Western Swing (22 page)

“Looks majestic,” the longhair said. This wasn't your average scuzball hippie. The kid's hair hung way down his back, straight and golden blond. When he moved his head, it shimmered and rippled like a clean sheet you snap out a time or two before settling onto a queen-size bed. He even had dimples.

“You get a kick out of flashing your boobs at strangers? Is that it, a born cocktease?”

“Wait a minute.”

“Sit right there, woman, and don't move. I'll see what's happening with Thorne.” Billy G wheeled and stalked away, leaving me too shocked to run hit him.

The arrogance of the little punk. The macho cowboy prickitude. There are women who enjoy being called woman. They think it shows more respect than girl or lady, but every time I've heard a man use the word it was in the directive—
sit,
woman—
or possessive—
my woman
—and nobody directs or possesses Lana Sue Potts Paul.

As I steamed, all primed to lash out at the next male who got in my way, I became aware that the pretty longhair wanted to speak. He leaned as far forward as the cuffs would allow, watching with blue-eyed anticipation.

I stared at him. “What do you want?”

“You seem brought down, sister.” Same tone inflection as Jesus on
The Books of the Bible on Cassette
Mom listens to during soaps she isn't interested in. When I didn't speak, he continued: “The intensity of your vibrations is washing away my inner peace. That's a lot of self to lay on another soul.”

Why is it the prettiest ones always turn out to be dopes? “Don't talk to me anymore.”

The boy sat back and considered this a moment. “I respect your stance,” he said, “but I have a major problem and you're my only means of salvation.”

Another one. Everywhere I turn, some man is calling me his means of salvation. “Do I look like a saint?” I held out bloody hands. “Huh? I left my husband yesterday and let an asshole rut on me all night and then a man I never even met spurts blood in my mouth. I don't have any panties, my vacuum's broke, I have a hangover that would kill a bull. I ate at McDonald's for breakfast. I'm in no mood to be the salvation for some frybrain from a time capsule. No one talks like you, buddy. Your type got jobs ten years ago.”

Words stampeded from my mouth. In ninety seconds of continuous blather, I told the hippie about Loren's search for God, Cassie running off with Mickey, my failure as a singer in Nashville, sugar, Roxanne, Daddy's saffron obsession, Connie's hatred, my problem with orgasms and strangers. I ended with Loren's boy and how guilty I felt for replacing his first wife. I'd never told anybody that one before.

Talk about your captive audience. I felt so bad for this poor handcuffed love child that, out of breath, I ended with, “Okay, what can I do for you?”

He smiled like an angel. “I wasn't certain you'd stop in time. If you make haste, you can save me from many years in prison.”

With his looks, he'd be dead in two weeks of prison. “Tell me what to do.”

The hippie spoke quickly. “These peace officers heavied out on me in the parking lot at the Minit Stop. They threatened a body search, so I swallowed an unopened pack of Freedent sugarless gum. They're out finding a doctor and a stomach pump.”

“Why swallow all that gum?”

“I hoped to postpone the search. There's an ounce of cocala in my back pocket.”

I never heard anyone say that before. “Cocaine?”

“The Andes call it cocala. I prefer the Indian word. Cocaine sounds unhealthy—like Coca-Cola.”

“How're you going to dump the coke with your hands cuffed?”

“I prayed to Lord Caitanya that you might take it.”

This was interesting. “They'd put me in jail.”

“Why should anyone suspect you?” Other than a quart of blood down my front, I looked law-abiding. “Please, you'll be saving me twenty to fifty years of imprisonment.”

“What do I do with an ounce of coke?” A stupid question, I admit.

“Snort it, flush it, sell it, I don't care. Just hurry, I mean, make haste.”

So I did. I walked over, reached into the pretty hippie's back pocket, pulled out a plastic Baggie full of sparkly white stuff, and stuck it into my front pocket. With time to spare. Five minutes later when a policeman came to lead him away, I sat on the other side of the room, thumbing through a copy of
Country Living.

As he stood, the longhair looked at me and smiled like an angel again. “Peace be with you, sister. We shall meet once more in the astral.”

“Sure.”

• • •

Billy G, Thorne, and the skinny cowboy shuffled into the waiting room. Thorne's left arm bulged from bandages and his face looked a bad gray—like when you put milk in old coffee.

The skinny cowboy grinned at my tits. “Twenty-one stitches and two pints of the red stuff. He's good as new.”

“No, I'm not,” Thorne said. “I'm tired. Killing yourself is hard work.”

I stood. “They give you tranquilizers?”

“A few, but I'm not supposed to take them till I sober up.”

“How do you feel?”

“Sober.”

Billy G spoke: “Lana Sue, can't you find another shirt?”

I said, “Shut up.”

Thorne glanced from me to Billy, but he didn't say anything; I guess he was too worn out from his own melodrama to worry much about ours. “You have a car here?” he asked me.

“Out front.”

“Billy, drive my truck back to the ranch. I'll ride with Mrs. Paul.” Thorne moved past me toward the door.

I said, “But—”

Billy G said, “But—”

Thorne stopped shuffling and turned on us. “Move it, I don't have all day.”

Don't have all day
struck me as odd words to come from a man who'd just tried to die.

• • •

That's how I found myself miles from anywhere I'd ever heard of, neck deep in a Cadillac-sized bathtub, being attended by an honest-to-God live-in maid. In Houston, our maid rode the bus over from the ghetto. She'd have walked off the job if I ever ordered her to draw a bath.

Maria was either amazingly tactful or preinformed. Had my boss come home wearing ten pounds of bandages and helped by a blood-caked stranger, I would have asked questions.

All Maria said was “Would you care for a bath, ma'am?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Thorne stood at the bottom of a wide hardwood staircase. He nodded a couple of times, focusing on me for the first time since we left the hospital. “See if any of Janey's clothes fit her, Maria. There's a closetful of old stuff from before the kids were born somewhere.”

“I know just where to find them,” Maria said.

Thorne started up the stairs. “I imagine she's hungry too. Find something to feed her.”

“Will that be all?”

“You might fix me a drink.” Without speaking to me, Thorne clomped up the stairs.

I held out my hand to Maria. “I'm Lana Sue.”

“I know.” Maria was short, under five feet, but she wasn't misproportioned like a dwarf or a midget, and her posture made me feel like a slouch. She led me into this bathroom straight out of a steaming ABC miniseries.

“You shouldn't treat Thorne like you're a slave and he's Genghis Khan,” I said.

“Mr. Axel is my boss.”

“He'll forget that if you don't remind him.”

She laughed, high like a starling. “Why would I want Thorne to forget he's my boss?”

“Be a woman instead of a servant. He'll wonder what you want.”

That's my method. Five minutes in the house and I was restraining the maid and, in my head, throwing out the stuffed animals on the walls and retiling the John floor. It was some John too. Sinks and mirrors and lights, little stools so you could poke at your face without standing up. The bathtub was a round, ceramic thing with steps and a handrail. It had a phone and a tape deck and a television with a VCR on top and a round mirror on the ceiling.

A dial between the tap and a cigarette lighter said I was soaking at 101 degrees Fahrenheit. Nice of someone to let me know. The bottom of the tub contoured itself around my back and neck, soothing away the killer hangover.

Maria brought in some clothes, a plaid shirt large enough for a logger and some green work pants with pockets down to the knees. “Do you mind eating supper in the kitchen?” Maria asked. “Mr. Axel isn't having any and on Sundays we don't make much fuss.”

“Sunday?”

“Today is Sunday.”

Christ, Loren was wearing off on me. I never forgot the day until he came along. If I'd stayed with him much longer, he'd have me right alongside, hanging out with dead writers and talking to the moon. Snuggling deeper into the tub, I raised the temperature to 103 and punched the whirlpool button.

“This is some bathroom,” I said to Maria. “I'm a John connoisseur and this is the fanciest yet. My mom would go nuts in here.”

Maria held up my shirt, eyeing the bloody stain. She was dark and self-contained-looking. I figured Maria for around Cassie and Connie's age. “You should see the master bathroom upstairs. It has a built-in microwave oven.”

“Why?”

“Janey and Thorne lived out here six years in a cabin with only an outhouse over on the hill. When she was pregnant with E.T. her bladder distended or something and made the colon spastic. They pitched a tent for her up by the outhouse, then winter came and she carried a slop jar around the cabin. Now Janey doesn't like going more than a few steps from a flush toilet.”

Maria hid her mouth with her hand as she giggled. “There are six in the house and two more in the barn.”

“I'd like to meet this woman.”

A frown jumped to Maria's face. “I do not think so. The meeting would not be pleasant.”

That added a dimension to the arrangement. “Is she expected back soon?”

“She filled her handbag with credit cards and flew to Paris, France. The last thing I heard her say was that she'd never again play second fiddle to a steer. Can I bring you anything?”

“Is there any Grand Marnier around? I like Grand Marnier with a hot bath.”

“Of course, Mrs. Paul.”

“Call me Lana Sue.” I snuggled deeper into the tub. This was comfortable. I wondered if Thorne could work out a deal with someone at the nearest airport so we'd get a call should his wife decide to appear without notice. Surely she would arrive by plane.

The only tape in sight was the Sons of the Pioneers,
Tumbling Tumbleweeds.
I always was a sucker for simplicity and corn, so I plugged the tape in and closed my eyes to avoid the ceiling mirror. That mirror would be the first thing to come down if I chose to stick around.

If I chose to stick around—the idea was interesting. So far, I liked Thorne a lot. He was the Western authoritative innocent, straightforward and sincere, a king of the range type like Ben Cartwright, who'd suddenly realized good intentions, hard work, and sacrifice for tomorrow don't make for a loving family. Without half trying, I could give him a pleasure jolt that would keep him going for years. The man deserved a little happiness. And while I was giving Thorne something to look back on in his old age, I could work in one hell of a vacation for myself. I could be matriarch of the prairies, queen of a ranch bigger than Delaware. Then, after a month or so—if Janey didn't appear—I might go back and forgive Loren or go to Texas and let Daddy forgive me, or stay put and not have anybody forgive anything.

My nonfussy supper turned out to be a beautiful steak with asparagus tips, homemade french fries, and a four-color salad. I've always felt you can trust a person who calls the evening chowdown supper instead of dinner. They fall into my real category.

While I ate, Maria whipped together a batch of brownies. She was admirable all the way around, Maria.

“Mrs. Axel's clothes don't fit you well.” When she smiled, I could see brownie frosting on Maria's front teeth.

“She must be a large woman.”

“Janey is very strong. My clothes might do better. Maybe you should try them.”

“You're tiny, Maria. I'd rip the seams out of anything you wear.”

Her chin went up. “I'm bigger than I look.”

“Nobody can hide six inches of height.”

“Well, my boyfriend gave me his football jersey before he went out on the rigs. He was a fullback in high school. Second string.”

“If I can't make it to town tomorrow, we'll check this jersey out.”

A twenty-fiveish-looking girl walked in as I spoke. She was layered-flesh fat with short rat-brown hair and skin the texture and color of a used golf ball. She barked, “You're moving in, then.”

“Thorne asked me to stay a few days until he gets better. Who're you?”

The girl sneered. “What's the matter with Daddy? He stub his little toe and can't walk to the bar without help from a hooker? Mom's been gone four days and the vultures are landing.”

In the silence, Maria said, “Can I fix you something, Darlene?”

“No. Why doesn't she have clothes of her own? Daddy picking them up naked now? I suppose it cuts down on small talk.” She stalked to the refrigerator.

I chose to be pleasant. “Your father tried to kill himself. I helped him, but he bled on my clothes.”

Darlene blinked a couple times and the scowl softened for a moment. “Tried to kill himself?”

“We were in time.”

“How hard did he try to kill himself?”

“Couple of pints.”

“Let me guess. He cut himself in public, probably a bar. Good, safe place to drum up pity.”

“Something like that.”

Darlene returned to the table with a quart of mayonnaise. “I'm gay,” she said. She seemed to watch me, waiting for an effect.

“I don't think so.”

“You calling me a liar?”