by Jeff Abbott
“Sass has always had a sharp tongue,” he finally said, still gazing across the vista. “You couldn't know that. But I expect better from you. I don't expect you to go off half-cocked at the first prod someone gives you.”
“Prod?” I was stunned. “More like a shove toward the edge of the cliff, if you ask me.”
“You don't know Sass. You don't know anything about the hell's she's been through.” His voice tightened like wire on the verge of snapping. “Sass has had a few weeks to get used to the idea that you're my son. You've had over a year to adjust. Do you think it's easy for her?”
“Obviously not,” I retorted. “She feels threatened by me, afraid that I'm going to cut into her share of Uncle Mutt pie.”
“It's not just money, Jordan. You're a part of my life I've kept secret from her for over thirty years, and she's my sister. Do you know who she calls when she's in trouble? Me. Do you know who's seen her through all three divorces and two widowhoods? Me. Do you know she went through a terrible depression once, lost her dress shop, and nearly ended up homeless? I was the one who got her back on her feet. Hell, I helped pay for Aubrey's college till she could pay me back.”
“I didn't know,” I confessed.
“No, you didn't. You can't learn how complicated a family's history is right when you saunter through the door, Jordan. You've got to give it time. None of them are going to accept you overnight.”
I counted slowly, controlling my anger-both at him, for the lecturing tone he'd taken, and at myself, for the blunders I'd made with Sass. When I spoke again, my voice was calm.
“I understand I'm a difficult adjustment for them. Goodness, she has an illegitimate nephew. How horrifically shocking. I'm sure that's comparable to discovering you have a new father.” Anger tinged my words harder than I'd intended, but I was having too much trouble picturing Sass as the victim in today's play.
“You're being awfully unfair, son,” Bob Don said quietly.
“I don't see you getting your morals impugned, or your face slapped,” I shot back. I forced myself to take a breath. “Never mind how she's treating me if she hates my guts. You're her brother, why isn't she being nicer to me out of affection for you? Considering all you've done for her, she's an ingrate.”
“She's not. I love you, son, but I love my sister, too.” He coughed. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to her quite so stridently in the future.”
I swallowed the reply on my tongue. It was one of the few times he'd spoken to me in a standard parental tone. I saw that he'd dug his heels into the family sand. I tapped out a staccato rhythm on the balcony's railing. Arguing was getting us nowhere, and I felt a sudden sharp realization that I didn't like fighting with this man. To continue to bicker was to let Sass win. “Fine. I'll mind my manners.” I locked away the burning question in my heart: Uncle Jake has practically warned me off this island. Care to explain?
“Thank you.” He turned back toward the bay. “Wouldn't it be nice to be out on one of them boats, the wind and the salt spray in your face?”
“Do you want Candace and me to leave?” I asked softly.
He glanced at me in surprise. “Leave? Good Lord, no.”
“I'm not sure how comfortable I'd feel at Aunt Lolly's memorial service. After all, I hardly knew her-”
“Well. I thought maybe you might like to be there for me. Maybe I need you there, son.”
My face colored. “Of course. I just wanted to do whatever you wanted me to. Are you doing okay?” I hadn't even asked how he was feeling this morning, in the aftermath of Aunt Lolly's shocking death, or Uncle Mutt's sad announcement. My lips tightened in shame.
“I'm okay,” he answered me. “And I'd like you to stay.”
“All right,” I answered. I squeezed his shoulder once. “If you'll excuse me, I need to go find Candace. And I promise that if I encounter Aunt Sass, I'll be good. No missile strikes.”
“Thanks, son.” He breathed in the sea air. “I think I'll go find your stepmother, after I enjoy this view a little longer. She didn't have call to slap you, but I know you'll forgive her. Lolly's death has devastated her.” He gestured out at the island. “Shame we've had all this trouble. I could use a little peace and quiet.”
I left him there, the breeze ruffling his hair and his eyes closed against the summer warmth.
I collapsed facedown on Candace's bed. “I think I've forgotten how to be a good son.”
“Good Lord. If that's not the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.” Candace stuck her head out of her bathroom, wiping soap from her face.
I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. “I've hardly given Bob Don a thought since we got here-I've only worried about how I fit in with this crazy family. So I end up having a knock-down with his sister in the middle of a family bereavement and getting my face slapped by my hysterical stepmother. Oh, I'm a class act all the way.”
“You're not famous for your sensitivity,” Candace murmured over water splashing in the sink, “but I still love you.” She came in, wiping her hands with a towel. She sat on the corner of the bed and regarded me critically.
“After Daddy died, and Mama got sick,” I said, keeping my eyes on the swirled pattern of plaster above my head, “I didn't have to worry about being anyone's son anymore. Daddy was gone and Mama was so ill she couldn't care- half the time she didn't know who I was. It felt a little like being an orphan.” Candace's fingers touched my knee. “Then I discovered the truth. It was an entirely new ball game; a man trying to be a father to me and a woman who resented the devil out of me. I couldn't just say, yeah, go ahead and be my dad, Bob Don. It doesn't work that way- being a dad is so much more. I've demanded an awful lot from him, and he's hardly asked any effort from me. He probably knows more about being my father than I know about being his son. Does that make sense?”
“I'm sure it would to the folks who book panels for Oprah,” Candace said, “but you might be overanalyzing just a tad.”
“How so?” I leaned on my elbows to look at her.
“You didn't insist Bob Don fit into some mold to be your father-just that he be patient with you, that you take your own time in accepting him. Isn't that true?”
“Yeah,” I said cautiously. I smelled one of those women-know-best traps that are scattered about any emotional discussion.
Candace began to rub my leg, her fingertips tracing savory patterns on my flesh. I recognized her attempt to settle me down. “I believe Bob Don owes you the same courtesy. You didn't expect him to act like a father immediately, he shouldn't expect you to act like a son immediately.”
“But this isn't immediately we're talking about anymore,” I argued. “I've known for a year. And I still can't entirely see myself in the role of his kid. That's not what my life is.” My life was my Poteet family, my work, my relationship with Candace. I sat up and shook my head. “I don't belong here, Candace. This was a terrible mistake.”
“You let him down a little bit by that fight with Aunt Sass. Okay, big deal. Kids never upset parents? Parents never annoy kids? You and Bob Don have tiptoed around each other for a year; it's about time you acted like a real father and son and disagreed on something.”
I chose not to listen to this line of reasoning. “Let's just pack our bags and go. They won't care if we're at Lolly's funeral or not-no one wants us here but Bob Don.”
Candace's face turned stern. “Spare me this pity wallow, please. If you don't stay, and do right by your own father- and you might call him that occasionally instead of always by his name, like he was just your car dealer-I'll never speak to you again.”
“Candace!”
“You're not usually a selfish man, Jordan. In fact, they could probably put your picture in the dictionary next to the definition of generous. But I want you to think about the bigger picture.”
I winced. I hate thinking about bigger pictures. I love to concentrate on small chunks. It makes life so much easier.
She went on: “Bob Don bringing you here
to his family- and you agreeing to come-is a real statement about your relationship as father and son.”
“You sound like Aubrey.”
“God forbid. Anyhow-you can't surrender when it gets tough. So far, being Bob Don's son has mostly consisted of him putting you up on a throne and you feeling a little awkward about his adoration. Now the real work begins.”
“You know, I don't need a new dad. My old one was just fine.” I closed my eyes and an image of my father appeared, his arms open for me to run into, pride shining in his face. He always smelled of Old Spice and he could cook wonderful blueberry pancakes on Saturday mornings. I would watch him pour the mixture onto the griddle and giggle when the batter bubbled along the edges, the fragrance of the pancakes heavenly and comforting. When I was old enough he let me turn the pancakes, coaching me through this simplest of acts. When he died in the Mirabeau hospital, the cancer had eaten through him like a miniature shark. I held his hand, my nose wrinkling with his terrible odor of sickness and impending death, and he'd joked he couldn't get any good blueberry pancakes in the hospital, would I fix him a batch and sneak them in? His fingers had felt paper-thin with weakness against my own. I agreed and smiled, determined he would not see my tears. Daddy hated crying. I hated he'd made me cry. I'd gone home, fixed him our special blueberry pancakes, then snuck them back into his hospital room. He never ate them because he never regained full consciousness.
He died two days later, adrift in a delirium of painkillers. I had not been able to eat or prepare blueberry pancakes since-a silent salute to my father's memory.
Candace saw I was lost in a maze of memories. She touched my arm gently and I focused on her face as she spoke. “Was Lloyd Poteet so perfect? Talk about pedestals, Jordy. If Bob Don puts you up on one, you've got your daddy up on the World Trade Center.”
I sat up. “That's not true.”
“I've never, ever heard you mention one incident where your father ever annoyed you. Not one time. Lord knows that's not normal. I wonder if you ever think about anything wrong that he did.”
“I won't betray my father's memory by badmouthing him.”
“You really are a piece of work. How is Bob Don supposed to compete with your perfect father? He can't. He shouldn't have to. Does he have to measure up to Lloyd Poteet for you to care about him? To love him, or acknowledge him fully?”
I stood and rubbed my eyes. “This discussion is pointless. You can't understand.”
“Horse hockey.” Candace crossed her arms. “Stop beating everyone with this poor-little-old-me crap, Jordan. I suggest you just be yourself, let Bob Don be himself, and quit dwelling on your father all the time. You have another father-get used to it.”
“I have a new uncle, too,” I retorted. “I mean, isn't that the real reason that we're here? Do you give a crap about Bob Don, or do you just want me to suck up to Mutt for his money?”
“Jordan! Good God-”
“I talked to Sister this morning. She told me about the two of you thinking it might not be half-bad for me to ingratiate myself with Uncle Mutt so a little of that money'd head my way.”
“Your sister,” Candace said slowly, “felt sick and jealous and scared at the idea of you getting a whole new family. I told her that Mutt was wealthy because it seemed to make her feel a little better. I don't give a rat's ass whether or not you get a cent from him. And I can't believe you think so little of me.” She stormed to her door and opened it. “Would you mind? I'd like to be alone for a while.”
“Candace-” I tried. But I could see she wasn't in a chatting mood. I left.
Like a sulky teenager, I took refuge in my room. The down pillows were soft against my face and smelled pleasantly old. I tossed and turned, wishing I could find solace in a nap. But sleep eluded me as much as deciding on a course of action.
I hated to admit that Candace had a point. But I couldn't easily jettison the memories of Lloyd Poteet as my one and only father. He had been too good to me, too kind, slaving away at a job he didn't care much for to help send me to the best university in Texas. Did I have to besmirch his memory to let Bob Don in? No, I wouldn't. Her argument made no sense. My father had been perfect. He had been. A whirl of memories danced through my head: my father's beaming pride at my graduation from Rice, joy lighting his face when I won a track medal in district competition, his easy grin when I told him a new Aggie joke. I wanted my daddy back, and not to be among these mean-hearted, sniping, difficult strangers who treated me like the plague.
I chided myself for childish silliness.
I heard the creak of a door down the hall and thought maybe Candace was coming to talk again-or to let me apologize. I hated fighting with her and decided to meet her halfway. I opened my door slowly, a crack, to see if it was her in the hall. It wasn't.
Deborah Goertz, on tiptoe, paused before Aunt Lolly's room. I watched her gingerly open the door so it wouldn't creak and duck in quickly, easing the door shut behind her. I wondered why she was prowling so quietly; if she was just fetching some item from Aunt Lolly's room, why bother with stealth? I shut my door to its barest crack and waited.
A few moments later Deborah stepped out of the room, inched the door shut, and rapidly stole down the hall. I counted to ten then opened my own door. No one was taking a nap as far as I knew, so I couldn't imagine why she crept. Unless it was because she didn't want to he heard or seen.
I went to Aunt Lolly's door and nudged it open with my fingers. The door didn't creak; Deborah needn't have worried. I entered and shut the door behind me. I considered locking it for a moment and decided against it; if someone found me snooping in here, I couldn't explain why the door was bolted.
Lolly kept her room ornately decorated. A plush dog's bed with SWEETIE stenciled on the downy pillow sat in a corner, a small water bowl and food dish nearby. On one bureau a box of doggie treats stood, open. I could envision Lolly sitting on her bed, cajoling her precious pet with a treat and giggling with delight when she dropped it and Sweetie jumped in midair. Of course, this was entirely my own conjecture; she might have just dropped the morsel on the floor while Sweetie sauntered over and gobbled it at his own pace. But I thought that Lolly, who did not seem to take much pleasure in other people, and her pet must've shared many happy moments together in this room.
Linen curtains decorated the window, and the furniture looked antique. A side table held a lamp, a worn back issue of Southern Living, and an intercom system-probably to summon her to Uncle Jake's first-floor room if he needed help. A notepad sat by the combination phone/answering machine, with scribblings such as Philip – arrives 2:00 PM, Call Jake's doctor, and Call Aubrey (713) 555-2344.
Photos covered much of the floral wallpaper. Old pictures, their edges brownish with age, mixed in with newer snapshots. There was a photo of a far younger Lolly and Mutt, wind blowing their hair as they leaned against a car that looked like a '40s Ford. Lolly's smile was lazy and sweet, full of promise. She had been a decidedly pretty girl, with darker features than I'd come to think of as being classically Goertz. Mutt looked handsome and tough. I would not have tangled with him in a bar fight; and I'm sure that women found him exceedingly attractive. Sandwiched between the two of them was a handsome woman with lightish brown hair and a merry grin. Their mother, I guessed. I recalled from one of Gretchen's interminable monologues that her name was Claudia and she was from Louisiana, my great-grandfather's second wife. Her teeth were beautiful, framed in a touching smile. She was enjoying a good day with her beautiful children. Why shouldn't she be happy?
A photo next to this contented picture was of a rakish fellow with dark hair and eyes, his hair slicked back and his shirt collar not entirely clean. He did not look like a Goertz or a Zimmerhanzel or a Bedrich; I guessed that he might be Charles Throckmorton, Lolly's deceased husband. He smiled pleasantly, as though having a picture taken for his wife was a right likable chore. My great-uncle. I felt an inexplicable relief that he had not seen Lolly, her face purpling, her chest shudde
ring. He looked like the kind of man who would never recover from such a deepening shock; he would have held her dying body in his arms and cursed the gods for taking her from him, grief molding an anger that would never relent.
I shook my head; I was filling my mind full of nonsensical fantasies based simply on old photographs. Claudia Toussaint Goertz could have been an unfeeling witch who posed well for the camera and Charles Throckmorton might've been a bear of a man who never showed a glimmer of real affection to his wife. I had to stop inventing stories to go with faces; such flights were stumbling blocks to truth. I glanced back at both photos and found I couldn't shake my initial impressions.
The next picture made me pause. It was yellowed with age, taken perhaps in the early twentieth century. The gentleman's clothes certainly suggested the time of World War I. The face was very much like my own: wide-set, pale eyes, high cheekbones, a lock of heavy blond hair falling across the temple, much like that damnable curl that I could never keep combed back. The jaw was heavier, stronger than mine, and the nose wider, but the smirkish half smile the subject allowed himself was one I'd seen on my own face. I touched my finger to the cool glass that covered his countenance.
This, I felt sure, was my great-grandfather, Thomas Goertz. He had been born over a hundred years ago and he'd died years before I was born. His eyes stared into mine, the arch grin he wore wrinkling the corners. I felt his smile's twin creep into its familiar bed on my face. I let fancy take my mind again; had he had a raspy drawl like mine, one that charmed ladies and befriended a rambunctious rebel like Uncle Jake? He had died, I remembered, when Bob Don was twelve or thirteen. Had he hugged his grandson, dreamed great dreams for him, let him play with his pipe?
I suddenly felt dizzy and I sat on the springiness of Aunt Lolly's cold bed. What on earth was I doing, strolling along this rogues' gallery of photos and inventing stories to go with each picture? These people were my family, but they were also strangers.
