They stood quietly. Somewhere nearby, but out of sight, they heard the hissing sound of an automatic sprinkler starting up.
“Let’s go,” said Andy. “It’s not safe here.”
– EPILOGUE –
November 1971—Between Wichita Falls and Lawton
Andy kept glancing down at the gas gauge. Why hadn’t he fueled up in Wichita Falls? He’d made a mental note when the gauge fell below a quarter of a tank. But then, mental notes aren’t worth the paper they’re written on, as his mother liked to say.
Now he was at least thirty miles from Lawton, Oklahoma, he hadn’t passed a gas pump in a long time, and at any moment the engine was going to sputter and die. He should have admitted his error awhile back, turned the car around, recrossed the Texas-Oklahoma border, and gotten gas in the small town of Burkburnett. Now he was past the point of no return.
It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon, and the gas gauge needle was just touching bottom, when he saw that he was approaching a major highway intersection. A sign read Kiowa Café. Greasy food and gasoline, exactly what was needed.
A few trucks were parked about the margins of the large lot, and a half-dozen motorcycles were aligned at a parallel angle near the entrance. As Andy pulled into the parking lot, the little air-cooled engine missed a couple of strokes and then quit.
Well, that was good timing. The car had enough momentum to make it about seven feet from the outermost gas pump. He put the transmission in neutral, stepped out, and pushed the rest of the way. He had done this more than once in his life.
He waited by the pump for a couple of minutes. Was this one of those new self-serve places? Then he saw what was wrong—he had stopped about five inches short of the bell hose. He walked over and stepped on it. A man in coveralls popped out of the office immediately.
“Fill ’er up with regular, please,” said Andy.
The attendant filled the tank, then cleaned the windshield front and back. That was nice—old-fashioned service, which was becoming rare these days. Andy paid inside, then moved his car to the front of the café. He was running low on cash but had enough gas to get to Tulsa now. He could afford a burger and iced tea.
It was a couple of hours until what passed for dinner rush at the little café. There were a few truckers inside drinking coffee, and a group of six leather-clad bikers at a large corner table covered in empty dishes. They were finished eating but were not in a hurry to leave. A girl with a green bandana on her head and a loose ponytail of black hair sticking out behind sat with them, her back to Andy.
As he ate his cheeseburger and sipped sweet tea, Andy watched the group. There was nothing else to do. The men talked and laughed. They were a ruddy, wind-bitten bunch. The girl played with the ice in her drink but didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, she got up and said something to one of them, then left the table. Andy saw the side of her face from twenty-five feet away.
No! It couldn’t be.
The girl disappeared into the back where the restrooms were. The guys talked quickly, looking to where the girl had gone.
“Now’s your chance, Shep,” said one of the bikers. They all got up and headed for the door, while one of them stopped at the register to pay. They seemed in a bit of a hurry now, despite having lounged so casually. In a minute, one of the bikers, who had a long Fu Manchu–type mustache, came back inside with a small canvas knapsack, dropped it quickly on the seat, then left. Within thirty seconds, the motorcycles started up. The roar of the straight pipes was loud even inside the Kiowa. The pulled away one by one, and the engines faded. When they got to the highway, they revved loud as they got up to road speed.
Four minutes later, the girl returned. She stood beside the corner table, puzzled, then walked to the plate-glass window and looked out.
“Oh God!” she said. “Those dipshits!” She returned to the table, saw the knapsack on the seat, and sat down mournfully.
It was her, Janey. She might have gained a little weight, but the voice was unmistakable.
A thin Mexican waitress came out. “Can I clear it,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. The girl picked up her pack and turned to walk away. She glanced at Andy, looked away, then looked again, what they call in theater a double-take.
“Hi, Janey,” he said.
“Andy?”
“You want another Coke?”
“Oh my God! Andy!”
Janey was a big girl, and she was bigger now, her hips wider, breasts more pronounced, thighs heavier. Her hair was at least a week past a good washing. But it was still Janey. She sat down, and Andy bought her an orange soda. She drank it down, then fiddled with the ice until the waitress filled her glass again.
“Saskia told me you went to California,” said Andy. “How long have you been here?”
“I never went to California,” said Janey. “I never even got out of Texas. I stayed with some people in Duro for a few days, then me and another girl hitchhiked to Austin. She went back home after a couple of weeks, but I stayed with some guys I met. They had a house, but they didn’t own it. They just kind of moved in. It was cool living there, but there was no electricity. Eventually a cop showed up and made us leave.”
“Why didn’t you go home?” asked Andy. “Your mother was frantic about you.”
“I couldn’t. That man was there.”
“You mean … what’s his name … Reggie?”
“Yeah, him. I hated him, and Mom couldn’t see anything wrong with him, but he was horrible. A pervert. He was always making creepy suggestions, like ‘hey, baby, let’s me and you cuddle—your mom won’t mind.’ That kind of shit. Did you know he drilled a hole in the bathroom wall so he could watch me naked? I found out and said I’d tell my folks. He said if I told anybody, he’d call the cops and say that you and me were having sex, and you’d go to jail because I wasn’t old enough. He said nobody would believe me ’cause everybody knew I was a liar.”
“Your mom kicked him out, you know. You could have come back home.”
“Yeah, she told me she was going to do that. I guess I should have just gone back home then, but I didn’t have a ride and didn’t want to hitchhike anymore. The truckers will all give you rides if you have sex with them, but I was sick of having to be a whore just to get around. I figured everybody in my family was sick of me anyway, so I’d just make it on my own. So that’s what I’ve been doing.”
“How long were you with those guys?” asked Andy, gesturing toward the empty parking lot.
“I been riding with Shep since last week. He just met those other dudes. He was gonna take me to Oklahoma City where his brother has this motorcycle shop. Then he was talking to a cop this morning, and the cop was asking about me, how old I was and stuff. I said I was eighteen, but I don’t think the cop believed me. They let us go, but I guess Shep got spooked. He asked me how old I was, and I decided to be honest in our relationship, and I told him the truth, that I was fourteen. I should have lied, I guess, but I didn’t think he’d do this—ditch me in the middle of nowhere.”
“That was pretty crass,” said Andy. “But, frankly, I think you can do a lot better.”
“I suppose.” Janey sipped and clinked ice. Andy reached over and took her hand. She smiled at him softly.
“Can I stay with you, Andy?”
Before he could answer, the café door opened and two Oklahoma Highway Patrol officers came in with their dark brown uniforms and Smokey hats. They scanned the room, then walked deliberately over to Andy and Janey.
“How you folks doin’?” said one.
“Very well, sir,” said Andy.
“You have any identification, son?” asked the other. Andy produced his Texas driver’s license. The patrolman scanned it closely. “Where you folks headed?”
“Me and my little sister are going to Tulsa to see our grandfather for Thanksgiving,” said Andy, “and for me to find a place to live. I just got a job up there. It starts in January.”
“How about
you, ma’am, do you have an ID?” asked the first officer.
“No, sir,” said Janey. “I’m just fourteen.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jane. Jane Zamara.”
Thank you, Janey. Quick thinking.
They turned back to Andy. “You say you got a job in Tulsa? What would that be?”
“I play the violin,” said Andy. “I just joined the Tulsa Municipal Orchestra. After I find a place to live—and visit Grandpa—then I’ll take Jane back to Duro. She has to get back to school after the Thanksgiving break.”
“So … you make a living playing the violin?” asked the second officer.
“Yes, sir. I was in the Duro Orchestra. It didn’t pay all that well, but I also worked in a little gift shop.”
“You lived with your parents in Duro?”
“Oh no, sir. I got my own place a couple of years ago, with my roommate Douglas. Janey still lives with Mom and Dad.”
“I see …” The two patrolmen conferred quietly, then the first one handed Andy’s license back. “Okay, y’all have a safe trip.”
They walked over to the counter and sat down.
“Let’s wait two minutes,” said Andy quietly. “Then we’ll go.”
“Can I stay with you?” Janey asked softly.
“You can go to Tulsa with me,” said Andy. “I’ll be there till next weekend. But I was serious about taking you back home.”
“I can’t just walk in on them,” said Janey. “What if they won’t take me back?”
“We’ll call ahead. I promise, they’ll take you.”
Andy paid the check and left two dollar bills on the table. He put his arm around Janey’s shoulders and they walked out together.
“You gentlemen have a lovely day,” called Andy.
The patrolmen waved.
Andy walked to the front of the car, opened the trunk, and found room for Janey’s knapsack. Inside the trunk were a suitcase, a canvas overnight bag, a Dodge violin in its case, and a leather music bag. Inside that were several music books by Schradieck, Kreutzer, Wohlfahrt, and Sevcik, along with numerous lighter pieces. There was also a spiral notebook of handwritten music, and on the front was written “A Desert Reverie, Opus No. 1, by Andrew Zamara.” A work in progress.
When they were in the car, Janey asked, “Andy, why aren’t you afraid of being with me? Every other guy in the world is scared to death they’ll end up in jail if they’re caught anywhere near me.”
Andy laughed. “Well, I’m polite, I dress well, I have long hair, and I play the violin. Believe me, I am above suspicion.”
He started the Volkswagen and pulled out onto the highway.
“It’s noisy,” said Jane.
“I know,” said Andy. “It’s the valves. You’ll get used to them. You can get used to anything.”
Afterword/Acknowledgment
Orchestral music was part of my life from very early on, long before I knew anything about doo-wop, surf rock, or the British Invasion. As a five-year-old, I sat on the classroom floor in Episcopal Kindergarten listening to the teacher’s classical records. It was my favorite part of preschool. She played us the disks every day after naptime and told the story that went along with them—there was always a story.
Listen! Peer Gynt is running from the troll army! Peter has caught the wolf by the tail—the brass instruments are the wolf’s howls! The sorcerer is really, really mad at the apprentice, and he’s yelling! When there was no accompanying story, per se, she invented one.
Starting in elementary school, I studied and played violin (poorly) and attended many classical music concerts by our local symphony orchestra. We had a pretty good one, populated by local talent and many out-of-town ringers. There were also two successful professional theater companies that staged some surprisingly edgy stuff. West Texas provided some seriously blueblood entertainment, even back in the old boomtown days.
I am grateful to my childhood music teacher, Dorothy Croft, who was patient with me even after it became obvious I was not destined for the musical stage. She was a fascinating and dynamic human being, living in a dusty footnote corner of America but deeply immersed in refined culture and liberal politics. Dorothy lived to the age of 99, leaving a legacy much larger than the region could contain. A friend in New York discovered some of her music theory books, still in print, for sale in a Manhattan music store.
I don’t know if anybody has ever developed spontaneous musical hallucinations after a traumatic brain injury. Auditory hallucinations do occur, rarely, usually associated with mental illness, dementia, or certain types of brain lesions. Andy’s TBI-related musical interludes aren’t too much of a stretch, I hope.
I would like to thank the doctors and staff of The Institute for Rehabilitation and Research (TIRR) in Houston. Seeing their methods and the dedication they bring to patient recovery was deeply moving and instructive. Thanks also to the U.S. Army nurse in San Antonio who taught me the word “paraphasia.”
And finally, much love and gratitude to my daughter Abby, who let me read an early draft of her upcoming book, a memoir about brain injury and recovery.
(Now that I’ve mentioned your book, my love, you’re under the gun to get it published. Just pointing that out.)
—Henry D. Terrell, October 2017
Q&A with the Author
What is your writing process like? Is there anything in particular that helps you stay focused? Do you have any writing rituals, for example?
The only good trick I know is to write at about the same time every day, in a few favorite locations. The most important thing for me is get out of the house. It’s easy to let yourself get seduced by little chores that need doing. One of my most productive spaces is at a local food store, on an enclosed porch. When it gets busy toward lunchtime, that’s a good excuse to get up, stretch, and do something else for a couple of hours. I prefer to clear my head by going swimming at a local gym. After lunch, I go to a different place to write some more, like a coffee shop or the neighborhood library. The goal is four hours of work a day.
One piece of advice writers get often is to plug away until the first draft is done, without revision or second thoughts. While I understand the merits of the approach, I can’t work that way. I am an editor and reviser, and when I’m stuck, the surest way out is to edit what I wrote previously. By the time the first draft is finished, the early chapters have been rewritten several times.
What inspired you to write this particular book?
Two unrelated events fed the original idea. One was the passing of my old music teacher in West Texas, just short of her one hundredth birthday. Many people have been influenced by her, not just in music, but in other aspects of their lives. It got me thinking about how these dusty, rough oil cities in the middle of nowhere support some surprisingly highbrow entertainment, not just symphony orchestras but theater and art as well. I also thought about the variety of people I knew growing up—rednecks and concert violinists, sexual libertines and fundamentalist Christians—and how these groups interacted and overlapped. People mostly got along, but there was always the potential for conflict and violence simmering just below the surface.
The second event was an accident. A beloved family member suffered a severe concussion, and the process of recovery that followed was both terrifying and fascinating, seeing how the mind worked when it was healing itself, and what doctors did that helped.
How did you become interested in this genre, and what were your influences?
I’ll let others decide what the genre is—I suppose you’d call it Texas Fiction. Like a lot of writers, I owe a debt to Larry McMurtry, the godfather of de-romanticized western literature. There are obvious comparisons between Duro and his fictional town of Thalia in the “Horseman” series. I was also encouraged by a college writing teacher, the novelist Michael Mewshaw. From him I got the lesson that if the story doesn’t work, beat it with a stick until it does. When I was very young, I read a wonderful cowboy memoir called
Old Buck and I by Carl Raht. I met him when he was in his 80s—he attended our church in West Texas—and I was impressed that he had started his own book company when all the major publishers turned him down. Sadly, his books are now out of print—I think he would have thrived in the world of self-publishing.
What was your favorite chapter to write in Desert Discord and why?
I enjoyed writing about Andy’s vivid childhood memories when he’s in a semi-conscious state—his big brother trying to teach him to box, and later when he’s remembering playing baseball in Little League. Those parts are written in present tense to separate them from the rest of the narrative, and emphasize that the memories are almost hallucinogenic in their intensity. These chapters reveal a lot about Andy’s decisions as an adult.
Were there any chapters that were especially challenging for you to write? What was it about these parts of the story that challenged you?
One part that I ended up rewriting several times was the chapter called “Continuo” where Andy emerges from his near-coma and finds himself in a world of meaningless sound, which he must then construct into something meaningful for the sake of his own sanity. It was important to reveal that he is being treated in a hospital (“Follow the light. Don’t move your head.”) while emphasizing that his mind is in a state of near-total disorder. It was a tricky balancing act.
Do you have a favorite character in Desert Discord? If so, what is it about this character that you most appreciate?
I was especially interested in Professor Piedman, the grumpy, brooding art teacher. Like a lot of artists, he is reaching a midlife crisis, wondering if what he does is the least bit worthwhile. I appreciate it because I’ve been there. He is based on people I knew who changed careers and direction late in life. That’s my story, to some degree.
In a similar regard, which character in Desert Discord do you personally identify with and why?
Andy the protagonist. Like him, I was an orchestra nerd, and yet I was personally acquainted with some pretty rough characters. I decided to make him a brilliant musical prodigy, which I never was, because that’s more interesting.
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