I’ve never been a fan of meetings, but for Miss Twyla’s sake, I put on my best public-librarian smile. I’d heard Lorna’s side of the development issue-and fairness demanded I listen to Nina. I’d arrived in time to unlock for the three of them. Tiny Parmalee stood close by Nina Hernandez and it wasn’t hard to see why he’d evinced sudden interest in riverfront development. She was just the plain kind of woman that he always fell for. Every time I see Tiny, I recall our first instance of quality time. He’d always been bigger than all the other kids, even since first grade (hence his nickname). He’d also been dumber. That’s not a crime in itself, but coupled with his stupidity was a particular brand of meanness. Tiny was damned unpleasant and he took comfort in that. Our first and only fight had been in third grade. Naturally it was at recess, the only time in the scholastic day that Tiny ruled as king. The boys played softball or touch football and the girls played tetherball or tag, chasing each other with screeches of delight. It was the autumn of 1971 and Mirabeau schools had finally settled into integration. It had been a surprisingly easy process; most people in Mirabeau who objected (and let’s be blunt, most people did) had decided that it was inevitable and they might as well go along. Kids being kids, necessity won out over prejudice; to have two teams for softball during third-grade recess, every able-bodied boy was needed. So the whites graciously agreed to play with the blacks, and the blacks graciously agreed to play with the whites. Tiny was not exactly on the cutting edge of societal change, then or now. If memory serves, he objected to his team losing because of a run batted in by a boy named Michael Addy. Michael was a fair fielder but a great batter, and his skin was as dark as an eggplant’s. Even in third grade Tiny towered over the other boys, and when he’d decided to beat up Michael for hitting in that run, no one seemed inclined to interfere. Michael was the biggest of the black boys but still no match for a genetic oddity of size like Tiny. He had Michael, his nose bleeding and mashed, in a headlock. The black boys stood in a group of their own, none daring to take on the giant. The girls, both white and black, huddled together, watching the dusty display of male violence with distaste and horror. I clearly remember one of the black girls screaming at the boys to do something.
A few of the white boys stood in open approval of the spectacle, while others stayed silent, toeing the dirt of the field. And no one, including myself, dared to fetch the teacher, knowing what Tiny’s ire would bring on us later. I don’t know what made me do it. I was not tall in those days; my growth spurt didn’t hit until I was in high school. I didn’t care too much if the white kids and the black kids got along. Michael Addy wasn’t a friend of mine. I only remember thinking that if my daddy found out I stood by while another child was beaten, how disappointed and mad he’d be. I knew that from experience.
“Say it,” Tiny huffed to the prisoner of his arms. “Say it slow, like I told you to.” To this day, I can hear the crack of Michael Addy’s voice, his throat trapped in Tiny’s heavy arms, a voice that begged for release: “I’m-I’m a dumb nigger.” “Good. Now say it loud so ever-body knows what you are.” I put my hand on Tiny’s shoulder. “Stop it.” The shock in the crowd was not nearly as great as the shock on Tiny’s pug face. He wore his hair in a crew cut then, and his hair was so white he nearly looked bald. He glanced at my hand on his stout shoulder. “What the hell you doing, Bo Peep?” Tiny had altered my surname to Bo Peep and got no end of amusement from this ingenious pun. “You made him do what you wanted. Leave him alone.” I tried reason. “You better let him go before the teacher gets out here.” Tiny looked at me as though I’d just announced that he himself was a dumb nigger. He dropped Michael Addy, who promptly and wisely took the opportunity to put some distance between himself and Tiny, scrabbling across the softball field grass to relative safety. “You takin’ up for that nigger, Bo Peep?” Tiny squared his shoulders and looked down at me. I suddenly felt very fragile, but all of a sudden I was madder’n hell. Tiny had never bullied me physically, but I’d grown tired of that nickname and the way he pushed people around like checkers on a board. “Just leave him alone. He didn’t do nothing to you.” “I don’t like losin’ to an uppity nigger.” “You don’t like losin’, period.
Well, ever-body has to lose sometimes. You can’t always win.” I wanted to turn and walk away, my speech complete, but I knew that I could not turn my back on Tiny Parmalee. He wiped a bit of spit off his lip, his hand forming into a fist as he dragged it across his mouth. “You just love them niggers, don’t you, Bo Peep.” “I just don’t like you pushing people-” and that was as far as I got before he belted me. I fell to the ground, my lip cut and bleeding instantly. I’d never been walloped in the mouth before, and damn if it doesn’t hurt like the dickens.
Instead of sitting there and crying about the agony in my lip like any sensible boy would have done, I instead meted out more punishment for myself by tackling Tiny, low near the ankles. He didn’t have good balance because of his size and he fell, fortunately not landing on me. There was an ooh from the crowd and several boys, from the safety of distance, began yelling encouragement to me. Tiny only knew power, not strategy, and I didn’t know much about either. I had been in only one other fight in my life-and I’d lost. And my struggle with Tiny quickly degenerated into rolling around in the gritty dirt of the batting area, surrounded by screaming and cheering schoolmates who surged back and forth in rhythm with the fight like a fickle tide. I was losing, though. We’d tussled past the fence that marked the boundaries of the old baseball lot, rolling onto unmowed grass. Tiny huffed and puffed like a dragon trying to rouse up a steamy breath of fire. I could tell his anger was boiling over; he should have dispatched me easily, but I was quicker and stronger than he had figured. If he didn’t win soon, his standing would fall in the playground, and that he could not tolerate. Cussing, he pinioned me on my back and his hands closed around my throat. “I’m a-gonna squeeze real hard, Bo Peep, unless you tell everyone what a nigger-lovin’ faggot you are.” His eyes softened, not in any mercy but in that he sensed victory. A drop of his sweat fell into my eyes, like Chinese water torture. His raggedy fingernails pressed crescents into my throat. I thought about all of Tiny Parmalee’s weight crushing on my windpipe and tried not to be scared. “No,” I gasped. “No.” Tiny leaned down harder on my throat and dark circles began to form over his face.
The screaming of my classmates was far closer, but seemed to be growing distant I felt his fingers digging into my neck, seeking out the air in it like it was an intruder. And, shockingly, I saw the glint of murder in Tiny Parmalee’s eyes. His rage was so intense that, had we been alone, I’m certain he would have killed me. He was the sort of boy who would set a worm on fire and laugh at its wriggly dance of death. I stared back into his eyes and he saw that I saw what he was, the gaze between us as intimate as lovers. His grip tightened.
My hands lashed out and my right one caught metal. I had a vague memory of a stake thrust in the ground, tied with a yellow ribbon at the top, marking a corner of the softball field. Only an adrenal surge gave me the strength to pull the stake out and bring it down in Tiny Parmalee’s back. Honestly, I didn’t do much damage. My aim was horrendous and I didn’t hit his back so much as pierce his side. It didn’t even crack a rib, though it cut through some flesh and bled profusely. I’ve no doubt that it hurt like hell. What undid Tiny was his scream. He howled as that stake scored him, and his scream was like a girl’s-high-pitched and full of powerlessness and fear.
Breaking his throttlehold on me, he reeled away, holding his side and screeching at the blood that spilled from him. He was the only one screaming on the playground now; the other children were stunned into silence. I didn’t do a victory jig. I opted to roll over, gasp repeatedly, and finally throw up in the mashed grass of the field. I lay there, unmoving, until a teacher cradled my head in her lap and told me I was okay. In the simple mathematics of recess and playground and combat, that scream defeated Tiny Parmalee. He’d been the bully and the aggressor, but he’d been the one to capitulate-and worse: to scream like a girl. I’d done the unimaginable in taking him on. A few thought I’d cheated in using the stake, but the bluish bruises on my throat spoke for themselves about the equality of the struggle. We both were suspended for a week, much to my father’s delight (in that I had done the right thing in taking up for Michael Addy), to my mother’s horror (in that I’d stooped to fighting), and to my sister’s embarrassment (in that she had a crush on Tiny Parmalee’s cousin and I’d set back her campaign to win the boy). Our first day back, the principal met us in the office and forced us to shake hands. I coughed and did so, averting my eyes from the bruises on Tiny’s face. Had I really given him those? Or had his parents reacted differently to the fight than mine did? Tiny shook my hand and stared blankly into my eyes. “I don’t want to hear anything about you boys fighting,” the principal chirped. “I don’t want to hear about it happening here or away from school. And rest assured, if it happens, I will hear about it.” It didn’t. Tiny and I avoided each other like the plague. If we passed in the halls, we didn’t speak or even acknowledge one another.
Our friends tried to goad us into fighting again, but we ignored them.
Michael Addy slipped a note to me in my math book one day that simply said THANK YOU. I ate the slip of paper before my teacher could see it. Michael and I ended up going through the rest of school together without mentioning the fight again. Michael went to Texas Tech on a baseball scholarship and now coaches for a high-school team in Richardson, a big suburb of Dallas. Tiny barely finished high school, did a stint in the army, and now worked with his daddy, a long-haul trucker. So that’s why I don’t care much for Tiny Parmalee. We’d had no further run-ins and I’d only seen him once since I returned to Mirabeau. We’d passed each other on Mayne Street as I went into a store and he was coming out. He’d given me the briefest of stares, which I ignored. Now he was favoring Nina Hernandez with long, goofy looks. She didn’t look too delighted with his attentions; in fact she seemed downright apprehensive. “Tiny. Ms. Hernandez.” I nodded as I unlocked the library doors. Nina smiled thinly and moved inside. Tiny lumbered near me and regarded my arm, still in its sling. “Heard you nearly got blowed up,” he said, sneering. There wasn’t direct malice in his tone, just a sort of general bullying that lay underneath like filth under a rug. “What a damn shame that’d be.” “Thanks for your concern,” I answered, not wanting to waste much air on a response to him. Miss Twyla prevented any further pleasantries by coming up to us both, thanking me again for the use of the library. The last folks to occupy the community room on the library’s top floor was a Lamaze class, so there were no chairs set up. Apelike, Tiny just popped the metal chairs open and set them wherever he happened to be. I used my good arm to help Nina drag the chairs into the proper positions. “I think your new assistant likes you,” I murmured to Nina. She stiffened as if I’d stepped on her toe. “Mr. Poteet, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot this afternoon. It’s just that I feel strongly about stopping Intraglobal. And you should be as concerned about saving the river as Mr. Parmalee is.” “Oh, I am. I’m just not so certain that our Tiny friend is motivated by ecological desires.” I could be friends with her if she could take a little teasing. “Tiny’s a fine man,” she muttered, watching her new charge as he scratched his forehead while blankly surveying a map of the world that hung on the wall. “Yes, he is. And don’t worry about all his eccentricities. He’s a victim of society.” I meant it nicely, but Nina misinterpreted. She snorted at me, pushed her glasses back up on her forehead, and went to confer with Miss Twyla. So much for teasing. By eight everyone had arrived.
Aside from Miss Twyla, Nina, Tiny, and myself, there was a scattering of forty or so people who didn’t own land by the river but had gotten riled up by Miss Twyla. Also present was our esteemed Mayor (and my boss), Parker Loudermilk and his wife, Dee. I remembered that Dee owned some of the land that Lorna and Greg Callahan wanted to buy.
Parker, I’ve no doubt, was looking for whatever favorable impressions he could get out of the situation. Parker’s not bad as bosses go-as long as you watch your back. I saw with some amusement that my old friend Eula Mae Quiff had embraced this latest cause. If there’s action anywhere in Mirabeau, Eula Mae’s usually hovering nearby drinking it all in. She’s a best-selling romance novelist and my favorite of the town eccentrics. (And it’s a wide and varied choice.) Tonight she wiggled beringed fingers at me while she chattered with Miss Twyla and Nina. I figured the outlandish dashiki she sported was to show her concern for the environment, other cultures, and general world harmony. I took Eula Mae aside when some other folks began talking to Nina and Miss Twyla. “What are you doing here? You don’t even own land on the river.” “Well, pardon me, Squire Poteet,” she sniffed, running a hand through her graying curls. “I didn’t know you had to have a title to the sacred acres to care about saving the Colorado.” “I’m not convinced the river’s in danger, Eula Mae.” “Well, our way of life is. I don’t want a bunch of snotty Houstonians down here on weekends, jamming up our streets and spoiling my view of the river.” She patted my good arm. “Do you need the money you might get from the land sale, sugar? You just let me know. I’ll be glad to loan you some cash. Is your hospital bill making you fret?” “That’s not the point, Eula Mae. We don’t know much about what tactics this Nina Hernandez is going to use to stop this development. I think she gets ornery if she doesn’t get her way. I just want for there to be reasoned discussion, not a bunch of mudslinging and hysteria.” “Honey pie, you’re talking about money and people and land. Reasoned discussion isn’t part of that equation. Look at all the problems they’ve had over in Austin with greedy developers from out of state.”
“Look, I know one of those so-called greedy developers-” “That big-boned Yankee gal with the Polish name?” Nothing got by Eula Mae, and I didn’t miss the amused glint in her eye. Teasing me is probably Eula Mae’s favorite pastime, aside from ogling men and deciphering her royalty statements. “Yes, that would be her, Eula Mae.” I glanced around to see if Candace had arrived yet-but then, I didn’t know if she even knew about the meeting. “Listen, I know Lorna, and I don’t think she’d be involved with anything unsavory-” “Jordy, that girl drips unsavory like week-old barbecue,” Eula Mae said. “Itasca told me about her little entrance at the library. And I can only imagine the two of you together. Actually, it’s nearly romantic. Poor lonely Southern lad, cast adrift in the big, heartless city. I’ll guess you met her during one of those dreadful winters and needed a bedwarmer. I bet that chest of hers could heat all of Massachusetts.” Yes, Eula Mae actually talks like her books. It can be real amusing as long as she’s not talking about you. “And how does Candace like your little visitor?” “Fine, just fine.” I definitely didn’t want to be discussing my love life with Eula Mae. If I wasn’t careful, I’d read it again in the fat pages of one of her potboilers. She patted my arm again. “I gotta go say hi to the Terwilliger sisters, sugar doll. I’ll catch you later.” She toddled off in the direction of some of the elderly ladies that hovered near Miss Twyla, undoubtedly members of our local widows’ and spinsters’ Mafia. If they were on Miss Twyla’s side, I nearly felt sorry for Intraglobal. My former uncle Bidwell Poteet (blessedly former since I found out that Bob Don’s my dad meant that Bid isn’t my biological uncle) also appeared, scowled at the audience, and broke into an unexpected grin when he saw me. To my horror, he made a beeline for me. It was sort of like being hounded by a small, smelly Chihuahua. Uncle Bid is hairless (as far as we can tell, and I’m not about to investigate past his pate) and he always reeks of stale cigarillos. “Well, boy, I see you nearly got yours.” He poked at my slinged arm. ‘Try to hide your disappointment,” I answered dryly.
“Seriously, Jordy, you are okay, aren’t you?” His husky voice lowered and I thought: It can’t be-not genuine concern for me. I regarded him suspiciously. Maybe I’d misjudged the old toot. “Yes, I’m fine, Uncle Bid, thank you for asking.” His scrawny shoulders heaved in relief.
“Good. If you died, I don’t know who you’ve got those riverfront acres willed to-and having it tied up in probate right now could sour the deal for the rest of us.” “Your consideration for my well-being is touching. Like bad heartburn.” I glared down at him. “Why do I have the feeling you’d sell Intraglobal your land even if they were building a nuclear reactor next to the town?” “Hell, boy, money’s money. If you had one scrap of sense in that brain my brother wasted all that money eddicatin’, you’d know that.” He jabbed a finger into my chest (about as high up as he could reach). “Get some sense in you, Jordy, for once, please. Sell to these folks and don’t listen to that shell-wearin’ Austin hippie up there.” “I’ll consider that as strongly as I do all other advice you give me,” I promised. The insult went over his head, since it didn’t have far to jump. “All right, then. You got any questions on how to unload that land, you see me.” His chocolaty dark eyes squinted at me. “I might just buy your land first, you know, then sell it to Intraglobal. I’ll give you a fair price.
Think it over, nephew.” He sashayed off, greeting people who forced smiles to their faces, and sat in the back row. He must’ve thought the seating chart was by IQ. I wasn’t terribly impressed by this show of Poteet family love. If Eula Mae was right and this development had anything unsavory about it, Uncle Bid’d no doubt be nearby, adding his own unique stench to the pot. Miss Twyla called the crowd to order. I took a seat near the back. As Miss Twyla was explaining the purpose of the meeting, Candace slipped in and sat beside me. She took my hand and squeezed it. “And how was your little dinner?” I’m not one for public affection, but I kissed her-and then wondered if she could tell my lips had been kissed. “Fine. She just mostly wanted to talk business.” “I bet she did.” She gave me an enigmatic look and turned her attention to Miss Twyla. I glanced around the room again. Bob Don, to my surprise, was not present. I thought for sure he’d want to hear about a land deal that affected him personally. And I felt momentarily stung; he’d given me this land, and now the situation was getting complicated, and he wasn’t here to be with me. Maybe I didn’t matter to him as much as I thought. Wrong; he’d been at the hospital when I’d gotten hurt. I hoped our mad bomber didn’t know about the meeting; he could take out quite a few people with this gathering. Miss Twyla ran the meeting like one of her high-school classes. Quickly calling it to order, she summarized Intraglobal’s intentions-and voiced her own (and others’) opposition to the development. After this brief statement, she called Nina Hernandez to the front to tell everyone what “the battle plan” would be. I grimaced at the idea of getting myself into any mess that required a battle plan. “Ladies and gentlemen of Mirabeau,” Nina intoned with grandiose dignity, “I warn you now;
Gregory Callahan is not a man who will take no for an answer.
Intraglobal has the resources and the money to get what they want, regardless of whether or not you want this development in your backyard. They will build without regard for the sensitive ecosystem that surrounds Mirabeau”-here I distinctly heard Uncle Bid snort-“and they will despoil the river, the river that has nurtured the town of Mirabeau for over a hundred and fifty years. I’ve dealt with Intraglobal before, with their attempts to develop in other small towns, in both the South and in New England.” She paused, letting us realize that once again the battle was joined. She produced charts, bar graphs, and tables of data on an easel to show just how much the river would suffer under Intraglobal’s stewardship. She spoke with conviction and assurance-and I found myself liking her more. “They ruin towns, then move on. They don’t have to win again. You can stop them,” she concluded. “Excuse me, Mother Earth,” a voice called from the back of the room, “but why the hell should we want to?” Uncle Bid being his usual charming self. He’d risen from his customary predatory crouch to his feet. “And you are, sir?” Nina asked, obviously irritated at the interruption. One could only hope she’d sic Tiny on Uncle Bid. “Bidwell J. Poteet, Esquire, Attorney-at-Law,” Bid purred in response. “And as one of the concerned landowners, I don’t see a single reason why we shouldn’t sell. Intraglobal is offering good money for this land and the resort community could bring a lot of money into Mirabeau.” There was a buzz of general assent from one corner of the crowd. Apparently some folks supported that view, and I couldn’t blame them. Nina wasn’t fazed. “The reason, Mr. Poteet, is the way that Intraglobal does business. They probably won’t hire local contractors to build this development; they’ll bring in big-city folks. They target towns like yours that haven’t needed to have serious environmental controls yet and they get their plans approved before the voters can put any sort of ecological leash on them.
They’ll build with no regard for what pollutants they spill into the Colorado.” She slammed her hand down on the podium we’d pulled out of storage. “We can stop them. You don’t have to have this kind of development.” “We need development, missy!” Bid brayed back at her.
The Miss Twyla corps of supporters glared at him as one. “Not this way!” Miss Twyla opted to enter the fray. “I don’t necessarily think that development is wrong, Bidwell, but we want to control how it happens, not just sell our land to folks we don’t know diddly about and let them ruin it and the river.” I raised my good arm. “Excuse me, Ms. Hernandez. I had dinner with one of the Intraglobal representatives this evening. She showed me environmental impact statements that indicate the effect on the river would be minimal.”
Nina smiled nicely at me. “Those statements are prepared by Intraglobal, Jordan. They emphasize whatever Intraglobal wants them to emphasize. I’m sorry you were deceived.” Well, that shut me up. I kept my mouth open for a moment in case inspiration hit, but shut it when a sad-eyed Eula Mae shook her head at my naivete. The Lord Mayor of Mirabeau (not his official title but that’s how he fancies himself), Parker Loudermilk, rose to his feet and cleared his throat. He had plenty of Cherokee in him and his complexion was dark, his eyes brooding except when he had on his mayoral smile. His daddy had been mayor for fourteen years, and when he died, no one else ran against Parker. It just seemed natural to have a Loudermilk as mayor. Parker was not a tall man, but he had the most erect posture I’d ever seen, like someone had shoved a metal beam along his spine. And I knew from city staff meetings that special cough of his meant all us peons better grovel in the mud. “I think, Ms. Hernandez, that the fine citizens of Mirabeau can rely on their elected officials to protect their environment” “Your wife owns some of the land,” Tiny called out, then looked embarrassed. His first venture at public speaking. If I’d liked him I’d have been proud of him. Nina favored Tiny with a gracious smile and turned back toward the mayor like he was cheese on a cracker and she was starving. “That’s right, Mr. Mayor. Mrs.
Loudermilk does own some of the involved land. Do you think that you can maintain your objectivity when Greg Callahan starts throwing money at y’all?” Mayor Loudermilk huffed. His thin, politically weaselly face pinched tight. He didn’t like folks challenging him and I sometimes wondered if he didn’t have a pronounced violent streak under that suave exterior. I’d seen him break pencils with a smile in staff meetings when he thought someone was challenging his authority, and I heard he ran his construction company like a military unit. Junebug and I joked about it after the meetings, but I really didn’t care much for the man. It was a shame; his daddy had been a real fine fellow. “I don’t really need to worry about the money he might throw at me, Ms.
Hernandez, but I thank you for your concern for my moral fiber.” I saw Dee Loudermilk put a restraining hand on her husband as she rose to her feet. She was prettier than Parker Loudermilk deserved, a slight, wispy blonde beauty with eyes of fierce hazel intelligence. Dee used to be like Candace, doing mostly volunteer work. She’d discovered art, though, a while back and had become a potter. I had one of her own pots in my backyard, an object of strength and sturdiness if not of beauty. Dee’s metaphysical stretches of the boundaries of ceramics escaped any meaningful interpretation from me. I liked her a sight better than I did her husband. “It’s my land, not Parker’s. I had that land before we married, so it’s not his concern,” Dee said. Parker didn’t look like he agreed with this economic assessment but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Dee’s voice rang out clear as a bell; I guess it was used to out-yelling her husband. “Regardless, I’m sure that Loudermilk Construction would be interested in bidding on the development work,” Eula Mae put in. She’s self-employed and got more money than God, so she doesn’t have to be cordial to our elected officials. Parker bristled. Dee smiled at Eula Mae; she was a better politician than her husband. “I won’t sell until we know more about what these Intraglobal people plan, and that’s a promise.” “I’ll be glad to answer that for you, Mrs. Loudermilk,” a man’s voice, nasal in its Northernness, called out from the back of the room. The voice belonged to a man in a tailored summer gray Italian suit, certainly the finest duds Mirabeau had seen in some time. The floral pattern on his tie would have gotten him thrown out of all the beer joints I knew of. His hair was starting to thin, with strands of blond still clinging to his freckled pate. His face was intelligent, with a rough sensuality to it that suggested he was a man who took a coarse and easy pleasure in life. Lorna stood to one side of him, looking cool but perhaps a touch uncomfortable. I saw her eyes seek me out and she stared hard at me for all of ten seconds. I glanced away and saw that if I wasn’t willing to return Lorna’s stare, plenty of other fellows were. I hoped Uncle Bid, seated right in front of her, wouldn’t drool.
The man on the other side of Lorna was someone I knew: Freddy Jacksill, a local real-estate agent. He was sticking to Lorna and the balding man like sap on bark. I saw another form move behind the three from the stairs and find a seat. A stunning young brunette I recognized as Jenny Loudermilk, the mayor and Dee’s daughter. She looked like she’d gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar- hiding cash. I didn’t miss the glances that Parker and Dee exchanged-or Miss Twyla and Eula Mae exchanged-at this latest development. “This is a private meeting, Callahan,” Nina barked. The look she gave the man was one of pure loathing. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.” “This is a public building,” Greg Callahan (I’d already guessed who it was) answered smoothly. “Um, he’s right, Nina,” I spoke up. “Meetings held in the library, unless previously approved, are open to the public.”
There, no one could ever say I hadn’t memorized the library’s bylaws.
“These good people aren’t interested in your lies,” Nina retorted.
Tiny bolted to his feet, presumably to play bouncer. Nina jerked a hand at him and he stayed put. “She’s got him trained like a dog,”
Candace whispered to me. “Lies, Ms. Hernandez? I’m not here to lie,”
Greg Callahan said smoothly. “My associate, Ms. Wiercinski, along with our new friend, Mr. Jacksill, thought that we ought to set the record straight.” He pointed an elegant, pale finger at Nina Hernandez. “This woman is nothing but a radical and an environmental extremist!” A murmur ran through the sparse crowd. “Wrong,” Nina snapped back. “I have no political agenda. My only desire is to protect the river-and to expose Intraglobal for the wasteful, pernicious business that it is. I wouldn’t quarrel with sensitive, responsible development. But you, Mr. Callahan, have no regard for people or the land they live on.” “Ridiculous!” Greg Callahan sneered back. I envied him his glare; it was a right effective one. “You’d throw yourself over a blade of grass to keep someone from building a patio, Ms. Hernandez. And folks, let me tell you: it wouldn’t make much sense for me to invest in riverfront property then trash the river, would it, now? Who’d buy a single condo? No one, that’s who.” He cast his penetrating blue eyes across the gathering. “Investment, ladies and gentlemen. That’s what this resort would be. I’m going to spend so much on the riverfront that I’d ruin my own business if I polluted it.” He jerked his head toward Lorna and Freddy Jacksill. “We’ll be holding a meeting of our own, to really tell the truth about Intraglobal. Tomorrow night at the Sit-a-Spell Cafe. Y’all are all invited.” I thought he should’ve left that last part off; Texans do not take kindly to having their accents or regionalisms adopted by others. Miss Twyla stood. “I won’t be there. I’ve already heard enough from Nina to know I’ll never sell my land to you.” Eula Mae was not about to be upstaged. “And I’m going to put my considerable resources behind Miss Twyla’s campaign to save the river.” Callahan smiled thinly. There was the vaguest hint of malice lurking there. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind, Ms. Oudelle, Ms.
Quiff.” He’d done his homework, you had to give him that. He nodded confidently at the crowd. “I urge everyone not to pay too much heed to Ms. Hernandez. She’s a bit upset right now because this is her third attempt to interfere with Intraglobal’s business, and every time she’s failed. She’s a loser. Until tomorrow night, ladies and gentlemen.” He turned on his imported heel and strode out, with the confidence of a rooster leaving a sated henhouse. Freddy Jacksill stayed right in Callahan’s personal space, probably busily calculating the amount of money he could make as the local agent for helping Intraglobal. Lorna hung back for a moment, then left, favoring me with another glance. I patted Candace’s hand and whispered, “I want to talk to him.” I followed them out, hearing Uncle Bid cackle, “See! Jordy’s chasing that fellow to sell him his land. Y’all ain’t going to win.” I decided I’d worry later about setting Uncle Bid straight-as straight as someone as crooked as he could get. I hurried out the back entrance from the stairs. (The upstairs meeting room is accessible by a side door, so folks can have meetings after hours without going through the rest of the library.) Lorna, Greg Callahan, and Freddy Jacksill were standing by Freddy’s Taurus, its RIVERTOWN REAL ESTATE sign big on the driver’s-side door. Greg Callahan watched me as I ran up to them.
Crickets chirped around us, a deafening chorus of them in the live oaks that towered near the library. The sun was setting and his eyes looked hard in the fading light. I said, “Lorna, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Lorna shuffled slightly. I don’t think she was happy with the upshot of our last conversation. “Sure. Jordan, this is Greg Callahan. Greg, this is Jordan Poteet, my old friend I told you about.” “Jordan, fabulous to meet you.” Greg shook my hand with what I considered an abundance of fake warmth. “Fantastic town you’ve got here. Really homey and cozy.” “Thanks. We’d like to keep it that way.” Greg fixed me with a smile. “Now, Jordan, I hope a smart gentleman like yourself isn’t going to jump on this environmental hysteria bandwagon. I assure you all the information that Lorna presented you is absolutely valid. We’re not going to shoot ourselves in the feet by ruining the river.” “Jordan,” Freddy Jacksill interrupted, “why don’t you give me a call tomorrow and I’ll set up a meeting at my office, where we can discuss Intraglobal’s offer on your land.” I made myself smile at Freddy. I couldn’t say I actually disliked him; but he was one of those people who so nakedly curries favor that they annoy the living hell out of you. He was in his mid-forties, portly, and not dressed in the height of fashion. I always saw him on weekends, squiring potential buyers, usually young yuppie couples from Austin who fantasized about country living. “Well, Freddy, that might just have to wait a spell. I’m not sure I want to sell my land. I’d prefer to give it some thought before I make any decisions.” Greg smiled heartily and squeezed my good shoulder. He didn’t ask what had happened to my arm. “Of course you would, Jordan, and I know that a reasonable guy like you is going to make the right decision. You’re a clear-thinker.” I resented someone who didn’t know me making such gross generalizations; I could be as muddy-thinking as they came, if I put my mind to it. My distaste for Greg bolted in my chest; why was Lorna working for him? I smiled politely. “Well, I’ll be glad to attend your meeting and hear you out.” I glanced at Lorna.
“You’re very lucky to have Lorna working for you. She’s a remarkable woman.” That elicited a smile from both Lorna and Greg. “Isn’t she, though?” he said. “I’d be lost without Lorna. She’s my details lady.”
He grinned at her with a nearly proprietary air. “Great. Well, then, I’ll see y’all both tomorrow.” I shook hands and turned to leave. “And we’ll see y’all tomorrow, too,” Greg chirped. I tried not to break stride. Yankees. They never seem to get that y’all is plural, not singular. Someone needed to have a talk with Greg on how not to alienate the locals. I decided that if I chose to sell my land, I’d coach Greg on the intricacies of Mirabeau etiquette. I returned to an assembly that was frothy with outrage at anyone who might even glance askew at our beloved Colorado River. Uncle Bid and his supporters had departed. Candace leaned over and whispered to me, “So did you cut a deal?” “Not hardly. That fellow is slicker than a watermelon seed.”
“Well, Eula Mae announced she’s donating fifty thousand dollars to the antidevelopment cause.” “Good Lord!” I whispered back. “I didn’t know she had that kind of cash to burn.” I glanced over at Eula Mae; she was absently twirling her hair with a finger. I hoped she had the money to back up her promise. The Loudermilks were silent. Nina’s voice droned on, outlining how they would use Eula Mae’s seed money to raise a massive war chest to inform the public about the perils of Intraglobal’s invasion. The meeting didn’t last much longer. I didn’t pay much heed; I kept watching the obvious glares between the Loudermilks and their daughter, who had kept her seat in the back of the room. Something was amiss in Mirabeau’s first family. Jenny Loudermilk tossed her rather luxurious locks in prime Barbie style and ignored her parents. Miss Twyla gave a final inspired speech on how we should ban together to fight this godless (not quite sure where theology crept into the equation, but Miss Twyla was on a roll) development. “We will stop this!” Miss Twyla vowed. “Whatever it takes, we will stop this!” God, was her timing lousy. I’d escorted Candace home. We hadn’t talked much. I told her Lorna had been mostly businesslike at dinner, calmly outlining Intraglobal’s strategy. She didn’t ask for an explanation of what constituted mostly. Her goodbye kiss was quick and dry. When I got home, I discovered Clo in the living room. She was watching her favorite program, Star Trek. “You never miss that one, do you, Clo?” I asked as Captain Kirk dueled a barbarian with a bad overbite. “That Lieutenant Uhura, she looks just like my girl.” “Really?” I said. Clo had been tight-lipped about her private life. She’d mentioned a granddaughter once. “She’s dead now.
Dead for ten years.” Her voice was softer than usual, slack without its stridency. She stared at the screen, watching the battle. “You see, Jordy, I know what family pain is, too. Your mama’s asleep now.
If you don’t mind, I’ll sit here and watch the end of this. It’s nearly over.” “Sure, Clo.” I hadn’t expected such a remark from her.
She folded her hands in her lap, as though keeping something in them for an angel, and kept her eyes on the television. I went upstairs, washed my face, and came back down to the kitchen for a glass of milk.
I sat there awhile, feeling that if I went into my own living room I’d be intruding on her grief. After a few moments I heard her click off the television. I stood and went back to join her. I walked Clo out to her little Ford Tempo and watched her drive away, only a good-night passing between us. I locked up, left the porch light on for Sister when she came in from her irregular shift, checked on Mama’s gentle rasp, took some more Tylenol for my sore left arm, and went to bed. At some point, deep in the night’s belly, a phone awakened me. I finally answered it. “Yes?” my voice creaked. “Jordy? This is Chet Blanton.”
The name finally registered with me-Chet was the manager of the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast, and a library patron with a pronounced penchant for Agatha Christie. “I’m sorry to call you so late, but it’s an emergency.” “What-what’s wrong?” I managed to mutter, my brain smogged with sleep. “I don’t want to go into this over the phone, but your friend-she’s in trouble. Please, could you just come over?” Chet’s normally hearty voice sounded pinched. I sat up in bed, wide-awake. I told Chet I’d be there in a minute and hung up. I stumbled into clothes, eased my left arm into its sling, peeked in to make sure Sister was back from her shift (her snoring was a dead giveaway), and as though on autopilot, drove to the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast. A police car stood in the driveway, its lights flashing. My wristwatch indicated two in the morning, but I pounded on the door anyway. Chet met me at the door, dressed in a rumpled robe, his heavy face white. “What’s happened? Is Lorna okay?” I asked, pushing past him. “She’s okay, I think. Follow me.” Chet turned and we ran up the stairs of the elegant, antebellum home he’d converted. The second story held the eight guest rooms. In one of the rooms, I saw Lorna crouched on a bed, one of Junebug’s deputies talking to her. Her face was in her hands and she didn’t see me. I noticed blood on her right hand, oozing from a badly torn fingernail. I moved forward for her; Chet’s arm stopped me. “You better see this,” he whispered, steering me down one more room. “Which one is Greg Callahan’s?” I asked. He pointed two doors down the hall, back toward the stairs.
“Number four.” The room he showed me was comfortable looking, decorated in classy antiques, and with a faint smell of fruit and potpourri, and the gassy odor of death. I stepped in and looked where Chet pointed. Greg Callahan lay sprawled on the Persian rug, his pale head bent at an unnatural angle, his eyes staring up at the slowly turning ceiling fan. He’s drunk, was my first irrational thought; but there was no air of liquor. I didn’t start to gag until I stepped closer and saw the length of barbed wire cruelly and deeply twisted into his neck.