“Now, you’re not wanting to kill anyone, are you, Mrs. Goertz?” I wheedled. God, no wonder Bob Don smoked heavy and kept a pint at work, if this was his domestic life. She was scaring me, and now I wondered what might happen to Bob Don if I didn’t check on him and get her sobered up. He hadn’t come to the door, and I didn’t think most men would let their wives hold drunken tete-a-tetes with the neighborhood.
I moved back onto the porch, and she flung the door wide open. In better light she looked worse. “C’mon in, kid. C’mon in and see all the hell you’ve caused me.” I was firmly of the opinion her hell was a private matter between her and Jack Daniel’s. I went into the entry hall, moving past her, not looking at her. I saw a living room ahead and headed for that. The living room was blasted with light. It was oblong, with a fireplace in the middle, pale and uninspired furniture on each end, and a wet bar on the side of the living room that led toward the kitchen. The carpet was a light beige and I wagered it was well worn by Gretchen’s slippers as you got closer to the bar. An oil painting of Gretchen Goertz hung above the cold fireplace, where a shattered glass sparkled. Broad swipes of paint made the portrait look better than the model. Bob Don huddled on the couch, his broad face in his hands. He was crying. It was not a hysterical kind of sobbing, but a slow, methodical weeping, like he was cleaning out the closet of his soul. I could see the mark of fingernails cutting across his cheek, bisecting one of his long sideburns. I stepped to his side. “Bob Don?
You okay?” He looked up at me, not registering me for a moment. He blinked tears from his reddened eyes. “Oh, Christ!” he said, his usual heartiness gone. “Oh, mother of Christ! You got to leave, Jordy. Just leave.” I knelt by him. “Listen, Bob Don. Gretchen’s drunk and saying she’s going to kill you. Why don’t I help you get her settled if you want, and-” “You have to leave!” Bob Don screamed. He jumped to his feet, nearly knocking me over. I balanced myself, putting a hand out to the carpet. He leaned down and seized my shoulders in his beefy hands. He yanked me to my feet. “Get out, get out, get out,” he kept crying, not demanding, but begging. Major-league domestic problem, I decided, congratulating myself on my quick and reliable insight. I thought: none of my concern. He’s not dead so she hasn’t carried out her threats and she’s too drunk to hurt him. Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs.
Goertz, and have a lovely evening. Bob Don hustled me to the entrance like I was a steer straying from the herd, but Gretchen cut us off.
She pressed wet, liquor-reeking hands against my chest while Bob Don tried to push from behind. I jerked away from them both. Gretchen slammed the front door shut. “Don’t leave, Jordy. Don’t leave,” she whispered. Stepping toward me, she looked horrible. I could see now that makeup was smeared across her face, as though she’d tried fixing herself up long after the daily bottle was opened. “Jordy has to go now, Gretchen,” Bob Don insisted, trying to pull me away from her.
“Just go out the back, Jordy, and I’ll call you tomorrow about that truck you wanted-” “You are not… selling him… any damn car!”
Gretchen Goertz screamed. I will never forget that scream as long as I live. It sounded the way you might scream if you were dead and buried for a year, and then God let you have feeling and voice back. Her voice scraped down my spine. Bob Don wasn’t pulling me anymore. I was moving on my own accord. “Quit pretending!” she said, more hoarsely.
“Don’t you leave this house, you little bastard. Not after all the trouble you’ve caused me. Don’t you walk out, Jordan Poteet,” she spat out my name like it was phlegm. “Not after you’ve ruined my life, you little shit.” I stopped back in the living room. She followed me in.
“You’re drunk, Mrs. Goertz, so I’m not going to pay heed to anything you say. I suggest you go to bed and get some rest.” I steadied my voice. “You’re upset and you’ve upset Bob Don. I don’t know what I’ve done to hurt you, but I won’t trouble you further. I’m leaving.” With what dignity I could muster, I turned my back on her and headed for the kitchen. I figured there’d be a back door and I could get out.
“You stay, you stay, you stay,” she sobbed at my retreating back.
“I’ll leave, and you stay.” I paused and heard Bob Don behind me say, “Gretchen, listen-” “Shut up!” she howled at him. Sobs racked her.
“Shut up! He can stay, and I’ll leave! That way you’ll have some quality time with your precious bastard son!” I stopped in my tracks in the darkened kitchen, as though her words were glue sticking me to the floor. I heard a body hit the floor and over my shoulder, I saw Gretchen crumpled on the carpet, weeping uncontrollably. Air felt thick in my throat, as though it was something alien and vaguely threatening. She’s drunk, I told myself, and she’s deluded. Bob Don collapsed to his knees, cradling Gretchen in his arms. My legs didn’t want to respond to the instructions my brain sent, but finally they moved and they didn’t head to the back door. I stared down at Bob Don.
“What did she mean by that? Gretchen, you better explain-” I started, but Gretchen wrestled free from Bob Don. She staggered to the other end of the living room into a hallway that presumably led to bedrooms.
She turned back to us, her eyes trying to focus. “Leave here, Bob Don, and take him with you. I changed my mind. I ain’t leaving my house.
Take your things and your bastard boy with you. I don’t ever want to see you again.” She fled down the hallway, running along the side. I could hear her body scraping the wall. A door slammed down the hall.
Bob Don stared at the floor. Anger burst out of me, unexpected and reckless. “Goddamn it, look at me! What the holy hell is going on here? What’s wrong with her? Why is she saying this shit?” He looked at me, looking older and more tired than I’d ever seen anyone look.
“Forgive me, Jordy. God, God, please forgive me.” “Forgive you? It’s your wife that’s damned crazy.” My voice cracked in fear. “What the hell do I have to forgive you for?” He didn’t answer and the silence fell hard. I stepped away from him, but not to leave. “You better tell me what’s going on here, Bob Don. I want an explanation.” My voice was hoarse and shaking. “I-” he started, and his voice broke in pain.
Slowly, he rose to his feet and faced me. “I am your father.” “You’re lying,” I said when I found my voice. It didn’t sound like my voice, but a boy’s. My throat felt like ice. “Why are you doing this? Why?”
His eyes met mine and he blinked them clear of his tears. There was a thin line of blood down his cheek where his wife had raked him. “No, I am not lying to you. I’m your father. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
“You’re as drunk as your wife, obviously,” The ice in my throat moved to my voice. “My father is Lloyd Poteet. And I don’t appreciate the slur, against my dead daddy or my mother. I was starting to regard you as a decent person, but you’re not. I suggest you and your wife both get professional help. If you like, I’ll help you by pouring out all the liquor in your house. And I suggest you bandage up your face ’cause you’re bleeding all over yourself. Good night.” I turned to leave. “You can’t walk away from me. You just asked for an explanation and goddamn it, you’re going to listen to one.” He grabbed my arm and shoved me down onto the couch. It stunk of whiskey. “I’m not staying-”
I began, but he pushed me back down and leaned hard on my arms. I twisted my face away from his. “Do me the courtesy of listening to me, Jordan Michael Poteet,” he hissed, and I sat there, thinking: I am not going to sit here and listen to a bunch of goddamn lies. I tried to move away, but my muscles felt like jelly. I stared into his face.
“Listen to me, please.” Bob Don didn’t ease the pressure of his hands on my arms but his tone softened. “This isn’t pleasant, but it’s true.
And goddamn it, you’re going to hear it from me.” “Well, get your lies over with,” I retorted. “I have places to go and people to see.” “I was friends with your mama and your daddy. They were my closest friends. They were damned good to me. But then they had a baby-your sister-and sometimes couples go through a rough time when a child comes along and they’re not quite ready for it. I tried to be there for both of them, but I ended mostly on your mama’s side in the disagreements. I cared about your mama and she cared about me, and we weren’t strong when we were together.” “You’re sick! My mother never even looked at you! She loved my father!” “God, yes, she did. She told me she’d have to go back to him, that she’d have to make it work with him. So she did go back to him, but not without you. I gave her you.”
He looked hard into my eyes, unwavering. “Shut up! Don’t you talk about my mama like that, you piece of trash!” He didn’t even blink.
“Lloyd took her back, and she took him back. He loved you like you were his own, and I don’t know that he knew. He must’ve, though, but he loved you anyway. Anne made me promise I’d stay away from them and away from you. So I met Gretchen right off and married her, to try and heal the pain.” He eased up his weight from me and the couch, letting me move, his story told. “And it didn’t heal. God, it never healed. I had to sit back and watch you grow up, and never tell you all the things I wanted to say.” I stood, stumbling against the coffee table, rubbing my wrists where he’d squeezed hard. I made my lips stop trembling. “Why are you making this up? What did my
