You’d think they’d put interesting pictures on hospital ceilings. Or at least mount the televisions so a soul can lie on his back and watch the baseball games unfold between the tiles. Not that it would have made much difference. I didn’t want to look at pictures or watch the Austin news play by, talking about all the goings-on in the formerly tranquil town of Mirabeau. I had enough pictures in my mind to make a film, one I could spend my life watching again and again and again; no sequel needed. On the back of my eyelids, I could still see Junebug and Lorna hurrying me away from the backyard shelter, which exploded in an unholy blast, quickly followed by a second, more violent detonation, as though demons were breaking through the mantel to wreak havoc on Mirabeau. The force’d thrown the three of us to the shuddering earth, and I’d seen the tornado-shelter doors cartwheel free from the opening, disintegrating into flaming splinters. Lorna’s arm had closed around me, pulling me ahead, my leg in fresh agony, and then I’d fainted. Not to ruin my manly image, but see how you hold up after a night like that. I’d become dimly aware of Candace and Lorna both in the ambulance with me, one of my hands in each one of theirs. They were arguing about me, I could tell from their tone of voice. That didn’t really make me happy. I passed out again. The next day blurred image after image. I was in a bed, I was aware of my sister’s crying (I’d know her sobs anywhere, having made her cry a fair amount as a child), and there was a voice telling her that my surgery was successful and I was going to be okay. She was told that she needn’t carry on so; as soon as the shock wore off, I’d be just pert near perfect again. I slept some more. Once I was sure Miss Twyla was in the room with me. If she was, I was probably dead, which was confusing, since I was still in the hospital. I suppose there’s not a great demand for hospitals in heaven. I called for her, reached out for her, begging her not to do this foolish thing, but she vanished before my eyes, a gentle, forgiving smile on her face. I called for her again and Candace’s kisses were on my cheek, the fragrance of her perfume in my nose, the gentle spill of her hair across my eyes. So I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t want to see Nina if I opened them, begging me for her life. I never did see her. But one night, a dream of Tiny fought through the painkillers, a shocked and disappointed look on his face as the woman he’d loved emptied his life for him. I woke, a sob in my throat. I had never liked him-hell, part of me had abominated him-but I could have wept for him then. He didn’t deserve the cruelty he’d been given. The days passed. I didn’t talk much, not to Candace, not to Lorna, not to Sister, not to Bob Don, not to Eula Mae. They all tried to smother me with love, which I pushed away like an irritating blanket. Clo visited at least once, double-checking me everywhere, not trusting the nurses on duty to do their job right. Apparently she ran off a sheepish Billy Ray Bummel when he made an attempt to see me. I gave my statement to Junebug and signed it. His friend from the Austin Bomb Squad, Teresa Garza, was there, and I remember her squeezing my hand when I had to describe my final words with Miss Twyla. I could only imagine what Miss Twyla had thought when the bomb at the Mirabeau B. had gone off, and she’d sat, numb, with Nina and Tiny in his pickup truck, watching the town deal with the disaster. Did she try to delude herself at first that perhaps it was a gas explosion? Or did she know from the beginning that someone had taken one of her little projects and used it to murder someone? Why hadn’t she come forward? Pride? Shame? Or, considering recent events, a need to extract her own revenge? I asked Junebug those same questions and went back to sleep. Only later did Sister tell me that after I’d slumbered, my old friend sat by my bed, quietly watching me for the longest damn time. The doctors came and went as well, saying my leg was healing well from the surgery, and it was too bad I’d broken it when I’d tumbled to the ground, coming down on it at a bad angle. I’m not sure they believed me when I told them my black eye and gashed arm didn’t result from the explosion at Miss Twyla’s.
Maybe that’s when they sent the psychiatrist in. I’d just as soon not talk about that part. It was painful to me, and like most men I don’t believe in sharing every thought and feeling that I have. The psychiatrist was a pleasant young fellow with a mightily suppressed drawl who was bound and determined to make sure I didn’t feel guilty about leaving Miss Twyla and Nina. I met with him a few times and let him think he was making progress. I heard hospital gossip that he was also treating Parker Loudermilk for his tendencies to resort to violence when angry. I thought Parker would make a prize project for him, far more interesting than me. Sister told me Jenny had recovered from her suicide attempt. I closed my eyes; that girl must have been in hell. Sister said everyone said Jenny was doing so much better now that she knew her daddy wasn’t a killer. I tried to take some pleasure in that, but it was fleeting; she still had Parker for a dad, which I felt was not an optimal situation. Dee visited me once, bringing flowers in a pot she’d made herself. I was glad to see this pot had no barbed wire. Candace told me that Parker had admitted to finding Greg dead; apparently Nina must have killed Greg shortly before the Loudermilks arrived. According to Junebug, Parker said he’d gone over there with a gun; that’s what Becca had seen him stuffing back in his pocket when he fled the scene. I didn’t want to think about him anymore; I suspected the voters of Mirabeau would soon give me a new boss. So I sat in this introspective stupor for the days that I was in the hospital, not talking much, nodding, smiling, closing my eyes, letting myself be fussed over by the women in my life. I was glad when I got to go home and finally get some rest. Everything else of interest happened one Saturday afternoon when I’d gotten back. Weary of my own bed, I’d used my crutches to get down to the couch, where I’d built my empire of tattered paperbacks and bowls of popcorn, watching old movies on cable. Out of harmless-style spite, I picked up a little silver bell that sat on the coffee table and rang it. It was no lovely French chambermaid who answered my call, but rather a frowning Clo, heavy arms crossed over her barrel chest. “What do you want now? Your damned old pillows been fluffed enough.” “I didn’t want anything from you. I just wanted to talk for a second.” I gestured toward the chair. “Would you sit down?” She sat warily. “I’m glad that Bob Don hired you to look after me, and still help with Mama,” I ventured. “I know we exchanged some harsh words. I think I had a lot of reasons to be angry with you. And you with me.” She stared down at the floor. “But, that’s past. You made a mistake in judgment. I’ve made several myself lately, so I’m not inclined to be critical. So, if you’re still willing to be around here after I’m back on my feet, will you take care of my mother?” She nodded and stood. “That all you wanted to tell me?” “Yeah.” I eased back onto the pillow and fumbled for the remote control. I’d muted Gary Cooper in Sergeant York on American Movie Classics while I’d made amends with Clo. I wasn’t expecting it when she leaned down, kissed my cheek, and hugged me. It was so unlike her I forgot to hug back. “Now, you keep that TV down,” she snapped once my head was back on my pillow. “I’m on my break in the kitchen and I can’t read the National Enquirer with all that jabbering.” “I didn’t know you could read,” I quipped gruffly, more relieved than I’d ever admit that my relationship with her was back to normal. I hadn’t had long to enjoy the movie when Gretchen came calling. She came into the living room, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers that could hide a beehive. She set them down so the giant blossoms blocked my view of the TV and made herself at home in Mama’s chair, curling up like a cat before the mouse hole. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me for not coming to see you in the hospital, Jordy, but the doctors said you needed your rest.” “Oh, I did. Don’t worry about it;
Bob Don was there practically around the clock.” Her smile, pasted on for the visit, winced. “Well, dear, we’re all just so relieved that you’re okay. I must admit that I’m a bit surprised to see Clo still working here. I’d heard you weren’t very happy with her.” “Oh, I wasn’t for a while. But I’m less happy with you, Gretchen.” Her smile stayed pasted on. “Whatever do you mean?” “I mean that I’ve given this some thought. When I found out that Greg had offered Clo all that money to frame me, I thought there must be some reason he really wanted to get me in trouble. I wasn’t suspicious that he was committing fraud until after he was dead, so the land deal wasn’t why he wanted me out. And when I found out he and Lorna had been lovers briefly, I thought he considered me a potential rival. But now I know that he was setting up Lorna to take the blame for his scam, so he wouldn’t have cared about winning her. And I don’t think that a con artist would have easily parted with as much money as he gave Clo, just to get me out of the picture. It just started me wondering who else might have paid cold cash to get me in such an embarrassing amount of trouble.” I wasn’t sure that she was still breathing. “I don’t know what any of this has to do with me, Jordy.” She tried to laugh, and leaned over to rearrange the flowers. “You’re the only person that came to mind, Gretchen. The only one who would have had the money and the desire to see me humiliated with that sort of accusation. Of course, being accused of being the bomber wouldn’t have held up; I’m sure truth would have won out in the end. You got upset when Billy Ray mentioned in front of me that you’d been seen having lunch with Greg. What did you tell him? That for his land deal to work, he’d have to get me out of the picture? That’s not true, but you must’ve made him think so. Anyway, he was a crook to the bone. I’m sure once he knew what your goal was, he probably suggested the plan of action. Maybe he even suggested planting the bomb makings; I’m not sure I’d credit you with that much imagination.” She stood, her frozen smile now thawed into a grimace. “Obviously, you suffered some sort of impairment to your reason after that blast. How unfortunate.” “So why’d you tell me about Clo talking to Greg when the plan didn’t pan out? Because you figured at that point that she intended to keep the money and you wanted to cause more pain to me by exposing her? Of course, with you blowing the whistle, no one would expect that you were the troublemaker behind it all. And with Greg dead, no one could rat on you.” “This is ridiculous. I don’t have to come over and hear this abuse when I came to visit you on an errand of mercy.” She fumbled in her purse for her keys. “Of course, you have no proof of this.” “No, I don’t, Gretchen,” I said softly. “But don’t think you can ever hurt me again. You can’t. So just give up this stupid war against me. You ever, ever try anything like this again and I will nail your ass to the wall. You try to hurt me, or anyone in my family, or anyone I care about, I will ruin you in this town, utterly, completely, totally. As long as we understand each other, I think we’ll be fine.” She toyed with one of the pillows on the couch, and I thought she’d like nothing better than to shove it over my face and watch me squirm for air for a while. Instead, she patted my cast, a little harder than necessary. “You take care, Jordy. I’m sure you’ll be feeling much better about all this unpleasantness real soon.” Her departure left me feeling more energized than I had in days. I sat back and watched Gary Cooper keep the world safe for democracy. I dozed for a bit, then there was the clatter of footsteps and mild cursing on the stairs. Lorna, coming down, carrying a suitcase. I hate goodbyes. She tossed her bag on Mama’s chair and sat down next to me, gently pushing my leg out of the way. She examined my cast gingerly.
“I didn’t write enough. I should’ve written more.” “No, I think you’ve written more than enough.” I couldn’t see her scribbling from here, but I knew what it said: To Jordan-Be on your feet soon so you can chase me around. All love, Lorna. Candace had seen it but not commented. I figured the firestorm would erupt as soon as Lorna’s plane left. “Oh, I’d planned on writing lots more. Like in letters and cards. But I’m starting to think that’s not a good idea.” She took my fingers, interlacing them with hers. “Why not?” “Because they have such a distance to them. Up-close communication is far preferable, don’t you think?” She was leaning her face close into mine, her gray eyes as intoxicating as always. I shook my head. “I think cards and letters and phone calls have a lot to recommend them. It’s a good way for old friends to keep in touch.” She tugged at the bottom of my T-shirt. “But we’re more than old friends, aren’t we? Won’t we be, still?” “No, Lorna, we won’t.” I hated having to say it to her, but it was true. I’d made my choices, to stay in Mirabeau and have a relationship with Candace. I couldn’t choose otherwise. She leaned back. “I knew you were going to say that.” She let go of my shirt.
“Just don’t give me that line that a part of you will always love me.”
“It’s true, though. But I won’t say it if you don’t want me to.” “No, I don’t.” She smoothed her pants legs with her palms, not looking at me. “I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you-” “What do you know about hurt? You got enough painkillers here to numb King Kong. You ain’t feeling any hurt, country boy.” Her voice was teasing, light. I wondered if she was hiding behind mild flirting, shielding herself from disappointment. I reminded myself that was her problem, not mine.
“Whatever you say, Lorna.” She looked at me then, tears welling in her eyes. I didn’t have a handkerchief to offer her, but she leaned down and kissed my forehead, with sudden speed as though she were afraid I’d refuse. I wouldn’t have, not for the world. “I better call Junebug. He’s giving me a ride to the airport in Austin. I think he’s got a hot date with that bomb sergeant he’s warm for.” “Have a safe trip.” So much hung unsaid between us, but that was the nature of broken relationships; they weren’t concluded as neatly as business meetings. “Now, don’t talk off Junebug’s ear the whole way there. He’s not used to that annoying Boston accent of yours.” “He might find it cute, Jordan. The same way you did. I’ll weave a spell on him with my wicked New England charm, and before you know it, I’ll be a Mirabeau housewife. Mrs. Junebug Moncrief. I don’t think the Wiercinskis would be quite prepared for that.” She stood by her suitcase and picked it up. “Goodbye, Lorna.” There was a range of emotions in my voice as it said those two words. Some I didn’t care to identify. I just kept thinking: This is right for you both. You know it. “This is me riding off into the sunset.” Her voice sounded a little ragged. “I know. Ride careful, now.” She picked up her suitcase and, without a backward look, walked outside. A minute or so later I heard a car pull up, doors slam, Junebug’s drawl answering some tease of Lorna’s, and then the distant whine as the sedan pulled away. I sat with my eyes closed.
I had cared for her. I still cared for her, in that I wanted her to be happy. But I didn’t want her for myself. I knew what I wanted-all the craziness, all the aggravation, all the passion. “Clo? Would you bring the cordless in here, please? I need to make a call.” She brought it in, fussing at me that I’d skipped the nap I needed every afternoon and surely wasn’t going to get it by prattling on the phone all day.
She was still complaining as she went upstairs to check on Mama. I dialed the seven numbers slowly. She and I hadn’t talked much since I’d returned from the hospital; apparently words had been exchanged in the ambulance between her and Lorna that made each other’s company unbearable. But we hadn’t had a chance to fix what had gone wrong between us. That didn’t matter, though. What mattered was the loving pressure of her hand on mine as I’d faded in and out at the hospital, the homemade peanut-butter fudge she’d snuck into my room for me, the gentle kiss of her lips on mine when she thought I was numbed entirely by the medications. She agreed, hesitatingly, to come over. When she arrived, Clo suddenly remembered she’d promised to take Mama over to Eula Mae’s for a visit. We watched her bustle out. Candace sat down on the side of the couch, brushing her heavy brown hair over her shoulder. We made small talk about my broken leg, my messy coffee table, the merits of Gary Cooper as an actor as he mutely eliminated half the Kaiser’s army on the screen. If Gary could perform heroic deeds, maybe I could, too. Deep breath. “Candace?” “Yes?” Her hand was buried in the bowl of popcorn, but her eyes came back to me. They looked like bits of blue heaven. I took her other hand in mine, interlocking my fingers with hers. “I love you.” Kisses are better than painkillers for easing what ails you.