but came home around six to collapse onto the couch. I sternly lectured her that she’d make herself sick if she didn’t get some rest, and then would be of no help to Junebug, but she was too busy softly snoring to pay me any heed. I carried her up to bed, put a quilt over her, and told Clo that I didn’t want her disturbed for any reason.
The dawn brought rain again, leaving Mirabeau dank, gray, and muggy. Clouds veiled the entire sky, not offering a glimmer of blue. The sun’s outline barely glowed through the haze, offering scant warmth. It was a day to crawl into bed with a good book or a ready lover and while away the hours.
After getting Sister settled, I drove a rather quiet Mark to his counseling appointment over at Steven Teague’s medical office. I felt uneasy about Mark seeing Steven, but I really had no reason to put the brakes on Mark’s therapy. Plus, I thought I could deal with Steven with one well-placed sentence to show him Jordan Poteet was no fool.
Mark surprised me as we drove. “Do you think I’m a shit, Uncle Jordy?”
“Good Lord,” I said as I turned into the small parking lot where Steven’s office was. He and a dentist had converted an older Victorian house into office space, with Steven occupying the first floor. “Why on earth do you say that?”
“I don’t seem to want to be around folks much. Bradley keeps calling, wanting to come over, and I just think he’d be awful tiresome to deal with.” Mark ran his finger along the condensation of the car window. “I’m tired. My stomach hurts, and I can’t sleep good. But Bradley, it’s like dealing with a baby sometimes. He doesn’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. Tell him you’re not up to company. If he doesn’t understand, Davis or Cayla will explain to him,”
Mark stared out the window. “Then there’s Scott. He’s always trying to be nice to me, but it’s like he’s trying to be too nice. It makes me feel weird. He’s always wanting to go off on long hikes in the woods, even in this crappy weather. And he keeps wanting to tell me about these terrible nightmares he has about Dad. I really don’t want to talk about Dad much with Scott.”
“Look.” I made him turn his face toward mine. “Scott’s a good kid. But he’s been through a lot, like you have. I think he tries to deal with it by hanging around people. You seem to want to be alone more. It’s just different ways of dealing with grief, Mark. Neither one is right or wrong.”
“My last session, I told Steven that I felt jealous of Scott. He got all that time with Dad that I didn’t. I ought to hate his guts, but I don’t.” He looked earnestly at me. “I sometimes think maybe Scott’s jealous of me. I don’t get it, when he had Dad in his life and I didn’t.”
“Oh, Mark.” I drummed fingers against the steering wheel, wondering how to respond. “It may be hard for you to see how lucky you are if you put it in those terms. Yes, Scott had time and more with your father. But Scott couldn’t ever be Trey’s son. And he doesn’t have the most stable life. He’s been moved all around and he’s got Nola for a mother. I know Hart says she’s just grieving, but I think she’s a little erratic, to say the least. You’ve got a family, and roots, and while your mother and I may be driven nuts sometimes, we’re not likely to create scenes at funerals.” I nearly amended that; Sister had created a doozy of a scene at Clevey’s wake. Oh, well, maybe Nola wasn’t so nuts after all.
“Scott’s nice to Bradley, too,” Mark mused. “One way to decide if I like a kid is how he treats Bradley. Some people aren’t so nice to Bradley, y’know.”
I thought of the particular viciousness children display to one who is different and I squeezed Mark’s shoulder. “Well, then, I’m glad to know Scott likes Bradley. Speaking of Bradley, you don’t know why he reacted the way he did at the funeral, do you?”
Mark shrugged. “I guess Nola upset him. He doesn’t like violence. Kind of makes him jumpy.”
“I agree with him. Listen, I have an errand to run, so I’m not going to sit in the waiting room while you have your session with Steven. That okay?”
“Yeah. But you’ll be there when I’m done, won’t you?”
“Absolutely. Let’s go in or we’ll be late. I want a word with Steven before you talk to him.”
The entry hall on the bottom floor served as a common area, but the waiting room for Steven’s patients was thoughtfully private; it was the former dining room of the old house. Oversized chairs and coffee tables covered with scattered back issues of national magazines and the Mirabeau and Bavary newspapers provided a sense of coziness. I told the receptionist that Mark Slocum was here for his appointment. She said that Steven was not yet in, but she expected him any moment. Mark slumped in a seat while I paced nervously.
“See. No crazy people here but us,” Mark said, his voice sounding scratchy.
“You’re not crazy at all,” I said forcefully. “After what you’ve been through, you’d be crazy not to see a therapist,”
“You haven’t,” he noted.
“Well, I am crazy. Haven’t you ever noticed?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”
He was quiet for a moment, looking into my face for traces of insanity.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He paused, embarrassment coloring his face. “Well-I don’t want to make you feel like a goob.”
“Tell me.”
“I heard you-the other night. When you were talking to Candace. About Dad.”
I didn’t answer for a moment. “Well, Mark, I was upset. You know that your father’s friendship meant a great deal to me.”
“Yeah.” He looked at me with eyes that were twins of Trey’s. I ruffled his hair affectionately and he ducked away from the attention, embarrassed at his stupidly sentimental uncle.
He picked up a tattered Sports Illustrated, shifted his gum to the other side of his mouth, and flipped the pages. The picture of a perfectly normal kid. Except he was a kid that might have a hurt so deep, so penetrating, that he’d never be whole again.
Impatiently, I paced the room. (This is a habit that Candace finds particularly grating. As if I do it to annoy her.) I wandered near the window and saw a harried Steven Teague parking his rain-spotted black Volvo. Finally. I didn’t want to keep Mark waiting.
Teague stepped out, testing the air with his hand to see if the drizzle demanded an umbrella. He decided not and slammed his car door.
Suddenly Nola Kinnard was there, pressing herself against him, speaking to him with undeniable insistence. She had hold of his coat, her head shaking, her eyes wild in her face.
He put her a step back, holding her shoulders, talking to her, shaking his head. She shook hers in answer, and the tight, painful frown on her face suggested she was near tears. I moved closer to the window, Mark ignoring me completely.
Steven shook his head again; this only agitated her further. Her hands clawed on his shoulder and she broke, her head hanging, rain or tears wetting her face.
I couldn’t see his face, only hers, but he leaned close to her, speaking-I could see the outline of his jaw moving. I hoped he was telling Nola not to make such a spectacle of herself.
Those apparently weren’t his words. She leaned in closely, quickly, and drew him into a kiss.
He either savored her lips against his for the first moments, or was so surprised that he couldn’t move. His face was away from mine. The kiss broke when he pushed her, gently but decisively, away. He said a few more words, then turned and headed toward the front door. Nola stood there in the windblown mist, staring after him. Her eyes were dark hollows in her weathered face, pensive and wanting. She was still standing there when I quickly resumed my seat.
Steven came in smiling broadly, attired in raincoat and tweed and looking every inch the polished counselor. He mopped at his lips with a handkerchief and I saw a smear of red. He ran a hand through his gray-shot hair. “Good morning, Mark. Why, hello, Jordan, it’s nice to see you as well.”
“I’m Mark’s ride today.” I smiled. “But I wonder if I might speak privately with you for a moment.”
“Certainly. Mark, why don’t you go on into my office and I’ll join you in a moment.”
“See you,” Mark said to me, and went into Steven’s office, shutting the door behind him.
“How’s Mark doing?” I asked.
Steven spread his fingers expansively. He was one of those people who talked as much with his hands as
