by Tim Sandlin
The truth is I made a stupid deal and I knew it was stupid at the time, but the Chevy (a ’61 Impala painted bright red) wasn’t the only reason I gave up sex—not that it was a bad reason. Somehow, though, from a distance of a few months, I suffered an antifling backlash. What I’d done with Mickey and the boys came to seem tacky and dumb. I mean, if Mickey loved me he should have done something to keep me around. Not that he ever said he loved me.
My mistake was I started comparing. I lined up Choosie and the black-toothed bartenders and all the truck-stop waitresses against Mom and Dad and their friends in their Grand Prix and Mercedes. I forgot how real and sincere I thought the waitresses were and only remembered that none of the women in Mom’s golf foursome had to work. If one of the neighbors got sick they could go to the doctor and be taken care of. If a car broke, it could be fixed. That didn’t seem to be giving up the sincere life for money.
So my values pendulum swung too far back the other way. I decided being rich was better than being poor and the symptoms I connected with poverty were whiskey, country music, and sex. For a few months anyway, I became a snotty teenager again. I reverted to typical.
However, once found, country music and regular sex aren’t something that can be walked away from. By fall, I was listening to Loretta Lynn again, and this new guy named Merle Haggard. I was following the steel breaks in Buck Owens and Ernest Tubb.
Late at night I slid into my white nightgown and turned off all the lights in my room, then, using the glow from the dial, I tuned WBAP Country on my portable Westinghouse radio. I waited for Kitty Wells or Sammi Smith to come on crooning a heartbreak song, then I ran my fingers across my stomach into the gap between my legs. I pretended my fingers were Mickey’s on his steel. I tried to remember what it was like to stand onstage next to him, closing my eyes and singing about sadness and pain, giving the customers part of myself. Then I pretended Mickey was in me.
The sound was so low I could hardly hear Sammi’s depression. I was afraid Daddy would wake up and bust through the door. I don’t know which would have upset him the most, me listening to country music or playing with myself.
• • •
Every Friday night through October and November, usually after a football game, Ron and I cruised his Oldsmobile out to a fresh housing development and parked along the newly laid-out streets. Houston neighborhoods sprung up so fast in those days we had to change tracts every few weeks to stay ahead of the houses.
Some Fridays after we parked, we argued so long over leaving the radio on Top 40 or country that nothing happened. Usually, though, one of us would give in and Ron would take his watch off and set it on the dash, then he’d slide his long arms over my shoulders and we’d put in an hour or so of adolescent window steaming. After maybe a month and a half of this, Ron realized—or became conditioned to the fact—that I went further and sweated steamier to country than I did to the Singing Nun. That put an end to the radio arguments.
Our frustration came about because Ron wanted to go “all the way”—he was desperate to go “all the way”—but he didn’t know squat about technique. I had sworn not to cross the forbidden line, but I knew how much fun even coming close could be with proper finger and tongue work.
I tried being patient with Ron and his social background. He really didn’t know much past basketball, Southern Baptist summer camps, and Pat Boone’s Twixt Twelve and Twenty. He kissed with too much pressure, groped like a blind baby, whined if things didn’t go his way; whenever he blundered into an erogenous zone, he poked at it with one fingernail.
One correct touch and I would have been so wet and frothy all the promises in Texas couldn’t hold me back, but my Daddy-induced code kept me from showing Ron how it was done. Sometimes I prayed his fingers would accidentally brush the right spots and I could lose control without guilt.
• • •
Thanksgiving night we parked out past Deer Park in a new luxury development along Galveston Bay. A norther had blown in and Ron wanted to run the engine and the heater, but I was afraid we’d asphyxiate from carbon monoxide like the kids in Beaumont did while they were screwing in her parents’ garage. Ron said we weren’t in a garage and we wouldn’t die if we got warm. I sat with my arms crossed and the window down all the way until he relented and turned off the engine. Then Ron sulked awhile. He was a big kid, not as tall as Mickey, but at least forty pounds heavier. Ron was an only child—his father worked sixteen hours a day so he would never have to hear his wife’s constant grating babble. As Ron’s mom talked, she scampered around like a squirrel, doing every conceivable suck-up task in the house. Ron had never washed dishes or made a bed or mowed a lawn. He never did anything he didn’t want to do, which is a great situation for an adult, but leads to sulkiness in children, especially sports heroes.
However, that night I felt friendly toward Ron. He’d given up watching the Texas-Texas A&M game on my parents’ TV to take me out for a Coke. That’s what kids all told their moms and dads back then when they wanted to go park for hours and whip themselves into a sexual frenzy.
“We’re going out for a Coke,” I told Mom.
“Don’t be late,” she trilled from her usual post in the bathroom. Daddy was studying a saffron catalog and didn’t look up.
I didn’t want Ron to sulk, I wanted him to be happy, I just didn’t care to die from necking in an Oldsmobile. Since Ron wouldn’t come to me, I slid across the plastic seat covers, reached across and pulled his watch off for him. Then I leaned up and swabbed his ear with my tongue. Ron played tough for about twenty seconds before he fell sideways on top of me. In the confusion of teeth, elbows, and my left foot in the ashtray, Ron slid his big hand down the front of my panties.
Of course, no one in church camp had told him it works better with the girl’s jeans unbuttoned, so Ron’s hand cramped up against my bladder and stuck. I waited awhile, kissed awhile, smelled the after-shave he’d sprinkled behind his ears, but Ron seemed satisfied with an abdomen grip.
What was I supposed to do, work on wrestling holds with the dunce? His hand pressed so hard it nearly made me pee. Leaning back against the door handle, I went into one of my internal conversations that always get me in trouble.
“God,” I said to myself, “I can’t expect him to know everything.”
“What about the Chevy?” I answered.
“Remember what Roxanne said, ‘You can’t fuck a car, Lana Sue.’”
So I reached down and unbuttoned my jeans—even slid the zipper down a ways.
Ron stopped in midkiss. His whole body went rigid. I think the sudden freedom shocked his hand into paralysis. Then his fingers plunged into what back then was called a “finger fuck.” Who knows what it’s called now, but in 1963 a high-school boy’s wildest ambition was a finger fuck.
I tingled some and was all set to tingle more, only Ron was way too low; and his fingers didn’t move, they froze as far in me as he could reach. I looked at his face up next to mine. The eyes were wide open and unsure of what was real—like a little kid seeing the ocean for the first time. His breath came in gasps. A picture flashed of Ron hyperventilating and passing out with his hand up my crotch. It wouldn’t have felt much different if he had fainted.
If I didn’t make a move, I knew Ron would lie there and not flex a muscle all night long. Placing my hand on his, I pulled it up to the fingertips on clitoris level and murmured something like, “There, now rub softly around and around.”
Ron rubbed a few seconds and I started feeling warm. I sighed once, then he stopped.
“Don’t quit now,” I mumbled.
Ron pulled his hand away. “Who taught you that?”
“What?”
Ron sniffed his fingers, then reached over to the dash and put on his watch. “How do you know where I’m supposed to touch?”
“I know where it feels best.”
“Did that steelworke
r touch you there?”
I pushed Ron and sat up straight, as close to my door as possible. “Of course he touched me there. I lived with him for three months.”
Ron held the foam-wrapped steering wheel with both hands. His whole face drooped like a little boy’s. “I never thought about you screwing him.”
“What did you think I did with him? Besides, Mickey is a steel player, not a steelworker, there’s a difference.”
Ron’s tongue pushed against his lower lip. “Not to me, there’s not.” His face turned from sulk to concern. “Was he a pervert, Lannie?”
I stared out the window at the bay. A silver moon was rising from Louisiana. I thought about Mickey’s sly little smile whenever he wanted to try something new. “Yes, I guess most people would call him a pervert.”
Teenage boys were a lot more naive before the common use of the pill and abortions and British rock and roll. I guess even “good” girls get laid in junior high now days. I’m sure little Marcie down the road saw pictures from Joy of Sex before she could even read—if she can read.
I go into that rap because of what Ron said next. He turned and picked up my hand and said, without irony or sarcasm, “You didn’t like it, did you?”
Didn’t like it? Didn’t like making love under the steel, in truckstop men’s rooms, in the van, tied down on a snooker table—I liked it so much I even amazed Mickey.
I looked into Ron’s concerned blue eyes. “Sometimes he hurt me, but mostly, I’d say I loved it and couldn’t get enough. Why do you ask?”
Ron’s big jaw sunk in his chest. He stared down at the plastic footprint he used as an accelerator pedal and mumbled, “I can’t stand the thought of some pervert doing nasty things to you, Lannie. You’re a princess to me. Why didn’t you leave?”
“I didn’t want to.”
Ron turned his head to look away out the driver’s side window. Blond curls on the back of his head fell over the edge of the collar on his Ban-Lon shirt. I touched the longest curl and said, “You need a haircut.”
Ron didn’t answer. I felt a swelling of sympathy for him. Poor kid, all the boys at school must know about my fling. I imagined the embarrassment of being a virgin with a girlfriend who was a known sleaze.
“If you let me,” I said, “I could show you some things that might make you feel real good.”
Ron turned, his face alight with hope.
• • •
It took work—Ron came if I so much as looked at the right spot—but by Christmas, he’d lost his virginity and I was pregnant with Cassie and Connie.
• • •
When Daddy found out in March, he sold my Chevy.
On Sunday afternoon, a grand council met in our den to decide Ron and Lana Sue’s future. The Pottses arrived dressed for church. Mom, in her yellow slacks suit and matching fluffy slippers, pushed refreshments. Dad wore his golf outfit, Haggar slacks, Arrow shirt, cleats. He twirled a putter throughout the meeting, using it sometimes as a gavel, sometimes as a pointer. I took it as a possible weapon.
They made me put on a dress, an innocent, teenybopper thing with the waist down around hip level and pleats in the skirt—the uptown cheerleader look.
Daddy sat, scowling from his recliner. First the putter turned horizontally clockwise, then vertically like a Ferris wheel. By watching his eyebrows, I could always gauge his irritation level. Right then, they were flat and spread past the sides of his eyes. Darkness showed over his glasses. This should have been Daddy’s take-charge hour, his finest patriarchal moment, but no one seemed to care whether Daddy took charge or not.
Neela Potts fluttered across the room, touching paintings and raving on about Mom’s suburban granola. Mom blew ten minutes explaining the recipe, which was nothing but Wheat Chex, Corn Chex, and salty peanuts. Mr. Potts and Ron discussed Houston’s chances against UCLA in some upcoming tournament. Mr. Potts’s fingers pulled at the cuffs of his brown suit. He looked uncomfortable. I think he resented being away from his print shop more than he resented my seduction of Ron.
The grown-ups had maneuvered seating arrangements so Ron was perched on a low stool as far from me as two people could possibly sit in our den—as if his closeness might make me even more pregnant. Or as if we’d each been sent to the corner. When I looked over at Ron, he smiled and nodded. The smile was cute and open. Marrying him might not be such a bad deal, I thought, even if it did mean giving up the country-western fantasy. Ron was such a kid, he was bound to make a good father.
When Daddy’s eyebrows showed completely above his horn-rims, his mouth twitched a couple times and I thought he might swat Neela Potts if she didn’t shut up about the snack stuff. Finally, he cleared his throat with a faraway thunder sound and bounced the putter head off the foot cushion. Everyone turned to hear what he’d decided we were going to do.
Daddy started the meeting by making a big deal out of accepting the blame. “I guess I wasn’t always the father I should have been,” he said, knowing we were all disagreeing in our minds, “but I got so caught up in providing a good home for my wife and children that sometimes I forgot to provide that which is just as important, my time.”
Neela said, “See there,” to Mr. Potts, who probably hadn’t eaten a meal with Ron in six years.
Daddy twirled the putter and frowned at Neela, then he launched into a long, boring explanation about why he failed and how “Grandma’s blood” would always be the family burden, how he hoped the next generation could avoid the taint. The whole spiel ended with “We cannot change the past, we can only learn from it.”
In the silence after Daddy’s speech, Mr. Potts looked at his watch. Mom asked if anyone wanted more Coca-Cola, and Ron held out his glass without a word. I think he was afraid of Daddy’s putter. Personally, I wanted to throw up—and not just because I always wanted to throw up that month. Daddy didn’t blame himself for my condition. He blamed me. And Mickey. In Daddy’s mind, nothing had been wrong before I ran away with Mickey and nothing had been right since. My morals were shot forever.
• • •
It was decided by Daddy, and everyone else agreed, that the day after our graduation, Ron and I would announce we’d been secretly married since a basketball trip to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, back in December. In the meantime, we’d keep our mouths shut. Which was silly because Roxanne knew I was pregnant and if Roxanne knew it might as well be published in the Bellaire High Three Penny Press.
After graduation, the women would throw me a bridal shower so no one would be suspicious, then Ron and I would pack a few bags and shuttle off to Europe for a summer-long honeymoon.
“People won’t gossip if they don’t see you carrying,” Mom said.
Neela patted my knee and murmured, “Maybe you’ll miscarry, dear.” No wonder Mr. Potts couldn’t be around her.
Right before the baby was due, Ron and I were to return to Houston, where we’d be set up in a nice, frugal apartment and Ron would start pre-med at Rice. I was to be allowed one night course a semester. Other than that, I would stay home and do whatever Mom and Neela Potts had been doing since they were my age. Dad offered to support us through the collegiate years, but Mr. Potts looked up from his watch long enough to insist he’d pay half. By constant labor, he’d turned the print shop into a money-maker. You wouldn’t think it by comparing family lifestyles, but the Pottses probably had more cash on hand than the Goodwins.
Neither Ron nor I spoke during the negotiations. Ron sat on the stool, his knees at elbow level, watching with interest. Whenever anyone looked his way, Ron smiled and nodded. I guess he wanted to be agreeable. I went into my nauseous resignation attitude, sighing quietly every time I heard “make the best of a bad situation.”
After our futures were decided, Mom offered cherry-chocolate cake, but Mr. Potts said they had to run, he was needed down at the plant. Mr. Potts called his print shop a plant.
Ron pecked me on the cheek and said he’d pick me up the next day at eight. We were skipping school to drive over to Baton Rouge for the real marriage. Mom would come with us.
After the Pottses filed out, Mom got all ruffled about the untouched cake. She said Mr. Potts wasn’t a very pleasant man, strong words for my mama, but that Neela seemed to have her head on straight. Daddy ignored her. He sat staring at me and twirling the putter slowly with his thumb and two inside fingers. I tried staring back, but I never was Daddy’s match in an eye-contact showdown. Soon I gave up and looked at the floor next to his feet.
After ten minutes or so, Daddy emitted a spine-wrenching, gut-sinking sigh that I can still feel today. Then he stood and walked into the study. I turned on The Carol Burnett Show.
• • •
I make this scene out like Mom and Dad and the Pottses came together old European clan style and decided the future of their children. It wasn’t that way at all. The next fifteen years of existing on automatic can’t be blamed on my parents. Too many neurotics of my generation—namely Loren Paul—go around blaming every damn ingrown toenail on the people who raised them. I don’t buy that.
The day after Loren introduced himself and I walked him into the stop sign, I took Ron to a bowling alley snack bar where we wouldn’t be bothered. None of that gang of social climbers we ran with would be caught dead in a bowling alley. Over Dr Peppers and Twizzlers, I laid out the one element of my sexual education Mickey had skipped—child prevention.
Ron took the news well. He said, “Okay, let’s get married.”
I was glad he said that. We held sticky hands while I explained what I figured Daddy’s reaction would be.
Marriage with honor was automatic, of course. Daddy couldn’t play golf with an unwed mother for a daughter. Mom would have to drop bridge club. The college part I was sure about because I knew Daddy would never let me settle for a man without a degree. His diploma snobbery wouldn’t allow it. I was even pretty certain he would insist on—and pay for—med school.