Only Good Yankee jp-2

by Jeff Abbott

  The Loudermilks troubled me, too; an air of unhappiness hung about that family, as though they’d recently suffered a loss. Dee’s being upset, Parker’s weird watching of the fire, Jenny’s crying-perhaps I was conjuring up my own theories about the Loudermilks on flimsy suspicion, but my intuition registered that something wasn’t right in the mayoral mansion. I gave up worrying about all these folks and finally drifted off to sleep. I’ve never been a light sleeper, so I don’t know how long Lorna had been lying next to me in the dark hollow of my bed. Her fingers awakened me, rubbing slowly in an arc from my waist up to the basin between my shoulder blades. A kiss touched the tender joint where neck meets back. I jerked awake, aware of her presence and my own involuntary response. I usually sleep in the buff, so I yanked the sheets up to protect my modesty. My arm throbbed when I leaned against it. “Lorna, what the hell-” “Jordy. Can I call you that, since everyone else does?” she said, her face very near to mine.

  “I can’t sleep. I’m scared and I’m lonely. I need to feel you near me.

  I resented the position she’d put me in-or wanted to put me in. “It’s not a good idea, Lorna. Really.” “No one has to know. Candace is okay, I don’t want to hurt her. But I have needs, too. I can’t be alone right now. You know how good we are together.” She was pulling at her own robe with one hand and pulling me toward her with the other. I pushed back. “No! It’s not true that no one would know. I would know.

  I’m sorry things haven’t worked out between us. But I’m not risking what I have with Candace just because you want a roll in the hay. Now go back to sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.” In the darkness I couldn’t see her face clearly, but her silence spoke for her. “Good night, Jordan. I hope you never need anyone the way I needed you right now.” Her voice was like ice on my skin. When she left the room, I rolled over-somewhat painfully. Until sleep finally claimed me again, I tried not to think of all those wonderful nights in Boston.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When it’s a pleasant morning, mama likes to sweep the back porch. The exercise is good for her, the doctors say, and I think she might get a vague comfort out of doing a job well. Alzheimer’s patients use simple, repetitive actions as their own security blanket, as though cleaning a porch for six hours replaces having a life full of fear and love and joy and sorrow. The next morning I found Lorna sitting on the back porch with an unusually dapper Mama, talking to her while Mama clenched her favorite broom. As I poured myself a cup of coffee I could hear Lorna’s voice through the screen door. “Of course Jordan isn’t the easiest person to love. I guess you know that.

  He likes his own way sometimes, and he can get a little sharp-tongued.

  My mother never could stand him; she thought he was a real hick, despite his urbanity when he lived up north. I hope you’re not offended by that, Mrs. Poteet.” The gentle swishing of the broom against wood was the only answer. Mama had been unusually quiet since Lorna’s arrival. I paused by the door, not wanting to listen-but not being able to help myself. This sounded like the Lorna of old, the one who lived behind the bravado, and the one I’d been missing. “I think I understand now how Jordan felt when he lived up north. Missing home doesn’t sound so silly anymore. Of course he had you and Arlene and Mark to come home to. I’ve got a sick fern and a pile of bills.” I coughed loudly in the kitchen and slammed a cupboard door, letting her know I was around. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear much about Lorna’s lonely life up north. Maybe it was lonely now only because Greg was dead. She met my eyes as I came out onto the porch with the coffee, then glanced up toward heaven. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” was all Lorna ventured by means of conversation. I had to agree with her. The Saturday-morning sky was a faultless blue, shimmering toward white in the early-morning warmth. It was going to be another hot summer day, without a hint of rain. Or at least for the next five minutes. They say if you don’t like the weather in Texas, wait five minutes and it’ll change. Summer afternoons often brought quick, drenching showers when moist air pushed in from the Gulf. Afterward, it was like being in a sauna, your clothes adhering to your skin in the heavy humidity.

  It wasn’t raining now, though, and I blinked up at the fine blue sky.

  It offered a conversational refuge. “Yes, it’s real pretty.” I stared down into my coffee cup. I wasn’t going to ask her how she’d slept.

  “I’m going to have to go into the library. Can you entertain yourself for a while?” “I’m quite good at that.” Lorna tucked her feet under her bottom. She glanced over at Mama. “Maybe I’ll just stay here and keep your mother company.” She blinked at me. “I’m sorry I never got to meet her before she got sick.” “Me, too. I think y’all would have liked each other.” I didn’t know what else to say; I didn’t believe that myself. Mama would have thought Lorna far too brassy, I feared. I finished my coffee. “I got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” “Here you are.” Sister strode out onto the deck, nodding a good morning at Lorna. “Are you ready to go over to the cemetery? C’mon, Mama, let’s go. Mark’s in the car.” I felt like I’d walked onto a stage and I didn’t know my next line. “Cemetery? Freddy’s funeral surely isn’t today, is it?” Sister’s green eyes steeled. “Jordan Michael Poteet, you have forgotten that today is the anniversary of Daddy’s death. Six years ago. I thought we’d go over this morning before work and put flowers on his grave.” She glanced at Lorna. “I guess you’ve had too much on your mind.” “Oh, God, Sister, I’m sorry. I totally forgot.

  Yes, let’s go and do that now.” My face felt hot with shame and embarrassment. Daddy’s death had just about killed me; he’d been my best friend, my pal, my mentor, until the cancer took him in a slow, agonizing embrace. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten, especially in light of learning that Bob Don was my biological father. “I’ve got an order waiting for us at Neuberg’s Florist,” Sister said, ushering Mama inside and pausing on the doorway. “Lorna, I’m sure you understand that the family needs some privacy right now. Franklin said he could stay on guard until eleven, then they’ll have someone replace him.”

  “Of course, Arlene. You guys go on to the cemetery. I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile and followed us inside. The Mirabeau cemetery, lying far from the river on the east side of town, is beautifully maintained-an expanse of clipped grass, marked by marble monuments to lives once lived. A gravel road cuts a circle through the middle; beyond it lie the oldest graves, those with solely German names, denoting the earliest Bavarian colonists who settled the river land.

  The dead here start in the 1830s, and in a back corner lie markers with only first names, those of the few slaves that lived in this section of Bonaparte County and only found equality in their cold coffins. I parked my Chevy Blazer near the Poteet section; there were at least twenty tombstones with that surname. My mother’s people, the Schneiders, outnumber the Poteets considerably and there are even some of them in the old German section. I have not ever looked to see how well represented Bob Don’s people are. “My, it’s going to be hot today.” Sister fanned herself with a brochure from the florist as I struggled to pull the wreath out of the back. She’d abandoned her earlier frostiness to me, but I sensed I wasn’t entirely out of the doghouse. Mark stood, holding Mama’s hand. Mama seemed to know she was around old friends and happily gossiped with the breeze. We walked over to Daddy’s grave, looking lonely in its plot of Poteet land. His own parents were a bit farther away, and the plots next to him-the ones reserved for Mama, me, Sister, and Mark-were, of course, empty. I wondered if he missed us as much as I missed him. Sister and I set up the wreath, steadying it against the granite marker. Sister inspected the grave, making sure no fire ants had desecrated our father’s rest.

  I stepped back to admire our handiwork. Sister frowned at me, as though I’d missed a cue. “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?” she demanded. “What? You want me to make a speech?” I pointed at the wreath. “Doesn’t that say enough?” She stared at the flowers, and her tears came quickly. She cried
silently for several minutes, Mark leaning against her in comfort, Mama watching a pair of bees dance above her husband’s stone. I crossed my arms, stared down at my shoes, and kept my own thoughts. Finally Sister wiped her face, sniffled, and said: “Mark. Take your grandmother to the car. I need to talk to Uncle Jordy a minute.” “Aw, Mom, it’s hot in the car-” “Here. Turn on the air conditioner.” I tossed the keys at Mark and he went, knowing she would brook no argument. Mama laughed as they stumbled among the graves, winding their way back to the road. “Look, Sister, I’m sorry I forgot-” “You just tell me, Jordy. I need to know. Are you forgetting about him? Does he not matter to you anymore, now that you’ve got a new father?” I blinked. “Of course he matters to me. How could you ask that? I could never forget Daddy!” “You did today. I realize that all this mess with Lorna has you distracted, but you don’t ever talk about Daddy anymore. We used to laugh about his old Aggie jokes, the way he could impersonate Cousin Pearl, how he taught us to play baseball when we were kids. You don’t ever mention that now.” I shook my head. “This is crazy.” “Is it? You’ve got a new father, one that’s just chomping at the bit to be the World’s Greatest Dad to you. I don’t have that luxury. I’ve buried my daddy. I don’t have a replacement waiting in the wings.” “No one-not even Bob Don-could replace Daddy, Sister. Bob Don may want to be a father to me, but hell, I’m still not used to the idea of him being my father. If you think this has been hard on you, you don’t have a clue what it’s been like for me.” I knelt by Daddy’s wreath and fingered the ribbon of blue-his favorite color-that hung from the circle of flowers. “And my having a relationship with Bob Don- if I choose to have one-doesn’t mean I’ve betrayed Daddy.” “I’m not so sure I believe that, Jordy.” I stood. “Have you forgotten that Mama, Mark, and I would probably be dead if it wasn’t for Bob Don?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten. Have you forgotten that your precious Bob Don slept with our mother when she was married to Daddy?” “Hardly.” I patted my chest. “You wouldn’t have me to torture if he hadn’t.” “And that’s the man you have as a father now.” She wiped her tears and pointed down at the grave we stood arguing over. “I’m angry. I’m angry the man who could have broken up our parents’ marriage wants to be in our lives. And don’t say it’s just your life. It’s mine, too. You’re my brother and I love you. But I’m furious and I’ve got every right to be.” I shrugged. “I don’t know what to say to you. I don’t know what I even want from Bob Don. I’m certainly not prepared to dismiss him from my life. You can’t ask me to do that.” “No. I don’t expect that.” I heard the distant whine of a car and saw a steel-gray Cadillac Seville churning dust along the cemetery road. “God, does he have radar?”

  Sister asked. We watched Bob Don’s Caddy park behind my Blazer. He got out of the car, smoothing his crown of hair into place, carrying a large bouquet of flowers. “My God, he remembered and you didn’t.”

  Sister walked in Bob Don’s direction as he tentatively approached Daddy’s grave. “Hi, Bob Don. I’m sure you and your son would like some time together.” He heard the hardness in her voice. “I’m sorry, Arlene. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “Give Jordy a ride to the library, would you? I have to take Mama home.” She didn’t wait for a reply. I remained silent as he laid the flowers on Daddy’s grave, the only noise the retreating engine of my car as my sister gunned it down the cemetery path. “Thanks for coming,” I said, at a loss for original conversation. “I’m a little surprised you’re here.” “I’d planned to stop by today, but I called and Lorna said y’all were out here. I hoped you wouldn’t mind me coming out while you were here.” “I don’t mind. I can’t speak for my sister.” He tucked his hand into the back of his well-worn khakis. “She still ain’t used to me. That’s okay.

  It’ll take some time.” “Yeah, but she has to be willing to give you that time, Bob Don. She’s not exactly comfortable with what you represent in our family’s past.” “Boy, you are the biggest brooder I ever saw.” Bob Don smiled up at me, shielding his eyes from the morning glare. “I’ve always believed that a man should go on with what life dealt him and try not to fret about it so much.” The thought rose in my mind, unbidden: Maybe that’s why you could wait until my mother was crazy and my daddy was dead to tell me the truth. It wasn’t fair; he’d only been holding up his end of a damnably hard bargain. “I don’t mean to be a brooder. I suppose I have more than my share to fret over.” “Arlene messing with your head?” “No. Lorna and Candace.” I kicked at the grass. “I got women troubles, Bob Don. I got one in my house that needs me and one that’s pretty upset about the situation.”

  “You love that Lorna?” Bob Don has never been one for beating around bushes. “I did once, I think. I’m not sure. I don’t know what love is.” “Now that, boy, is unadulterated bullshit.” Bob Don put his hands on his ample hips and shook his head at me. “Excuse me?” “Nobody who was raised with as much love as you could say they don’t know what love is. Your mama loves you.” He pointed down at Lloyd Poteet’s grave. “And you can’t tell me that man didn’t love you. God, he loved you. And your sister and your nephew love you, and I do believe Miss Candace Tully loves you. You’ve known more love in your life than most, Jordy. So don’t try telling me that you can’t figure out what to do about them gals ‘cause you don’t know what love is. You’re just goddamned lazy.” He imitated a drawly rasp of a whine on the last few words that I was sure represented my voice. I started to parry with a sharp reply, but ended up staring down at Daddy’s grave. Bob Don’d scored a hit against me and I knew it. I ran a finger along the clayred granite top of Daddy’s marker, the stone beginning to heat in the rising temperature. “Do I love Lorna? I’m sure I did once.” “Once ain’t now.” “No, it’s not. A lot’s changed. I’m not sure what I want.

  If I was back with her-” “You could go on back to big ol’ Boston town and not fret no more about having a new daddy and a sick mama.” Bob Don, awkwardly, put a beefy hand on my shoulder. And as I looked into his face I saw that folks had been wrong; I wasn’t the spitting image of my mother. There was a lot of his face in mine-the wide eyes, the gentle taper of the nose, the high cheekbones, and the ruddy skin.

  Standing over my daddy’s grave, I nearly shuddered at the shock of the realization. “I’m not interested in ducking my obligations, Bob Don.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you were. God knows I’m not one to accuse some soul of avoiding responsibility. But I think I know what that Yankee gal means to you. Your old life back, with none of these complications. You may love Candace and your mama, but they make life a little harder to live.” “Can you take me to the library? I’m running late now and if I lose my job, my life will be complicated for sure.”

  “Glad to, son.” He glanced down at the double spray of flowers on Daddy’s grave. “See, Lloyd? I’m doing my best to take care of him now.

  Just like I promised.” I spent the rest of that Saturday morning doing library business: drafting a grant application for more government money (the competition among rural libraries can be intense), ordering some new children’s books (that’s our fastest-growing section-we’re a fertile bunch in Mirabeau), and getting advice on how to heal my arm from our elderly patrons, many of whom still believe that a shot of whiskey mixed in a dollop of honey will cure pert near anything. I’d called Junebug earlier in the morning and told him what Lorna had told me about Greg’s business and his silent partner, Doreen Miller. He hadn’t called back with any news. Eula Mae and Nina Hernandez stopped by to festoon the library bulletin board with colorful flyers that proclaimed JOIN SAVE OUR RIVER ECOLOGY (S.O.R.E.)! CONTRIBUTE AND PROTECT MIRABEAU’S FUTURE. “I hope,” I observed acidly while watching Eula Mae indiscriminately shoot the cork with a staple gun, “that those flyers are printed with nontoxic inks on recycled paper.” “Of course they are!” Nina retorted. She seemed to have recovered from her interrogation after Greg’s murder and to be possessed of a new zeal to defeat the land-acquisition
plans. I winced as they stapled right over my poster for the summer reading program. “I don’t think there’s much chance of Intraglobal continuing with their plans for Mirabeau. Greg Callahan has one silent partner that no one can find yet, and she’ll probably want to pull out.” “We aren’t taking that chance.” Eula Mae smirked. “If it’s not Intraglobal, it’ll be some other scum-sucking outfit of post-Eighties yuppies looking for one last frontier to ruin.