Bulls Island Read Online Free Page B

think she should see—I don’t know, a neurologist?”
    “Who knows why she gets headaches—probably pollen. Fine. I’ll take her to a neurologist.”
    “Please don’t adopt, J.D. Please.”
    “Let’s talk about something else.” A long pause in our conversation ensued and I knew it was my job to get things rolling on a better and more courteous track. “Hey, did I tell you that we got the permits for the docks out on the Edisto project?”
    “No. How?”
    “The same way as always—a sack of fifties.”
    “Everyone has their price, don’t they, son? Your daddy has taught you well.” Mother smiled.
    “Yes, Mother, they certainly do,” I said, needing to change the subject. “How are things on the symphony board?”
    “Hmm. The symphony? Well…”
    Mother rattled on for a while about the fall season and the holiday concerts that were being planned and soon I could see she was growing fatigued. The bourbon and the heat had done their job. It was time to send her home. Frankly, I was whipped, too.
    “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”
    “Thank you, son.”
    We stepped outside. The skies had cleared and stars twinkled everywhere. Only distant rumbles of residual thunder and the occasional flash of heat lightning disturbed the landscape. Lowcountry? Swamp? Marsh? We called our locale every manner of thing, but on nights like this when I was a kid, my dad would laugh and say it was a beautiful night in the jungle. The swell of music from the crickets and other critters was the signal that peace had been restored in the world. And yes, it was a beautiful night in the jungle.
    As propriety dictated, I opened the door of Mother’s station wagon and she slipped in behind the wheel.
    “You sure you want to drive? I can take you home and bring the car back in the morning.”
    “Go on and hush,” she said, kissed her fingertips, and touched my cheek with them. “I could drive home blindfolded.”
    “All right, then. Call me just to let me know you got there—”
    “Who’s the parent?” She smiled at me and then said, “I’ll call your cell, let it ring once, and hang up.”
    “Okay. Night.”
    “Naiiight,” she said in an exaggerated drawl, and the Mercedes-Benz engine turned over with a predictable purr. “Love you, dahlin’!”
    “Love you, too, Mother.” I nearly choked on the words every time I said them.
    I watched her pull away and thought about how complicated and unsatisfying my life had become. Nothing had turned out the way I thought it would, except for the constant flow of money. It made melaugh. Money for the Langley clan was sort of like manna. It just seemed to fall from heaven. It was true that the richer we became, the richer we still seemed to become. But were we happy? Had any Langley ever thought about happiness? Except me, that is. We spent generations thinking about how the accumulation of wealth and power begets more wealth and power, but we surely never wasted the turn of a tide clock thinking about a trifling thing like happiness.
    “The pursuit of happiness is for the poor people,” my maternal grandfather, who we always thought was an atheist, used to say. “They will never be rich, J.D., so they coddle themselves with other matters, like the great mythology of Divine Justice and that they will get their rewards in another world, that their enemies will surely burn in the fires of hell. We do not have the privilege of fantasy. We have to concern ourselves with duty and leadership. Creating jobs. Keeping food on the tables of others.”
    There was a frowning portrait of him over the fireplace mantel in my living room that Mother had given us as a housewarming present. Nice gift. My mother’s white-haired father had been a formidable man, stout, bearded, and gruff. Family legend said that he enjoyed a generous shot of whiskey with his morning coffee and not another drop all day or night. I took every word he said seriously, and to this day I have never known a man