Rich White Trash

by Judi Taylor Cantor

  “Mr. Martin is just getting over the death of his wife, Bits. I would never….”

  “Oh, yes you would. Anyway, I think I’ve found a partner for my winery. He’s cute, he’s smart, and he’s single.”

  “But can he keep up with you? You have more schemes than a Wile E. Coyote.”

  “I’m sure you mean that in a good way,” Bits said with a lilt in her voice. “He’s a few years younger than I am, big blue eyes and sandy hair, but I love his accent.”

  “You love ‘em until you leave ‘em, Bits. Another notch in your chastity belt. Speaking of chastity, or lack thereof, have you been following this Monica Lewinsky thing?”

  “You mean with President Clinton?” Bits asked. “Who the hell cares? We all knew that Kennedy was a skirt chaser, and even LBJ had his secret lovers. So, Clinton is carrying on with his intern and the Republicans are gonna make him pay. As if they aren’t a bunch of perverts.”

  “Men are disgusting. He was probably finger fucking her,” Virginia said. “But back to your lover boy. Do you know the size of his cigar?”

  Bits was always surprised how vulgar her mother was with her. Unlike her other siblings, she could share all kinds of secrets with Virginia. Up to a point. For example, she would never tell her what fun she had with her new lover just the day before in her hacienda’s master bedroom. If her mother only knew the kind of belt she used on him! Definitely not a chastity belt.

  “Oh, Mom, don’t be ridiculous,” Bits protested.

  “What kind of accent does he have? Please don’t tell me he’s Mexican.”

  “British. He has a British accent. It’s adorable.”

  “What do the Brits know about making wine?” Virginia asked.

  “He’s been in the wine business for over twenty years. He has connections in Canada who can get us the must from the grapes and then we’ll make the wine, bottle it and sell it from here. We’ll call it Silvercreek Vineyards.”

  “Oh, that’s original.”

  “I think it sounds Texan. He likes it. I like it.”

  “Well, good luck with that, Bits. Just so you don’t make that icky stuff your Daddy made. That mustang grape wine.”

  “This will be the best of Texas.”

  “Or the best of Toronto if the grapes are from Toronto.”

  “Don’t tell.”

  Bits felt that her life was finally coming together—she had her dream hacienda, her fortune of ranchettes, and her cute boyfriend who would soon become her husband and partner in the wine business. What could be better?

  Chapter Eight:

  Good Night Nurse

  2004

  Hap sat at his patio table on Valentine’s Day, 2004, surrounded by the Austin vibe, pencil in hand, music tablet in front of him. The brilliantly colored hibiscus framed the arbor above him as he wrote the lyrics that had been whirling in his head:

  Why Do You Believe in Me

  Why do you believe in me

  And give your very heart and soul to me

  When a perfect love

  This may never be

  And still….

  You make it real

  You believe in me…

  REPEAT

  And it makes me try to do

  Things that mean so much to you

  Knowing you’re much stronger

  Than I will ever be

  Gives me courage

  To go on

  REPEAT

  There are times

  You show so much faith in me

  It brings out desires

  Hidden deep inside

  Makes me feel it’s my place to be

  Close, very close to you

  You believe in me.

  He felt this deeply—it was his ode to Karen, his “blonde bombshell” as VF called her, of a wife. She was a successful psychologist in town, Ivy-League trained, specializing in couples counseling, and he was forever wondering why she had married him and put up with him and his bad jokes. He loved that lady more than life. He could tell her anything. She understood him, he felt, as no other woman in his life had. As he told his pickin’ buddy, Jody, “as in the words of an old Ray Price song ‘she’s got to be a saint, cause Lord knows I ain’t.’”

  Hap sighed heavily, pulled out his guitar and started to sing Why do you believe…. His throat was so raw, he could not clearly articulate the words. He tried again. The soreness was worse. He grabbed a glass of ice water to sip. The trickle sent razors down his throat.

  For the past month, he thought his sore throat was due to allergens from the abnormally early spring in Austin. At first, he put on his big boy pants and manned up, week after week. But now, after a month, and after the pain, the cough, and the bleeding that would not go away, it was time to see a doctor.

  He called a buddy who was head of admissions at the VA hospital, and got an early appointment for the following week.

  The Central Texas VA Hospital in Temple was not so far that he couldn’t drive himself so he was alone. I know what the doctor’s gonna say—no more smoking, no more drinking. He knew it because that’s what the doctor said last time he had a physical.

  “Hap Landry?” the nurse yelled.

  “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

  She’s a duplicate Nurse Ratchet. She tilted her head down and looked out at him over her glasses. “Come with me,” she scowled.

  They marched down the long, tiled, astringent-smelling hallway. Hap followed Nurse Ratchet into the small examination room.

  “You here for a sore throat?” she asked.

  Hap nodded.

  “Let’s have you take off your shirt and have a seat on the exam table.”

  Another 30 minute wait.

  “Lt. Landry, I’m Dr. Grossman,” the young intern said as he extended his hand and ushered in the transcriber. “This is Paul, our information specialist.” All information about the patient was now transcribed during the exam so that more accurate records could be kept—an improvement to VA medical care.

  Hap looked at both of them and shook hands. The doctor put on his exam gloves, and took out the otoscope.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Hap complied to all the commands— let’s take a look at your ears, first this ear, then the other, open your mouth wide, stick out your tongue, move your head this way, that way, look up, look down, how does it feel when I touch this area below your ears, do you have hearing problems, have you seen blood with your cough, have you been tested for HPV, etc. etc.

  Dr. Grossman barked the results he was finding as Paul transcribed: “pharyngitis, palpable mass on neck, hyperalgesia, bleeding in the throat,

  persistent cough, laryngitis.”

  “That sounds like a medical dictionary,” Hap rasped.

  “Lt. Landry, we’re going to put you on a little antibiotic—cephalosporin—to see if that helps give you any relief. I’ll order it in liquid form—your swallowing must be painful. I’m also ordering a biopsy of this little lump I found on your neck, we’re going to do some blood work, and here’s a referral I’m giving you for a throat doctor. It says here,” the doctor held his medical history file of past exams, “that you have a history of smoking and alcoholism. You’ll have to find a way to modify both of those behaviors.”

  “Modify? Doc, look, if I can’t smoke and I can’t drink, I can’t live.” Hap’s voice was a rough whisper.

  “Your choice, Lt. Landry.” Dr. Grossman closed the file, handed Hap the prescription, the form for blood work, and the referral and left the room shaking his head, with the transcriber fast behind him.

  Good Night Nurse, Hap said to himself, knowing the irony of the saying. He adopted the adage after he saw the movie of the same name starring Fatty Arbuckle and Buster Keaton. Arbuckle is an alcoholic who is institutionalized af
ter his wife has had enough of his drunken behavior. Keaton is the neurosurgeon who is supposed to lobotomize his patient to cure him. Hap watched that movie many times, laughing uproariously.

  He sat on the exam table, puzzled about a biopsy, but knowing it sounded serious.

  Damn it all, he told himself, just when I had a little money to sit and write my songs and have some fun with my cars, my plane and my life.

  After making the appointment for the biopsy, having blood drawn, filling his prescription and driving back to Austin, Hap sat with a bottle of Jack, thought about his boyhood, and wrote this:

  In My Dreams

  When I was a kid in my

  Early teens

  I cut off the loops of my

  Blue jeans

  But then kids—they do

  Some crazy things

  I didn’t have a care in the world

  Three blocks over

  Lived my best girl

  Yesterday….In my dreams

  We used to play that old

  Juke box all day long for

  A dollar,

  Run through the back yard

  And hear my momma holler

  Hey! Keep away from the

  Laundry on the line

  Go on swimmin’ –be home

  By supper time

  As Hap wrote he remembered the fun of being a boy in the fifties. He felt the bike pedals under his bare feet and the wind against his naked chest as he barreled down Terrace Drive on the way to Big Stacy swimming pool. He was on his way to flirt with pretty girls and try some daring dives. He was the only diver who could do a back flip with a twist.

  He thought about the responsibilities he was given. “Everyone needs to pull his own weight,” his father taught him. “The girls clean the house, and you, son, need a paper route.”

  Yesterday….in my dreams

  School is out, I got a paper route

  Gonna get the job done

  Then have some fun

  Friday night we’re gonna go

  To the twenty-cent show

  After they shut down

  The movie machine

  We’re gonna shut down

  That ‘ole Dairy Queen

  Yesterday…in my dreams

  Hap finished the last stanza, tried to gulp down the antibiotic, and took a nap. The instant he awoke, he called Iris, even though it was late in New York.

  “Iris. It’s Hap, dawlin’. I just had this dream. It was with Dad. I’ve never had a dream like it.”

  Iris was so pleased to hear from Hap, she had been thinking about him and his upcoming big birthday—the big 6-0. “Tell me more,” she smiled, put on her robe and walked into her study to not disturb her husband.

  “Well, he looked wonderful—a full head of hair, strong body, and he was showing you and me how the Pedernales River met our land at this ‘secret’ place. It was beautiful. Perfectly peaceful. It was spread out like Barton Springs below us—we were high on a hill overlooking it. I told him ‘I’ve never seen this part of the ranch before—it’s breathtaking.’ He just smiled. Then he put several envelopes on a table. They were all labeled with names of the kids and ‘$1K’—things like that—like little gifts.

  “I ran to get Vicki. She was in a shower and she wouldn’t come out. I kept saying ‘hurry, hurry, hurry—you’ve got to see him—he looks great.’ She just cried and hid behind the shower curtain. ‘It’s not really him,’ she said. But it was him.”

  Iris’ eyes filled with tears. “Hap, that’s such a wonderful dream. I have an interpretation….You sold your land, right?”

  “Sure did. Years ago.”

  “I think the envelopes are full of cash—like a dream come true--and that by giving us land he’s helping our dreams unfold—whether we take the cash or the land. I think that you’re seeing him strong and virile again because you know he’s in a better place.”

  “I just finished writin’ a song about my childhood, and you know, it wasn’t all bad,” Hap said.

  “Of course not,” Iris agreed wryly, trying to envision happiness in the Landry family.

  “I thought about the vacations we took. Galveston, for example. We’d pack up the station wagon and head down to Galveston and every one of us would race out of that car and into the surf where we would stay for hours and hours.”

  “Yes, we were all so ignorant about sunburn. We slathered baby oil all over our bodies. You were so dark brown, Hap, that people called you a Mexican.”

  “Well, being in the ocean was worth it. And the trip to the Grand Canyon. That was hilarious when Bits and I had that bubble-blowing contest and we got double bubble all over our hair!”

  “Mom went wild.”

  “And the Big Bend camping trips. Dad saved our lives when a sudden storm flooded our campsite.”

  Iris had a sudden image. “Ewww…remember on that same vacation when he killed all of those scorpions—they were everywhere!” She was cringing.

  “I had a dream about Dad last night, too,” she said.

  “Let me hear it.”

  “OK. Dad and I were picking beans from a bean tree. They were larger- than-life beans—seemed to be very dark, but when we got closer to the tree they looked healthier. Anyway, I saw a snake and was alarmed and I realized I shouldn’t be afraid. It slithered down…all of a sudden it was on the ground. Dad said to my oldest son, ‘look Will, this is how we take care of the snakes—grab a rock.’ And he hit the snake with a rock and killed it. Then Will hit it with a rock. I turned away so I wouldn’t see Will picking up the dead snake.

  “My feeling was one of real happiness that Dad was so strong and still such a fighter.”

  “Hmmmm…. maybe Dad is telling you that there are snakes out there in the world that you’ll have to defeat and he’s here with you to help you along the way. Either that or something about penises.”

  Iris laughed as if she was shocked.

  “But what about the beans?” She said soberly.

  “You think the beans are representative of Jillian’s life in heaven—that it’s bigger than life…a life everlasting?”

  “Ah..Beans! I remember you called Jillian ‘Beans.’ That’s good. I like that!” Iris’ tears were dry now. “How are you doing?”

  “Aw…just writin’ the music, drinkin’ the Kool-Aid,” Hap said.

  “Hap, remember when we were kids and you would buy peanuts and put ‘em in your Coke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I thought that was the coolest thing in the world…And you were the king of seed spitting—remember? All the watermelon seed spitting contests?”

  “That was Terrace Drive. That was before you had titties.”

  “Oh, now I know I’m talking to the real Hap! ….” Iris paused, thinking of all the things this little tribe of kids did…” you were always the best at skipping rocks.”

  “I knew how to find the flat ones.”

  “How’s your plane?”

  “Right now, it’s grounded for a while. I’m concentrating on my golf game.”

  “Maybe when I come see you on your birthday we could fly over that dreamscape—over the Pedernales? See if it meets up with Barton Creek?”

  “You’ll be here in July? Well, good night nurse! It’ll be a hot time in the cool city or a cool time in the hot city in July. Just call first. Nighty nite, and remember—it is better to look good than to feel good—and yew look mawvelous.”

  The remark had its intended effect. Iris giggled.

  “Love you, Hap. Take care.”

  “Yerself.”

  Iris hung up and even though he had left her with a smile, all was not right with Hap. His voice, always rusty, was peppered with a constant cough and a horrid sound as if he couldn’t catch his breath. And he didn’t sound drunk.
That was a first.

  * * *

  Hap’s diagnosis was worse than anyone feared—stage IV throat cancer. The treatment protocol was very similar to VF’s—surgery followed by radiation, followed by chemo. He seemed to be resigned to his fate.

  The surgery in April that followed his biopsy did not go as well as expected. There was a lot of bleeding, and his larynx was “compromised.” The radiation made him very tired and left his neck and face burned.

  It became more and more difficult for him to swallow until he had to have a tube inserted into his stomach for nourishment. His good friend and golfing buddy Roger chauffeured him to and from his chemo infusions.

  But he kept smoking, joking and cogitating on his golf game.

  “Have yew heard this?“ He asked Roger as they were driving to his chemo. “Walking to the altar, the groom tells his lady, ‘Honey, I’ve got something to confess: I’m a golf nut, and every chance I get, I’ll be playing golf!’ She says, ‘Since we’re being honest, I have to tell you that I’m a hooker.’ The groom smiles and says, ‘That’s okay, honey. You just need to learn to keep your head down and your left arm straight.’”

  Hap laughed, slapped his thigh and told another, watching Roger’s expression of delight—the ‘ole Hap had rallied.

  “Roger, I have to tell you, I think my game is showing some arm. Years ago, when I was on a cruise to Australia, I went to the golf nets just about every day. Once, another fella was hitting balls one net over. I asked if he would look at my swing—check it for my familiar ‘loop.’ Guess what? No loop! He said it was straight up and straight back. Maybe my practice paid off. I discovered I haven’t been using my right hand like I should. I’ve been coming over instead of under. I hope it’s true. I can’t wait to get on the course and try it out again…..

  “Roger, let me ask you,” Hap said plaintively. “Do you think golfers ever die?” This was an old chestnut of Hap’s that Roger had heard maybe a thousand times.

  “Hmmmm…I dunno Hap, do they?”

  “Oh, hell, no. They just lose their balls.”

  They both laughed so hard that Roger nearly ran off the road.

  * * *

  By July, Hap’s health was not improving. The pain was excruciating for him, so oxycontin was the pharmaceutical of choice. This made him constipated, a terrible side effect of the drug.