Part 25 (1/2)

I even found newspapers that claim he died in an accident somewhere else.

”What I want now, more'n anything, to see that man and say, you got a daughter, grown and happy. Well, I had two kids and a wife but you took 'em away. Stole 'em like a cheap thief in the night. A 'mistake.'

b.a.s.t.a.r.d. How the h.e.l.l does he have a daughter and me n.o.body?” Ben finished, shouting angrily.

We were at the Catfish Shack. I pulled over.

”I don't know, Ben. Maybe G.o.d does, but I don't,” not adding if there is a G.o.d.

”Your dad always said that life weren't fair.” Ben was back in * 168 *

control. ”I guess he was right. It's real funny you bein' friends with a Holloway. Them rich Holloways. Life's sure strange.”

”We're not really friends. Just acquaintances.”

”Well,” he said, ”I'm glad you ain't friends. That way you won't never run into that father.” He opened the door to get out.

For a moment I didn't understand. Then I realized that Ben thought Cordelia's father was still alive. That he didn't know what really happened that night. After all, how could he know what really happened that night? I remembered the drunk and disheveled man who had showed up at my father's funeral, sobbing uncontrollably. Aunt Greta wouldn't let me talk to him, wouldn't even let me near him. She said he was low-life. A week later she told me, with a self-righteous smirk, that he had been arrested for a drunken fight, that my dad had never been a good judge of character, and that I shouldn't worry about the kind of riffraff he was.

”But, Ben...that man...he died,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

”Jonesy saw him put in an ambulance. They hurried him away, Jonesy said, siren screamin', all in a hurry to save his life. And Jonesy ain't the only one that says he's alive.”

”But that's not...” I started, then stopped, unsure of what to say, wanting to say nothing, to stay as far away from the memories of that night as possible.

He got out of the car. ”Yeah, I'm glad you ain't friends. Not your kind of folk. And someday that man'll get what he's got comin',” he spoke through the car window.

”Ben... Yeah, he'll get what's coming,” I answered, backing away from the truth into a cliche. How could he not know? I felt like someone had just told me, with utter belief, that the earth was flat. He'd heard what Jonesy had told him, believed it and never thought to look beyond.

Of course Holloway had covered his son's b.l.o.o.d.y tracks, and I tried to pretend that I'd never left any footprints, denying that I'd been there that night. Deceit and lies must have crossed and re-crossed until truth was a blackened smudge. Mine included. How could he know? Jonesy was the only one of us who had bothered to tell Ben Beaugez what truth he knew. I wondered how long Ben had believed that Holloway was still alive. Someday I would tell him, when we broke down a few more * 169 *

barriers. When I didn't flinch every time my past crept by my bottles of Scotch and faceless lovers. I would be out here in a few weeks. After twenty years, what did a week or two matter?

”You take care, Micky,” he said. ”Hi, Bob,” he called to a middle-aged man coming out of the door.

I guessed that that was the Bob of Bob's Catfish Shack. I wanted to avoid any introductions, any fond reminiscences about Lee Robedeaux's little daughter. I wanted to get away from here. ”I've got to get going, Ben. Thanks for fixing my car. I'm out here every few weeks. I'll come by.”

”You do that, Micky. Maybe we'll go fis.h.i.+n' off the dock. You and me always caught the most fish.”

”I'd like that, Ben,” I answered. I waved politely at Bob, then drove off.

Holloway had enough money to keep his name clean. What happened to the rest of us didn't matter. Holloway's whitewash was here, twenty years later, haunting me. Somehow I had to tell Ben, tell him that one person had survived that night, but that it hadn't been Holloway's son.

The Catfish Shack, with its flas.h.i.+ng neon beer signs, disappeared from my rearview mirror.

* 170 *

CHAPTER 18.

Sat.u.r.day finally arrived, and I set out early for Torbin's. I planned on taking around three hours to get there. If anyone was following me, I would know it. Maybe I was being paranoid, but then Barbara Selby was still lying in the hospital. Frankie wasn't going to be spending any time with doctors if I could help it.

Torbin tried very hard to convince me to wear an outrageously revealing, red-sequined gown.

”But, Micky, darling, I so rarely get to play with the real thing,”

he said, running his hands across my b.r.e.a.s.t.s in a manner that from any other man and not a few women would have earned a slap across the face.

I finally talked him into letting me use a long-sleeved black gown that revealed a good deal less cleavage, real or false. I still had a pretty nasty-looking scar on my arm that I didn't want to display.

”Well, if you insist,” he said, viewing me. ”Keep it if you want.

That thing's a rag that I haven't worn in years. But, Micky, dear, do keep red in mind. It really is your color.”

”Thanks, Tor. Next family Christmas, you and I will go in red gowns.”

”Clas.h.i.+ng reds. I'd love it.”

The tails weren't too bad a fit on Frankie, but he still ended up looking like a scared penguin.

”I've gotten a limo for you kids. It's my ball favor to you,” Torbin said, pun intended, I'm sure. ”You've met Buddy, Frankie. He'll be your driver and chaperone.”

* 171 *

”Wait a minute here, I told you not to let Frankie out of...” I started.

”He didn't,” Frankie said.

”If a boy can't get to the party, you've got to bring the party to the boy,” Torbin explained.

”Torbin's been wonderful to me. I've met people I didn't even know existed. People like me,” Frankie seconded him.

Buddy and the limo arrived. Torbin packed us in, telling us to have fun and not do anything that he wouldn't do. That gave us a lot of leeway, more than I hoped we'd need.

I couldn't help but think about the last time I had been down the road to One Hundred Oaks Plantation. This one's for you, Barbara, I said to myself. At least I can tell your kids we got the men that left you in the swamp.

We were by no means the only limo that drove through the gates of the plantation. But I'll say this for Torbin, ours was the only pink one.

I had to show my invitation to the parking lot attendant. Security was pretty tight, which was a good sign.

”Just go straight,” he said, giving us directions.

”Gaily forward,” I commented as we got out of earshot. The influence of that pink limo.

Frankie and I walked arm and arm down the long drive, doing our best straight imitation. He was steady, chatting amiably, but nervous underneath. You're a better man than your dad ever was, Frankie.

Someday you'll realize that.