“Get real, Jordy. If you had a serious problem, would you go discuss it with Davis or Ed or Clevey?” He laughed. “I don’t think I would.”
“Still seems wrong to me.”
“You know, it’s not like you went straight to all those fellows when you found out Bob Don was your daddy. Why didn’t you?”
I shrugged. The coffee finished dripping and I poured us each a cup. “I don’t know. Davis would have wanted me to sue Bob Don for back support, I suppose. Ed would have given Bob Don a discount on his radio ads for being a friend’s dad or pointed me toward an appropriate Elvis song. Clevey would have made some stupid crack about it. And Trey-” I stopped. “It’s funny. Maybe only Trey would have understood. But he wasn’t here.”
“You said this therapist’s name was Teague?”
“Yeah, Steven Teague.” I handed Junebug the card and he pocketed it.
“I’ll have to give Mr. Teague a call. Find out what kind of problems Clevey was seeing him for.”
“Your privacy goes out the window when you die, doesn’t it?” I said.
He nodded. “Let’s talk about Clevey’s murder for a minute.”
Clevey’s murder. The possessiveness of those words- someone’s murder -has always struck me as odd. As if the murder was something that could belong to the victim, the final dignity as someone else emptied out his life.
“You said he was shot.”
“Yeah. Close range, in the right eye, one bullet, we think a thirty-eight caliber.”
I shuddered. Suddenly an image of Clevey in second grade, turning his eyelid inside out to gross out the girls, appeared in my mind. Memory is both damnation and blessing.
“Who found him?”
“A neighbor. She reported she’d heard a sound like a shot early this morning-around six-but didn’t think it was anything more than some kid shooting off a gun down on the river. She noticed Clevey’s car was still there in the driveway and thought he’d overslept, which he was prone to do. She found the door open and Clevey in the living room.”
“So why would anyone want to kill Clevey? Was it a robbery?” I couldn’t imagine the usually genial Clevey Shivers with an enemy. But he’d been seeing a therapist; how happy could his life be? Something must have been amiss for him to seek help.
“His place was ransacked, but the TV, the stereo, even the money in his wallet was still there. I don’t think this was a burglary that got interrupted. I ain’t sure what the hell to think.” Junebug stared down in his coffee. I’d known him long enough to see that a weight lay on his mind.
“You’re even more tense than I’d expect. What is it?”
“Whoever searched the house didn’t hit the bathroom too hard. I found this hidden in the bathroom, taped behind the toilet tank.” He went over to his briefcase. “You can’t tell anyone about this, Jordy. I’m only showing this to you ’cause you got a quick mind and you can keep your mouth shut.” He handed me an envelope, sealed in a plastic bag.
“Well, I can’t very well look in it. What is it?”
“Pictures and newspaper articles about Rennie Clifton.” He paused to let the name sink in. “I assume you remember her, Jordan.”
You never forget the first time you see death. I shivered, despite the warmth of the coffee. “Yes, I remember her. The girl who died in Hurricane Althea when we were kids.” I poked at the evidence bag. “Why would Clevey have this?”
He sat down again and rubbed his face. His skin looked sunburned despite the cool weather. “It’s not unusual that he might collect information on a tragedy that he was involved in. Maybe was going to write a newspaper story about it, although I can’t imagine for what reason. But if he was, why would he hide it on the back of the toilet tank?”
“What specifically is in it?”
“Newspaper clippings from when Rennie Clifton died. Our pictures, that awful group one of us the paper took after we found her body. An interview with her mother. A copy of the death certificate-killed due to a blow to the skull, probably suffered from flying debris during the storm.”
I sipped at my coffee. “But that was twenty years ago. And she died from an accident.”
“Maybe she did. But Clevey sure as hell didn’t.”
5
Long, sleepless nights are not my favorites. Especially when spent alone. I’d called Candace at home after Junebug left; she’d closed up the cafe after a crawly-slow evening. I’d told her I didn’t feel I should leave Sister and Mark alone, and she agreed. I tried not to imagine how comforting her arms and lips and voice would be to me. I showered, pulled on a heavy robe against the cold, and slipped into bed.
Mark and Sister bickered into the night. Their voices floated through the wall, the thunder sometimes masking their words. Mark begged to see his father; Sister forbade him. I didn’t believe her approach was going to work; Mark sounded too determined. He might look like his daddy, but there was a lot of Poteet in him. I figured he was bound to get his way.
My domestic situation didn’t do a lot to keep my mind off Clevey. I kept thinking I should weep for him. But I couldn’t, not even in the dark privacy of my own room in the middle of the night. It was as though some veil had been drawn across my eyes and sadness wouldn’t seep through. His death still seemed unreal, although my friends and I had gone through the preliminary pantomimes of grief.
Rennie Clifton. I hadn’t thought of her in ages. That beautiful girl, unknown to me except in her death. I, of course, would never forget the horrible day my friends and I nearly died in the eerie rage of the tropical storm-or forget her eyes gaping at the greenish sky as Althea’s center passed over us. Clevey had run for Davis’s grandparents’ house to fetch help while the rest of us waited, staring mutely at the body. I remembered Davis had thrown up, the sour stench of his vomit reeking in the humid air.
For a brief while we were celebrities in Mirabeau. I never want to be a celebrity again. When people asked what it was like to find a corpse, Rennie’s empty eyes would come back to me, lifeless as pebbles. My parents were terribly upset with me for sitting out the storm in a tree house, but the girl’s death tempered their rage; they knew it could have been me lying among the shattered trees, staring blindly up at the fortress of clouds. I remember my father spanking me, then stopping and embracing me so tight I couldn’t breathe.
In one of the wee hours of Saturday morning, I fell asleep and, thankfully, Clevey and Rennie stayed out of my dreams.
I awoke to a sky-shuddering thunderstorm, my skin feeling chilled under the comforters. I absently reached for Candace. Hell! I hate waking up alone now. I like to start my mornings with at least a kiss. Dragging the sheets above my head and trying to surrender to sleep didn’t help.
I found Mark downstairs, eating a bowl of cereal and reading the Austin paper. He tested the lip of the spoon against his mouth and watched me as I fumbled for coffee.
“Where’s your mother?” I asked.
“She went to the cafe. Said she didn’t trust that breakfast cook Candace hired.”
“She’s not going to have much business today.” I peered out at the rain. People who think Texas is the arid plain portrayed in Westerns need to come to Mirabeau and see one of our drenching, thunder-booming storms. Water pooled in our backyard, the hanging plants Sister kept on the back porch swaying in the wind. It was a cold, penetrating rain. I wrapped my hands around a warm mug of coffee.
I usually didn’t go into the library on Saturdays, but with both Itasca and Florence being out sick, I mentioned to Mark I might go. After, of course, a stop at the cafe to enjoy a few minutes of Candace’s company.
“Itasca called. She’s feeling much better and she’s going to open up this morning,” Mark said, watching me.
“Well, maybe I’ll go in later.” I sat down with my coffee and began to read the sports section. The lead story was a preview of the next day’s Cowboys game. I remembered with a jolt that the last game I’d seen at Texas Stadium was with Clevey and Ed. Ed had gotten tickets through a friend (those seats are like gold bullion) and we’d made a road trip to Dallas. This had been right before I moved to Boston to work for Brooks-Jellicoe, Publishers, and I remembered Clevey saying “this’ll be your last chance to see real football.” I wondered how many other reminders of Clevey lurked in my everyday life, waiting for me to lower my guard.