Desert Discord

by Henry D. Terrell

  What she had to focus on was helping Andy get better. And paying for it. The medical bills were piling up, and Jesus had never believed in health insurance. Now they would have to deal with St. Cecilia’s, and that wasn’t going to be cheap.

  They had gotten one small lucky break. Peggy knew it would be extremely difficult for them to drive Andy every day fifteen miles each way to his therapy sessions, but the mother of Andy’s friend Saskia, a sweet lady named Ramona, had called and generously offered to let Andy stay at their house, which was only minutes from the clinic. They had a large ranch-style house with extra bedrooms, and Andy could have his own room and regular meals, while Ramona or one of her daughters could drive him to and from therapy. Pauline had offered to pay her something for the room and board, but Ramona had flatly refused.

  In the backseat, Pauline put her head back and shut her eyes, trying to sleep. The rhythm of the car put her in something like a trance, and she dozed.

  At one point, she opened her eyes and looked out the window as they passed through the small town of Lamesa. She saw a billboard sporting a large American flag and an eagle, with the words “The Republican Party of Dawson County Welcomes You.” She felt a soft hand touch her on the arm.

  She looked, and Andy had turned toward her and was smiling softly, touching her with his good hand.

  “I like peach pie,” he said. “You’ll make me one?”

  “Yes!” she said, and reached over to hug him. “I’ll make you the best peach pie in the world.”

  “I think there should be a symphony about peach pie,” said Andy.

  Back in Duro, Ramona and her daughters Erycca and Jane, along with some help from Tim, moved furniture. Saskia was working at the Cactus today, Apollo was at the college, and Reggie was out on a pest-control job, but the girls and the stoner were getting it done.

  The solution they arrived at to accommodate their new invalid was to move him into Jane’s room, and Jane would move into the large spare bedroom on the other side of the garage. It was an add-on with an eight-foot ceiling, but it was larger than Jane’s old room and far from her mother’s room, so she was happy. Lately it had been used to keep spare furniture and castoff clothes, and to store various stage props.

  In one day, the group moved the furniture, cleaned out the room, carted the props that were still usable back to the theater to be stored there, discarded the props that were hopeless and broken, boxed up most of the old clothes to give to the St. Vincent De Paul store, and carried the mattress outside to be freshened in the West Texas sun. Jane would keep her own bed but use the larger chest of drawers with its big mirror.

  That would put Andy Zamara in a small but comfortable bedroom right next to the small bathroom and near Ramona, should he need help with anything. Ramona had no idea how his brain injury might have affected him. Did he wander around in the night? Would he have spells?

  Dr. Faust had told them that Andy would benefit from hearing music, particularly classical music. Saskia said they could put her small stereo record player in Andy’s room, and give him what classical albums they could scrounge from Apollo’s collection, as well as some brought over by Andy’s mom. There was also Apollo’s 70-Watt Superscope receiver with heavy Klipsch speakers in the living room, which Apollo had bought from a student who was a veteran (lately, a lot of high-end audio systems had been finding their way to American shores with returning troops). He was reluctant to let anyone else use it but said he would consider giving stereo privileges to Andy, a presumed audiophile.

  Ramona bought new sheets and curtains, and cleaned the floor, which had an extraordinary amount of loose change. She wished she had time to repaint the walls—there were several rectangular patches where posters had stayed and even a few holes, as well as the occasional graffito, but she scrubbed these as well as she could. After opening all the windows to air the place out, the Piedmans were ready for their guest.

  Andy would spend two nights at home out in the flatlands, then move to his new room in town. On the first night, all the Zamaras sat at the dinner table for the first time in many years. Even Punchy and Pug came, and Pug’s wife Sherry. None of them could think of much to say to Andy. He smiled at everyone and ate Peggy’s homemade open-face enchiladas with gusto, while the older Zamara men talked heavy equipment. The near loss of his youngest boy brought a new perspective and family attachment to Jesus, so he and his two business-rival sons got along well.

  The meal ended with a lopsided, delicious peach pie topped with vanilla ice cream, which brought words of praise out of Andy. He pronounced it “virtuoso,” an odd descriptive choice, perhaps, but Pauline beamed. As the sun set, they all sat on the big front porch, enjoying the rare family time. Andy sat with the old dog Bruiser, scratching him behind the ears. The men had beers, but Dr. Faust had said that Andy should avoid alcohol. He didn’t mind.

  Peggy drank a tall glass of her arthritis tea, with ice. Peggy, who was raised a Methodist teetotaler, drank the nasty-tasting concoction most evenings after she had worked in the garden and greenhouse all day, when her hands hurt the most. Technically, it was an alcoholic beverage, because to make it you had to first roast the leaves and flowers in the oven, then crush them and soak them in vodka, because the active pain-relieving ingredient wouldn’t dissolve in water. But then, Peggy diluted the strong tincture in water or regular tea to try and mask the terrible taste, and there was only a modest amount of alcohol in the final product. It didn’t qualify as a “drink.” It was folk medicine.

  As it grew dark, Andy rose and went inside. After a few minutes, Pauline followed. She found him standing by the large mirror in the living room, turning his head this way and that, looking at himself and frowning. Pauline came up and stood beside him.

  “My hair hurts,” he said, brushing his fingers across the area where he had been clipped for sutures.

  “Hair can’t hurt,” said Pauline. “It’s made of the same stuff fingernails are made of. You mean your head hurts?”

  “No, I mean … my hair … you know. My hair … is ugly.”

  “It will grow back,” said Pauline, hugging him. “I still think you’re handsome.”

  – 22 –

  Simon Says Will You

  Anita Marta Maria Castidad-Fuentes had many reasons to doubt that Simon Frost would even show up this afternoon. But he had said he would, and he’d always been good as his word.

  The small living room of the small house was crowded, with Anita, who was not small; her mother Luciana, who was bigger; the Reverend Tomás Gravé (“Father Tom”); Anita’s sister Valery, also not small; and her brother-in-law Dennis, who was bigger than anybody, and a cop to boot. Anita’s little brother Jose Jr., called “Pepe,” had been there for a while, but Lucy sent him away because this was grown-up business. Whenever Simon arrived, assuming he did, it would be a crowded house indeed. Luckily, Daddy Jose wasn’t here—he was working a job in South Texas. Lucky, because then it would really have been a big mob in that tiny room, and also because Daddy was a bit of a hothead who had trouble staying focused on positive solutions. Better to have Dennis’s cool presence and Father Tom’s authority.

  They talked among themselves and waited. Simon said he would be coming by to take Anita out for coffee, because he wanted to have a “serious talk.” Anita also wanted to talk. Everybody else wanted to get their say also, except Valery, who wasn’t much of a talker.

  Simon knew nothing about any of it. He was expecting coffee and a private conversation with his girlfriend. Knowing Anita the way he did, he should have guessed matters would not stay private.

  Simon had been driving his friend Andy’s Volkswagen for the past three weeks, ever since the two of them had been jumped by some redneck punks in the park and his friend had been badly hurt. It wasn’t an official arrangement, but Andy’s friend Saskia had handed Simon the keys and suggested that he take care of the car while the young man was ill-disposed. Simon had been driving it ever since. He was ready to hand it back over
to Andy or any other Zamara who asked, but so far, the subject had not come up. In the meantime, it was nice to have his own car. Anita owned a Dodge Dart, but it sometimes popped out of second gear with a startling POW, and Simon hated riding in it. The first time it happened, he’d emitted a little involuntary screech, which made Anita laugh.

  The little Volkswagen engine with slightly loose valves clattered away as Simon drove to see his girlfriend. Or rather, confront his girlfriend. It was time to talk turkey.

  Simon was willing to do just about whatever it took to address the situation. There were many options, and each one of them held its own complications, but in the end Simon was ready to step up and be a responsible adult. The way he saw it, there were only four possibilities:

  She could have it, keep it, and raise it. She had a big family and would not be in want of help. But such a future would not include Simon, and he would have no further obligations.

  She could have it and let somebody else in her family raise it. An extended family provided many options. Simon might consider sticking around if the boundaries of parental responsibility were clear.

  She could have it and give it up to a stranger—legal, free and clear, done. That was Simon’s number one preference, and the course of action his friend Andy had suggested during their long heart-to-heart in the park. A few months of inconvenience, then back to the status quo. Perhaps.

  Or, Nita could go to Juarez or Ciudad Acuña and nip it in the bud. This option made Simon uncomfortable, but he was a realist. He was also Jewish, but he was not the first Jew willing to bend rules to accommodate the real world. Heaven knows Nita had been happy to bend them when she first dragged him into bed. (Okay, she didn’t drag, but she didn’t push him away, either.)

  The only thing he could not consider at this time was marriage and family. For heaven’s sake, he was only twenty-five! He was a low-ranked teller at a locally owned bank and played the oboe professionally in a backwater orchestra. Simon could expect to be behind the eight ball financially for some time to come.

  Simon pulled the little car to the curb, hopped out, and trotted to the front door. Pepe and two of his friends were playing in the front yard. Pepe grinned at him like an idiot. Simon waved to him, then knocked.

  A priest answered the door, a relatively young and fair-complexioned Spanish man. This was not expected.

  “Uh …” Simon stepped back and glanced at the address beside the door. These old shotgun houses looked alike, but he’d never gone to the wrong one. The address was right.

  “Is Anita …?”

  The priest smiled and stuck out his hand.

  “Tom Gravé,” he said. “You must be Simon. Please, come in.”

  Simon came in. He saw Nita, her sister, her mother, a Catholic priest, and some big Mexican guy with a mustache. Everybody except the priest looked grim. They filled the tiny living room. The priest sat down on the love seat beside Nita’s mother. This left one empty straight-back chair between Nita and the big Mexican guy.

  Oh, God. She didn’t!

  “Please, have a seat,” said Father Tom.

  Simon sat.

  “That was my car back there,” said Andy.

  He was in the passenger seat of Saskia’s Mustang, traveling fast with the top down on a residential street in west Duro heading toward downtown.

  “Where?” asked Saskia.

  “Right back there,” said Andy, gesturing over his shoulder with his good hand.

  In the rearview mirror, Saskia saw a red Volkswagen parked against the curb.

  “How do you know it’s yours?”

  “Bumper sticker,” said Andy. The scratched and faded bumper sticker said REEVES FOR SHERIFF. The sticker had come with the car when Jesus bought it at auction a year ago. Andy could have peeled the sticker off, but he never bothered.

  “Your friend Simon Frost is probably there. I told him to take care of the car for you. I hope that’s okay.”

  Andy nodded, staring straight ahead. Saskia drove on.

  “I think Simon seems pretty responsible,” said Saskia.

  No response from Andy. He seemed to have lost interest in the subject, so she dropped it. He wouldn’t be able to drive a car for a while anyway, with his injured arm. And his brain. Sometimes he seemed to check out of reality completely, and at unpredictable moments. Driving was probably not in the cards for some time.

  It had been an exhausting morning. It was Andy’s fourth day of rehabilitation at St. Cecilia’s Clinic. The first day, there had been a “planning meeting” with Andy and Peggy in attendance, plus several therapists. Two other families were there also. There was a middle-aged man who looked reasonably normal, except he wore a bicycle helmet at all times, indoors and out. He moved and spoke normally, if deliberately. He was there with his wife, who explained matter-of-factly that he had been riding his motorcycle on a country road, flipped over into a ditch, and lay helpless and undiscovered for hours, until someone happened along and called for help. That had been a year ago. There was also an elderly woman who smiled pleasantly but didn’t speak, and held her purse tight to her chest as if she feared someone might snatch it from her. Her husband did all the talking. Andy never did find out what had happened to her.

  A doctor asked them what their goals were. The erstwhile motorcyclist said, “To ride my motorcycle again,” which elicited a silent look of horror from his wife. The elderly husband of the mute woman said, “I want her to talk good,” which seemed a worthwhile goal. When Andy’s turn came, he hesitated, then said, “To play the violin.”

  “Could you play the violin before?” asked a therapist. A reasonable question.

  “Yes,” said Andy.

  “Then we’ll try and help you get it back.”

  Therapy was divided into three parts: speech, cognitive, and occupational.

  Andy’s issues were not with speech, per se. He could speak without slurring his words, if he thought of them first. But finding the words he needed when he needed them, that was the problem, so they focused on that. In addition to the regimen of flash cards, he had to recite words spoken to him, then recite them from memory a few minutes later. He also had to listen to a series of ten words, then repeat as many as he could remember. He wasn’t very good at that, not at first. Once they made him bounce a ball while saying the days of the week backward, and that drove him crazy. It took him five tries, but he finally got it.

  “Good job,” they said, though in truth it had not been a good job.

  Where he shined was at mathematics.

  “What is sixteen divided by four?” asked the therapist.

  “Four,” Andy said, without hesitation.

  “What is five times twelve?”

  “Sixty.”

  “How about forty-six divided by three?”

  Andy paused for a few seconds. “Fifteen and a third,” he said.

  “Wow,” said the doctor. “You got that faster than I could.” They didn’t bother him with numbers after that.

  For occupational therapy, he had to demonstrate practical skills, like ironing. The iron was plugged into a dummy electrical outlet so it didn’t get hot, but Andy was good at ironing and pretended to press a shirt. They were especially pleased that when he was finished, he turned off the iron and unplugged it from the wall.

  “Good job.”

  They promised that future exercises would involve cooking and doing his own laundry, among other life skills. For violin playing, Andy was on his own.

  Saskia was taking Andy to the movies because she figured he needed to get out, to get some stimulation. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg was playing at the Cactus Flower. Saskia knew nothing except that it was in French and a musical, and the doctor said to give him music.

  It was an old, cheap print of a years-ago classic, the kind of film Arnold Ziegler used to fill out the schedule when he was between attempted controversies. Arnold was still peeved that Midnight Cowboy had not generated the proper level of legal trouble (and free publicity
) that had been promised. In fact, his act of defiance of the local puritan forces had been largely ignored. It didn’t help that he was unable to show the movie on its opening night, a screwup he blamed on his manager Saskia. But, oh well. Nothing to do about that now. He had a new plan up his sleeve, which he wasn’t sharing with anyone, not even his employees. In the meantime, a subtitled Catherine Deneuve musical would have to fill some seats. It didn’t fill many.

  Saskia got Andy in for free, then planted him in the center of the theater toward the back. She had to work the box office, but she could check on him regularly. Andy seemed to enjoy the movie, or at least give it his attention. He sat by himself and stared straight at the screen. Saskia couldn’t tell if he was following the story or was off in his private world again. Besides him, only a handful of middle-aged people were there for the matinée.

  When it was over, she came and got him.

  “Did you like it?” she asked.

  Andy nodded.

  “Was the music good?”

  “Some of it was good. Some things I would have done differently.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Okay.”

  Saskia asked Arnold if she could clock out for the day, and he said fine. He didn’t need to pay both a projectionist and a manager for an evening showing that might draw a dozen people. Arnold could handle the ticket booth (though he disliked that job because he didn’t particularly like people).

  Andy’s hair whipped in the wind as they drove back to the Piedman house. When they pulled into the driveway, Andy leaned over and looked at his reflection in the convex rearview mirror.