is that I’ve found a niche and it doesn’t automatically include you.” Lorna released a breath she’d obviously been holding for several moments. “I see. Well, I was right.

Our relationship should be put on hold while we’re discussing business. I apologize for kissing you and for resurrecting our past.

I’ll let you get to your meeting.” She turned on her high heels and went back into the living room. “Thank you for dinner,” she called as I heard her shuffle papers back into her briefcase. “Please give Arlene my regards, and tell her I hope to meet her while I’m in town.”

I came into the living room, not knowing what to say. She finished her packing perfunctorily, nodded, and left. The door slam echoed in my mind for a long while.

I’ve never been a fan of meetings, but for Miss Twyla’s sake, I put on my best public-librarian smile. I’d heard Lorna’s side of the development issue-and fairness demanded I listen to Nina. I’d arrived in time to unlock for the three of them. Tiny Parmalee stood close by Nina Hernandez and it wasn’t hard to see why he’d evinced sudden interest in riverfront development. She was just the plain kind of woman that he always fell for. Every time I see Tiny, I recall our first instance of quality time. He’d always been bigger than all the other kids, even since first grade (hence his nickname). He’d also been dumber. That’s not a crime in itself, but coupled with his stupidity was a particular brand of meanness. Tiny was damned unpleasant and he took comfort in that. Our first and only fight had been in third grade. Naturally it was at recess, the only time in the scholastic day that Tiny ruled as king. The boys played softball or touch football and the girls played tetherball or tag, chasing each other with screeches of delight. It was the autumn of 1971 and Mirabeau schools had finally settled into integration. It had been a surprisingly easy process; most people in Mirabeau who objected (and let’s be blunt, most people did) had decided that it was inevitable and they might as well go along. Kids being kids, necessity won out over prejudice; to have two teams for softball during third-grade recess, every able-bodied boy was needed. So the whites graciously agreed to play with the blacks, and the blacks graciously agreed to play with the whites. Tiny was not exactly on the cutting edge of societal change, then or now. If memory serves, he objected to his team losing because of a run batted in by a boy named Michael Addy. Michael was a fair fielder but a great batter, and his skin was as dark as an eggplant’s. Even in third grade Tiny towered over the other boys, and when he’d decided to beat up Michael for hitting in that run, no one seemed inclined to interfere. Michael was the biggest of the black boys but still no match for a genetic oddity of size like Tiny. He had Michael, his nose bleeding and mashed, in a headlock. The black boys stood in a group of their own, none daring to take on the giant. The girls, both white and black, huddled together, watching the dusty display of male violence with distaste and horror. I clearly remember one of the black girls screaming at the boys to do something.

A few of the white boys stood in open approval of the spectacle, while others stayed silent, toeing the dirt of the field. And no one, including myself, dared to fetch the teacher, knowing what Tiny’s ire would bring on us later. I don’t know what made me do it. I was not tall in those days; my growth spurt didn’t hit until I was in high school. I didn’t care too much if the white kids and the black kids got along. Michael Addy wasn’t a friend of mine. I only remember thinking that if my daddy found out I stood by while another child was beaten, how disappointed and mad he’d be. I knew that from experience.

“Say it,” Tiny huffed to the prisoner of his arms. “Say it slow, like I told you to.” To this day, I can hear the crack of Michael Addy’s voice, his throat trapped in Tiny’s heavy arms, a voice that begged for release: “I’m-I’m a dumb nigger.” “Good. Now say it loud so ever-body knows what you are.” I put my hand on Tiny’s shoulder. “Stop it.” The shock in the crowd was not nearly as great as the shock on Tiny’s pug face. He wore his hair in a crew cut then, and his hair was so white he nearly looked bald. He glanced at my hand on his stout shoulder. “What the hell you doing, Bo Peep?” Tiny had altered my surname to Bo Peep and got no end of amusement from this ingenious pun. “You made him do what you wanted. Leave him alone.” I tried reason. “You better let him go before the teacher gets out here.” Tiny looked at me as though I’d just announced that he himself was a dumb nigger. He dropped Michael Addy, who promptly and wisely took the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Tiny, scrabbling across the softball field grass to relative safety. “You takin’ up for that nigger, Bo Peep?” Tiny squared his shoulders and looked down at me. I suddenly felt very fragile, but all of a sudden I was madder’n hell. Tiny had never bullied me physically, but I’d grown tired of that nickname and the way he pushed people around like checkers on a board. “Just leave him alone. He didn’t do nothing to you.” “I don’t like losin’ to an uppity nigger.” “You don’t like losin’, period.