Faithful Unto Death (9 page)

Twelve

I
may not be the tallest pine tree in the Big Thicket, but I’m no shrub, and those footprints on my roof led me to one inescapable conclusion.

Jo was leaving the house unobserved, and the only time she would need to do that, since Annie and I are reasonable and loving parents, and not the fascist dictators some people would make us out to be, is at night. When a fourteen-year-old should be home. In bed. By herself.

I did, at least, know no one could have been in her room. Baby Bear is a good-natured mutt, but if someone had climbed through Jo’s window, Baby Bear would have chewed him to the bone, cracked the bones for the marrow, and left only the buttons, buckle, and zipper. Newfoundlands are ferociously protective. I like that in a dog.

It’s a good thing Jo was in school. At least, I assumed she was in school. Evidently, I had been making several unwarranted assumptions recently.

I took those stairs two at a time, Baby Bear at my heels ready for whatever new game this was going to turn out to be, and burst into Jo’s room like I was going through the Oklahoma defensive line on homecoming day.

Nothing.

I don’t know what I expected to find. Been afraid to find.

I was glad I didn’t find it.

Three years after we’d been in this house, Annie Laurie and I took the carpet out of the fourth bedroom, the one we used as a guest room and sewing room, and we installed a wood floor. Both Merrie and Jo were taking ballet, and it seemed like a good investment. Annie Laurie’s mother is a big believer in ballet lessons for little girls. She says it gives a “young lady” grace and poise and a good carriage. I didn’t know young ladies still had carriages anymore. It sounded as odd as referring to someone’s “countenance.” But I figured all that stretching and bending would make the girls more limber for sports that could get them college scholarships.

Annie Laurie and I put the floor in ourselves with a how-to book and supplies from the Home Depot on the Southwest Freeway. Along one wall we mounted floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a ballet barre. It took us the better part of a week, and we couldn’t have done it if the girls hadn’t been away at church camp. As it was, we covered up some uneven plank ends with baseboard and wood filler. You have to be the kind of person who looks for mistakes to notice that.

Both girls were tickled when they got home from camp and saw the transformation. Annie Laurie and I left them to their unpacking, and went downstairs to start dinner.

We heard some strange thumps and bumps and what sounded like a mighty struggle. The commotion grew in intensity until I went upstairs to investigate.

Jo had dismantled the guest room bed, and had wrestled the full mattress out to the hall landing. She was having trouble with the box springs. I mean, she was only eight or so, and the box springs weighed more than she did, no question.

Tall, blond Merrie was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, laughing.

What on earth did she think she was doing, I had asked Jo, though it was perfectly clear what she was doing. Jo was appropriating the new dance room for herself. I told her no, the dance room was to share with Merrie and with any overnight guests we might have, and I took the box springs from Jo to put it back in place. All sixty-five pounds of Jo—and at least five of those pounds were carried in her long dark braids—grabbed hold of the box springs and pulled back so hard she actually pulled it from my grasp. She sat there, eyes brimming, face set and furious, absolutely quivering with defiance.

Naturally I wasn’t going to let her get away with that kind of behavior, and I was reasoning with her, kindly but firmly, not making any headway that I could see, but sticking to my course, when Merrie came over, squatted down on the floor next to Jo, and said, “You want the room that bad, Monkeyface?”

Jo nodded, which was more of a response than I’d gotten from her so far, and Merrie said, “Dad, it’s no big deal. Let her have the room; you can make her old room into the guest room. Jo will let me use the barre when I want to, won’t you, Jo?” Jo nodded again, less convincingly this time.

Merrie gave her little sister’s braid a yank and said, “Come on then, I’ll help you move.” And from that time, it was Jo’s room.

Jo’s room looked the same to me as it always had. Two twin brass beds that had been Annie’s grandmother’s when she was a girl. Jo’s bed wasn’t made up, of course. The blankets were helter-skelter and the sheets were every which way, but I don’t let myself get worked up over that. I wasn’t wild about the clothes flung all over, across the rails of the bed and on doorknobs and lying on the floor. Jeans and T-shirts and little bitty bras and panties so tiny I don’t see any point to them at all, but Annie Laurie says to let her worry about the panties, so I do.

Jo’s room had a built-in bookcase against one wall with all the horse books Marguerite Henry ever wrote—I mean everything, all fifty-eight books, and that’s no small accomplishment even taking into account eBay and Amazon.

Those books were from Jo’s horse-crazy days, and I’d read two of them to her,
Misty of Chincoteague
,
which was okay, and
King of the Wind
, which I liked a lot. Jo loved all of them—she would trace the Wesley Dennis illustrations with her finger—but she never became much of a reader on her own. Annie took Jo to an educational specialist, who ran a bunch of expensive tests and came up with the idea that Jo had a reading disorder of some sort, but that’s a lot of hooey. No one in my family has ever had one of those ubiquitous disorders being marketed all over the place. Jo won’t apply herself; that’s what her problem is.

Instead of books, the shelves of the bookcase mostly held ballet trophies and worn-out toe shoes and framed pictures of Jo in different ballet costumes. My favorite picture is the one where she got the fairy queen role. That was two years ago—quite an accomplishment because the part usually went to an older girl. It had been a while since I’d really looked at the picture, and I picked it up.

In the picture, Jo is sitting on the stage with her back to the audience, her legs bent under her in kind of a complicated way, the filmy green dress spread out and sprinkled all over with silk daisies.

Usually when Jo dances, her hair is slicked back into a bun on the top of her head, but in this picture, all that long, silky wavy dark hair is down her back. She’s looking over her shoulder so that the photographer has caught her in profile, her little chin tilted up, her gaze off on some imaginary world none of the rest of us could see. She looks like a queen. Not a princess. A queen. A little beauty.

I remembered bringing her a big bouquet of long-stem yellow roses, and when she was done dancing, making those elaborate, graceful bows that ballerinas do, I was still so caught up in her performance I nearly forgot to lay them at her feet. Merrie had to put an elbow in my side. What a good night that had been. Magic.

The memory of that night drained all the haste and anger out of me. I couldn’t remember the last time Jo and I had had a really good time together. It seemed like she was always angry at me nowadays, like there wasn’t anything I could say that didn’t get on her nerves or make her downright mad.

Annie Laurie tells me that it’s normal, but it never happened between me and Merrie. We never got to a point where we couldn’t talk to each other. Merrie tells me everything. Jo and I have to have Annie to play go-between just to get us through dinner.

I felt depressed and anxious, not to mention hot and sweaty and itchy, and I spent a long time in the shower trying to wash away the depression with the sweat. Baby Bear sat right outside the shower and watched with interest while I bathed. I’ve tried shutting him out. The French doors don’t lock and Baby Bear is very interested in watching me shower, so I’ve given up on privacy.

I wasn’t but half dressed when the phone rang.

It was Rebecca.

“Bear, Cruz called. You know who Cruz is? She’s that lady who works for Honey Garcia.”

I said I knew who she was.

“She called to tell you the police have picked up Alex Garcia. They’re holding him for questioning in Richmond. At the juvenile detention center, thank Heaven for that at least.”

“Why ‘thank Heaven’?”

“Lord, don’t you know what goes on in the adult prisons? Why, adult convicts would be lined up at a young boy’s cell door and—”

“Okay, Rebecca. You might want to be more careful what you’re Netflixing, you know that? Listen, would you call Glenn and alert him to this new development—”

“I already have and he’s sending someone over there. A woman; he says don’t let her fool you, she’s as tough as nails and twice as sharp and all she does is criminal defense.”

“Well, we hope it doesn’t come to that.”

There was a short silence and I grabbed a sport coat.

“It already has, hasn’t it, Bear?” I could hear her other line beeping. “Got to go, Bear, keep me in touch.” And she hung up.

Thirteen

B
y the time I had made the twenty-minute drive past the George Memorial Library to the juvenile detention center in Richmond, Alex was already closeted with his mother, his lawyer, and Detective James Wanderley. The police wouldn’t let me in to see Alex until they were through with him, and when they were through, they would let him go home. I could visit with him then. I knew the lawyer Glenn had sent over would be more than capable of handling whatever came up during questioning.

I’d just wasted an hour going to Richmond and I’d missed all my morning appointments because of my unexpected visit from Dr. Garcia. I didn’t want to miss my afternoon appointments, too.

Two or three times a week I make hospital visits. I drive into town to the Medical Center; that’s where many people go, even though we have an excellent Methodist Hospital branch here in First Colony. Houston’s Medical Center is the most prestigious in the world, so if you have a serious problem, cancer or heart trouble, say, you’ll likely end up in the Medical Center, though a lot of the very same doctors have offices in Sugar Land, too.

That’s what I had scheduled for this afternoon, and I didn’t want to change my plans. I had to, though. Before I could get to my car, HD’s Bentley pulled into the lot and the fighting cock himself jumped out.

I tried to look small and anonymous and slink off to my car. HD saw me. You don’t make that kind of money if things as big as me slip past you.

HD waved me over, bellowing, “Preacher! Come on with me. I’ll get this sorted out. You come on.” He strode on past, it never occurring to him that I might not follow.

I followed.

He burst through the door in what I was quickly coming to imagine was his signature entrance. He called out to the nearest officer, who was quietly conferring with a weeping woman.

“Boy! I’m HD Parker and I’m here to get my grandson out of prison!”

The officer lifted his large, dark head and stared at HD.

I said, “He calls me ‘boy,’ too.” I didn’t think HD meant it the way it sounded.

“Where you got him locked up? Get your keys and get your supervisor and get him on out here. His name is Alex Garcia, but he’s no Mexican.”

Maybe HD did mean “boy” the way it sounded.

The officer’s face didn’t twitch. If he was irritated, he didn’t let it show. His voice was even and polite.

“My name is Officer Laplante. And this isn’t a prison, sir, it’s a juvenile holding facility and my understanding is that your grandson is being questioned. If you would like to have a seat in the waiting room, someone will be with you as soon as there’s any information we are permitted to share with you.”

HD gave a squawk.

“Permitted? Permitted! You’ve got my grandson! You’re treating him like a murderer! That boy is no murderer. He’s in the Honor Society at Clements High School. Kid plays on the golf team, got a negative three handicap.”

Ummm, I was going to have to check up on that one. Negative three? For sure? That would make him competitive with Tiger Woods. Clements High School has a good golf team, but give me a break. HD was partial to hyperbole. That or he was delusional.

“Sir.” Officer Laplante spoke louder this time, and let some of his authority show in his straight bearing. “I need you to calm yourself down and take a seat in the waiting room. No one is treating your grandson like a murderer. We’re holding him until—”

“How long? How long you holding my grandson? I’d like you to come right on out and tell me to my face, right here, right now, how long you plan on keeping my grandson in this, this hellhole of bestiality and pederasty . . .”

Officer Laplante looked at me. “Are you with him?”

Oh, thank you, Mr. HD Parker.

“No. I mean, I know his daughter and I’ve met Mr. Par—”

“I recommend to you that you remove this gentleman from the premises. Now would be a good time.”

If HD had tail feathers, they would have gone on full display at that.

Another squawk. A Mel Blanc squawk. “I am
not
with this boy”—see, I did say he called me “boy,” too—“that is Honey’s pantywaist Preacher Boy and”—HD faced me—“I do not believe for one second you played ball for the U of T.”

What that had to do with anything I don’t know. And I did, too, play for UT.

A female officer, looking big and mad, pushed through the swinging doors in the back and came to stand next to HD and me. She gave me a hard stare, hands on impressive hips. Her badge identified her as Officer Jambulapati.

“What is this racket going on in my waiting room? Do you see there are other people in this room with troubles of their own? Are you under the impression that you happen to be the axis the world spins around? Because I don’t think so.”

I looked around. Three or four clusters of people were watching us openmouthed. I overheard the soft murmur of Spanish. A daughter translating the drama for the rest of her family.

HD put his hands on his own hips and jutted that chin out an inch farther.

“Are you talking to me?” Instead of meeting the newcomer’s eyes, HD’s focus was on her boobs. The ones that matched her hips.

“Are you the one making all the noise?”

“My name—” HD paused for full dramatic effect, but it was spoiled when she interrupted.

“Did I ask you what your name was?”

“—is HD Parker, and I am—”

“Am I supposed to know who that is? Am I supposed to care? And you would maybe like to move those beady little bird eyes up about fourteen inches before I start to think you are being deliberately impertinent.”

HD wasn’t giving up. But he did move his eyes, thank you, God.

“Who I am is—”

“Am I not being clear? I don’t care if you are President Obama’s skinny white grandfather, you have demonstrated a lack of manners to an officer of the law and you will get that skinny white heinie of yours out of my waiting room posthaste. Go wait outside, you can’t keep your voice down. We’ve got work to do here.”

“HD Parker! I am HD Parker!”

Officer Jambulapati slued her eyes at me.

“If that’s your daddy, you get him out of here before I lock him up.”

I said, “He’s
not
my dad,” exactly the same time HD said, “That’s
not
my son,” and with the same amount of indignation. For all the perks that money can buy, I would not trade places with Honey Garcia. Mercy.

Officer Laplante intervened. “The situation is this, Mr. . . . Parker, is it? Your grandson, Alex Garcia, is being questioned because he may have information that could be important to an investigation. Because he is a minor, his mother is with him, and I understand a lawyer is representing him as well. There isn’t anything to be done right now but wait. If you can take a seat, and behave quietly, the way everyone else in this waiting room is, then you are welcome to stay.”

This last was said with a cough as though Laplante were choking on a cherry pit. “Otherwise,” he continued, “you may be more comfortable waiting at home. In my experience, these interviews can take quite a time.”

A long hard stare from HD, then he drew out his cell phone like a gunslinger. He turned his back on us and barked into the phone.

“Fredrick! We’re gonna be here a while. Go get me an Antoine’s sandwich, some jalapeño potato chips, a Shiner Bock, and two of those little balaclava pastries. Tell them to go heavy on the relish but not too sloppy with the mayonnaise. Get yourself whatever you want.”

His phone went back in his jacket pocket and HD stalked over to a seat.

“No alcohol allowed,” said Officer Jambulapati. “And it’s baklava. If you’re going to eat it and not wear it on your head.”

HD’s shoulders stiffened. The phone came out again.

“Fredrick. Forget the Shiner. Get me a sugar Dr Pepper. In the bottle. Make sure it’s not one of those corn syrup ones. Green label.”

He sat, folded his arms, and crossed his legs.

I made hushed apologies to everyone, and got out of Dodge.

I was late, but my hospital visits would be counting on seeing me. Miss Lily, for one.

A hundred years ago, Miss Lily was my Sunday School teacher, one of my two favorites. Mrs. Grant was my other favorite, but I don’t get to see her as often; she goes to church at Southwest Central in Houston.

Fate or God had decreed that Miss Lily’s daughter, Brenda, a fine, Godly woman somewhere in her early sixties, would buy a house in First Colony, and when Miss Lily got too old to take care of herself, she came to live with Brenda and her husband, and I found myself preaching to my teacher.

It was hard when Miss Lily was diagnosed with cancer. I couldn’t understand why God didn’t let her slip on away; Lord knows she had fought the good fight, and she was so close to finishing her race. Now she had this new trial upon her, and let me tell you, stomach cancer is a real trial. There isn’t much the doctors can do for the pain except dope you into oblivion, but Miss Lily wasn’t having that.

“I want to be awake when I get home, Bear,” she told me in explanation when I got there, releasing Brenda for a badly needed break. I was trying to breathe through my mouth. I hate the way hospital rooms smell, the disinfectant and lousy food and that weird, sweetish smell I always associate with cancer.

“I think you’ll be awake, Lily.”

She patted my hand briskly.

“Smart as you are, Bear, you haven’t made this trip, so you don’t really know, do you, son?”

Then she had a spasm of pain so bad I could hear her teeth grinding and she let a moan escape her. I didn’t let go her hand, but I turned my face away, even though I could feel her eyes on me. The pain passed, and she lay there panting, getting her strength back.

Her eyelids drooped and I thought she was maybe falling asleep, but she squeezed my hand, her eyes closed now, and she said, “Bear, God has put it on me to tell you a hard truth.”

It always makes me nervous when people feel like God tells them to do something. I never get those crystal-clear-in-your-ear messages from God. And why is it God only sends out messengers with hard truths, never the nice, soft truths?

“I can do that, because I know that you know how much I love you.”

That’s another thing. Seems like love gives people permission to do so many hurtful things.

“So you aren’t going to take this as criticism.”

I might, too.

“Bear, part of the reason you want me to take all those painkillers, it’s not because of the pain I’m in, it’s because of the pain you’re in, watching me.”

Okay, maybe God did tell her to give me that message. I felt convicted. What she said was true.

“You always wanted to be saving people, even as a boy. I don’t mean saving them for the Lord. That came, too, but later. You wanted to save them from themselves and from the consequences of their own actions and . . .” She took some time to catch her breath and gather her energy. I couldn’t help noticing that her scalp was bright pink between the strands of her thinning, snowy white hair. Her teeth looked like old ivory. Merrie tells me my generation will be the last to grow old. Something to do with gene manipulation.

“And you tried to save them from the truth. I think that was because you couldn’t bear to see them in pain. That made a liar of you sometimes, Bear. I don’t mean that harshly. I don’t mean to judge you. If I am, then, Jesus, please forgive me.” When Miss Lily said “Jesus,” it wasn’t an exclamation. She was talking to Him.

My eyes were watering. I blinked. I said, “Lily, would you like to pray with me?”

She said, “I get lots of prayers, Bear. Why don’t you sing for me?”

“Lily, you know I can’t sing.”

She opened her eyes wide, the whites clear as a baby’s, under lavender, wrinkled lids, and gave a husky chuckle. “I know it’s a mercy that Jesus asks you for a joyful noise, not a tuneful one. All the same.” She closed her eyes again. She seemed exhausted. “I’d like you to sing for me.”

“What do you want me to sing?”

She was silent, thinking. “Sing ‘Can You Count the Stars.’ When I was a child, my father would put me to bed at night. He’d read a chapter from
Hurlbut’s Story of the Bible
. You have that book, Bear?”

I shook my head no.

“You should have a copy. Then he would sing ‘Can You Count the Stars.’ That was a safe, sweet feeling. Can you sing that song?”

It’s a lullaby. My mother sang it to me when I was a baby, too. I sang it through, all three verses.

Can you count the stars of evening

That are shining in the sky?

Can you count the clouds that daily

Over all the world go by?

God the Lord, who doth not slumber

Keepeth all the boundless number

But He careth more for thee

But He careth more for thee.

Miss Lily smiled when I finished, and gave my hand another squeeze, but she didn’t open her eyes. I sat there holding her hand until Brenda got back, then I made the rest of my rounds.