Kind of Kin (8 page)

“I can't.” Misty was breathing hard and deep, the dozing child rising and falling with each breath.

“Yes you can! Give me one good reason why not!”

Misty Dawn shook her head. Her eyes were brimming red, her cheeks wet. She wouldn't look at her aunt, wouldn't say anything. She just kept shaking her head no.

S
weet was trembling so hard she could barely hold the steering wheel. Her shakes were partly due to fear, partly fury, and partly the fact she hadn't had a bite to eat all day long. Traffic on the expressway was snarled, though, and she had to claw together every part of her brain to concentrate on driving; she couldn't surrender to all the junk cartwheeling through: worry, fear, anger, at her niece, her husband, her father, the Oklahoma state legislature, the Tulsa police, her dead sister, her son. This whole mess was Gaylene's fault anyway. The end result of her not raising her kids. Gaylene's mother, Carlotta, had left her, and Gaylene had left Misty Dawn and Dustin, and here was Sweet having to clean up after them, having to clean up after her sister, like always. Teeth gritted, hands clamped, a taste in her mouth like a rancid walnut, Sweet maneuvered through the dense traffic. Carlotta. That's who you could really trace it back to.

Sweet had no recollection of her own mother, who'd died when she was a year old, but she would never, as long as she lived, forget the night her daddy brought Carlotta home. She was just six then, staying with the neighbor lady Mrs. Billy through the week while Daddy worked the pipelines down south. One weekend he didn't come home, and Sweet was terrified because Mrs. Billy couldn't answer her questions, and then the next weekend he did come, bringing Carlotta with him. “Your new mommy,” he'd said, his eyes and teeth shining, the dark-eyed woman beside him smelling of sweat and powder, smiling without meaning it, her palm on the back of Daddy's neck. Carlotta had stayed long enough to change Daddy from a laughing man to an angry man, long enough to get him to quit the pipeline and go back to farming because she couldn't stand to spend the nights alone, but even that wasn't enough, and so Carlotta had stayed only a little while longer—just long enough to deposit the tiny dark-eyed baby girl in the bassinette in the middle bedroom—and then she was gone. After that came the bad years, the terrible years, Sweet trying to take care of her baby sister while her daddy was off on one of his tears . . . oh, he would try, she would know he was trying, he'd hold off a while, months even, and Sweet would start to hope—until Daddy would come stalking into the kitchen some evening and tilt up the unplugged percolator with the spout in his mouth and pour the cold coffee down his throat, or he'd grab the Tabasco bottle off the table, shake the burning red sauce straight onto his tongue, and then she would know that the thirst was back on him. She would know, even as a little girl of seven and eight and ten, that her daddy was getting ready to drink again. And he would. The next night, or the next, he'd start trashing the front room again, or he'd be . . . hush! Quit. Don't think of it. That was a long time ago.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. I need to eat something, Sweet told herself. I need to check on the boys. It was three fifteen already. They would be home from school. She stopped to get gas at a QuikTrip in Muskogee, bought a Diet Dr Pepper and a Slim Jim at the counter before heading to the pay phone in the back. She ripped the plastic wrapper off the jerky with her teeth as she walked, ate quickly while she plugged in the quarters. She prayed that she might at least get home before her husband did so he wouldn't know she'd gone off and left Mr. Bledsoe alone. The phone rang eight times before her own voice answered telling her she'd reached the Kirkendalls, who couldn't come to the phone right now, but please. Leave. A message. God, she sounded like she was talking to a two-year-old. She had to change that greeting.

“Carl? Hi, honey.” She paused. Maybe he was in the bathroom. “Dustin? It's Aunt Sweet. One of y'all pick up the phone.” She plucked back the pull tab on the pop can, took a long swig. “I, um, I had to run some errands, but I'll be there pretty quick. Fix yourselves a sandwich, okay? There's some Oreos in the jar, you can have two apiece, no more.” She waited. Maybe they were outside playing? “Go back and check on Mr. Bledsoe when you get in, see if he needs a drink or anything. And, Carl, if Daddy calls, tell him I'll call him later. I forgot my phone. All right. Y'all be good. Hear me? Don't forget to check on Mr. Bledsoe. I'll be there afterwhile.” Reluctantly she hung up. She had a bad feeling.

The feeling unfurled from that tight bud of worry into dark full-blooming dread as she drove south. By the time she turned off the highway in Cedar, she wasn't a bit surprised to see an ambulance pulling out of her driveway, red lights rotating, and the preacher standing in her carport looking dazed and excited, with the boys skulking next to him, both of them scuffed-up looking and scared. But the bad feeling had started an hour ago: Why was the ambulance just now leaving? And why wasn't it using its siren? And why was it going so slow?

Tuesday |
February 19, 2008 | 5:30
P.M.

Cattlemen's Steakhouse | Oklahoma City

“W
ell, now,
looka here, little lady,” Monica Moorehouse drawled in bitter imitation. “Looks
to me like you're sittin' in some mighty high cotton in this here picture,
ma'am.
”

“Shittin',” Charlie said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I believe the term of art is ‘shitting in high
cotton.' ” Her husband gouged a slug out of his porterhouse.

“Good God, that's worse!”

“Oh, I'm sure he said
sittin',
babe.” Charlie poured out more A-1. “Dennis Langley wouldn't use
profanity in the presence of a lady. I'll guarantee ya.
Ma'am.
”

“Oh shut up.” She took a bite of her naked baked
potato, no butter, no sour cream, no tastier than warm cardboard, really. At
least the steak was good. When Charlie suggested they drive down to the
Stockyards for dinner since she didn't have to go to tonight's reception, she'd
reluctantly agreed. She would have much preferred to eat at the little Italian
place near their apartment, but Charlie said it would be a good opportunity to
be seen in the afterglow of the six o'clock news. “Seen by whom?” she'd said.
“Anybody,” Charlie said. “Just folks.” She smiled
no
thanks
at the ancient waitress heading toward their booth with the
iced tea pitcher. The folksy history on the back of the menu said, “Cattlemen's
Café opened its doors to hungry cowboys, ranchers, cattle haulers and the like
in 1910.” It appeared to Monica that their waitress had been on duty since day
one. Her fellow lawmakers were no doubt picking at cold chicken salad on stale
croissants at the moment. Forking up a dry chunk of iceberg from her salad bowl,
she muttered, “Langley's probably strolling around the reception hall this
minute, gloating.”

“He's probably strolling around wishing he had a
quarter of your press contacts and an eighth of your good looks. Pass the
butter, babe.”

Tonight's reception was being hosted by the Family
Planning Council, and Leadership had decided to make a statement by having her
and others on the Health and Human Services Committee bow out. It was
frustrating though, really. The press conference had gone so well. Kevin had
refused to permanently fix her color (
God, no! Six weeks
minimum, darling! It will
kill
your
texture!
), but she had pleaded piteously until he'd grudgingly
agreed, the little fascist, to shampoo in a temporary tawny rinse. She'd been
wearing her lovely new aqua Hugo Boss jacket, which looked fabulous on camera,
and she had only been stumped for one tiny second by one lousy question, a pushy
reporter from the
Tulsa World
wanting statistics
about the cost of defending against lawsuits. Fortunately that little exchange
hadn't made it onto any of the news programs. Charlie had TiVoed all the local
stations, plus the
Oklahoma News Report
on OETA, and
the clips had been nothing less than stellar. Unfortunately she was going to
have to wait until tomorrow morning at the capitol to bask. “Shitting in high
cotton,” she murmured. “I'll never cease to be amazed by these people.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to say
‘these people.' ”

“I kept my voice down.”

“Babe, you got to believe me: you never know who's
tuned in.” Charlie reached across the table for her Texas toast. “You going to
eat this?”

She shook her head, turned to survey the nearby
booths and tables crowded with businessmen in three-piece suits, ranchers in
string ties, young people on dates, middle-aged couples sharing dessert plates.
At the counter drinking coffee sat a handsome old gentleman in tooled boots,
black cowboy hat, floor-length leather duster. He caught her looking at him and
gave a solemn nod, touched two fingers to his hat brim. Was he somebody? She
couldn't place him but he certainly looked well heeled. She dipped her head,
smiled warmly, as if she recognized him.

“Representative Moorehouse?” A short, dumpy woman
stood at her elbow with a whining, squirming toddler in her arms. “I just wanted
to say how much we all appreciate what you're doing. Those people hang around
the Home Depot parking lot on Shields every morning of the world waiting for
somebody to give them a job. It's about time somebody did something. You're not
my representative but I wish you were.”

“Thanks so much. It's very kind of you.”

“Have you thought about running for Congress?”

Monica gave her practiced self-deprecating laugh.
“Right now I've got a big job to do for the people of the Eighteenth District.
That's all I'm thinking about at the moment.”

“Well, if you ever do decide to run, you'll get my
vote. You'd get the votes of a whole lot of folks in this state who're fed up
with things.”

“Thanks.” She shook the woman's hand, patted the
little boy's leg. “I'll be sure to remember that.”

“My husband says you're the only one with guts
enough to do anything. He says what this state ought to do is rent one of those
big Air Force cargo jets out at Tinker and load a bunch of these spics in it and
fly out over the ocean and open the doors.”

Monica couldn't think of anything to say. She
smiled. The woman turned and made her way on toward the restroom, and Monica
looked over at Charlie.

“Tell you what, babe,” he said, lifting his red
plastic iced tea glass in a toast, “that Latimer D.A. is going to be falling all
over himself tomorrow announcing that felony charges are going forward. Mark my
words.”

“Well,” she said, still a little taken aback by the
woman's comment, “I hope you're right.”

“How often have you known me to be wrong?”

“Almost never. Here, you want the rest of this?”
She pushed her half-eaten petite sirloin across the table and motioned the
waitress to bring her a cup of coffee. “Maybe I shouldn't have said anything to
Langley about moving the trial. I mean, that would be perfect, but I'd rather
they came up with the idea themselves.”

“Don't worry, by the time all the publicity takes
hold, that D.A. will be begging to move the trial to McAlester.”

“What makes you so sure? District attorneys aren't
exactly known for their aversion to publicity.”

He gave her his sly look.

“Yes, all right,” she said. “I believe you.” She
relaxed. She didn't know what he was feeling sly about, but whatever it was, if
he was that certain, she could be certain, too. Not that she was in such a hurry
to get back to McAlester, but surely a trial wouldn't start before the end of
session, when she'd have to be down there anyway. Most legislators hurried home
to their districts on weekends, but Monica only did so when she had some Rotary
Club breakfast or FFA calf-judging event to attend. Oklahoma City was provincial
enough, but McAlester—well, what could you say about a town where the nonchain
dining choices were Tex-Mex, Tex-Mex, Tex-Mex, and Ball Barbecue? Still, she
would shine in McAlester. She always had. The place had been good for her
career, as Charlie so enthusiastically, and frequently, reminded her.

She'd thought he'd lost his mind when he came home
one day, spread the Rand McNally on their kitchen table in Indianapolis, and
stabbed his index finger in the middle of the national map. “Right there, babe,”
he'd said. “This little town is your destiny.” She'd squinted. The black dot was
no bigger than a pinprick. McAlester? Okla
ho
ma?
Where and what the hell was that? He'd had to educate her: a small town with a
huge political legacy, McAlester had sent a governor twice to the state mansion,
a local legislator to the state capitol for nearly as long as the building had
been standing, and a U.S. representative to within a heartbeat of the presidency
when Carl Albert became Speaker of the House back in the 1970s—a long time ago,
Charlie said, granted, but so much the better. Lots of lost glory for folks to
look back on. Nostalgia was as good as Crisco for slicking open wallets when it
came to fund-raising, he said. And here was the kicker: the district was on the
brink of a massive political shift straight out from under the feet of a
locked-in good-old-boys yellow dog network in place since FDR days that was
about to wake up on the wrong side of guns-God-and-gays and the fate of unborn
babies—and none of them had seen it yet. But Charlie had seen, all the way from
their apartment kitchen in Indiana.

He'd proceeded to lay out the path that very
afternoon: first a run for city council, then maybe she'd do mayor for a few
years, maybe not; it depended on how soon the incumbent representative looked
vulnerable. Charlie had a timetable in mind. She might have to do a stint in the
state Senate, he told her, after she got term limited out of the House, but
hopefully that wouldn't be necessary. Hopefully, she could make the run for
national office directly. She'd be one of the youngest female members in
Congress—maybe
the
youngest, if they could move fast
enough. “Easy pickings, babe,” he'd said, rubbing his thumb down the crease in
the center of the map. “The political opportunity in this little town couldn't
have been dreamed up on a platter.”

Well, and everything had unfolded according to
plan. Her husband might have grease spots on his tie and less than lovely table
manners, but the man was a political genius. He'd developed his own media
consulting business by now, served as strategist for several others in state
office, but it was Monica's career that showcased his keenest instincts—and with
such marvelous success. Here she was, barely into the second year of her first
term, recognized not just by her own constituents two hundred miles away but by
strangers right here in the middle of Cattlemen's Steakhouse in the capital
city. The press talked about her “meteoric rise in state politics.” She had,
she'd been told, the highest profile of any politician in the state save the
governor himself. Not too shabby for an underclass girl with a two-year degree
from Ivy Tech Community College.

But then Charlie had predicted this all along. He'd
seen her potential from the beginning, all the secret
star
power
—his words—that she'd secretly known she possessed. He'd been
her fill-in poli-sci instructor one semester: a Texan new to Indianapolis,
fifteen years older, an adjunct lecturer with actual political experience. He'd
bragged on her political “gifts,” those evenings drinking beer at the Speedway
Tavern, described the trajectory of her future career. So far the process had
held considerably less glamour and far more work than she'd expected, but that
was starting to change. Thank God she hadn't had to run for mayor. Four years on
city council had been more than enough, thank you. Even sitting here in the
grilled-meat-scented restaurant, her mind could instantly re-create the beige
scent of that beige room in the beige Municipal Building in McAlester, the
utilitarian beige carpet, faux maple wainscoting, fire-retardant-treated
upholstery, and oh good God, the droning voice of the city clerk calling the
roll for every vote, ward by ward by ward, meeting after meeting after meeting,
ordinance-resolution-sanitation-sewage-permit-fees . . . her eyes
glazed over just thinking about it.

At the state capitol, things were different. You
could count on an audience, for one thing, whether for committee meetings or
full session, and you didn't always know who the people lining the back of the
room were, so there was that air of unpredictability and mystery; plus there was
always the stir and excitement outside in the halls, all the deliciously
complicated undercurrents, exchanges, personalities, history—much of which she'd
understood intuitively from the get-go, and what she didn't understand or
couldn't decipher, she'd had her mentors to explain to her. Plus there was
Beverly and the rest of staff to do most of the grunt work, way more than city
government. The fact is, from the moment she passed security in the mornings
till she came home exhausted from whatever lobby-sponsored reception she'd
attended that night, Monica loved her job.

“Folks,” Charlie said, slurping coffee.

“What?”

“The
folks
of the
Eighteenth District. Not people.”

Monica sighed. “Right.” The man in the duster was
looking at her again. A rich rancher, she told herself. Or one of those wealthy
oilmen-cum-cowboy wannabes, judging by the turquoise on his fingers. The state
was full of them. She smiled. He looked away. Monica stirred sweetener into her
coffee but then pushed the cup aside. She was going to have a tough enough time
getting to sleep tonight, what with all the excitement at the press conference,
the excellent clips on News 9 and OETA, and everything—everything!—coming
together like cream, including her new bill ready to be introduced next week,
that lovely little coup de grâce. “Son of 1830,” the pro tem had called it. Too
cute by half, but she'd take it. How frustrating that she wasn't going to see
anyone who mattered before eight o'clock tomorrow morning! It was tempting to
stop by the reception on the way home. But no, she couldn't do that. Leadership
would not approve. She slipped her lipstick out of her bag, uncapped it, but
then, glancing around, decided against freshening her color at the table; she
grabbed her purse and excused herself to the ladies' room. She ought to take a
look at her hair anyway.

The old rancher leaned forward as she passed. “Miss
Moorehouse.” She paused, offered her smile. In the shadow of his hat brim, the
man's face was more handsome and wind worn and also older than she'd thought. “I
want you to know you've cost me a hell of a lot of money. You're costing
business all over this state a lot of money. You don't know what you're messing
with.” He touched his fingers to his brim again, swiveled back to face the
counter. She was speechless. She didn't know what to do but walk on to the
restroom, where she stood in front of the mirror poking at her hair, growing
more and more furious, her mind running a tirade of everything she should have
said. Of course he didn't like it! That smug old man no doubt used illegal labor
for his damn cows or soybeans or whatever, stealing good jobs away from real
Americans, which was just exactly what her legislation was designed to put a
stop to! And she would say that to him right out loud here in public! But when
she returned to their booth, the leather stool at the counter was empty. Charlie
was finishing off a piece of coconut cream pie. “I didn't think you'd want any,”
he said with his mouth full.