Elegantly. I fought back a sudden fantasy of checking myself into the hospital and letting Ruth give me a sponge bath. “How’s your mom?” she asked unexpectedly. “Best as could be expected.” “Must be hard on you,” she said, thoughtfully. “Emotionally and financially.” “Yes, it is. On both counts.” She gave me a speculative smile and cranked her engine. I promised to call her later and watched her drive off. I walked to my Blazer, thinking what an idiot I was. Here was a gorgeous woman who was practically throwing herself at me and here I was, too tired, antsy, and distrusting for even a roll in the hay. Lord knows my sex life had evaporated since I’d moved back to Mirabeau. Maybe I’d entirely lost my drive. My pants felt tight and I decided that wasn’t my problem. I liked Ruth, but I didn’t particularly relish bedding anyone on Beta’s list. There were too many unanswered questions, and I wasn’t entirely sure I believed Ruth’s disclaimers about Beta’s lies.
I pushed in the Blazer’s cigarette lighter and fished a pack out of my glove compartment. I’d stuck them there last week, vowing to quit. If Ruth could have her Miata, I could have my vice, too. As a smoking spot, the Blazer was a damn poor substitute for Ruth Wills’s bed.
7
I got home, relieved to see that I wasn’t going to be policed, either by Junebug or Candace. The carport was empty. Inside, Mark sat close to the TV as Arnold Schwarzenegger shot his way through a group of extras in one of the Terminator films. The gunfire whispered with the sound turned low. Mama watched the movie, a sure sign of her illness. She’d never have countenanced one of those bloodfests before she got sick. “Hey. How are y’all?” I asked. Mark glared up at me from the couch. “Well, despite that I didn’t get to go to Randy’s house tonight, I’m trying to have just a little fun-” Mark started snidely, but I held up a hand. “Listen, Mark. Listen real good. Since you’re about to hit puberty, you’ll soon realize life isn’t fair. And you’ll realize that life is too short to listen to whiners. You’ve got about one-twentieth of the problems of everyone else in this house, so having to forfeit one evening isn’t going to kill you. Your grandmother’s sick, your mom’s busting her ass at that crappy truck stop to clothe and feed you, and I’m trying to figure out who really killed Beta Harcher so I don’t end up in jail. So, my dear nephew, just shut up.” His jaw fell as if the hinge had vanished. Mama certainly wouldn’t have cottoned to me chastising her adored grandbaby, but she wasn’t sure who Mark was. His eyes flashed again and then went back to the TV. I went into the kitchen and brewed some decaf. Leaning over the sink, I rinsed out my mouth with tap water, trying to clean out the sting of lime and tequila. I was buzzed from the drinks, yet I was too hyper to go to bed and plop down. Too many fingers pointing blame. Tamma pointing at Bob Don. Bob Don pointing at Tamma. Matt pointing at me. Eula Mae pointing at Ruth. Hally pointing at Eula Mae. Ruth pointing at Bob Don, giving him the early lead. And worst of all, Billy Ray pointing at me with the finger he’d chiseled off the statue of blind justice over at the county courthouse. I poured my coffee, then stirred in milk and some Sweet’N Low. None of that he-man black coffee for me; I’d rather chew barbed wire. I went past the onscreen carnage in the living room, wished Mama and a blissfully silent Mark goodnight, and took my coffee upstairs. In my room, I slid a Mary-Chapin Carpenter CD into the player and let her wistful lyrics croon in my ear. Country music has sure improved in the last couple of years, even bringing back fans like me who didn’t know there were other kinds of music until we were teenagers (when we jumped over to other parts of the jukebox). Most of my CD collection remains jazz and classical (I’d fallen for both in college), but the country stack kept growing with folks like Mary-Chapin, Lyle Lovett, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Tish Hinojosa, and Rosanne Cash putting out beautiful, intelligent albums. I needed to put my thoughts in order. I wrote down the names of everyone on Beta’s list. It was the key to the mystery, I was sure. I also wrote down what questions remained, as far as I could see. I wrote steadily, trying not to lapse into the bad habit of chewing on my pen. I fought back the craving for a cigarette while I sat and thought over the day’s events. Mary-Chapin finished her songs and I replaced her with Lyle Lovett’s dryly witty mix of jazz, blues, and country. I made three trips downstairs for coffee.
The last time I helped Mama up to bed and got her settled for the night. Her medicine had relaxed her and she didn’t argue as I got her into her nightdress. She lay back on her pillows. Her eyes looked dull and listless compared with the highly intelligent eyes that I’d stared into during dinner. “You were gone. Did you have a nice time?” Mama asked. It was unusual for her to notice that someone was around or not. Maybe this was a sharper moment for her. “Yes, Mama, I did have a nice time. Thank you for asking.” “That’s good.” She patted my hand.
Might as well try. “Mama, do you remember Beta Harcher? She was a lady at the Baptist church. And she did work for the library.” Worked against the library, but that was too many details for Mama. Mama didn’t like questions; they frustrated her. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” “It’s okay. I just thought you might remember her.” “Ask your father,” she said sleepily. That advice wasn’t particularly helpful. I counted my blessings anyway; many Alzheimer’s patients spend their nights keeping their caretakers awake. Mama embraced sleep tonight. I kissed her cheek, turned out the lights, and went down to retrieve the cup of decaf I’d left when Mama asked me to take her upstairs. The television fell silent as I came down the stairs. Mark crouched on the couch, staring at his beloved high-top sneakers instead of me. I ignored him and picked up my cooling mug of coffee. “Sorry about before,” he muttered. I’m sure it’s the same kind of apology his daddy never bothered to give my sister. “Apology accepted.” I sat down next to him and lifted his chin so his eyes met mine. God, he was growing up quick. It’d only seemed like yesterday he’d been a baby that gurgled and cooed happily at his uncle Jordy. “Look, Mark. I’m not mad at you. It’s just that you have to understand the situation we’re all in. As you pointed out to me yesterday, your Mamaw is not getting better. She is never going to get better. I shouldn’t have kidded you that she’s ever going to improve. And we all have to do what we can to hold together as a family. We’re all making sacrifices. Your mother’s working ungodly hours. I gave up a good job and moved back here, where I have practically no career opportunities. So you have to help do your share, too. And sitting with your Mamaw when we need you to is not too much to ask.” “And how long till you get tired of it, Uncle Jordy?” Mark asked acidly. “I’m sorry I snapped at you before. But this noble act isn’t flying with me. Everyone’s saying how great you are for coming back here and helping with Mamaw. Well, big fucking deal.” He waited to see if the language shocked me. I stayed as still as stone. He continued, his words spilling out: “You’ll get tired of it sooner or later and you’ll haul butt back to Boston or wherever you damn well please. You’re not going to find any job in Mirabeau to make you happy. Living here’s going to wear thin and you’ll take your nobleness, say thanks to me and Mom, and you’ll be gone.” His thin face paled and those young, dark eyes dampened with angry tears. “Is that what you think, Mark?” “That’s what happens. It always happens.”
He got up and started up the stairs. “I’m not your daddy, you know.
I’m not going anywhere.” I would’ve called louder but I didn’t want to wake Mama. Mark’s steps paused for one brief moment on the stairs, then resumed their pounding. I heard his door shut. Maybe that explained the anger and the snotty comments. He was thirteen, starting that terribly awkward age, and he’d never known a man who stuck around. His father cut out when he realized Mark and Sister meant responsibility. My and Sister’s dad had inconsiderately died. Sister’s subsequent few boyfriends didn’t seem much taken with the idea of an ill mother-in-law and another man’s child. Why should this faraway uncle suddenly appear as the silvered knight of trust? I leaned back on the couch. I understood his worry. God knows I’d been tempted to leave. Sister still tended to treat me like a pesky little brother who foiled her plans. Mama could drive you crazy with her repetitive behavior, her restless nights, her lack of being the woman who raised me. Mark’s mouth outdid mine at his age. And Mirabeau didn’t offer much in the way of employment in my field. I’d gotten calls from friends at Brooks-Jellicoe, the publisher I’d worked for in Boston.