Tumbleweeds (42 page)

But… as with his aunt’s treasures, Trey seemed not to mind leaving behind the valuables that would have been his to keep.

Sighing, Deke went back inside to accompany Paula on a tour of the attic. It was the one area of the house they hadn’t explored, since they’d turned that inspection job over to their son-in-law, who was a building contractor. Paula wanted her husband with her in case spiders and other unwanted visitors had taken up residence in Mabel’s absence. By a miracle, one bulb in the overhead fixture still worked and added to the light cast from Deke’s flashlight.

He almost didn’t see it. As Trey Hall had stated, his aunt had stored
in the attic mainly the stuffed trophies of her late husband’s hunting expeditions, and they lay piled in a dried-out, forgotten heap gathering dust in a corner. Deke passed the beam quickly over the glass-eyed creatures and was about to move on, then threw it back.

“What is it?” his wife asked as Deke grunted and left her side to investigate.

Without responding, Deke reached into the pile of taxidermist specimens and drew out a large gray bobcat mounted in a pouncing position, its eyes wild and teeth bared and claws extended. Only one problem detracted from its menacing pose: a missing foreleg.

U
pstairs at his study window, John observed the gray BMW take a slow turn at the gate and make its way at a sedate speed up to the house. He had been expecting to see something on the order of a red Corvette tearing up the drive, sending gravel flying and shattering blossoms from the mock orange trees, arriving late for the lunch Betty had prepared. That was the vision his childhood memories evoked of his long-ago best friend.

John’s stomach tightened. Had Christ felt this clenching of his muscles when he saw Judas enter the garden the morning of his betrayal? he wondered.

He watched the car draw into a visitor’s space, the door open, and the man he’d once thought of as a brother get out. He looked the same TD Hall, a little older, hair a little thinner on top, his clothes a few notches above the ones Aunt Mabel had provided. But he still hitched up his pants the old way, glanced around with the same cocky turn of his head. In spite of John’s feeling that a serpent had entered Eden, he could not suppress his joy. By all that was holy, it was good to see Trey again.

John had stepped out onto the porch before Trey climbed the steps. The two men halted, stared, then laughed and embraced, slapping each other’s back as if they’d shared a hard-won victory.

“Hi ya, Tiger,” Trey said, his voice cracking with emotion. “How the hell are you?”

“I can’t complain,” John said, as hoarsely. They broke away to look each other over through tear-glazed eyes that neither bothered to hide.

“You never did,” Trey said. He ran his gaze mockingly over the plaid shirt and jeans John had changed into. “What? No cassock and cross for the returned sinner?”

“What would be the use?”

Trey laughed. “You look good, Tiger. A little undernourished, maybe, but then all you zealous clerics do. Proof of your sincerity, I guess.”

“And you look like you could still knock the girls dead. How about a beer before lunch?”

“Love one. Want me to bring in my carry-on?”

“Leave it until later. My quarters are upstairs. We’ll go there. It gets a little noisy down here. The kids are out of school now. They’ll be playing the TV in the next room at full volume. Go on up, and I’ll get the beers from the kitchen.”

Trey did as directed, and John found him standing before the group pictures of the 1985 football team when he joined him.

“Quite a team, weren’t we?” Trey mused.

“Well, we had a good quarterback.”

“And a great wide receiver. You were the best, John.”

“So were you.”

Trey shrugged. “At playing football, not much else.”

John returned no comment as he handed Trey the beer. “I would have brought mugs, but I remembered you like your brew straight from the can, or has that changed?”

“No, that’s stayed the same.”

The men sat down, John at his desk, the light of the window behind him. Trey chose an easy chair with an ottoman. The sound of popping tabs echoed in the sudden silence of their faltered conversation.
John noted Trey’s ironic interest in the room’s book-lined walls, fireplace, bedroom beyond, and outside balcony.

“Fancy you living here,” Trey said.

John took a swallow of his beer. “I lived in the St. Matthew’s rectory when I first arrived, then moved here when the Harbisons offered their house to the diocese as a home for abandoned children, and I became its director. We house ten children who’d otherwise be in foster care. The extra duty stretches me thin, so I find it easier to work from here.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant.”

“I know,” John said softly. “I only wanted you to know what we’re about here. Why are you back, Trey?”

Trey lifted the beer can to his lips. After a lengthy swallow, his lips glistening with residue, he said, “I told you. I came to unload Aunt Mabel’s house.”

“Is that all?”

“Is that long, ecclesiastical look supposed to suggest I have something else in mind?”

“Don’t play games, TD. This is John, remember?”

“I remember.” Trey closed his eyes for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice sounded tired. “I remember you could read me like a book, knew what I was thinking before I said it. I could never put one over on you, and that was somehow my greatest consolation growing up, knowing my best friend knew me through and through and cared for me anyway. And you always did know when I was about to play a card from under the table, didn’t you, Tiger?” He shot John a fleeting grin before it vanished in the gloom that settled over his face. “Well, here it is. I’m dying, John. I have it on the word of none other than Cathy’s old friend—and yours, I understand—Dr. Laura Rhinelander. I have a brain tumor, stage four. Laura gave me about eleven months when I was referred to her. I’ve already used up half of them.”

Several long ticks of John’s desk clock went by before comprehen
sion penetrated his shock. Trey dying? It wasn’t possible. He was TD Hall, superstar, invincible, indestructible. He was only forty years old, for heaven’s sakes! He couldn’t be dying. But he was. The dark shadows under Trey’s eyes told him it was so. Pain spread in his jaws, mingling with the acrid aftertaste of the beer. “Is that why you came home—to tell me?”

“I came home to confess.”

“To me as a priest?”

“No, Padre. To you as a friend. And to others, too. I have to clear my conscience so that I can die in peace. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

John did. Trey’s meaning loomed like a long-buried specter rising from the grave. Alarm swept through him, swamping his compassion, displacing his grief of a few minutes ago. His uneasiness at Trey’s return had not been unfounded. Trey had come to buy peace at the cost of his.

“Funny, I always thought you’d be the one to squeal on me,” Trey said. “At the beginning of my career, I lived in fear you’d have an attack of conscience and bare all, but I stopped worrying after you became a man of the cloth.”

John observed him coldly. “Why?”

Trey seemed surprised that he did not understand the obvious. “Why… because of all this.” He swept a hand about the room. “You’d have as much to lose as I would if you hadn’t kept silent.”

“Yes, I would, but did it ever occur to you I kept silent because of my promise to you?”

Color rose to Trey’s cheeks. “Of course it did, but you’ll forgive me if I felt better protected when you took your vows.” After a moment’s embarrassed silence, he said, “Tell me, John. Has it worked?”

“Has what worked?”

“The priesthood. Has it given you… the peace you craved?”

John hesitated to answer. There was no mockery in Trey’s eyes, only
plaintive hope. He had to disappoint him. “It has had its moments,” he said.

“Ah. I’ll take that as a ‘sometimes,’ ” Trey said, reaching for the beer can. “Well, let me strike that look off your face, Tiger. I didn’t come to undo your good work. I don’t intend to involve you in my confession to the Harbisons. Father John and what he’s about are safe. This is all on me and only about me. My conscience, not yours. As far as the Harbisons will know, I acted alone that day. You were back in Kersey, sick in the home economics room.” He took a swig of the beer as if his throat had gone dry. Restored, he patted his wet lips with the back of his hand and continued. “Don’t be afraid that Lou and Betty Harbison will say anything to the authorities. Why would they and let the world know the condition in which they found their son? It will be comfort enough to know their son isn’t burning in hell. I’m guessing they probably cut the boy down and dressed him and made his death look like an accident. Otherwise, Sheriff Tyson would have been all over the case.”

John should have felt enormous relief. At last, the Harbisons would know the truth of their son’s death. Their grief would be lifted, and they could live out their years in peace without ever knowing of John’s part in the crime—without having to lose a second son—but he had lived long enough to know that once a light was shone on part of the truth the other half would soon be revealed.

“What’s the matter, John? I thought you’d be happy and relieved to have this burden off your soul.”

“Your share, yes. Mine still weighs heavily.”

“I’d say you’ve more than made up for it.”

Betty’s tap came on the door, and John, feeling slightly sick to his stomach, called for her to come in.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Father, but lunch is ready. Should I bring it up?”

Trey looked around, gave a sound of surprise, and got to his feet. “Hello, Mrs. Harbison. How have you and Mr. Harbison been?”

Betty gazed at him as if having trouble with her recollection.

“Trey Hall, remember?”

“I remember. You used to pick up your aunt’s order for eggs and vegetables.”

Her tone did not match the warmth of his.

“Yes, I did,” Trey said. “Is that all you remember?”

“All I’ve a mind to,” she said. She turned to John. “Father, should I serve lunch?”

“That will be fine, Betty.”

When the door had closed, John explained. “She and Cathy are friends, and Betty is crazy about Will. Every year for his birthday, she bakes him her famous butterscotch cookies.”

“And she hates my guts because of what she thinks I did to Cathy.”

“Well, didn’t you?” John said.

Trey turned to sit down again, a little slower, his silk shirt defining his thin shoulder blades, reminding John of his illness. When he was settled, he said, “I saw Cathy a while ago, but only for a few minutes. She didn’t see me. She was stopped at the traffic light next to Bennie’s. Damn, John, she looks good. Better than ever.”

“She’s survived well. So has her son.”

“Will Benson? He’s another reason I’ve come to town.”

“Oh? Another wrong to put right in your final days?”

“I’d call it a
misperception
to put right.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that all these years, everybody, including you and Cathy, has believed that Will is mine. He isn’t.”

“Oh, for the love of God, Trey!” John swiveled his chair away from the sight of the figure in the easy chair. The gall of the man, steps from death’s door, to continue to deny the wonderful son who would make any father proud. “Whose else could he be?”

“Yours,” Trey said.

J
ohn spun his chair around. A chill ran through his body. “What?”

“You heard me.” Trey unscrewed a prescription bottle and shook two pills into his palm. He threw them into his mouth and washed them down with the beer. Illness pulled at his lean, handsome face.

“That tumor has made you crazy, Trey. I hope what you just said stays in this room—that you won’t spread that crazy lie around town.”

“It’s no lie, Tiger, believe me.”

“Why would you say such a thing? The boy looks exactly like you.”

“Does he now?”

“The same build, hair, eyes.”

“No, Padre, he’s got yours. Everybody expected him to look like me because they knew I was screwing Cathy. They searched for what they wanted to find and found it, but they were wrong. Look closely at you and me, or rather, the way we were then.” Trey nodded toward the framed pictures of the Kersey Bobcats on the wall, he and Trey seated together in the center of the front row. “See if you and I don’t look enough alike to be brothers. Next time you and Will are together, look at his face without superimposing mine over it and I think you’ll see your own.” Trey raised the can to his mouth. “And, of course,” he added, “there’s always my DNA to prove I’m telling the truth.”

Stiffly John turned his gaze to the picture and studied it. Growing up together, they’d often been told they could have easily passed for brothers, but Trey was suffering from a cancer-induced delusion to claim he wasn’t Will’s father. The boy could be no one else’s. Had Trey forgotten the time he crawled back to Cathy, begging her to forgive him? They didn’t come up for air for a week.