“But you’re riding today.”
“What Daddy don’t know won’t hurt me.” I laughed.
“Don’t you worry. If he finds out, I’ll tell him it was my idea.”
Daddy and Trey got on like a house afire. Trey’d sweet-talked me out of more than one escapade by conferring with Daddy. Mama remained somewhat suspicious of Trey, but mamas are like that.
“Too bad Arlene didn’t come today,” Trey said, taking in the overarching blue sky. “I guess she’s too snooty to take a riding lesson from a freshman.”
“She’s sweet on Billy Kiblett.” I shrugged. “She spends all her time with him.”
“Billy Kiblett can’t do jackshit ’cept throw a football.”
“Yeah, but in Mirabeau, that’s a highly prized skill. You know that.”
“Bastrop kicked our asses last year ’cause holy Billy Kiblett couldn’t connect with his receivers. What’s so special about him?”
“Hey, Trey. You act like you’re in love with her.” If he could tease me about getting my butt bit, I could retaliate with the suggestion of amorous intentions toward my sister. Who would wriggle more?
“Naw, I ain’t in love with Arlene. She’s a pain in the neck.” He looked off at the line of live oaks near the creek and straightened his hat. “When you’re a better rider, we’ll go for a ride along the creek. It’s real-” His voice broke off. I turned to where he looked.
A man staggered out from the trees in the creek, weaving and walking as though yanked every few moments by invisible strings. Hatless, he kept one chambrayed arm over his eyes against the springtime brightness. He shuffled along toward the main house, barely staying on his feet I saw a leaf tangled in the man’s dark hair and suspected that if I was closer, I’d smell cheap whiskey.
I didn’t say anything; I stared down at the saddle horn. Fafnir snorted.
“Trey-”
“Never mind, Jordy.” There was ice in his voice. “Shit. And it ain’t even noon yet.”
I watched Trey’s daddy yank open the screen door to the Quadlander house and totter inside.
Sitting on the horse made me feel bold. “Why does Mr. Quadlander put up with it, Trey? Why do you?”
He might have punched any of his other friends for such bluntness, but instead he looked up into my eyes and then quickly averted them. “Hart’s a good man. And Daddy only gets drunk some of the time, it ain’t always.”
I remembered when Mama’s uncle Buell drank too much at Christmas a few years back and then was gone from town for a while. Sister and I’d finally found out he’d gone to a rehab place in Bryan, where he quickly dried out and found a new addiction to Jesus. Well, better that than whiskey. Sober and sanctimonious was preferable to drunk and disorderly.
“Trey, listen to me for a minute. There are places your daddy could go, help he could get-”
“Get off the horse, Jordy, I got to go tend to Daddy.” He stared at the house.
“Trey-”
“Look. I know you mean well. I do. But this is my problem. It ain’t yours.” His bottom lip vanished into his mouth and his face couldn’t hide the anguish. “Please.”
I swung down from Fafnir. “I’m sorry. I just want to help you.”
“I don’t need your help, Jordy. Go back to your perfect father and let me tend to mine.” He took Faf’s reins from my hands. “Why-why don’t you just wait out here? I’ll get Faf situated and I’ll call your folks to come pick you up.”
“I could help you with your daddy,” I said softly. “I could brew him some coffee. I remember when Uncle Buell-”
“I don’t want your help!” he screamed at me, and Fafnir whinnied, eyes rolling in panic at the noise. The horse’s reaction brought Trey back. “Please. I can take care of my own problems. I don’t need anybody’s help. Just wait out here.”
“All right.” I turned toward the oaks and creek. I wondered how many bottles of whiskey Louis Slocum had emptied, sitting between the gnarled roots of the trees. Then I heard the gunshots.
I whirled around. The world shimmered with unreal light. The farm was gone. The grass was gone. Fafnir was gone. There was only Trey, a grown man, dying, lying with three wounds in his back, staring helplessly at me through a mask of blood.
I snapped awake in bed, the gasp of horror caught in my throat. Dim moonlight silvered my bedroom. Long, shuddering breaths emptied my chest. The November chill pressed against the window and I felt the uncomfortable dampness of sweat cooling the sheets. I pushed the bedclothes away and pulled on a robe. I sat by my window and stared out at the crescent moon, hanging like a cut nail above the fingers of the trees. The clouds had scudded away, to take rain and darkness south toward Victoria and Corpus Christi.
I put my face in my hands. The dream had been eerie in its exactness, more like a half-waking memory than some Jungian exercise in symbolism. Why on earth would I remember that incident now? It had teen the first real time I’d gone horseback riding, the first of many happy hours riding with Trey. It’d also been the first time Trey’d spoken openly of his father’s drinking. The drinking that had finally put Louis Slocum in his grave five years ago, nearly a year to the day that Trey walked out of all of our lives.
I thought over the dream again, smiling faintly at the memory of Fafnir’s bite and Trey’s gentle coaxing of the horse. What had happened to that boy? Why had he turned into such an irredeemable loser?
I glanced at the clock-nearly three a.m. I thought of creeping down the hall, waking Candace, telling her about my dream, but I didn’t think she’d understand. Besides, what was there to say?
Finally I crawled back into my bed, pulling the sheets around me. They made a thin cocoon against the night.
I slept late, and when I came down, I found Candace and Clo sitting and drinking coffee at the kitchen table. Mama sat in the living room, watching the morning news chatter with the sound turned low, the way she liked it.
I stood for a moment, watching her and feeling a ridiculous resentment. Here was our family: grieving, nearly paralyzed by the past two days, and she sailed through the rooms of our house with nary a thought for the rest of us, for our bereavement. Life went on for her in its never-ending cycle of forgetfulness, and for one brief moment I resented the hell out of her. Then I envied her. Then shame welled up in me and I went over and kissed her cheek. She smiled faintly at me, like a queen to a footman for a simple service performed well, and her gaze went back to the television.
“Good morning, Clo. Hi, sugar.” I leaned down and pecked Candace on the lips. “Sorry if I have morning breath.”
“You do, but that’s okay. Clo’s coffee is very strong and should wash away even Jordan Poteet industrial- strength fumes.” I permitted myself a smile as she teased me. “How you doing this morning? Did you sleep okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. I wondered if that answer was starting to sound like a litany. “Are Sister and Mark still asleep?”
“No. Arlene decided to follow your advice. She called Steven Teague this morning, and he offered to make a special appointment for Mark. They’re at his office now.”
“That’s good.” I poured myself some coffee. Maybe today would be better than yesterday. It had to be.
Candace pursed her lips and glanced over at Clo, who was sitting as silently as a sphinx. “Actually, I talked to Mr. Teague after Arlene called him. He suggested to me that maybe the whole family should attend counseling.”
I froze. The last thing I wanted was to divulge my feelings about Clevey and Trey’s deaths to some sympathetic social worker with a bunch of consonants behind his name. But if it would help Mark… “I’ll consider it. It would probably be helpful for Mark and Sister.”
“Okay,” she said softly. I could feel her watchful gaze on my back. Then she shifted the subject. “I’m not opening the cafe today. It didn’t seem appropriate. Mirabeau can survive a day without Arlene’s chicken-fried steak.”
I began to sip coffee without further comment. Today was Sunday, and the library would be closed. My Dallas Cowboys would be playing; I could take refuge in the game. I glanced at Candace. She still favored me with that I’m-worried-about-you-and-don’t-you-pretend-you-don’t-know-it look, piercing me like a needle. If I stared unflinchingly at the screen for every second of all four quarters (including time-outs and beer commercials) it would
