Promises of Home (25 page)

The living room was finally empty. The mourners had returned to both our house and the Shivers place for the traditional postfuneral gathering, to eat and drink and converse in hushed tones. Our house was undoubtedly the greater social attraction; no one had called Truda a murderer during the funeral. I’d forced myself to maintain a placid air as people crowded and jostled each other on our porches, in our living room.

Cayla and Davis Foradory had phoned their regrets in. “We just can’t make it, Jordy,” Cayla said in a forced tone. “Poor Bradley was just
so
upset by the funeral, it’s best he stay home. You
do
understand, don’t you?”

“Of course, Cayla. May I speak to Davis for a moment?”

She coughed. “Well, Davis is getting Bradley settled. How about I have him call you when things calm down?”

“Sure, Cayla.”

“Please give my best to Arlene and Mark. And Truda.”

“Of course.” I hung up the phone slowly, feeling the tinge of unease I always felt after talking to Cayla. Bradley Foradory might be retarded, but he was hardly high-strung. Generally he was a happy fellow, smiling and likable. Yet the funeral had thumped some horribly raw nerve to set him screaming and crying like that. What was wrong with Bradley?

Although Bradley’s outburst generated a certain amount of talk, it couldn’t hold a candle to Nola’s dramatics. I’d caught Ivalou Purcell murmuring to her daughter, “Well, Arlene showed more restraint with that Nola than she did with Trey. She didn’t hit her.” I’d forced myself not to stop and chew the old bitch out. There had been enough unpleasant scenes today.

Now Sister sat alone with Mama in the living room. Mama had not attended the funeral, but Clo had dressed her in a dark robe. Always one to get an early start on the holidays, Mama was humming the tune of “Away in a Manger,” which she’d plucked somehow from the quicksand of her memory. Sister didn’t appear to be noticing, still wearing her dark jacket and skirt, her sunglasses finally off, her hair a blonde tousle around her shoulders.

I sat down and handed the fee coffee. She accepted it wordlessly, took a sip, and said, “I have to get down to the hospital and see how Junebug’s doing.”

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough for today?” I said. “I’m sure Barbara or the doctors will call us if there’s a change. You need some rest.”

“There have been two men in my adult life I’ve loved, Jordy. I buried one today. And the other one may not make it out of the hospital. I don’t think I can sleep any.”

“You’ll make yourself sick, Sister.”

“Spare me the worried-brother act. You practically accused me of killing Trey this morning.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t believe you killed him, but I had to know for sure. You still didn’t answer my question.”

She rubbed her eye. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Then tell me. Were you over there that morning?”

Fatigue had won out against her defenses. “Yes, all right. I stopped by on my way to work. Even with it being a cold day, I wore those stupid pants ’cause it gets hot in the kitchen and they’re comfortable.”

“What happened?”

Her voice took a distant tone as she spoke, “He was there. Alone. He let me in, said he was even glad to see me as long as I wasn’t there to blacken his other eye.” She sipped at her coffee and closed her eyes.

“Oh, he looked bad, Jordy. You’d seen him. He was a shell of the man he’d been. He’d had so much energy, so much power in his body. That man in the chair had nothing.” She shivered. “I apologized for hitting him—and said I hoped he wasn’t gonna press charges. He laughed and I started to cry. He said I looked wonderful to him. He said … he’d missed me.”

I took a long breath while she paused. “And what effect did all this sweet talk have?”

She shook her head. “Part of me wanted to belt him again. Part of me wanted to tell him to never darken our door. Part of me wanted to hold him. Stupid, huh?”

“No.” I squeezed her shoulder.

“He asked to see Mark. I explained I thought that was a bad idea, that Mark needed more time to get used to the idea of his father back in his life before he saw Trey face-to-face. Trey said I was stalling. He begged, Jordy. He begged to see Mark and I kept saying no.”

“So when’d you get the black eye?”

Sister paid me no heed. “I finally asked him why he’d come home after all this time—why hadn’t he just stayed away? He wouldn’t look at me for a while, then he said that he’d finally stared death in the face and it had made him a man. I said that was crazy, and he said you’d understand.”

I eased back on the couch. Famous words from Trey
from the tree house. It’d been his argument for our foolishness that long-ago day.

“So,” Sister continued, sniffing, “he said abandoning us was the most terrible mistake he’d ever made. He wanted to come home more times than he could count, but he was too ashamed. And he said he knew I wouldn’t take him back, and he was afraid Mark would reject him. It wasn’t till after that bull nearly killed him that he decided to come home.”

I didn’t say anything. I saw Candace standing at the kitchen door, tears in her eyes, her fingertips on her lips.

Sister looked up at the ceiling—or perhaps past it, toward God and heaven. “He said he still loved me, he’d never stopped loving me. And he wanted to be a father to Mark. I told him it was impossible, it could never be like it was before. He pleaded with me, and I ran out.” She started crying again.

“I don’t understand. When did you get the black eye?”

“Oh,” she said, wiping tears away. I handed her a tissue. She dabbed at her eyes. “I stumbled when I fell down the stairs. I hit my face.” Sister got up and retreated to the kitchen. She looked back at me. “Now you know everything, Jordy. Happy? If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get something to eat, take a shower, and go to the hospital.” She ducked past Candace, who regarded me with concern.

“She’ll be okay, Jordy. She just needs time.”

I didn’t say anything; I just sat back down. Trey had neglected to tell Sister the most important point of all: just why had he so regretfully left Mirabeau in the first place?

FRANKLIN BEDLOE DRUMMED HIS PENCIL AGAINST his pad as I finished talking.

“Well, you’ve been busy,” he said. I couldn’t tell quite yet if he was angry or not.

I’d invited him to stop by, and when he arrived, basically I’d spilled my guts. What I’d found out from Ed, from Scott, from Steven Teague, from Thomasina Clifton, from Hart. The only item I omitted was that dogged bit of Sister’s pants. She’d told me what I believed was the truth about her seeing Trey and there was no need to tell Franklin about it. At least in my judgment. I could pinch a penny if I gave him a pound.

“Well, we had been talking to Mr. Teague about his treatment of Mr. Shivers,” Franklin began uncertainly, then stopped. I waited politely. Junebug had always told me Franklin was a bright fellow with a future. I hoped he was right, but I wondered if having been shoved into the role of acting chief had overwhelmed him.

“Look, I really wasn’t trying to snoop, Franklin. I know Junebug’s told you I have a propensity to stick my nose in. I can’t help it if information comes my way. That’s why I’m sharing it with you. You do with it what you think best.”

Franklin jotted a final note and shut his book. “Well, all this is real interesting, Jordy, but I’m not sure how it bears on the case. Especially the Rennie Clifton connection.”

“But that stuff you found in Clevey’s house—”

“We don’t have an explanation for it yet,” he said calmly. “And I’m in the business of evidence, not conjecture.
You haven’t shown me one shred of evidence—only hearsay about both Clevey and Trey.”

I opened my mouth to speak and shut it promptly. He was right. I’d built a house of cards and he was the wind.

“Then I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time, Franklin. I just feel so angry about what happened to Junebug, I thought—”

“Jordy, listen, I do understand. Everyone at the station’s determined we’re gonna catch this bastard. I appreciate the information you’ve given us. We’ll take it from here.”

He stood and we shook hands. When I showed him to the door, Hart Quadlander’s truck was pulling into the driveway. Franklin gave Hart a polite nod and drove off in his cruiser.

Trouble with the police?” Hart asked as I let him and Scott in the door. I helped them off with their coats and hung them on the pegs. Scott eyed Mark nervously as I ushered them into the living room.

“Mark, I’m sorry about my mom. She’s just really upset. But she still shouldn’t have said what she did.” Scott’s eyes held real apology. “I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry she hit you, Jordy.”

“How’s she doing?” I made myself ask. I thought Nola Kinnard needed a good rest home, but I wasn’t about to suggest that in front of her son.

“She’s okay. Steven Teague talked to her for a while and he got Dr. Meyer to prescribe a tranquilizer for her.” Hart squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “It was unforgivable what she did at your father’s funeral, Mark. I am terribly, terribly sorry for the way Nola behaved. So is Scott; he wanted to come over and make amends. I hope you’ll understand that Nola is just very grief-stricken. I think she’s going to be ashamed of herself when she has a little time to consider her actions.”

Mark shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter to me what Nola does. She doesn’t bother me none.”

“My mom, she’s not a bad person at all.” Scott tried again, and I could see the pain in his eyes. He had to be
horribly humiliated by Nola’s antics. “But you probably don’t believe that.”

Mark shrugged again. “My mom’s done goofy things when she’s upset. Uncle Jordy says women are like that.”

“I did not!” I bristled. I was glad Candace wasn’t around to hear that little divulgence.

“Anyhow, just so everything could be cool, I brought you this.” Scott pulled a Swiss army knife out of his pocket and held it out to Mark. “Like I said, I’m sorry about all the fuss with my mom. I hope you and I can still be friends.”

Mark blinked, taken aback by Scott’s generosity. Finally he reached out, took it, and started a detailed examination of the gift. “Wow, it’s a nice one. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you, Scott, that’s very kind,” I said.

“You want some pie?” Mark offered, slipping into the role of host and pocketing the knife. Scott nodded and the two boys headed off to the kitchen. I sat down heavily after Hart declined my offer of coffee.

“I’m beat,” I told Hart. “You’re still hosting the Kinnards?”

Hart shook his head. “I can’t say I care much for Nola. Scott’s a good kid, but that woman is a trial. She’s one of those ladies who doesn’t quite know how to manage without a man in her life. I’m afraid she must’ve leeched onto poor Trey. She’s already casting about for the next victim.”

“Are you a candidate?” I asked boldly.

He laughed softly, his voice rich-timbred. It was a good laugh, the kind my dad had used. “Hardly. I made that clear to her right quick. But she’s sure sniffing around old Ed Dickensheets. Stupid of her to be chasing after a married man.”

“He says he’s not interested,” I said.

“Would you be? Lord, that woman’s a sight.”

“That’s a shame. Scott seems rather lonely. I think he needs a family and friends. I was there when he found out about Trey. He took it like his heart had been ripped out.”

“I feel for the boy,” Hart said, “but I imagine you won’t
have to concern yourself with him too much longer. I don’t think his mama will be staying in Mirabeau if she doesn’t land Ed or some other fool as her next conquest.”

“May I ask you something entirely off the subject of Nola?”

He nodded.

“Do you remember a girl named Rennie Clifton?”

I saw it in his face. Sudden shock at the name’s mention. “Good Lord, yes. That poor girl that died in the hurricane when you and Trey were little boys. Her mama used to clean house for me. What on earth has brought her name up, Jordy?”

I postponed answering his question. “Did you know her?”

He shook his head. “Not well. I remember meeting her a couple of times when she came to help her mama out. But I can’t say I knew her better than to say hello to. She didn’t always come with Thomasina. Why?”

“I just wondered if you remembered her. Her name came up when I was reminiscing with Davis today— talking about other tragedies our group of friends has faced.” I really surprise myself with my facility for fibbing sometimes. It’s good I have an honest heart. “We were trying to remember who her friends were in town.”

He shrugged. “Fraid I never knew the young lady well enough to answer that. Speaking of Davis, what spooked his boy today at the funeral?”

“I don’t know. That certainly wasn’t typical of Bradley. I’ve never seen him act that way.”

“Death makes us all act odd, Jordy. Bradley’s no exception. Maybe a boy with a delicate mind like his, he just found two funerals overwhelming.”

It sounded good, but I wasn’t convinced. There was more to Bradley Foradory’s dismayed scream than grief.

A call to Sister at the hospital revealed no improvement in Junebug’s condition. He was still breathing on his own, his heart pumping strongly—but he was still asleep and
wasn’t waking up. I wondered what we’d do if he never roused. It was a thought I didn’t want to dwell on.