Long, sleepless nights are not my favorites. Especially when spent alone. I’d called Candace at home after Junebug left; she’d closed up the cafe after a crawly-slow evening. I’d told her I didn’t feel I should leave Sister and Mark alone, and she agreed. I tried not to imagine how comforting her arms and lips and voice would be to me. I showered, pulled on a heavy robe against the cold, and slipped into bed.
Mark and Sister bickered into the night. Their voices floated through the wall, the thunder sometimes masking their words. Mark begged to see his father; Sister forbade him. I didn’t believe her approach was going to work; Mark sounded too determined. He might look like his daddy, but there was a lot of Poteet in him. I figured he was bound to get his way.
My domestic situation didn’t do a lot to keep my mind off Clevey. I kept thinking I should weep for him. But I couldn’t, not even in the dark privacy of my own room in the middle of the night. It was as though some veil had been drawn across my eyes and sadness wouldn’t seep through. His death still seemed unreal, although my friends and I had gone through the preliminary pantomimes of grief.
Rennie Clifton. I hadn’t thought of her in ages. That beautiful girl, unknown to me except in her death. I, of course, would never forget the horrible day my friends and I nearly died in the eerie rage of the tropical storm-or forget her eyes gaping at the greenish sky as Althea’s center passed over us. Clevey had run for Davis’s grandparents’ house to fetch help while the rest of us waited, staring mutely at the body. I remembered Davis had thrown up, the sour stench of his vomit reeking in the humid air.
For a brief while we were celebrities in Mirabeau. I never want to be a celebrity again. When people asked what it was like to find a corpse, Rennie’s empty eyes would come back to me, lifeless as pebbles. My parents were terribly upset with me for sitting out the storm in a tree house, but the girl’s death tempered their rage; they knew it could have been me lying among the shattered trees, staring blindly up at the fortress of clouds. I remember my father spanking me, then stopping and embracing me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
In one of the wee hours of Saturday morning, I fell asleep and, thankfully, Clevey and Rennie stayed out of my dreams.
I awoke to a sky-shuddering thunderstorm, my skin feeling chilled under the comforters. I absently reached for Candace. Hell! I hate waking up alone now. I like to start my mornings with at least a kiss. Dragging the sheets above my head and trying to surrender to sleep didn’t help.
I found Mark downstairs, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the Austin paper. He tested the lip of the spoon against his mouth and watched me as I fumbled for coffee.
“Where’s your mother?” I asked.
“She went to the cafe. Said she didn’t trust that breakfast cook Candace hired.”
“She’s not going to have much business today.” I peered out at the rain. People who think Texas is the arid plain portrayed in Westerns need to come to Mirabeau and see one of our drenching, thunder-booming storms. Water pooled in our backyard, the hanging plants Sister kept on the back porch swaying in the wind. It was a cold, penetrating rain. I wrapped my hands around a warm mug of coffee.
I usually didn’t go into the library on Saturdays, but with both Itasca and Florence being out sick, I mentioned to Mark I might go. After, of course, a stop at the cafe to enjoy a few minutes of Candace’s company.
“Itasca called. She’s feeling much better and she’s going to open up this morning,” Mark said, watching me.
“Well, maybe I’ll go in later.” I sat down with my coffee and began to read the sports section. The lead story was a preview of the next day’s Cowboys game. I remembered with a jolt that the last game I’d seen at Texas Stadium was with Clevey and Ed. Ed had gotten tickets through a friend (those seats are like gold bullion) and we’d made a road trip to Dallas. This had been right before I moved to Boston to work for Brooks-Jellicoe, Publishers, and I remembered Clevey saying “this’ll be your last chance to see real football.” I wondered how many other reminders of Clevey lurked in my everyday life, waiting for me to lower my guard.
“Do you think Mom really hurt Daddy when she hit him?” Mark asked. He adopted a nonchalant tone to the loaded question.
“Probably not,” I said, although I figured it was a safe bet that Trey had a split lip and a sore jaw this morning.
Mark munched his cereal, but not for long. I could see him squirming in his chair, screwing up his courage. “Uncle Jordy, you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” His voice wasn’t much more than a hoarse whisper. It was the same tone I used to cajole my sister.
I looked up from the paper. “Within reason, Mark. Why?”
The floodgate opened. “I figured you would, and I don’t ever ask for anything-like, at least I don’t ask for much, but I need you to do something for me and I don’t know how to ask you, but-”
“Mark, what?”
He took a deep breath. “I want you to take me to see Daddy.”
I leaned back in the chair. “(Oh, that’s not a good idea, Mark. Your mother would hit the ceiling.”
“But it’s not fair! I should get to see him if I want to! I’m fourteen, don’t I have rights or something?”
“Look, it’s not a question of rights. It’s just that you need to let your mother calm down. She’s terribly upset right now and you visiting your father isn’t going to help her.”
“Never mind her. What about me?” Spoon clanked in bowl.
“That’s pretty selfish,” I said mildly.
“So? He’s my father. Mom doesn’t have to do diddly with him. Why does she have to decide for me?”
I leaned forward. “Mark, why do you want to see him? He left you, without warning, years ago. He hasn’t called, he hasn’t written. He hasn’t lifted a finger for you in all that time. So what’s the point?”
Mark stared down into his empty bowl. Thunder cracked like a giant’s bones over the house, and the kitchen table trembled. Lightning struck, and close. The hair on the back of my arms felt electrified.
Mark looked up at me, with eyes sadder than a fourteen-year-old should have. “I don’t know. I just want to see him. Isn’t that enough?” He paused. “What about when you found out Bob Don was your daddy? Didn’t you want to know him better?”
“Mark, that’s totally different.”
“Maybe so. You had grown up with a father. I haven’t.” His voice was soft and bitter.
“Then hop to it. You know he’s living at Dwight Kinnard’s-and old Dwight’s in the phone book. You could sneak over there. You just got to be prepared for the consequences.” I didn’t want to encourage him to disobey his mother, but I knew the idea had already entered Mark’s mind.
“But I don’t want to go by myself. What if he doesn’t want to see me?” He looked at me with his father’s dark eyes and thin-lipped frown. “Do you think he wants to see me?”
That was a question I’d sooner not answer. “If I take you to your daddy, your mother will skin my ass and make herself a wallet. And she’ll do the same to you.”
“She doesn’t have to know. If you go with me, she won’t get mad at either of us.” I didn’t quite follow that logic.
Mark explained, “She can’t stay angry. I’m her son and you’re her brother. She’d have to forgive us, right?”
“Pardon my skepticism. I saw last night just how tightly she holds a grudge.”
“Please, Uncle Jordy-you’ve known Daddy forever. Please go with me.”
I closed my eyes. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get in the middle of this feud. Taking sides was increasingly hard. I couldn’t forgive Trey for what he’d done, but in the two times I’d seen him, I’d sensed-what? Remorse? Or something deeper that made me feel leaving his family hadn’t been a simple jaunt in the rodeo? Maybe his accident opened his eyes to what was important. And Sister, she had every right to be angry-but to forbid Mark to contact his father was as much a punishment of Mark as it was of Trey. If Mark wanted to speak to his father, how could I stand in his way? I would give anything to see my daddy, Lloyd, who had raised and shaped me. I couldn’t; he was long dead. Now Mark’s father had come back from his self-imposed exile. Was I going to be a bystander to Mark’s pain-or a good uncle?
I got up and walked over to the phone before I could get all clever and analytical. I found Dwight Kinnard’s phone number in the book and dialed.
Trey answered. “Hello?”
“Hello, Trey, this is Jordan.” I saw the longing gleam in Mark’s eyes. “How are you feeling today?”
A moment’s pause. “Fine. Your sister’s got a hell of a right cross. But I’ve been hurt worse.”
And you’ve hurt others worse. “Look, I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I’m going to put my balls on the line. Not for you, but for Mark. He would like to visit you.”
I heard a hard, long intake of hopeful breath on the other end. “He does? Arlene won’t approve of that.”
“Arlene doesn’t know, and she doesn’t have to find out until she’s calmed down. Do you want to see your son?” If you say no, you son of a bitch, don’t ever speak to me again. Mark hovered near me and I held my breath.
“Yes, God, yes, Jordy, thank you. Thank you.” The happiness in his voice was nearly physical.
“When would be a good time? I don’t think he’d feel comfortable around Nola and her son and her uncle.”
“How about now? They’re all gone. Scott’s shooting baskets at that covered court over by the junior high. Dwight and Nola are running errands. Arlene’d be at her cafe, right?” Trey’s voice boomed with excitement.
“Let me see if I can get a friend to sit with Mama. We can’t leave her alone, and I’m not taking her out in this weather. Give us a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Jordy, God bless you. I knew you were still my friend.”
I hung up without further comment. Mark watched me, expectation in his whole face.
“Go get your jacket, and I’ll call Clo.”
He dashed for the closet, but found time to give me a quick hug on the way.
I’d been lucky-depending on your viewpoint. Clo Butterfield, Mama’s home nurse, was willing to come over for a short spell. Considering that she’s well paid by Bob Don to help us with Mama and that she’s the best nurse in Bonaparte County, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course it left me no final exit, no avenue of escape.
Mark and I ran through the rain, jumping quickly into my car. Dwight Kinnard didn’t live terribly far away (there are no vast distances in Mirabeau), and as I drove I watched Mark out of the corner of my eye. He fidgeted, fixed his hair, straightened his clothes.
“Uncle Jordy, do you think I ought to take him a present-since he’s been sick and all?”
A present. For the father who’d abandoned him.
“No, Mark. Trey ought to get you a present for being such a great kid.”
“Like I’m so great,” Mark snorted.
Yes, you are. I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and he stared out at the raindrops sliding down the glass.
We pulled up Moller Street and stopped in front of the Kinnard place. Moller’s one of the older streets in town, the pavement cracked and pitted. Cars on blocks didn’t decorate the front yards, but the grass was either overgrown or sparse from inattention. Backyards tumbled down to the overgrowth that surrounds the eastern bend of the Colorado. Mark stayed close to me as we ran through the downpour to the front door.
I rapped gently. No answer. Again. The rain began a sharper patter on the roof and the thunder cried out against the wind.
“Trey? It’s Jordan. And Mark.” I knocked harder. Mark looked like he was going to wet his britches.
“Maybe it takes him longer to get around in his wheelchair,” Mark ventured. From our phone conversation, I expected Trey in the front yard, rain-drenched and waiting for us.
I tried the doorknob. The door eased open. “Trey?” I called, sticking my head into the Kinnard living room. It was unkempt, newspapers in an untidy heap by the door, a pizza box and crushed beer cans tottering on the coffee table, a Winnie the Pooh cartoon playing mutely on the ancient TV set, the couch made up for sleeping with rumpled sheets.
“Daddy?” Mark called, the word sounding unfamiliar in his throat. It wasn’t much more than a whisper.
I’m not sure what impelled me forward; the slightest sound of a groan, or maybe the faintest smell of blood or gunpowder. Some atavistic sense kicked in and I hurried across the living room, into the kitchen.
Trey had dragged himself across the floor, smearing a dark red trail on the dirty tiles. He was pulling himself toward the open back door, and his eyes, dimming of life, looked up at me. Blood streaked his face and his beard. Breath faintly gurgled in his throat.
Mark collapsed by his father. “Dad! Dad!”
“My God, Trey, who did this?” My legs gave way and I knelt by him. I saw three terrible red splashes on his back. The stench of gunfire hung thick in the air. A colored stain caught my eye on the
faded striped wallpaper of the hallway. Written in blood were the words: 2 DOWN.
“He’s shot, he’s shot!” Mark moaned. I stood and grabbed the phone. I barked the address to the 911 dispatcher, telling them we had a man shot and needed an ambulance immediately. The operator asked me to stay on the line. I knew that the emergency headquarters was roughly fifteen feet away from Junebug’s office and I wished that my friend were here.
Cradling the phone against my shoulder, I hunched down by Trey. He rolled on his back, his thin chest moving in ragged dance as he tried to draw air. I swallowed when I saw the wounds; maybe a lung, maybe the stomach. Oh, God, where was the ambulance?
Mark sobbed, clutching one of his father’s bloodied hands in his. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” he mewled, like a small child would, rocking back and forth on his heels. I leaned in close over Trey; his eyes sought mine, pulling away from Mark’s for a moment.
“Trey! Who shot you? Who?” I yelled into his face. “Can you hear me? Who shot you?”
His eyes, flecked with blood, tore away from mine and found Mark’s. One hand closed around his son’s; the other touched the tears on Mark’s cheek.
“Muh-muh,” he tried, the spittle and blood foaming on his lips.
“Who?” I cried again. Oh, God, this wasn’t happening. He wasn’t going to die in front of us. A distant siren grew closer.
“Mull-my boy,” Trey coughed raggedly, squeezing Mark’s hand.
“Yes, I’m here, Daddy, please, please hang on. Please.” Mark wept, trying to wipe the blood from his father’s cheek, chin, throat.
“Luh-love you, Mark,” Trey grunted. “Love you.” His head, raised to look into the face so much like his own, dropped to the cold kitchen floor.
And with those words, he died.