Only Good Yankee jp-2

by Jeff Abbott

  You’re the most kindhearted man I’ve ever known.” She broke eye contact with me and stared at the floor. “I can’t compete with a sick woman who desperately needs you. I haven’t known what to do for months now. I was paralyzed. Then I end up going to work for Intraglobal and I nearly died when Greg told me we were coming to Mirabeau to do this deal. I couldn’t believe it. The coincidence just seemed too great.

  Then I realized: some things are just meant to be. God’s dropping you back in my lap, Jordan. Your land and the condo deal-they don’t matter except that they’ve allowed us to be together again.” I could still taste her on my lips. Turning away from her, I wiped my wet hands on a dishrag. For once in my life, I was speechless. In three years Lorna had told me she loved me maybe once or twice. She was not a woman given to emotional pronouncements. I was even less likely to voice the L-word, and I couldn’t believe I’d confessed a depth of affection for Candace to someone else. I couldn’t still love Lorna; I couldn’t. I didn’t need the complication. So why did I suddenly feel so weak-kneed? Miss Twyla had provided me a coward’s perfect escape route and I took it. “I have to go to a meeting at the library. Some folks aren’t much in favor of this condo development and want to hash it out. I’m not taking their side yet, but I owe it to them to hear what they have to say.” “Don’t.” She reached out and turned my head back to her. God help me, I wanted to kiss her again. “Listen, babe, I know this has to be a shock to you. Seeing me again like this. But don’t turn away, please, not again. Not when you can be so much more.” “I don’t know what you mean.” “It’s incredible that you’re taking care of your mom, and that you’ve found your dad. But what else does this place offer? I expect you to want a hell of a lot more.” “More? More what?” I asked, my throat feeling raw. “I don’t need to be in the corporate game again to feel like I’m accomplishing something, Lorna.

  I take care of my mother; we’ve only had Clo’s help for a few weeks. I run a library, and even a small one’s a big concern. And my relationships with Candace and Bob Don have taken time and effort. I think what’s raising your hackles is that I’ve found a niche and it doesn’t automatically include you.” Lorna released a breath she’d obviously been holding for several moments. “I see. Well, I was right.

  Our relationship should be put on hold while we’re discussing business. I apologize for kissing you and for resurrecting our past.

  I’ll let you get to your meeting.” She turned on her high heels and went back into the living room. “Thank you for dinner,” she called as I heard her shuffle papers back into her briefcase. “Please give Arlene my regards, and tell her I hope to meet her while I’m in town.”

  I came into the living room, not knowing what to say. She finished her packing perfunctorily, nodded, and left. The door slam echoed in my mind for a long while.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I’ve never been a fan of meetings, but for Miss Twyla’s sake, I put on my best public-librarian smile. I’d heard Lorna’s side of the development issue-and fairness demanded I listen to Nina. I’d arrived in time to unlock for the three of them. Tiny Parmalee stood close by Nina Hernandez and it wasn’t hard to see why he’d evinced sudden interest in riverfront development. She was just the plain kind of woman that he always fell for. Every time I see Tiny, I recall our first instance of quality time. He’d always been bigger than all the other kids, even since first grade (hence his nickname). He’d also been dumber. That’s not a crime in itself, but coupled with his stupidity was a particular brand of meanness. Tiny was damned unpleasant and he took comfort in that. Our first and only fight had been in third grade. Naturally it was at recess, the only time in the scholastic day that Tiny ruled as king. The boys played softball or touch football and the girls played tetherball or tag, chasing each other with screeches of delight. It was the autumn of 1971 and Mirabeau schools had finally settled into integration. It had been a surprisingly easy process; most people in Mirabeau who objected (and let’s be blunt, most people did) had decided that it was inevitable and they might as well go along. Kids being kids, necessity won out over prejudice; to have two teams for softball during third-grade recess, every able-bodied boy was needed. So the whites graciously agreed to play with the blacks, and the blacks graciously agreed to play with the whites. Tiny was not exactly on the cutting edge of societal change, then or now. If memory serves, he objected to his team losing because of a run batted in by a boy named Michael Addy. Michael was a fair fielder but a great batter, and his skin was as dark as an eggplant’s. Even in third grade Tiny towered over the other boys, and when he’d decided to beat up Michael for hitting in that run, no one seemed inclined to interfere. Michael was the biggest of the black boys but still no match for a genetic oddity of size like Tiny. He had Michael, his nose bleeding and mashed, in a headlock. The black boys stood in a group of their own, none daring to take on the giant. The girls, both white and black, huddled together, watching the dusty display of male violence with distaste and horror. I clearly remember one of the black girls screaming at the boys to do something.

  A few of the white boys stood in open approval of the spectacle, while others stayed silent, toeing the dirt of the field. And no one, including myself, dared to fetch the teacher, knowing what Tiny’s ire would bring on us later. I don’t know what made me do it. I was not tall in those days; my growth spurt didn’t hit until I was in high school. I didn’t care too much if the white kids and the black kids got along. Michael Addy wasn’t a friend of mine. I only remember thinking that if my daddy found out I stood by while another child was beaten, how disappointed and mad he’d be. I knew that from experience.

  “Say it,” Tiny huffed to the prisoner of his arms. “Say it slow, like I told you to.” To this day, I can hear the crack of Michael Addy’s voice, his throat trapped in Tiny’s heavy arms, a voice that begged for release: “I’m-I’m a dumb nigger.” “Good. Now say it loud so ever-body knows what you are.” I put my hand on Tiny’s shoulder. “Stop it.” The shock in the crowd was not nearly as great as the shock on Tiny’s pug face. He wore his hair in a crew cut then, and his hair was so white he nearly looked bald. He glanced at my hand on his stout shoulder. “What the hell you doing, Bo Peep?” Tiny had altered my surname to Bo Peep and got no end of amusement from this ingenious pun. “You made him do what you wanted. Leave him alone.” I tried reason. “You better let him go before the teacher gets out here.” Tiny looked at me as though I’d just announced that he himself was a dumb nigger. He dropped Michael Addy, who promptly and wisely took the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Tiny, scrabbling across the softball field grass to relative safety. “You takin’ up for that nigger, Bo Peep?” Tiny squared his shoulders and looked down at me. I suddenly felt very fragile, but all of a sudden I was madder’n hell. Tiny had never bullied me physically, but I’d grown tired of that nickname and the way he pushed people around like checkers on a board. “Just leave him alone. He didn’t do nothing to you.” “I don’t like losin’ to an uppity nigger.” “You don’t like losin’, period.

  Well, ever-body has to lose sometimes. You can’t always win.” I wanted to turn and walk away, my speech complete, but I knew that I could not turn my back on Tiny Parmalee. He wiped a bit of spit off his lip, his hand forming into a fist as he dragged it across his mouth. “You just love them niggers, don’t you, Bo Peep.” “I just don’t like you pushing people-” and that was as far as I got before he belted me. I fell to the ground, my lip cut and bleeding instantly. I’d never been walloped in the mouth before, and damn if it doesn’t hurt like the dickens.

  Instead of sitting there and crying about the agony in my lip like any sensible boy would have done, I instead meted out more punishment for myself by tackling Tiny, low near the ankles. He didn’t have good balance because of his size and he fell, fortunately not landing on me. There was an ooh from the crowd and several boys, from the safety of distance, began yelling encouragement to me. Tiny only knew power, not strategy,
and I didn’t know much about either. I had been in only one other fight in my life-and I’d lost. And my struggle with Tiny quickly degenerated into rolling around in the gritty dirt of the batting area, surrounded by screaming and cheering schoolmates who surged back and forth in rhythm with the fight like a fickle tide. I was losing, though. We’d tussled past the fence that marked the boundaries of the old baseball lot, rolling onto unmowed grass. Tiny huffed and puffed like a dragon trying to rouse up a steamy breath of fire. I could tell his anger was boiling over; he should have dispatched me easily, but I was quicker and stronger than he had figured. If he didn’t win soon, his standing would fall in the playground, and that he could not tolerate. Cussing, he pinioned me on my back and his hands closed around my throat. “I’m a-gonna squeeze real hard, Bo Peep, unless you tell everyone what a nigger-lovin’ faggot you are.” His eyes softened, not in any mercy but in that he sensed victory. A drop of his sweat fell into my eyes, like Chinese water torture. His raggedy fingernails pressed crescents into my throat. I thought about all of Tiny Parmalee’s weight crushing on my windpipe and tried not to be scared. “No,” I gasped. “No.” Tiny leaned down harder on my throat and dark circles began to form over his face.

  The screaming of my classmates was far closer, but seemed to be growing distant I felt his fingers digging into my neck, seeking out the air in it like it was an intruder. And, shockingly, I saw the glint of murder in Tiny Parmalee’s eyes. His rage was so intense that, had we been alone, I’m certain he would have killed me. He was the sort of boy who would set a worm on fire and laugh at its wriggly dance of death. I stared back into his eyes and he saw that I saw what he was, the gaze between us as intimate as lovers. His grip tightened.

  My hands lashed out and my right one caught metal. I had a vague memory of a stake thrust in the ground, tied with a yellow ribbon at the top, marking a corner of the softball field. Only an adrenal surge gave me the strength to pull the stake out and bring it down in Tiny Parmalee’s back. Honestly, I didn’t do much damage. My aim was horrendous and I didn’t hit his back so much as pierce his side. It didn’t even crack a rib, though it cut through some flesh and bled profusely. I’ve no doubt that it hurt like hell. What undid Tiny was his scream. He howled as that stake scored him, and his scream was like a girl’s-high-pitched and full of powerlessness and fear.

  Breaking his throttlehold on me, he reeled away, holding his side and screeching at the blood that spilled from him. He was the only one screaming on the playground now; the other children were stunned into silence. I didn’t do a victory jig. I opted to roll over, gasp repeatedly, and finally throw up in the mashed grass of the field. I lay there, unmoving, until a teacher cradled my head in her lap and told me I was okay. In the simple mathematics of recess and playground and combat, that scream defeated Tiny Parmalee. He’d been the bully and the aggressor, but he’d been the one to capitulate-and worse: to scream like a girl. I’d done the unimaginable in taking him on. A few thought I’d cheated in using the stake, but the bluish bruises on my throat spoke for themselves about the equality of the struggle. We both were suspended for a week, much to my father’s delight (in that I had done the right thing in taking up for Michael Addy), to my mother’s horror (in that I’d stooped to fighting), and to my sister’s embarrassment (in that she had a crush on Tiny Parmalee’s cousin and I’d set back her campaign to win the boy). Our first day back, the principal met us in the office and forced us to shake hands. I coughed and did so, averting my eyes from the bruises on Tiny’s face. Had I really given him those? Or had his parents reacted differently to the fight than mine did? Tiny shook my hand and stared blankly into my eyes. “I don’t want to hear anything about you boys fighting,” the principal chirped. “I don’t want to hear about it happening here or away from school. And rest assured, if it happens, I will hear about it.” It didn’t. Tiny and I avoided each other like the plague. If we passed in the halls, we didn’t speak or even acknowledge one another.

  Our friends tried to goad us into fighting again, but we ignored them.

  Michael Addy slipped a note to me in my math book one day that simply said THANK YOU. I ate the slip of paper before my teacher could see it. Michael and I ended up going through the rest of school together without mentioning the fight again. Michael went to Texas Tech on a baseball scholarship and now coaches for a high-school team in Richardson, a big suburb of Dallas. Tiny barely finished high school, did a stint in the army, and now worked with his daddy, a long-haul trucker. So that’s why I don’t care much for Tiny Parmalee. We’d had no further run-ins and I’d only seen him once since I returned to Mirabeau. We’d passed each other on Mayne Street as I went into a store and he was coming out. He’d given me the briefest of stares, which I ignored. Now he was favoring Nina Hernandez with long, goofy looks. She didn’t look too delighted with his attentions; in fact she seemed downright apprehensive. “Tiny. Ms. Hernandez.” I nodded as I unlocked the library doors. Nina smiled thinly and moved inside. Tiny lumbered near me and regarded my arm, still in its sling. “Heard you nearly got blowed up,” he said, sneering. There wasn’t direct malice in his tone, just a sort of general bullying that lay underneath like filth under a rug. “What a damn shame that’d be.” “Thanks for your concern,” I answered, not wanting to waste much air on a response to him. Miss Twyla prevented any further pleasantries by coming up to us both, thanking me again for the use of the library. The last folks to occupy the community room on the library’s top floor was a Lamaze class, so there were no chairs set up. Apelike, Tiny just popped the metal chairs open and set them wherever he happened to be. I used my good arm to help Nina drag the chairs into the proper positions. “I think your new assistant likes you,” I murmured to Nina. She stiffened as if I’d stepped on her toe. “Mr. Poteet, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot this afternoon. It’s just that I feel strongly about stopping Intraglobal. And you should be as concerned about saving the river as Mr. Parmalee is.” “Oh, I am. I’m just not so certain that our Tiny friend is motivated by ecological desires.” I could be friends with her if she could take a little teasing. “Tiny’s a fine man,” she muttered, watching her new charge as he scratched his forehead while blankly surveying a map of the world that hung on the wall. “Yes, he is. And don’t worry about all his eccentricities. He’s a victim of society.” I meant it nicely, but Nina misinterpreted. She snorted at me, pushed her glasses back up on her forehead, and went to confer with Miss Twyla. So much for teasing. By eight everyone had arrived.

  Aside from Miss Twyla, Nina, Tiny, and myself, there was a scattering of forty or so people who didn’t own land by the river but had gotten riled up by Miss Twyla. Also present was our esteemed Mayor (and my boss), Parker Loudermilk and his wife, Dee. I remembered that Dee owned some of the land that Lorna and Greg Callahan wanted to buy.

  Parker, I’ve no doubt, was looking for whatever favorable impressions he could get out of the situation. Parker’s not bad as bosses go-as long as you watch your back. I saw with some amusement that my old friend Eula Mae Quiff had embraced this latest cause. If there’s action anywhere in Mirabeau, Eula Mae’s usually hovering nearby drinking it all in. She’s a best-selling romance novelist and my favorite of the town eccentrics. (And it’s a wide and varied choice.) Tonight she wiggled beringed fingers at me while she chattered with Miss Twyla and Nina. I figured the outlandish dashiki she sported was to show her concern for the environment, other cultures, and general world harmony. I took Eula Mae aside when some other folks began talking to Nina and Miss Twyla. “What are you doing here? You don’t even own land on the river.” “Well, pardon me, Squire Poteet,” she sniffed, running a hand through her graying curls. “I didn’t know you had to have a title to the sacred acres to care about saving the Colorado.” “I’m not convinced the river’s in danger, Eula Mae.” “Well, our way of life is. I don’t want a bunch of snotty Houstonians down here on weekends, jamming up our streets and spoiling my view of the river.” She patted my good arm. “Do
you need the money you might get from the land sale, sugar? You just let me know. I’ll be glad to loan you some cash. Is your hospital bill making you fret?” “That’s not the point, Eula Mae. We don’t know much about what tactics this Nina Hernandez is going to use to stop this development. I think she gets ornery if she doesn’t get her way. I just want for there to be reasoned discussion, not a bunch of mudslinging and hysteria.” “Honey pie, you’re talking about money and people and land. Reasoned discussion isn’t part of that equation. Look at all the problems they’ve had over in Austin with greedy developers from out of state.”

  “Look, I know one of those so-called greedy developers-” “That big-boned Yankee gal with the Polish name?” Nothing got by Eula Mae, and I didn’t miss the amused glint in her eye. Teasing me is probably Eula Mae’s favorite pastime, aside from ogling men and deciphering her royalty statements. “Yes, that would be her, Eula Mae.” I glanced around to see if Candace had arrived yet-but then, I didn’t know if she even knew about the meeting. “Listen, I know Lorna, and I don’t think she’d be involved with anything unsavory-” “Jordy, that girl drips unsavory like week-old barbecue,” Eula Mae said. “Itasca told me about her little entrance at the library. And I can only imagine the two of you together. Actually, it’s nearly romantic. Poor lonely Southern lad, cast adrift in the big, heartless city. I’ll guess you met her during one of those dreadful winters and needed a bedwarmer. I bet that chest of hers could heat all of Massachusetts.” Yes, Eula Mae actually talks like her books. It can be real amusing as long as she’s not talking about you. “And how does Candace like your little visitor?” “Fine, just fine.” I definitely didn’t want to be discussing my love life with Eula Mae. If I wasn’t careful, I’d read it again in the fat pages of one of her potboilers. She patted my arm again. “I gotta go say hi to the Terwilliger sisters, sugar doll. I’ll catch you later.” She toddled off in the direction of some of the elderly ladies that hovered near Miss Twyla, undoubtedly members of our local widows’ and spinsters’ Mafia. If they were on Miss Twyla’s side, I nearly felt sorry for Intraglobal. My former uncle Bidwell Poteet (blessedly former since I found out that Bob Don’s my dad meant that Bid isn’t my biological uncle) also appeared, scowled at the audience, and broke into an unexpected grin when he saw me. To my horror, he made a beeline for me. It was sort of like being hounded by a small, smelly Chihuahua. Uncle Bid is hairless (as far as we can tell, and I’m not about to investigate past his pate) and he always reeks of stale cigarillos. “Well, boy, I see you nearly got yours.” He poked at my slinged arm. ‘Try to hide your disappointment,” I answered dryly.