Texasville (55 page)

“He thinks he’s cornered that turtle,” Duane said. “He’s a funny dog.”

“I don’t want to talk about your dog anymore, Duane,” Karla said. “Do you think Sonny will sue anybody, or what?”

Duane had begun to hate the subject of Sonny almost as much as Jacy hated it. At four o’clock in the morning, when
only Jacy and Dickie, Nellie and little Joe Coombs, and a few other diehard dancers were still boogieing, he and Karla had walked down to the Kwik-Sack to see how Sonny was feeling.

“I think I may sue the town,” Sonny said, the minute they walked in. He had the belligerent air that he had had that morning at the Dairy Queen.

“I think the town’s responsible for all my trouble,” Sonny said. “It’s driven me crazy and I think I should sue.”

Neither Duane nor Karla could think of a word to say. They both smiled nervously, as if they thought he had made a joke. Karla bought some Fritos and jalapeño dip and began to eat the Fritos.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” Sonny said. “If I’m crazy it must be because the town’s done it to me. I think it’s done it to you, too. I think we’re all crazy now. There’s not a sane person left in town. We should get up a class-action suit and sue the town for a lot of money.”

“I don’t think I’m crazy,” Karla said. “I’ll admit just about everybody else is.”

“Sure you’re crazy,” Sonny said. “You go to Dallas and spend thousands on things you don’t need.”

“That’s not crazy, that’s bored,” Karla said.

“You have tacky boyfriends and Duane has tacky girlfriends,” Sonny said. “You’re both crazy.”

“I should have brought the vodka,” Karla said, looking depressed.

“It’s also crazy to drink vodka by the gallon just because I said your boyfriends were tacky,” Sonny said angrily.

Duane felt like hitting him, but didn’t.

“Boy, you’re in a bad mood,” Karla said. “I drink vodka because I like vodka, for your information. As for tacky boyfriends, sometimes it’s tacky or nothing. Your problem is you choose nothing instead of making do with a little bit of tacky, like the rest of us do.”

“See, you think I’ve gone crazy because I don’t have a tacky girlfriend,” Sonny said. “Anyone who doesn’t make stupid compromises is crazy in your book.”

Duane and Karla exchanged looks. Neither of them really knew what to say. They had never seen Sonny in such a mood.
In the background Dr. Ruth was talking about premenstrual syndrome. Duane half wanted to listen so he could pass along any tips to Janine, who suffered from deep premenstrual despairs. But he couldn’t really listen, with Sonny so hostile and strange.

“We’re all crazy and life in this town is what’s done it,” Sonny said. “It’s cost us our sanity. We should all sue together.”

“But we are the town,” Duane said. “If we’re crazy, we made ourselves crazy. There’s no point in suing ourselves.”

“It’s really just the centennial that did it,” Sonny said. “Maybe I should just sue the Centennial Committee.”

The belligerence left his face and his voice. The old sad look came back, and the tone of polite defeat.

“But you’re on the Centennial Committee,” Duane reminded him. “And I’m on it.”

“You’re on it but you never took it seriously,” Sonny said. “You don’t care about the past. But I care about it. I started thinking about it, and now I can’t stop. I thought the centennial would really be about the past, but it isn’t. It’s just a gimmick to get people to come here and buy souvenirs. It doesn’t have anything to do with the real past.”

“A centennial’s just mostly entertainment,” Karla said. “It’s pretty silly, but that’s no reason to go crazy.”

“It didn’t make me go crazy,” Sonny said. “It made me realize I’ve always been crazy, or I wouldn’t have wasted my life here. I should have left right after high school.”

“I thought you loved Thalia,” Duane said, very surprised. Sonny was one of the few people who, over the years, had always talked about what a nice place Thalia was. He had been president of the Chamber of Commerce four or five times.

“I used to love it,” Sonny said. “The centennial made me hate it. That’s another reason to sue.”

Duane wished they had never come to the Kwik-Sack. He didn’t know what to say to Sonny’s criticisms.

“It’s a wonder we were ever best friends,” Sonny said, looking at him sadly.

“Why?” Duane asked.

“You’re the town success,” Sonny said. “I’m the town failure.
It’s been that way ever since high school. You wouldn’t think a winner and a loser could ever be best friends.”

Duane started to remind Sonny that he owned several prosperous businesses, not to mention other property. He started to point out that he had served well in virtually every city office. He started to tell Sonny that virtually everyone in town respected him—as indeed, almost everyone did.

But he didn’t say any of it. He really wanted to leave the Kwik-Sack and never set foot in it again. Karla could shop there if she wanted to. He was through.

“Jacy’s right about him,” he said to Karla, as they were walking back to the square. “He’s a loser and he likes being a loser.”

Karla looked very depressed, but not depressed enough to give up on Sonny.

“You two are too hard on him,” she said.

CHAPTER 83

W
ATCHING THE SUN BURN THE MORNING MIST OFF
the brown lake, Karla came back to the subject of winners and losers.

“I could be considered a loser myself, Duane,” she said. “I haven’t really ever done that much.”

“You’re not a loser, though,” Duane said.

“If the only reason I’m not is because I’m married to a winner, then I am a loser,” Karla said.

Duane felt like shaking her.

“Stop calling yourself a loser!” he said. “You’re not a loser. You’re a beautiful, wonderful woman.”

“Are you getting mad, Duane?” Karla asked.

“Yes,” Duane said. “I don’t want to hear you talking like Sonny.”

“If I’m so beautiful and wonderful, how come you sleep with tacky girlfriends instead of me?” Karla asked. She was rubbing Blistex onto her lips in preparation for the blazing day ahead.

Duane sighed. Another thing he hated was conversations
that worked their way around to why he was sleeping with somebody, or not sleeping with somebody.

“We’ve been married twenty-two years,” he said. “Let’s say we fucked two hundred times a year for the first ten years. That’s two thousand times. Then maybe a hundred and fifty times a year for another five years. That’s another seven fifty. I don’t know what it would be for the last six or seven years, but it must be at least a couple of hundred more times. That’s about three thousand times, not counting before we got married.”

“We got married right after we met,” Karla said. “I doubt we slept together even fifty times while we were dating.”

“It’s still three thousand times,” Duane pointed out.

“It depresses me to think about love in terms of numbers, Duane,” Karla said.

“It might not be romantic but it explains why I have girlfriends,” Duane said. “You were just talking about variety last night yourself.”

“When I talk about it I’m usually just showing off,” Karla said. “When you talk about it you actually go out and get it. I guess that’s the difference between a winner and a loser.”

“If you call yourself a loser one more time I’m gonna strangle you,” Duane said.

“Actually, you just get it and don’t talk about it,” Karla said. “That’s even worse.”

“You never look on the bright side,” Duane said.

“That’s a lie,” Karla said. “I usually look on the bright side. I’ve spent most of my life just cheering you up.”

Duane did not deny it.

“Which is the bright side, in our case?” Karla asked, a minute later.

“Three thousand first-rate fucks,” Duane said. “That’s probably about as good a sex life as anybody gets.”

“Don’t brag, Duane,” Karla said. “Not every single one was first-rate.”

“Most of them were from my point of view,” Duane said. “Ninety percent, at least.”

“That still leaves ten percent that were just so-so,” Karla pointed out.

“Most people would settle for ninety percent,” Duane said. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“What makes you think I’m stubborn?” Karla asked.

“You just seem stubborn,” he said. “I wish Jacy would come back.”

“Yeah, because it upsets you when I ask questions, or talk about sex,” Karla said. “I’m only forty-six, you know. I’m not ready to just quit.”

“Nobody said you had to quit,” Duane said.

“I do, or else I have to have tacky boyfriends,” Karla said. “The only reason you said that about three thousand times was to let me know you think your duty’s done.”

“I don’t look on it as a duty,” Duane said. “I used to spend all day at the rig, thinking about you. I’d think about what we might do when I got home.”

“That’s sweet, but it won’t help me now that I’m forty-six and you never give me a thought,” Karla said. “What about the rest of our lives?”

“I guess we’ll just plod along,” Duane said.

“Fuck plodding along,” Karla said. “I’ll go off to Europe and get in a lot of trouble and it’ll be your fault for letting me go off horny.”

“I wish Jacy would come back,” Duane said again. “If she came back at least we’d have to change the subject.”

“It’s my favorite subject,” Karla said. “I don’t want to change it.”

“Right, because you enjoy making me feel like a jerk,” Duane said.

Besides feeling like a jerk he also felt tired and old and at a loss. Such conversations always left him feeling tired, old and at a loss. What
would
they do with the rest of their lives? He had no idea, but whatever it was, it seemed all too likely that they would do it less well than what they had done so far—a depressing prospect.

The same conversation seemed to have the opposite effect on Karla, who suddenly looked younger, beautiful and energized. She was shuffling through Jacy’s collection of tapes, a keen look in her eye. At times she looked her age, but at that moment she could have passed for thirty-three or thirty-four.
Her capacity to reclaim her youthful qualities for several hours at a time had always amazed him. He didn’t understand what made it happen. Certainly no one would ever mistake him for thirty-three, even for three seconds.

“You look wonderful,” he said. “You look just beautiful.”

Karla grinned. “It don’t make your dick get hard, though—does it, Duane?” she said. “I guess beautiful and smart and feisty’s still not enough for you, Mr. Hard to Please.”

“I’m not hard to please,” he insisted. “I guess I’m just getting old faster than you are. It’s not my fault.”

“I guess hard to get hard’s not quite the same as hard to please,” Karla said. “It’s because you work all the time that you aged so quick.”

“I’m glad you’re in a good humor again,” he said.

“Just because I’m in one don’t mean I’ll stay in one,” she said.

“Karla, I know that.”

“You’d think a person who’s beautiful and smart and feisty would always get what she wants,” Karla said. “They do on TV. It’s a peculiar world if a person with my drive can’t get what she wants.”

“Think of it in terms of baseball,” Duane said. “The best hitters around just don’t bat much more than three hundred.”

“To hell with that,” Karla said. “I want to bat six or seven hundred at least.”

She popped a Pink Floyd tape into the tape player.

The mud turtle Shorty had been barking at began to walk into the water. Shorty tried to nip at its legs. Every time he nipped, the turtle stopped and withdrew into its shell. The minute it stopped Shorty began to yip at it again. His yips, even at a distance, were almost as penetrating as the music of Pink Floyd. Then Shorty noticed a killdeer and ran over and put it to flight. While he was gone the turtle hurried into the water and disappeared.

“I bet it’s a relief not to have a dog like Shorty barking into your shell,” Karla said.

“You bark into my shell,” Duane said.

“I hope you’re not going to start feeling sorry for yourself just because you’re bankrupt and have a mean wife,” Karla said.

“I’m not bankrupt,” Duane said. “Not yet.”

“I don’t know about your values, Duane,” Karla said. “How come you’re more worried about going bankrupt than you are about me going to Europe and getting in trouble?”

“I’m worried sick about both,” Duane said.

“It’s hard to think when the music’s that loud,” he added, yawning.

They saw Jacy swim slowly up to the little boat dock and rest a moment by the ladder before pulling herself out. Shorty raced to greet her. He ran around in circles on the dock.

“If I tried to swim as far as she does I’d get cramps and drown,” Karla said.

“Do you think she’ll ever marry again?” Duane asked.

“No, and I wouldn’t either, if you got killed,” Karla said.

“You would too,” Duane said. “At least I hope you would.”

“You better not hope any such thing,” Karla said, giving him a fierce look.

“I just said that accidentally,” Duane said. “I’ve never given any thought to what you might do if I die.”

“Just because I look for trouble doesn’t mean I want any husband but you,” Karla said. “What made you say that?”

“I don’t know,” Duane said. “I have no idea why I said it. I’m retreating as fast as I can.”

Jacy came walking up, a large blue towel around her shoulders. Shorty ran ahead of her, barking loudly.

“He thinks he’s my police escort,” Jacy said.

Shorty, in a delirium of happiness, began to run in circles around the Mercedes. Jacy stood by the window on Karla’s side and dried her legs.

“Duane said he hoped I’d get married again, if he died,” Karla informed her.

“He did, did he?” Jacy said, getting in the back seat.

Duane felt that he hadn’t retreated either far enough or fast enough. Having Karla beside him and Jacy behind him made him nervous. He could smell the lake on Jacy—the odor of a wet towel and a wet bathing suit on a wet woman. He glanced in the rearview mirror and met her eye. She had been waiting for his glance. She looked amused.

Duane felt a moment of desire, an urge to kiss her. It seemed
sad and strange to him that he felt it for the wet woman in the back seat rather than the radiant woman in the front seat. Jacy fingered her wet hair.