Where There's Smoke

“Of course.”

Feeling dumb for bringing it up—what the hell difference would it make to her how he pronounced his name?—he touched the brim of his hat and made tracks.

Chapter Ten

“Is the roast too dry, Key?”

Janellen’s question roused him from his deep brooding. He sat up straighter, looked across the dinner table at her, and smiled. “Delicious as always. I’m just not very hungry tonight.”

“That’s what happens when you fill up on whiskey,” Jody interjected.

“I had one drink before dinner. And so did you.”

“But I’ll stop with one. You’ll go out and get drunk tonight, like you do every night.”

“How do you know what I’ll be doing tonight? Or any other night? Furthermore, what do you care?”

“Please,” Janellen exclaimed, covering her ears. “Stop shouting at each other. Can’t we have one meal together without an argument?”

Knowing his sister’s anxiety was deeply felt, Key said, “I’m sorry, Janellen. You’ve served a great meal. I didn’t mean to spoil it.”

“I don’t care about the meal. I care about the two of you. Mama, your face is as red as a beet. Did you take your medication today?”

“Yes I did, thank you kindly. I’m not a child, you know.”

“Sometimes you act like one when it comes to taking medicine,” Janellen gently chastised. “And sho

uting across the dinner table is something you never allowed us kids to do.”

Jody pushed aside her plate and lit a cigarette. “Your father didn’t allow arguments at the dinner table. He said it spoiled his digestion.”

Janellen brightened at the mention of their father. She had only foggy memories of him. “Do you remember that, Key?”

“He laid down the law about such things,” he replied, smiling for his sister. “Sometimes you remind me of him, you know.”

“You’re kidding?” A blush of pleasure crept up her slender throat and over her face. She was pathetically easy to please. “Really?”

“Really. You’ve got his eyes. Doesn’t she, Jody?”

“I suppose.”

She wouldn’t even agree with him on an obvious and insignificant point, but he refused to let it bother him. “All three of us kids inherited the Tackett blues. I used to hate it when people said to Clark and me, ‘You boys have the prettiest eyes. Just like your daddy’s.’ ”

“Why did you hate it?” Janellen asked.

“I don’t know. Made me feel like a sissy, I guess. Being told that anything attached to him is ‘pretty’ isn’t what a little boy wants to hear.”

“Your father didn’t mind hearing it,” Jody said crisply. “He loved having people fawn over him. Especially women.”

Ever guileless and naïve, Janellen said, “You must have been very proud to have such a handsome husband, Mama.”

Jody rolled the smoldering tip of her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray. “Your father could be very charming.” Her face softened. “The day Clark the Third was born, he brought me six dozen yellow roses. I fussed at him for being so extravagant, but he said it wasn’t every day that a man had a son.”

“What about when Key was born?”

Jody’s misty vision cleared. “I didn’t get any flowers that day.”

After a tense silence, Key said very quietly, “Maybe Daddy knew you wouldn’t like them. That you’d only throw them out.”