by Tim Sandlin
• • •
Ron’s car sat parked in the driveway when I pulled up to the house. That wasn’t a good sign. He might ask questions. Roxanne could have called while I was supposedly with her and blown my cover, although, at the moment, I didn’t particularly care if my cover was blown. Many years of accounting for my whereabouts was beginning to chafe my so-called free spirit.
To hell with him. If Ron gave me any sass, I decided to turn snitty. No man—not even Daddy—has ever out self-righteoused Lana Sue Potts.
All three were in the den when I came through from the kitchen. At the sight of me, Connie turned off the TV and flounced from the room. I pretended not to notice.
“So, do we own a Biscuitville?”
Ron stood at his portable Sears Roebuck bar, mixing himself a vodka and cranberry juice. His big jaw jutted in that stubborn look that came over him whenever the team he bet on lost a ball game. “Maybe. Where have you been?”
“Out.” I moved over and kissed Cassie on the cheek. She glanced up from her book and smiled, then looked back down.
Ron held his drink under the automatic ice dispenser until a couple of cubes plopped out and splashed cranberry on his hand. “Hope you didn’t go anywhere public dressed like that.”
I looked down at my Neiman-Marcus cowgirl shirt and designer blue jeans. At the Bowie Knife, I’d felt overdressed, and now I was being called slobby. “What’s the matter with the way I’m dressed?”
“You look like a shitkicker.”
Stomach muscles tightened, my scalp itched. Something was on the edge of happening and I was powerless to slow it down—even if I wanted to. “Maybe I am a shitkicker. Want to try me?”
Cassie’s head came back up, her eyes studying my face. She knew Ron and I were courting disaster. I knew it also. Only Ron seemed lost in left field, oblivious to the possibilities.
“I didn’t mean anything negative,” he said. “I just wouldn’t want you running into any of your friends dressed in your cowgirl costume.”
It would be easy here to claim that I walked through the door and Ron came on nasty with no instigation. I could, with some success, blame his timing for our outcome, but that would be the easy way out. I know earlier I said leaving a man is ninety percent timing. However, in the case of Ron, timing doesn’t answer all the riddles. What I think is, subconsciously, unconsciously, whatever the shrinks call it these days, I made my choice back on Buzz Aldrin Drive in one of those value-system-crystallization-in-the-face-of-death numbers. The Cadillac missed me, I cheated death, saw the way of the future, and went home looking for an excuse to do what I wanted.
Who knows if I would have pulled things off without Ron’s help? I have no idea what the outcome would have been if he hadn’t insulted me, but would-have-beens don’t mean shit because he did.
“You get my sweater?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I forgot. Mind if I fix a drink?” Ron stared at me while I poured an inch of Jim Beam into a brandy snifter.
“You forgot my golf sweater?”
“Guess you’ll have to wear another one.”
“How could you forget it?”
I looked him in the eye. “It wasn’t important to me.”
Ron watched while I slugged down my Beam. Then he spit out the only real insult he’d leveled at me since junior high. “You aren’t worth much these days, are you?”
I said, “Crack.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means I’m driving to Lubbock.”
• • •
Three and a half, going on four, years later I was living in Nashville when Ron called. It must have been early fall because I remember leaves in our backyard. Sycamore, oak, and a few elms ran down the hill to a little ditch creek with a fence and a cemetery on the other side. I remember standing on the back screened porch, chain smoking and watching the leaves most of the afternoon. They were pretty. I liked the way the flatness of the reds and yellows gave the yard a balanced, artsy look.
After a couple of scotches, the scene struck me as beautifully ironic in an American dream sort of way—that all these thousands of slick scammers and cynical pragmatists had chosen such a beautiful setting to work their cash flow magic.
Ace and I had been married over two years. He’d called earlier that afternoon to say he would be working late at the studio. I didn’t believe him, but what depressed me was that I didn’t care whether I believed him or not. At some point since our marriage, I’d adopted the Nashville attitude that the sex organs are nothing but business tools like the telephone and the Visa card, and I could hardly expect Ace to penalize his career for my security.
After I left Mickey in Utah things turned out about the way he predicted—which pisses me off. I can’t stand Mickey thinking he knows everything about everything. Loren’s the same way. I always seem to wind up with smartasses.
Ace wooed me away from Mickey and took me off to Nashville, where we fooled around a few months and came out with an album. The album zoomed to number sixty-four on the Billboard Country 100 and stayed there for two weeks, stuck between George Jones on the backside and Jerry Reed on the front. I did a couple guest shots on Pop! Goes the Country and the Hank Thompson Ranch Show, then my album sank into the Kmart cut-rate bin and no one called anymore.
Somewhere in there, for stability or legitimacy or something—hell, I’ll never figure out why I pulled this one—I married Ace Roe. This was after he’d started that epileptic-fit-when-I-didn’t-feel-like-sucking-him-off-business. Maybe Daddy’s disease got me, or Grandma’s blood. Maybe I just screwed up. Anyway, I was right back where I started—married, ignored, and frustrated.
I increased my scotch drinking and took four hot baths a day. I gained fifteen pounds hanging around the Kroger’s bakery. Worst of all, I initiated a number of pain fucks with studio steel players. Nothing to compare with Ace’s scorecard, but plenty enough to trash out my self-regard.
Along about the time Ron called, the idea was dawning that I’d messed up my life. The experiment of living the future for myself had lost its charm.
• • •
I answered on the second ring.
“Fucking yourself and me up is one thing, but you’ve gone too far this time.”
“Hi, Ron, how’s my babies?”
“Your voice sounds different, have you been drinking?”
“Of course I’ve been drinking. Did you call for a reason or simply to tell me I’ve fucked up our lives?”
I listened to his breathing a moment, then Ron said, “Your friend kidnapped Cassie.”
Pictures of baby rapers and white slave traders flashed through my mind. “What do you mean, kidnapped?”
“Lana Sue, you are poison, you know that? And your lover Mickey is poison also. I can’t believe what the two of you do to people.”
“Back up. Mickey kidnapped my daughter? Is that what you’re saying?”
“You know damn well that’s what I’m saying. I’d bet everything I own you were in on it.” He was crying.
I thought a minute. I hadn’t talked to Cassie since her birthday in August. Back then she’d sounded fine. She was excited about enrolling at SMU. She told me she’d learned some new songs on her guitar.
“Ron, did Mickey really kidnap her or did Cassie run away?”
“What’s the difference? My insides crawl when I think about that slime with my baby girl. And she dropped out of school. Your daddy’s going to have your hide for this one, Lana Sue.”
I shouted at the phone. “I didn’t do anything!”
“You left.”
I reached for the scotch bottle, but changed my mind. “Details, Ron. How long’s she been gone?”
Audibly, Ron pulled himself together. “I got a letter today postmarked Denver, Colorado.
Says she dropped out of school last week and joined the band. She says the school will refund part of her tuition and dorm fees back to me.” Ron’s voice was bitter. “She says she has to find herself.”
How often had I used finding myself as an excuse to hurt people who loved me? “I wonder if Cassie’s doing this to get back at me for leaving her?”
“More likely Mickey’s doing it to get back at you for leaving him.” That thought caused some grief. Mickey could be a mean fucker if he got his ass up, and ravaging my daughter would be just his idea of perfect revenge.
“Did she say anything to Connie before she left?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Connie’s so disgusted she pretends neither one of you exists. I can’t get her to talk about anything.”
I looked through the window at the softening late afternoon sky and the dying leaves. Outside was so pretty and inside was such a disappointment. I considered the people I had loved so far in my life. One daughter hates me, the other is ruining herself by following in my footsteps, my first husband blames me for every problem anyone has, my one true friend and lover is screwing my baby daughter to spite me, my present husband is sticking it to every would-be singer in Nashville—all of this caused by my good intentions. Shit, all of a sudden life was ugly.
“Are they still in Denver?” I asked.
“How the hell should I know? You traveled that circuit, you tell me.”
“If they’re in Denver, they’ll be playing at the Powder Keg. It’s not bad compared to some of Mickey’s dives.”
“I’m glad our daughter’s being gang-banged in a clean bar.”
“Ron, there’s no call for that. I’ll fly out tonight and get her. You’ll have your daughter back by tomorrow afternoon.”
Ron made a growl-laugh angry sound. “Don’t fuck up again, Lana Sue.”
• • •
The Powder Keg in Denver is the junction where the country in country-western connects with the western. The dancers make the difference. From the Powder Keg to northern California, you mainly see western swing dancing. The couples twirl and dip like jitterbuggers with spot-welded hips. East of Denver, it’s all two-step—a never-ending, never-varying circle of shufflers with their hands placed in wrestling holds. For me, most two-step has all the spontaneity of a McDonald’s hamburger, but that may just be another anti-East Coast prejudice I picked up from Mickey.
The place is definitely big. It used to be a National Guard armory or something. The walls are made from large stones mortared together like in a rock fireplace. A long bar stretches across the back and doglegs down the east side to a dance floor about half the size of a basketball court. Strains of “San Antonio Rose” drifted from the stage as I came through the door and made a beeline for the back bar. I could hear Choosie’s voice crackling on the high notes.
Cassie stood dead center in Lacy’s old position. They had her dressed up real nice—a calf-length skirt that showed off her tan boots and a white ruffled blouse with a jacket that matched the skirt. Her hair hung down on both sides of her shoulders, giving Cassie this pure-ranch-girl-come-to-Sunday-school look. She held her Martin kind of high and straight parallel to the stage. I was surprised how good the band sounded with an extra rhythm guitar. The mix was deeper, fuller, her chording set Choosie’s fiddle free to soar in and out of the melody line.
I ordered a double scotch with a shot of Drambuie on the side. The plan was to hang back, mix myself rusty nails, and listen awhile—work on my position in the upcoming confrontation. The counterkidnapping would not be easy. My best bet was to act ungodly angry at somebody, but who? I could hardly come on self-righteously outraged at Cassie because I’d committed the same crime myself. Twice. At least she had the sense to wait until after her eighteenth birthday. I was still statutory when Mickey ripped up my hymen. Daddy could have made things ugly if he hadn’t been too embarrassed to haul me into court.
It struck me that if anyone involved was behaving like a shit, it had to be my old pal Mickey Thunder. Hiring and sleeping with my own daughter was a dirty trick, reeking of ulterior, vengeful motives. I knew what a pervert Mickey could be in bed and he knew I knew. That was what rankled. He was using and abusing my baby daughter just to goose my imagination and screw me up—the asshole.
“San Antonio Rose” ended and after a few seconds of guitar tuning, Cassie began the first line of “Echo of an Old Man’s Last Ride.”
I’m gonna ride me a moonbeam, someday, gonna take it to places and scenes faraway.
Her voice startled me. When had it gotten so mature?
Gonna rope me a comet and shoot me a star
Gonna ride me a moonbeam someday.
Cassie’s voice was a little deeper than mine, not so strong on the high notes, but her midrange rang out true and perfect, damn remarkable for a girl her age.
More than her beautiful voice, I was amazed by Cassie’s face as she sang. Her face was alert, flushed with excitement. Her eyes bubbled with life-force.
She had always been such a calm little girl. Even at three or four years old, Cassie’s self-control frightened me. All her childhood, she gave the impression of peacefully waiting for something. Never unhappy, yet never happy, she didn’t seem involved in her life. Now she was transformed. Whatever she’d been waiting for had come.
Joy practically exploded from Cassie’s face. Not only was she involved in the moment, she was also damn good. I couldn’t believe that was my daughter on the stage, my little girl. She was five times better than I’d been at her age and twice as good as I was now. How had Mickey known? Or had he known?
At the end of the first verse, Cassie looked over at Mickey and smiled. He smiled back and nodded.
Now the next morning they found him, sitting under a tree
With his saddle and his rope by his side
His Colt .45 in his big gnarled hand
Was the echo of an old man’s last ride.
So much for dragging Cassie back to Texas. She was complete, fulfilled, her face when she smiled at Mickey glowed with smitten softness. She had, at least for the moment, pulled off what I’d been scrambling after for nearly twenty years—meaningful happiness. The pleasant life. I had no right, in fact, no desire, to threaten that.
Neither Ron nor Daddy would ever understand. For them, sucking Mickey’s crank and performing in smoky honky-tonks was a terrible fate no matter how much joy it brought. I’d taken my shot at that route and failed, but I sure couldn’t hold it against my daughter for wanting her own chance.
As the song ended, the crowd applauded and whistled. Cassie blushed and smiled and looked eighteen again. She said, “Thank you,” into the microphone. I knew just how she felt.
Mickey leaned toward her, saying something. Cassie covered the mike with one hand and said something back to him. She turned to the drummer, then back to the audience.
“This next song is an old classic the boys had a hit with years ago, but I just learned it yesterday, so ya’ll will have to bear with me.” A few people called encouragement. Cassie smiled and shook her hair back. “I’d like to dedicate this song to my dear old mama, wherever she may be and whoever she may be with. It’s called ‘Raising Cain or Raising Babies.’”
If I could prove that Mickey saw me back at the bar and put her up to that one, I’d shoot the bastard. Wherever she may be and whoever she may be with. Jesus. The words are even worse than the title.
I turned to the bar in disgust. Cassie could outsing her mother and look more beautiful and sleep with my old boyfriend, but she didn’t have to be so damn honest about the whole thing.
“You look dejected,” the guy sitting next to me said.
I hadn’t noticed him before. He was skinny and wore glasses. His clothes looked slept in.
“I am dejected. That’s my daughter singing that song.”
He squinted at the stage. “You should
be proud of her.”
“She ran away from home. The tall sucker on the pedal steel is my old boyfriend and her new one. You ever hear anything so sick?”
“My son disappeared and my wife killed herself.”
I turned from my drink and stared at him. The guy looked vaguely familiar, like someone I’d known long ago. I liked his curly hair. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry, I must sound terrible complaining about my daughter.”
He watched me in the mirror behind the bar. “I finished a book about them today. I don’t know what to do next.”
I felt almost embarrassed. My pain over Ace and Cassie and Mickey had me so worked up I’d forgotten that I still had them on some level or another. “Raising Cain or Raising Babies” might be an insult, but Cassie’s voice was beautiful and Cassie was beautiful. I was proud of her.
“Listen,” I said to the guy, “you want to go somewhere quieter and have a drink?”
15
Light filled the room and I woke up alone—which, I admit, is something of a novelty. Loren claims I’ve never spent a night alone since my first marriage twenty-one years ago. He made a big deal out of it on our honeymoon. The charge isn’t true. I’ve slept alone plenty times. Plenty might be stretching it, but often enough not to be afraid to.
Knowing Loren, I know that he must suspect fear of sleeping by myself was why I left the day before his Vision Quest began. I call crock on the idea. If that was the problem, I would have stayed home and found a warm body to heat the bed. Why drive three hundred miles in search of a crotch?
Did I scamper off to bed with the nearest cowboy while Loren roamed the countryside, chatting with the ghosts of Scott Fitzgerald and Flannery O’Connor? Of course not. I can sleep alone if I choose to. I simply don’t normally choose to.
While we’re on the subject, let’s discuss these cross-country death and truth jaunts. For many women, the Fitzgerald trip to Maryland would have been just cause for a Crack. No one could have blamed me for walking away, but I didn’t. I hung in there, all the way to the Vision Quest.