Only Good Yankee jp-2

by Jeff Abbott

  Hernandez. I’m sure your concern for Mirabeau is genuine. But I’ve known Lorna Wiercinski for a long time. I will listen to her business proposition and then make my own decision.” She stared at me like I’d leaned over and spat in her face. “I suppose you want to give them the benefit of the doubt, but let me assure you-” “Ms. Hernandez, I don’t take kindly to outsiders coming into Mirabeau-whether to buy land from us or talk us out of selling it-and then thinking we’re a bunch of hicks who can’t think independently and need to be told what to do.” I stood and nodded at Miss Twyla, who was looking a mite uncomfortable.

  “I’ll be glad to talk to you, hear y’all’s side, after I’ve talked to Lorna.” “Lorna? Already on a first-name basis with the enemy, are you, Mr. Poteet?” Nina’s smile faded. “Yes, ma’am, I am.” I wasn’t about to admit to having slept with the enemy. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to evaluate both sides. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have work to do.” Miss Twyla gathered her purse close to her. “Jordy, the meeting’s at eight tonight. At my house. I certainly hope you will be there.” “I’ll consider it, Miss Twyla.” I watched as the two women left, marching arm in arm to defeat the forces of development. That was all Miss Twyla needed: another cause. I sat back down at my desk, but between thoughts of Candace and Lorna, I didn’t get much work done.*** Much to my surprise when I got home, Sister was getting ready to work a rare late shift. She had promised to cover for a friend. At the truck stop, Sister cooks the kind of comfort foods that truckers run speed traps for: chicken-fried steaks, catfish, thick jalapeno cornbread, butter beans with chunks of ham. It’s amazing that her twelve-year-old boy Mark and I aren’t fatter than hogs. I found her in the kitchen, sticking a pan of chicken enchiladas in the stove.

  I leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She straightened and forced a smile. “Hey. Your arm feeling better?” She’d been terrorizing the hospital staff into taking excellent care of me. And now that her shock over my close call had subsided, she’d turned to her usual pastime: teasing me. “If you were sleeping in your own bed, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” She yanked her white cook’s uniform straight and ran a hand through her thick blonde hair. She’s still one of the prettiest women in Mirabeau, with her high cheekbones and determined mouth, but she doesn’t seem interested in getting hooked up again. After the rotten way her husband abandoned her, I wasn’t surprised. “Good thing your hooter didn’t get blown off. ‘Course, small targets tend to survive.” “Very funny.” I enjoyed having Sister tease me again. She’d suffered a shock, weeks ago, when I’d had to tell her about Mama and Bob Don. I suppose that technically we were only half sister and half brother now, but when you’ve been raised together you don’t feel much different about each other. Plus, I wasn’t about to start calling her Half Sister. Just doesn’t sound right, you know. I quickly filled her in on what had happened with Lorna and Nina Hernandez. Sister’s lovely green eyes widened. She’d heard enough about Lorna when I lived up in Boston. “That’s what you get for dating a Yankee, Jordy,” she admonished me. “I beg your pardon?” Sister looked at me like I was the town idiot. “For God’s sakes, you were the one that complained Yankees were kind of brusque and rude and made fun of your accent That just shows how unpleasant they can be. Well, this Lorna YMCA-or-whatever-her-name-is gets hold of a nice Southern boy who’s been raised right and is more than presentable. I’m sure you treated her nicer than any of those Yankee fellers ever did. Why wouldn’t she track you down and tree you like a coon?” “Lorna’s not the tracking kind, Sister.” “She’s here, ain’t she?” With that, Sister sailed out of the room in triumph. “You and Clo can eat those chicken enchiladas for supper. Mark’s staying at his friend Randy’s tonight. I’ll be back at eleven.” The porch door slammed behind her. I pulled a cold bottle of Celis from the fridge and shook two Tylenol out of a bottle. Gulping them down, I sipped the beer. “You sure are stupid, taking those with alcohol,” a voice rumbled behind me. I put on my best smile and turned to face my own house’s gentle ogre. Clo Butterfield watched me, her beefy dark arms folded across her ample chest. Her black face was set in half stern disapproval, half amusement. Her salt-and-pepper hair was set in an improbable perm. I shook the little bottle of capsules at her. “It doesn’t say anything about that on the bottle,” I said defensively.

  Clo snorted, deep and low like a bull scrutinizing an amateur matador.

  “Ever-body knows you don’t take drugs with alcohol. Didn’t they teach you nothin’ at college?” I pointed with the bottom of my beer bottle at the oven. “Sister left some enchiladas cooking in there for our dinner.” “Thanks, but I got a nose. I can smell ‘em.” She frowned at my arm and my sling. “Can’t believe the foolishness in this town, some idiot blowing up mailboxes. Come on upstairs. Let me look at your bandage, see if it needs changing.” I followed our angel of mercy up the stairs, her white uniform tight across her heavy body. “How’s Mama?” I asked. “Fine. Same as when you left here.” If Clo disapproved of my nocturnal wanderings to Candace’s bed, she wasn’t going to say so outright. I followed her down to Mama’s room, and we both stood in the doorway, looking in on my mother, trapped inside her private, shrinking world. She sat in her bed, a colorful quilt made by her own mother tossed lightly across her legs. She didn’t seem to feel the July heat. Clo had just washed and combed Mama’s hair, and she looked like a small child, fresh from an afternoon swim in the creek. She stared, like a blind person would, at the small color television on her dresser. She couldn’t stand the volume turned up loud, so the Channel 36 news anchor whispered his late-breaking stories to her uncaring ears. Her hand moved repetitively across the quilt, caught in a loop of echoes she could not break. My throat doesn’t tighten anymore when I see Mama like this. I’ve learned to play the waiting game of Alzheimer’s, reluctantly acknowledging that she will never recover and waiting for the day when she breathes her last. I sometimes hope for it so I can have more memories of her as she was, rather than have them supplanted by memories of the shell she is now.

  In the past Mama would have been on her feet in a moment, demanding to know why my arm was in a sling, comforting me far beyond my need for it, doctoring me herself, making me laugh at her worry, smothering her little boy with a nearly irritating level of attention. Now she stared at me, through me, no more seeing the sling on my arm and her nurse standing next to me than she did air itself. Clo spoke to her in a far gentler tone than she’d ever used with me or Sister. “Anne, Jordy’s come home for supper.” Mama didn’t even nod. She glanced at me as though I were a bothersome stranger and turned her attention to the television. My throat tensed. Mama’s not even talking as much as she used to, when her babblings were annoying and I’d have to hold my patience to keep from pulling my ears off. Now the silence she offered was worse, like the quiet of a grave. I went over to her and gently squeezed her hand. She kept watching the screen. Clo was undeterred.

  “I’ll feed you your supper in a minute, Anne. I’m gonna take a look at Jordy. He hurt his arm out fighting organized crime.” I smiled, but Mama did not. Today she was uninterested in my adventures. With Clo following, I went to my own room. Her ministrations did not take long.

  She examined my stitches critically, made a noise in her throat, cleaned the wound with an antiseptic wipe from her nurse’s bag, and put on a fresh bandage. “This damn world. Some say folks like your mama are crazy, but someone who blows up mailboxes, they the loony ones.” She pressed the bandage onto my skin. “Weren’t you scared?” “I was too surprised. Now, today, that was scary.” I told Clo about Lorna’s reappearance in my life, Candace’s disapproval, and my rocky meeting with Miss Twyla and Nina Hernandez. “Dating Yankees. Don’t you know better than that?” she finally opined. “You don’t think I was celibate all that time up there, do you?” I eased my arm into a fresh shirt. “I think what you need, boy, is a little celibacy. Do you some good. Then you don’t have womenfolk arguing over you. Celibacy never killed a man.
” “Well, I have a feeling that if Candace has her way, I’ll be home alone for weeks to come.” “Builds character,” Clo rumbled. She patted my good shoulder and moved toward the door. “I’ll go get Anne’s dinner.” “Speaking of Yankees,” I ventured, “my old girlfriend’s coming over tonight. Apparently she has a business proposition for me.” “I’ll just bet she does.” Clo nodded. “Monkey business, most likely.” “I think I’ll invite her to dinner. Sister made enough enchiladas for us all.” Clo didn’t argue. “Let me know if your shoulder bothers you any. You staying here tonight?” I pondered the possibilities. “Yeah, I am.” I didn’t imagine Candace was particularly aching to have me climb into her bed. Plus I needed some time to think. The doorbell rang. I hate it when your past catches up with you.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lorna stood behind a big bouquet of brightly colored flowers-a gift for Mama. The introductions were quick and to the point. Clo sized up Lorna and the flowers, made polite noises, and excused herself to go feed dinner to Mama up in her room. Lorna still wore her business suit (and looked as uncomfortable as anyone in a suit in the dead of Texas summer would be). She stood in the middle of the living room, shifting from foot to foot, casting her eyes over the white wicker furniture, the mural of family photos that covered one wall, and the antique coffee table that seemed to hold a patina of dust as part of its finish. I offered her a beer and she accepted.

  “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.