The Truth
In the end, it's Bobby who tells her the truth.
They put it off as long as they can, trying to respect J.R.'s desire for her to be spared the painful and sordid facts of his demise. He was very clear, according to Bum, that she wasn't to know anything other than the fact that he died loving her and wanting a reconciliation.
After all, it's the truth, as far as it goes.
"It's killing her, Uncle Bobby!" John Ross shouts, slamming a fist on his uncle's desk in frustration. "If she had opened that letter from him right away, she could have called and spoken to him one last time. The guilt, the what-ifs, she can't let them go!"
"And you think it would be better for her to know that J.R. was never going to have that dinner with her?" Bobby hisses, after glancing around to make sure his nephew's outburst hasn't attracted any undue attention. "You think that will make her feel better?"
"I don't think it could make her feel any worse!" John Ross takes a deep breath and visibly fights to control himself. "She's drinking, Uncle Bobby. Every night, I'm sure of it. We've got to do something. I can't lose her too!"
Bobby leans back in his chair and looks to the ceiling, raw pain etched across his face. The lines it's caused are permanent now, deep wrinkles in his forehead and around his mouth that speak volumes about loss and grief. He closes his eyes. Sue Ellen is his sister in every way that matters and if knowing the truth will help her, he owes her that much. She's alive; his brother is dead. His loyalty has to be with the living. "Okay," he says at last. "Goddamnit, okay. I'll talk to her."
Picking his phone up from his desk, he points it at his nephew, and adds, "But not until I talk to Bum. He went out on a long, slender limb for your father and he's got more to lose here than anyone. If he won't agree to her knowing, we can't tell her."
John Ross clenches his fists and abruptly paces from in front of Bobby's desk to the door and back. "Fine," he growls, "but I want to be there when you ask him. He needs to understand what this is doing to her."
"John Ross," Bobby begins, but the younger man interrupts, his voice pleading.
"Uncle Bobby, please. I need to be there."
Bobby looks up at his nephew from his seat behind his desk. The boy has so much of his father's slick charm, it's scary at times. But he's got his mother in there too, her tendencies toward drama, her emotional volatility, not yet tempered by age and experience, as Sue Ellen's have been.
He sighs. It's a risk, but one he's going to have to take. John Ross isn't going to give him any other choice. He holds up a finger, then brings up Bum's number on his phone. As it rings in his ear, he watches his nephew pace agitatedly from one end of the room to the other.
"Bum," he says at the other man's greeting. "Bobby Ewing. I need a few moments of your time; can you come by the office?"
Nephew and uncle wait in silence for the private investigator to arrive. Bobby takes the opportunity to read through his neglected emails, many of them from current and former business associates offering condolences on J.R.'s death. He can't help but think how his brother would have ridiculed the patently insincere expressions of sympathy with a short bark of laughter and a well-placed insult. He answers a couple, but most find a new home in his deleted items folder.
John Ross sits across from him, folded over in a guest chair, his head in his hands. When the knock at the door finally comes, he jumps in place and bites off an expletive.
"Come in," Bobby calls.
The door opens and Bum's scruffy face appears from around it. "Bobby. John Ross," he says as he enters the room and closes the door behind himself. "What can I do for you boys today?"
"Hey Bum. Come in; take a load off." John Ross pushes out the chair next to him with his foot.
Bobby shoots him a stern look, before addressing the newcomer. "Thanks for coming, Bum. I wanted to thank you again for everything you did for J.R. This family has asked far more from you than we had any right to…"
Bum holds up a hand, interrupting. "Begging your pardon, Bobby, but with all due respect, you've thanked me enough already. You didn't call me down here to do it again. What's this about?"
"We need to tell my momma the truth," John Ross says bluntly, folding his arms over his chest and slouching further in his chair.
"What? No. No way." Shaking his head, Bum starts to stand up. "J.R. didn't want her to know. I promised him."
"Look, I understand that, but please just hear us out," Bobby says.
After a beat, the investigator nods and remains seated.
"Sue Ellen is taking J.R.'s death extremely hard," Bobby explains. "I don't know how much J.R. told you about their marriage, but she had some issues with alcohol…"
"She was a damned drunk," John Ross interrupts. "And she's going to be again, if we don't do something to stop her."
"John Ross, please." Bobby turns back to Bum. "The issue seems to be the letter J.R. sent her. She didn't open it until the night before the funeral. As I understand it, when she received it, she thought it was some kind of attempt to manipulate her and she didn't want to play his game so she set it aside. Now, knowing what it said, and believing him to have been murdered only a few hours after she received it, she's got it in her head that she may have been able to save him somehow. That if she'd opened the letter and they had spoken about it, maybe he might have flown home early or something and Cliff wouldn't have had the opportunity to shoot him. Of course, we three know that wouldn't have happened, because Cliff didn't shoot him at all. We're hoping if we can relieve her misplaced guilt, she'll better be able to get past this and get her drinking back under control."
"She'd been sober for more than twenty years before he died," John Ross adds, straightening up in his seat. "J.R. probably never considered she'd fall off the wagon. He loved her; do you think he'd want to see her killing herself?"
The room falls silent and he three men stare at each other, each side attempting to force its opinion on the other through sheer force of will. It occurs to Bobby that if any of the three of them present were J.R. Ewing, this would be a much shorter process.
"Bobby, I've just seen the latest reports from…" The door opens and Sue Ellen walks in, her head down, reading from a file as she speaks. She trails off when she notices the other occupants of the room. "Oh. I'm sorry, I should have knocked. Hello Bum."
"Miz Sue Ellen." The investigator nods.
Noticing her son's clenched jaw, she looks from him to Bobby, to Bum, and back again. "Well now, it seems I've interrupted something. What's going on here?"
"Bum was just in the neighborhood," John Ross drawls, rising and walking away from the group to stand at the window behind Bobby's desk.
"Oh?" Sue Ellen asks, arching an eyebrow. "We aren't late paying our bill, are we, Bum?" She smiles but, Bobby notes, it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Lately, her smiles never do.
"Oh, no, ma'am. Nothing like that." The private investigator rises from his seat. "I'd best be on my way now."
"How are you doing today, Momma?" John Ross asks without turning around. Bum stops halfway to the door and he and Bobby exchange a quick glance as Sue Ellen looks to her son, her eyes narrowed at the apparent non-sequitur.
"I'm just fine, John Ross, why do you ask?"
"Sleep well last night?"
"John Ross," Bobby warns. No one acknowledges him.
"Very well, thank you. I appreciate your concern, John Ross, but it's misplaced." Sue Ellen's voice has taken on a sharp edge. This is clearly a conversation mother and son have had before and one she does not care to repeat.
John Ross turns around from the window to face his mother. "I'm just worried about you, Momma. You're looking a little rough around the edges."
Bobby is forced to silently agree. There are dark circles under her eyes and she's starting to look too thin. He wonders when she last ate. How had he not seen this before? She's slowly coming apart at the seams, and he'd been so caught up in his own grief he hadn't even noticed.
"John Ross!" she exclaims, looking pointedly at Bum and then back to her insolent son. "This is not the time!"
"So when will be the time, Momma? When are you going to admit you need help? Look, you're shaking."
And she is; the hand holding the folder quavers like she's standing in a windstorm.
The room is completely silent as Sue Ellen regards her own hand as though it belongs to a stranger. She looks helplessly at Bobby, and for just a brief second, in her eyes he sees the old Sue Ellen, his brother's sad and broken young wife, the one he always wanted to help, but never quite knew how.
Then he blinks, and she's gone.
"Shaking in anger, John Ross," she says coldly, slamming the folder down on Bobby's desk and stalking out the door, brushing by Bum as she goes.
The door slams shut behind her.
Bobby turns to face his nephew. "Just what the hell was that supposed to accomplish?" he asks angrily.
"It was supposed to show Bum that my mother needs his help." John Ross says, rubbing his face with his hands. "Damn it!"
Bum nods. "And it did. That and the noseful of bourbon fumes I got when she walked by me. You're right; she needs to know the truth."