Buster Lickle, Texasville’s most vigorous sponsor, wanted a full-scale re-creation, with tourists being taken out to the site—to be called Old Texasville—on buggy rides which would start at his Dairy Queen.
Opposed to this plan was the Reverend Rawley, who was for ignoring Texasville entirely. After all, it had been a saloon and bawdyhouse, and G.G. stood ready to take the Byelo-Baptists to the barricades rather than have a centennial that glorified what he called “lowlife riffraff and persons who sold whiskey.”
It was the necessity of reconciling these two apparently un-reconcilable points of view that now faced the committee.
CHAPTER 20
“I WONDER IF WE CAN’T COME TO A COMPROMISE about Texasville,” Duane said. He felt that he would almost rather be on a trip with his children than to be doing what he was doing.
“Not me,” G.G. said. “There’s no compromising with what’s right.”
“But what we’re proposing ain’t wrong, G.G.,” Buster said. “This is gonna be a big celebration. We’ve got to give it the Old West flavor.”
“Not if the flavor’s Bourbon whiskey,” G.G. said. “I ain’t voting to build no replicas of saloons or whorehouses.”
“But it’s history!” Buster said.
“The only history worth putting on a show for is the Lord’s history,” G.G. said, his heavy jaw thrust forward.
“We’re gonna get Adam and Eve in the pageant,” Buster reminded him. “I don’t see why we can’t have a little of the Old West too.”
“It could create alcoholics if you start people at one saloon and give them a free buggy ride to another one,” the minister said.
Duane himself was dubious about the buggy rides, though on practical rather than moral grounds. The proliferation of events already had him worried. There was going to be a mini-marathon and a wagon train; the Governor was going to come and make a speech. There would be an art show, a visit to an oil rig (his), street dances, barbecues, class reunions and organized trips to every place of interest in the county. Buggy rides might be too much—besides, who knew how to drive a buggy?
“What if we just build a small replica of the Texasville post office and put it on the courthouse square during the festivities?” Sonny suggested. He and Duane had discussed such a compromise at length.
“I think that’s a good idea,” Duane said. “People aren’t going to drive way out in the country to see a replica of a post office.”
“Put a saloon right here in the heart of town?” G.G. said, not taken in by the pretense that the replica would merely be that of a post office.
Duane looked around the room, hoping for a show of support. Instead he found a show of indifference. Ralph Rolfe, the rancher, was carefully slicing a corn off his thumb with a large pocketknife. Old Man Balt watched the proceedings intently, waiting to burst into cackles if anything funny happened. Suzie Nolan and Jenny Marlow both seemed lost in thought. Duane was sure they weren’t thinking about Texasville either. They had a smoldering look beneath their new hairdos and vivid eye shadow. He wondered briefly if Dickie had actually had the good sense to proceed on toward New Mexico. It didn’t seem likely.
“We’ve got to make some progress here, folks,” he said. “Time’s running out. We just have to settle some of these issues as best we can.”
He felt himself building a considerable head of annoyance with G. G. Rawley. Behind the Texasville question lurked the larger issue of liquor sales during the centennial. The county was wet only to a degree. Liquor could only be sold in package stores. If people wanted to sit at a table and drink they had to drive out to Aunt Jimmie’s, just across the county line.
It seemed obvious to him that people who were gathered for a once-in-a-century event would want to dance, holler and drink by way of celebration. Duane had thought the matter over and had decided to propose the radical step of allowing the sale of beer on the courthouse square during the time of the festivities, after which the county would have to return immediately to its sober ways.
The rationale he planned to advance was that most people would be drunk before the nightly street dance even started, and if they had to go racing off to Aunt Jimmie’s or some of the far-flung package stores to replenish their supplies, the roads of the county would soon be littered with car wrecks.
Toots Burns, the sheriff, was prepared to back Duane’s argument to the hilt.
“Let ’em dance and have fistfights,” he said. “If they get to chasing around in pickups there won’t be enough wreckers in North Texas to handle it.”
Still, it was obvious that the proposal would meet with the furious opposition of G.G. and the teetotaling Byelo-Baptists.
Duane had been postponing a vote in the hope that G.G. would be called away to preach a revival or something, allowing them to sneak it in behind his back.
But time had grown short, and anyway Duane had ceased to care about avoiding a fight.
“What this whole celebration is about is history,” Duane said. “It’s about the history of this county of ours. We can’t just put in the good history and leave out the bad.”
“Why can’t we?” G.G. asked. “The Lord don’t want nobody exhibiting any bad history.”
Buster Lickle, who had been pouting anyway, suddenly flared up.
“It ain’t the Lord that’s blocking this,” he said. “He don’t care what kind of little show we put on down here. You Baptists just don’t want normal people to have any fun.”
“Buster, I’m trying to make a motion,” Duane said. “I move that we build the replica of Texasville right here on the courthouse square.”
“I second that,” Sonny said.
“We can still do the buggy rides,” Duane said, noting that Buster was so disappointed that he was about to cry. “We can put the buggies at the Dairy Queen and people can just ride through town. All in favor of the replica motion raise their right hands.”
Five hands went up immediately and Ralph Rolfe raised his as soon as he finished slicing off his corn.
“Opposed?” Duane asked.
G.G. glared at the two women. “I’m looking right at two people who just voted against the Lord,” he said.
“I didn’t,” Jenny Marlow said. “I just voted against you, G.G.”
“That’s just as bad,” G.G. said. “I’m the shepherd of your flock. You’re nothing but a woman that’s pitched softball until she’s got the big head.”
“Now let’s not get into stuff like this,” Duane said. “The motion carried and I want to make another one. I propose we authorize the sale of beer on the courthouse lawn while the centennial’s going on. I make this motion in the interest of public safety.”
“I second it,” Suzie Nolan said.
G.G. seemed thunderstruck. Suzie had led his choir for many years. But G.G. recovered quickly.
“Thou shalt worship no graven images!” he thundered. “Now that’s one of the Lord’s commandments.”
“We’re not talking about engraving no images,” Buster Lickle protested. “Just maybe putting Sam Houston on some of the T-shirts.”
“Hadn’t been for old Sam I doubt there’d even be Texas,” Ralph Rolfe commented.
“The motion was seconded,” Duane said. “Let’s vote.”
G.G. showed signs of bewilderment. Things were moving too fast. He had been about to preach a little sermonette demonstrating to the committee that building a replica of an old saloon was the equivalent of erecting a graven image, but before he could get his sermon untracked, an even worse proposal had been made, and seconded by another ewe from his own flock, the normally reliable choir leader, Suzie Nolan. He looked around in dismay. Sin was accumulating so fast that he hardly knew where to strike at it.
“What’s that about public safety?” he asked. “How’s the public gonna be safe if it’s allowed to get drunk right in the middle of town?”
“What we hope to do is cut down drunk driving, G.G.,” Duane said. “The sheriff thinks it’s best to keep
people off the roads as much as possible.”
“Toots Burns is a fat sot himself,” G.G. pointed out. “You can find him stretched out dog-drunk in his police car any night you care to look. Besides, letting people pour beer down their gullets right on the courthouse lawn won’t keep people off the highways. They don’t all live at the courthouse. They have to go home sometime, and I doubt they’ll want to walk.”
Duane had seen that objection coming and was ready.
“We’re gonna provide army cots so people can just sleep it off and go home in the morning,” he said. “All in favor of the motion raise your right hands.”
Six hands went up.
“Opposed?” Duane asked. Old Man Balt had been seized by a spasm of amusement and was cackling so loudly nothing else could be heard.
G.G. Rawley got to his feet.
“You can floorboard these votes through all you want to, Duane,” he said. “You’re a sinner and your wife’s a sinner and your kids fornicate and sell dope.”
“I don’t claim to be perfect, G.G.,” Duane said.
“Well, we won’t discuss personalities,” G.G. said with an air of dignity. “This is just a tawdry little old committee and it can’t vote to sell alcohol nowhere. I know that much.”
“No, but the City Council can, and several of us are on it,” Duane said. “I think we can get the liquor provision approved.”
“Well, now you’re flirting with hell, all of you,” G.G. said.
“Sit down,” Duane said. “You don’t have the floor.”
“I may not have the floor, but I’ve got the Lord,” G.G. said.
“Oh, stop bragging, G.G.,” Jenny said. “All you’ve got’s a big old swelled-up ego.”
“At least I ain’t married to a sinner that’s been indicted on seventy-two counts of crime,” G.G. said. “If you’ve got any shame you’ll get over to church and rededicate your life the first chance you get, which will be this coming Sunday.”
“If we don’t move along with the agenda, this meeting will still be going on Sunday,” Duane said.
“You blasphemers and idol-makers can sit here and propose all you want to,” G.G. said. “All this committee’s done so far is think up sins and temptations to put before the public.”
He paused, to give the committee a moment to contemplate the enormity of their error. Suzie Nolan was filing a nail. The rest of the committee looked back at him sullenly.
“I’m going home and pray,” G.G. said. “I’ll tell you one thing though. You won’t be selling no spiritous liquors on the courthouse lawn. If we have to fight the Alamo all over again, then so be it.”
With that he stalked out.
“That man’s got too bad a temper to be a preacher,” Suzie said.
“I don’t understand what he meant about the Alamo,” Buster Lickle said. “Would we be the Mexicans or the Texans?”
“I think he means for us to be the ones that get slaughtered,” Duane said.
CHAPTER 21
THE FINAL VOTE OF THE EVENING HAD TO DO WITH the time capsule—Sonny’s idea. He thought it might be interesting to let people write notes to posterity. The notes could then be put in a bottle and buried on the courthouse lawn for a hundred years. At the bicentennial, which would surely be held if there wasn’t a nuclear war, the time capsule could be dug up and the celebrants could read what people in Thalia had on their minds in the late twentieth century.
“Sex and dope and making money,” Karla said, when she heard about the idea. “That’s all people around here ever have on their minds.”
“We write it on a piece of paper and put it in the time capsule,” Duane said.
“I will not,” Karla said. “I might have great-grandchildren alive. Do you want our great-grandkids to think I was a horny old woman?”
Duane didn’t answer. At the rate Little Mike was growing, several generations of Moores might sprout before the bicentennial. One of Little Mike’s grandchildren might be sitting where he sat, at the head of a committee designed to organize appropriate festivities.
The committee took an enthusiastic view of the time capsule, approving it unanimously.
“I guess we all better be thinking about what we want to say to posterity,” Jenny Marlow said, looking at Duane again.
“Yes, and I hereby adjourn this meeting so we can get started thinking right now,” Duane said.
Beulah Balt, the old man’s daughter, was at the curb in their ancient Plymouth, waiting to take her father home. Duane helped the old man down the courthouse steps and inched along with him as he made his way along the sidewalk. He liked Old Man Balt and enjoyed watching him in action. The old man carefully emptied a half can of tobacco juice onto the courthouse lawn.
“Hurry up and get in the car, Daddy,” Beulah called. “We’re missing The Waltons.”
Before they made it to the curb, Suzie Nolan strolled past on one side and Jenny Marlow passed on the other side. Old Man Balt didn’t increase his speed and Duane felt momentarily like a stalled car on a freeway, but they eventually reached the car and got the old man settled.
“Take it easy, Mr. Balt,” Duane said. “We’re counting on you to make this centennial work.”
“Daddy’ll help you out,” Beulah said. “It’ll be a good distraction for him.”
Suzie and Jenny left at the same moment. They both caught the red light at the corner, the only traffic light in town. When it changed, Jenny turned right and Suzie left. Neither of them was headed in the direction of her home.
Duane drove down to the little six-bed hospital, parked and went in. Though he tried to walk quietly, his boots rang on the hard waxed floor. No nurse appeared, so he walked on down the hall until he saw a room with a light. Lester Marlow was sitting up in bed, reading a paperback spy novel.
“How you doing?” Duane asked.
“I’m dulled out,” Lester said. “I don’t think I can sleep, though.”
Lester didn’t look dulled—he looked wired. His brown hair, which had always run to cowlicks, now seemed to consist of nothing but cowlicks. It stuck out in all directions, and his big feet stuck out from under the covers.
“If I’d finished college I could have worked for the CIA,” he said. “They say ordinary people like me make the best spies. It’s probably a lot less stressful than being a bank president in a small town.”
Duane sat down in the one chair.
“Why would you want to be a spy?” he asked.
“I’d rather be anything than what I am,” Lester said, ruffling his cowlicks. He had a large head, a large face. It struck Duane that large faces could look sadder than small faces. Lester’s looked quite sad.
“Do you think I’ll get raped in prison?” he asked.
“I doubt you’ll even go,” Duane said. “Maybe they’ll let you do community service. You could mow the grass on the football field.”
“Butt-fucking doesn’t appeal to me,” Lester said plaintively.
“Or it’ll probably be one of those country-club prisons,” Duane said.
“You’re not going to take bankruptcy, are you?” Lester asked.
“No, I don’t plan to,” Duane said.
“Why not?” Lester asked. “Your position is hopeless. A lot of people in your shoes would have jumped into Chapter Eleven.”
“Luthie’s got a plan to bomb OPEC,” Duane said. “Once he does that, the oil business is bound to pick up.
“Nothing’s hopeless till you’re dead,” he added cheerfully.
“My marriage is hopeless,” Lester said. “Jenny says I have no common sense. We haven’t slept together in months. She goes off in a car at night and I don’t know where she goes.
“But we have sweet children,” he added. “I hope the girls don’t turn against me while I’m in prison.”
“Those girls aren’t going to turn against you,” Duane said. Lester and Jenny had two daughters, Missy and Sissy, both teenagers. They were among the best-liked children in town. They were l
ively and talkative but also well-behaved, and they already showed promise in softball.
“I wish the ax would fall,” Lester said. He looked at the ceiling as if he expected an ax to come dropping right through it.
“Which ax?” Duane asked, not sure whether Duane was talking about his marriage, his bank or his prison sentence.
“Any ax,” Lester said. “I’m tired of thinking all day long. Maybe I would be better off in prison, making license plates. I think I could handle a simple job like that. I just wouldn’t want to get raped.”
“You worry too much,” Duane said. “I was thinking of going fishing. Go with me. The crappie might be biting.”
“With my luck, they’d bite me,” Lester said gloomily. “What do you think’s the matter with Jenny?”
“I have no idea,” Duane said.
“Jenny likes excitement,” Lester said. “She says I’m not exciting anymore. She says I haven’t been exciting since Missy was born.”
“It’s hard to stay exciting for a whole lifetime,” Duane said, standing up. “I hope you get to feeling better.”
CHAPTER 22
SUZIE NOLAN WAS WAITING IN THE PARKING LOT when Duane walked out of the hospital. As he approached the car he could see the shine of tears on her cheek. He leaned down and looked in at her.
“Now what’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“I just feel lost,” Suzie said. “I just love Dickie so much, Duane. I just love him heart and soul.”
“Suzie, I wish you’d picked me,” Duane said. “I don’t know if you can count too much on a boy like Dickie.”
“I can’t count on him at all,” Suzie said. “I know that. It’s why I’m so lost. It’s just good fun to him but it’s heart and soul to me. Now Junior’s going broke, and it’s just all going to break down.”
She began to sob and laid her head on his arm. Duane let her cry, occasionally stroking her hair. He thought briefly of what a terrible thing it must be for a woman of Suzie’s age to be madly in love with Dickie, but his thoughts kept drifting elsewhere—specifically, they drifted to his own girlfriend, Janine Wells, for whom he had conceived a growing distaste. He tried to remember whether he had always felt a distaste for Janine or whether he had just begun to feel it lately. If he didn’t like her, why had he started sleeping with her? She was probably sitting on her couch in a negligee at that very moment, waiting for him to come by. He hadn’t told her he would come by, but sometimes he did after centennial meetings. On such occasions Janine always dressed in a negligee, usually lavender.
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