The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“With respect, I don’t do things like that, sir.”

I tried to make Grady look at me. He wouldn’t.

“Well, there you have it,” Mr. Harrelson said. “We seem to have different perceptions about past events. I’d like to let it go at that. An investigation into the brick incident is in progress. I’ll abide by its outcome.” He turned toward his son. “I think the real issue is the Epstein girl. I think she’s better left alone. Her father is a Communist. Usually the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s just one man’s opinion. Do you want to say anything to Mr. Broussard or Aaron, Grady?”

“I’m willing to shake hands,” Grady said.

“How about it?” Harrelson said. “Then let the law handle it. Grady has never been in trouble. He’s never hurt anyone, either.”

Grady had his arms folded on his chest, his gaze focused on the floor, a study in humility. Outside, the underground sprinkler system sprang to life. I had never seen one before. Jets of water spiraled and twisted throughout the yard, swinging across the patio, clicking against the live-oak trunks and trellises and French doors, misting in the twilight. Simultaneously, the underwater lights in the swimming pool came on, creating a turquoise radiance on the surface that resembled colored smoke. Could a person live in a more perfect setting? And there in the midst of all this stood Grady Harrelson, lying through his teeth while Saber Bledsoe was probably eating grits and beans out of a tin plate, wondering about the visitors who might come to his bunk when the count screw dropped the building into blackness.

I stared at Grady’s father, forcing him to look at me. “Grady does hurt people, Mr. Harrelson. Last summer some hoods from across town crashed a party on Sunset Boulevard. Grady and his friends beat them so bad they begged. They stretched one guy backward over a car hood and pounded his face in.”

“That might have been wrong, but it sounds like these fellows were asking for it,” Mr. Harrelson said.

“Maybe you should talk with Detective Jenks,” my father said. “A Mexican girl, a prostitute, was killed in the Heights. Someone broke her neck two blocks from where a car was burned. Detective Jenks thinks the two events are related. It appears someone is trying to place the blame on my son and his friend Saber Bledsoe.”

Mr. Harrelson wrinkled his nose under his glasses and smiled. “This has nothing to do with us,” he said. “At this point I think we should say good evening and next time speak to the authorities if we have questions about my son’s behavior or the behavior of his friends. I must say one thing, though, before we conclude: There seems to be little concern about the damage done to the Atlas boy. From what I understand,

he’s lucky he wasn’t decapitated. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get into that again. Grady, would you make sure the outside lights are on for Mr. Broussard and Aaron.”

My father looked into space. His hat lay on the table, crown-down. He picked it up and straightened the brim. Then he rose from the chair. He hadn’t slept well the night before and had gotten up early to go to the bank and withdraw the five hundred dollars he needed to pay my bail. He looked ten years older than he was.

“We’ll find our way out. Please don’t get up,” he said.

Mr. Harrelson nodded and opened his book and began reading. I didn’t think I had ever met a more arrogant man in my life.

Grady opened the front door and held it while we walked outside. The night was sweet with the smell of flowers and lichen and the haze from the sprinkler system. Grady started to close the door. My father turned around and stiff-armed it back open. “Ask your father to come out here.”

“He’s done talking,” Grady said. “It’s just his way. He’s a funny guy sometimes.”

My father had not put his hat back on. He held it pinched by the crown and pointed it at Grady. “Go get him, young man. I don’t wish to embarrass you, but you need to do as I’ve asked you. Now.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Grady went back into the living room and returned a moment later with Mr. Harrelson, who was still holding his book, his thumb marking his place. For the first time I could see the front of the jacket. The book was a collection of essays by Harry H. Laughlin.

“Yes?” he said.

“Your ungracious manner is probably related to a lack of breeding and background, Mr. Harrelson, so you should not be held accountable for it,” my father said. “However, the degree of your rudeness seems to indicate contempt for the civilized world rather than ignorance of it. You seem to lack what William James called ‘the critical sense.’ This is the faculty in us that works a bit like God’s fingerprint on the soul. It’s not a faculty that can be acquired. One is either born with it or he is not born with it. Obviously, in your 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.”