rehashing all that had happened earlier. First of all, why was Freddy Jacksill in Greg’s room? Or near Greg’s room? The room had been yellow-taped as a crime scene. Was Freddy simply curious? Or had he had some business in Greg’s room he hadn’t wanted anyone to know about? Could he have been involved in Greg’s scam? Surely not, I thought. It would have ruined his business in town. I needed to know a little more about Freddy Jacksill. And the explosion-if it was indeed the work of Mirabeau’s mad bomber-suggested two possibilities. First, Freddy was the bomber and had planned to blow up the Mirabeau B. (or Greg’s room, to be more specific) and the bomb went off prematurely. I thought I could dismiss that theory; Freddy wouldn’t know squat about explosives. Second, the bomb had been placed in Greg’s room and Freddy was just unlucky enough to be there. Why bomb Greg’s room? Perhaps, because of its sudden notoriety in town, it presented itself as an appealing, attention-grabbing target. Why were the bombings happening anyway? Clyda Tepper’s ridiculous doghouse, Fred Boolfors’s town-famous shed without a single tool that belonged to him (not to mention that legendary collection of Playboys), a series of mailboxes exploding in a synchronized dance. There was a strong air of desperate theatricality about the incidents, like a child who throws a particularly creative temper tantrum so he’ll be paid extra attention.
The Loudermilks troubled me, too; an air of unhappiness hung about that family, as though they’d recently suffered a loss. Dee’s being upset, Parker’s weird watching of the fire, Jenny’s crying-perhaps I was conjuring up my own theories about the Loudermilks on flimsy suspicion, but my intuition registered that something wasn’t right in the mayoral mansion. I gave up worrying about all these folks and finally drifted off to sleep. I’ve never been a light sleeper, so I don’t know how long Lorna had been lying next to me in the dark hollow of my bed. Her fingers awakened me, rubbing slowly in an arc from my waist up to the basin between my shoulder blades. A kiss touched the tender joint where neck meets back. I jerked awake, aware of her presence and my own involuntary response. I usually sleep in the buff, so I yanked the sheets up to protect my modesty. My arm throbbed when I leaned against it. “Lorna, what the hell-” “Jordy. Can I call you that, since everyone else does?” she said, her face very near to mine.
“I can’t sleep. I’m scared and I’m lonely. I need to feel you near me.
I resented the position she’d put me in-or wanted to put me in. “It’s not a good idea, Lorna. Really.” “No one has to know. Candace is okay, I don’t want to hurt her. But I have needs, too. I can’t be alone right now. You know how good we are together.” She was pulling at her own robe with one hand and pulling me toward her with the other. I pushed back. “No! It’s not true that no one would know. I would know.
I’m sorry things haven’t worked out between us. But I’m not risking what I have with Candace just because you want a roll in the hay. Now go back to sleep and we’ll talk in the morning.” In the darkness I couldn’t see her face clearly, but her silence spoke for her. “Good night, Jordan. I hope you never need anyone the way I needed you right now.” Her voice was like ice on my skin. When she left the room, I rolled over-somewhat painfully. Until sleep finally claimed me again, I tried not to think of all those wonderful nights in Boston.
CHAPTER TEN
When it’s a pleasant morning, mama likes to sweep the back porch. The exercise is good for her, the doctors say, and I think she might get a vague comfort out of doing a job well. Alzheimer’s patients use simple, repetitive actions as their own security blanket, as though cleaning a porch for six hours replaces having a life full of fear and love and joy and sorrow. The next morning I found Lorna sitting on the back porch with an unusually dapper Mama, talking to her while Mama clenched her favorite broom. As I poured myself a cup of coffee I could hear Lorna’s voice through the screen door. “Of course Jordan isn’t the easiest person to love. I guess you know that.
He likes his own way sometimes, and he can get a little sharp-tongued.
My mother never could stand him; she thought he was a real hick, despite his urbanity when he lived up north. I hope you’re not offended by that, Mrs. Poteet.” The gentle swishing of the broom against wood was the only answer. Mama had been unusually quiet since Lorna’s arrival. I paused by the door, not wanting to listen-but not being able to help myself. This sounded like the Lorna of old, the one who lived behind the bravado, and the one I’d been missing. “I think I understand now how Jordan felt when he lived up north. Missing home doesn’t sound so silly anymore. Of course he had you and Arlene and Mark to come home to. I’ve got a sick fern and a pile of bills.” I coughed loudly in the kitchen and slammed a cupboard door, letting her know I was around. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear much about Lorna’s lonely life up north. Maybe it was lonely now only because Greg was dead. She met my eyes as I came out onto the porch with the coffee, then glanced up toward heaven. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” was all Lorna ventured by means of conversation. I had to agree with her. The Saturday-morning sky was a faultless blue, shimmering toward white in the early-morning warmth. It was going to be another hot summer day, without a hint of rain. Or at least for the next five minutes. They say if you don’t like the weather in Texas, wait five minutes and it’ll change. Summer afternoons often brought quick, drenching showers when moist air pushed in from the Gulf. Afterward, it was like being in a sauna, your clothes adhering to your skin in the heavy humidity.
It wasn’t raining now, though, and I blinked up at the fine blue sky.
It offered a conversational refuge. “Yes, it’s real pretty.” I stared down into my coffee cup. I wasn’t going to ask her how she’d slept.
“I’m going to have to go into the library. Can you entertain yourself for a while?” “I’m quite good at that.” Lorna tucked her feet under her bottom. She glanced over at Mama. “Maybe I’ll just stay here and keep your mother company.” She blinked at me. “I’m sorry I never got to meet her before she got sick.” “Me, too. I think y’all would have liked each other.” I didn’t know what else to say; I didn’t believe that myself. Mama would have thought Lorna far too brassy, I feared. I finished my coffee. “I got to go. I’ll talk to you later.” “Here you are.” Sister strode out onto the deck, nodding a good morning at Lorna. “Are you ready to go over to the cemetery? C’mon, Mama, let’s go. Mark’s in the car.” I felt like I’d walked onto a stage and I didn’t know my next line. “Cemetery? Freddy’s funeral surely isn’t today, is it?” Sister’s green eyes steeled. “Jordan Michael Poteet, you have forgotten that today is the anniversary of Daddy’s death. Six years ago. I thought we’d go over this morning before work and put flowers on his grave.” She glanced at Lorna. “I guess you’ve had too much on your mind.” “Oh, God, Sister, I’m sorry. I totally forgot.
Yes, let’s go and do that now.” My face felt hot with shame and embarrassment. Daddy’s death had just about killed me; he’d been my best friend, my pal, my mentor, until the cancer took him in a slow, agonizing embrace. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten, especially in light of learning that Bob Don was my biological father. “I’ve got an order waiting for us at Neuberg’s Florist,” Sister said, ushering Mama inside and pausing on the doorway. “Lorna, I’m sure you understand that the family needs some privacy right now. Franklin said he could stay on guard until eleven, then they’ll have someone replace him.”
“Of course, Arlene. You guys go on to the cemetery. I’ll be fine.” She forced a smile and followed us inside. The Mirabeau cemetery, lying far from the river on the east side of town, is beautifully maintained-an expanse of clipped grass, marked by marble monuments to lives once lived. A gravel road cuts a circle through the middle; beyond it lie the oldest graves, those with solely German names, denoting the earliest Bavarian colonists who settled the river land.
The dead here start in the 1830s, and in a back corner lie markers with only first names, those of the few slaves that lived in this section of Bonaparte County and only found equality in their cold coffins. I parked my Chevy Blazer near the Poteet section; there were at least twenty tombstones with that surname. My mother’s people, the Schneiders, outnumber the Poteets considerably and there are even some of them in the old German section. I have not ever looked to see how well represented Bob Don’s people are. “My, it’s going to be hot today.” Sister fanned herself with a brochure from the florist as I struggled to pull the wreath out of the back. She’d abandoned her earlier frostiness to me, but I sensed I wasn’t entirely out of the doghouse. Mark stood, holding Mama’s hand. Mama seemed to know she was around old friends and happily gossiped with the breeze. We walked over to Daddy’s grave, looking lonely in its plot of Poteet land. His own parents were a bit farther away, and the plots next to him-the ones reserved for Mama, me, Sister, and Mark-were, of course, empty. I wondered if he missed us as much as I missed him. Sister and I set up the wreath, steadying it against the granite marker. Sister inspected the grave, making sure no fire ants had desecrated our father’s rest.
I stepped back to admire our handiwork. Sister frowned at me, as though I’d missed a cue. “Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?” she demanded. “What? You want me to make a speech?” I pointed at the wreath. “Doesn’t that say enough?” She stared at the flowers, and her tears came quickly. She cried silently for several minutes,
