Distant Blood (14 page)

I had met her very briefly last night, but we'd hardly exchanged more than hellos. “Good morning, Wendy. I don't want to disturb your work, I just wanted to get some coffee….”

“Oh, hi, c'mon in,” she said. Her voice sounded tired, as though she hadn't slept well. I saw she'd already poured herself a large cup of cream-laced coffee and a cigarette sat burning in an ashtray, a plume of smoke rising from its cin-dery end. “Did you sleep okay, Jordan?”

“Not really.” I started looking in cupboards for a cup. Wendy quickly produced one, an old-fashioned big white mug. She filled it for me, offered me cream and sugar. The rich, comforting smell of French roast wafted over me like airborne nectar.

“The beach is beautiful in the morning, if you're of a mind for a walk. And this is one of the nicest times of the year to see all the wildflowers,” she said. I wasn't sure if that was a polite way of ushering me out of the kitchen, but I didn't want to leave.

“Thanks, but if you don't mind, I'd like to stay here and drink my coffee.”

“Suit yourself.” Wendy sat back down at the table, took a long draw off her cigarette, and sipped at her coffee. She regarded me with frank eyes. I remained quiet, sipping at the hot brew. She hadn't seemed inclined to engage in idle
conversation, but since I'd made myself comfortable, she deigned to speak.

“Hard day for Mutt ahead.”

“I think he has harder—and fewer—days ahead,” I pointed out.

Wendy stared down at her coffee. “Each day brings us one day closer to our deaths. He's not going to think much about his own problems today. Dying people still grieve.” She shook her head and took a long draw on her cigarette. I thought her too young to have such a dark outlook; but I had no idea where life had taken her. Her journeys might have been far tougher than mine.

“He's a good employer?” I kept my voice neutral.

“The best. He's been a kind friend to me, and I will miss him terribly when he's gone.” She stubbed out her cigarette and quickly lit another. “I don't usually chain-smoke, but these aren't usual days.”

I studied her over the rim of my coffee cup. She puzzled me. She didn't speak with a noticeable Vietnamese accent, and she didn't have an easy Southern drawl like the rest of the household. I'd wondered if she was from one of the hundreds of Vietnamese families that had settled in fishing towns along the Texas coast.

I ventured forward with dark humor: “I guess not. An illegitimate son turns up, the family patriarch announces he's terminally ill, and his sister dies. If this is usual, get me the hell out of here.”

She didn't grin and I saw her face was vacant of the wear of laugh lines. Wendy Tran suddenly struck me as a woman who would smile sparingly.

“I'm curious,” she asked. “Just why are you here? Bob Don says you're his son, but you don't seem to act like a father and son yet.”

“We're not quite there yet.” I stirred my coffee.

“I figured he hadn't acknowledged you before because you were too embarrassing to him.”

“You must not know Bob Don well,” I countered. “He's a very fine man.” I felt a quickening anger fill my face. How
dare she sit in judgment of Bob Don? “I'm here because I do care about Bob Don. He asked me to come, so I did.”

Wendy didn't comment immediately, but got up, refilled her cup, and offered the pot to me. I shook my head. “I seem to have hit your sore spot,” she observed without further comment. I had an uncomfortable feeling that said sore spot had been filed away for future reference.

“I take it you don't care much for Mutt's family,” I bludgeoned back in response. I shouldn't have felt ticked at her, but I did. She glided back to her chair and sat down, curling one leg beneath her.

“It doesn't matter what I think of the Goertzes. They're Mutt's family, he's my employer.”

“My charming aunt Sass wasn't kind toward you last night.”

“Sass drinks too much, and what she does is of no concern to me.” Wendy poured a dollop of cream in her coffee and watched the milky swirl for a moment before destroying it with a vigorous stir of her spoon. “Do you think I would pay one bit of attention to anything that woman says?”

My personal opinion was that Wendy would not forget a single utterance against her; even if her implacable face never gave a moment's reaction. I didn't venture that opinion, however. I glanced up to see that she was carefully studying my face, as though cataloguing each individual element in it. She caught my eye and didn't blink or look away.

I took a comforting sip of coffee. “How long have you worked here?”

“About a year. I was working as a cook for a caf6 in Port Lavaca and I hated it—it was a disgusting, greasy place. Mutt came in one day, had my meat loaf for lunch, and offered me a job on the spot.”

“Are you from the coastal bend originally?”

“No. From here and there. I wandered around a lot as a kid.” She stood. “If you don't mind, I need to get breakfast started. I've got biscuits to make and Jake likes his orange juice fresh-squeezed.”

“Sure,” I said, taking the hint. I quickly refilled my coffee and left Wendy to her work. I found the study deserted and used the phone to call Sister.

“How's it going?” was her first question.

I explained the night's events, interrupted only by Sister's occasional “oh my Lord.” When I was done, she sputtered, “Well, when do y'all get to come back home?”

“Don't know. Depends on what the autopsy shows. I can't figure it out, Sister. The authorities here know Mutt Goertz, know his family—and seem to think that maybe something's up. I can't put my finger on it.”

“Come home,” she said immediately. “They can't possibly think you had any involvement with this, you don't even know these folks.”

“Sister, I can't. Bob Don needs me and anyway, none of us can leave the county until the autopsy results are back. So says the justice of the peace.”

“This wasn't a good idea,” Sister blurted. “I knew it wasn't.”

“You were all for me coming here—” I fumed. “At least, you were after you and Candace confabbed in the cafe.”

“Well—” She sounded shamed. “Candace told me that Bob Don's uncle was awful wealthy, and we decided it couldn't hurt for you to get to know him….” Her voice trailed off.

“Sister. I can't believe this!”

“Oh, for God's sake. We didn't mean any harm. We just figured it was just as easy to love your new family if they were rich instead of poor. Don't get your drawers in a knot. And be mad at me, don't be mad at Candace.”

I promised her I'd call back soon, assured her again we were all fine, and hung up. Good Lord. I'd thought Candace had unblemished motivations in encouraging me to take this trip. She and I were due for a little chat when she arose this morning.

I ambled out to the porch. I heard a voice—unmistakably Uncle Jake's raspy whine. At the corner of the wraparound porch to the left of the front door, Aubrey had settled Uncle Jake down into a high-backed wicker chair. Or at least I
thought Jake was settled down. No sooner did I step out onto the porch than Jake whacked at Aubrey's white-trousered leg and bellowed, “Goddamn it, Aubrey, let me be. You're fixing to give me a spell.”

Aubrey wasn't put off by a smack with a cane. I saw he was also holding the bereaved Sweetie close to his cheek, and he cuddled the hapless Chihuahua closer. “That's okay, Uncle Jake. Give in to your anger. You've lost your primary caretaker—,”

“And I'm about to lose the most irritating relative God gave breath to!” Uncle Jake poked at Aubrey again. “I don't want to hold Sweetie right now. And I don't want to get in touch with my wounded self or whatever blather it is you're spouting. I want you to leave me alone!”

“That's it, Uncle Jake.
Vent.
Then breathe. Then vent again.”

“Aubrey.” I came up and gently touched his shoulder. “Let's not get Uncle Jake excited. He's got a heart condition, remember?”

“Yeah! And no medication!” Uncle Jake added. “Are you trying to shove me into the grave, Aubrey?” He palpated his hand against his chest, as though suffering from the vapors.

“Uncle Jake's heart condition,” Aubrey answered icily, “is that he's forgotten what it is to have a heart!”

“Thffffffffffffft,” Uncle Jake replied, with his lips and tongue and dentures.

“Uncle Jake, you always hurt those who try to help you.” Aubrey crossed his arms, squeezing Sweetie protectively. The little dog's eyes rolled.

“Aubrey, you're a pain. Let me sit here and enjoy the morning. I probably got fewer than a thousand of 'em left to savor. You ain't helping my mood, 'cause I didn't sleep well.”

“Sleeplessness is common in a loss like this,” Aubrey said. “Especially when one is in denial of grief. Why, if you'd just let yourself cry, Uncle Jake, you'd dream with the angels.”

“Somebody gonna be acquiring angel wings real soon,” Uncle Jake replied.

“Listen, y'all!” I demanded. They glanced at me with real surprise. “Aubrey, why don't you go get Sweetie some breakfast? I'm sure he's feeling lonely for Lolly and I know he'd respond to you paying him lots of attention.”

Aubrey mulled over this new opportunity for therapy, murmured a polite “What a wonderful suggestion, Cousin Jordan,” and retreated from the porch, the unfortunate Sweetie in tow.

“Well, ain't you a smart one,” Uncle Jake chortled. “Better that damn dog than me have to suffer Aubrey's foolishness.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Oh, that plumb wore me out. I'm feeling a tad peaked. Do you think you could go fetch me some orange juice, nephew?” His voice had taken on a whine I freely admit to not caring for. But I wasn't about to deny an old man his morning pick-me-up. Even if I suspected his use of an endearment toward me was just to propel me faster toward the kitchen.

“Sure, Uncle Jake. I'll be right back.” I ducked back into the house, found Wendy hadn't started on the juice yet, fixed it myself with fresh oranges, and brought a glass back to Uncle Jake. He snatched it from me as soon as I handed it to him.

“Took you long enough,” he snapped, downing half the glass in a long swallow.

“Well, those oranges don't squeeze themselves,” I responded, a bit peeved. I don't mind doing jobs for folks, but I at least like to be appreciated. I reminded myself that Aunt Lolly had nursed Jake and that he needed watching over.

Uncle Jake watched me over the pulp-smeared rim of his glass. His eyes were a dark hazel, framed with sagging flesh. His mouth worked as he wiped the bits of orange from his teeth with his tongue. His face was gaunt and narrow; I thought he must have been loose-limbed and athletic in his youth. “You ever in the military, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“I'm a World War One vet. Whaddaya think of that, huh?”

“It's very impressive.”

“You know what it makes me, boy? Hard to kill.”

I blinked and leaned against the railing. “Excuse me?”

“I'm a tough old fart. Don't forget it.”

“I certainly won't. Is there a reason why you're assuring me of your indestructibility?”

“God. Now you sound like that clown Aubrey.”

“Sorry. I'm just trying to follow the path of your conversation.”

He snorted. “Just setting the record straight. Now that Lolly's gone, and Mutt'll be gone soon, I ain't gonna go into no dadburn nursing home. I got years ahead of me still. And I done made enough sacrifices for this family.” He glanced off toward the horizon, as though to reassure himself that Death wasn't charging forward to claim him early, having already scooped up Lolly. I shivered and he saw it, his eyes appraising me with cold calculation.

“You lived here with Lolly, is that correct?” I asked.

“Yep. For the past four years. Before that, we lived over in Corpus Christi.”

“I'm sure Mutt will want you to stay here,” I said reassuringly.

I could understand his fear. I have my own horror of nursing homes, from the time when my grandfather was forced into one. Our visits to him were painfully brief; a stench of guilt pervaded our family every time we stood and tried to make small talk in his dormitory-like room. We felt suffocated there; but what we felt could have only been a fraction of his suffering. He had loved and given and provided to us for his entire life, and the last years of it were spent rooming with a toothless crazy man from La Grange. My grandfather ate food cooked by other people; watched TV with folks he'd never seen before; spent his nights staring at the ceilings, lonesome for his own kin. Hi, you're sick and old and we don't need you anymore, so in you go to the human junkyard, Papaw. I hate those goddamn places.

“Hell. Him gone, Lolly gone, Sass and Bob Don'I stick me in a nursing home faster than you can spit.”

“There's plenty of money, Uncle Jake. Maybe they could
provide you with a live-in nurse.”
And why haven't they before ? Why did that burden fall on Lolly when Mutt could easily hire a nurse for you?
I kept my musings to myself.

“They ain't gonna do me no favors.” Uncle Jake stared out at the whitecaps dancing across Matagorda Bay. “Always thought I'd be the first to go. 'Less Lolly went and killed herself.”

“You think Lolly committed suicide?”

He shrugged. “Can't say that to Mutt—who wants to figure that their baby sister killed herself? But she was slowly going crazy, getting as nutty as a fruitcake.”

“I don't understand.”

He squinted at me in the morning brightness. “Hell, boy, were you deaf last night? Didn't you hear her lay into most of the family?”

“I thought—”

“What? That she was just meaner than eight acres of snakes?” He shook his head in silence. “Lolly never cottoned much to Deb or Gretchen, that's true. But as of late, she'd started turning on the whole family. Talking crazy, talking wild. Never made no sense. She used to kid about that dog being Charles come back to her, but I think she'd truly begun believing it.” He stared off at a bird swooping low over the bay. “That's a brown pelican—watch him dive!” The pelican suddenly swooped into the water, swallowed its catch, and flapped back into flight. Jake watched the bird with pleasure. “They nearly died off in the Sixties round 'bout here. But they're survivors, just like old me.”

I steered the conversation back toward Lolly's eccentricities. “You said she was getting less stable. Were you afraid she might take her own life?”