Distant Blood

13

I hunkered down in the dense grasses that divided two of the older tombs. I prayed there wasn't a fire-ant mound nearby, but none of the pests had invaded the territory of the dead. I did manage to scrape my elbow good on a corner of Nora Goertz's tomb and winced at the sudden, sharp pain. I didn't have much time to inspect the wound. Philip's baritone carried toward me on the never-ending wind, another softer voice answering his. I lay flat in the tall grass, not daring to peer around the monument. My choices were few.

And what are you going to do if they spot you? Claim you're sunbathing? In a graveyard? I didn't have a clue. I decided not to fret until the problem presented itself.

I inched my face around the corner of the tomb and saw them stroll past the saltcedars: Philip huffing along, followed-surprisingly-by Wendy Tran. He appeared angry; she seemed fidgety. Even at this distance I could see her glance around nervously, as though expecting unwanted visitors.

They stopped at the gate to the cemetery. Philip mopped his glistening forehead with a raggedy handkerchief. Wendy stopped and crossed her arms. She said something I couldn't hear and looked back over her shoulder. I ducked my head behind the tomb. I couldn't see them, and they, I hoped, hadn't seen me.

“I'm not gonna keep you long,” Philip said. “Lunch'll wait. You got the money?”

“Of course not. I need more time, Philip.” Her voice sounded tight and controlled. I wondered if she was quite as placid as she acted in the comfort of her kitchen.

“I don't have much time myself, darlin'. I can't be waiting on you to work your magic if it's gonna take all weekend.”

“Philip. Mutt's not here today. I can't get the cash from him if he's gone arranging his sister's funeral. No one planned for Lolly to die.”

“Maybe someone did.” Philip spoke so softly that I could barely hear him. Sweat stung my eyes, blood stuck dirt to my elbow, and a mosquito roosted on my bare calf for lunch; but I didn't dare move. I could feel the thud of my heart against the earth.

Wendy didn't answer immediately, and for one sinking moment I thought I'd been spotted. “That's a horrible thing to say. Poor Lolly.”

“Yeah, right.” Philip snorted.

“She was your aunt.”

“Yeah, and what was she to you, sunshine? Just an old lady who wouldn't get out of your way.”

Silence held sway again and I wondered if Wendy had left, insulted at Philip's implication. When she spoke, her voice was as cool as the stone of the tombs. “You just talk to hear the sound of your own voice, Philip.”

“You cooked the food, sunshine. She died at the dinner table. Don't they always look hard at the chef?”

“She had a heart attack. That's it.” Wendy's voice rose.

“Yeah, she had a heart attack and Uncle Jake's heart medication is missing.”

Obviously I wasn't the only one pondering that fact. Wendy rushed into the momentary hush. “For God's sake. Jake used it all up. You know how he snivels for his pills.” The mosquito cocktailing on my blood was joined by an after-work gang of his fellow bugs. I bit my lip and kept myself still. If I moved overmuch, or made too much noise, I would be detected-by two people calmly discussing the possibility of murder. I allowed myself one slow, open-mouthed breath. The smell of the island-the salt of the air, the mixed perfumes of wildflowers, the hint of pollen, the subtle rank of my own sweat-filled my nose. I willed myself not to sneeze.

“You ain't exactly been weeping and wailing since Lolly died,” Philip said.

“And I suppose you wanted to come out here to dig her grave with your own grieving hands?” Wendy paused and I watched an ant wobble curiously toward my face. I tried not to imagine a diamondback slithering through the grasses and encountering my body like a big speed bump that would have to be surmounted.

Philip didn't answer Wendy, and she continued: “Play nice, Philip. Do you want me to help you or not?”

“Oh, sunshine, it's definitely in your best interest to help me out. Hate to see an eclipse happen to my sunshine, you know that's bad luck.”

I waited for another one of Wendy's characteristic pauses to greet this statement, but she wasted no time: “Don't even think of threatening me, Philip. You don't have the money to write that check-so to speak.” She laughed, a long, brittle giggle. I had never heard her laugh before and her coldness chilled my skin, even in the humid heat. “I've got to go fix lunch for the family. I'll let you know when I've gotten the money. Until then, leave me alone and let me do my job.”

“Wendy-do it well. You'll be amply rewarded.” Philip sounded as though the words tasted bad in his mouth.

“You needn't worry. But I don't want you talking to me again unless it's to ask what's for dinner. I'm sure that won't arouse anyone's suspicions.”

“Oh. And is anyone suspicious?” His voice held a nasty tone.

Another Wendy lull held, then I heard: “I found Jordan snooping in Lolly's closet this morning. Him I find suspicious generally.”

“What the hell was he doing there?”

“Being a sneak. I don't like the way he's ingratiating himself with Mutt.”

“Goddamn luck, Jordan would resemble the old coot. And I caught the bastard buttering up Mutt last night in the library. Uncle dear's taken a liking to him. Jordan's nothing but a smug little shit. I can't have him interfering, sunshine.”

“Well, nothing you can do about him.”

“The hell I can't,” Philip rumbled. Four words to halt your breathing, trust me.

I waited until I was sure they'd left. No way I was venturing back down the path they'd come. I wasn't risking that they'd stop to confer or plot or argue-and I'd stumble up behind them, a falsely amiable mask set on my face. Burrs in my hair? Out doing headstands in the meadow. Grass stains up and down my entire body? Slid into home during the softball tournament being held on the other side of the island. I am not a skilled liar-usually-and I didn't want to manufacture a story.

Instead of returning the way that I came, I decided to support the fiction that I'd been exploring the whole island. So I continued my trek across Sangre, to the side closest to the mainland. Here the ground seemed a bit damper, with thickets of honey mesquites, bright freckles of lavender Texas vervain, fuzzy violet coast mistfiowers, and the yellowish-green spotted horsemint speckling the land. I held my arm away from my body-the scrape was messy and I didn't want to get blood on my clothes. I found a rough trail, probably worn by Rufus or Tom on their island perambulations, and headed back for the house.

I stumbled along the trail, found one shady spot to sit, and eased to the ground. I figured I couldn't beat Philip and Wendy back to the house, so I might as well saunter in late. I wouldn't want them to wonder if I was lurking near their private confab.

I forced myself toward calm. I closed my eyes. Wendy was chiseling money out of Uncle Mutt for Philip. I assumed she'd nab a percentage for her services. So the affectionate scene I'd witnessed between Wendy and Mutt in the kitchen was part of her ruse to wile away the cash from my uncle.

Poor Uncle Mutt. He'd been thoroughly duped. The look on his face as he'd cradled Wendy in his arms had been one of unmitigated bliss, reflection on a lifetime of remembered joys. He'd held Wendy as tenderly as if he were still a young man. And he didn't have much time left for the physical pleasures-

I blinked. Uncle Mutt was dying. If Philip needed money, why didn't he just ask? And why, if unwilling to ask, didn't he wait for the few months Uncle Mutt had left?

Either Philip suspected he wasn't likely to benefit from Uncle Mutt's will, or there was another time pressure on him for cash. Uncle Mutt had referred repeatedly to Philip's business ineptitude. I supposed that once again Philip had bottomed out and Uncle Mutt refused to line the coffers. I decided it was time, if possible, to learn more about Philip's business ventures. He was from Corpus Christi; I should start my inquiries there.

Dealing with my uncle was another matter. Uncle Mutt might easily believe Philip was up to no good, but would he accept Wendy's involvement in these machinations? I had no proof-and no idea how Wendy planned to pry the funds from Uncle Mutt's wallet. It depended on how much money was at stake. A few hundred? A few thousand? A million? I blew out exasperated breath. My stomach rumbled. I stood and headed back toward the dock.

Time to see what Wendy had cooked up for lunch. I'd have preferred to know what she was concocting for my unsuspecting great-uncle.

I don't have a career in espionage awaiting me. I snuck in the front door, thinking Wendy would be occupied in the kitchen. Wrong. She spotted me entering the house. She was setting the table in the dining room and she raised a perfect eyebrow at me-me. with my dirtied clothes and bloodied arm.

“Good Lord. What happened to you?”

I shrugged. “I was exploring and I took a tumble down a dune. I scraped my arm on a shell or something. I'm okay.” As soon as I manufactured this fib I thought: Shouldn't you have a little more sand in your hair? And clothes? And in the wound?

Wendy didn't appear to notice my relatively sand-free state. She examined my arm critically. “We've got a first-aid kit in the kitchen. I'll clean that up for you, or I'll find Deborah. She'd probably be insulted if I didn't let her exercise her vocation.”

“I'll tend to it myself,” I blurted. This woman made me uneasy. Wendy was no cowering servant girl from a Victorian novel. The coldness of her laugh, the educated way in which she spoke, the assurance she showed in dealing with Philip-it was a combination that didn't lend itself to domestic duties. And I'd detected concern in her voice for my injury. Who was this woman?

Her perfect eyebrow arched again. “Unless you're limber enough to kiss your elbow, you can't tend to this. Here, sit down.” I waited while she fetched the first-aid kit. She cleaned the wound, tsking as she did so. “That's a big scrape, Jordan. You want to be careful and keep it disinfected.” I watched while she spread medication across the skinned arm and taped bandages to it. Her touch was surprisingly tender.

“Thanks,” I said as she finished. “I'll try not to be such a klutz.”

She closed the first-aid kit with a click and regarded me with curious eyes.

The phone rang, and she sighed. “Probably another person calling to offer sympathy for Lolly's death. I think everyone in Calhoun County must be worried over Mutt.”

“It's nice to be liked,” I offered.

She shrugged. “He's important. I don't know if that's the same as being liked.” She answered the phone softly, explained that Mutt was unavailable, and began to make sympathetic assurances into the receiver. After a few moments she thanked the caller, jotted down the name and number, and hung up the phone.

“All that concern for the living,” she said, half to herself. She glanced up at me. “They don't worry about the dead.”

“They're beyond worry,” I offered. The words rang horribly callous to me and I blushed.

“You're right. We can only help the living. That's a favorite saying of Mutt's.” Her gaze seemed locked on some faraway object, and I felt the unintended sting of her words. Bob Don was living; the man I called Daddy was dead. My mother was dead, too, although she maintained an illusion of life by filling her lungs with air and pumping blood through her veins. But the thoughts that wandered through her brain were homeless and ill-formed, and her memories were warped and unplayable, like a vinyl record album melted by the sun. It wasn't life.

We can only help the living.

Wendy saw pain in my face and gracefully changed the subject. “I'm afraid lunch isn't fancy-salad and sandwiches. It should be ready in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll just go get cleaned up.” I excused myself and sauntered up the stairs; a backward glance told me Wendy eyed me speculatively, as though she found the story of my injury doubtful. Had she and Philip seen me in the grass and just played a joke on me? My name had come up rather abruptly, and I hadn't spied on them the whole time to see if they'd spotted me.

I paused on the stairs. I could feel the weight of Uncle Jake's stare on my back. I glanced over my shoulder; he was watching me with the cool glare of someone who has seen a lot of pain in his life.

“Your daddy's upstairs, I believe,” he said softly.

Oh, God. Had he heard the venomous argument between Sass and me? The greenhouse, after all, was his favorite haunt. I wasn't eager to have my problems become fodder for this family's discussions.

“Thanks. Maybe I'll go talk to him.” I could think of no other answer to offer.

“Think that'd be a good idea, boy. Fathers and sons shouldn't be so far apart.” He thumped an arthritic hand against the pages of his book; his fingers curled like a talon. “Your father had a hard enough time with his daddy, don't make history repeat itself.”

“I think history always does repeat itself,” I said. “We seem to make the same mistakes, over and over again.”

“This family. This island. Yes.” Jake's eyes glittered with the hard light of truth. “You're a perceptive boy.”

An unaccountable shudder ran along my spine. Creepy old man, sitting in the library like some warped oracle. I wanted to be away from him.

“See you later, Uncle Jake,” I said, and scurried up the steps. I could feel the weight of his incessant stare on my shoulders, as dreadful as the gaze of a dead orb.

Instead of going to my room or to Bob Don's, I headed to Candace' s. I knocked on her door. Her voice, strained, bade me wait a moment; then I heard the sound of a toilet flushing, and water gurgling in a sink. She opened the door with a damp washcloth pressed to her chin. Her skin was pale and her eyes had trouble focusing on me.

“Hey, what's wrong?” I asked. She turned and sat on the bed. From the bathroom I could smell the faint, sour odor of vomit.

“Oh, I'm okay. I ate a snack that didn't agree with me. I'm fine.”

All the talk of poison made my heart stop at the mention of distasteful food. “You sure? I'll get Deborah to take a look at you-”

“No, I don't need Deborah. I'll be fine, really. It's nothing. Just let me lie down for a bit.”

“Wendy's fixing lunch. How about some soup, sugar?”

“Uh, no. I'm really not hungry.” She rubbed her eyes and sighed.

“What'd you eat?”

“What?”

I took her hand. “Eat. What did you eat that made you feel queasy?”

“It's really nothing, Jordan, I wish you wouldn't conduct the Spanish Inquisition over this. I think I ate some bad cheese or something. I'm fine.” She lay down on the bed and noticed my bandaged arm for the first time. “What happened to you?”

I closed her bedroom door. Candace doesn't approve of me sticking my nose into other folks' business and I didn't want to admit to my recent exploration of the island, my discovery of the graveyard, and the conversation between Philip and Wendy. So I told her the same story I'd fed Wendy.

“Good Lord. Well, be careful.” Candace covered her eyes with her wet terrycloth veil, but her tone of voice let me know she was staring at me right through the cloth. Women can do that, you know. “Maybe you shouldn't traipse around this island alone.”

“It's fun. Like a boyhood adventure. I feel like Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn.” I tried to sound carefree.

She raised one corner of the cloth to fix a baleful eye on me. “You quit being a boy quite a while back, darling. At least I hope so. Your behavior doesn't always support that conclusion.”

“You're no fun.”

“Have you apologized to Aunt Sass?”

“I tried. We were getting along fine until she started chewing my ass out for not letting Bob Don in my life. Like she knows anything about it.” I didn't elaborate on Sass's rather valid reasons for disliking me. I wasn't too crazy about myself at the moment. I walked over to the window- the bay draws you like a magnet, especially if you grew up never seeing water wider than a river or a little lake-and contemplated the ceaseless rhythm of the waves.

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.

“What line of work you in, Philip?”

He took several extra seconds chewing his already thoroughly masticated sandwich before answering. “Investments. Of a sort.”

Aubrey pursed his lips. “Of a sort is right. All the wrong sort.”

“Now, Aubrey, be nice. And after I took up for you with Tom.” Philip quickly bit off another chunk of bread and roast beef to keep from elaborating on his trade.

I didn't relent. “Municipals? Money-market funds? You work for one of the big national shops?”

Philip swallowed and took a long sample of his Bloody Mary. He chomped an inch off the celery stalk. If food was his delaying tactic, I could wait longer than he could chew.

“Actually, all of 'em. I serve as an adviser to the wealthy folks along the coast. Help 'em diversify their holdings.”

“Uncle Mutt used to be Philip's biggest customer,” Aubrey offered with a smile. “Used to be.”

“Kindly keep my clientele private, Aubrey,” Philip said. He stuck the mangled celery back in the glass of murky tomato juice.

I nibbled at my sandwich. Now I had a handle on what might have transpired between Philip and Mutt. Mutt invested money, Philip lost or mishandled it. Mutt withdrew his support, Philip needed cash. How much money had Philip lost for Mutt? Surely Mutt was too clever to entrust Philip with much; I wouldn't give him my loose change. I clicked my tongue against the back of my teeth, watching Philip fidget in his chair. Deborah diverted the conversation, broaching that safest of Texas subjects: high-school football. Philip took the lead and proffered endless opinions on the chances of teams along the coast this fall.

Uncle Jake snorted at the new topic. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, then closed it, thoughtfully and slowly. I felt like we'd just been spared the dragon's flaming breath. His eyes met mine for the briefest of moments and I thought his glance said:/ ain 't buying this shit from Philip. Are you?

The discussion of football quickly waned, so I forged into the rough waters. “I have to admit, coming here has been full of surprises. Like finding out that Gretchen was married to Bob Don's brother.”

Deborah fixed a steely gaze on me. “I thought you and I had already covered that story, Jordan.”

“I just wondered why it was never mentioned to me before, by either-”

“It wasn't mentioned because it's a painful subject.” Deborah stood. “I don't really want to talk about anything regarding my father anymore, if you don't mind.”

“I'm sorry, Deborah. I didn't think. It's one of my greatest failings.” I felt blood redden my face. “Candace'll tell you, I always manage to taste my own shoe leather at least once a day.”

“That's not such a bad crime,” Deborah said, her voice softening. The light from the window played along the glints in her hair and I could see the smudges beneath her eyes. She suddenly looked very tired and older than her years.

Uncle Jake, who'd been so unusually quiet, spoke. “I don't see what the big deal is about not talking about Paul. God knows we've exhausted that subject before, it's probably due for a fresh beating.”

“Uncle Jake. It's painful for me to talk about Dad.” Deborah shoved her plate away from her.

“I'd hate to do anything to impinge on your martyrdom,” Uncle Jake replied.

“That's uncalled for,” Aubrey interrupted. “Uncle Jake, you must be feeling tuckered out. Why don't you go take a nice nap?”

“When you've lived as long as I have, Deb, you can bitch about how sad life is. You ain't hardly shed your first tears. Lots more comin' for you.” Uncle Jake coughed, a deep, rheumy noise.

Deborah smiled thinly, her teeth even white stones against her trembling lip. “Uncle Jake, I truly fail to understand why God is taking Uncle Mutt and leaving you around way past your time.”

“Good God, Deborah!” I exclaimed. Philip, Aubrey, and Wendy were stunned to silence. Jake stared at Deborah with bird-bright eyes. He leaned forward on his cane, as if insatiably curious for what she might say next.

“Don't, Jordan,” Deborah said softly. “Don't take up for Jake. You don't know what a sick old man he is. How Mutt and Lolly endure him”-she broke into a strangled sot)-”I don't know. I can't stand to be in a room more than a minute with him, and I'm sick of pretending that I can.”

“Deb-” Jake raised a hand in supplication toward her.

“You're barely kin. So what if you were my great-grandmother's brother? I never knew her. I'm supposed to care about you, your feelings, when you've never shown the slightest regard for another human being in your life? You sit there and tell me not to feel pain. After my dad vanished, and my mom died, and my brother died?” She wiped tears away with the back of her hand. “No one can suffer but you? Wrong, old man. You sour everything you come near.” She stood. “I think I'll go see how Candace is feeling.” She turned and we heard the patter of her feet on the stairs.

Jake did not look at us. He rose, leaned on his cane, and slowly made his way to the dining-room door. He glanced back, showing only his craggy profile, his gaze firmly fixed on the polished hardwood floor. “I shouldn't have read that book on tough love. I've upset Deb. I'm sorry to have ruined everyone's lunch.”

“Uncle Jake-” Aubrey began, but Jake shook his head.

“Bitter old fool. That little girl has no idea how much I really love her.” He turned on his cane and went across toward the study, his movements brittle with age. He eased the door closed behind him.

Aubrey and Wendy quietly began to clear the plates. Philip followed them into the kitchen and I could hear the soft murmurs of their voices.

I am a well-meaning idiot sometimes. If I couldn't heal the rift that'd divided Sass and me, perhaps I could help Deborah and Jake. I crossed to the study door, raising my knuckles to knock.

And held them still when I heard Jake's low, cadaverous laughter, as though he were giggling at some profoundly funny joke.