by Jeff Abbott
He saw it in my face, “Oh, she don’t know the whole story, Jordan. Don’t be mad at Arlene. Please, I made her promise. I told her it was the only time that Cayla hit me.”
“And Clevey? He knew, didn’t he? You said so.”
Davis nodded, misery clouding his face again. “He found out about a year ago. He saw a bruise on my arm when we were out at Lake Bonaparte fishing. He kept at me about it, and I finally told him. I confided in him. He kept his mouth shut for months, but then he wanted money!” Davis quivered with rage.
“How much money?”
“Oh, God, thousands,” Davis leaned against the wall, face contorting in pain. I’d been so floored by this series of revelations that I hadn’t even thought about getting him to a doctor. I made him sit, went to the sink, and dampened a washcloth. I handed it to him and slowly, he cleaned his face, blinking at his blood on the cloth.
“Clevey said if I didn’t pay, he’d feature us in a story he was writing about domestic violence.” Davis stared at me, eyes rolling. “I couldn’t let that happen, oh no. It’d ruin me. I’d have lost my law practice. And if I lost that, I’d have to sell my partnership in KBAV.”
I held my breath. “Did you kill him, Davis? Did you?”
He gave a shuddering breath. “No. I didn’t. I wanted to; God, I even thought about it. But I was too scared. And he promised that the money would be just that once. I could get on with my life.”
As though you could, I thought. Davis couldn’t get on with life while Cayla beat him. He and his son would forever be caught in a loop of bitterness and twisted love, manifested with fists and clawing fingers. And Clevey would have taken his place at KBAV. The humiliation would have been utter.
“You believe me, don’t you, Jordan? I swear, I’m not a killer.”
No, I didn’t think Davis was. He hadn’t roused himself to flee the hell his house had become; he wouldn’t have shot Clevey Shivers in cold blood. I had to get him to take action now, though.
“Never mind Clevey now. We’re gonna get you and Bradley out of here.”
“No.” He shook his head violently. “I can’t leave my house. How do I explain it?”
“We’ll say you and Cayla are just having some problem. People don’t have to know the specifics.”
“Then why wouldn’t Bradley stay with his mom? Kids stay with moms. Folks’ll know, they’ll find out, and I’m ruined!” His voice rose in a whiny shriek.
“Listen to me!” God, yelling in his face was probably not the way a trained counselor would handle this, but I was winging it. “Your life is already ruined! You can’t live this way, you can’t pretend that this is normal. Get yourselves out of here—if not for your sake, for Bradley’s. His life matters more than any stupid, overblown reputation of yours.” I clutched at this straw of persuasion and kept pressing him.
“Davis, you said yourself she hurt him last night. That’s the start, don’t you see? What happens when she starts getting mad at Bradley? Are you going to stand by and watch him be beaten?”
“I—” He faltered, unable to speak.
“You took the first step. You went to get help from Steven Teague. You don’t have to do this alone, okay? I’m here to help you, and Mark and Sister and Junebug and Hart and Ed. Your friends will help you. Now, come with me. He dragged the back of his hand across his bruised and cut face, “But I’m supposed to be in court this afternoon—”
“Never mind court. I’m sure the judge will understand. In fact, we can call the courthouse from my house. Why don’t we go do that now?” The air in the Foradory house felt dense, oppressive. I wanted to leave badly.
He nodded, finally, and stood. He was in obvious pain. I wondered how many injuries he’d suffered—and silently healed—over the years. I helped him toward the front door.
“I need clothes—” he started, the first excuse not to leave. I didn’t brook it for an instant.
“We’ll get them later. Or you can borrow some of mine.” We walked, slowly, Davis leaning on me from the kitchen through the pristine living room. As we neared the entry hall I could see Cayla Foradory sitting frozen on the leather couch, her head bowed. She might have been a statue for her stillness. Davis did not look at her.
I walked him onto the porch and got him to sit in a brown wicker chair. Bradley and Mark were nowhere in sight. The rain had abated and the sun was doing its damnedest to peek through.
“I’ll just be one minute,” I said. Davis hardly seemed to hear me.
I stormed back into the house, pushing the door hard so it banged loudly against the wall. I wanted her to know I meant business. Cayla still hadn’t moved, and she didn’t look up at me.
“Cayla.”
No response.
“Cayla, look at me.”
Her head inclined slightly, but her eyes were obscured by strands of dark, lank hair. She sniffed, hard, gulping air.
“Bradley and Davis are at my house. Don’t come over. Don’t come near them. And if you ever come near my sister again, or bother anyone in my family, I’ll have your sorry ass slapped in jail so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
“Tell Davis,” she started, sobbing. “Tell him I’m so sorry, so very sorry, it won’t happen again, and—”
“No. I won’t tell him your garbage. You’re a liar, it’s been happening again and again and again. You want your son and your husband back? Get yourself some help, Cayla. If you’ll do that, we’ll all help you. But you got to get yourself some counseling.”
“I don’t need a goddamned shrink, I just need Davis and my boy—”
“Find some other punching bags,” I said. I know I sounded cruel, but I wasn’t particularly inclined to kindness toward her.
“Bradley needs me, he needs his mommy—” she cried.
I didn’t want to listen to her anymore. “I’ll be back in a while for their clothes. I might bring the police with me. You better behave yourself, Cayla.”
She didn’t answer, she just kept crying.
I left. And out on the porch, where Davis still sat subdued, I breathed in fresh air like it was a long-denied pleasure.
I got Davis home. Clo examined both of them and ordered Davis to see a doctor. He refused at first, till I placated him by getting Dr. Meyer (our family physician as well as the Foradorys’) to make a house call. One of the benefits of small-town life is that your doctors treat you like a person, not a number.
Davis had suffered grave bruises, a loosened tooth, and a broken finger, but nothing worse. Bradley was also examined and, except for the ring of bruises, pronounced fit. Davis declined to tell Dr. Meyer the source of his injuries, but I had no such compunctions. I did Davis the courtesy, however, of telling Dr. Meyer in private, “Good God. Call county social services. They deal with battered women all the time.”
“He’s ashamed. He thinks no one’s ever heard of a battered husband. He says people’ll treat him like a freak.”
Dr. Meyer huffed. He did not suffer fools. “That ain’t the worse thing in the world. Better that than being beaten.”
“He’s trying. After she slapped Bradley around, he did go to Steven Teague’s office for help.”
Dr. Meyer snorted. “That dandified city fool?” Dr. Meyer is of hardy Bavarian-colonist stock and has only a tidbit of patience for people whose families haven’t been in Bonaparte County since Texas was a republic. “Well, I suppose it was a step. Anyhow, I’ve given him a tranquilizer. He needs to sleep. I’ll come back by tomorrow, but you or Clo call me if you need me.” He zipped up his medical bag. “Goddamn. And they say you have to go to the big city for the interestin’ cases.”
I’d begun to feel yanked in nineteen different directions. On top of all else, I’d adopted Davis and Bradley and their hornets’ nest of difficulties, I took a deep breath and called Candace at the diner, explaining to her what’d happened.
“Good God almighty,” she said when I was done. “Cayla gave Arlene that eye? Hell, I think Arlene could clean up the
floor with Cayla Foradory.”
“That’s one option,” I concurred.
“So where are you going to put them?” Candace asked.
“Bradley’ll bunk with Mark, and we’ll put Davis in the guest room. Unless Clo has to stay over if Mama’s having a tough time, then I’ll take the couch and Davis can have my room.”
“Your application for sainthood is hereby approved.”
“Or I could propose a not-so-saintly alternative sleeping arrangement.”
“My bed is always open. To you, at least.”
“How reassuring. Actually, I could use a kiss right now. And another kiss. And then maybe a—”
“Yes, darlin’, I get the picture. I’ll come over after work. How about I have one of the cooks here fix up a big fried chicken dinner, and I’ll bring it over. We won’t have to cook and the Foradorys won’t have to face going out.”
“Your application for sainthood is stamped. Thanks.”
“Jordy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’d never hit you.”
“Well, only once.”
We said our goodbyes and I hung up. Thank you, God, for giving me a Candace and not a Cayla.
Next I called Sister. She was in Junebug’s room and told me he was continuing to improve. He’d felt good enough to argue with a doctor today.
“He nearly had company in the hospital. I caught Cayla Foradory beating the tar out of Davis this afternoon.”
There was dead silence on the other end of the line. “My Lord.”
“Yes, Davis and Bradley will be staying with us for a while. She’d taken to hitting Bradley, too.”
“What?” Sister gasped. “But Davis said—”
“I know what he said. And you and I are going to have a little chat about when you choose to keep your mouth shut, Sister. And I don’t want a single word of complaint that they’re staying here.”
I could hear her give a long sigh. “You won’t. I’m glad he’s away from that crazy woman. Tell ’em to make themselves comfortable. And if that Cayla even looks crosseyed at me, I’m gonna punch her into next week.”
I said a terse goodbye and dialed Steven Teague’s office. His receptionist answered, perky and sharp.
“Mr. Teague, please.”
“I’m sorry, he’s gone for the day. May I take a message?”
“This is kind of an emergency, ma’am. I’m Jordan Poteet. It concerns one of his patients.”
“I can have him return your call,” she said primly.
“Fine. He can reach me at home. Tell him it involves Davis Foradory.”
She repeated the message and, wishing me a good afternoon, hung up. I went back to the Foradory house to collect clothes for Davis and Bradley. I took Davis’s keys. Thankfully, Cayla was nowhere about. I quickly packed a suitcase for each of them, threw in a worn-looking teddy bear for Bradley, and came home.
After putting their suitcases in their rooms, I took a nap. Late in the afternoon, I went back down to the kitchen to fix myself a pimento-cheese sandwich, to tide me over till Candace came home with dinner. Scott Kinnard had come over to visit and the boys were up in Mark’s room. Davis slept in druggy oblivion, and Clo sat chatting with Mama, who apparency thought Clo was a newly made Mend and was telling her about her two delightful children, Arlene and Jordan. Clo smiled wistfully at me.
“Anne and I are having a nice chat. You want to join us?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll—”
“Hello,” Mama said brightly. “Have we met?”
I couldn’t stay. I didn’t want to be reminded of the trauma in my own family after seeing the Foradorys fall apart. I excused myself to the porch with my plate. I like a little solitude now and then, and with this house busting at the seams, I wasn’t likely to get much privacy in the next several days. I sat down to enjoy my lunch and allow myself some quiet time.
The sky, indecisive for the past few days, finally offered dryness. The sun was edging below the horizon and the air felt brisk and cool. The clouds had scudded toward Austin, pushing in from the Gulf and finally shoving past Mirabeau. I sat on the chair and thought about poor Davis. He’d been through hell. And Clevey had been one of the devils, poking him with a hot trident. I felt deeply disappointed in Clevey. Now I had the proof of what he’d been up to. Victimizing a childhood pal for his own selfish reasons. He’d shown himself to be a blackmailer, just like Scott had suggested.
I chewed. But what did Davis’s troubles have to do with Trey? Blackmail over Davis’s beatings couldn’t have been what Clevey was coaxing Trey to get involved in. Why share the profits? And was Davis the “gravy train” that Clevey alluded to? My mind went back to what Nola told me. Trey and Hart talking. Trey asking if anyone else knew their secret. Hart saying Steven knew.
Just how did Steven Teague fit into this town? He’d worked here once. He’d left suddenly. He’d returned twenty years later, not exactly encouraging people to prod their memories and remember his brief residence.
He’d lived here, and Rennie Clifton had died, carrying a lover’s baby. He’d come back, and Clevey Shivers and Trey Slocum died.
It was time to confront Hart. Assuming Nola was truthful, he’d known why Trey left and lied. He’d apparently let Steven in on the secret. If I stayed here, I’d be nothing but a nursemaid to Davis. He needed time alone, and I needed to take action, to find closure for the giant rip my life had become.
I finished my sandwich and went back into the living room. Mark was hanging up the phone. Scott Kinnard and Bradley sat at the table, sipping Cokes and munching chips. Bradley didn’t look at me.
“Don’t ruin your dinners,” I muttered automatically. The chomping of chips continued.
“Hey, Jordy,” Scott greeted me softly. “Mom said she came over and made up with you today.”
“She did, Scott, she did.” I could see some of Nola’s strength in his face. “I think I understand your mom a little better now.”
“We moved this afternoon.” He didn’t look at me. “Out of Hart’s place. We’re renting a little apartment over off Bluebonnet Street.”
I knew the apartments—they were small and unkempt. “Well, I hope that everything will work out.”
“Me, too, I’d like to stay here,” Scott said. “We’re gonna see about getting me enrolled in the school. I’ll be in Mark’s class.” He gave a satisfied smile.
Mark spoke up. “That was Hart on the phone. He said we might be able to go riding later, if we wanted to come out and visit him.”
I glanced at Bradley. “We’ll see, Mark. I don’t know if Bradley’s up to horse riding.” Bradley didn’t acknowledge my reference to him. He seemed mesmerized by the ice cubes in his glass, surrounded by fizzing soda.
“Thought it might get his mind off stuff,” Mark said, shrugging. Scott looked at Mark and nodded.
The boys suddenly made my throat catch. Bradley looking like a younger Davis, Mark the image of Trey, and while Scott didn’t look like any of my boyhood confederates, he had the aching for acceptance that reminded me of Ed. I wondered if they’d stay friends for years, if they’d watch each other grow and change and leave Mirabeau. I hoped if they kept the bonds of friendship strong that they would never have to be tested the way my friends and I had been tested these past dark days.
“So Hart’s at his house?” I said. “Good. I need to pay him a visit.” I bade the boys farewell and headed out toward the horse ranch. Dusk was here, and a chill breeze made the damp air smell dank as a dungeon. I barreled along the road toward the Quadlander farm, ready to talk truth with Hart and find out why Trey’d felt compelled to leave all those years ago.
IF IT HADN’T BEEN FOR THE FLAT TIRE, I WOULD have just zoomed up to the Quadlander place. And things would have been different, perhaps. Truth would have hidden for a while longer, and I don’t like to think about what might’ve happened. It might have been worse than what did happen.
Trey once told me, long, long ago, that you had to stare d
eath in the face to become a man. That autumn night, I stared too long.
The tire blew, a galumphing, popping sound, about a quarter mile from the gate that marked Hart Quadlander’s property. I pulled over to the side, cussing a blue streak (that’s allowed when Candace isn’t around). The tire had picked up a nail and, being old and somewhat bald, had given quick surrender. I popped open the back of my Blazer and pulled up the carpet, staring at the flat spare.
Nothing to do for it; I slammed the door and started the hike up to Hart’s horse farm. I opened the gate that blocked the road up to his property and closed it behind me, looping the wire back over the post to hold the gate in place. I was careful to secure it; I had to help Trey chase a horse down once that’d bolted past the gate and I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.
Night had fallen by the time I walked the half mile up the hill to the old house. The home Trey’d lived in all those years didn’t face down the road directly; it stood at an oblique angle, turned slightly so that it faced the scenery of the creek, the dense growths of live oaks, pecan trees, and loblolly pines, and farther, the watery smudge of the Colorado River.
I noticed the sleek Volvo that was Steven Teague’s parked in the gravel drive. Why was he here? I’d tell Steven about the developments at the Foradorys, but I wasn’t done being suspicious of him.
A light shone brightly in Hart’s kitchen and I headed toward it. I saw Hart’s head move past in the lit window and then move back as he walked from his fridge. The window was closer than the door and I paused for a moment, trying to see if Steven was in there with him.
Oh, he was. In the fluorescent glow, I saw the two men standing together, laughing at some private joke, at ease.
And then Steven moved close and kissed Hart.
I felt nailed to the ground. The kiss lengthened, grew in heat, and Steven’s arms went around Hart’s neck, pulling him tighter in esurient need. I stood, not breathing, until their kiss broke. Hart ran a finger gently along Steven’s lips and moved to pick up a beer on his kitchen table. He said something, and I heard the distant tone of Steven’s laughter.
