Rich White Trash

by Judi Taylor Cantor

  Most of the adults looked puzzled; the grandkids were amused.

  There on the coffee table was a large basin with warm water and a stack of hand towels. Beside it was a stack of spiral bound books.

  “I’ve written something for each of you,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ve been thinking a lot about things we’ve done together. How we’ve worked the land together, and celebrated holidays and holy days together, and how we have cheered each other when the candles were blown in one fell swoop. I seem to be a little forgetful lately, so I don’t want to forget to tell you how important each of you are to me.” He then handed each of his daughters a spiral bound book called “When My Daughters Come Home.” He stepped back and coughed, as if to disguise his emotion.

  “And Hap, Joe, and Richard—I have something personal for each of you.” He then walked to a cabinet and pulled out three large photo albums. “I wanted to write a book for each of you, but time is of the essence so I gathered all the photos of you we had from the time you were infants, and I’ve written something about each part of your life that I think was significant.”

  He stopped, put down two of the albums and opened one. “See, Hap,” he said, turning to a page in the latter part of the book, “here we are with old man Stoggeheim with that new fence we built.” The photo was a black and white with two rugged men wearing hearty gloves and a teenage boy dressed in sleeveless, sweat-soaked t-shirt and jeans standing ramrod straight next to a newly made barbed wire fence. The teenager’s arm pushed against one thick cedar post as his bicep spoke of the hard work.

  “Remember, we had to blow dynamite holes through the granite in those fields to get the posts to set?” Hap smiled, remembering the pain of the grueling hot days and the way the barbs in the fence wire tore his skin to shreds.

  VF handed the album to Hap. He noticed that Hap opened it to the personal letter he had typed, and he noted the expression of sadness on Hap’s face. He turned to Richard and forced himself to smile.

  “Richard,” he said as he opened the album he was about to give, “here’s one of my favorite pictures of you.” He turned the album to show everyone. A little boy stood in a field with cowboy hat, cowboy vest, jeans, boots, and toy guns strapped to his waist. “Here you are, five years old and king of the ranch. This is the day we bought this ranch and you demanded to wear your cowboy outfit. You said you were gonna kill some snakes and rustle up some cattle.” Richard took the album as if it was the first meal after a long fast. He knew whatever was in it was going to be delicious.

  VF paused and wiped his eyes. “Gosh, I must have allergies today. Never bothered me before. Joseph, the last is not the least. I’ve really enjoyed finding this treasure trove of photos of you.” He held up the album, again for everyone to see, “Just look at this little tot!” The photo was a close-up of a drooling baby, one tooth visible, finger in his mouth, with a wide, precious smile and a big head of fine chick hair. His other hand offered a rounded arrowhead. “You loved teething on arrowheads. Drove your mother crazy. I’ll bet you still have a collection.” Joe nodded. Indeed, he did. VF handed him the album, and then stepped back to take command of his family. He sighed.

  “Could you remove your shoes and socks…those who have socks…please?” Everyone took off his and her shoes and socks, except Virginia. She gave them all a disgusted look and left the room.

  They ignored her behavior because they knew she could always be counted on to be unpredictable.

  VF began. “Remember that Jesus washed the feet of his disciples? I am going to wash your feet. I am doing so because this is a sign of my respect for each of you, and….”

  As he said this he took the basin and two hand towels, stood first in front of Vicki, and dropped to his knees, unsteadily at first. Vicki grabbed his arm. He gently dabbed the towel into the water, washed her feet, noticing her toe ring, and dried them.

  “and…” he continued…”I want each of you to know how much I care for you.”

  Bits glanced warily at Hap with an all-knowing look. VF rarely verbalized his affection for his children. Saying that he wanted them to know how much he cared for them was earth shattering.

  Vicki stood up and orchestrated the parade of sisters and brothers, making them move down one at a time to sit in front of their father, so that he would not have to continue to scoot on his knees.

  As he washed Joe’s feet, VF felt the power of humility in the holy oil and water. Joseph was the only family member who knew that VF was going to do this. Earlier that week, he had taken time off from his parish duties in West, Texas, and had driven VF to St. Martin’s in Dripping Springs to collect the blessed water, and the holy oil. The parish priest there knew both of them well. Father David and Joe had studied together at the same seminary.

  “Son,” VF said as he dried Joe’s feet, “I ask forgiveness for any and all wrongs committed against you.” Joe touched his father’s head, gulping back his emotion.

  Each of the Landry clan was speechless as their father washed their feet and repeated his repentance. They understood the symbolism of this brave act. They had grown up Catholic, and each knew that Christ washed the feet of his apostles before He died as a symbol of respect for them and to infer that all must do things in life that may be unpleasant.

  The last to get his feet washed was Thad, Iris’ five-year-old son. “Granddad?” Thad asked.

  “Yes, son?”

  “Granddad, where’s your crucifix?”

  VF smiled. Always a question from that one. “Thad, it’s on the wall in my bedroom,” he answered.

  Everyone filed back into the dining room, and soon began talking softly.

  “Dad loves pageantry,” Vicki whispered to Iris.

  “You’ve got to hand it to him. He is full of surprises,” Iris said.

  “He still has some clown in him,” Vicki said, smiling. “He tweaked my little toe when he was washing my feet—just like he used to do when I was a child.”

  VF sat at the head of the table. The adults and grandchildren took their respective seats.

  Father Joe, the youngest son and a Jesuit priest, stood to offer grace. No matter how old they were they still said grace, and made the sign of the cross before and after.

  “In the name of the F…f…f…ather, and of the S..s…son, and of the Holy Spirit.” Joe stuttered in front of the family.

  “Dear L..l..l…ord, we humbly ask your b..b….b..blessing—for us…..especially for Colonel Landry [he always called his dad Colonel Landry]…on our en…en…endeavors n..n…near and far…and that this food may nourish us…with your eternal grace.”

  Everyone breathed heavily, eyes closed.

  “Ahhh…men”

  There was a stillness bathed in sadness, then an eruption of energy as food was requested and passed back-and-forth along the long table.

  Hap, the son named for the war hero Hap Arnold, started the conversation in his usual manner. “What do you call a nun who sleepwalks?”

  Bits took the bait. “What?”

  “A roamin’ Catholic.”

  A collective groan.

  “Pass the deer, dear,” Hap sang.

  Vicki sat at the opposite end of the table next to Virginia. Vicki was the tallest of all the children. At nearly six feet, she took after her Grandfather Krejci. She wore large dark eyes, accented with remarkably full lashes. When she was born, the story goes, she was as “hairy as an ape,” her daddy said. Within a year, the hair on her back was gone, but her long black hair, bountiful lashes, and arm hair remained. When she was a teenager, she would exfoliate her lip hair, her arms and legs and even her pubic hair. She said it made her feel “clean and neat.”

  She helped pass the food, and managed the children’s table. “Look, kids, we have a quiz,” she said as she motioned to the head of the table.

  VF stood and wiped his mouth. He wasn’t going
to eat much anyway. “Time for Texas goober-nay-torial politics! A very important year this is,” he announced, gesturing toward his poster. “I beseech each of you to vote.”

  Hap couldn’t help himself, “And vote often!” he joked.

  “Are you asking our opinions about Ann Richards versus Bush’s machine led by Karl Rove?” Hap questioned.

  “Are the damned Republicans going to drive the agenda for the next hundred years?” VF answered.

  Mary bristled a bit, knowing Todd, her Republican husband, might feel uncomfortable. Todd sat rigid and whispered, “They know I’m not a tax and spend liberal, don’t they?”

  “Here in Texas,” VF continued, “we’ve got a recovering alcoholic with nice hair, a mama’s boy, a skinny rich bigot, and a lot of land to pump. What do you think? Are our vets ever going to get their due process?” VF asked.

  “Dad, you know Texas is going Republican. You can’t fight it,” Mary argued, winking at her husband.

  “To hell I can’t. This is a Democratic family. I have always fought for Democratic values. I will continue to fight for Democratic justice.”

  Vicki jumped in, “You’ve gotta love Molly Ivins. Did you see that last piece she wrote about George Bush? She said, ‘it appears that he doesn’t know much, doesn’t do much, and doesn’t care much about governing.’ She was assuming that if he does become governor, others will do his job.”

  “That’s the problem,” Iris said, “others like Karl Rove. Then we’ll have a puppet dictatorship in Texas.”

  VF watched his daughters, then picked up a letter, grabbed his reading glasses from the top of his head, and waved it for everyone to see. Reading glasses were his new accessory—compliments of surgery and radiation. The letterhead was emblazoned with an officious blue banner: United States Senate. And centered below that in all caps: WASHINGTON DC 20510.

  The table conversation came to a halt. He bored them with a recitation of “our esteemed Republican Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison’s” letter of October 15, which took the party line of support for Senator Dole’s plan of healthcare for small business insurance pools, freedom of choice, and market, malpractice and administrative reforms.

  “Now do you really think those Republicans can pass this damned healthcare bill?”

  Bits yelled at him, “Dad, just call Jake and find out.” Jake was Jake Pickle, former UT roommate, friend and long-term Congressman from Texas.

  “Awwww….Jake’s just a Congressman. It’s the Senate I’m worried about.”

  Everyone began talking at once. Richard, usually a quiet attendee (as to not call attention to his past incarceration, his addiction, or his gun running), spoke up, “Health care reform? Hell, if they’d just think about prison reform…”

  Mary wanted to re-focus on VF. “Dad, when you get to be Judge, you’ll change this gerrymandering nonsense and then we’ll have our State back.”

  “My darlin’ girl, the only person in this room who is going to be a judge someday is you,” he shot back.

  VF thought about the three things in life he wanted before he slipped his mortal coil: a Texas judgeship, the Coors distributorship, and promotion to Brigadier General in the Air Force. He briefly frowned as he felt the sorrow that all were unobtainable, and then smiled, telling himself, crybabies are losers.

  He sat down, as if to pause to catch a wave of energy, and then picked up a leather bound file, cradling it with both large hands, and announced in his booming, court-enhanced voice, “There’s one more thing I need to discuss with all of you here.”

  The room grew silent as all eyes were fixed on the thick portfolio he held with a vise grip.

  “Your mother and I have worked on this for the past several weeks and now, together with Trudell, our lawyer in Drippin’, now we have our last will and testament. Now kids, when I tell you what we are leaving to you I want you to remember this day. Remember the sweet smell of this family meal, and the light from the beautiful Texas sky. Remember how it felt to drive the dusty road over the cattle guard and to see the cattle out in the field. Recall the sound of the wind and nothing else. Hold these memories close. Hold this land close. Do not let this land go. It is part of all of our hard work. It will pay dividends to you and yours forever.”

  Then he stood, mustering all of his strength, and watching the anticipation in the eyes of his children and grandchildren, he opened the portfolio, handing seven legal-sized slim packets to Mary. “Please pass to the kids, Mary.” As she got up and handed each of her siblings their packet, he continued: “Mother gets all of the assets we hold together. If she chooses to give anything except the land away, that is her choice. She will then have a life estate for Silvercreek Ranch. When she passes, each of you—except Iris—will receive equal shares of this land. DO NOT SELL IT. Keep it in the family. It is valuable land. Now, Iris,” he paused and looked at Iris, “I am still working on what you will receive.”

  VF sat again. “Shall we have some of that good looking raisin pie? Do we have some ice cream to go with it? I’ll bet Thad would like some ice cream.”

  After the dessert and more discussion about politics, Democrats vs those evil Republicans, Iris asked if everyone could talk about VF’s care. VF looked at her with resignation. His energy was waning.

  “I’m afraid I need to retire to my reading room.” He shuffled from the dining table to the back library.

  Thad, Iris’ youngest, got up to run outside to play. “Hey, kiddo—go grab some rattlesnakes for me, would cha?” Hap called after him, “but remember what I told ya about coral snakes.”

  “Yeah, Uncle Hap…red and yeller kill a feller,” Thad chimed back, mimicking his uncle’s accent. He giggled as he ran outside to the broad fieldstone patio with its kids’ climbing range and the rock fort inlaid with trilobites. Jennifer, Vicki’s older daughter, followed him to supervise.

  People began to clear the table and take dishes to the kitchen until Vicki nearly screamed in her unpleasant voice, “Please, everyone, could you just sit down and let’s talk?”

  The activity ceased. Everyone took their places.

  “Yes, your sister Iris has something to say,” their mother Virginia said, mocking Iris even before she started.

  Oh, boy! That tone meant trouble, and everyone knew it. Every time Virginia was about to blow a gasket she took that tone. Iris looked hard at her, trying to detect the twitch in her eye.

  “Gosh, Mom,” Iris felt her heart racing, “I had hoped we could talk calmly about this.”

  “Calmly? Just spit it out, Miss Priss.” Virginia sat staring angrily.

  Even though she had discussed this with Virginia and some of her sisters prior to dinner, Iris had hoped for less vitriol.

  “It’s important for us to talk about care for Dad. Just last month, I had to ask Dad for his keys because he is beginning to have minor accidents. He can no longer drive—not even his tractor. As his disease progresses, his faculties will fail him. The doctors say he’ll have some cognitive issues—memory losses, then motor difficulties that just get worse with time until he is confined to a bed. Right now, that doesn’t seem possible but this disease is hateful. You just don’t know how it will respond to the various treatments he’s getting. He’s going to need some serious help in the next several months.”

  There was a collective sigh.

  Iris continued calmly, “Hospice professionals could come care for him here, so that he would be home. We’ll need a hospital bed. We have to face this. We need to prepare. I have some brochures,” Iris finished, watching the denial in everyone’s faces, and hearing the neighbor’s lamb bleating in the distance in a moment of silence.

  As Virginia listened to her daughter she grew more and more impatient. She felt feverish. Finally, she reached the boiling point.

  Before Iris knew what was happening, Virginia rocketed up from her seat and knocked the brochures from Iris’
hands.

  “I don’t need strangers in my house. If you want to get me hospice, they’ll wash…my…. windows.”

  “Mom, you can’t take care of Dad by yourself.”

  “I’ll have no god dammed strangers in my house,” Virginia yelled.

  Father Joe gulped. Others sat cemented to their chairs and looked down as if a solution was to be found on the table. Iris quickly glanced at Hap, knowingly. As Hap paid tribute to her look of terror, she soon felt emboldened.

  Vicki gently took her mother’s arm and brought her back to sit down.

  Usually Iris was extremely respectful and never argued. She always tried to let anger wash over and away from her. This situation was different. She wouldn’t/couldn’t be there to help her beloved father. She had a new job waiting for her half a country away. Miles, her professor husband, had already relocated to Manhattan, reveling in the joy of joining a group of academics at NYU who believed in his new discoveries of artificial intelligence algorithms that defined new theories in social psychological health. She understood he had to leave her and their son to work through VF’s disease. She had promised that within six months she would join him. She so wanted to be sure that her dad had the care he needed before she left.

  She chose her words carefully.

  “Mom, you’ll need professional help—to manage his pain, to move him around, this is a serious prognosis—he will grow weaker and unable to care for himself. It will happen pretty fast. He’ll be in great pain.”

  Virginia mocked her as her face became an angry mask. “Oh, he’ll be in great pain. Pain? Pain?” Her voice grew more sarcastic, higher and louder, “You know what I told him the other night when he fell out of bed trying to get up to pee? I told him ‘Death Doth Have Its Sting.’ And that’s what I have to say. NO HOSPICE IN MY HOUSE.”

  Iris was steaming—not only at her mother’s complete lack of empathy but that she told her dad this weird quote. Where in the world did she get Death Doth Have Its Sting? From her stupid Roger Williams family bible??? And he had fallen out of bed?