Promises of Home

by Jeff Abbott

  I put my face in my hands. The dream had been eerie in its exactness, more like a half-waking memory than some Jungian exercise in symbolism. Why on earth would I remember that incident now? It had teen the first real time I’d gone horseback riding, the first of many happy hours riding with Trey. It’d also been the first time Trey’d spoken openly of his father’s drinking. The drinking that had finally put Louis Slocum in his grave five years ago, nearly a year to the day that Trey walked out of all of our lives.

  I thought over the dream again, smiling faintly at the memory of Fafnir’s bite and Trey’s gentle coaxing of the horse. What had happened to that boy? Why had he turned into such an irredeemable loser?

  I glanced at the clock—nearly three a.m. I thought of creeping down the hall, waking Candace, telling her about my dream, but I didn’t think she’d understand. Besides, what was there to say?

  Finally I crawled back into my bed, pulling the sheets around me. They made a thin cocoon against the night.

  I slept late, and when I came down, I found Candace and Clo sitting and drinking coffee at the kitchen table. Mama sat in the living room, watching the morning news chatter with the sound turned low, the way she liked it.

  I stood for a moment, watching her and feeling a ridiculous resentment. Here was our family: grieving, nearly paralyzed by the past two days, and she sailed through the rooms of our house with nary a thought for the rest of us, for our bereavement. Life went on for her in its never-ending cycle of forgetfulness, and for one brief moment I resented the hell out of her. Then I envied her. Then shame welled up in me and I went over and kissed her cheek. She smiled faintly at me, like a queen to a footman for a simple service performed well, and her gaze went back to the television.

  “Good morning, Clo. Hi, sugar.” I leaned down and pecked Candace on the lips. “Sorry if I have morning breath.”

  “You do, but that’s okay. Clo’s coffee is very strong and should wash away even Jordan Poteet industrial-strength fumes.” I permitted myself a smile as she teased me. “How you doing this morning? Did you sleep okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. I wondered if that answer was starting to sound like a litany. “Are Sister and Mark still asleep?”

  “No. Arlene decided to follow your advice. She called Steven Teague this morning, and he offered to make a special appointment for Mark. They’re at his office now.”

  “That’s good.” I poured myself some coffee. Maybe today would be better than yesterday. It had to be.

  Candace pursed her lips and glanced over at Clo, who was sitting as silently as a sphinx. “Actually, I talked to Mr. Teague after Arlene called him. He suggested to me that maybe the whole family should attend counseling.”

  I froze. The last thing I wanted was to divulge my feelings about Clevey and Trey’s deaths to some sympathetic social worker with a bunch of consonants behind his name. But if it would help Mark … “I’ll consider it. It would probably be helpful for Mark and Sister.”

  “Okay,” she said softly. I could feel her watchful gaze on my back. Then she shifted the subject. “I’m not opening the cafe today. It didn’t seem appropriate. Mirabeau can survive a day without Arlene’s chicken-fried steak.”

  I began to sip coffee without further comment. Today was Sunday, and the library would be closed. My Dallas Cowboys would be playing; I could take refuge in the game. I glanced at Candace. She still favored me with that I’m-worried-about-you-and-don’t-you-pretend-you-don’t-know-it look, piercing me like a needle. If I stared unflinchingly at the screen for every second of all four quarters (including time-outs and beer commercials) it would drive her nuts and she’d leave me alone. Maybe Mark would have lost interest in playing games he’d shunned for nine years and want to watch the Cowboys with me. We’d cheer Troy, yell for Emmitt, call for Moose, and applaud Bill Bates. We’d pretend we had normal lives, for just a while.

  Unfortunately the game wasn’t on till midafternoon. Clo and Candace watched me. I began to read the Austin American-Statesman sports section with extreme concentration.

  It didn’t work.

  “Truda Shivers called early this morning,” Candace said, ignoring that I was obviously reading an article of great importance. “She wanted to know what the funeral plans were for Trey. She suggested that since Trey and Clevey had so many of the same friends, that we might consider a double funeral. At St.-George’s-on-the-River.”

  I set down my cup on the paper. I couldn’t hide. I shouldn’t hide. “What about Nola? She might have plans for his funeral.”

  “We don’t even know how long he and Nola have been together,” Candace said. “I think that Mark has more of a right to plan his father’s funeral than Nola Kinnard does.”

  The doorbell rang. I hurried to answer it. I found Hart Quadlander and Scott Kinnard together on my porch.

  Scott looked much better than the last time I’d seen him, fetally huddled on the rain-soaked porch of the house Trey died in. He wore faded jeans, sneakers, and a threadbare plaid shirt that needed mending. A ragged knapsack hung over one bony shoulder. His brown hair was neatly combed, but redness rimmed his hazel eyes. He looked tired.

  Hart stood behind him, ill at ease. He was nattily dressed in a dark jacket, jeans, and a stiff white button-down shirt, looking every inch the gentleman rancher. Hart I’d expected to see; he was a friend of Trey’s. Scott I hadn’t. Considering how his mother had been railing against Sister in the police station, I wouldn’t have thought she’d permit her son within ten feet of our house.

  “Hi, Scott. How are you doing?” I felt a sharp pang of regret. I’d promised myself I’d check on Scott after I took care of Mark. I hadn’t. Nola’s ranting voice in the police station hadn’t made me feel like I could call up her kid and see how he was. But I shouldn’t have ignored Scott because his mother was a nutcase.

  He shrugged. “I guess okay. I haven’t slept real well since Trey died.” He glanced up at Hart Quadlander. “I—I told Mom I wanted to go out and see the horse farm, but I really wanted Mr. Quadlander to bring me over here. Can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Uh, sure,” I said, opening the door. “Hart, would you like some coffee? Or pie? We’re about knee-deep in pies and casseroles. Scott, can I get you something?”

  “No.” Scott looked at the tables full of food. He blinked solemnly at me. “Y’all must have a lot of friends. Only one lady brought any food to our house, and it wasn’t very good. Tuna casserole.”

  My heart felt like a stone. Even if Nola and her son were strangers in town, Mirabeau should have reached out. We hadn’t. “Well, would you like something to eat?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

  Hart’s eyes met mine. “Scott has something to give you, Jordy.”

  “Maybe we could talk in private?” Scott asked.

  I nodded and ushered him toward the back of the house. I meant to introduce him to Clo and Candace, but he walked straight past them with such singular purpose that I just followed him.

  The air on the back porch felt cool and fresh, as though the long days of rain had scrubbed it clean. I treated myself to a deep, cleansing breath.

  “This is a nice house,” he said. “I miss having a regular house. Mom and I tend not to stay in one place long.”

  It struck me then that Scott seemed more like a shrunken adult than a growing boy. His eyes took in the details of our home with a mature detachment as opposed to youthful enthusiasm. Maybe all the zest was gone from Scott right now. I remembered how I’d seen him crying to break your heart and I’d done nothing. Would he have let me help him? I watched Scott, sensing he felt uncertain of how to begin now that we were alone.

  “I take it y’all traveled around to the rodeos.” I gestured toward a white wicker chair and he sat nervously on the edge of the cushion.

  “Yeah, sometimes. We got to see a lot of places, mostly Texas and Louisiana and Oklahoma. Sometimes Mississippi. Sometimes I go with her, sometimes not.”
/>   “Where do you stay if you’re not traveling with her?”

  “Wherever she dumps me.” His eyes didn’t hold bitterness about the statement. “Until Trey came along. He made mom take me with them.” He glanced around. “Your, uh, sister, she’s not here, is she?”

  “No, she’s not. She and my nephew are out.”

  “Well, okay. Mr. Quadlander said her car wasn’t in the driveway, so I thought maybe it’d be okay if you and I talked.” He fished in his knapsack. “I found these. Actually, Trey showed them to me a while back. I don’t have no use for them, so I figured y’all would want them back.”

  He handed me a stack of photos. I started sorting through them, my mouth feeling dry. A wedding photo of Trey and Sister, both of their faces aglow with the expectation of a life to be lived together. Sister looked beautiful and happy. Pictures of Mark, at least ten of them, in various stages of childhood: crawling, toothless-grinned baby; waddling toddler; graceful boy smiling into the sunshine, shading his face with the flat of one hand, a baseball mitt on the other. An old photo of Sister, Trey, and Mark together, when Mark was barely a year old. The pictures were worn with handling.

  The final two photos were surprises. A picture of Mama and Trey, from some vaguely remembered Fourth of July family celebration, Mama caught unawares by Trey and smiling broadly into the lens, Trey hugging her close. I recalled, suddenly, vividly, taking this picture myself. As I’d lowered the lens Trey had kissed Mama loudly on the cheek, saying, “You just got to share her with me, Plum, since I don’t got a mama of m’own.” He and Sister were newlyweds then and Trey was drunk with the joy of having a family that consisted of more than an inebriated father. I remembered the blush that had crept up Mama’s cheek at his words and the nearly solemn way she’d hugged him.

  The final photo was of me. It was a picture made when I’d come home from Houston during college. I stared at the photo for a long minute. It showed me drinking a beer in the backyard, Daddy in the distance, coaxing flame from a grill. I looked heavier from a diet of college food and cold beer, and I looked irritated, as though I couldn’t be bothered having my picture taken. I remembered Trey’s words as he took the photo: “Smile like you’ve gotten smart at school, Plum.” My grin, solely for the camera, looked forced and blank. Trey and Sister were married by then, and I was going to prestigious Rice and never coming to live in Mirabeau again. My snotty attitude showed clearly on my face.

  That was what he had to remember me by. I turned the photo over, OUR SCOLER PLUM was written in Trey’s close scrawl, in faded black ink. Never could spell cat to save his life.

  I felt a tinge of nausea and stood.

  “Thanks, Scott, thanks for bringing these by. It was thoughtful of you.”

  “I don’t have no use for them,” he said quietly.

  “Scott.” I waited till his eyes met mine. “I want you to tell me why Trey came home.”

  He stared at the weathered boards of the porch.

  “Scott, did you hear me?”

  “He came home to get better. Okay? I don’t know anything else!” He got up, a flurry of activity.

  “What do you mean, anything else? What else is there to know?”

  “Look, Mr. Poteet, I brought you the pictures. Okay? I didn’t have to do that! I don’t want to be involved in whatever’s going on here.” He glanced at me over a shoulder and I could see he was close to tears. “I can’t do nothin’ to help Trey now. I wish I could, but I can’t. Mom and I are leaving soon. I just wanna forget we ever came to this stupid town.”

  “Do you know something, Scott? Because if you do, you better tell the police right away.” Practice what you preach, I scolded myself again, thinking of the fabric safely tucked away upstairs.

  “Yeah, right.” Scott huffed. “My mom says the police chief dates your sister. And my mom thinks your sister killed Trey.”

  “I’m sure your mother must be very upset. I could tell she cared about Trey—”

  “She loved him, okay? He was good to us, never hit her, never hit me. He acted nice.” He wiped burgeoning tears away with his sleeve.

  I guided him to a chair and made him sit. I went back to the screen door. “Candace, could you do me a favor? Could you get a glass of milk and a piece of that pecan pie for Scott?” She hollered back her assent and I went and sat down again with Scott.

  “I don’t want no pie.” He sniffed.

  “It’ll do you good. Unless you’re diabetic. Eula Mae’s pies require an insulin chaser.”

  He managed a vague smile.

  “Where are y’all staying at, Scott?” I couldn’t imagine they were still staying at Nola’s uncle’s house, with its pervading air of death.

  “Well, last night we stayed at this neighbor lady’s place. But she’s got a ton of cats and it makes Mom sneeze. So we’re moving this afternoon out to Mr. Quadlander’s farm. Soon as the police let him, Uncle Dwight’s moving back to the house. He said he don’t care ’bout no one getting shot, it’s his house. Mom and I’ll probably head back to Beaumont.” Scott glanced through the window at Hart Quadlander, deep in conversation with Clo. “Mom likes Mr. Quadlander. He’s a nice man.”

  “Yes, he is. You know, Trey and I used to ride horses out at that farm when we were about your age. Trey taught me to ride.”

  He looked at me grieving. “He was gonna teach me. When it got warmer. He never explained how he was gonna do that from a wheelchair, though.”

  “I’m sure he would have found a way.”

  Candace brought out a generous slice of pecan pie and a tall glass of milk and set it on the end table by Scott. I introduced them and Candace shook hands with Scott rather gravely. She sat down, giving me a cautious glance.

  Scott ate his pie in steady bites without talking. I filled the silence with nervous chatter, explaining to Scott that Candace owned the Sit-a-Spell Cafe and telling Candace that Scott was staying at Hart’s farm.

  “That’s good,” Scott said around a final mouthful of sugar, crust, and sticky, nutty filling. “My mom isn’t much for baking stuff like pie. ’Less it comes out of the freezer.”

  “Nothing like homemade pie. We’ll give you some to take home, Scott.” Candace patted his leg.

  Scott’s hazel eyes widened. “Oh, no, Mom doesn’t know I’m here. She’d kill me.”

  “That was a nice gesture, bringing us those pictures.” I glanced at Candace. “I’m sure your mom won’t be mad at you.”

  He ignored the napkin Candace had brought with the pie and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. The crumbs on his plate seemed to hold undue fascination for him. I glanced again at Candace. She touched his shoulder gently. “Hon, is there anything else you want to tell us?”

  Men have always responded to Candace. Beauty can drive men to distraction, but real kindness will snare them every time, especially if life hasn’t always been kind. Combine them like Candace does and the mixture is potent. There’s a quality in her voice, a commanding trust, that you can’t help but answer. Unless you’re just plain stubborn.

  Scott wasn’t a mulish kid. He looked up at her like his heart was breaking. “My mom …”

  “You don’t think your mom had anything to do with Trey’s murder?” I blurted, and Candace shot me a look that ricocheted from between my eyes. I shut my mouth. God, how could I have suggested that to a kid?

  “Oh, no. Mom wouldn’t hurt anyone. And she loved Trey.”

  I wanted to point out that love and hurt were not mutually exclusive states, but another pointed glance from Candace stilled my tongue.

  “It’s just that… Mom’s real sure that your sister killed Trey. And if she thinks I’m suggesting different, she’d be pissed at me.”

  “Scott, I’m sure your mama wants the killer brought to justice, regardless of who it is,” Candace said softly. “I’m sure she wouldn’t want Arlene to be charged if she was innocent.”

  “I guess.” Scott didn’t sound very convinced. He seemed to be holding something b
arely in check, his eyes flickering between Candace and me, gauging us on a scale of trust.

  I kept my mouth shut. Silence seemed to compel Scott to speak.

  “It’s just that, what with that other fellow dying, and he came over to the house not long after we got to town—”

  “Clevey? Clevey was at y’all’s house?” I interrupted. A sharp pinch on my knee (not from Scott) silenced me again.

  “Let Scott tell his story, Jordan, please,” Candace said.

  “We got in Thursday morning. Trey made a couple of phone calls. And this other guy, Clevey Shivers, comes over to the house. Red-haired, loud, funny. He smelled like beer, though. Even in the morning.

  “He and Trey went into the bedroom to talk, and Mom and Uncle Dwight went to go run errands. I was watching TV, but Uncle Dwight’s got crappy reception. So I went back to my room to read comic books and I could hear them arguing.”

  “Arguing?” I leaned closer.

  I could see Scott steeling himself. “I heard Mr. Shivers—Clevey—telling Trey he was years late. Laughing at Trey, saying he’d”—Scott wrinkled his brow in memory—“missed the gravy train. Trey told him to shut up. Clevey laughed some more. Trey said they weren’t going to talk about what they’d seen. Trey told him what was past was past, he wasn’t interested no more. And Clevey said—Clevey said that Trey better keep out of his way. Said the gravy train might go slow on the bend and he could climb on.” He paused and rubbed his eyes. “Isn’t Gravy Train like a dog food?”

  Candace and I exchanged looks above the boy’s head.

  Once the story started, Scott didn’t seem to need further prompting. “I got scared. Clevey kind of said the last part real mean like. But Trey yelled back at him, saying that Clevey was nothin’ but a cheap con artist and a crook. Trey told him to get out and Clevey told him to think about it some more, once Trey got some more of them medical bills he’d be begging Clevey for help.” Scott licked his lips, his voice deepening in imitation. “Then Clevey said, ‘You do anything to fuck this up, Slocum, and you’ll be in worse shape than you are now. Revenge is sweet if you give it half a chance.’ Trey didn’t say anything and Clevey left. The house shook when he slammed the door.