by Jeff Abbott
I wished them good night and drove home, peering into the rural darkness. A blanket of stars unfurled above my head as a wall of clouds pushed onward toward the Gulf, clearing the sky of its low haze.
Gretchen hated me-or at least she had once. Could she be behind the cards? If I never became a part of Bob Don's family, I could not trespass on her territory. I imagined her hands smearing blood across a card, razoring a printed face, pasting letters with malice.
It scared me that I could easily see her hands busy with such work.
Two days before the reunion.
“I'd really prefer you not go,” I murmured into the soft spill of Candace's hair. She smelled of flowers, and of lime from the ceviche she made for dinner. Moonlight played along our bare bodies as we cuddled in bed.
“Why don't you want me there?” Her tone was measured, which meant I might be in trouble.
“Because it's going to be complicated enough, sweetheart. I think I need to face the Goertzes on my own.” I fib best when not having to look directly into Candace's face, and I examined the top of her head with intense concentration. As if knowing my thoughts, she shifted in my arms to turn her blue eyes straight on my face. I hazarded a smile.
“Is that it?”
“Yeah.” I kissed the top of her forehead. I could hardly say, I'm getting vicious hate mail from someone in the family who doesn't want me around. And I don't want you to be in danger. So stay home. That wouldn't work- Candace would be bodyguarding my butt all the way to Uncle Mutt's island.
“Strikes me as odd,” she mumbled against the tender flesh of my throat, “that you don't want to acknowledge Bob Don as your daddy, yet you're bound and determined to go to this reunion. Meet his family, let them meet you. If that's not acknowledgment, I don't know what is.”
I swallowed as she began to play her fingers through my hair. Her other hand began a slow exploration of my chest, grazing a nipple and sending a shiver through me. I didn't speak. “So what's up, Jordan? I suspect you're not telling total truth here.”
“Listen, darling, it's nothing to be concerned over, I just think it might be best if you didn't go.”
She ran her fingernails across my chest, in a sensual tippy-toe that left me holding my breath. She lingered near the nipple again, and grabbed with sudden force. I winced.
“Honesty time, hon. What's going on?”
I pried her hand off from its death grip. She kissed me quickly in apology. So I told her about the cards.
“Sweet God.” She sat up in bed. “That's a crime, Jordan. We're calling the police.”
I touched her shoulder. “No, we're not. I don't want Bob Don to know about this.”
“Let me see these cards,” Candace demanded. I retrieved them from their hiding place, and carefully using a cloth, she read them. She stared at the bloodstained greeting card with disgust, and shook her head at the mutilated model.
“This is god-awful sick,” she finally murmured. “And just why the hell weren't you going to share this problem?”
“I knew you'd freak. And I didn't want you to worry. Now you see why I don't want you to come-”
“And why do you want to go?” she demanded. “Why put yourself in danger, babe? If you don't want Bob Don for a father-and you can't seem to decide-” She ended in a shrug and gestured at the hate mail. “Why not stay away from this-this-psychopath?”
“I don't scare easy,” I said with a bravado I didn't feel, “and I'm not going to be warned off by idiotic pranks like these cards. I want to know why now-why is someone so determined to keep me from the reunion? Why?”
“Curiosity may kill more than cats,” she cautioned. “If you're going, I'm going with you. You'll need someone to watch your back.”
“You sound like a bad cop show.”
“I'm not joking, Jordan. I'm not letting anyone hurt a hair on your head.”
I blushed at the intensity of her words, which was somehow more revealing than our casual nakedness in bed. And I knew better than to argue. “Okay, fine. As long as you stay out of trouble.” My blood ran cold at the thought of Candace near anyone who could send such missives, but we'd moved past the point of debate-I saw the stony set of determination in her face. “And not a word to Bob Don. I have my own plan for dealing with this sicko.”
“Tell me,” she murmured.
So I did.
3
I wondered if any passing motorists would render aid if I leaned out the car door window and screamed.
“-and that's when I decided Sass and I would not only be sisters-in-law, but be best friends,” Gretchen continued. “She was just so kind to me, and chock-full of marital advice when Bob Don and I got hitched.”
“Lord knows she should have been,” Bob Don muttered. “Sass'd been married often enough. I half thought she was gunning for the world record for times down the aisle.” Even his normally jovial temper seemed strained by the long drive.
It was not an auspicious start to our family reunion. Mostly in that I did not want to be reunited anytime soon with my loved ones in this car, much less make the acquaintance of a whole passel of new kinfolks. For all his enthusiasm for this trip, Bob Don seemed itchy. Gretchen's paean to his family irritated him, and he'd snapped more than once at his wife. Candace was strangely quiet, offering no relief from the ongoing Gretchen monologue. Gretchen appeared determined to sparkle all the way to Uncle Mutt's home. Not even the stars in the sky glitter quite that long.
I don't mean to complain. Honestly. But my stomach had started roiling at the idea of being introduced to a bunch of complete strangers (although they were technically blood kin) and tension gripped my limbs. I wanted Bob Don's family to like me and accept me-but at the same time I wanted not to care about their reactions to me. I tried not to reflect overmuch that at least one of them seemed inordinately displeased that a stray sperm of Bob Don's had ended up sentient, blond, and breathing.
A final card had arrived the day before, a last-ditch effort to avert my arrival at Uncle Mutt's. I had not even shown this one to Candace; it would have scared the bejesus out of her. At the moment the card lay safely contained in a bag in my suitcase, along with its fellow couriers of hate. I could nearly imagine a faint throb of evil emanating from the car trunk, like a telltale heart.
The card's designer had intended comfort; the front of the greeting, in flowery script, said IN DEEPEST SYMPATHY. Open it and you saw the rest of the sentence, hacked from magazine letters: FOR
YOUR IMPENDING DEATH YOU'RE NOT ONE OF US WE'LL MOURN ONLY A MOMENT
I wish I could say a cold shiver raced through me when I read those words; it seems the normal reaction, and I pray for normality in my life. But at this last, most bitter missive, I felt only a numb disbelief that someone hated me so. What crime had I committed, aside from the accident of my birth? (A crime I could hardly be judged and hanged for.) I'd spent the rest of the day in a quiet funk.
I had not rallied for this morning's drive to the coast. Bob Don's sudden silence, Candace's odd detachment, and Gretchen's prattling hadn't improved my mood. She rarely veered from discussion of her sister-in-law and she made no useful announcement, like “How's Cousin Herbert enjoying life outside the insane asylum?” If I wanted to identify my torturer, I would have to play investigator. Again. And people believe I go looking for trouble?
The landscape unfolded past us as the Cadillac raced toward the coast. The gently rolling hills of pastureland fenced in idle herds of Red Brangus and Santa Gertrudis cattle, grazing in the heat. We stopped at the brown-mustard-colored grocery store in tiny Swiss Alp for Dr Peppers. We arrowed through the heart of Czech Texas. In Schulenberg and Hallettsville I saw bumper stickers written in Czech next to bumper stickers that advised me to love or leave America. We headed south on Highway 77, and as we approached Victoria the pasturelands gave way to the flatness of the coastal plain. In Victoria, an old Texas town that seems to have every new fast-food restaurant imaginable, we turned south onto Highway 87, bullet
ing through small towns like Placedo and Kamey. As we continued through Calhoun County one side of the road seemed thick with an unfurled skein of bush that never quite ended; the other side of the road was charcoal dark farm soil. An empty railroad track ran parallel to the road, as if from a forgotten time. Oil pumps, the eternal symbol of Texas, moved in languorous thrusts near the road. The July air grew perceptibly denser with humidity as we headed south.
Port Lavaca, which guarded Lavaca Bay and its bigger parent, Matagorda Bay, came up quickly, a sleepy, salty hamlet. Port Lavaca works too hard to be a pretty town; most of the businesses seemed industrial, the eateries cheap, and old, hand-painted signs for last winter's local elections still stood in forlorn disuse. Bob Don insisted on stopping at a colorfully painted Mexican restaurant that looked like a botulism testing site but had marvelous home-style food, prepared by a chattering grandmother who scolded Bob Don in Spanish for not visiting more often. After our meal, we drove further out on the jutting chunk of Calhoun County and headed down Highway 1289 toward Port O'Connor. The land here was hardly coastal looking-tilled flatland, tall grass, horses and cattle grazing, profusions of thick bush. I rolled down the window and could smell the barest tinge of salt. We drove over marshy areas, with signs that said NO FISHING FROM BRIDGE. Old men and boys, black and white and brown, sat inches from the sign, watching their lines dangle in the water with the patience of statues. They did not even look up as the Cadillac rumbled past.
Fishing is the main reason for Port O'Connor's existence (aside from target practice for hurricanes-Carla nearly destroyed it in 1961). Every other billboard seemed to advertise the county's best fishing guide or a boat stall for cheap rent.
“We'll do some fishing,” Bob Don promised me. Of course, I thought, that's what fathers and sons do.
He pulled into Port O'Connor proper, stopping near the main beach-a very narrow one-and pulling into a small but well-kept driveway for a little cottage. The other homes around it looked full of vacationing families.
I craned my neck out the window to see the brackish, greenish water of Matagorda Bay. Gulls swooped above the beach as screaming children hurled bread in the air in delight. The birds were white-breasted and gray-winged. A cloud of them cawed and wheeled as two children further down the beach lured them with new treats. A sailboat plied past and I saw a pretty girl in a bikini lean against the boat's railing as though she were unimaginably bored.
“I'll fetch Rufus,” Bob Don grumbled, opening the car door and slamming it shut with extra effort. He stormed toward the cottage. Gretchen was firmly locked in I'm trying my best mode and she pivoted toward the backseat with a frighteningly energetic smile.
“Y'all are just going to love Sass!” she assured us for the nth time.
“I love her already.” I smiled through clenched teeth.
“Jordy,” Candace admonished me. She patted the back of Gretchen's beringed hand. “I'm sure that we'll all get along like houses afire.”
“I'm so excited. They don't know about my recovery. At least, Bob Don hasn't said anything to them about it.” Gretchen lowered the vanity mirror and, after rummaging in her purse, primped with powder and lipstick.
I watched the back of her permed gray hair as she ministered to herself. The hardness of my heart toward her softened a bit. I won't pretend that Gretchen and I have had an easy relationship. And I couldn't easily drop my suspicion of her. She was the one who'd viciously and drunkenly informed me of my parentage during one of her binges. She'd also gotten involved in a pathetic scheme to ruin my reputation, which I could have sued the hell out of her for, but had never mentioned again, out of consideration for Bob Don. Since she'd come to work for me at the library as a volunteer (Bob Don's idea, certainly not mine), we'd made forays into healing the breaches between us. She'd sobered up. I tried not to step on her toes too much in developing a relationship with my new father. But she resented me and I resented her, and the process of learning kindness toward each other was slow and difficult, like wading through beachside rocks without turning an ankle. Nothing said I ever had to like or love Gretchen-those were emotions I found it impossible to associate with her-but civility, for Bob Don's sake, was a reachable goal. As long as she had no role in sending me hate mail, we could get along fine.
“Gretchen,” Candace said softly, “you look fine. Don't worry so much about powdering your face. You look pretty.” I wasn't the only one making an effort to be kind.
“Why, thank you, Candace sweetie.” Gretchen smacked her lips together once to even her lipstick. “I know a young lady like you-someone from a more refined background- is going to appreciate the Goertzes.”
I chose not to take that comment as a slam toward me, but as more of Gretchen's interminable butt-kissing. Candace doesn't need to worry about money, so she's higher on the food chain than I can ever hope to evolve. Unless I win the lottery.
Gretchen snapped the mirror back into place with an authoritative air. “Candace, I'm so glad you're here. You can show Jordy the ropes of dealing with quality people.”
I saw Candace tug at her top lip with her pearly front teeth, quelling a rejoinder. I operated under no such restrictions.
“Thank you, Gretchen, but I know which fork to use. I'll manage just fine around people with nicknames like Sass and Mutt.” Not a worthy kindness, but I was on edge and not feeling charitable.
“See that you do, Jordan. I know that Bob Don thinks you poop French vanilla ice cream, but I know how sharp-tongued and boorish you can be. It's not classy, and I don't want you to embarrass him in any way.”
“If he was ashamed of me, Gretchen, he wouldn't have begged me to come.”
“He didn't want your feelings hurt, Jordy. I'm sorry to tell you that, but how would you have felt if you knew he'd gone off to a family reunion and not included you?”
“Just fine,” I retorted, but I didn't elaborate. How would I have reacted? I had been the one keeping Bob Don at an arm's length, not publicly acknowledging him as my father in our hometown, politely accepting his help and his money with my mother's nursing and his business advice with our new horse farm. He'd been longing for decades to be a father to me, loving me from afar, keeping his pride for me locked firmly away in his heart. He'd given me the key and I'd yet to use it.
“Just mind your manners,” Gretchen said.
“I will. And practice what you preach.” My irritation with Gretchen felt nearly physical. What did Bob Don see in this woman? How could he have loved my mother-a kind, funny, intelligent woman-and also love Gretchen, whose bitterness was as palpable as heavily worn perfume?
“Both of you, please behave,” Candace chided.
“She started it,” I announced childishly.
Gretchen didn't have time for a return volley. The door swung open and Bob Don settled his big frame back into the Cadillac's plush leather interior. In the rearview mirror I could see his scowl. I saw a lanky older man head from the cottage toward a marina a half block away.
“Rufus is getting the boat ready,” Bob Don said. “Grab your bags and we'll walk down there.”
“Who's Rufus?” Candace asked.
“He's an old friend of Uncle Mutt's that would probably be a dead wino if it wasn't for Mutt.” Bob Don turned and grinned at us. “He's Uncle Mutt's charity case. I figure Rufus's about seven bricks short of a load, but he's awful loyal to Mutt. Mutt keeps him in food and Mogen David and that makes him happy.”
“Poor Rufus.” Gretchen clucked. “He really needs to address his alcoholism. He has never admitted that he had a problem.”
“He asked how you were, honey,” Bob Don said, the humor out of his voice. “I told him you were sober now and he said he was right disappointed to lose a good drinking buddy.”
It was well-intended, but not the right compliment to offer. I saw a wave of pain crest across Gretchen's face, but she set her lips in a half smile. She worried one comer of her mouth with a lacquered nail, as if to keep her optimistic grin firmly in pl
ace. “He'll just have to drink on without me, sweetheart. Those days are behind me forever.”
I coughed, not meaning to, and Candace flashed me a look of complete annoyance. Bob Don and Gretchen chose to ignore my gaffe completely. I ducked down in the seat, embarrassed.
“Of course you are, darlin', and I'm so proud of you.” Bob Don squeezed Gretchen's shoulder with unexpected tenderness. “We all are, aren't we, kids?”
“Yes, of course, Gretchen.” Candace patted the back of Gretchen's shoulder.
“I'm happy for you, Gretchen,” I managed. It was true. I was happier for Bob Don because his life had been an unceasing hell while Gretchen eyed the bottle's bottom. But despite the untenable chasm between her and me, I didn't wish her dependence on anyone. I couldn't imagine what existence would be like for someone continually drunk or continually wanting to drink. Life was made to be lived, not stumbled through.
“Thank you,” Gretchen murmured, her eyes averted from us all. She glanced up through the window. “Oh, there's that Rufus with the boat. I hope there's no wine on his breath this early in the day.” Her voice shook, like the palmetto fronds in the quickening gulf wind.
The fishy, salty smell of Matagorda Bay pervaded not only the little speedboat but Rufus Beaulac as well. He was a leanly tall, grizzle-faced man, with a scarred lip and red-rimmed, muddy hazel eyes. He spoke with the rolling cadence of the Cajuns that live in southwestern Louisiana and far eastern Texas. He helped us with our luggage without comment, eyed Gretchen with suspicion, ogled Candace, and didn't flinch when Bob Don introduced me as his son.
A long gaze went up from my worn loafers, my jeans, the untucked batik print shirt Candace had given me from one of her recent shopping sprees (she's one of those women who like to dress their men), and lingered longest on my blond hair and green eyes. I felt like he was surveying my face for flecks of family.
“For God's sake, Rufus, don't stare at the boy,” Gretchen muttered. “You do have some manners left, don't you?” She worked her hands into fists, a death grip on her purse.
