Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

“Oh, no. We watch TV-cable is a necessity if you live out here. We go into Austin to shop, sometimes go over and eat in La Grange or Smithville.” “TV, huh? Does he make you watch all those old spy shows with him?” Lorna asked, leaning forward. This had been a particularly annoying habit of mine; foreplay had often consisted of wrenching the remote control out of my hand. “Oh, yes.” Candace laughed. “He still loves to watch The Avengers. I think he’d like me to go as Emma Peel for Halloween and he could be John Steed. I just told him I wasn’t about to cavort around town in a black leather jumpsuit with a Sixties hairdo, no sir.” “He tried that on me, too! Like he wouldn’t look ridiculous in a bowler.” Lorna giggled. “Plus, you know Jordan, he can be clumsiness personified. He’d poke someone’s eye out with that umbrella Steed always carried.” She sighed. “No, I always picked out our Halloween costumes, and every year he was an absolute baby about it.” “I don’t think this is really-” I began, but Candace cut me off: “What did y’all go as?” “Sex toys,” Lorna whispered back, shooting a cautionary glance toward the kitchen, where we could barely hear Sister humming a Trisha Yearwood song with no regard to key. “Lorna, really-” I tried. Candace exploded in laughter. “Oh, my God!” “I know.

Isn’t it horribly tacky? But, Candace, you have to understand the crowd we ran around with up there, they were awfully full of themselves. Jordan and I liked to let a little of their stuffy air out. So I went as a vibrator-basically I wore a long silver gown, with speed settings on my front and an old football helmet with halves of golf balls glued on it.” “Oh, my God!” “And Jordan was a dildo!” Lorna managed to finish. She was howling as hard as Candace. I wasn’t howling at all. I started a very detailed examination of Sister’s cheese tray. This had ceased to be amusing. “How?” Candace wanted to know. “Just basically put a phallic-shaped cylinder around him and he was set. I did make him wear a beanie on his head, for that ‘special pleasuring sensation.’ You wouldn’t believe how cute he looked, I think I still have a picture of him back home-” The cackles followed me as I escaped into the kitchen. So much for their bickering over my studly form. Sister glanced up from her chicken-fried steaks, sizzling in the skillet with a heavenly aroma. “What’s all that screeching?”

Sister obviously anticipated a catfight between my two paramours. “I hope you’re satisfied,” I snapped. “They’re laughing at me!” I managed to make it through dinner, but more than once I wondered if my steak knife would provide me with a fast death if I fell on it. I did enjoy Sister’s food: chicken-fried steak surrounded by a delicate, golden batter, topped with rich cream gravy; black-eyed peas, cooked with peppers and bits of bacon; steamed summer squash from Sister’s own garden, with just a hint of rosemary; thick slabs of homemade jalapeno cornbread, with butter melting inside each slice. For dessert we had warm, gooey homemade pecan pie with Blue Bell vanilla ice cream on top. The ladies drank iced tea with lime slices and I stayed with beer, hoping to numb the conversation between Candace and Lorna. It almost didn’t matter who was saying what. “How long did it take you to get used to the snoring?” “Ages, even though he claims he never snores.” “Yeah! Right!” “I hope he picks up after himself better.”

“Actually, no. He still believes that clothes that land on the floor have life and walk to the hamper under their own power.” “I know. But he says he’s tidy at work.” “Well, he is. Usually. Of course he’s the worst flirt at work with all the old ladies. They just love him.”

“Didn’t you ever want to snip out that tongue, though? I got tired of always having to engage in repartee. Not to mention what you just said, his innate need to flirt. Really!” “Oh, but you got used to it, didn’t you? I always thought that it was kind of cute.” Sister tried to dam the flow: “More dessert, girls?” “No, thanks.” “No, Arlene, thank you.” “God, and have you ever dated a guy that liked war movies so much? I always wondered if that meant Jordy really wanted a military career.” “But he’s not good at taking orders.” “Or at giving them.” Laughter from both sides. I started counting the nuts in my pie, hoping to find a big one I could choke on. “And did you ever see a man with so many damn books?” “No. It’s like having another library at home. And God help you if you interrupt him when he’s wanting to read. He gets awful moody.” “Lord, and those depressing books. All those murder mysteries. That actually scared me when we started dating. I thought it was a little morbid.” “At least he wasn’t in a Civil War phase. God forbid he starts reading Bruce Catton again. You won’t see him for weeks.” “Sounds like football season when the Cowboys are playing. You better not talk during a Cowboy game.” “Or laugh at him when the Cowboys score and he does his little victory dance.” “I have never minded being laughed at for that!” I exclaimed, finally rousing to defend myself. I looked at Sister for help. She seemed unduly interested in the crust of her pie, picking at it like an archaeologist clearing dirt from an artifact. “He’s not a bad dancer, as long as the music has a very -strong-beat.” “And you’ll need steel-tipped shoes to protect your feet.” “Well, he did do a little striptease dance for me on my birthday that was just adorable!

All he kept on was a rose in his mouth and his Cowboys baseball cap-”

I hoped that all the blood in my body was not rushing to my face; I wanted enough left to have a proper heart attack. I wondered what it would take to shut them up. The explosion shushed them, a few moments later. The roar of a blast maybe two streets over, a faraway chorus of screams, and moments later, the cry of sirens.

It was easier to run across the lawns to the smoky haze in the sky than drive; it was only two streets over. Sister stayed with Mama; Lorna, Candace, and I dashed through the darkening yards, the summer sun just setting to the west, the early-evening moisture sticking our clothes to our skins. Folks were pouring out of their houses-children, scared but excited; parents with frantic looks; the elderly with worn eyes and unsteady limbs. Candace and Lorna followed me as I made a shortcut through a couple of backyards and came out onto Mockingbird Street, a block down from the bed-and-breakfast. One room-sized portion of the beautiful old house was gone from the second story, as though a hand had come down from space and torn it free. Smoke gouted from windows on the top floor.

Broken glass and hunks of burned brick lay scattered across the yard.

One Mirabeau Police Department cruiser was already in front, its siren blaring at the burning building like a dog barking at a stranger. In the distance I heard the whine of our one fire truck. “My God!” Lorna exclaimed. Reflexively, she grabbed hold of my slinged arm. I hardly noticed the pain. “Chet! Oh, my Lord!” Candace cried. She ran toward the police cruiser and we could see Chet huddled in the backseat, coughing. One of Junebug’s officers, Franklin Bedloe, was barking into his radio, calling for backup fire trucks from Bavary. I glanced back at the house. The fire was spreading and my heart sank. That house is one of the most beautiful in Mirabeau, and one of the oldest. I looked up at the smoldering chunk that wasn’t there anymore. If I figured right, the room that had been blasted into oblivion was Greg’s. Lorna, beside me, saw it, too. “My God,” she yelled. “What the hell is going on in this goddamned town of yours?” We didn’t have a chance to discuss it. There wasn’t much of a summer wind, but one burning shingle sailing in the sky could destroy other homes, touching them with the plague of fire. Lorna and I helped Hubert Moore, a neighbor of the bed-and-breakfast, hose down his little antiques shop to keep it from burning. (Even with only one good arm I can still aim a garden hose.) One fire truck arrived and began containing the blaze, quickly joined by two others from Bavary. Junebug and his officers began clearing people back from the heat. Exhausted, I sat down on the curb, Lorna next to me. I didn’t see Candace in the milling crowd in the street. I did see our honorable mayor, Parker Loudermilk, and his wife Dee, watching the fire. Dee looked cold despite the heat, her hands hugging her elbows. “Back in a sec,” I said to Lorna. I went over to approach the Loudermilks and barely caught a hiss from Parker to Dee: “You just keep your mouth shut and get Jenny home.” What was that about? I wondered as I tapped Parker on the shoulder. He fairly jumped, whirled, and put on his best political smile-tempered, you understand, by the unfortunate circumstances. “Jordy. Terrible shame about the Mirabeau B., isn’t it?” Parker wiped a sooty hand across the back of his mouth. “It’s awful.” I glanced back over at the blaze. “I know Junebug’s doing the best that he can to stop this bomber, Parker, but people are getting really scared now. Someone could’ve been killed tonight.” Dee made a noise in her throat and looked away from the heat and smoke. “I’m going to go find Jenny,” she said in a strangled voice, and turning, she wove into the crowd. Parker didn’t look happy and he glared back at me, his politicking forgotten. I was, after all, his subordinate on the governmental food chain. “Are you questioning my commitment to catching the bomber, Jordy?” His voice held the faintest threat of malice and there was a rigidity in his expression that I didn’t like. I blinked. “Of course not, Parker. I’m just telling you that people are frightened out of their wits. Just look at them!” He glanced around at the crowd with annoyance. “They’re like vultures on a dead coon,” he grunted. “They’re your voters, Parker, and if you don’t remedy this situation, they’re going to vote someone else into office.” Notice that I would not make a good politician with such blunt statements. His lips thinned, and he glanced down at the ground, but when he looked back at me, the public mask was securely in place. Parker pointed at my sling, smiling beatifically. “I know you’ve already been hurt by all this. We are going to catch whoever’s responsible. Assuming that this is the work of the bomber and not just a regular fire or a gas explosion.” His eyes traveled back to the dancing flames. Even in the fading light, I could see a fascination in his eyes as the blaze flickered. “It’s losing its battle, Jordy. Do you see it? The fire’s dying.” There was an odd tone to his voice; almost remorseful. I snorted. “A gas explosion now would be an awful coincidence, Parker. I think that-” Parker Loudermilk wasn’t particularly captivated by my thoughts. He squeezed my shoulder in the fatherly way favored by small-town politicians (I think they all must be sent to a school for that) and said, “Appreciate your citizenly concern, Jordy. Don’t worry, we’re on top of this.” He spun on his heel and headed for the police cruisers. “I’m sure that will be a great comfort to Chet!” I hollered after his back, but he ignored me.