A long groan emanated from beneath the wet towel. “Jordan, please. I don't feel good. I don't want to hear you gripe about Aunt Sass just right this minute. Maybe later in the day, so I'll have something to look forward to.”
Candace can be a tad sharp-tongued, but this was a new level of cattiness, even for her. Well, she said she wasn't feeling good and here I was blabbing away.
“I'll let you rest. You let me know if you feel up to any lunch, okay?”
“Sure. Thanks, Jordan. I'm sorry-I don't mean to be snappish. I think I'll just take me a little nap.”
I patted her hand and left her to rest. No excuses now. I went down to the second floor and stopped in front of Bob Don and Gretchen's room. I knocked gently. No answer. I tried the door, found it unlocked, and eased it open. Gretchen lay softly snoring on the bed, one arm thrown away from her body, her small mouth agape. At least she was sleeping off the booze. After she was herself again, we could start to help her.
Help her. The very thought rang alien when applied to Gretchen. She'd been a shrew to me the first few months that I'd learned Bob Don was my father. She'd resented me, belittled me, bullied me, and attempted to blacken my character in Mirabeau.
But she'd changed.
Slowly, as the sobriety took hold, she'd lived her life according to reason rather than rum. She'd had to reevaluate her priorities and her choices. It's easy to make horrendous decisions when you're ablaze with drink. She'd extinguished the fire of her addiction-or at least the blinding, burning heat of her craving-and laboriously rebuilt her life. And, even given our ongoing verbal skirmishes, she'd accepted me.
I wasn't a drunk. I wasn't a terribly bitter person. Why couldn't/change? Why couldn't I shed the anger, the fear, the shock that Bob Don was my father and proceed apace with my life?
Fuck you. You 're not worthy to be his son.
The words still stung like the salt of tears on a childhood cut. Score one for Sass; if God stripped the flesh from my frame right now, He'd find a blackened mark across my ribs. She'd nicked the tenderest part of my heart.
Unbidden, the memory came of Bob Don barreling into my house, smashing in a door to race to my aid, a murderer's gun swinging toward him, the harsh, unforgiving blast of the pistol, the dread crimson blossoming across his big chest, and the stunned light of realization in his eyes as he collapsed to the floor.
You're a mistake.
The mistake, I decided as I watched Gretchen sleep, was letting Sass bully me. No more. I'd stand my ground, and if she didn't like it, tough. I only had to get through Lolly's funeral, and then Candace and I were out of here. I'd never have to lay eyes on Sass or Philip or any of this misbegotten crew again. I'd swim to my nice quiet side of the gene pool and trouble them no more.
I was gently shutting the door when I saw it. A small framed photo, standing on the table by the lamp. It drew me like metal to magnet.
The girl was perhaps twelve years old, the wind whipping her brown hair about her head. The set of the eyes, the determined mouth, the perfect skin-I was sure this was Deborah.
And next to her, Brian, perhaps four years younger, embraced her. He was talking to her, unaware of the camera, his face in profile, dark locks curling about his brow, his nose pert, his cheeks the ruddy red that only Irish blood supplies. He looked happy, laughing with his big sister.
I studied the picture. Gretchen mumbled and stirred in her sleep. I retreated, the picture in my hands, and eased the door shut behind me.
I hadn't finished my conversation with Deborah. The fight between Tom and Aubrey had cut it short. I left the photo in my room and decided now would be a good time to wrap up that talk.
I found Deborah among a tense, quiet group in the kitchen. This was not to be a convivial summertime lunch. Why should it be? With Aunt Lolly dead, Uncle Mutt ill, Aubrey and Tom feuding, Philip and Wendy conniving, Deborah sneaking, Uncle Jake complaining, Sass terrorizing, Bob Don moping, Candace vomiting, and Gretchen drinking-with all that I didn't feel like a party.
Wendy was assembling sandwiches while Aubrey watched, sipping self-righteously on a Coke. Deborah fixed iced tea and Philip nursed a Bloody Mary. All conversation ceased when I walked in.
“Hi,” I offered.
“How's the arm feeling?” Deborah glanced toward my bandage. “Wendy mentioned you took a nasty scrape.”
“I'm fine.” I made my voice sound hearty and forced my smile to its greatest width.
Apparently my fake enthusiasm was contagious. “Cousin Jordan,” Philip boomed, a cordial smile splitting his face. I wondered if the vodka had put it there. “I'm afraid I owe you an apology. I spoke rather harshly to you this morning and I really didn't mean to. We've just had so many shocks lately, I just wasn't myself. My apologies.” He offered his hand.
I hesitated, then presented mine in return. He attempted to squeeze my fingers to bone dust with the fervor of his handshake, but I kept my smile in place.
“I don't have any hard feelings, Philip. I don't expect y'all to just usher me right into the family.” Silence greeted this announcement. “Confession time. I'm not the world's easiest person to get along with, and I know Lolly's death has put a terrible strain on us all. Especially y'all, since you all knew and loved her.”
Sorrowful glances-even from Philip and Aubrey-were exchanged among the gathered, and I sensed for the first time that despite all the travail and difficulties, the Goertzes still saw themselves as a family. Dysfunctional in the extreme, perhaps, but still connected by ties of blood and affection. Not healthy, troubled by some deep tumor within the familial body, but willing to live.
Aubrey turned toward me and I saw the bandage on his forehead and the cleaned cut on his lip. One cheek had bruised beautifully, its colors like a tropical sunset. “I'll apologize right now for my mother, Jordan. She's had no call to treat you the way she has. I don't know what's gotten hold of her.”
I shrugged. “She and I both care a lot about Bob Don. She's worried I'm hurting him. She's probably right. I could hurt him and he'd never tell me. Bob Don and I don't talk real honestly a lot of the time.” I quieted, embarrassed at my sudden rush of confession.
Philip coughed. “Listen, Jordan, Aunt Sass has dealt out enough pain on her own.” He surprised me by putting a protective arm around Aubrey. “She don't got no call to be rough on you, just because she can't come to grips with Bob Don keeping you a secret.”
I fumbled for an answer. “I'm sure Aunt Sass has Bob Don's best interests at heart. Aubrey, I really don't mean to quarrel with your mother. But she lectures without knowing the complete story.” Did she tell y'all he nearly died for me? Did she paint me as an ingrate, an unfeeling bastard? I don't mean to be one. I don't.
“That's a Goertz family failing.” Deborah spoke quietly. “You get accustomed to the endless advice after a while.”
“Is that advice?” I asked, and for one moment there was a dead hush. Then Wendy tittered, and full-scale laughter broke out. Even Philip joined-or pretended to join-in. I felt the slightest bit more accepted. But I couldn't help but wonder what might motivate this new friendliness toward me. I didn't think an upsurge of appreciation for my wit and good manners had conquered their hearts.
I could almost hear Candace chiding me for senseless paranoia.
Lunch was a casual affair, the small group sitting around the big table, eating sandwiches and sipping tea. Uncle Jake joined us, but seemed content to chew and growl occasionally. He opted not to cast his ominous gaze my way. Rufus and Tom did not appear. I said Gretchen was “resting” (no one contradicted my story) and that Candace was feeling a little ill. Bob Don and Sass hurried out past our gathering, coming down the stairs. A lump coagulated in my heart as they left, not glancing toward us or even acknowledging our presence. The quiet seemed thick and I decided to break it. I'd decided to start investigating Philip's business concerns; there was no time like the present.