Greg Iles - Blood Memory

This time Grandpapa downshifts and steps on the gas pedal, and the old pickup trundles right over. The cows are waiting for us, staring with dumb indifference. Beyond them lies the pond, slate gray and smooth as glass.

I squeeze my hands so tightly into fists that my palms bleed.

There’s something in the pond.

A man.

He’s floating facedown in the water, his arms outspread like Jesus on the cross. He has long hair like Jesus, too. I want to scream, but Grandpapa doesn’t seem to see the man. Mute with fear, I point with my finger. Grandpapa squints and shakes his head. “Goddamn rain,” he says. They can’t work on the island when it rains.

As the truck rolls down toward the pond, Grandpapa points to our right. His prize bull has mounted a cow and is bouncing above her with violent jerks. As he stares at the rutting animals, I look back toward the pond.

The man isn’t floating anymore. He’s getting to his feet. My palms tingle with apprehension. The man isn’t in the pond, but on it. He’s standing on its glassy surface as though on an ice rink. But it’s almost a hundred degrees outside. My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it over the sound of the truck.

The man standing on the surface of the pond is my father.

I recognize his jeans and his work shirt. And behind the long hair, his deep-set brown eyes. As I stare, he starts walking across the water, holding out his arms to me. He wants to show me something. Grandpapa is mesmerized by the bull humping the cow. I pull at his shirtsleeve, but he won’t look away. Daddy is walking on water like Jesus in the Bible, but Grandpapa won’t look!

“Daddy!” I shout.

Luke Ferry nods at me but says nothing. As he nears the edge of the pond, he starts unbuttoning his shirt. I see dark hair on his chest. He undoes four buttons, then pulls his shirt open. I want to shut my eyes, but I can’t. On the right side of his chest is a hole where the bullet went in. There are other scars, too, the big sutured Y-incision of an autopsy. As I stare in horror, Daddy puts two fingers into the bullet hole and starts to rip it open. He wants me to watch, but I don’t want to see. I cover my eyes with my hands, then peer between my fingers. Something is pouring out of the wound like blood, only it’s not blood. It’s gray. That’s all I know, and all I want to know.

“Look, Kitty Cat,” he commands. “ I want you to look.”

I can’t look.

When he calls my name again, I shut my eyes and scream.

“Wake up! It’s Michael! You’re dreaming!”

Michael Wells is shaking my shoulders, his eyes frantic.

“Cat! It’s just a nightmare!”

I nod as though in understanding, but in my mind’s eye I see my father pushing his fingers into the bullet wound in his chest, then pulling the skin apart-

“ Cat! ”

I blink myself back to reality and grab Michael’s hands. He’s wearing a UNC T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. “I’m okay. You’re right…a nightmare.”

He nods in relief, then stands and looks down at me. The overhead light is bright behind his head, but the bedroom window is dark. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I close my eyes.

“Is it one you’ve had before?”

“Yes. The truck, the island…my grandfather. Only this time we made it over the hill.”

“What did you see?”

I shake my head. “It’s too crazy. Did I scream out loud?”

He smiles. “You screamed, but I wasn’t sleeping. I’ve been thinking about everything you told me.”

“Have you?”

“I’ve come up with a couple of ideas, if you’re interested.”

I sit up and prop myself against the headboard. “Is it about the New Orleans murders, or my situation?”

“Your situation. I don’t know anything about the murders.”

“Don’t feel left out. Neither does anyone else.”

“Something you said stuck in my head. That thing about your dad not being the breadwinner for your family. I’d thought his sculpting earned a lot of money. But if it didn’t, then your grandfather was that figure in your household.”

“Absolutely.”

“And from what you told me about your father, he wasn’t a dominating man, or even a strong personality. He didn’t try to control people. Is that right?”

“Yes. Daddy just wanted his own space. He hardly interacted with anyone except me. And of course Louise, the woman on the island.”

“I don’t know Dr. Kirkland well, but I would characterize him as a control freak.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s like a feudal lord.”

Michael nods slowly. “Well, what I’ve been thinking is this. You grew up with one version of your father’s death. You got that version from your grandfather. It’s the same version he gave the police in 1981. Now, twenty-three years later, you discover some old blood in your childhood bedroom. You decide to investigate it, and you make no secret of the fact. What happens? Your grandfather instantly begins revising the story you grew up with, his original story. By his own admission, he told you the new version-supposedly the real truth-to stop you from investigating the scene further. As a result, you stop investigating the bedroom. But you don’t stop probing the events of that night. And when you decide to bring in professionals to search the bedroom for more evidence, Dr. Kirkland changes his story yet again, this time to a ‘truth’ so horrifying that no one-not even you-would want to reveal it to anyone outside your family. In that version, he takes the blame for killing your father. But he also does something else, Cat. He lays the blame for your sexual abuse on your father.”

I feel a strange buzzing in my head. With it comes an almost frantic desire for alcohol. “Go on.”

“Are you sure you want me to? I think you know where I’m going.”

“Just talk, Michael. Quickly.”

“The only evidence you have that your father abused you is your grandfather’s word. If you discount that, what evidence is there? Hearsay about your father’s extramarital love life. Some possible brutality in Vietnam.”

I swallow hard and wait for Michael to continue.

“You do have a long history of psychological symptoms and behavior consistent with patients who’ve suffered past sexual abuse. You don’t have direct evidence as to who abused you. So…I’m just asking a question, Cat. Why should you believe that your grandfather’s latest version of the ‘truth’ is any more true than his first story?”

“Because it feels right,” I say softly. “I wish it didn’t. But it does. It’s like I can almost see it in my mind. The two men fighting over my bed in the dark. I’m afraid that I did see that.”

“Maybe your grandfather did kill your father, as he said. But maybe not for the reason he gave you. I mean, why take his word for it that he caught your father abusing you? It could easily have been the other way around. Maybe your grandfather was the abuser.”

There’s something in my throat, a hot tightness that won’t let any more words pass. “But…”

“I’m just using logic,” Michael says. “You’re so close to the situation, it’s hard to see past the emotion. I don’t think anyone could.”

“I concede that, okay? I don’t want to believe that my father abused me. I’m desperate to find hope that he didn’t. But the idea of Grandpapa doing it just seems outrageous to me. He’s like the model of propriety in this town. Famous for being faithful to his wife.”

“You could be making my point for me. Kirkland didn’t need affairs because he relieved his secret drives at home. And abusers often appear as paragons of virtue to the community. Especially in affluent families. I’ve seen that in practice.”