There was a main article on the aftermath of the killer storm, then separate articles on each of the Mirabeau dead. The first casualty had been an elderly man on the outskirts of town, killed when his ramshackle trailer disintegrated in a smaller twister’s path. The second article was longer, possibly because the death was more tragic. Rennie Clifton was only sixteen.
A school picture of her smiled out from the newsprint, her hair straightened and dark, her smile wide and appealing, her eyes beautiful and compelling and intelligent I had never seen Rennie alive, so the picture was the only fragment of her days I could compare against the empty shell we’d found in the woods. The county coroner ruled she’d been killed by a blow to the head, probably from flying debris propelled at God’s own speed by the violent winds. The article outlined how she had been found in the woods near the Foradory farm. A somber picture of us six boys was below the text, since we’d found the body. We all look like we’ve had the stuffing scared out of us, except Trey, who always maintained a cool demeanor anywhere near a camera. Clevey ranked a quote on how frightened he’d been. “You see scary things out in a storm like that, but we never dreamed we’d find a body.”
I kept reading the story. Rennie had been a student at Mirabeau High, where she participated in 4-H and the student yearbook. Her teachers described her as quiet, intense about the subjects she was interested in, a girl with a future. She worked part-time at the Mirabeau Florist and was described as a good worker by her employer, Ivalou Purcell-
My eyes froze on the last two words. Ivalou Purcell, who I have mentioned I don’t care much for, was Ed’s mother-in-law. She’s bossy, nosy, man-hungry, and just generally unpleasant. I remembered the avid interest she’d shown during Sister’s fight with Trey at the Shivers house. I’d never had any idea that Rennie Clifton worked for Ivalou Purcell.
I scanned the rest of the article. Rennie was survived by her mother, Thomasina Clifton, who cleaned houses. Her father, Ernest Clifton, had been killed in Vietnam. The final sentence mentioned services at the Ebenezer Baptist Church on Aldrus Street.
Her funeral. A sharp memory made me wince. My mother had insisted that we go. I’d felt like an interloper, a blond-headed, green-eyed boy amidst all those dark faces. The church smelled of flowers and sweat. The fury of Althea had scraped the sky clean, and the day they buried Rennie was cloudless and clear. I remembered Mrs. Clifton as a large woman who bore her sorrow in silence. I remembered my mother making me hand a flower to Mrs. Clifton and her nearly crushing me in a kind embrace. Another woman, apparently one of Rennie’s grandmothers, had wailed lamentations like a woman possessed. I didn’t try to give her a flower.
I leaned back, rubbing my chin. How-and why-had that girl’s death come back to haunt us?
What if I was entirely off track? What if Rennie’s death had nothing to do with the carnage visited on our lives? I closed my eyes, casting back into my memories for someone who might have a terrible grudge against our group of friends. I sat in silence. Had we been unthinkingly cruel to some kid that harbored the deepest of grudges? Had we done some innocent act to nurture hatred in a hidden heart? No rogue or villain presented themselves for inspection. Our lives had been delightfully dull, free of ill-wishers. Best, I thought, to concentrate on the strongest possibility than to idly search for nonsensical explanations.
I began sorting through papers from the weeks previous and subsequent to Rennie’s death. Mirabeau was just as boring then as it is now. I perused articles on the city council’s eternal squabbles, the drowning of a skier on Lake Bonaparte, a picture of Hart Quadlander with a prize-winning horse, and the visit of a jowly congressman to give a speech.
I was reading a paper dated three weeks after Rennie’s death when I turned a page and a twenty-years- younger version of Steven Teague stared back at me, his lips splayed into the same half smile he’d given me and Eula Mae and Mark when we spoke to him. There was a short article underneath: FREE CLINIC CLOSES Dr. Edward Barent and Steven Teague announce the closing of the Mirabeau Free Clinic on Mayne Street, effective September 31. Dr. Barent, a general practitioner, said that federal cutbacks are forcing the clinic’s closure. The Mirabeau Free Clinic opened barely two months ago, funded primarily through private donations and government grants. Dr. Barent refused to comment on any further reason why the clinic could not remain in budget. Mr. Teague, a psychotherapist with a social-work background, was unavailable for comment.
The rest of the article went on about how rural areas suffered the most in federal cutbacks, but that since indigent services were already available at Mirabeau Memorial, residents should not expect much curtailment of free care, I didn’t care much about curtailment of free services at the moment. I was just remembering when I’d met Steven Teague at Clevey’s mom’s house and he’d said he’d just moved to Mirabeau. Not that he’d lived and worked here before, but new to town. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to mention that he’d worked for a failed enterprise-or perhaps he had something to hide. He’d been living here when Rennie died. He’d come back and we had two murders.
I started folding the paper when I heard a loud tapping at the window and I nearly jumped out of my skin. (Having three friends shot since Friday morning will do that to you.) I was suddenly conscious of how very alone I was in the library.
12
If I’d been Mark, I’d have been scared to death. Ed Dickensheets stood at the library doors, haggard and tired. I paused on the other side of the glass. I was alone with someone my nephew alleged had a motive to kill Trey. I felt a little tremor of fear, then dismissed it. I’d known Ed my whole life. I’d be damned if I’d let myself be scared by a friend. A sudden thought occurred that maybe Ed had come straight from the hospital-with bad news. I forgot my fears, unlocked the door, and yanked it open.
“Junebug?” I asked.
“No change. Can I come in?”
I stepped aside and regarded Ed, who was not a regular library patron. “We’re closed, and if you ever gave me any business, you’d know that,” I said with a teasing tone. Another quaver of uncertainty had hit me as soon as I opened my mouth and I was determined to banish it with banter. I also felt sick relief that he wasn’t the bearer of bad tidings.
Ed forced a smile to his worn face. He’d always been the smallest of us and now he was bent with fatigue. I didn’t think it was just the exhausting effect of recent days. Ed lived a life I couldn’t endure; dealing with Wanda’s eccentricities and odd schemes; enduring a mother-in-law like Ivalou who could test the patience of several saints; trying to launch a business that had the life expectancy of ice on a warm summer day. And people say I have a tough home life. It’s nothing compared with Ed’s.
“I know the library’s closed, butthead, but you got a minute for a friend?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “You want some coffee?” I considered locking the doors behind us, but decided against it. No reason to, really, I told myself. Ed nodded and I went to the little kitchen in the back and revved up the pot.
When I came back, he was ambling around the library like a tourist in a museum, pausing to examine the shelves, the posters, the magazines on the shelves on the periodical table. I froze. I hadn’t put up the paper I’d been perusing; it was still laid out on a table. Ed didn’t seem inclined to notice it much, though, as he took the plastic-encased latest issue of Sports Illustrated down and began idling through it.
“Don’t suppose you have Playboy? ” he asked while reading.
“Sorry, the city council just won’t approve every request I make.” I folded the paper, without hurry, and tucked it back in a desk. For some instinctual reason I didn’t want Ed to know I was casting an eye back twenty years. I headed to the back to check on the progress of the coffee.
When I returned with two steaming cups, Ed collapsed in one of the easy chairs in the magazine section, his legs splayed out. He was rubbing his forehead.
“I’m tired, Jordy.” He took the offered cup and sipped cautiously at it. “Not bad. We got the worst coffee in creation down at KBAV.”
“What’s up, Ed?”
“Geez, can’t a fellow come see an old buddy?” he answered rather sharply. “I seem to be running short on friends with each passing day.”
Hot anger flushed my face. “That’s not funny, Ed.”
“I don’t mean to be funny. I told you I wanted to talk at Clevey’s mama’s house, but your sister came and
