Promises of Home (29 page)

It was not to be. “Good morning, Jordan,” a frosty voice greeted me, also from the back. Ivalou Purcell came forward, her improbably tinted hair stacked high and her dark lips set in a frown. Her face was a carefully sculpted homage to makeup. A cloud of cheap, citrusy perfume wafted about her and I tried to keep from stepping back as she approached.

“How’s your mother doing?” Ivalou asked, obliquely to be polite. I always find the question well-meaning but bordering on tiresome. What answer do people expect? That she’s getting better? Ivalou’s reedy voice didn’t better my mood. I forced a mannered smile to my face.

“She’s fine, thank you,” I answered. I wondered how I might get Wanda alone to talk without her battle-ready mother.

“I’m glad to hear that, although I think that you should really spend more time taking care of the poor woman and less time gossiping with the mentally deranged,” Ivalou pronounced in a half sneer.

“Excuse me?”

Ivalou smirked. Not a pretty sight. “I had a fascinating conversation with Franklin Bedloe today. My aunt Ludey has been circulating the most ridiculous stories, and when I confronted her on it, she confessed. She said she’d told you her fabrications concerning my daughter and me and Rennie Clifton.”

So much for subtle inquiry. Miss Ludey’s failure to keep her mouth shut had eliminated any chance of gently worming information out of these two. I determined, however, not to go on the defensive. “Miss Ludey simply shared her opinions with me.”

“And you promptly shared them with Franklin Bedloe. I suppose you would; it might shift suspicion off that temperamental sister of yours.” Ivalou folded her twiggy arms, like a schoolteacher daring a misbehaving pupil to contradict her.

I wasn’t intimidated. “My sister isn’t a suspect in Junebug’s shooting. Ed is, unfortunately.”

“Maybe Arlene
should
be a suspect. On the police
shows, they always look to the victim’s lover.” Ivalou sneered the word
lover
like it was a synonym for venereal-disease carrier.

If she wanted to play snotty, fine by me. “Maybe that’s why they should have looked hard at Glenn Wilson when Rennie Clifton died.”

It scored the hit I wanted, but I felt a pang of regret for the dismayed look on Wanda’s face. Ivalou glared fiercely at me and one of her long-nailed fingers jabbed at my face.

“Get out of here,” Ivalou snapped.

“Mother! I’ll thank you not to be barking orders out in my store.” Wanda, ridiculous in her attire, managed a quiet dignity as she faced her mother’s taunting glare. She turned back to me. “I don’t know what silly ideas you’re nursing, Jordan Poteet, but I can tell you that Glenn Wilson had nothing to do with that girl’s death. Her death was an accident.”

“Did you know she was pregnant when she died?” I asked.

Wanda actually reeled. She took three sudden steps back against the counter, as though my words had shoved her with physical force. She found her voice. “No, I didn’t. But it don’t matter. Glenn couldn’t have killed her. He—he was with me during that storm.”

Of course, Glenn wouldn’t be available to confirm that claim. I watched Ivalou, who had gone a shade of plum in her cheeks, her eyes narrowed to slits. “And where were you, Ivalou?”

“That’s none of your business, you asshole. Get out of my daughter’s store.”

“Fine. I’m just asking what Franklin Bedloe’s bound to ask. I heard that he’s reopening Rennie Clifton’s file as a murder case.” I hadn’t heard any such gossip, but the beauty of rumor is that you can invent it on the spot. “Since you were her employer, I’m sure he’ll be questioning you. But, of course, if you’ve got something to hide—”

“I was stuck at home, waiting for Wanda to come back from wherever she was. I didn’t know she was off gallivanting
in the storm with Glenn.” She calmed herself with a long gift of breath. “Make you happy now, Jordy? Not that either of us have to answer to you.”

“You didn’t go to where your family was meeting, Ivalou? If you were so worried about Wanda, I’d think you’d make a beeline to the most likely place she’d be.”

“Fine, Mr. Smart-ass, I wasn’t at home the whole time.” She squared her shoulders. “I went out to the Quadlander farm. I was worried about Hart, wanted to be sure he was okay.”

“Yes, you’ve taken a lot of interest in Hart over the years,” I parried.

“But he wasn’t there. Just that disgusting Louis Slocum, getting drunk on cheap whiskey. Smelled like he’d bathed in it. When I asked him where Hart was, he just started crying and said he’d gone.”

“Where?”

“That old drunk didn’t know. He leered at me—Louis Slocum always was a leering thing, and I never could see why Hart kept that good-for-nothing about—so I turned around and went home.” Ivalou Purcell glared at me with utter loathing. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, Jordan? You’re not.” She shook her head, smiling meanly to emphasize her point. “You come in here, making snide accusations against my family. You have no call, speaking badly of decent people. Not when I know what you are.” She took a step forward, as though to herd me out of the store. “You’re nothing but Bob Don Goertz’s bastard.”

I froze. How did she know? It was known only to me and a few close friends. But then, keeping secrets is often hard in a little town. Not impossible, just hard.

I wasn’t going to insult Bob Don by ignoring the charge. I couldn’t ignore the hot flush in my neck and the disdain in her voice and face. “I don’t see what that has to do with Rennie or Ed.”

“Nothing but a common bastard,” Ivalou began, her voice a taunting singsong, ignoring Wanda’s shocked pleas that she stop. “My daughter at least grew up knowing her
daddy was really her daddy. I didn’t sleep around on her father, and I maintained myself as a respectable widow.”

“Only because,” I retorted hotly, “Hart Quadlander wouldn’t give you the time of day, much less a poke. How many years have you chased him without results, Ivalou?” I pulled myself into my raincoat. “I’m sorry, Wanda. I’m sorry that you have to put up with this woman. Tell Ed I’ll talk to him soon.” Wanda acted like she hadn’t heard me, staring at her mother with a dazed expression. I don’t generally insult my elders, but I wasn’t about to let her slur me—or my parents.

I turned and started to walk out. “Bastard!” Ivalou Purcell screeched at my back. “Bastard, bastard, bastard!”

I consoled myself as I stormed out into the rain that there were much worse things to be called.

I was cussing at myself by the time I got my Blazer started. I’d totally mishandled Ivalou and Wanda, and now getting them to talk about Rennie Clifton would be impossible. I didn’t like that I’d let myself be a blunderbuss when subtlety might have worked. I prided myself on being a gentleman and I’d let a trashmouth like Ivalou Purcell egg me into being a jackass. I felt a sick pang that somehow the gossip chains of Mirabeau had told Ivalou my parental secret. Now that I was firmly etched on her shit list, I supposed she’d broadcast it all over town.

I had no plans to be ashamed—my birth was beyond my control. Bob Don was so inordinately proud of me that no amount of vicious rumormongering would cow him. I felt queasy relief that Mama was beyond caring what anyone said about her. However, I was likely to deal with any fool stupid enough to reproach my mother to me with a sharp tongue—or a sharp jab to the jaw (depending on mood and reproacher).

I found Mark sitting on the porch steps, huddled against the rain, when I got back to Steven Teague’s office. He looked like a cold, miserable puppy in the fine mist.

I walked up to him and he looked up at me with darkly
haunted eyes. “I’m ready to go now, Uncle Jordy. Can we just go home?”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

He clomped through a muddy puddle with total disregard. I caught up with him as he jumped in on the passenger side.

“What the hell has spooked you?” I demanded, pulling his door open again.

“You’re getting me wet,” he said. “I just want to go home, okay?”

I shut his door and went around to the driver’s side. I forced my sour mood out of my face and my voice. Mark was burdened enough right now, and Ivalou Purcell’s snide attack on me wasn’t going to color the way I dealt with him.

“How did your session go?” I asked, hoping he’d feel comfortable enough to talk about it. Lord only knew what I was going to do, though, if he wanted to have a real discussion about his therapy. I lived in mortal fear of sticking my foot in my mouth around him.

He gave a tortured sigh. “Okay. But I don’t have to keep going to see Steven for very long if I don’t want to, do I?”

“Mark, what you’ve been through—I think you have to give it some time, to see if you start feeling better. It’s like if you broke a leg and had to go through physical therapy. You wouldn’t quit that before it was done, because you wouldn’t be able to use your leg as well.” My metaphor sounded sorely strained, but I didn’t know what else to say. What was I suggesting, that he had a sprained heart and soul? “We can’t exactly pretend that you and I didn’t see your daddy die.”

“You’re not going to therapy,” Mark said. I hate it when a teenager’s right.

“No, I’m not. Not yet. Candace and your mother would no doubt maintain there’s not enough therapy in the world to make me normal.” I paused as I turned back onto our street. “Do you want me to go to your sessions with you?”

“Nooooo,” he said, his tone uncertain. He abruptly
changed subjects. “Davis was at Steven’s, too. After you left.”

That was a surprise. But it was important, I considered, to make Mark feel that consulting Steven didn’t automatically qualify one for the Big Scarlet C. “Well, then, that’s good that Davis is getting help.”

“Bradley was with him.”

“Oh, how’s Bradley?” I asked.

Mark didn’t answer right away. I pulled into the driveway and switched off the engine. As I reached for the door handle Mark’s fingers touched my arm.

“I think his daddy beats him.”

I froze. “What?”

“I went to the bathroom after my session. I heard Davis come in the office. He was talking real loud at Steven. Saying that Steven had to help him, he couldn’t go on with how stuff was.”

Mark shifted in his seat, avoiding my astonished gaze. “Steven tried to calm him, but Davis sounded really upset. His voice was all squeaky like. I waited till I heard Steven’s door shut, and then I opened the bathroom door. Bradley was sitting in the waiting room. He’d been crying, his eyes were all bloodshot. He was making this freaky groany noise and he looked at me like he didn’t know me.

“Mark. You better not be joking. Why do you think Davis is beating him?” My throat felt scratchy with tightness.

“I saw … the marks on his arms. Like someone had grabbed him really, really hard and squeezed. Thin bruises. And his face was red, like he’d been slapped. I tried to get him to come outside with me, but he just started moaning sort of and didn’t want to leave the couch.”

“Did you ask him specifically if his daddy had hit him?”

“No, but I did ask him who’d done this. I told him I’d kick whoever’s butt it was for him, and he just started kind of whining and getting upset. He was having trouble not slobbering, and that always means he’s upset.” Mark ran a finger under his nose, looking miserable.

My God. Davis upset, seeking a counselor, with a bruised Bradley in tow. I tried to picture Davis beating his son and the image came easily; Davis losing patience with his son that could never realize his dreams, striking Bradley perhaps even before he knew it.

Bradley had let out a scream to chill blood at Trey’s burial. No, I amended, not at the burial, not at any given moment—but right after Nola Kinnard had double-slapped me. I felt a quiver in my stomach, wondering if Bradley’s cry was because he’d seen or felt slapping lately.

“What are we gonna do?” Mark asked, clearing his throat.

“I don’t know. We don’t know
for sure
that Davis is beating Bradley. I can’t imagine that Cayla would put up with it—unless he’s abusing her, too.” The rain pattered on the car roof while I gathered my thoughts. The air felt clammy and Mark’s suspicions made my stomach do clumsy somersaults. “I don’t know what we can do. Let’s say Davis is beating them. He’s asking for help by going to Steven.”

“But what if it don’t work?” Mark demanded. “We got to get them out of there, Uncle Jordy.”

“It’s not that simple, Mark.” I felt like a cornered lion tamer, sans chair and whip. I had enough of my own troubles to contend with, and selfishly, I didn’t want to tackle the problems of the Foradorys. “I don’t know what we can do without some proof. And if Davis tells Steven he’s beaten Bradley or Cayla, then Steven can contact the proper authorities.”

“But what if he don’t?” Mark pressed. “We can’t leave him there, just for his daddy to whomp on him! It’s not right.”

This couldn’t be happening, I thought. I’d cast my childhood friends into certain statues and now cracks crept up from their bases. Harmless, fun-loving Clevey as a vengeful, guilt-ridden manipulator who was never at peace. The unredeemable Trey as a man who’d perhaps been forced into a hellish choice. And now our rock of propriety, Davis, suggested as a man who couldn’t keep his fists off his
own child. The thought of domestic violence happening with people I’d known for years was eerie and—

Domestic violence. Suddenly I saw Peggy Godkin’s face, bleary in the cafeteria light on the morning Junebug had been shot, telling me about Clevey’s reporting assignments on the paper:
He was working on his usual assignments
—
the city council, the book-review section. And he was researching a feature on domestic violence.

And at Junebug’s, Davis hoisting a toast to our dead friend:
Clevey, our friend and fine reporter. He’ll dig up all the secrets, even if it sends him to hell.

No, it couldn’t be. If Clevey, in researching his story, uncovered battery right in the home of one of Mirabeau’s most prominent lawyers, he’d do something to help Cayla and Bradley, right?

Ed’s voice whispered in my ear:
Clevey was going to buy an interest in KBAV. Said he’d gotten the money from a Louisiana inheritance
…