After assuring them that he wouldn’t reveal their whereabouts, he went back downstairs. His shaky mood had passed. On the sidewalk he noticed a number of people looking at Suzie’s blue ribbon portrait of Dickie.
There had not been a word of dissent when the picture was awarded first prize. Several of the artists who had painted their grandbabies stood looking at the portrait solemnly.
“She got the hands right,” one elderly woman said. “That ain’t easy. I can do the eyes, but I had a real hard time getting the hands right.”
Junior Nolan was squatting under an oak tree nearby, listening to people praise his wife’s portrait of Dickie Moore. The blue ribbon hung beside it. Junior no longer looked sad. He just looked proud.
CHAPTER 86
IN THE STREET, DUANE RAN INTO THE VERY PERSON he least wanted to see, namely Buster Lickle. Buster saw him before he could duck into his pickup. He dashed across the street and grabbed Duane’s arm.
“Duane, we’re in trouble,” Buster said, his face sweaty and despairing.
“Oh, you mean because the bank’s closed?” Duane asked.
“No, the souvenirs!” Buster said, almost shouting. “There’s no business. The goddamn past just ain’t selling. We’ve only sold forty ashtrays and the damn centennial’s just got one more day to run.”
“Forty out of how many?” Duane asked.
“Forty out of three thousand,” Buster said. “We just sold a hundred T-shirts, and all of them Smalls.”
“You act like you think I’m supposed to do something about it,” Duane said, disengaging his arm from Buster’s anguished grip.
“You gotta do something about it!” Buster said. “I’m losing my ass on this centennial. Nobody wants to buy ashtrays, and you can’t even give away buggy rides in this heat.”
“I don’t see what I’m supposed to do about it,” Duane said.
“Go on TV,” Buster pleaded. “Get one of the TV stations in Wichita to put you on.”
“Go on TV and do what?”
“Tell people they ought to love their glorious heritage more,” Buster said. “Tell them the past belongs to all of us and they better get over here and learn about it while there’s still time.”
“The past may belong to all of us, but the ashtrays and T-shirts belong to you,” Duane said. “The city offered to go fifty-fifty on the souvenirs but you wanted it all for yourself.”
“But what am I gonna do with three thousand ashtrays?” Buster said. “Five thousand T-shirts. We got salt and pepper shakers and centennial pillows and place mats with the courthouse on ’em. What am I gonna do with all that shit? I can’t return it.”
“If I were you I’d start discounting the past about ninety percent, real quick,” Duane said, getting in his pickup.
He started to back out of his parking place, but Buster grabbed the stanchions to the rearview mirror and hung on. He had a desperate look—a look that had become increasingly common in Thalia, Duane thought.
“Just do a TV show,” Buster said. “Just do one, Duane. People trust you. Talk about the Alamo and Sam Houston and longhorn cattle. And remind them that the souvenir shop’s open from seven A.M. till midnight on the last day of the centennial.”
“Buster, I’m an oilman,” Duane said. “I don’t know anything about longhorn cattle.”
“Just talk about this glorious heritage,” Buster said.
“Seems to me it’s so glorious it’s just about driven us all crazy,” Duane said. He wanted to go, but Buster still clung to his rearview mirror. When he finally let go he stood in the hot street looking so hopeless that Duane felt his headache starting again, just from having to look at Buster in his despair.
“I don’t know what to think of people anymore,” Buster said. “They ain’t even buying the centennial key rings. Now you know everybody needs a new key ring, once in a while.”
He turned in defeat and walked back across the street, wiping his dripping face on his shirtsleeve.
CHAPTER 87
DUANE HURRIED HOME, HOPING EVERYONE WOULD be absent as usual. If they were absent as usual he could shoot at the doghouse for a while, unobserved. The doghouse was so ugly that shooting at it had seemed natural the first few times he did it. There could not be much wrong with shooting at an ugly doghouse, particularly if there were no dogs in it.
Now that the thought that he might be capable of having a nervous breakdown had crossed his mind, it occurred to him that he probably ought to reassess the business of shooting at the doghouse. A casual bystander might think it a rather odd thing for a grown person to do. His own family had never questioned him about it, but it was possible that even they might regard it as odd.
Once or twice he had awakened Barbette by shooting at the doghouse. When he reflected on the matter, he realized that it might not be good for a baby girl to be awakened by the sound of a .44 Magnum. Duane didn’t want to be a bad grandparent, whatever else he might be, so the last few times he had gone out to the hot tub with his gun he had contented himself with merely putting on his earmuffs and staring at the doghouse. He left the gun unloaded. That way he avoided being a bad grandparent, but otherwise he didn’t feel very pleased.
He didn’t really care about the doghouse, ugly though it was. What he wanted was to hear the sound the gun made—though not all the sound. The earmuffs not only kept him from being deafened, they civilized the sound of the gun, rendering it almost musical. With the shooting muffs on, he could be on perfect terms with the sound. It retained its strength, but not its power to punish. It had a force like a powerful wave; with the muffs on he could move in it but not be drowned by it.
When he walked in, his whole family, Dickie excepted, was sitting around the kitchen table. They all had felt pens in their hands and blank pieces of paper in front of them. Little Mike sat in Karla’s lap, grasping a Crayola as if it were a hunting knife. Little Joe Coombs sat by Nellie. Everyone except Little Mike looked solemn. The twins had on their mirror sunglasses.
Duane went and got his earmuffs, which hung in a little gun closet. He put them around his neck and went back to the kitchen. If the earmuffs could civilize the sound of a .44 Magnum, it was possible they could also civilize the sound of his family. And if they couldn’t civilize it, perhaps they could obliterate it.
“If anybody says one mean thing to me I’m putting on my earmuffs,” he said, looking at Karla.
“Duane, we’re just gonna write out our prophecies and hopes for the next hundred years,” Karla said. “They’re gonna seal the time capsule tomorrow.”
“My hope is that nobody says anything mean to me for the next hundred years,” Duane said, getting himself a beer. “It’s not my prophecy, though.”
“He’s been snappish lately, ain’t he?” Minerva said.
Duane spread the earmuffs and held them a half inch from his ears.
“Go on,” he said. “Just say something mean.”
“Duane, if you want to participate and be part of the family, just sit down and behave,” Karla said.
Duane sat down and stared for a bit into the mirror sunglasses of the twins. He saw four images of himself, one in each lens, but could not gain a glimmering of what kind of mood the twins might be in.
“My other hope is that I’ll never have to judge another art show,” Duane said.
“Duane, just hush, you did real good,” Karla said. “You voted exactly the way Jacy and I told you to.”
“I was gonna do a portrait of Linda Lovelace, I think she’s a victim,” Minerva said.
“Why didn’t you?” Duane asked.
“They never run that Deep Throat show no more and I’ve forgotten what she looks like,” Minerva said.
“I’ve forgotten what all of you look like,” Duane said. “You don’t stay home long enough for me to remember.”
Just as he said it Jacy walked into the kitchen. She looked as if she’d been crying. Duane felt his remark might disturb her—she might think he was accusing her of depr
iving him of his family. But Jacy showed no sign that she’d heard him. She took a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator, a glass out of the cabinet, put a couple of ice cubes in the glass and left without a word.
“Her little boy was younger than me and he got killed,” Jack said, once Jacy was gone.
No one had anything to say to that.
“I’d never get killed,” Jack said, kicking the table leg nervously.
“Hush, it’s bad luck to talk about it,” Karla said.
“I seen a man get killed yesterday,” little Joe Coombs remarked. The sound of his voice, which only Nellie had really been privileged to hear—and she not often—startled everyone.
“Who? You never told me,” Nellie said reproachfully.
“A crop duster,” little Joe said, embarrassed now that all eyes were on him. “His plane went down instead of up. He was dead on impact.”
“You never told me,” Nellie repeated.
“Didn’t want to upset you,” little Joe murmured. “It was in the paper.
“Anybody can always get killed,” he added, becoming more and more nervous. Everyone was watching him.
“It’s just a matter of sheer luck,” he said. “It can happen any time of the day or night.”
“Shut up, Joe, you’re getting on my nerves,” Karla said. “Talk about something else. We’re all trying to think of cheerful hopes for the time capsule.”
“Don’t pick on him, Momma!” Nellie said. “You’re always wanting him to talk more when we’re on the phone and now he came all the way out here and he’s trying to take part in the conversation and you tell him to shut up.”
“I wasn’t picking on him,” Karla said loudly. “I just want him to shut up if all he can think of to talk about is how easy it is to get killed.”
“It was a cable on the movie set that killed her little boy,” Julie said. “It wasn’t covered up like it was supposed to be. He just brushed against it but it was so full of electricity he never had a chance.”
Duane noticed her lip quivering, beneath the mirror sunglasses. A moment later she threw herself in his arms, crying so loudly that Little Mike looked up, astonished. He had been stabbing the table with his Crayola.
“Now look what you’ve started, Joe!” Karla said. She too seemed on the verge of tears.
“Jack started it, actually,” Duane said, hugging Julie.
Even Jack looked morose. He took off his sunglasses and flung them on the table.
“I wouldn’t have brushed against the cable,” Jack said. “I watch for things like that.”
Julie stopped sobbing long enough to scream at him.
“You shut up!” she said. “You’ve never even been to a movie set. You don’t know what you’d do.”
Jack pretended his felt pen was a dart. He threw it at Little Mike. As usual, his aim was unerring. The felt pen hit Little Mike in the middle of his forehead, making a blue mark. Little Mike opened his mouth in surprise.
“You could have put that baby’s eye out!” Karla yelled, jumping out of her chair.
“It was just a felt pen,” Jack said.
Julie wiggled out of Duane’s arms, grabbed the sugar bowl and dumped all the sugar right on Jack’s head.
“You’ve never even been on a movie set!” she yelled. “You don’t know what you’d do. You might be killed in five seconds.”
“You fuckerface asshole!” Jack said, jumping up. He started to pummel his sister, a dust of sugar raining from his hair, but he saw his mother coming and turned and raced for the back door.
Julie slumped back in Duane’s arms, sobbing even more wildly.
“I’ll whip your little butt if I catch you!” Karla yelled at Jack, but instead of going after him she burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen in the opposite direction.
“You never take up for yourself!” Nellie yelled at Joe. “You just let Momma walk all over you! It’s making me crazy!”
Joe turned beet red and looked as if he too might cry.
“Goin’ home for a while,” he mumbled, hurrying for the back door.
“I’m going with you, I can’t live in this house, it’s making me crazy!” Nellie said. She followed Joe out the back door. Julie wiggled loose and ran after them.
“Where are you going?” Duane asked.
“To beat up Jack, he shouldn’t say he knows what to do on a movie set,” Julie said.
“Sweet family you got,” Minerva said, when the kitchen had emptied. Little Mike, left behind, was trying to stab the cat with his Crayola.
“Not too stable, though,” she added.
“Well, who is too stable?” Duane asked.
“Me,” Minerva said. “When you’ve beat the odds as many times as I have it stables you down.”
“I don’t think I’ve beaten the odds a single time this year,” Duane remarked.
Barbette was fretting, disturbed by all the tears and commotion. He picked up the felt pen Jack had thrown at Little Mike, put the top on it and handed it to Barbette to play with. She popped it into her mouth.
Duane walked out the back door, worried that Jack and Julie might be hitting one another with rocks. They were over by the pickups, arguing fiercely, but not endangering one another’s lives. Shorty came over and stuck his head between Duane’s legs. He liked to hide his eyes during periods of tension.
Duane went back in and wandered around his huge house, thinking about how much he hated it. He knew he should go try and comfort Karla, but he felt too nervous and kept putting it off. He wandered into the living room, which contained, among other things, two grand pianos and a stuffed Kodiak bear. The reason for the pianos was that Karla occasionally fantasized that the twins would become concert pianists.
The Kodiak bear loomed over one corner of the living room. He was mounted on his hind legs and stood over ten feet tall. He had been shot by a car dealer in Fort Worth. The dealer, who aspired to seduce Karla, threw in the Kodiak bear in a package deal one time near the height of the boom, when they had bought his-and-hers Cadillacs.
Everyone hated the Kodiak bear, even Karla, who confessed later that she had only taken it to punish Arthur, her architect, after he had proved so disappointing romantically.
“He’s probably still vomiting at the thought that there’s a Kodiak bear in the precious living room he designed,” she said.
“How’d he find out about it?” Duane asked.
“I told him. How would you think he’d find out, Duane?” Karla said. “Arthur hates me now.”
“Well, you hate him too,” Duane said. “You’re even.”
“He was sweet at the beginning, though,” Karla said. “You’d be surprised how many men are sweet at the beginning.”
“Was I sweet at the beginning?” he asked.
“No, you were pitiful, just like you are now,” Karla said.
Duane sat down at one of the huge pianos and played “Chopsticks” with one finger. He felt it would be nice to play the piano. Playing music might be better than shooting at the doghouse. His music could drown out the world, and he wouldn’t have to wear the earmuffs, which could become uncomfortably hot.
“Why the fuck are you playing ‘Chopsticks’?” Jacy asked. She was watching him from the doorway, a glass of wine in her hand.
“No reason,” Duane said, stopping at once.
Jacy walked over and stood looking at the Kodiak bear for a moment. She squatted down near it and looked more closely.
“Where’s its dick?” she asked.
Duane came over and looked too. He had never paid much attention to the Kodiak bear, or the living room, either, for that matter. The bear did seem to lack genitals.
“No dick and no balls,” Jacy said. “I guess your bear’s been censored.”
“It’s not my bear,” Duane said. “Some car dealer from Fort Worth fell in love with Karla and threw it in with a couple of Cadillacs.”
“I hope you beat him up,” Jacy said. “In the first place he shouldn’
t be shooting harmless bears and in the second place he shouldn’t be bothering your wife.”
“I don’t know that he bothered her,” Duane said. He had not beaten up the car dealer—in fact, had not even met him.
Jacy strolled out of the room and Duane followed. She went down the hall and into one of the numerous guest rooms. She seemed to be living in it. There was an overnight bag by the bed, a pile of compact disks on the floor, a Walkman, a scattering of magazines. On the TV a game show was in progress, but the sound was turned off.
Jacy sat down on the bed. She looked dejected. Duane stopped in the doorway, not sure that he was welcome even that close. But he remembered how her eyes had sought his in the rearview mirror. He remembered wanting to kiss her.
She looked up at him sourly.
“Forget it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said.
Duane didn’t say anything. He started to go away.
“Duane,” she said, after he had already turned.
He looked in again.
“Could you just bring me that bottle of white wine?” she asked.
He went to the kitchen and got it for her.
“I’m sorry I bit your head off,” she said when he returned and handed her the wine bottle.
“It wasn’t much of a bite, compared to some,” he said.
Jacy scooted over, indicating that he was to sit on the bed.
“I’m still sorry,” she said. “I doubt you were thinking anything. You look more miserable than I feel. But there’s no point in your coming around me wanting love. You’re not going to get any, and I don’t want you trying to give it, either. I haven’t got the energy to reject people graciously right now. I’ve got enough to feel bad about without having to engineer considerate rejections.”
Duane smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m used to the inconsiderate kind.”
Jacy smiled too, though a little wanly. She put a hand to her breast.
“There’s a cavity here,” she said. “You think of it as being filled with a normal woman’s heart, but that’s not how I think of it. I think of it as being more like a washing machine. Things swirl around. Sometimes I’m on a slow cold cycle, and other days I’m on a hot fast cycle. If I load the washer carefully and just clean one thing at a time I do fairly well. I’ll never get all the grief out but if I’m careful and don’t overload the washer it’ll be a stain I might live with, someday.”
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