Jeff Abbott - Only Good Yankee

It’ll take some time.” “Yeah, but she has to be willing to give you that time, Bob Don. She’s not exactly comfortable with what you represent in our family’s past.” “Boy, you are the biggest brooder I ever saw.” Bob Don smiled up at me, shielding his eyes from the morning glare. “I’ve always believed that a man should go on with what life dealt him and try not to fret about it so much.” The thought rose in my mind, unbidden: Maybe that’s why you could wait until my mother was crazy and my daddy was dead to tell me the truth. It wasn’t fair; he’d only been holding up his end of a damnably hard bargain. “I don’t mean to be a brooder. I suppose I have more than my share to fret over.” “Arlene messing with your head?” “No. Lorna and Candace.” I kicked at the grass. “I got women troubles, Bob Don. I got one in my house that needs me and one that’s pretty upset about the situation.”

“You love that Lorna?” Bob Don has never been one for beating around bushes. “I did once, I think. I’m not sure. I don’t know what love is.” “Now that, boy, is unadulterated bullshit.” Bob Don put his hands on his ample hips and shook his head at me. “Excuse me?” “Nobody who was raised with as much love as you could say they don’t know what love is. Your mama loves you.” He pointed down at Lloyd Poteet’s grave. “And you can’t tell me that man didn’t love you. God, he loved you. And your sister and your nephew love you, and I do believe Miss Candace Tully loves you. You’ve known more love in your life than most, Jordy. So don’t try telling me that you can’t figure out what to do about them gals ‘cause you don’t know what love is. You’re just goddamned lazy.” He imitated a drawly rasp of a whine on the last few words that I was sure represented my voice. I started to parry with a sharp reply, but ended up staring down at Daddy’s grave. Bob Don’d scored a hit against me and I knew it. I ran a finger along the clayred granite top of Daddy’s marker, the stone beginning to heat in the rising temperature. “Do I love Lorna? I’m sure I did once.” “Once ain’t now.” “No, it’s not. A lot’s changed. I’m not sure what I want.

If I was back with her-” “You could go on back to big ol’ Boston town and not fret no more about having a new daddy and a sick mama.” Bob Don, awkwardly, put a beefy hand on my shoulder. And as I looked into his face I saw that folks had been wrong; I wasn’t the spitting image of my mother. There was a lot of his face in mine-the wide eyes, the gentle taper of the nose, the high cheekbones, and the ruddy skin.

Standing over my daddy’s grave, I nearly shuddered at the shock of the realization. “I’m not interested in ducking my obligations, Bob Don.”

“I wasn’t suggesting you were. God knows I’m not one to accuse some soul of avoiding responsibility. But I think I know what that Yankee gal means to you. Your old life back, with none of these complications. You may love Candace and your mama, but they make life a little harder to live.” “Can you take me to the library? I’m running late now and if I lose my job, my life will be complicated for sure.”

“Glad to, son.” He glanced down at the double spray of flowers on Daddy’s grave. “See, Lloyd? I’m doing my best to take care of him now.

Just like I promised.” I spent the rest of that Saturday morning doing library business: drafting a grant application for more government money (the competition among rural libraries can be intense), ordering some new children’s books (that’s our fastest-growing section-we’re a fertile bunch in Mirabeau), and getting advice on how to heal my arm from our elderly patrons, many of whom still believe that a shot of whiskey mixed in a dollop of honey will cure pert near anything. I’d called Junebug earlier in the morning and told him what Lorna had told me about Greg’s business and his silent partner, Doreen Miller. He hadn’t called back with any news. Eula Mae and Nina Hernandez stopped by to festoon the library bulletin board with colorful flyers that proclaimed JOIN SAVE OUR RIVER ECOLOGY (S.O.R.E.)! CONTRIBUTE AND PROTECT MIRABEAU’S FUTURE. “I hope,” I observed acidly while watching Eula Mae indiscriminately shoot the cork with a staple gun, “that those flyers are printed with nontoxic inks on recycled paper.” “Of course they are!” Nina retorted. She seemed to have recovered from her interrogation after Greg’s murder and to be possessed of a new zeal to defeat the land-acquisition plans. I winced as they stapled right over my poster for the summer reading program. “I don’t think there’s much chance of Intraglobal continuing with their plans for Mirabeau. Greg Callahan has one silent partner that no one can find yet, and she’ll probably want to pull out.” “We aren’t taking that chance.” Eula Mae smirked. “If it’s not Intraglobal, it’ll be some other scum-sucking outfit of post-Eighties yuppies looking for one last frontier to ruin.

Nina and I are amassing a good-sized war chest to fight development on the river.” “Just how big has this gotten, Eula Mae?” She is one, after all, to throw herself entirely into a project. Lucky she’s never developed an interest in quicksand. “We’ve raised nearly fifty-five thousand dollars,” Eula Mae said, the pride evident in her voice.

“With more pledged on the way. We’re going to hold a big dance over at the Veterans’ Hall, and we’ve got people going door-to-door to solicit contributions, and-” “And you are about to staple those to the bricks.

Give me that.” I wrested the staple gun from her over-eager hand before she could attach the next notice to a spot beyond the bulletin board. “Well, aren’t you a mite grumpy? Things tense over at the Chateau de Yankee Amour?” Eula Mae asked sweetly, grabbing the staple gun back from me. “Everything is fine,” I replied. “Don’t y’all have somewhere else to go? Or someone else to bother? I can’t believe Miss Twyla is letting the two of you run this.” I usually have a saint’s patience with Eula Mae, but today I felt decidedly heretical. “Miss Twyla has her mind on strategic matters. C’mon, Nina,” Eula Mae said, shaking her head sadly at me. “Jordy is just upset he’s not going to be able to sell that land of his now. Of course he’s probably getting ready to go back to Boston anyway, where I’m sure they’re used to having nasty polluted rivers.” With that parting shot, she left the field, an equally haughty Nina in tow. With the S.O.R.E. Sisters dismissed, I’d just finished eating a ham sandwich I’d fixed in our little back kitchen when Gretchen arrived. I can’t say I wasn’t pleased to see Gretchen. She’d gobbled that annoying Billy Ray Bummel like a freetail bat on a skeeter, and I had to like her a little for that. Even if the rest of the time she could be a bitch. She paused in front of my desk, dressed nicely in a chambray skirt and white dress shirt, turquoise and silver dripping from her neck, wrists, and ears.

Her graying hair had that just-did look. “Jordy, how are you?” “Fine, Gretchen, and you?” I wiped away the last of the crumbs on my mouth.

Since I didn’t have a napkin, I had to use the back of my hand. One Gretchen eyebrow arched and I tensed myself for criticism. As though she could say anything about my bad manners; I’d seen her stinking drunk. “Better than this morning. I thought you might like to know that oaf Billy Ray was just out at our house grilling Bob Don. He is absolutely fixated on that wire that the killer used to strangle poor Mr. Callahan.” I blinked. “He can’t think Bob Don had anything to do with this. It’s ridiculous.” “The ridiculous is Billy Ray’s specialty,” Gretchen snorted. “He’s totally ignoring that the fence isn’t just on our property. It’s on the line with the Loudermilks’ property.” “That’s true.” I nodded. “But maybe he’s already questioned the Loudermilks about it.” “I seriously doubt that. Parker Loudermilk says jump and Billy Ray says how high. Even though Billy Ray doesn’t work for Parker, he just can’t stifle that suck-up reflex of his.” I thought for a moment. “Why are you telling me this, Gretchen?” She was coming to me as an ally, but she’d certainly never encouraged my relationship with my birth father before. I was suspicious; it would be just like Gretchen to pretend to make pleasant overtures to me then slap me silly when I let my guard down. If Bob Don had told her we’d had a heart-to-heart out at the cemetery, she’d be envious as hell.