Distant Blood (5 page)

The landscape unfolded past us as the Cadillac raced toward the coast. The gently rolling hills of pastureland fenced in idle herds of Red Brangus and Santa Gertrudis cattle, grazing in the heat. We stopped at the brown-mustard-colored grocery store in tiny Swiss Alp for Dr Peppers. We
arrowed through the heart of Czech Texas. In Schulenberg and Hallettsville I saw bumper stickers written in Czech next to bumper stickers that advised me to love or leave America. We headed south on Highway 77, and as we approached Victoria the pasturelands gave way to the flatness of the coastal plain. In Victoria, an old Texas town that seems to have every new fast-food restaurant imaginable, we turned south onto Highway 87, bulleting through small towns like Placedo and Kamey. As we continued through Calhoun County one side of the road seemed thick with an unfurled skein of bush that never quite ended; the other side of the road was charcoal dark farm soil. An empty railroad track ran parallel to the road, as if from a forgotten time. Oil pumps, the eternal symbol of Texas, moved in languorous thrusts near the road. The July air grew perceptibly denser with humidity as we headed south.

Port Lavaca, which guarded Lavaca Bay and its bigger parent, Matagorda Bay, came up quickly, a sleepy, salty hamlet. Port Lavaca works too hard to be a pretty town; most of the businesses seemed industrial, the eateries cheap, and old, hand-painted signs for last winter's local elections still stood in forlorn disuse. Bob Don insisted on stopping at a colorfully painted Mexican restaurant that looked like a botulism testing site but had marvelous home-style food, prepared by a chattering grandmother who scolded Bob Don in Spanish for not visiting more often. After our meal, we drove further out on the jutting chunk of Calhoun County and headed down Highway 1289 toward Port O'Connor. The land here was hardly coastal looking—tilled flatland, tall grass, horses and cattle grazing, profusions of thick bush. I rolled down the window and could smell the barest tinge of salt. We drove over marshy areas, with signs that said
NO FISHING FROM BRIDGE.
Old men and boys, black and white and brown, sat inches from the sign, watching their lines dangle in the water with the patience of statues. They did not even look up as the Cadillac rumbled past.

Fishing is the main reason for Port O'Connor's existence (aside from target practice for hurricanes—Carla nearly destroyed it in 1961). Every other billboard seemed to
advertise the county's best fishing guide or a boat stall for cheap rent.

“We'll do some fishing,” Bob Don promised me. Of course, I thought, that's what fathers and sons do.

He pulled into Port O'Connor proper, stopping near the main beach—a very narrow one—and pulling into a small but well-kept driveway for a little cottage. The other homes around it looked full of vacationing families.

I craned my neck out the window to see the brackish, greenish water of Matagorda Bay. Gulls swooped above the beach as screaming children hurled bread in the air in delight. The birds were white-breasted and gray-winged. A cloud of them cawed and wheeled as two children further down the beach lured them with new treats. A sailboat plied past and I saw a pretty girl in a bikini lean against the boat's railing as though she were unimaginably bored.

“I'll fetch Rufus,” Bob Don grumbled, opening the car door and slamming it shut with extra effort. He stormed toward the cottage. Gretchen was firmly locked in
I'm trying my best
mode and she pivoted toward the backseat with a frighteningly energetic smile.

“Y'all are just going to love Sass!” she assured us for the nth time.

“I love her already.” I smiled through clenched teeth.

“Jordy,” Candace admonished me. She patted the back of Gretchen's beringed hand. “I'm sure that we'll all get along like houses afire.”

“I'm so excited. They don't know about my recovery. At least, Bob Don hasn't said anything to them about it.” Gretchen lowered the vanity mirror and, after rummaging in her purse, primped with powder and lipstick.

I watched the back of her permed gray hair as she ministered to herself. The hardness of my heart toward her softened a bit. I won't pretend that Gretchen and I have had an easy relationship. And I couldn't easily drop my suspicion of her. She was the one who'd viciously and drunkenly informed me of my parentage during one of her binges. She'd also gotten involved in a pathetic scheme to ruin my reputation, which I could have sued the hell out of her for,
but had never mentioned again, out of consideration for Bob Don. Since she'd come to work for me at the library as a volunteer (Bob Don's idea, certainly not mine), we'd made forays into healing the breaches between us. She'd sobered up. I tried not to step on her toes too much in developing a relationship with my new father. But she resented me and I resented her, and the process of learning kindness toward each other was slow and difficult, like wading through beachside rocks without turning an ankle. Nothing said I ever had to like or love Gretchen—those were emotions I found it impossible to associate with her—but civility, for Bob Don's sake, was a reachable goal. As long as she had no role in sending me hate mail, we could get along fine.

“Gretchen,” Candace said softly, “you look fine. Don't worry so much about powdering your face. You look pretty.” I wasn't the only one making an effort to be kind.

“Why, thank you, Candace sweetie.” Gretchen smacked her lips together once to even her lipstick. “I know a young lady like you—someone from a more refined background— is going to appreciate the Goertzes.”

I chose not to take that comment as a slam toward me, but as more of Gretchen's interminable butt-kissing. Candace doesn't need to worry about money, so she's higher on the food chain than I can ever hope to evolve. Unless I win the lottery.

Gretchen snapped the mirror back into place with an authoritative air. “Candace, I'm so glad you're here. You can show Jordy the ropes of dealing with quality people.”

I saw Candace tug at her top lip with her pearly front teeth, quelling a rejoinder. I operated under no such restrictions.

“Thank you, Gretchen, but I know which fork to use. I'll manage just fine around people with nicknames like Sass and Mutt.” Not a worthy kindness, but I was on edge and not feeling charitable.

“See that you do, Jordan. I know that Bob Don thinks you poop French vanilla ice cream, but I know how sharp-tongued and boorish you can be. It's not classy, and I don't want you to embarrass him in any way.”

“If he was ashamed of me, Gretchen, he wouldn't have begged me to come.”

“He didn't want your feelings hurt, Jordy. I'm sorry to tell you that, but how would you have felt if you knew he'd gone off to a family reunion and not included you?”

“Just fine,” I retorted, but I didn't elaborate. How would I have reacted? I had been the one keeping Bob Don at an arm's length, not publicly acknowledging him as my father in our hometown, politely accepting his help and his money with my mother's nursing and his business advice with our new horse farm. He'd been longing for decades to be a father to me, loving me from afar, keeping his pride for me locked firmly away in his heart. He'd given me the key and I'd yet to use it.

“Just mind your manners,” Gretchen said.

“I will. And practice what you preach.” My irritation with Gretchen felt nearly physical.
What
did Bob Don see in this woman? How could he have loved my mother—a kind, funny, intelligent woman—and also love Gretchen, whose bitterness was as palpable as heavily worn perfume?

“Both of you, please behave,” Candace chided.

“She started it,” I announced childishly.

Gretchen didn't have time for a return volley. The door swung open and Bob Don settled his big frame back into the Cadillac's plush leather interior. In the rearview mirror I could see his scowl. I saw a lanky older man head from the cottage toward a marina a half block away.

“Rufus is getting the boat ready,” Bob Don said. “Grab your bags and we'll walk down there.”

“Who's Rufus?” Candace asked.

“He's an old friend of Uncle Mutt's that would probably be a dead wino if it wasn't for Mutt.” Bob Don turned and grinned at us. “He's Uncle Mutt's charity case. I figure Rufus's about seven bricks short of a load, but he's awful loyal to Mutt. Mutt keeps him in food and Mogen David and that makes him happy.”

“Poor Rufus.” Gretchen clucked. “He really needs to address his alcoholism. He has never admitted that he had a problem.”

“He asked how you were, honey,” Bob Don said, the humor out of his voice. “I told him you were sober now and he said he was right disappointed to lose a good drinking buddy.”

It was well-intended, but not the right compliment to offer. I saw a wave of pain crest across Gretchen's face, but she set her lips in a half smile. She worried one comer of her mouth with a lacquered nail, as if to keep her optimistic grin firmly in place. “He'll just have to drink on without me, sweetheart. Those days are behind me forever.”

I coughed, not meaning to, and Candace flashed me a look of complete annoyance. Bob Don and Gretchen chose to ignore my gaffe completely. I ducked down in the seat, embarrassed.

“Of course you are, darlin', and I'm so proud of you.” Bob Don squeezed Gretchen's shoulder with unexpected tenderness. “We all are, aren't we, kids?”

“Yes, of course, Gretchen.” Candace patted the back of Gretchen's shoulder.

“I'm happy for you, Gretchen,” I managed. It was true. I was happier for Bob Don because his life had been an unceasing hell while Gretchen eyed the bottle's bottom. But despite the untenable chasm between her and me, I didn't wish her dependence on anyone. I couldn't imagine what existence would be like for someone continually drunk or continually wanting to drink. Life was made to be lived, not stumbled through.

“Thank you,” Gretchen murmured, her eyes averted from us all. She glanced up through the window. “Oh, there's that Rufus with the boat. I hope there's no wine on his breath this early in the day.” Her voice shook, like the palmetto fronds in the quickening gulf wind.

The fishy, salty smell of Matagorda Bay pervaded not only the little speedboat but Rufus Beaulac as well. He was a leanly tall, grizzle-faced man, with a scarred lip and red-rimmed, muddy hazel eyes. He spoke with the rolling cadence of the Cajuns that live in southwestern Louisiana and far eastern Texas. He helped us with our luggage
without comment, eyed Gretchen with suspicion, ogled Candace, and didn't flinch when Bob Don introduced me as his son.

A long gaze went up from my worn loafers, my jeans, the untucked batik print shirt Candace had given me from one of her recent shopping sprees (she's one of those women who like to dress their men), and lingered longest on my blond hair and green eyes. I felt like he was surveying my face for flecks of family.

“For God's sake, Rufus, don't stare at the boy,” Gretchen muttered. “You do have some manners left, don't you?” She worked her hands into fists, a death grip on her purse.

Rufus ignored her. “Mutt said you were bringing your boy. Just surprised to see how much he favors you. I fig-gered that you'd had some kid off n a nigger woman.”

“Rufus!” Gretchen gasped. “What a thing to say!” Bob Don blushed deeply. I was unsure if Gretchen was shocked by Rufus's racial slur or the suggestion that Bob Don would have had a black mistress.

“Well, I couldn't figger why else he ain't owned up to him sooner, Gretch.” I saw her cringe at the diminutive use of her name.

“I don't mean no disrespect to the young feller.” Rufus offered me a grimy hand, which I shook with disguised reluctance. If Rufus portended things to come, the weekend was shaping up to be even more of a trial than I anticipated. I surveyed his face carefully, wondering if he was the letter sender. He didn't seem the type for idle threat or subterfuge; raw physical action would be Rufus's forte.

“It's nice to meet you, Jordan. Look like your daddy when he was the young whip.” His eyes traveled back to Candace and his distorted lip rose in a smile. “And ain't you got a pretty
petite
here.” He bowed to her with mock solemnity. “Rufus Beaulac at your service, chere.”

“Delighted, Mr. Beaulac,” Candace said diplomatically. “If you don't mind, I think we'd like to get over to the island as soon as possible. I'm sure you can understand that Jordan's rather anxious to meet his new relatives.”

I didn't know she was such an accomplished fibber. She squeezed my hand, a silent message:
We'll get through this.

Rufus laughed, showing tobacco-stained teeth and unhealthy gums. “I ain't so sure they're anxious to meet him, miss.” He favored me with another discolored grin and turned his attention back to the boat. We boarded, my own heart thudding in my chest.

We cruised away from Port O'Connor at the lip of land, and toward the middle of Matagorda Bay, racing away from the elongated barrier island of Matagorda, now a state park and wildlife refuge. I kept looking around for one of its famous whooping cranes, but I didn't see any diving through the summer sky. The islands that gird South Texas are thin, like emaciated fingers of land pressing against the coast. The water was a little rough and dark.

Racing toward Sangre Island felt like approaching an alien shore. I wasn't sure what my role was supposed to be here: tourist, invader, or immigrant. I didn't acknowledge the possibility of
victim.
I watched Bob Don laugh and cajole with Rufus as the boat shot across the choppy gray water. What did Bob Don want from me during this visit? Act as a devoted, dutiful son? It wasn't a role I was sure I was prepared for. I knew how to be Lloyd Poteet's son; being Bob Don's was playing a part that made me awkward and unsure. And Rufus's teasing suggestion about the questionable welcome awaiting me didn't imbue me with confidence. It didn't sound like the collective Goertz arms had opened to enfold the lamb that had wandered from the flock. Yet Bob Don seemed sure—at least when we were back in Mirabeau and he was talking me into this fool expedition— that his people would embrace me as he had.

I tried not to dwell on the hate mail. It couldn't—I hoped—speak for an entire family. I suspected there was one bitter apple in the barrel, riddled with worms. The others might be crisp and fresh and faultless. After all, Bob Don was a fine man and surely he was more representative of the Goertzes than my secret pen pal.