by Jeff Abbott
I recognized several of Clevey’s cousins from La Grange. Our greetings were little more than nods from me to them, and thanks from them to me for coming. Little Ed Dickensheets sat on a porch swing, his eyes red from crying. Men don’t generally cry in front of one another here, and I thought Ed had decently gotten his tern’s shed in private. I went over and put my arm around his shoulder and he leaned into my denim jacket, embracing me hard for a moment, weeping silently. I shook my head; Clevey’d nearly teased him to an early grave, and here was Ed, solitarily shedding tears.
“Sorry,” Ed said, pulling away and blinking up at me. Ed’s five-five, so he’s always looking up at folks. I wondered how he kept from getting crushed by a big old gal like Wanda when they were in the sack. Oddest things you think about in the midst of death. “I’m gonna make you drop that cobbler.”
“Don’t you worry, Ed. How you holding up?”
“Fine. Wanda’s in there with Mrs. Shivers.” He nodded toward the weathered screen door, where I could hear the gentle murmur of women’s voices. I suppose Ed thought that I’d be as interested in Wanda’s current coordinates as he was.
“Well, I better get this cobbler in,” I said, heading for the door.
“Davis said he was coming. Junebug’s already been by—he had to get back to the station,” Ed said as I went in; I smiled to let him know I’d heard. I suddenly wanted to see all my friends very badly.
The Shivers house was old, pre-World War I, built of white-painted boards and native stone. The comforting smell of cinnamon pervaded the rooms, and in spite of myself I nearly smiled; I could remember long afternoons when school was out, watching TV here with Clevey, playing touch football on the cool green yard, staying up late when we were older and blustering about the women we’d have someday.
I found Clevey’s mother, Truda Shivers, sitting in the living room, surrounded by many women. She was always a polite, gracious lady and she was not going to be undone by death—even that of her son. I marveled at her composure, especially since she’d already buried her husband and her one other child, who’d died in infancy when Clevey and I were four. Clevey’d gotten his fiery-red hair and bulk from his mama, but gray heavily streaked her auburn perm. She rose to hug me with her thick arms.
“Oh, Jordan, sugar, I’m so glad you’re here. Seeing everyone who loved Clevey is making this easier for me to bear. And what a lovely cobbler.” Her manners weren’t going to be dented by tragedy.
“Miz Shivers. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” I whispered into her frizz of hair. I hugged her tight. She’d always been really considerate to me and I remembered her many kindnesses since Mama had gotten ill. She didn’t deserve this grief, and for the first time I felt a hot anger overcome my shock. I didn’t want this kindhearted woman to feel the horrible pain of losing her child.
She pulled back and touched my cheek. “He was always so fond of you. You made him laugh, you know.”
“He made us all laugh, Miz Shivers.” God, I didn’t know what to say. I’d spent most of my childhood around Clevey, but a wall had gone up between us when I’d gone off to Rice and he’d stayed in Mirabeau, working at the paper. A college degree not only opens doors; it closes them. But that had been Clevey’s choice, not mine. I didn’t spend the time with him I had as a child, but as grown men, we were too busy to sit, cuss, and smoke in tree houses.
Truda Shivers leaned against me and whispered, “Walk with me for a moment, Jordan.” She murmured a pardon to the other ladies; one woman took the cobbler pan from my hands, and I put my arm around Truda’s shoulders. She guided me to a wall of photographs, not terribly unlike the one my mother had created in our house: a gallery of her family’s lives. Various versions of Clevey smiled at me from the wall.
She pointed at a photo of several of us boys from our senior year in high school. The good old gang, arms looped over each others’ shoulders, posing in the back of Clevey’s battered pickup. I sat between Trey and Clevey, smiling broadly with my hometown brotherhood, someone else’s Stetson perched on my head. Trey had one hand affectionately on the top of the hat; Clevey held a beer in one hand and crossed his eyes for the camera. Davis, Junebug, and Ed stood behind us, brandishing beers and laughing. I remembered the picture; it was at a graduation party Davis hosted, when the drinking age was eighteen and we were all legal. The hat on my head was Trey’s and I recalled he’d joked I never cared to wear a cowboy hat and damned if we wouldn’t get a picture of me in one. He’d pulled off his hat and put it on me. We all looked full of joy, if not promise. My breath felt heavy in my lungs and I looked away.
“Clevey”—she sighed—“sure did love high school. I think it was the high point of his life.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t know what to say. Holding Mirabeau High as the pinnacle of one’s time on earth saddened me.
Truda saw my thought in my face. “It was, Jordan, it was. But that’s okay. My Clevey was never what you’d call a complicated boy.” She pointed at another photo: Clevey and I uncomfortable in suits, with the bishop standing imperially behind us, our hair combed smooth, his holy hands on our shoulders, guiding our little souls among the straight and narrow. A picture from our confirmation Eucharist. I remembered the bishop smelled of peppermint and his palms were not callused like my daddy’s. Truda’s hand tightened on mine.
“Those two pictures are the biggest helps to me right now,” she said, finally crying. “Knowing that he had true friends that loved him and that he’s gone home to God.” She took a ragged breath and her broad shoulders heaved.
“Why? Why would someone kill my boy?” She sobbed hard into my jacket, and I stood there, awkwardly, wishing to God I could just give her an answer that would help heal her heart. But there wasn’t one. Instead I just hugged her for a long while, feeling the surge of her grieving breaths subside as she wept herself out.
After several minutes, one of the other ladies—I thought she was Mrs. Shivers’s sister from La Grange—gently pried her off my shoulder and guided her into the kitchen. I was left in front of all those images of Clevey, with a few of his other relatives sitting and not looking at me. Wanda Dickensheets, divested of her Elvis accoutrements, sat whispering with her mother, Ivalou Purcell. They were both big-boned ladies, with egos and personalities to match. Wanda’s a few years older than Ed and it’s starting to show, with widening thick gray streaks in her hair. Ivalou has a pennanent pinch on her face, like she’s got gas and she’s riding in a crowded elevator. They quit whispering and favored me with what I considered wholly inappropriate toothy grins that portended conversation. I quickly excused myself and retreated back to the porch.
Davis had arrived, with Bradley in tow. Ed resumed his crying as I came back out on the porch and Davis gave him an awkward hug. Cayla Foradory, Davis’s wife, nodded curtly at me and went inside, balancing a casserole dish. She’s a quiet, rather unfriendly woman with fine blonde hair and a perpetual frown. What Davis sees in her I’ve never known.
“Hey, Jordy!” Bradley called, and waved, running toward the house in a ragged gait. “Is Mark here?”
“Bradley!” Davis snapped. “Lower your voice, please, sir. Remember what I said about minding your manners.” Bradley jerked like he was on a leash that’d just been yanked.
“Minding my manners,” Bradley repeated in a far softer tone. I went over to Bradley and gave him a hug. He hugged back. “Sorry, buddy, Mark stayed at home. But I bet he’d be glad to see you if you want to come by tomorrow.” Bradley and Mark, only two weeks apart in birth, had grown up together. Mark, despite his sauciness toward his mother and me, had always been gentle with Bradley. Maybe he found Bradley impossible to stay mad at for long.
Davis was accompanied by his cousin, who I was delighted to see. Eula Mae Quiff was not usually the first person you’d invite to a wake, but she was sure to liven it up. Eula Mae was our local celebrity, a prolific and successful romance writer, although she’d been agonizing over her latest torrid magnum opus. I hope
d she wouldn’t start bitching about writer’s block; this wasn’t the place. Of course, Eula Mae considered the world her stage and Clevey’s death might just be a minor scene.
Eula Mae made her rounds, embracing each of us. She was about twelve years older than we were and viewed us like errant little siblings. She saved my hug for last; considering how much free advice she dispenses my way, I suppose she considers me a special case.
“Jordy. What a day you’ve had. First that no-good Trey Slocum back in town, and now poor Clevey dead.” She patted her mountain of reddish curls with a ring-heavy hand. Eula Mae should not be allowed near open bodies of water while wearing that much jewelry.
“How’d you hear about Trey being back?” I asked.
“That dreadful Gretchen creature called me. As though she and I were ever friends, especially after the hateful way she’s treated you. Anyhow”—she sniffed—“she said something about you needing your friends now, and she thought I’d like to know about what happened at the library with Trey.”
Gretchen? Concerned about me? The world was getting weirder by the hour.
“How are Mark and Arlene holding up? Have they seen him?” Eula Mae asked, taking a casserole dish from Davis, who was now having to comfort a once-again weepy Ed.
“No, they haven’t, and I told him to mind his distance.”
“Well, sweetie, I’m sure it’ll all work out. I really must get inside and see how poor Truda is. How’s she holding up?”
“As well as can be expected, considering her son’s been murdered. Actually, I think Truda is an amazingly strong—”
“Excuse me.” A distinguished-looking gentleman, tall and lanky with silvering brown hair, eased past the front door and came out onto the porch. I moved aside to let him pass and found myself slamming into Eula Mae’s casserole dish. Her jaw was about to dent the Saran Wrap cover of her broccoli-cheese-rice medley. I watched her watch the gentleman walk to an unoccupied corner of the porch, produce a pipe from the innards of his brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket, and fill it with tobacco.
“What marvelous hands,” Eula Mae breathed. “I wonder who that man is. I don’t believe I’ve seen him about.”
I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have to go get that food to Miz Shivers?”
Eula Mae recovered herself, although I found myself wondering if her plot logjam would be suddenly splintered by the appearance of a dashing new character in his early fifties. “Of course. C’mon, Davis, let’s go see Truda.” She went inside.
Ed watched them go, blinking red-rimmed eyes. He took a long breath, as if he’d been swimming a distance, and walked over to me. He glanced around the porch, making sure we weren’t overheard. “Hey, Jordy, we need to talk. But not in this crowd. You gonna stay awhile?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Ed shook his head. “Damn sorry business this is.” He went inside.
I made my way over to the pipe smoker, studying him as I approached. He looked educated, wealthy, and not a lick like any of the Shiverses, who kept a nice consistent gene pool that led to auburn hair, smiling ruddiness, and heft. He wasn’t watching me; his blue eyes were locked on my group of old friends. He turned, slightly startled, as I offered my hand.
“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jordan Poteet, an old friend of Clevey’s.”
“Hello.” His voice was full-bodied and soothing. “I’m Steven Teague.”
I blinked. I didn’t know any Teagues in Mirabeau. “Are you visiting from out of town?” Never could say I wasn’t nosy. Perhaps he was a distant relative who lived in Austin or Houston.
He puffed on his briar. “No, I’m new to Mirabeau.”
“Were you a friend of Clevey’s?”
“Not exactly.” He didn’t seem inclined to talk. I didn’t press the issue and left him alone with his pipe.
I walked down the rest of the porch and one of Clevey’s numerous cousins stopped me. “Hey, you get anything out of that fellow?”
“No, he didn’t say a word aside from his name and that he’s new to town.”
“Well, according to Aunt Truda, he was Clevey’s psychotherapist.”
Psychotherapist? Why on earth was Clevey seeking counseling? “Oh, I see,” I managed to say aloud.
I excused myself and approached Steven Teague again. “Pardon me. I understand you were Clevey’s counselor?”
He smiled thinly. “Wormed it out of the family, did you, Mr. Poteet?”
“No, his cousin just told me. I didn’t realize that Clevey was in therapy.”
He didn’t want to discuss Clevey’s problems; his face shut like a slammed door. “I felt I should come pay my respects. I know that Clevey was very close to his mother.” He produced a card: steven teague, lmsw-acp, therapy and counseling services with a Mirabeau address.
Steven Teague saw me trying to decipher the code. “Don’t worry, I’m a licensed professional. I’ve got a master’s in social work, and I’m an advanced clinical practitioner.”
“Oh, yes, well, I see,” I fumbled. Still—Clevey in therapy? He’d seemed moody at times, but he didn’t carry himself as though he were burdened with problems.
“If, in the days to come, you find yourself troubled by this horrible incident, Jordan, and you need someone to talk to, I’m available.”
“Thanks,” I made myself say. Hearse chaser, I thought. But perhaps I was being uncharitable. I didn’t get much of a chance to ponder Steven Teague’s clinical ethics, Eula Mae materialized next to me, smiling up at Steven. Ed stood beside her.
“Poor Truda is refreshing herself in the ladies’ room,” she murmured in a whispery aside to me. “I’ll just have to pay my respects later. And you are?”
I introduced Steven to Eula Mae. I decided to leave him to her tender mercies—until I saw a truck pull up and park next to Eula Mae’s purple BMW.
I recognized Hart Quadlander as soon as he got out, and I shouldn’t have been surprised that Trey was with him. Hart owned a big horse farm on the eastern outskirts of Mirabeau, and Trey’s father had worked for him for years. The Quadlanders went back to some of the original German settlers in Bonaparte County and they’d managed their money well. If there was still a gentleman farmer left in Central Texas, Hart was it. He was a fiftyish, tall, powerfully built man with a deceptively quiet voice and intense gray eyes.
I thought Hart must’ve had the patience of five saints to put up with Trey and his daddy; they were a pair that was always heading for some kind of trouble or aggravation. Louis Slocum, Trey’s father, drank himself to death five years ago, still working on the Quadlander place; Trey had not returned for the funeral.
I watched as Hart eased Trey’s wheelchair out of the truck and then carried Trey and settled him in the chair. Trey steadied the chair on the gravel driveway and began to roll forward.
Of course, his arrival cleared the porch. Why not? An old, long-gone friend returned to the fold during the death of another. I watched, rooted to the spot, while Ed called Davis outside. They jogged over to Trey to say hello, wished him well, called him an old fart and scoundrel, and commiserated over Clevey. There’d been no loss of camaraderie there. Of course, Trey hadn’t nearly destroyed their families. I felt the gentle pressure of Eula Mae’s fingers on my arm.
“You sure are tense,” she said. “Don’t let Trey get to you.”
I shook off her arm. “I won’t, trust me. But look at them, acting like his return is the Second Coming.” Despite the sadness of the occasion, there was the sound of muted laughter from the group; once again, Trey was teasing Ed. Suddenly the porch seemed very lonely.
“They’re his friends. You were once, too,” Eula Mae said. I turned to her, noting that Steven Teague took interest in our conversation. His eyes, an odd indigo, watched me intently.
“Once. That’s the key word. We’re not friends anymore,” I said.
“Don’t make a scene, Jordy. Please.” Eula Mae pressed my hand.
“I won’t. I wouldn’t. I’
m too upset about Clevey’s murder to let Trey get to me.”
“The gentleman in the wheelchair—is he Trey Slocum?” Steven asked.
“Yes. Do you know Trey?” I asked. Great, another partisan for the Slocum homecoming.
“The famous Trey,” I barely heard Steven Teague whisper to himself under his breath. Clevey had talked about Trey in his therapy? Why?
Steven Teague forced a smile to his patrician face; he’d read my face. “Oh, yes, generally old friends are mentioned during therapy. Clevey admired you in particular, Jordan. He said he wished he could be more like you.”
That stung. I’d not spent enough time with Clevey, and now I had no time with him at all. But he had hardly reached out to me. I didn’t answer Steven Teague.
The reunion moved up onto the porch, with Davis and Hart carrying Trey’s wheelchair up the steps. Trey saw me and he licked his lips, quickly looking up and smiling at Davis. Hart Quadlander spotted me and nimbly moved to forestall trouble.
Hart’s voice rumbled deeply, as though he’d caught gravel in it on the ride over. “Jordy. Eula Mae. Evenin’. How are y’all?”
Even though I am a native Texan, I have never understood the constant need here to ask people how they are, especially in the midst of sorrow. “I’m fine, Hart. One of my childhood friends was murdered today. Trey’s come home. How do you think I feel?”
“I’m awful sorry about Clevey, Jordy.” Hart tactfully ignored my sarcasm. “I didn’t know him very well, but I know y’all were friends from way back. Please, my sympathies.” He offered his hand.
Of course I softened. I was mad at Trey and I felt shock over Clevey and I’d taken it out on him. I shook Hart’s hand. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I just am not up to—”
