The Perk

by Mark Gimenez

  "He's going to be the next judge," Jodie said.

  The girl looked at Jodie then at Beck; she held up the magazine.

  "I meant Teddy Bodeman. He's the sexiest man alive."

  "Well," Jodie said with a slight smile, "Judge Hardin's kind of sexy, too, don't you think?"

  Beck wasn't sure if Jodie was flirting with him or being funny. The girl turned to Beck and looked him up and down. She shrugged. "For an old guy." Then to Beck: "I didn't do it."

  "You didn't do what?"

  "Whatever you're talking to my mom about."

  "Bed-wetting."

  The girl blinked hard. "Oh. Then I really didn't do it."

  Jodie said, "This is Libby, my daughter." To Libby: "Did you shelve all the books, honey?"

  "Yes, Mother."

  Libby walked away, and Jodie said, "She's thirteen."

  "I've got a daughter, too. And Luke over there." He nodded at the magazine rack. "So, are y'all from here?"

  Jodie shook her head. "Austin. Janelle and I, we were both married to lawyers in the same firm. They spent their billable hours together, we spent our days together. Turns out they were both screwing the same secretary." She shrugged. "But we liked being with each other more than with our husbands anyway. So we divorced them, took our community property and moved out here, opened this place. Books, art, and coffee. We make money on the coffee."

  Beck held up the latte. "I cut into your profits. Why'd you pick Fredericksburg?"

  "We decided it was time to leave Austin when the middle school girls formed a Rainbow Club. Figured a small town might be a better place to raise our kids."

  "What's a Rainbow Club?"

  "How old is your girl?"

  "Five."

  "You don't want to know." She stuck her hands in her jean pockets. "So, Judge Hardin, how long have you been wetting the bed?"

  "My daughter, Meggie. Since my wife died."

  "Sorry. J.B. mentioned about your wife, how she emailed him, to get him ready for you and the kids. That's amazing."

  "He told you?"

  "Was it a secret?"

  "Apparently only to me."

  "Oops."

  "Meggie's wetting the bed, and Luke won't talk. You got a book that'll tell me how to raise two kids alone?"

  "Maybe."

  Jodie tapped on her computer, then led Beck to the other side of the store. Fifteen minutes later, he left with a bag of books with more on order.

  "I'll see you at last harvest," Beck said.

  She waved and said, "Oh, you'll see me before then."

  "Little gal," J.B. said, "she needs a pet."

  Meggie and Luke were in bed; Beck and J.B. were sitting on the back porch. J.B. was reading the same newspaper as the night before; Beck was reading a book about parenting.

  "A pet?"

  "You know, a little animal to care for."

  "I know what a pet is, J.B. What are you thinking, a cat?"

  "A goat."

  "A goat?"

  "Thought maybe I'd take the little gal over to the auction house, let her pick one out."

  "You thinking if she had a pet to care for she might let go of the doll?"

  "I'm thinking. How'd it go with Luke?"

  "Says he hates God."

  "Been there."

  "I bought some books down at the bookstore, about raising kids."

  "You meet Jodie?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good-looking gal, ain't she?"

  "Yeah."

  "She's a lesbian."

  "You're kidding?"

  "Nope. Her and the artist upstairs, they're the town lesbians."

  "Jodie said they were partners. I thought she meant business partners. She doesn't look like a lesbian."

  "What do they look like?"

  "Not like her."

  "She's got a mane of red hair, don't she? And believe me, she don't have it for nothing—she's a pistol, always down at city hall raising hell with the Germans about something."

  "A lesbian … J.B., you sure about that?"

  "Well, I never asked her straight out, but that's what everyone says. They live in the house back of their store."

  "I thought she was flirting with me."

  J.B. chuckled. "You ain't her type."

  "They must've created quite a stir when they showed up."

  "That's a fact. Every goat rancher in the county without a wife all of a sudden got real interested in reading. Jodie had to beat 'em off with a stick, even Janelle got suitors. Course, goat ranchers mostly want a cook, so Jodie being good-looking was considered a bonus, like a two-fer sale. Once word got around they were lesbians, goat ranchers gave up reading just as fast."

  "Why'd you tell her about Annie?"

  " 'Cause Jodie's the only person I had to talk to about anything."

  "The prodigal son?"

  J.B. looked up from the newspaper. "She said that?"

  "Yeah, she did."

  J.B. shook his head. "You'd think a lesbian could keep a secret better than that."

  "J.B., why would a lesbian be better at keeping … never mind. Was there really an African art gallery here?"

  "Yep. When I heard about it, I drove downtown just to shake the man's hand. Figured anyone with a good enough sense of humor to open an African art gallery in the middle of Texas had to be a man worth knowing. He was."

  J.B.'s eyes dropped to the paper, but he said, "Course, he didn't have a lick of business sense—who the hell was gonna buy that stuff here?" He was shaking his head until he whistled. "For sale: John Deere bulldozer, six-way hydraulic blade, rear ripper, limb risers, side brush guards …"

  "All he needed to do was put an ad in the paper and you would've bought his stuff."

  "Whose stuff?"

  "The African art."

  "What would I do with African art?"

  "What are you gonna do with a bulldozer?"

  "That's the thing, Beck, you don't know until you got one."

  "J.B., why does it take you a whole week to read one newspaper?"

  " 'Cause it only comes out once a week. That's why they call it a 'weekly,' Beck. If it was a daily, I'd read it in one day."

  "J.B., that doesn't make a damn bit of sense."

  But his father had already moved on to the next ad.

  "The hell's a 'personal climber'? Someone climbs up and gets stuff down for you?"

  "Exercise equipment. Like a StairMaster."

  "The hell's a StairMaster?"

  "It's a stair-climbing machine. Like I used to run the stands at the stadium."

  "You climb stairs but don't go anywhere?"

  "Like a stationary bike."

  "You ride a bike and don't go anywhere?"

  "You get in shape."

  "In case you need to climb real stairs or ride a real bike?"

  Beck knew this conversation was going the same place someone went on a StairMaster or stationary bike: absolutely nowhere. So he changed the subject.

  "Ran into Aubrey today, over at the stadium. Said his daughter was murdered."

  "Aw, hell." J.B. sighed. "Didn't want to hit you with that your first day back. Figured on telling you before you saw him. Didn't figure on you seeing him today."

  "To lose your daughter like that … might drive a man to drinking. He was hitting it pretty hard at the stadium."

  "That's the word."

  "What do you know about her?"

  "His daughter? Just what I read in the paper. Pretty girl, got in trouble with drugs, ended up in that ditch. Then that no-count wife of his divorced him."

  "He said she lives in Austin."

  "Figures."

  "Why?"

  "There's money in Austin."

  "And?"

  "I always figured her for money. That she'd find some one day."

  "He hired me as his lawyer, to look into her case."

  "That a paying job?"

  "He offered. I refused."

  "You do a lot of free work in Chicago?"

&nb
sp; Beck chuckled. "Free isn't part of the rate structure at a corporate law firm."

  "Figure you owe him?"

  "Maybe."

  J.B. grunted.

  Beck said, "And he said something that made me think."

  "What's that?"

  "Said he didn't know why his daughter ended up in a ditch. Said to find out what happened to his girl so mine wouldn't. Made me think maybe the answers I'm looking for aren't in these parenting books. Maybe they're in that ditch."

  "May be. So what are you gonna do?"

  Beck shrugged. "All I can do is ask around."

  "When you're the judge, you can do more than ask."

  "Which reminds me, J.B., Aubrey said word's all over town that I'm running. So exactly how many people did you tell?"

  J.B. scratched his chin. "Well, I might've mentioned something about that over at the post office."

  "That the only place?"

  "Might've said something at the barber shop."

  "Unh-huh. And you didn't stop over at the hardware store and mention it to all the regulars there, did you?"

  Old-timers gathered each morning at the hardware store to drink coffee and gossip in German. With only a weekly newspaper in town, you got the daily news at the hardware store along with hammers and nails.

  "Well, now that you mention it …"

  "J.B., now everyone in town is talking about me running."

  J.B. furrowed his brow and turned to his son.

  "And that's a problem because … ?"

  Beck didn't answer, so J.B. went back to the classifieds. Beck was trying to think why that was a problem, when J.B. said, "The hell's a 'futon'?"

  Beck turned off the late news. He walked to the kids' bedrooms and checked on them; both were sound asleep. He knew J.B. would be asleep; he had always hit the sack at ten sharp. Beck went outside and walked down the caliche road; the light from the full moon reflecting off the crushed white rock provided ample light. He felt like he had all those times when he had snuck out to meet Mary Jo, except hormones weren't driving him out tonight.

  He had to know what Annie had told his father.

  He entered the back door of the winery—there was no need to lock doors in the country—and found the light switch. He climbed the stairs and entered J.B.'s office. He turned the light on and sat in J.B.'s chair.

  He stared at the computer.

  After a long moment, he reached over and turned it on. When it had loaded and the homepage had come up, he clicked on the email icon. No need for door locks or passwords in the country.

  He clicked on Inbox. A string of emails filled the screen. Annie had died on January 17th. Beck scrolled down the list until he came to emails dated back in January. He slowly clicked down until he saw it: Annie Hardin. He slid the cursor over that entry. He clicked. An email came up on the screen.

  My dearest J.B.,

  It's late and I'm lying in bed. Beck's asleep in the chair next to me, holding my hand, his head on the bed. I always told him I would love him until the day I died. I did.

  Julie is typing this for me on the laptop. J.B., this will be my last email. When I close my eyes, I won't open them again. I'm trying not to close them, but I'm so tired. I feel life leaving me. It's my birthday. I'm 37.

  When I practiced law, I wrote wills. My clients worried so much about giving away their possessions. Meggie and Luke, they were my only possessions in life. They prove I was here. Tell them I love them.

  They will come to you this summer. Beck will try to do everything himself that long, then he'll accept the fact that he needs help. He'll take the children and go home to Texas. That's where he belongs.

  When the time is right, tell Beck I want to be there with them. I want to be buried on the land he loves. I want those bluebonnets on my grave.

  Closing my eyes now. I always wondered if there really is a God. Now I'm going to find out. I'll let you know. I love you, J.B. Hardin.

  (Mr. Hardin: I'm Julie, the hospice nurse. Annie passed at 3:12 A.M. She was a very brave woman. She was also right about Beck. He will need help. He's never accepted that she would actually die. Now I've got to wake him and tell him.)

  When the nurse had woken Beck that day, he was still holding Annie's hand or she was still holding his; but she was gone.

  Beck now exited the email program, turned off the computer and the lights, and walked outside and down to the river. He sat on the same flat rock he had sat on so many nights after his mother had died and just as he had cried then he cried now—for his dead wife, for his children, and for himself.

  SIX

  Beck Hardin was on his knees in the girls' department at the Wal-Mart. It was three weeks later, and he was shopping for school clothes for Luke and Meggie. It was also his first time inside a Wal-Mart. There hadn't been one in Fredericksburg when he had lived here, and Annie had always done all the shopping for the kids. But since his only client was a nonpaying one, he had decided against paying tourist prices on Main Street; instead, he had brought the kids to the Wal-Mart, where the locals shopped.

  "We like this," Meggie said.

  She was holding the doll in one hand and a pair of overall shorts in the other. First day of school was only a few weeks off, and Beck didn't have a clue how to buy clothes for kids.

  "That looks too big."

  "What size do we wear?"

  "I don't know. Just try some stuff on and we'll find out."

  "Call J.B. He'll know."

  Even the kids had taken to calling their grandfather J.B.

  To his daughter, he said, "We don't need to call J.B. We can figure this out on our own." To himself, he said, "I hope."

  Meggie said again, "Better call J.B."

  "Need some help, Beck?"

  Beck looked up to a middle-aged woman standing over him; she seemed vaguely familiar. She had blonde hair and blue eyes, a stocky build, and a full round face; she was wearing a summer dress and sandals. Four young blonde children surrounded her like kids around their nanny goat. Beck stood.

  "I recognize those boots," the woman said.

  Beck had worn jeans and his old cowboy boots. They were going to meet J.B. at the goat auction after shopping, and you don't wear Nike sneakers to the goat auction. It was easier to scrape goat shit off leather boot soles than rubber sneaker soles.

  "But you don't recognize me," she said. "I know, I'm fat now. Four kids'll do that."

  A little girl about Meggie's age licking on a sucker said, "You're not fat, Mommy."

  "Yes, I am, honey." She then leaned close to Beck and whispered, "All those nights in the river?"

  "Mary Jo?" Mary Jo Meier. "Wow. And these are your kids?"

  "Yep." She pointed them out: "Bobby, Sally, Arlene, and Stanley Junior. Ten, eight, six, and four. Stanley wanted them exactly two years apart. I told him it's not like buying goats at the auction, but Stanley, he's kind of anal. You remember Stanley Jobst, he was a year older than us?"

  "His folks owned the spread next to your place?"

  "We own both places now."

  "Stanley Jobst. Wasn't he your …?"

  She nodded. "Cousin. Second cousin." She shrugged. "We kept the land in the family. So I hear you're running for judge."

  "I've heard that, too."

  "Saw the article in the paper."

  "What article?"

  "About you. Big deal in today's paper, how you're back and want to be judge. You haven't seen it?"

  "No. I guess J.B.'s been out campaigning again." Beck stared at his old girlfriend. "So how are you, Mary Jo?"

  "I'm good." The kids had engaged each other, so Mary Jo stepped closer and spoke softly. "I waited for you, Beck. When I read you stayed on at Notre Dame for law school, I stopped waiting. That's when I knew you weren't coming back."

  "I'm sorry, Mary Jo."

  She shook her head. "You didn't lie to me. You told me you weren't coming back. I just didn't believe you. Beck, I'm real sorry about your wife. Did you hear about Aubrey's daughter?
"

  Beck nodded. "Saw him at practice."

  "She was a beautiful girl … drugs."

  "What do you know about her?"

  "Heidi?" She shrugged. "She was special … like you." Mary Jo hesitated, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. She backed up a step and her face brightened. "So, first time buying school clothes?"

  "Does it show?"

  "Like a tourist on Main Street. All right, let's figure this deal out." She turned to Luke. "You must be Luke. You need jeans. Wranglers or Levis?"

  Luke shrugged.

  "Wranglers," Mary Jo said. Then to the older boy: "Bobby, you take Luke over to the boys' department, show him the Wranglers. He looks about your size. Slim cut."

  Luke followed Bobby down the aisle. Mary Jo now faced Meggie and leaned over and put her hands on her knees.

  "And this is Meggie."

  Meggie nodded and held up the doll. "And this is Mommy."

  Mary Jo's head swiveled, and her eyes turned up to Beck.

  "She, uh …"

  Mary Jo waved him off. Back to Meggie: "Okay, Meggie, let's find you some pretty things to wear to school. Come on, kids."

  She took Meggie's hand and led her to a rack of girls' clothes. Beck and her children followed.

  "We'll start with the sale rack first. Your daddy, he's not a rich Chicago lawyer anymore. He's gonna be a poor small-town judge, so we gotta save him some money."

  Meggie smiled. "Mommy likes sales, too."

  An hour later, Mary Jo had outfitted the children with clothes, backpacks, lunchboxes, and supplies. Before they parted, she said, "I'm happy, Beck. I'm happy how my life turned out, and I'm happy you're back. This is where you belong."

  Mary Jo checked out first. Just as Beck and the kids walked out of the Wal-Mart and into the blazing sunlight of a hot July day, Mary Jo drove by in a red Suburban. She waved and her kids waved, and Beck and his kids waved back. On the back bumper were JESUS LOVES YOU and BECK HARDIN FOR JUDGE stickers.

  They met J.B. out front of the auction house a few blocks south of Main Street. It was an old metal building with a split-rail fence out front, livestock pens out back, and a satellite dish on the roof. The place looked like a pickup convention; trucks and goat trailers packed the dirt parking lot and surrounded the building.

  Goats were auctioned off every Tuesday in Gillespie County.