The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga #2) - James Lee Burke Page 0,57
case, it’s the latter.” My father fitted on his hat. “You have a grand place here. As I said, it reminds me of another setting, one I don’t think you would understand. Good evening, sir. Come on, son.”
We walked along the gravel drive to our car. I didn’t hear the door close behind us. I did not look back. I had the feeling it would take Clint Harrelson a while to absorb what he had just been told. I also had the feeling Grady was about to become a pincushion.
I was right. But I found out about Grady’s private torment in a way I never thought possible.
In the meantime, I treated my old man to a cherry milkshake at the Walgreens on Westheimer, where we sat side by side at the counter, the jukebox playing, a big fan on the wall shaking to the beat of the band.
I KEPT MY JOB at the filling station, I think in part because the other white kid who worked there had been drafted, leaving only me to handle money when the owner wasn’t around. But I had to come in on Sundays, too, which meant if I wanted to attend Mass, I had to go at seven A.M. The church was located not far from the eastern border of River Oaks.
I hadn’t eaten, and after Mass I went across the street to Costen’s drugstore and ordered toast and a cup of coffee at the counter, then realized I had left my missal in the pew. The church was empty. Or at least I thought it was. I gathered up my missal and was going back out the side exit when I heard someone leave the confessional, either knocking the kneeler against the cubicle or banging the door. A moment later Grady Harrelson came through the exit. We were standing a few feet from each other in a shady patch of lawn between the church and the convent and a covered walkway with no one else around. The morning was still cool, the stucco walls of the church and convent streaked with moisture.
“Are you following me?” he said.
His eyes were red, his face pinched, perhaps heated, perhaps embarrassed, perhaps remorseful, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t feel any anger toward him. Or even resentment. If anything, I felt pity. “How you doin’, Grady?”
“I asked if you’re bird-dogging me.”
“This is where I go to church. I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
“I’m not.”
“Just visiting?” I said.
“You being a wisenheimer?”
“No,” I said. “I’m glad to see you.”
“That’s a tough sell.”
“Did something happen in there?” I asked.
He looked at me warily. “Can those guys tell other people about what you say to them? I mean, if you’re not Catholic, can they tell?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“What does that mean?”
“No, they can’t tell anyone.”
He looked back at the church door, then at me. Then he stared at his convertible parked in the sunlight. The top was down, the white folds snapped against the body, every inch of the paint a creamy pink you could eat with a spoon.
“It’s not over between us,” he said.
“What isn’t?”
“Nobody slaps me in the face.”
“If I could undo it, I would. Anyway, it’s over for me.”
He had tried to change the subject, but it hadn’t worked. He humped his shoulders and scratched at his upper arm, narrowing his eyes, imitating the slouch and look of the street hoods he probably envied. “Sometimes you can do some shit you don’t set out to, know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied.
“That stuff I told you about Valerie, about getting it on with her? It’s not true.”
I nodded. I didn’t want to say anything more. He wrapped his arms across his chest. “You tell anybody about this, you know what’s going to happen, right?”
“Tell anybody about what?” I asked.
“Me being here.”
“Don’t get mad at me, Grady, but I’ve got news for you. Nobody cares whether either one of us is here. A bird just splattered your windshield. Nobody cares about that, either. These are not big events.”
“You’ve always got the cute comeback,” he said.
What do you say? I wondered what had occurred inside the confessional. I didn’t want to ask, but I thought I knew. “Can I help you, Grady? I’ve had a few hard times. We got off to a bad start. It doesn’t always have to be that way.”
His face was like a portrait painted on air, the eyes flat, the lips still. “No,” he said.