by Jeff Abbott
“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 place. “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.
Rufus ignored her. “Mutt said you were bringing your boy. Just surprised to see how much he favors you. I fig-gered that you'd had some kid off n a nigger woman.”
“Rufus!” Gretchen gasped. “What a thing to say!” Bob Don blushed deeply. I was unsure if Gretchen was shocked by Rufus's racial slur or the suggestion that Bob Don would have had a black mistress.
“Well, I couldn't figger why else he ain't owned up to him sooner, Gretch.” I saw her cringe at the diminutive use of her name.
“I don't mean no disrespect to the young feller.” Rufus offered me a grimy hand, which I shook with disguised reluctance. If Rufus portended things to come, the weekend was shaping up to be even more of a trial than I anticipated. I surveyed his face carefully, wondering if he was the letter sender. He didn't seem the type for idle threat or subterfuge; raw physical action would be Rufus's forte.
“It's nice to meet you, Jordan. Look like your daddy when he was the young whip.” His eyes traveled back to Candace and his distorted lip rose in a smile. “And ain't you got a pretty petite here.” He bowed to her with mock solemnity. “Rufus Beaulac at your service, chere.”
“Delighted, Mr. Beaulac,” Candace said diplomatically. “If you don't mind, I think we'd like to get over to the island as soon as possible. I'm sure you can understand that Jordan's rather anxious to meet his new relatives.”
I didn't know she was such an accomplished fibber. She squeezed my hand, a silent message: We'll get through this.
Rufus laughed, showing tobacco-stained teeth and unhealthy gums. “I ain't so sure they're anxious to meet him, miss.” He favored me with another discolored grin and turned his attention back to the boat. We boarded, my own heart thudding in my chest.
We cruised away from Port O'Connor at the lip of land, and toward the middle of Matagorda Bay, racing away from the elongated barrier island of Matagorda, now a state park and wildlife refuge. I kept looking around for one of its famous whooping cranes, but I didn't see any diving through the summer sky. The islands that gird South Texas are thin, like emaciated fingers of land pressing against the coast. The water was a little rough and dark.
Racing toward Sangre Island felt like approaching an alien shore. I wasn't sure what my role was supposed to be here: tourist, invader, or immigrant. I didn't acknowledge the possibility of victim. I watched Bob Don laugh and cajole with Rufus as the boat shot across the choppy gray water. What did Bob Don want from me during this visit? Act as a devoted, dutiful son? It wasn't a role I was sure I was prepared for. I knew how to be Lloyd Poteet's son; being Bob Don's was playing a part that made me awkward and unsure. And Rufus's teasing suggestion about the questionable welcome awaiting me didn't imbue me with confidence. It didn't sound like the collective Goertz arms had opened to enfold the lamb that had wandered from the flock. Yet Bob Don seemed sure—at least when we were back in Mirabeau and he was talking me into this fool expedition— that his people would embrace me as he had.
I tried not to dwell on the hate mail. It couldn't—I hoped—speak for an entire family. I suspected there was one bitter apple in the barrel, riddled with worms. The others might be crisp and fresh and faultless. After all, Bob Don was a fine man and surely he was more representative of the Goertzes than my secret pen pal.
Gretchen sat, unusually silent, watching the unfolding white wake the boat made in the rocky bay. Candace held on to my arm and appeared a tad seasick. I asked if she was okay. She nodded. “Never liked boats much, and they don't like me.” I took her damp fingers and laced them through mine.
The trip was short; perhaps twenty minutes. I saw the island—barely a mile long, if that, and some indeterminate width that wasn't much greater. Most of the lip of the shore seemed to be grayish sand, and there was a scattering of oak and palmetto trees. I could see a swath of beach, crowned with modest dunes and tall saltgrass. Sangre looked like a midget barrier island that hadn't quite made it out to sea, unlike the mighty stretch of Matagorda Island. Toward one end of Sangre a large, rambling house stood, uncompromisingly Victorian. I marveled that a hurricane hadn't reduced the old house to memory—Matagorda Bay's residents lived on an edge, each and every summer. More than one killer storm had screamed ashore along thi
s section of the coast.
Rufus veered the boat out a bit from the island and gestured toward the empty bay north of the island, opposite the mansion. “That's where they went down.”
“Who?” Candace asked, yelling above the roaring motor and the whistling wind.
“The Reliant. Went down fighting.”
“A Confederate ship?” I asked. “I thought most of the naval action along the coast during the war was up near Sabine Pass.”
Rufus shook his head. “Well, the Confederates built a fort on Matagorda Bay and made the timber look like big guns to bluff the Yankees, but that ain't here no more. Reliant wasn't a Confederate ship. Reliant was one of the five battleships in the original Texas Navy, back when Texas was fightin' for independence. Went down fightin' a Mexican ship. That's how the island got its name. Sangre means blood in Spanish.”
“Rufus, this is a distasteful story. Surely—” Gretchen attempted.
He paid her no heed. “Survivors from the Reliant got to the island. The Mexicans”—he pronounced it Messkins— “captured them and cut their throats, right there on the sand.” He gestured from where the sunken wreck lay to a sliver of beach on the north side of the island, with a dock protruding. He kept his hands so little on the wheel I wondered how he steered. “But Mutt tells the story lots better than I do. You should ask him.”
I stared out at the watery spot Rufus Beaulac had indicated. Somewhere beneath those whitecapped waves the shell of the Reliant rested, its broken hull serving as an empty coffin to God only knew how many boys and men that had dared to defy the Mexicans. Then I glanced again at the beach where Rufus indicated the massacre had taken place. Those poor sailors—they had never lived to see the Republic of Texas born, the admission to the Union, the bonds of brotherly ties shattered in the Civil War, then the pain of Reconstruction.
“Anyone ever dive down there?” T called to Rufus. He stared at me with frank horror.
“Hell, no! With all them dead boys? Who'd want to go down there?”
I started to mention that any human remains would be long gone. “It could be fascinating—” I started, but Rufus crossed himself with a practiced hand and looked at me with reproach.
“You a ghoul, boy,” he said. “You got more to worry about than those dead sailors.” He turned the boat away from the watery grave and aimed it toward the island. I felt a sick unease tug at my heart. You got more to worry about.
A TALL, LANKY MAN AND AN OLDER WOMAN IN A flowing, robelike dress waited for us as we pulled the boat up to a dock. The man had a thick shock of blondish-gray hair, high cheekbones set in a broad, German face, and watery blue eyes. There was no mistaking the familial resemblance between him and Bob Don. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth and he had his narrow hands set on thin hips, watching us expectantly.
The woman was older, in her sixties at least, and she held a small Chihuahua up to her cheek as though it were a puppet. She, too, had the Teutonic countenance I had come to think of as particularly Goertzish, but a warm, gentle smile softened her face. As the boat grew closer she took one of the Chihuahua's tiny paws and waved it in greeting. The dog looked bored with this social nicety and squirmed uncomfortably against the lady's bosom.
Gretchen wiggled fingers at the welcoming party, but tension crinkled her eyes and Bob Don frowned for a moment before replacing his grimace with a grin.
I glanced at Candace. I hoped I didn't look as petrified as I felt. She gave me a hopeful, warm smile. I did my best to return it.
Rufus leaped out of the boat and moored it to the dock. The khaki-clad man didn't offer to help; instead, he lit his cigarette with a battered Zippo lighter and peered at me through the feather of smoke that crept past his weathered face.
We disembarked and I helped Rufus pull our luggage out of the boat. Bob Don shook hands with the man.
“Hey, Cousin Tom. How you doing?” Bob Don was using what I called his “sales pitch” tone: friendly, slightly cajoling, hinting that he'd love to do nothing more than listen to you talk the whole day long. It had moved any number of new and used cars off his lots.
Cousin Tom didn't seem swayed by it. He exhaled a plume of sour smoke and said, “Well, don't you got yourself an entourage this time, Bob Don. How do, Gretchen?” His voice was deep and raspy. He nodded toward Gretchen, who clutched Bob Don's arm and put on her party smile.
“I'm fine, Tom. Hello, Aunt Lolly, how nice to see you!” Gretchen chirped.
Bob Don leaned down and kissed the lined cheek of the lady with the dog. She giggled with glee and kissed him back with a resounding smack on the cheek.
“Bob Don, so good to see you. You, too, Gretchen,” she added with a considerable drop in enthusiasm. She wielded the Chihuahua into Bob Don's face. “Give Sweetie a big oP kiss!”
Bob Don opted instead to pat the tiny critter on the head. I couldn't blame him, as Sweetie's tongue draped out of its mouth in the summer heat.
“Oh, you'll hurt Sweetie's feelings! And him being a blood relation!” The woman, whom I now supposed to be Bob Don's aunt Lolly, frowned and cradled Sweetie in her arms. Tom rolled his eyes in exasperated impatience. Gretchen coughed. The dog was a blood relation? Perhaps I wasn't the only surprise on the family tree.
“Are we the first ones here?” Gretchen ventured to break the sudden silence.
“Not hardly. Everybody else is already up at the house. Uncle Mutt's in rare form. Be warned.” Tom's eyes locked on me in the same calculated scan that Rufus had performed back on the coast. “This him?” His voice hadn't gotten any friendlier.
“Yeah, it is,” Bob Don said, smiling genuinely for the first time in a couple of hours. 'Tom, this is my son, Jordan. Jordan, this is my cousin Tom Bedrich.”
I extended a hand and Tom took it in a macho death grip that went beyond firm. I squeezed back for all I was worth. “Well, you look enough like a Goertz. I guess.” His pale blue eyes went to Candace and a smile touched his lips. It was a grimy grin and I didn't like it one bit. However, I told him I was pleased to meet him.
“And, Jordan, this is my aunt Louisa Goertz Throck-morton. Aunt Lolly, this is my son Jordan.”
Aunt Lolly surprised me with a deep curtsy. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, my dear boy.” She sprang back up, brandishing the dog. “And this is Sweetie, who in a previous life was your great-uncle Charles Throckmorton.”
“Uhhhh—” was the only response that came to mind. My mama didn't raise no social morons, though, so I ignored her announcement about her husband's reincarnation. “It's a real pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Hi, Sweetie,” I improvised, patting the dog's head.
“Oh, my dear, you must call me Aunt Lolly. Everyone does.”
“Okay. Aunt Lolly, Tom, this is my girlfriend, Candace Tully.”
Tom took Candace's hand with considerably more enthusiasm than he had mine. “Pleasure to meet you. Do you go by Candy?”
“Never voluntarily,” Candace said politely.
“Then Candace it is. A lovely name for a very lovely lady.” Tom suddenly seemed aware of his disreputable appearance, dragging a hand across his dirty, worn polo shirt. “Y'all have to forgive my clothes. I've been puttering around the island all afternoon. I didn't mean to be the official welcoming committee, but I saw the boat coming over. I was just heading back to change.” During this monologue his eyes went from Candace back to me. I steeled myself to get stares for the next couple of days. I refused to let myself be rattled and I just gave Tom a noncommittal grin.
I tried to imagine him slicing letters from a magazine to construct pronouncements of hate, or smearing blood across an innocent greeting card. Tom I could see doing it; Aunt Lolly I couldn't. She seemed ditzy but basically harmless.
“Well, welcome to the family, Jordan. Let's get y'all settled.” Tom grabbed Gretchen's bag and headed toward the house.
“Would you like to carry Sweetie, darling?” Lolly asked Candace. My own sweetie smiled and took the dog, holding it close. One stray paw to
uched Candace's left breast, and Lolly smirked.
“Oh, Sweetie! He was just that awful when he was Charles. Bad, bad boy!” She waggled a finger in her pooch's face, who eyed it with utter disdain.
Candace smiled politely in agreement, deferring to Aunt Lolly's more cosmic knowledge, and shot me a look of desperation. I was too busy shooting one at Bob Don, who just smiled and shrugged.
We followed Tom, like sheep listing after a herder. I don't think Sweetie got a chance to grope Candace again.
We walked up and past the stretch of dunes, heading toward the main house. It stood on the barrier flat of the island, grassy and weedy with plants. Wildflowers—rosy salt-marsh morning glory with arrowhead leaves, a bed of bluebells, a wooden post twining violet with butterfly pea— made bright explosions of color. Grasses of different varieties sprouted along the path leading up to the house, much of it knee-high. Not far from the house was a large greenhouse, where I could see even more plants profusing. A well-maintained porch wrapped around the entire big, white house, with wicker furniture so guests could sit and enjoy a cooling breeze off the bay.
Bob Don gestured toward the greenhouse and spoke to Rufus. “Jake and Mutt pottering away?”
Rufus shook his head. “Not much lately. Mutt's too busy for hobbies and Jake's feeling a little peaked.”
“Mutt needs a new hobby,” I heard Lolly mutter.
As we went up the steps, I thought: Here we go. Your life's never going to be quite the same again. You'll never think of family quite the same again. I half expected that if I glanced over my shoulder, I'd see Mama and Daddy, standing by the dock, waving goodbye to me. I was a Poteet—I would always be a Poteet—but none of that would matter to these folks. I would be a part of whatever strange collective history the Goertzes had formed, the intangible web of love and hurt that binds families together.
