“No, Señora Carzino-Cormano is right, and you are wrong, mi Coronel,” she said. “It is wrong for you to let him think he was not in your mind and heart all these years.”
It was a moment before the Colonel spoke. “If it meets with your approval, Cletus, we will dine in an hour,” he said. Before Clete could reply, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“I will leave you, Señor Cletus,” Señora Pellano said, and left the room.
What did she say? “Señora Carzino-Cormano is right”? Who’s she?
Clete walked to the wall of pictures and examined all of them.
It’s a scrapbook on the wall. I wonder what’s in the scrapbooks?
He went to them. They were full of photographs and newspaper clippings. In a town like Midland, with a thrice-weekly newspaper, one tends to find one’s name in one’s local newspaper far more frequently than, say, if one lives in New York City and subscribes to the Times.
Whoever did this clipping job worked hard at it. Every time Clete’s name was mentioned in the Midland Advertiser—as a guest at some six-year-old’s birthday party, for example—the item was clipped out and somehow sent down here.
He was deeply touched. His eyes teared, and his throat was tight.
Well, the Old Man is obviously wrong. My father did not simply put me out of his mind as if I never happened. A lot of effort went into collecting all this stuff. And he displays it, protects it, with …what? reverence? Maybe not reverence but something damned close.
Then why the hell did he never try to get in touch with me?
The Old Man could have stopped him from doing that when I was a kid—and he’s certainly capable of that. But not when I went to A&M or Tulane. And my father damned sure knew that I was there, and when I was.
Fascinated with the idea that his father had actually gone to such trouble, as well as with the clippings themselves, Clete went through each of the seven albums he found, one page at a time.
Finally, desperately wishing he’d brought the triple scotch with him, he left the room.
And now where the hell is my bedroom?
Señora Pellano was in the corridor outside.
“Your father, Señor Cletus, spent many hours in there.”
“Thank you, Señora Pellano, for showing it to me.”
“I felt I should,” she said. “I will show you to your room.”
The room turned out to be a three-room suite; and he was not surprised to find that his clothing had been unpacked and put away. On the desk in the sitting room sat a package decorated with a red ribbon and bow. Inside a small envelope was a card, embossed with what must have been the Frade coat of arms. The card read:
This belonged to your grandfather, el Coronel Guillermo Alejandro Frade, who carried it while commanding the Husares de Pueyrredón. I thought it would be an appropriate gift from one soldier to another. Your father, Jorge Guillermo Frade.
Clete opened the package. In a felt-lined walnut box—with 20 rounds of ammunition and accessories, including a spare cylinder—was a Colt Army .44–40 revolver, the old Hog Leg. It was in good shape, but it was obviously a working gun. The blue was well worn, as were the grips, which were nonstandard—personalized. They were of some wood Clete did not recognize, inlaid with silver wire. On one side was again probably the Frade coat of arms; and on the other was probably the regimental crest of the Husares de Pueyrredón, whatever the hell that was.
He removed the cylinder and peered down the barrel. No rust, no pits, but evidence (the lands were worn smooth) that it had been fired a good deal. He replaced the cylinder and was returning the pistol to its box when he heard a knock at the door.
“Dinner will be at your pleasure, Señor,” someone called.
“Be right there,” Clete called.
El Coronel Jorge Guillermo Frade stood at one end of a table with enough side chairs to seat at least twenty people. It was set, at that end, for two. There was a large centerpiece, a sterling-silver sculpture of a horse at full gallop. There were two silver bowls filled with freshly cut flowers. There were four wineglasses for each of them, and a dazzling display of silverware. An enormous standing rib of beef rested on a large silver platter, and there were at least a dozen other serving dishes, each with a silver cover.
“You had time to freshen up?” Frade asked.
“Yes, Sir. Thank you for the pistol. I’m sorry, I didn’t bring…”
“I didn’t expect you to.”
He snapped his fingers. A man in a gray cotton jacket appeared immediately and poured a splash of wine in one of the four wineglasses in front of Clete’s plate.