“I will mourn Clevey,” I said, realizing I was gritting my teeth. “But what do you want from me? Should I scream? Tear my hair? Not over Trey Slocum. Not over that worthless son of a bitch. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to call Steven Teague. Mark is going to need counseling. Maybe my sister, too. I have to take care of them. And I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and I need some aspirin, and maybe a nap.” I was tired of the ceaseless rain, tired of the moist smell of wet dead leaves, tired of talking nonsense. I headed for the screen door, for the warm comforting smells of casseroles and the lowered voices found in homes that death touches. She didn’t stop me.
8
I’m not good at mourning. The rest of the afternoon went in a haze. Sister wouldn’t talk to me; I’d tried once, knocking on her door. The sobs on the other side made me feel I was knocking on her heart. “Later,” was all she would say.
Mark played a children’s game in my room with a hushed Bradley Foradory. I watched their pieces slide and rise in the fortunes of the gameboard. Mark was treating Chutes and Ladders like grand-master chess. He only answered in monosyllables when I talked to him. Bradley favored me with a confused smile. I mussed his hair, told him to take care of Mark (who didn’t want to acknowledge my presence), and left them alone.
I fended off unneeded-and unwarranted-concern from Eula Mae, Clo, Truda, Cayla, Davis, and a score of other well-intentioned neighbors. Even my nemesis Gretchen; you’d think after all our battles, she’d have known me well enough to leave me alone. Ed and Wanda Dickensheets appeared, fresh from a Saturday peddling memories of the King. Wanda didn’t bother to change out of her Elvis getup that was her working uniform, and for the first time I wasn’t inclined to laugh at her. Ed moved like a man on tranquilizers.
Of course, Mark and Sister were indisposed in their grief, so I took the proffered pity for Trey’s death. I accepted kisses on my cheeks, squeezes of my hand, murmured expressions of sympathy for our loss. I cast my face in sorrow and nodded quietly a great deal, acting as the family spokesman. And the cynics say there’s no ironies in life.
Candace stayed-but she stayed away from me. Every now and then she caught my eye and I saw the forgiving concern in her face. I always broke contact first. I felt bad I couldn’t react the way she thought I was supposed to, but she was presuming I sustained some kind of affection for Trey Slocum. I knew she meant well. I knew she loved me. I just wanted her to let me be for a while.
My father, Bob Don, was in Las Vegas at an automobile conference. I missed him. I thought he, at least, would understand; he wouldn’t expect me to shed tears over a man I loathed.
Finally, the bearers of food and succor departed, leaving me, Clo, Eula Mae, and Candace sitting at a table overflowing with pies, casseroles, and sandwich makings. I made myself eat, but nothing had taste, not even Eula Mae’s Mirabeau-famous plum-and-whiskey cake. Clo took trays to Sister and Mark; she came back and told me they were sitting together in Mama’s room, talking quietly. Mama did not appear to be participating in the conversation; she, according to Clo, kept asking when Hawaii Five-O, her favorite show, would be on.
“Was Mark crying?” I asked Clo. She shook her head.
“That’s not natural,” I muttered. Candace coughed, but I ignored her.
“I’ll be glad to stay tonight, Jordy,” Clo offered. I nodded as Candace spoke.
“Clo, you’ve already been here all day. You must be exhausted, and I know you’ve got your granddaughter to look after. Why don’t I stay, and you can spell me tomorrow when I have to go to the cafe?”
I smiled at her. I did want her here; I just wasn’t going to get dragged into an argument over whether or not I was dealing normally with Trey’s death.
“Thank you,” I said. “Candace, if you’re going to stay, why don’t you run home and get whatever you need for tonight?” I checked my watch. “Junebug is expecting me.”
“Junebug?” Eula Mae demanded. “Ed’s going there. And Cayla mentioned that Davis was, too.” Her eyes shone bright with curiosity, only vaguely muted by the pall that hung over my house. “Excuse me, ladies,” I said quietly.
“Boys, we have to talk,” Junebug said.
He poured me a whiskey-not my first of the evening- and resumed his place on the sofa. The four of us gathered around the squat coffee table in Junebug’s den, as uneasy a group of mourners as I’d ever seen. Davis downed Jack Daniel’s into his big, football player’s frame, looking morose; Junebug frowned, funereally solemn; and Ed Dickensheets walked restlessly, his shock and grief propelling him like a ceiling fan turned up a notch too high. He paced around the table, crossing and uncrossing his arms.
“Goddamn it, Ed, you’re making me dizzy. Sit down!” Davis insisted. He rolled whiskey in his mouth and for one moment I thought Davis was going to spew the booze at Ed on his next orbit.
“I can’t,” Ed retorted. “If I sit down I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
“Let him be, he’s not bothering you,” Junebug said quietly. Davis shrugged and sipped some more of his whiskey.
I held a glass of bourbon and water in my hand, but I’d left it untasted. I felt bone weary.
Junebug stood, glass aloft. “Here’s to Clevey Shivers and Trey Slocum, boys. May they rest in peace and meet us in heaven.”
The others stood, and for one brief moment I thought of not joining in. But it was for Clevey, too, and I felt heartsick that I seemed to be forgetting about him. I saw his easy smile, his laugh, the noticeable gap between his front teeth that would have kept him looking boyish at forty. I stood and clinked my glass against my friends’, the ringing of crystal brief and discordant. We sipped at varying speeds: Davis quaffing his in a gulp, his eyes averted, Junebug sipping slowly, Ed and I barely tasting ours. Davis was a little drunk and wasn’t done toasting.
“Clevey, our friend and a fine reporter,” he said. “He’ll dig up all the secrets, even if it sends him to hell.”
“Damn old Clevey,” Ed said, his pug face puckering up in a frown. “I always thought he was gonna be the meanest old fart in the nursing home.”
“He would’ve been the ugliest,” Davis muttered.
“I feel bad for Trey,” Ed said suddenly. “He’d just gotten to see us all again.” Silence fell and we sat in its shadow.
No one spoke for several minutes. I gazed into the amber shallows of my glass for a while and then looked up. Junebug, like me, was hypnotized by the eddies of liquor around ice; Davis, slumped in his chair, examined the ceiling for points of interest; Ed stared at his feet.
This is how men grieve, I thought. We feel this terrible, heavy sadness, but we pretend it’s not there. We don’t look into each other’s face for fear we’ll see another man’s tears, or worse, he will see ours. We talk about the things that mattered least in the lost life, and when words fail us, we down our drinks and turn glazed eyes to the carpet. Our laments are silent. I sipped at my whiskey.
“You know what kind of guns killed ’em?” Davis asked, his tone distant and solemn.
Junebug looked up from his drink. “Both shot with thirty-eights, but we haven’t determined yet if it was the same gun. Trey had a thirty-eight registered to him, and it’s missing.” No one spoke.
“Did Trey say anything before he died, Jordan?” Davis wanted to know.
“Jordan can’t talk about that,” Junebug interjected.
I shrugged. “I don’t see what difference it could possibly make. He told Mark he loved him. He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at me. Then he died.” I put my glass to my mouth but didn’t sip.
“Damn it, Jordan, you were told not to say anything about the case!” Junebug slammed his glass down on the table.
I’m already hiding evidence. Surely that’s worse than running off at the mouth. I didn’t share my ruminations with the group. “Why are you having a fit? You took yourself off Trey’s case.”
“That true, Junebug?” Ed asked, the ice rattling in his glass.
“I’d really prefer not to discuss it, Ed,” Junebug said. “Especially with the media.”
Ed coughed. “Hey, I just sell airtime for the station. I don’t fill it with news reports. You’d have to talk to Mr. Boss Man Foradory here about getting on the airwaves.”
