Faithful Unto Death

by Stephanie Jaye Evans

  I wondered if Honey had loved the stories, but had stopped loving the man.

  “With Graham gone, I don’t know who I am.”

  Her face crumpled and she flung her head back dramatically and bumped it hard on the wrought-iron frame that surrounded the cushions.

  “Oh! Dang it!” She put her hands up to rub the back of her head and giggled a little, unnervingly. “You see what I get for being a drama queen.” There was a big sigh and she picked up the toilet paper roll and held it close to her flattened bosom. “So, you see, it’s true. I did not kill Graham.”

  She looked at me from under her lashes.

  “Not that I’d tell you if I had.” She gave that giggle again.

  The pretty police officer stuck her head in the door. “Mrs. Garcia? Detective Wanderley is back and he’d like a few words.”

  I stood up and put my hand under Honey’s arm to steady her, the way you do with an old person. I could feel the toned muscles, yet her skin felt loose over the muscle.

  Detective James Wanderley was squatting near the mail flap in the front door, shuffling through the mail on the floor. He gave us a glance when he heard us, then went back to the mail in his hand. He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed to be caught going through someone else’s mail. He rose up and was about to put the mail on the foyer table. Cruz came in and snatched the mail from his hand. Annie Laurie was right behind her. Annie, ever friendly and welcoming, something I normally like about her, put her hand out to the young man.

  “Hi, I’m Annie Laurie, Bear’s wife.”

  Wanderley took her hand and held it longer than I felt courtesy required.

  “Bear?”

  “Oh, you know, Walker here. Only strangers call him Walker. Everybody else calls him Bear.”

  I didn’t need to see Wanderley’s pie-eating grin to see where this was going to end up.

  “I hope you won’t mind, then, if I call you ‘Bear’? Since we’ll be seeing so much of each other.”

  I nearly answered back in a way I would have had to repent for, but Annie, all unaware, saved me.

  She slapped Wanderley on the arm and said, “Course he doesn’t mind. Bear’s the friendliest man you’ll find in Sugar Land. He hates to stand on formality.”

  Sometimes that woman is way too familiar.

  I said, “If you’re going to be questioning Mrs. Garcia, I’d like her to have legal counsel present. That all right with you, Honey? I’ll give Glenn Carter a call.”

  Honey had the waistband of her pants gathered in one hand. Surely she had some clothes to fit her. Or a belt. Or a safety pin. Since Honey had plenty of money to buy clothes after her weight loss, I wondered if she was wearing her old clothes to emphasize her new slimness. Bad decision.

  Honey looked startled at the mention of calling a lawyer. “Why, Glenn’s not that kind of lawyer, Bear, Glenn does, like, I don’t know, land things, oil—”

  I cut her off. “I know that, but he’ll know someone to call—”

  Wanderley said, “It really isn’t necessary, I only—”

  “It is necessary. Mrs. Garcia is upset and worn out; she’s had a terrible tragedy. I want her to have someone who’s familiar with the system sitting—”

  “I’m familiar with the system and I’ll be sitting—”

  “Someone who’s on her side sitting—”

  “Mr. Wells, I’m on her side. I’m trying to find out who killed her husband this morning. That’s what she wants, too, isn’t that right, Mrs. Garcia? Now she and I are going to—”

  “Honey isn’t going into a closed room with you; she is not going to say one word to you!”

  We were in each other’s faces at this point, and if we weren’t exactly yelling at each other, we had certainly passed the point of raised voices. Honey and Annie were staring. Cruz had come back after depositing the mail someplace and looked ready to forcibly eject us both. Then a red Ford F-150 on monster tires took the circular drive at a speed that sent a spray of gravel pinging against my car.

  Alex Garcia jumped out of the cab and hooked a bulky backpack over his shoulders. He had his father’s sharp good looks, not yet fully developed. His dark blond hair was in his eyes and past his shoulders, unfashionably long. I was surprised the Garcias allowed that hair.

  Through the beveled glass front door, the five of us watched him. He took a step and stopped, taking in the police cars. One hand went to his chest like he was feeling for a heartbeat. He rubbed at something under his shirt. Alex looked at the police cars, looked at my car, and turned and looked at his own truck. I’d have wanted to get in and drive off, too.

  “Alex is home,” said Cruz.

  Indeed he was. All five feet eleven inches of skinny, gangly, sixteen-year-old angst shuffled toward the front door. His huge sneakers kicked up nearly as much gravel as his truck had.

  It looked to me that he was having the same wardrobe problem his mother had; his pants rode low, displaying sea-blue boxers with hula girls printed all over them. His head was lowered and that hair was fanned across his face, but he had to be aware of the faces behind the glass door.

  Wanderley opened the door and everyone but Cruz spilled out to meet him. Without a glance, Alex walked past us, his mother, too, and said to Cruz as he passed her, “I skip one lousy day of school and she calls the cops?”

  Alex was in the kitchen pulling food out of the refrigerator before we got back inside and shut the front door.

  Honey was in tears. I went into the kitchen and put my arm around Alex’s shoulders, leading him back toward the living room; he didn’t let go of the ziplock of deli meat and carton of coconut water he was clutching.

  I was saying, “Alex, let’s bring your mother in here for a moment …”

  Alex rolled his eyes and sighed, “One lousy day.”

  I saw Wanderley following and I let go of Alex to face him. “This is going to be private, Wanderley, so why don’t you—”

  He grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me over to the dining room. I was surprised by how strong his grip was.

  That fellow put his nose about two inches from mine and hissed at me, “You listen here, Bear”—he put unnecessary emphasis on the nickname—“I’m going to be in there when you tell that boy his father is dead, see. He’s a suspect. I don’t care how many youth group meetings he’s attended, or if he passes the collection plate on Sundays or if God gave him a free pass saying he can skip Judgment Day and go right on up to Heaven.

  “Now I plan to sit there quiet and observe, but if you give me one quarter-cup’s worth of trouble over this, then I’m going to call three of my officers in here, including the pretty little miss with the bouncy ponytail, you try to imagine how embarrassing that would be, and I’m going to have them escort your own high holiness right down to the station on the grounds that you are interfering with my investigation. And I’m going to call a reporter I know at the Chronicle and make sure she’s there to see you get booked, because it will make exactly the kind of human interest story she specializes in. Won’t all that publicity make this mess that much easier for the grieving widow and son? You hear what I’m saying, preacher?”

  I heard what he was saying and I was about two seconds away from decking him when Cruz appeared in front of us in the dining room, her arms crossed over the white apron that stretched across her abundant bosom.

  “Bear. That boy’s daddy died this morning,” she said. “You going to get your bottom in there and break the news to him, or you going to make his momma do it? You”—she pointed her chin at Wanderley—“probably you need to be there, too. Alex is going to have questions for you. Maybe you have some for him.”

  We stood there breathing hard for a minute. Wanderley shot his cuffs and walked away. He really did. Shoot his cuffs, I mean. Never did know what that meant until I saw Wanderley do it. I went after him but Cruz caught me by the sleeve. My rolled-up shirtsleeve, so there was no way I could shoot my cuffs right back.

  “You a man of God, Be
ar. Who the hell you fighting for right now? Your God come into any of this? I have to tell you, I don’t see Him.”

  She left me there. She was right. It was all me and none of Him. I leaned my head against the wall and said a prayer. I didn’t do much better than, “Please, God, please, God, please, God,” but I knew He understood. I waited to feel His peace. I’m not sure I got it. But I gathered myself and walked into the living room.

  Three

  Detective James Wanderley stood by the fireplace, one elbow on the mantel. Honey Garcia was trying to get Alex to sit down, but Alex was having none of it and shook her off, dropping the bag of lunch meat and the empty crushed drink carton on a side table.

  “What, Mom? Just say whatever psycho-crazy plan you’ve come up with, right? I’m sick of this shit. My grades are better than yours ever were, and something else”—Alex’s eyes got mean—“I don’t drink in the morning.”

  Honey’s hand went to Alex’s face, and hovered for a second, poised between a slap and a caress. She put her palm against his cheek and breathed out his name.

  “Oh, Alex.” There was shame and grief and shock in those two words.

  Alex stepped out of her touch, his hands up and out.

  “No. Look. I’m sorry. Did you think it was a secret? Did you think I didn’t know? Just … Look. Don’t make it such a drama. Everything’s always such a big freaking drama with you.”

  Alex looked over, noticing me in the door of the room. He moved closer to his mom and his voice dropped. “I’m sorry I said that in front of Mr. Wells. I’m not the one who got him involved, though. I mean, for real? You’ve got a cop and the preacher over here because I cut school?”

  I came forward and again put my arm around his shoulders. I said, “Alex, would you sit down for a minute? I want—”

  He shook his head and slipped out from under my arm. “You want to say something? Just say it, okay? Could we just be done with this?”

  The kid looked like a cornered raccoon, desperate and ready to fight back. His eyes were dark-circled. His face was tight. And he didn’t yet know that his father was dead. At least I didn’t think he knew.

  I said, “Alex, Detective Wanderley and I are here because your father died this morning. The police think it’s murder. I’m so sorry, son.”

  He cocked his head at me, and those big eyes got bigger. “What?”

  I started to say it again but Alex put out a hand to stop me. He turned to his mother, all the near-adult mannerisms gone. His face was a child’s, looking to his mom to ward off disaster.

  He said, “Mom?”

  Honey’s face was confirmation. She went to him, her arms open, but before she reached the boy, his eyes rolled up and Alex dropped to the ground. His head hit the hardwood floor with a thunk.

  Honey started screaming and I began to have some sympathy for Alex’s charge that his mother got too dramatic. Wanderley was beside the boy before I could react, calling to his sergeant to get an ambulance. He put his fingers against Alex’s throat, hand against his chest, lifted an eyelid. He turned Alex’s head to the side. The boy’s face was the color of celery.

  Wanderley said, “Wells, see if you can get a cushion under his butt and another under his feet.”

  I pulled at a seat cushion but it wouldn’t budge. It was hooked on to the back of the chair somehow so I gave it up and tucked Alex’s backpack under his butt and lifted his heels onto the sofa seat.

  I got on my knees and checked the back of the kid’s head. No blood.

  Honey was still screaming, so I said, “Honey, shut that up now and get me a cold cloth for his face.”

  She kept screaming and now Cruz and Annie Laurie were in the room, adding to the melee.

  Wanderley shouted out an order to his sergeant and dragged Honey over to a chair. He put both hands on her shoulders and got his face right up into hers.

  He said, in a calm, loud voice, “Mrs. Garcia. I need you to look at me. Please stop screaming right now.” The “now” came out sharp and hard and it was like flipping a switch. She stopped.

  “Alex is going to be okay. He fainted. He’s had a shock.”

  We heard the front door burst open and an old man’s voice.

  “Honey! Honey! It’s gonna be all right, Daddy’s here!”

  Alex stirred and bolted up. His blue eyes were wide and staring and blank.

  He said, “Mom! I can’t see!”

  Honey started screaming again.

  It’s not more than a twelve-minute drive from the Garcias’ to Methodist Sugar Land, less if you have a siren on the roof. The ambulance beat us there. HD Parker’s chauffer-driven 1980s Bentley beat us there. By the time Annie Laurie and I hit the emergency room, Alex had been admitted and was already being seen by a doctor.

  We were ushered to the room and found Alex prostrate, the doctor bending over him and murmuring softly. Honey was rocking back and forth in a plastic chair, moaning like the Water Ghost of Harrowby Hall while Cruz exhorted her to get a hold of herself and act like a grown-up. Beanie, Honey’s willowy, wilted-looking mother, stood close to Alex and kept a hand on his ankle as if she could tether him to this earth with her frail fingers.

  HD Parker, however, had no interest in acting like a grown-up and instead was acting like a Grand Pooh-Bah—barking orders at the nurses and demanding that Dr. Michael DeBakey be brought in for his grandson. That was going to be a problem not only because the great DeBakey was a cardiologist and not a neurologist or whatever was needed here, but also had died in 2008. Maybe HD could get ninety-year-old Denton Cooley to come in and check out the head bump instead.

  The doctor with Alex straightened up and turned, and Annie Laurie and I both exclaimed, Annie with a little more enthusiasm than me.

  “Dr. Fallon!”

  Dr. Malcolm Fallon was a relatively new member of our church—I knew he was a medical doctor, but hadn’t put together that he was still practicing. He had to be, well, old. He’d moved to Sugar Land a couple of years ago to be close to his son and grandchildren and had tried out a number of churches before coming to ours. I think our church was still in the probationary period for Fallon, and I wasn’t sure we were going to pass. He’d had some criticism for several of my sermons—for instance, he thought I put way too much emphasis on grace and not nearly enough on law.

  Fallon had really let me have it after I’d had the temerity to give a Memorial Day service last year. Evidently he didn’t think anyone but a veteran had the right to speak on the subject. After services, Fallon wanted to know if I’d ever served my country and I asked him if being an Eagle Scout counted. He didn’t think that was funny. Fallon wanted to know why I’d never served my country, and I replied that the draft had ended some ten or so years before my eligibility. That was the wrong answer. Fallon found it even more offensive that I would have to be “compelled” to serve.

  I’ve never been the biggest George W. fan, but I had some real sympathy for the man about then—I don’t think of myself as a draft dodger; the military simply hadn’t ever occurred to me as a career path. Fallon made me feel ashamed. Every time I ran into the man, I felt a little ashamed.

  Fallon himself, as he’d let me know, had served as an Air Force doctor during the Vietnam War, and even if “the U.S.A.” had betrayed that tiny nation, he, at least, had kept his promises. As he’d spoken, he’d drawn himself up stiff and straight, and honest to goodness, if I’d had a medal in my pocket, I’d have pinned it to his lapel, because the moment seemed to call for something like that.

  I’d been at a total loss as to what to say afterward, and I’ve never quite lost my awkwardness with Fallon, which was inconvenient seeing as I frequently ran into him around the neighborhood. Plus somehow Fallon got put on the building committee in addition to the new members class he led, and I had to go to building committee meetings.

  So on top of having had a pretty harrowing morning so far, now I had to deal with a man who didn’t much approve of me. He did like Annie Laurie. Ever
yone likes Annie Laurie. Not that she ever served in the military, either.

  I put my hand out to shake, but Fallon put a finger up to tell me to wait. He leaned over to whisper something to Alex, who shook his head and covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow. Alex was crying. Dr. Fallon patted the boy’s shoulder and walked over to the counter.

  He filled a paper cup with water and brought it to Honey. Fallon had an orange tablet on his open hand and he squatted next to her chair.

  The door burst open and HD entered the room. I had never met Honey’s father before today. Honey must have gotten her height from her mother, because a bantam rooster stood in front of me. Parker was five foot six with a Sam Spade chest and a jaw that stuck out a good twelve inches farther than the rest of his face. Okay, not twelve inches. But yes, that old man had a jutting jaw. He could have been the caricature of a Marine sergeant were it not for his height and his immaculately tailored suit.

  “Honey! Don’t you dare take those filthy drugs! Don’t you pollute the temple of your body! Doctor, my daughter will not be taking any mind-altering, hoodoo pills, and you aren’t needed here anymore. Alex, don’t you worry, HD has everything under control. I’ve got a neurologist, he’s the best in the whole wide world, and he doesn’t ever leave the loop, but he’s coming all the way out here to Sugar Land to see you just because your granddaddy told him to. No one but the best is going to lay hands on HD Parker’s grandson, so sit tight. I’ll take care of it.”

  Mrs. Parker said, “Now, HD,” in a tone of voice that made it clear that nothing she said was going to make a lick of difference in HD’s behavior.

  Dr. Fallon stood up, his knees creaking. He looked down on Parker without expression.

  “You need to leave my examination room.”

  Parker’s eyebrows rose as his jaw dropped. He caught it and snapped his mouth shut.

  “That’s my grandson you have on that table! Honey is my daughter! Honey’s preacher boy is over there in the corner with his little bit of fluff and you want me to leave?”

  Wait. “Preacher boy”? Really? And did he just call my wife a “little bit of fluff”?