Texasville

by Larry McMurtry

  “Stop popping your knuckles, Jack,” Duane said.

  “Please stop popping your knuckles, Jack,” Jacy said, glancing at Duane. He realized she was correcting his manners, not beseeching his son.

  “They’re not taking my new bike,” Jack said.

  “Mine neither,” Julie said. “Let’s get a parrot.”

  “I hate parrots,” Jack said. “That parrot in the pet shop bit me, remember?”

  “That’s because you said the fuck word to it,” Julie said. “Birds don’t like to hear the fuck word.”

  “I don’t particularly like to hear it either, Julie,” Jacy said.

  She whipped into the rodeo grounds and parked in the shade of the bleachers. The minute she stopped the twins got out, slamming the door in Shorty’s face. He immediately jumped out the window and chased after them.

  “We may not get much of a crowd tonight,” Duane said. “A bank closing puts people off. No mon, no fun.”

  “That’s not how it works at all,” Jacy said. “The less bread, the more circuses—that’s how it works.”

  She opened a small makeup kit and propped a mirror on the dashboard, studying her face a little wearily. She seemed indifferent to, even a little disdainful of, the face she saw in the mirror, and sat for a while with her hands in her lap, doing nothing about her makeup.

  “Did you hear about Sonny?” Duane asked.

  Jacy looked around at him. “You can sit in the front seat if you want to,” she said. “At least you can if you’ll talk to me about something besides Sonny.”

  Duane moved to the front seat. His mind was mainly on the closed bank. He wondered if it would be taken over by a big city bank, and if so, which one.

  “You look kind of cute when you’re depressed,” Jacy said. “You have a kind of hangdog charm. It’s when you’re feeling cocky that you’re intolerable.”

  “Dickie’s cocky and he’s not intolerable,” Duane said. “All you women love him to death.”

  “Of course we do,” Jacy said. “Cockiness is cute in a kid that age. But when a man your age is cocky it’s something to avoid. It means the man hasn’t learned a thing.”

  “I must have learned something in forty-eight years,” Duane said. “I can’t put my finger on what, though.”

  Jacy took a lipstick out of the makeup bag, then dropped it back in and took out some eye liner. She began to do her eyes.

  “When you’re at your most hangdog I sometimes have the impulse to hug you,” she said. “I may hug you sometime, but if I do it’s not something you should misinterpret.”

  “I wouldn’t dare interpret anything with you women,” Duane said.

  “Stop saying ‘you women’—I’m the only woman here,” Jacy said.

  She did her makeup as the stands filled. Her prediction proved to be right. The stands soon filled; the crowd seemed even larger than it had the first night. Pageant performers straggled in the bleacher area and began to put on sombreros or gun belts or pioneer sunbonnets.

  “You’re not pulling your weight, Duane,” Jacy said. “You’re not talking to me about anything. Try and make a little conversation.”

  “Do you think I’ve lost Karla?” he said, deciding to use the question he could not get Ruth Popper to answer.

  “Why, do you really want to keep her?” Jacy asked, blotting her lipstick.

  “Yeah,” Duane said. “I do.”

  Jacy gave him a disdainful look.

  “You males like to get things settled, don’t you?” Jacy said. “You’re anxious for conclusions—nice firm ones that will last forever. I keep Karla. I lose Karla. No gray areas, no uncertainty.”

  “It’s nice to know what’s happening,” Duane said.

  “You mean it’s nice to know who’s gonna take care of you,” Jacy said.

  Duane had begun to wish he hadn’t used the question.

  “What do you really want to know, Duane?” Jacy said. “Whether Karla and I lick one another’s cunts?”

  “I didn’t ask anything like that,” Duane protested.

  “No, but only because you’re gutless,” Jacy said. “You’re scared to find out what you really want to know, which is whether I seduced your wife, or she seduced me, or in general what’s going on with the cunts you have an interest in.”

  She closed her makeup kit and seemed for a moment ready to get out of the car.

  “I wish you wouldn’t leave,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because if you go off mad I’ll really be miserable,” Duane said.

  “You should learn to distinguish between anger and contempt,” Jacy said.

  “Why contempt?” he said. “I just asked a question. I don’t really need to know what goes on between you and Karla.”

  “I think you’re feeling guilty about something,” Jacy said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be wondering if you’d lost your wife.”

  “Well, no guiltier than I’ve felt for about the last ten years,” Duane said. “I am guilty of a lot of things, but I’ve learned to carry along a certain amount of guilt.”

  “I can too, come to think of it,” Jacy said. “I ran around like crazy when I was married. Guilt didn’t really slow me down.”

  The arena lights came on. Karla and Old Man Balt rode into the arena, getting ready to ride the colors. The western sky was still bright, but the Mercedes was in deep shadow.

  “You better get your bathing suit on, Adam,” Jacy said. “It’s nearly time for us to go out there and start the human race.”

  “Oh, shit,” Duane said. “I left it in the pickup. We’ll have to go get it.”

  “Oh, do the show in your underwear,” Jacy said. “Who cares?”

  “I care,” Duane said. “I’m not going out there in my underwear. I’d never live it down.”

  “It’s interesting that I’ve started picking on you,” Jacy said. “Karla says you make a good all-purpose scapegoat, and she’s right. You’re just guilty enough to make a good scapegoat, and you don’t seem to be tough enough to be dangerous in a fight.”

  “Fighting back just gets you picked on worse,” Duane said.

  “Maybe you enjoy being picked on,” Jacy said. “Maybe it gives you the illusion that you’re involved, or about to be involved, or something.”

  “Let’s go get my bathing suit,” Duane said. The fear of having to play Adam in his underwear was making him more and more nervous, obscuring more major fears, such as fear of bankruptcy or fear of losing his wife.

  “You go get it,” Jacy said. “I have to help sing the ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ It’s my favorite part of the show.”

  Duane slid under the wheel and started the car. Jacy hadn’t walked away. She stood right by the car door, so close that he could have put an arm around her. He glanced up and saw that she was watching him. Though she was close enough that he could feel the heat of her body, her face was in shadow. He couldn’t see her eyes.

  “I don’t know about you, Duane,” Jacy said. “It’s possible that you’re really pretty nice. You’re just a little too attached to the linear principle, or something.”

  He raced to the pickup, grabbed his bathing suit and put it on in the restroom of the filling station. When he came out, the strains of the “Battle Hymn” could be heard all over the quiet town.

  CHAPTER 81

  “SOMEBODY OUGHT TO TELL THAT STUPID BAND TO stop playing rumbas,” Karla said. “Where do they think they are, Acapulco?”

  Duane was glad to be told that he was supposed to be doing a rumba. They were in the middle of the street dance—hundreds of booted feet shuffled over the asphalt, making it difficult to hear the band. Duane only occasionally caught a bar or two of the music.

  “I guess they’re just trying to provide a little variety,” Duane said.

  “That little bass player’s real cute,” Karla said. “He can provide me with some variety any time he’s willing to be caught. You wouldn’t begrudge me a bass player, would you, Duane?”

/>   “Not unless he tries to put in a garbage disposal and fucks up,” Duane said.

  “It looks like you’d be over that by now, Duane,” Karla said. “That was years ago.”

  “Jenny’s taking a long time to cry herself out,” he observed. Jenny sat on an ice chest by one of the concession booths, sobbing bitterly. Charlene and Lavelle stood by her, occasionally giving her a pat on the back.

  “I don’t blame her,” Karla said. “The pageant was awful tonight, plus Lester ran off in despair.”

  There was no denying that the pageant had been a shambles. The Iwo Jima skit had to be scratched because the teenage girls who had agreed to play Japanese soldiers had decided to go roller-skating instead. The Civil War and World War I had to be omitted because of a terrible brawl between the defenders of the Alamo, led by Eddie Belt, and Santa Anna’s army, led by Bobby Lee. Quite a few loungers and drunks had jumped the fence and rushed to the defense of the Alamo. Santa Anna’s army had been forced to flee through the roping pens to keep from being beaten to a pulp.

  “Duane, slide your feet more,” Karla commanded.

  “I wish you’d come home,” Duane said. “You could bring Jacy. There’s lots of room.”

  “That would make it easy for you, wouldn’t it?” Karla said. “You’d have us both under the same roof.”

  “It was just a suggestion,” Duane said.

  “Why would you even want me back home?” Karla asked. “We never have sex and we argue all the time.”

  “I miss the comedy,” Duane said.

  Karla’s tone had been neutral—not exactly hostile, not exactly friendly—but she smiled when he said he missed the comedy.

  Just then there was a commotion on the courthouse lawn. A number of men with brooms were moving through the crowd, followed by a number of men in uniform. The men with brooms seemed to be swatting at people. Duane saw G. G. Rawley swat at Bobby Lee. A beer cup rose in the air like a pop fly. Bobby Lee looked astonished, but only for a second. He flung himself at G.G. but was immediately collared by two large young officers.

  “Duane, they’re arresting Bobby Lee,” Karla said.

  “G.G.’s got himself a broom brigade,” Duane said. “It’s his idea of how to sweep away sin. I guess those cops are from the Liquor Control. I never saw them before.”

  Little melees began to break out all over the place. G.G. and his volunteers had the advantage of surprise. Most of the beer drinkers were unaware that the broom brigade was attacking until the moment when they started to raise a can or a cup to their lips. Many were too drunk to be quite sure what was happening—even when the can or cup got swatted out of their hands. Those alert enough to realize what had occurred frequently showed fight and were immediately collared by teams of officers.

  Duane went to help Bobby Lee, who had already been stuffed into a large cattle truck that was serving as a temporary detention pen. Bobby Lee was not taking his detention passively, though. He was kicking dirt and dried cow chips at the two officers who guarded the rear of the truck.

  “What is this?” Duane said. “You can’t throw people in a cattle truck just for drinking free beer.”

  “Oh, we ain’t gettin’ ’em for drinking,” one officer assured him. “We’re just gettin’ ’em for fighting.”

  “I wasn’t fighting until that fuckhead knocked my beer out of my hands,” Bobby Lee said. “He started it, why ain’t anybody locking him up?”

  “That’s all right, honey, I’ll get revenge for you,” Karla said, turning on her heel.

  Duane was torn between his desire to try and reason with the officers and a sense that he ought to keep Karla in sight. He decided in favor of keeping Karla in sight.

  Karla borrowed a can of beer from the first ice chest she saw and began to stalk G.G.

  “What are you gonna do?” Duane asked.

  “If you can keep up with me you’ll find out,” Karla said, walking up behind G.G., who was flanked by a large young cop. The cop smiled in a friendly way when he saw Karla.

  “Hi, G.G., having fun?” Karla asked, putting a hand on G.G.’s shoulder.

  G.G. turned in surprise. As he did Karla grabbed his trousers at the waist. She pulled them out as far as she could and stuffed the beer can, open end down, into his pants.

  G.G. jumped as the cold beer flooded his loins.

  “Oh, my lord, little lady, what’d you do that for?” the young officer asked.

  “I just didn’t want the preacher’s skin to go to bed thirsty tonight,” Karla said, giving the officer her most winning smile.

  “Arrest her, she’s one of the worst sinners in town,” G.G. said.

  “Come on, G.G.,” Duane said. “There’s no law against Karla pouring beer down your pants.”

  G.G. was trying to get the beer can out, but with Karla staring straight at him he fumbled the job. The can slipped into one of his pants legs and beer began to trickle down his leg and into his shoe.

  “By God, there’s a law against public disorder,” G.G. said.

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t disorderly,” Karla said. “I poured the beer right where I wanted it to go.”

  She turned and walked away.

  “You could have thought of that trick, Duane,” she said when he caught up with her.

  As they were crossing the street they saw Dickie slip into the cab of the cattle truck. He had been dancing with Jacy on the sidewalk in front of the old picture show.

  Before the officers guarding the truck knew what was happening, Dickie started the truck and whipped it around the corner. The officers ran in pursuit, but they were easily outdistanced. Dickie drove the truck a few blocks down the street and stopped. He and the dozen or so detainees jumped out and disappeared up a dark street. By the time the officers got to the truck most of the culprits were back in the crowd, drinking beer again.

  P. L. Jolly, the local highway patrolman, stood with Karla and Duane a minute, laughing and coughing. P.L. remained one of Dickie’s staunchest fans.

  “That little sucker, he fooled them agin,” P.L. said. “I don’t know what the town would do without him.”

  CHAPTER 82

  “INSTEAD OF HAVING HIM NEUTERED, WE SHOULD have had his barker taken out,” Karla said, referring to Shorty. “Maybe if he could fuck he wouldn’t bark so much.”

  Shorty stood thirty feet away, on the shore of the lake, barking at a turtle. He had been barking at it steadily for ten minutes, during which time the turtle had not moved an inch.

  “Back the car up,” Karla said. “Your dog’s making me deaf.”

  They were in Jacy’s Mercedes, waiting for her to finish her morning swim. The sun had been up only a few minutes. Jacy was so far out in the lake that they couldn’t see her.

  “At least he concentrates on one thing at a time,” Duane said, in Shorty’s defense. But he backed the Mercedes up about fifty yards.

  “He thinks he’s cornered that turtle,” Duane said. “He’s a funny dog.”

  “I don’t want to talk about your dog anymore, Duane,” Karla said. “Do you think Sonny will sue anybody, or what?”

  Duane had begun to hate the subject of Sonny almost as much as Jacy hated it. At four o’clock in the morning, when only Jacy and Dickie, Nellie and little Joe Coombs, and a few other diehard dancers were still boogieing, he and Karla had walked down to the Kwik-Sack to see how Sonny was feeling.

  “I think I may sue the town,” Sonny said, the minute they walked in. He had the belligerent air that he had had that morning at the Dairy Queen.

  “I think the town’s responsible for all my trouble,” Sonny said. “It’s driven me crazy and I think I should sue.”

  Neither Duane nor Karla could think of a word to say. They both smiled nervously, as if they thought he had made a joke. Karla bought some Fritos and jalapeño dip and began to eat the Fritos.

  “I’ve lived here all my life,” Sonny said. “If I’m crazy it must be because the town’s done it to me. I think it’s done it to you, too. I
think we’re all crazy now. There’s not a sane person left in town. We should get up a class-action suit and sue the town for a lot of money.”

  “I don’t think I’m crazy,” Karla said. “I’ll admit just about everybody else is.”

  “Sure you’re crazy,” Sonny said. “You go to Dallas and spend thousands on things you don’t need.”

  “That’s not crazy, that’s bored,” Karla said.

  “You have tacky boyfriends and Duane has tacky girlfriends,” Sonny said. “You’re both crazy.”

  “I should have brought the vodka,” Karla said, looking depressed.

  “It’s also crazy to drink vodka by the gallon just because I said your boyfriends were tacky,” Sonny said angrily.

  Duane felt like hitting him, but didn’t.

  “Boy, you’re in a bad mood,” Karla said. “I drink vodka because I like vodka, for your information. As for tacky boyfriends, sometimes it’s tacky or nothing. Your problem is you choose nothing instead of making do with a little bit of tacky, like the rest of us do.”

  “See, you think I’ve gone crazy because I don’t have a tacky girlfriend,” Sonny said. “Anyone who doesn’t make stupid compromises is crazy in your book.”

  Duane and Karla exchanged looks. Neither of them really knew what to say. They had never seen Sonny in such a mood. In the background Dr. Ruth was talking about premenstrual syndrome. Duane half wanted to listen so he could pass along any tips to Janine, who suffered from deep premenstrual despairs. But he couldn’t really listen, with Sonny so hostile and strange.

  “We’re all crazy and life in this town is what’s done it,” Sonny said. “It’s cost us our sanity. We should all sue together.”

  “But we are the town,” Duane said. “If we’re crazy, we made ourselves crazy. There’s no point in suing ourselves.”

  “It’s really just the centennial that did it,” Sonny said. “Maybe I should just sue the Centennial Committee.”

  The belligerence left his face and his voice. The old sad look came back, and the tone of polite defeat.