Jeff Abbott: Only Good Yankee

“Thanks for the flowers,” I said, my voice sounding awkward. “It was real thoughtful of you.” I headed into the kitchen. “You’re welcome.

The old homestead isn’t exactly what I thought it would be,” she called to me as I knelt before the fridge, getting a couple of brews.

“What did you expect?’ I called back. “A ranch, maybe, like in Giant.

Not all these trees and greenery and rivers. God knows it’s hot and humid enough. Where’s the tumbleweeds and the dust devils?” “You’re too far east, Lorna. Texas is big, remember? Not all of it looks like the backlot of a John Wayne movie.” I returned to the living room and caught her giggling over an old school picture of me; I was smiling with my two front teeth noticeably absent. ‘Toothless wonder with a cowlick. You look like Dennis the Menace,” she said, her clipped Boston accent flattening the vowels and cutting words abruptly. I hadn’t heard anyone talk like her in quite a while, and memories started crouching, ready to spring. I pushed them back. I handed her a cold bottle of Celis beer and she raised it in toast. ‘To seeing you again,” she said softly. I quickly clinked my bottle against hers, unsure if I should return the toast. We settled on the couch. She sipped cautiously and made a face. “What’s this?” “Belgian-style beer.

Brewed in Austin,” I said. She sipped again, held the beer in her mouth, shrugged, and swallowed. It was an action so typical of her that I felt we’d been apart mere minutes rather than months. I forced my eyes away from her and stared at Mama’s empty chair until she spoke. “Beljun-staaaahl beeeyur,” she repeated, laughing. “My God, I don’t mean to razz you, sweetie, but your accent’s gotten wicked thick. You sound like an extra from The Dukes of Hazzard.” “Did you pahk the cah out by the yahd?” I parried, imitating her Boston tones.

“I didn’t realize that was the King’s English dripping from your tongue.” She laughed good-naturedly, a booming, hearty sound. Lorna never did do anything halfway. “You’re ragging back. The old Jordan. I guess your little Scarlett O’Hara didn’t castrate you after all.” I shrugged, enjoying the banter despite myself. “She doesn’t want to lose a good thing.” “She’s cute-I’ll give her that. I thought she might stamp her foot and say ‘fiddle-dee-dee,’ but she must be made of sterner stuff than I gave her credit for.” She sipped at her beer. “If I’d only had a camera to capture your expression when you saw me.

Sorry if I shocked you, but you know I always like to make an entrance.” “You always prided yourself on surprising me, Lorna. And thanks for the book donation.” She laughed again. “You know I’m devoted to fine literature. And you still surprise me, Jordan. Staying here.” She glanced around the room. “Don’t get me wrong. Your mother’s home is quaint. Are you really happy living here?” My face felt hot.

I’m allowed to pick on Mirabeau, but I don’t like it when other folks do. “I love it here. This is where I grew up.” “Don’t get me wrong. I admire you for wanting to help your family. You always were a bit too noble for your own good. It’s just-it seems a step backward.” “Excuse me?” Lorna rose and began striding around the room. She paused at the coffee table. “First of all, darling, don’t tell me you’re reading”-she paused to peer down at the newspaper and magazines on the coffee table- “The Star’s Royal Family special edition and Southern Living?” “Those are my sister’s,” I protested. I wasn’t about to admit I flipped through tabloids for stories on my favorite royal, Fergie. I like big-boned redheads in bikinis. “Anyhow, Southern Living has some good articles on refinishing furniture.” “That you are even thinking of refinishing furniture shows how much you’ve slid, Jordan,” Lorna opined. “I recall you were always one for cultural events, darling.

What’s on the bill this season at the Mirabeau Lyric Opera, the Mirabeau Symphony, and the Mirabeau Avant-Garde Playhouse? Rossini?

Beethoven? Ionesco?” “There’s no need to be nasty,” I snapped. She sat down next to me, that enigmatic smile still on her face. “No nastiness intended. I’m sorry if I offended. I think Mirabeau is delightful. But my God, Jordan, your presence here just seems impossible.” “Why? This is where I came from, Lorna. I’d already spent most of my life here when you and I met.” “But it didn’t seem like you were small-town. Oh, yes, you had that charming drawl to your voice, but you were so at-home in Boston. You seemed so at-home… with me.” I didn’t have an answer for her. She shrugged. “God, I guess I’m lucky that I didn’t find you in overalls, out picking cotton, and singing ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas.’” She smiled at me, her warm rich smile, and patted my hand.

“Oh, well, you can take the boy out of the country but not the country out of the boy. Being at home obviously agrees with you, Tex. You just look wonderful.” “I am the exact same person I was up in Boston. And I wish you wouldn’t call me Tex. It really, really makes you sound like a Yankee.” Having scored a point against me, she grinned again. “Oh, okay. I certainly don’t want to sound like a Yankee. But you do look great.” Her gray eyes took on a wicked amusement. Leaning back against the couch, she examined my backside. “Still have a butt you could bounce a quarter off of. I suppose you’re running your ridiculous five miles per day.” She giggled. “Are you still limber? I hope you haven’t already read those books I brought you. I threw out my back on page thirty-six.” I rolled my eyes. Standard Lorna, shifting a discussion of what had been between us to merciless teasing to patting my fanny.

She’d been the most aggressive, intimidating, rousing, lusty woman I’d ever known. I wasn’t about to let her work her spell on me. “Why don’t I get some guacamole and chips to go with the beer?” I offered, escaping into the kitchen. “Can I help?” Lorna asked. “Just make yourself comfortable.” I could hear her humming to herself as she examined more of the family photos. As I mashed avocados I found my mind drifting back to our first meeting. In many ways, Lorna was the type of girl you might meet in a bar-but of course we hadn’t. I wasn’t into guzzling Chardonnay while surrounded by ferns. We’d met at an art exhibit at a posh gallery in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood, on Newbury Street. Brooks-Jellicoe, the textbook publisher I worked for, was publishing a volume on modern American art, and one of the artists featured was Fauve. Yes, that was his name: Fauve. One name, like Madonna or Cher or Liberace. Anyhow, Fauve was quite the respected creator of slabs of rock covered with paint. I think they were supposed to represent anger or angst or Angola-I forget which. The art-books editor, Robert Goldstein, was a good friend and asked if I wanted to accompany him to this exhibit. I’ve always liked music more than art, but Robert said there’d be cute women and free food. Editors love free food (and some of us like cute women, too). The exhibit was crowded, people divided into chattering clumps animatedly debating art and music and who Fauve was sleeping with. I noticed how many folks were keeping their backs to the paintings. After I’d seen a couple, I didn’t find that such a bad idea. They were ugly and didn’t have a lick of artistic merit. Plus I didn’t want anything interfering with my digestion of all that free food I’d consumed. I saw Lorna before she saw me. She stood nearby, staring perplexedly at an expanse of craggy granite mounted on the wall. The rises in the stone were painted pink and the valleys were a mix of blues and purples. I’ll never forget what she was wearing: charcoal-colored suit pants, a tight white blouse with French cuffs, and an orange-colored blazer with a huge silver pin on it. Her look was cool, reserved, and a little provocative at the same time. Her thick dark hair was corded into a braid, thankfully with no bow on it. She stared at the picture and I stared at her, ignoring my friend Robert’s lamentations about the New England Patriots and their losing ways. I didn’t see the heavyset lug until he was practically on top of Lorna, nearly knocking her over in a bear hug. She wrenched free, whirling. “God, Bertil, you scared the crap out of me!” The man she called Bertil was big, around six foot four, with a thick burr of blond hair and a vacant look in his watery blue eyes. He placatingly placed his mitts on Lorna’s shoulders. “Sorry, Lorna. Didn’t mean to startle you.” He was either Swedish or drunk. Or both. “I see you’re using Absolut as this evening’s cologne,” Lorna observed. “Now goodbye.” “Wait, wait, Lorna, don’t go-” Bertil lurched, obviously having partaken too much of the grape. He seized Lorna’s arm and spun her back. “Do you want to lose one of your meatballs?” she snapped. I had started to move forward to help her when another hulking type, this one a dark, thick-necked fellow, intervened, pulling Lorna and the Swede apart. “Let her go, Bertil,” the dark man rumbled. “Oh, great, a male model to the rescue.