could see a dark line of clouds, swollen with grayness, on the horizon. We’d have a downpour before morning, I guessed.
Several cars were already parked in Truda’s crushedgravel driveway when I arrived Junebug’s police cruiser was not among them. He was busy starting the investigation into Clevey’s death.
I stopped the engine and took a deep breath, steeling myself. Clevey, one of my oldest friends, was dead. I waited for the sting of tears, but none came-and that made me feel more miserable. I shut my eyes and a torrent of memories came forward: Clevey and I wrestling in mud and getting spanked by our mothers because we were in our Sunday best; Clevey and I, as young boys, going through confirmation classes at little St. Michael’s Episcopal Church in Bavary (the Shiveises were one of the few other Anglican families in Mirabeau); Clevey’s terrified face, staring into the storm’s darkness the night Hurricane Althea nearly killed us all; the pit my stomach fell into when, at fifteen, Clevey told me he was madly in love with Gina Fontenelle and I’d been French-kissing her the night before at a party he’d skipped.
But those were all distant memories. I’d had only sporadic contact with Clevey since I’d moved home. He’d been polite when we’d seen each other, but he’d acted nearly as if he had a bad cold he didn’t want to pass on. I’d seen him twice in the past week-once, stewed to the gills at the Bierhaus Brewpub in Bavary. I’d hardly spoken to him; he was drinking alone and didn’t seem overly pleased when Junebug and I’d joined him. I’d seen him again only yesterday morning when he’d stopped by the Sit-a-Spell to give Sister and Candace a thorough teasing about my eating too many free meals there. It had been the closest to the Clevey of old that I’d seen in years.
A bullet-probably from a. 38-had smashed directly through his right eye, destroying brain and thought and reason. I felt sick. And there was no gun lying near Clevey’s body. Murder. Clevey was a registered owner of a. 38, but the gun was missing from his house. Junebug told me it was likely the killer had used Clevey’s own weapon against him.
I forced myself out of the car. The promised norther had come, and I pulled my denim jacket closer around me. I steadied my grip on a peach cobbler Sister had baked earlier at the cafe and that Candace’d given me to take to Mrs. Shivers. I walked up to the front porch, where, despite the cooling evening temperature and the occasional gust of wind, the men had gathered, true to form.
I recognized several of Clevey’s cousins from La Grange. Our greetings were little more than nods from me to them, and thanks from them to me for coming. Little Ed Dickensheets sat on a porch swing, his eyes red from crying. Men don’t generally cry in front of one another here, and I thought Ed had decently gotten his tern’s shed in private. I went over and put my arm around his shoulder and he leaned into my denim jacket, embracing me hard for a moment, weeping silently. I shook my head; Clevey’d nearly teased him to an early grave, and here was Ed, solitarily shedding tears.
“Sorry,” Ed said, pulling away and blinking up at me. Ed’s five-five, so he’s always looking up at folks. I wondered how he kept from getting crushed by a big old gal like Wanda when they were in the sack. Oddest things you think about in the midst of death. “I’m gonna make you drop that cobbler.”
“Don’t you worry, Ed. How you holding up?”
“Fine. Wanda’s in there with Mrs. Shivers.” He nodded toward the weathered screen door, where I could hear the gentle murmur of women’s voices. I suppose Ed thought that I’d be as interested in Wanda’s current coordinates as he was.
“Well, I better get this cobbler in,” I said, heading for the door.
“Davis said he was coming. Junebug’s already been by-he had to get back to the station,” Ed said as I went in; I smiled to let him know I’d heard. I suddenly wanted to see all my friends very badly.
The Shivers house was old, pre-World War I, built of white-painted boards and native stone. The comforting smell of cinnamon pervaded the rooms, and in spite of myself I nearly smiled; I could remember long afternoons when school was out, watching TV here with Clevey, playing touch football on the cool green yard, staying up late when we were older and blustering about the women we’d have someday.
I found Clevey’s mother, Truda Shivers, sitting in the living room, surrounded by many women. She was always a polite, gracious lady and she was not going to be undone by death-even that of her son. I marveled at her composure, especially since she’d already buried her husband and her one other child, who’d died in infancy when Clevey and I were four. Clevey’d gotten his fiery-red hair and bulk from his mama, but gray heavily streaked her auburn perm. She rose to hug me with her thick arms.
“Oh, Jordan, sugar, I’m so glad you’re here. Seeing everyone who loved Clevey is making this easier for me to bear. And what a lovely cobbler.” Her manners weren’t going to be dented by tragedy.
“Miz Shivers. I’m so terribly, terribly sorry,” I whispered into her frizz of hair. I hugged her tight. She’d always been really considerate to me and I remembered her many kindnesses since Mama had gotten ill. She didn’t deserve this grief, and for the first time I felt a hot anger overcome my shock. I didn’t want this kindhearted woman to feel the horrible pain of losing her child.
She pulled back and touched my cheek. “He was always so fond of you. You made him laugh, you know.”
“He made us all laugh, Miz Shivers.” God, I didn’t know what to say. I’d spent most of my childhood around Clevey, but a wall had gone up between us when I’d gone off to Rice and he’d stayed in Mirabeau, working at the paper. A college degree not only opens doors; it closes them. But that had been Clevey’s choice, not mine. I didn’t spend the time with him I had as a child, but as grown men, we were too busy to sit, cuss, and smoke in tree houses.
Truda Shivers leaned against me and whispered, “Walk with me for a moment, Jordan.” She murmured a pardon to the other ladies; one woman took the cobbler pan from my hands, and I put my arm around Truda’s shoulders. She guided me to a wall of photographs, not terribly unlike the one my mother had created in our house: a gallery of her family’s lives. Various versions of Clevey smiled at me from the wall.
She pointed at a photo of several of us boys from our senior year in high school. The good old gang, arms looped over each others’ shoulders, posing in the back of Clevey’s battered pickup. I sat between Trey and Clevey, smiling broadly with my hometown brotherhood, someone else’s Stetson perched on my head. Trey had one hand affectionately on the top of the hat; Clevey held a beer in one hand and crossed his eyes for the camera. Davis, Junebug, and Ed stood behind us, brandishing beers and laughing. I remembered the picture; it was at a graduation party Davis hosted, when the drinking age was eighteen and we were all legal. The hat on my head was Trey’s and I recalled he’d joked I never cared to wear a cowboy hat and damned if we wouldn’t get a picture of me in one. He’d pulled off his hat and put it on me. We all looked full of joy, if not promise. My breath felt heavy in my lungs and I looked away.
“Clevey”-she sighed-“sure did love high school. I think it was the high point of his life.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I didn’t know what to say. Holding Mirabeau High as the pinnacle of one’s time on earth saddened me.
Truda saw my thought in my face. “It was, Jordan, it was. But that’s okay. My Clevey was never what you’d call a complicated boy.” She pointed at another photo: Clevey and I uncomfortable in suits, with the bishop standing imperially behind us, our hair combed smooth, his holy hands on our shoulders, guiding our little souls among the straight and narrow. A picture from our confirmation Eucharist. I remembered the bishop smelled of peppermint and his palms were not callused like my daddy’s. Truda’s hand tightened on mine.
“Those two pictures are the biggest helps to me right now,” she said, finally crying. “Knowing that he had true friends that loved him and that he’s gone home to God.” She took a ragged breath and her broad shoulders heaved.
“Why? Why would someone kill my boy?” She sobbed hard into my jacket, and I stood there, awkwardly, wishing to God I could just give her an answer that would help heal her heart. But there wasn’t one. Instead I just hugged her for a long while, feeling the surge of her grieving breaths subside as she wept herself out.
After several minutes, one of the other ladies-I thought she was Mrs. Shivers’s sister from La Grange-gently pried her off my shoulder and guided her into the kitchen. I was left in front of all those images of Clevey, with a few of his other relatives sitting and not looking at me. Wanda Dickensheets, divested of her Elvis accoutrements, sat whispering with her mother, Ivalou Purcell. They were both big-boned ladies, with egos and personalities to match. Wanda’s a few years older than Ed and it’s starting to show, with widening thick gray streaks in her hair. Ivalou has a pennanent pinch on her face, like she’s got gas and she’s riding in a crowded elevator. They quit whispering and favored me with what I considered wholly inappropriate toothy grins that portended conversation. I quickly excused myself and retreated back to the porch.
