Western Swing (24 page)

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.

“Or we can elope and go live somewhere else,” I said to Ron.

“I don't want to live anywhere else. Marriage and college sounds good to me. Wonder if he'd send me to Rice?” Ron's only basketball scholarship offers had come from North Texas State and Oral Roberts. His feelings were hurt because Houston didn't even call his coach.

I squeezed his palms. “If that's how you want it, that's how we'll do it.”

“That's how I want it.”

So before I drove the Chevy down to Daddy's office, made an appointment, and broke the news to him—in front of his nurse, by the way—I knew what the repercussions would involve. I'd made my choice. The only detail I hadn't counted on was the summer in Europe, but that was okay too.

• • •

The process came about basically the way Daddy planned, the only surprise being that I spawned twins. Then, one year into med school, Ron decided he didn't like death and sickness and he didn't want to be a doctor. As well as I knew Ron's every thought, he still blew my socks out the window when he came home and announced he'd chosen dentistry.

“Dentist,” I shrieked quietly so as not to awaken the girls.

Ron gave me his defiant look. “What's the matter with being a dentist?”

“You'll smell like spit.”

Daddy didn't buy the change of plans. He led Ron into the study and closed the door. An hour and a half later they reached a compromise. Ron would become an oral surgeon and I would be a good mother.

• • •

Let's face it, I don't thrive on being the object of dependency. Parasites make me nervous. There's no quicker way for a man to bring on the
Crack
than by turning all clutchy-needy on me. Knowing that, and looking back, I'm amazed at how much I enjoyed motherhood. Cassie and Connie were my darlings. Still are.

In the hospital, I thought something awful was wrong with me. I couldn't make a connection between my life and these two sucking, crying, sleeping, shitting objects. I was afraid they would break if I touched them. I thought I was an emotional freak with no maternal instincts, a spider woman.

Then one afternoon when they were a couple of weeks old, Ron drove over to Rice to talk with his faculty adviser and, in something I took as a miracle, both girls fell asleep at the same time. Up until then, I was sure they were taking shifts at keeping me on my feet.

Two blessed hours of rest later, I grogged back to consciousness. Shuffling into the kitchen, I poured a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, and walked into the girls' room to see why they weren't howling. I had on my blue terry-cloth bathrobe and no shoes. The smoke burned my eyes. I'd only taken up the habit the week before and hadn't quite mastered cigarette technique. Roxanne tried to coach me on blowing it out one corner of my mouth or up at the ceiling, but my exhalations tended to hiss a cloud that floated into my face and stuck.

The girls' window was open and fuzzy Houston light washed over the room, reflecting off the butterfly mobile Ron's mother had hung over the cradle. Cassie slept on her side with a fist bunched at her mouth. Wispy auburn hair lay against her cheek. Connie's eyes were open, maybe focused on the nearest plastic butterfly. I imagined they were anyway.

Connie's eyes showed a deep, intense green, the same green as on a pack of Doublemint gum. Her hair was white and short, more fuzz than hair. She didn't have Cassie's cheekbones and her forehead was wider. Her lips were thicker.

The longer I stood looking down at my babies, the more I realized how different they were from each other. And how different they were from me. For the first time, I saw them as little people, not pets or dolls or even a piece of me that broke loose and escaped. I'd created them, but now I would never be able to think or feel or act for them again. The helpless little creatures were on their own against one hell of a rough world.

“Holy Christ,” I said to Connie and the sleeping Cassie. “This is neat.” And—
Bingo
—I learned to love.

• • •

Ron wasn't home much the first ten years. Premed, med, dental school, residency, the process for mounting the ladder of financial security took most of every day. He kissed his women good-bye in the mornings and hello at night. Other than that, the three of us grew up pretty much on our own.

I mean, I was only eighteen and, except for that one three months of glory, I'd never slept away from my parents' house. I'd never been alone more than a couple of hours in a row and I didn't know what to do with myself while Ron was out learning to perform root canals.

The girls became my buddies. For the first couple of years, our talks were mostly one-sided.

“Do you think I should smoke pot?” I asked, holding them both upright in the bath basin. “Roxanne says it's fun. She says all the Volkswagen microbuses on the freeways are full of drug fiends having orgies. I think about that whenever I pass one.”

Cassie cooed and splashed water with her palms. Connie stuck a bar of soap in her mouth.

Soon, however, they learned to give advice and criticism—lots of criticism. Connie was only four years old the first time she told me my shoes didn't match my earrings.

The girls sure were different from each other. For maybe five years, Connie was crazy about me. As a baby she cried whenever I left her sight. Later, Connie crawled, then skipped from room to room in the apartment, following me as I sorted the clutter, babbling all the while about her dolls and pretend evening gowns, asking me questions I never had answers to. Her curiosity-about-body-parts stage lasted considerably longer than I thought it was supposed to.

Early in her fifth year, Connie suddenly latched onto her daddy. Whatever he said was truth and whatever I said was suspect. Maybe she thought their blondness and large jaws set them apart from Cassie and me, or maybe it was the female version of Oedipalism. Almost overnight I moved from being the rock at the center of her world to the status of hired help.