Texasville (57 page)

“Why can’t we vote it first prize in the portraits?” Duane asked.

“Because it’s not the best portrait,” Jacy said. “That woman’s portrait of Dickie is much the best portrait.”

“Besides, you can’t go giving a dog portrait first prize when there’s portraits of people’s grandbabies in the show,” Karla said. “All those people with grandbabies would take us out and hang us if we voted a dog portrait first prize.”

Duane sighed. “Now you see, this is the kind of thing you get into when you start having art shows,” he said.

“I guess Dickie must really sleep with Suzie Nolan,” Karla said. “I didn’t believe it until I saw that picture. She makes him look real sweet.”

“He
is
real sweet,” Jacy said.

“I wish she hadn’t put it in the show, though,” Duane said.

Both women looked at him appraisingly.

“Why not?” Jacy said. “She had a perfect right to put it in the show.”

“I just said I wish she hadn’t,” Duane said.

“What’s it to you, one way or the other, Duane?” Karla asked.

“She’s forty-five years old,” Duane said.

“Is that supposed to explain something?” Jacy asked.

Both women were still looking at him appraisingly. Duane knew that even the most innocent remarks could sometimes get you in trouble, but it was beginning to seem that any remark got him in trouble.

“She’s forty-five and let’s say she’s having an affair with Dickie and he’s twenty-one,” Duane said. “If we give that painting first prize in the portrait category it’s gonna upset the Christian contingent.”

“Tough shit,” Karla said. “I’m voting for it for first prize.”

“Me too,” Jacy said.

Duane sighed again. “Okay,” he said. “Where does that leave Monroe the bird dog?”

“Maybe we can talk Eddie into letting us put Monroe in General,” Jacy said. “That way he can have a blue ribbon.”

“I don’t know,” Karla said. “Eddie’s a worse sulker than Duane.”

“I think Lester Marlow ought to have to go to jail for having thought up this art show,” Duane said.

“Duane, it doesn’t hurt to have a little culture with a centennial,” Karla said.

Eddie Belt, whose principles were as rock, at least where his bird dog was concerned, refused absolutely to let Monroe’s portrait be judged in the general category.

“I have to look that dog in the eye every day,” he said.

“Eddie, Monroe’s not gonna know which category his portrait got put in,” Karla said. She had lavished quite a bit of charm on Eddie in an attempt to change his mind, and was annoyed to find failure staring her in the face.

“That dog knows more than lots of people know,” Eddie said. “That’s a real sensitive dog.”

“Don’t argue with Eddie,” Duane said. “He’ll argue for weeks.”

“It’s your fault, Duane,” Karla said.

“My fault?” he said. “Why?”

“It just is,” Karla said.

“What are we gonna tell people in the portrait category whose grandbabies didn’t get judged as high as your bird dog?” Duane asked Eddie.

“I never told you to be a judge,” Eddie said.

In the end they left Monroe in Portraits. Suzie got first prize, Eddie second, and a dairy farmer third. The dairy farmer had done a recognizable rendering of John Wayne. The blue ribbon in the general category went to a painting of the Alamo, the red to a painting of a calf roper, and the white to a painting of a farmer on a tractor.

Duane suggested giving Sonny’s picture of the town an honorable mention, but all it got him was hard looks from his fellow judges.

“It’s morbid,” Jacy said. “I felt like putting my foot through it.”

“He didn’t even put me in it,” Karla said. “Who does he think’s been his friend all these years? Besides, he was real rude to me last night, telling me I drink too much vodka and have tacky boyfriends.”

“Aren’t we just supposed to judge them as art?” Duane asked.

“You didn’t take up for me either, when he was rude,” Karla said.

“Well, I started to hit him,” Duane said, “but the last time I hit him I put out his eye, remember?”

“No, because I didn’t live here then,” Karla said icily. “It’s interesting you hit him over Jacy but didn’t hit him over me.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to hit him over you,” Duane said. “You’ve been so protective of him, I figured you’d divorce me if I hit him over you.”

“There’s good reasons and bad reasons for hitting people, Duane,” Karla said.

“My God,” Duane said. He felt worse by the second. “Talking to you women’s like handling a live wire. I can’t say anything without one of you jumping down my throat.”

“Duane, don’t use the plural when you’re just addressing me,” Karla said coolly.

Duane had used the plural because he thought he was addressing Jacy too. She was in earshot of the argument, but didn’t seem to be listening. She stared, expressionless, at Suzie Nolan’s portrait of Dickie. While she stared the twins tootled up on their new mountain bikes and stopped a moment with Jacy to look at the painting.

“I don’t see what’s so hot about Dickie,” Julie said.

“Dickie’s a puke face,” Jack said.

Jacy smiled and put her arms around them for a moment, almost tipping over their bikes. The twins soon disengaged themselves and rode on, and Jacy and Karla walked off.

Karla gave Duane a final, icy look as she was leaving, but didn’t say a word.

CHAPTER 85

D
UANE WENT OVER AND SAT DOWN ON THE STEPS OF
the courthouse. He felt terrible. He had never given any thought to having a nervous breakdown, but suddenly he felt that he might be having one. He wished he were home so he could shoot at the doghouse for several hours. The crashing sound of the big bullets might shut out the world for a while. He tried to remind himself that nothing that was happening was really so bad, but his mind wouldn’t listen to its own counsels. Why had it become such a desperate strain to talk to anyone, particularly Karla?

The day before, Minerva had needed some rags and had torn up an old sheet to make them. Duane watched, thinking nothing of it. The sheet had been washed many times and was very thin. Minerva tore it apart as if she were tearing paper. The sheet might have been twenty years old. He and Karla, or perhaps the older children, must have slept on it hundreds of times. And yet in five minutes it stopped being a sheet and became rags.

His companionship with Karla was only a little older than
the sheet, and now it seemed to be tearing too. A few more weeks and they might only have the rags of a marriage. His children also seemed to be separating from him—easily, soundlessly—the two older ones because of age, the twins for no reason at all. They were just going.

Everything, it seemed, had been washed too many times, had worn too thin. His friendships and his little romances all seemed sad and fragile to him. They had once been the comfortable and reliable fabric that was his life. But the fabric became too old to bear the weight of all the bodies and personalities and needs of the people who tossed and turned on it. At some point a toenail or an elbow had poked through, and now it was all tearing.

Duane felt people looking at him. He didn’t know how he looked, but he didn’t want people staring at him. He got up and went in the courthouse. His legs were weak and he felt very confused. He remembered the courtrooms on the second floor of the courthouse. The courts weren’t in use at the time. A courtroom might be a peaceful place to hide.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor, holding on to the varnished banisters as he went. When he got to the second floor he was surprised to hear typing coming from one of the courtrooms. The door was closed and the Court in Session sign hung on the door. That was odd. Duane knew perfectly well there was no court in session. He opened the door a crack and peeped in. Janine Wells was at the court reporter’s table, typing away on a small portable typewriter. Lester Marlow, his hair wilder than ever, sat on a sleeping bag in front of the jury box, scribbling on a legal pad. They both heard the door open and looked around in surprise.

“It’s just me,” Duane said, feeling foolish.

“Don’t stand there holding the door open, come in,” Janine said, testily.

Duane did as he was told.

“How’d the art show go?” Lester asked amicably.

“Well, it went,” Duane said. “Have you been hiding in here all the time? Jenny’s half crazy from worrying about you.”

“That’s an improvement then,” Lester said. “She’s two thirds crazy when I’m around.”

“He’s writing a book and I’m typing it up for him,” Janine said.

“Yeah, my autobiography,” Lester said. “I thought I’d just write it in the courtroom. Maybe I’ll be finished by the time my trial starts. When the judge asks me if I have anything to say in my own defense I’ll just read my autobiography to the jury. I think they’ll realize I meant well.”

Duane didn’t know what to say. It looked as if Janine and Lester had been living in the courtroom for weeks. One of Janine’s lavender negligees was draped over a chair, and Lester’s shaving kit was on the counsel’s table. They even had a hot plate with a coffeepot on it.

“Well,” Duane said. “I guess a courtroom wouldn’t be a bad place to write a book.”

“If I were you I’d leave town, Duane,” Lester said. “A Dallas bank’s taking over the bank. Those Dallas bankers are just waiting for the centennial to be over to start grabbing stuff. Your stuff will be the first stuff they grab, too.”

Duane was thinking how radiant Janine looked. She gave Lester a dreamy little smile, very different from the smiles she had once given him.

“Want some gum?” she asked, offering him a package of spearmint.

“Oh, no, thanks,” Duane said.

“What are you doing up here, anyway?” Janine asked.

“I was looking for a place to have a nervous breakdown,” Duane said. He realized he didn’t feel nearly as close to a nervous breakdown as he had a few minutes earlier.

“Oh, be serious,” Janine said, though it was clear she didn’t really care whether he was serious or unserious. She wanted him to leave so she could get on with typing Lester’s autobiography.

After assuring them that he wouldn’t reveal their whereabouts, he went back downstairs. His shaky mood had passed. On the sidewalk he noticed a number of people looking at Suzie’s blue ribbon portrait of Dickie.

There had not been a word of dissent when the picture was awarded first prize. Several of the artists who had painted their grandbabies stood looking at the portrait solemnly.

“She got the hands right,” one elderly woman said. “That ain’t easy. I can do the eyes, but I had a real hard time getting the hands right.”

Junior Nolan was squatting under an oak tree nearby, listening to people praise his wife’s portrait of Dickie Moore. The blue ribbon hung beside it. Junior no longer looked sad. He just looked proud.

CHAPTER 86

I
N THE STREET,
D
UANE RAN INTO THE VERY PERSON
he least wanted to see, namely Buster Lickle. Buster saw him before he could duck into his pickup. He dashed across the street and grabbed Duane’s arm.

“Duane, we’re in trouble,” Buster said, his face sweaty and despairing.

“Oh, you mean because the bank’s closed?” Duane asked.

“No, the souvenirs!” Buster said, almost shouting. “There’s no business. The goddamn past just ain’t selling. We’ve only sold forty ashtrays and the damn centennial’s just got one more day to run.”

“Forty out of how many?” Duane asked.

“Forty out of three thousand,” Buster said. “We just sold a hundred T-shirts, and all of them Smalls.”

“You act like you think I’m supposed to do something about it,” Duane said, disengaging his arm from Buster’s anguished grip.

“You gotta do something about it!” Buster said. “I’m losing my ass on this centennial. Nobody wants to buy ashtrays, and you can’t even give away buggy rides in this heat.”

“I don’t see what I’m supposed to do about it,” Duane said.

“Go on TV,” Buster pleaded. “Get one of the TV stations in Wichita to put you on.”

“Go on TV and do what?”

“Tell people they ought to love their glorious heritage more,” Buster said. “Tell them the past belongs to all of us and they better get over here and learn about it while there’s still time.”

“The past may belong to all of us, but the ashtrays and T-shirts belong to you,” Duane said. “The city offered to go fifty-fifty on the souvenirs but you wanted it all for yourself.”

“But what am I gonna do with three thousand ashtrays?” Buster said. “Five thousand T-shirts. We got salt and pepper shakers and centennial pillows and place mats with the courthouse on ’em. What am I gonna do with all that shit? I can’t return it.”

“If I were you I’d start discounting the past about ninety percent, real quick,” Duane said, getting in his pickup.

He started to back out of his parking place, but Buster grabbed the stanchions to the rearview mirror and hung on. He had a desperate look—a look that had become increasingly common in Thalia, Duane thought.

“Just do a TV show,” Buster said. “Just do one, Duane. People trust you. Talk about the Alamo and Sam Houston and longhorn cattle. And remind them that the souvenir shop’s open from seven
A.M
. till midnight on the last day of the centennial.”

“Buster, I’m an oilman,” Duane said. “I don’t know anything about longhorn cattle.”

“Just talk about this glorious heritage,” Buster said.

“Seems to me it’s so glorious it’s just about driven us all crazy,” Duane said. He wanted to go, but Buster still clung to his rearview mirror. When he finally let go he stood in the hot street looking so hopeless that Duane felt his headache starting again, just from having to look at Buster in his despair.

“I don’t know what to think of people anymore,” Buster said. “They ain’t even buying the centennial key rings. Now you know everybody needs a new key ring, once in a while.”

He turned in defeat and walked back across the street, wiping his dripping face on his shirtsleeve.

CHAPTER 87

D
UANE HURRIED HOME, HOPING EVERYONE WOULD
be absent as usual. If they were absent as usual he could shoot at the doghouse for a while, unobserved. The doghouse was so ugly that shooting at it had seemed natural the first few times he did it. There could not be much wrong with shooting at an ugly doghouse, particularly if there were no dogs in it.