easier.
She went on: “Bob Don bringing you here to his family- and you agreeing to come-is a real statement about your relationship as father and son.”
“You sound like Aubrey.”
“God forbid. Anyhow-you can't surrender when it gets tough. So far, being Bob Don's son has mostly consisted of him putting you up on a throne and you feeling a little awkward about his adoration. Now the real work begins.”
“You know, I don't need a new dad. My old one was just fine.” I closed my eyes and an image of my father appeared, his arms open for me to run into, pride shining in his face. He always smelled of Old Spice and he could cook wonderful blueberry pancakes on Saturday mornings. I would watch him pour the mixture onto the griddle and giggle when the batter bubbled along the edges, the fragrance of the pancakes heavenly and comforting. When I was old enough he let me turn the pancakes, coaching me through this simplest of acts. When he died in the Mirabeau hospital, the cancer had eaten through him like a miniature shark. I held his hand, my nose wrinkling with his terrible odor of sickness and impending death, and he'd joked he couldn't get any good blueberry pancakes in the hospital, would I fix him a batch and sneak them in? His fingers had felt paper-thin with weakness against my own. I agreed and smiled, determined he would not see my tears. Daddy hated crying. I hated he'd made me cry. I'd gone home, fixed him our special blueberry pancakes, then snuck them back into his hospital room. He never ate them because he never regained full consciousness.
He died two days later, adrift in a delirium of painkillers. I had not been able to eat or prepare blueberry pancakes since-a silent salute to my father's memory.
Candace saw I was lost in a maze of memories. She touched my arm gently and I focused on her face as she spoke. “Was Lloyd Poteet so perfect? Talk about pedestals, Jordy. If Bob Don puts you up on one, you've got your daddy up on the World Trade Center.”
I sat up. “That's not true.”
“I've never, ever heard you mention one incident where your father ever annoyed you. Not one time. Lord knows that's not normal. I wonder if you ever think about anything wrong that he did.”
“I won't betray my father's memory by badmouthing him.”
“You really are a piece of work. How is Bob Don supposed to compete with your perfect father? He can't. He shouldn't have to. Does he have to measure up to Lloyd Poteet for you to care about him? To love him, or acknowledge him fully?”
I stood and rubbed my eyes. “This discussion is pointless. You can't understand.”
“Horse hockey.” Candace crossed her arms. “Stop beating everyone with this poor-little-old-me crap, Jordan. I suggest you just be yourself, let Bob Don be himself, and quit dwelling on your father all the time. You have another father-get used to it.”
“I have a new uncle, too,” I retorted. “I mean, isn't that the real reason that we're here? Do you give a crap about Bob Don, or do you just want me to suck up to Mutt for his money?”
“Jordan! Good God-”
“I talked to Sister this morning. She told me about the two of you thinking it might not be half-bad for me to ingratiate myself with Uncle Mutt so a little of that money'd head my way.”
“Your sister,” Candace said slowly, “felt sick and jealous and scared at the idea of you getting a whole new family. I told her that Mutt was wealthy because it seemed to make her feel a little better. I don't give a rat's ass whether or not you get a cent from him. And I can't believe you think so little of me.” She stormed to her door and opened it. “Would you mind? I'd like to be alone for a while.”
“Candace-” I tried. But I could see she wasn't in a chatting mood. I left.
Like a sulky teenager, I took refuge in my room. The down pillows were soft against my face and smelled pleasantly old. I tossed and turned, wishing I could find solace in a nap. But sleep eluded me as much as deciding on a course of action.
I hated to admit that Candace had a point. But I couldn't easily jettison the memories of Lloyd Poteet as my one and only father. He had been too good to me, too kind, slaving away at a job he didn't care much for to help send me to the best university in Texas. Did I have to besmirch his memory to let Bob Don in? No, I wouldn't. Her argument made no sense. My father had been perfect. He had been. A whirl of memories danced through my head: my father's beaming pride at my graduation from Rice, joy lighting his face when I won a track medal in district competition, his easy grin when I told him a new Aggie joke. I wanted my daddy back, and not to be among these mean-hearted, sniping, difficult strangers who treated me like the plague.
I chided myself for childish silliness.
I heard the creak of a door down the hall and thought maybe Candace was coming to talk again-or to let me apologize. I hated fighting with her and decided to meet her halfway. I opened my door slowly, a crack, to see if it was her in the hall. It wasn't.
Deborah Goertz, on tiptoe, paused before Aunt Lolly's room. I watched her gingerly open the door so it wouldn't creak and duck in quickly, easing the door shut behind her. I wondered why she was prowling so quietly; if she was just fetching some item from Aunt Lolly's room, why bother with stealth? I shut my door to its barest crack and waited.
A few moments later Deborah stepped out of the room, inched the door shut, and rapidly stole down the hall. I counted to ten then opened my own door. No one was taking a nap as far as I knew, so I couldn't imagine why she crept. Unless it was because she didn't want to he heard or seen.
I went to Aunt Lolly's door and nudged it open with my fingers. The door didn't creak; Deborah needn't have worried. I entered and shut the door behind me. I considered locking it for a moment and decided against it; if someone found me snooping in here, I couldn't explain why the door was bolted.
Lolly kept her room ornately decorated. A plush dog's bed with SWEETIE stenciled on the downy pillow sat in a corner, a small water bowl and food dish nearby. On one bureau a box of doggie treats stood, open. I could envision Lolly sitting on her bed, cajoling her precious pet with a treat and giggling with delight when she dropped it and Sweetie jumped in midair. Of course, this was entirely my own conjecture; she might have just dropped the morsel on the floor while Sweetie sauntered over and gobbled it at his own pace. But I thought that Lolly, who did not seem to take much pleasure in other people, and her pet must've shared many happy moments together in this room.
Linen curtains decorated the window, and the furniture looked antique. A side table held a lamp, a worn back issue of Southern Living, and an intercom system-probably to summon her to Uncle Jake's first-floor room if he needed help. A notepad sat by the combination phone/answering machine, with scribblings such as Philip – arrives 2:00 PM, Call Jake's doctor, and Call Aubrey (713) 555-2344.
Photos covered much of the floral wallpaper. Old pictures, their edges brownish with age, mixed in with newer snapshots. There was a photo of a far younger Lolly and Mutt, wind blowing their hair as they leaned against a car that looked like a '40s Ford. Lolly's smile was lazy and sweet, full of promise. She had been a decidedly pretty girl, with darker features than I'd come to think of as being classically Goertz. Mutt looked handsome and tough. I would not have tangled with him in a bar fight; and I'm sure that women found him exceedingly attractive. Sandwiched between the two of them was a handsome woman with lightish brown hair and a merry grin. Their mother, I guessed. I recalled from one of Gretchen's interminable monologues that her name was Claudia and she was from Louisiana, my great-grandfather's second wife. Her teeth were beautiful, framed in a touching smile. She was enjoying a good day with her beautiful children. Why shouldn't she be happy?
A photo next to this contented picture was of a rakish fellow with dark hair and eyes, his hair slicked back and his shirt collar not entirely clean. He did not look like a Goertz or a Zimmerhanzel or a Bedrich; I guessed that he might be Charles Throckmorton, Lolly's deceased husband. He smiled pleasantly, as though having a picture taken for his wife was a right likable chore. My great-uncle. I felt an inexplicable relief that he had not seen Lolly, her face purpling, her chest shuddering. He looked like the kind of man who would never recover from such a deepening shock; he would have held her dying body in his arms and cursed the gods for taking her from him, grief molding an anger that would never relent.
I shook my head; I was filling my mind full of nonsensical fantasies based simply on old photographs. Claudia Toussaint Goertz could have been an unfeeling witch who posed well for the camera and Charles Throckmorton might've been a bear of a man who never showed a glimmer of real affection to his wife. I had to stop inventing stories to go with faces; such flights were stumbling blocks to truth. I glanced back at both photos and found I
