Stars and Bars: A Novel

by William Boyd

  “The man who made this stuff in the old days was called Henry Stewart. A Scotchman. He had his own still in back of his house and he also had a prize billy goat. And the good ol’ boys, when they wanted a refill, would take their nanny goats along to be sired. If they were asked where they were going they would say they were going around for Henry’s goat. And the name stuck.”

  “Fascinating story.”

  Gage sat down on the arm of Henderson’s chair.

  “In fact that’s how I met Hem and Scott in Paris. In the twenties. I was in the American bar at the Ritz and these two guys came in. They’d already had one too many, I could see. Then this one guy—Hem—says, ‘You got any Henry’s Goat?’ I couldn’t believe it. I went right on over and introduced myself. Seems Hem got a taste for it when he was working on the Texas Star Bugle.”

  “You mean the Kansas City Star,” Henderson said politely.

  “No. no. It was the Texas Star Bugle.”

  “And you got to know them?”

  “Sure. I knew them all—Hem, Scott, Gertie, Alice, Pablo. Hell, I was rich in those days. I don’t pretend it wasn’t me picking up the tabs that they liked, but”—he paused—“it was good, as Hem used to say. And I wanted to buy some paintings and they told me what to buy. Good paintings.”

  “Ah, yes, the paintings.”

  “I’ll show you after dinner.” Gage squeezed his shoulder affectionately. Henderson felt a sensation of calm spread through his body for the first time since he had arrived in Luxora Beach. He felt suddenly fond of Loomis Gage and his patchwork memories. Or maybe it was simply the Goat going to work.

  “Let me freshen that for you.”

  Cora came around with a silver casket filled with cigarettes. Henderson noticed that Beckman and Bryant had arrived. Bryant and Shanda were engaged in a serious intimate conversation.

  “Cigarette, Mr. Dores?” Cora asked.

  “No, thanks.” He kept his eyes on her right shoulder.

  “Are you enjoying your visit to the South?”

  “Very much.”

  “You don’t mean that, do you? You can’t wait to leave.”

  “Hardly. Well—”

  “But you’ve got perfect manners.” He was beginning to find her constant irony intensely wearying.

  “It so happens that one of the things I happen to believe in very strongly,” he said, in a low voice, a little more forcefully then he had intended, “is that there are certain decencies, certain social routines that we should observe whatever the cost. Otherwise it …” He shrugged; he hadn’t really considered the consequences. “It all falls apart.”

  “And you wouldn’t see that as typical British hypocrisy? Say one thing when you mean the other?”

  “Not at all. We all have duties and obligations that bore us. Total honesty doesn’t work in society.” He was encouraged by his fluency. “The alternative to that is a sort of, a sort of ghastly Californian candor where everything in the garden is lovely no matter what the evidence to the contrary is. No, that is, disrespect intended,” he added, his confusion returning.

  “Mmm” was all the reply she made, as if she had just had some thesis confirmed. “Excuse me.”

  Henderson felt himself panting slightly as if he’d just run upstairs.

  “I find Cora a fascinating girl, Henderson, don’t you?” Cardew whispered into his ear. “Very intellectual. She was a very promising student in medical school. Dropped out, just like that. No reason. No one knew why. But that … impulsiveness adds to her attraction.” They both looked at her, then she turned around and looked at them. Cardew raised his glass.

  “Why does she wear those sunglasses all the time?”

  “I really don’t know, Henderson,” Cardew said. “As far as I’m aware there’s nothing wrong with her eyes. She rarely removes them. They give her a—heh!—mysterious allure, don’t you think?”

  Henderson sipped his Goat.

  “Will we be seeing you and your lovely daughter in our church this Sunday, Henderson?”

  “Well, Reverend—” He blinked fiercely. The Coat had brought on a sudden attack of double vision.

  “T. J., please.”

  “I’m afraid we will be gone by then.”

  “Oh.” He frowned. “Loomis told me you’d be here at least two weeks.”

  Henderson almost dropped his glass. “There must be some misunderstanding.”

  “No doubt, no doubt. We have a strong and loyal congregation here in Luxora Beach, Henderson. I think you would enjoy our service.”

  “Alas, Reverend.” Henderson spread his hands apologetically, observing a social routine.

  “T. J., please. All my flock know me as T. J. I don’t stand on ceremony. Would you pass me a cigarette, Henderson?”

  Alma-May came in. “It’s ready,” she said, and left.

  Henderson drained his glass with relief and stood up, only to find the room had acquired a gradient that he hadn’t noticed before. He adjusted his stance to compensate. Three glasses of Goat were clearly enough.

  The guests filed across the loud hall into the dining room. Henderson heard Beckman telling Monika about a fire fight in Duc Pho province. Shanda waded over toward Henderson.

  “Evening, Mr. Dores.”

  “Howdy,” Henderson said. “You-all doin’ fine?”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess.”

  Cora’s head snapped around at his words. Everyone had to raise his voice over the rumble of Duane’s music.

  “Can’t you hush that moron up for an hour or two?” Freeborn demanded angrily of his father.

  “It’s the boy’s only pleasure,” Gage called back amicably. “We won’t hear it in the dining room.”

  “I’ll get that baboon,” Freeborn muttered and set off up the stairs.

  “That’s why we moved into the trailer,” Shanda said. “Freeborn and Duane kept beatin’ up on each other. They just don’t get along.”

  They went into the dining room. Henderson had glanced into it briefly on his furtive patrol of the house the day before. A dull crystal chandelier hung above a long polished table. The room was paneled and the panels had been painted a creamy pale green. On the walls were family portraits, done by local artists, he assumed. He recognized the Gage children: slim beardless Freeborn, Beckman and Cora, as a young girl of about twelve, minus her sunglasses. On an end wall was an older Victorian oil of a plump bearded man in a navy-blue military uniform.

  “My father,” Gage said, noticing him looking at it. “It’s not for sale,” he added with a smile. “He died when I was two. In the Philippines. The gugus—”

  “Daddy,” Cora said, “I don’t think we want that story before dinner.”

  They all sat down under Gage’s direction. He placed himself at the head of the table, Henderson on his right, Monika Cardew on his left. Beside Henderson was Shanda and beyond, Cardew and Cora. Across the table were Beckman, Bryant and an empty seat for Freeborn, who, Henderson assumed, must still have been remonstrating with Duane.

  A confused shouting came from behind the door. Then Alma-May burst in with a tureen of soup in her hands, followed by an oddly cowed-looking Freeborn.

  “You tell him to leave Duane alone, Mr. Gage,” she said, crashing the tureen down on the table angrily.

  “I just ast him to turn the goddamn noise down, is all,” Freeborn grumbled petulantly, sitting down.

  “It’s all right, Alma-May,” Gage soothed. “We won’t bother him again.”

  Alma-May sullenly served up the soup, which was solid with vegetables. Then she effortfully dispensed wine from another five-gallon carafe. Henderson drank his wine, chewed the soup and listened to Shanda, who, he discerned after a minute or so, was telling him about her day with Bryant in Hamburg. Beyond her he could see Cardew leaning too far across the table, talking energetically, and with wide gummy smiles, to Bryant, who looked back at the reverend with overt suspicion.

  “How are you liking Luxora Beach?” Monika Cardew asked.


  “Um. Very … Yes, liking it a lot. Yes. What I’ve seen.”

  “There’s not much to see,” she said.

  “Why is it called Luxora Beach?” Henderson asked in mild desperation. “Is there a lake nearby, or a river?”

  “Good question,” Gage said. “We’ve got the Ockmulgokee River flows by the town, but there’s no beach that I know of. Ask T. J.” He distracted the reverend’s attention from Bryant’s breasts.

  “T. J., Henderson has a question for you.”

  “Yes, Henderson.”

  “I was wondering how you explain the ‘Beach’ in Luxora Beach?”

  “Well, goshdarn. Do you know, Henderson, I’ve never thought to ask.”

  “Just curious.”

  “Good golly, it only goes to show what a stranger’s eyes can illuminate for you.” For some reason he whipped out a little notebook from his breast pocket and wrote something down. “How long have we lived here, Monika dear?”

  “Eleven years,” Monika said with feeling.

  “And I never thought to ask. Thank you, Henderson, thank you sincerely. I shall endeavor to find out the answer.”

  “Just idle curiosity.” He emptied his glass. “Freeborn, will you offer our guests more wine?” Gage asked.

  Alma-May cleared the soup plates and returned with more dishes. She set down crammed bowls on the table: great mounds of various beans, corn on the cob, some sort of sopping green vegetable, curious knobbled dumplings.

  “Down-home cooking for our English guest.” Gage raised his glass.

  A heaped plate was set in front of Henderson.

  “What are these things?” he asked weakly, playing for time. He didn’t feel the least bit hungry. What was more, Henry’s Goat was having a curious effect on his body. Bits of him seemed to go numb while others prickled with an urgent rash.

  Beckman pointed to the green stuff. “That’s turnip greens,” he said. “And that—the rice and beans—is hoppin’ john. That’s black-eyed bean stew. And those are corn dogs.”

  “Hoppin’ john?” Henderson said. “Why that name?”

  “Because,” Freeborn said at his shoulder, sloshing wine into his glass, “once you’ve ate it, it sends you hoppin’ to the john.”

  Henderson laughed nervously; he thought it safer. Though no one else did.

  “And that bean stew?” Freeborn continued. “It’s been stew once but I don’t know what it is now. Hyar-har.”

  Henderson filled his mouth with hoppin’ john. Inoffensive stuff. He drank some more wine, then wondered if that was wise. Perhaps it was the mix of Californian plonk with Henry’s Goat that was making him feel so odd. Now, light-headedness was alternating with nausea. He looked down the table. Bryant’s eyes and expression seemed to be communicating a message of some sort but he couldn’t decipher it. Cora sat behind a plate that contained a solitary pile of beans. There was a babble of conversation as everyone tucked into the main course.

  “Why are you a vegetarian, Mr. Gage?” Henderson asked. “Religious reasons or just taste?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not a vegetarian.”

  “But why—?”

  “Not me personally. Alma-May is. She turned vegetarian two years ago. Won’t have meat or fish in the house. Point-blank refuses. What else could we do?”

  “Oh. I see.…”

  “Are you familiar, Henderson …? Henderson? I was saying, are you familiar with Upper Heyford, England?” It was Cardew, shouting across Shanda’s back.

  “It’s near Oxford, Reverend. An air base, I think. Yes, I know it vaguely.”

  “Henderson, please call me T. J.”

  “Right.”

  “You see, I was stationed there for a while. I don’t suppose you know a Mr. John Fairchild of Upper Heyford?”

  “No. I’m afraid—”

  Freeborn interrupted. “That’s where we got our bombs and missiles, ain’t it? And, yeah, can you tell me,” he went on, warming, “what you Britishers have got against our bombs and missiles?”

  Henderson chewed manfully on his beans, wondering how he could get off this topic.

  “I think, um, the main objection is that we, that is, Britain, don’t have any control over the—”

  “Of course not. They’re our bombs. We made ’em. You got your own, don’t you?” Freeborn’s expression seemed to say QED.

  “Tell me, Henderson, is there a reason for the name of every English village?” Gage asked, frowning thoughtfully.

  “Well, yes, often. ‘Chipping,’ as in Chipping Sodbury, means there was a quarry there. ‘Hurst,’ as in—”

  “Henderson?”

  “Yes, Shanda.”

  “My maiden name was McNab. That’s a Scotch name, right?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “I thought so.”

  “We are allies,” Cardew said, intensely. “What I personally can’t understand is this hostility between allies. I mean we are there—our weapons, our young men—to defend the West.”

  “Luxora Beach …” Gage said, obliviously. “You know, I think I like the fact, you know, that there isn’t a logical reason. There’s too much logic in the world. I like it sorta … arbitrary like that.”

  “There is a Luxor on the Nile,” Cora said. “Perhaps it was an Egyptian who settled here first.”

  “But that’s logic again, Cora. You’re looking for logic.”

  Freeborn leaned across the table and pointed his fork at Henderson. “I mean we had to win World War I and II for you guys, and we’ll probably have to do it for World War III and IV.’

  “I think the argument,” Henderson said, “is that you’re fighting your wars in Europe, as it were. That if Europe is the battleground, then it suits … I mean, not that I …” He felt his head spinning.

  “Actually I believe there were no Egyptian immigrants to this country in the eighteenth century,” Cora said with mock solemnity.

  “Come to think of it, when was the town founded?” Gage asked. “T. J.?”

  “Excuse me, Loomis, I have to deal here with something Henderson said. Now, Henderson—”

  “Could you pass me the turnip greens, Henderson?” It was Beckman. “Just sorta shove them down thisaway.”

  “That statement of yours, Henderson.”

  “What statement?”

  “It whitewashes the American blood spilled in Europe.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t quite saying that, um, J. P.” Henderson felt the controls slip from his hand.

  “Look, there’s an easy answer,” Gage said cheerfully. “If you don’t want us there, say the word and we’ll haul ass. Save us a slew of dollars, that’s for sure.”

  “I find your remarks, Henderson, deeply disquieting. Do our own allies in Europe really—”

  “With respect, T. V., that’s not the point at issue.”

  “Henderson, say, can you reach over that wine?”

  “OK, OK, so the Reds take over England,” Freeborn said. “So who gives a sick dog’s dump?”

  “Freeborn, please!”

  “Is England the same place as Scotland or what?” Shanda asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Why, Henderson, why does antinuclear always equal anti-Uncle Sam?”

  “To be honest, E. T., I think you’ve lost the gist—” He had to strain to hear now, above the crescendo of noise. Everybody was talking.

  “Hell, man, we’re all ant-eye war, aren’t we? I tell you, in Nam—”

  “Henderson, I would say this to you. To your people, Henderson. Tell them, Henderson, tell them we are your friends. Do not turn us away, for God’s sweet sake!”

  “Look, M. G., or whatever your blasted name is—”

  “Man, when you got incoming, hell, are you ant-eye war!”

  “Why, Henderson, why?”

  “Why what? You stupid bloody—”

  “—leave you alone, then see what happens—”

  “—you got Scotland, OK? You got England—”

  “—wasting slopes
in Dac Tro—”

  “—God’s abiding love—”

  “—someone who’d been to Egypt?—”

  “WAAAAARGH!!”

  Everyone stopped talking at once. The scream had issued from the lips of the Reverend T. J. Cardew. He had leaped wildly to his feet, knocking over his chair, and was now white with pain and clutching his right knee with both hands. In the subsequent alarm and fuss, amid the shouted questions and commiserations, Henderson saw Bryant surreptitiously bring her hand up from beneath the table and replace a fork.

  Henderson stood up and felt the room wheel and bank. He heard the black-eyed beans, hoppin’ john, corn dogs and turnip greens in his stomach clamoring for the open air. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, and left the room. He ran to the front door, sprang down the front steps and vomited into an azalea bush.

  He leaned weakly against the wall, the world still tilting and reeling. He hawked and spat and kicked loose earth over such bits of his regurgitated meal as he could see. He moaned quietly to himself. He felt terrible. Rough careless hands were clenching his intestines, tugging and squeezing. He breathed deeply, recalling a Teagarden drill. Controlled relaxation. Inhale, exhale. Controlled relaxation.

  There was a breeze outside. It blew across the moonlit grass, bringing with it a scent of pines. He looked up at the constant, uncomplaining stars. He heard the distant rush of a freight train on the Luxora Beach line, and the human cry of its call. If he hadn’t felt so ill and drunk he might have been overcome with melancholia.

  He wandered about in a rough figure-of-eight pattern, had a final spit and was about to go back inside when he heard the sound of a telephone from Freeborn’s mobile home. He stumbled across. Yes, definitely ringing. He swithered for a moment. Should he go and get Freeborn? Something about the tone of the ring, he thought wildly and fancifully, made him convinced it was a call from New York. He tried the door. Locked. The phone continued ringing. He ran to the front steps, ran back to the door and tugged vainly at it. The ringing stopped. In his anger and frustration he punched the door and bruised his knuckles.

  “Ouch! Bastard!” he swore.

  He turned around and saw the orange glow of a cigarette on the porch.

  “Having fun?” Cora said.