The Gillespie Country Fair

by Marc Hess

  “Turn off the torch and set it on the ground, Mr. Geische.”

  So distracted by his crime, Carel hadn’t noticed the Gillespie County sheriff’s cruiser pull up behind him. Carel turned his head slowly and took note of Deputy Bobby Ortega’s serious posture and the hand that lay on his service revolver. No one ever said making history was easy.

  “You don’t have a permit for this, do you, Mr. Geische?” Deputy Ortega asked, in a more timid tone this time.

  Carel shook his head. “Nope. I didn’t know you needed a permit for this.”

  Ortega placed him under arrest, handcuffed him, and escorted him to the backseat of the cruiser, all the while apologizing. “I’m sorry about the precautions, Mr. Geische, but there is a potential weapon involved.” He nodded toward the acetylene torch.

  “It’s okay, Bobby. I understand.”

  A second Gillespie County sheriff’s car, called in as backup, rolled to the side of the road—no lights, no siren. The second officer was Deputy Lester Metzger, who had gone to school with Carel. The two cops spoke with each other for a moment, and Lester made a call on his cell phone. When Lester approached, Carel greeted him. “How you doing, Lester? Your kids get back from band camp yet?”

  “They’ve been home for a couple weeks now.” Lester opened the door to let Carel out. “You’re not under arrest, Mr. Geische, but your uncle would like to see you.”

  Uncuffed, Carel started to amble off toward his truck, parked on the opposite side of the road. “Okay. I’ll give him a call.”

  Lester reached out and took a firm grip on Carel’s arm. “I’ll give you a ride, Mr. Geische.” He wore an official smile. “Your uncle wants to see you right now.”

  One thing that no one in Fredericksburg wanted to see was Gillespie County Sheriff Otto Geische roused from his bed at two o’clock in the morning. Lester drove Carel to the sheriff’s house and waited on the porch as the sheriff opened the screen door and took his nephew inside.

  Otto Geische was the older brother of Carel’s father and Uncle Victor, and much larger than both of them. One thing Carel hadn’t known about his uncle was that he slept in a loose white T-shirt and boxer shorts. Otto had pulled a shirt on but had not buttoned it. His thin, white hair was mussed up, his face still puffy with sleep, and his breath smelled awful from across the room. Even in his pajamas, he conveyed the attitude that he would break you in two if you gave him a reason.

  “Here. Take a seat.”

  Carel sat.

  Otto stood over him. “Maybe I’m Simplifizieren, Carel, but for the life of me I cannot figure out what the hell has gotten into you.” Carel started to answer, but Otto hadn’t gotten out of bed at two in the morning to listen to his nephew’s excuses. He put his face down near Carel’s. “I don’t give a crap what is behind these bizarre actions of yours, son. They just have to stop.”

  “That signpost out there tonight … Well, I have no excuses for—”

  “Verdammen du, that’s right you don’t!” Otto shouted in Carel’s face. “And I don’t give a damn about the sign. That’s state police business. But what’s this about you manhandling the little fella from the Historical Society?”

  “Who? Walter? Sure, we had words. I don’t know what you heard. I didn’t hit him or anything.”

  “No. You snatched him up like this.” In one rough move, Otto gathered Carel up by his shirt collar and lifted him so that his butt was off the seat. The sheriff held him there, effortlessly, for a long, frightening moment, frozen face-to-face, subjecting Carel to his cruel and unusual halitosis. “Something like this, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Otto dropped Carel back into the chair. “That’s assault, son. And tonight, it’s willful destruction of state property.” Otto had a finger in Carel’s face. “If you’re trying for a spell down in Huntsville prison, Gott im Himmel, I will send you down there. Blood or not.”

  “No, sir,” Carel said, answering an unasked question.

  “You got too much going on in this town to screw it up now. If it’s your drinking, you get yourself some help. Don’t try to explain your problems to me. Just get it fixed. I’m not a social worker, Carel. I’m a cop. And nephew or not, I will mess up the rest of your life.”

  When Otto took a seat for himself, Carel exhaled for the first time. His uncle had always been the bully of the family and a real Texas lawman.

  “You have, in the past, made great contributions to our community and its great heritage, Carel. You put up some nice buildings that we’re all proud of. Now I strongly urge you to contact the Texas Historical Commission on your own volition, and offer to restore—at your own expense—the damage that some vandal did to that historical marker.” His voice rose at the end. “Verstehen Sie?”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  With the business at hand completed, Otto relaxed and offered up an avuncular smile. “I hear your sister is on her way up for the fair,” he said. “Sure hope she finds the time to stop by for a visit. I’d like to see how that cute little girl of hers is growing up. You make sure you tell Imogene that for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lester will take you home. You’re too alcohol-impaired to be sitting behind the wheel of an automobile.” He turned to his bedroom. “You can fetch your truck tomorrow, Carel. It’ll be safe out there tonight. Nobody crosses over Hilmar Jung Road at night unless they’re up to no good.”

  • • •

  Although Willow and her boyfriend had used inside places and a choice of beds, she preferred be out at “our place,” where they could listen to the cicadas, down a few beers, skip some stones, talk about stuff, and make out. The “our place” that she and Ryan referred to was just past the low water crossing, where Boos Lane hopped over the Pedernales River. Instead of following the uphill fork to River Road, Ryan’s big-block Ford 460 jumped off the low water crossing, ground its way along the stony riverbed, and tucked itself inside a cozy stand of cypress trees just off the bank. With the headlights off, a spray of stars would splash through the windshield and hang above the pastures on the opposite side of the river—the opportune parking spot for young lovers. They had learned how to kiss there. Really kiss.

  “Seems like we been out of school long enough.” Ryan was all looks and simplicity, and he didn’t require much effort on Willow’s part. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, his foot up on the dashboard, a longneck Lone Star beer in his hand. While talking to Willow in the seat next to him, his eyes were fixed straight ahead, like he was still driving. “Now we got all settled into a regular paycheck, and ya notice how our old running buddies been dropping one by one, getting married, getting started with their families. And I’ve been wondering what you were thinkin’.”

  The radio was on, and Gary P. Nunn was crooning out into the night over the tinny truck speakers.

  “Me?” Willow, too, was just looking out at the stars. “I was wondering when you were going to get around to fixing those speakers.”

  She noticed that he wore a clean shirt and wasn’t dipping that night, a clear indication of his amorous intentions. She was leaning back against the passenger door when he moved in on her, sliding his arm over her shoulders and pulling himself onto her. She moved the beer from between her legs to the dashboard and willingly took his kiss. They were twisted in an awkward and familiar position in the front seat of the truck, and she was expecting him to unbutton her blouse, but instead he unsnapped his breast pocket and retrieved a small, velvet-covered box that had Segner’s Jewelers ~ 997-6524 printed in silver script on the lid.

  Ryan popped it open with his thumb. Willow sat up, drawing in a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the shiny band of silver. Then came his proposal: “You and me, babe. How about it?”

  Willow flushed, just as frightened as she was enthralled. “What’d you go and do this for?” She didn’t take the box from him.

  He shimmied in closer to her, the pressure of his body holding her in place. “Here, let me show
you how it works.” He began to ease the ring onto her finger. “It’s a kinda simple piece of equipment. Works kinda like this.” He applied a bit more force. “And when properly inserted, it works for your whole life.”

  “It’s kinda tight.” She kept her finger just slightly bent. “It’s not going all the way on.”

  He grinned into her eyes, and then brought himself even more fully on top of her. Now she felt trapped, but she responded to his deep kiss by offering a little tongue of her own.

  When his free hand started to work at the snap on her jeans, she whispered, “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Do what, little darlin’?”

  “I’m on my period now,” she lied.

  “Rain check, then.” Ryan pulled himself off of her, and they both sat back in their respective seats. He held her hand up to let the moon reflect off the ring, still stuck just past her first knuckle, not all the way on. “So now, when do you want to get married, then?”

  “This is so much to digest at one time, Ryan. I’m gonna have to talk to my mom.”

  “Big wedding, little wedding, I don’t care. I just want to see you raising a lot of little kids that look just like me and just like you all at the same time.”

  Images of that future rattled through her head on the drive back into town: snapshots of swing sets and toddlers in diapers running in the yard, pulling on her skirts, her very own husband smiling from the porch—the porch of the same house that she lived in now. This could be it. All the way home she fiddled with the ring that was stuck on her first knuckle, not wanting him to think she was trying to take it off. A good-night kiss at her mom’s house sent Ryan off to the South Star to take high fives from his buddies and have a last dance with some old girlfriends. That’s the way it went down in Fredericksburg.

  The air was stale and the house was quiet. Her mom was still out, and Willow drifted to the linen closet looking for some clean towels. There she found a package of single-edge utility blades with only one missing, the one her mother had probably used to start a project before forgetting where she had left the package. Willow wrapped a towel around her neck, pulled one blade out of the box, and carried it with her to the stuffed chair by the window in the living room.

  She took a moment to study the ring. It was simple, and she could see that Ryan had spent more than he could afford on it. This could be it, she thought again—the very thing that would nail down a future here in Fredericksburg. Up to this point in her life, she just took the next step along a path that had been laid out for her, like her mother had done. Now she actually had to do something of her own volition. She felt that burden keenly as she flicked the engagement ring into the ashtray on the end table, switched on the lamp, and bent over to stare into the palm of her left hand as if she were trying to read her own fortune.

  With familiar precision she cut a diagonal line between the first knuckle and the base of her ring finger. The skin was firm there, and blood started squirting as soon as the blade broke the surface. Drops of red fell onto her blouse.

  “Dang!” she cried out, recoiling. Didn’t expect that.

  Pursing her lips and refocusing like a determined artisan, she leaned in to create a pattern. Carefully placing the tip of the razor at the bottom of the first cut, she hesitated, then forced herself to make a quick upward slice, a bit deeper than the first, leaving a V shape oozing blood into her palm. The flesh was tough or the blade was dull, challenging her skill, but Willow remained determined and pressed on with yet another diagonal cut that, again, was too deep. Then she laid back a flap of skin that peeled away from her finger.

  This time there was no secret whisper, nothing of the euphoria that Willow had experienced at one time. It stung. Badly. And blood trickled through the concave bowl of her hand. Why so much? she thought, holding her hand before her face, watching the red rivulets seek out the creases of her palm. This innate habit of hers had become more of a project—something she did rather than something she felt. Abruptly, she tossed the blade into the ashtray with her new ring. Somehow she wanted to cry, but found she was no longer that kind of person. She had grown hard, like the Texas limestone, and besides, she was making a mess all over her mother’s towel.

  • • •

  Relying more on the alcohol than on his charm, Brady convinced Thea to follow him from the wine bar to his house. He had promised her some of his private stash of mesquite-roasted coffee, “the most awesome coffee you’ll ever drink. One cup will erase a hangover.”

  Brady’s kids were wrapped up in blankets and crashed out in the blue glow of the television, with pizza crusts and open bags of chips littering the floor around them.

  “This is Miguel,” he said as he hefted the smallest off the sofa and over his shoulder. “He’s the lightest.”

  Brady carried him down the hall and came back for the one who was curled up on the floor, a mop of hair in her face. “Margit, sweetie.”

  The girl raised her head and squinted around the room. She looked at her dad and lay her head down again.

  “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get our teeth brushed.”

  When Margit got to her feet, she stared for a moment at Thea and said, “You mean my teeth.”

  “Yes. Your teeth.” With her dad’s support she teetered down the hall like a newborn lamb.

  “Hey, you did a good job tonight, watching your brother and taking care of the house,” Brady was telling her as they turned into the bathroom.

  He came back to Thea a few minutes later with a smile of accomplishment. “Let’s get that coffee going.” He ushered her into the kitchen.

  “You going to put me to bed, too?” Thea asked as she dropped herself into a chair at his kitchen table.

  “I aim to,” Brady said, pulling a pair of mugs off the shelf. “But let’s give the kids a chance to fall into a really deep sleep.” The ring of Brady’s cell phone startled them both. In unison, they turned their heads to the kitchen clock. A second ring. Late-night calls were inevitably bad-news calls. Brady stepped into the hallway with his phone. He returned quickly and reported to Thea in a particularly curt manner: “I have to fetch someone out at the South Star.”

  Thea followed Brady uninvited to his daughter’s bedroom, where he sat on the bed next to Margit. He rubbed her belly until her eyes flickered open. “Hey, Tinkerbell.” When the girl looked up at her father, he said, “I have to run out for just a few minutes.”

  Margit grunted and turned her face to her pillow.

  “I’ll be back very quickly. I just have to pick someone up.”

  Her eyes fell shut and she shook her head, more to be left alone than in acknowledgment.

  “I know you’ll be okay, but if your brother gets up, just bring him in bed with you. Okay?”

  She nodded this time, trying to get back to sleep.

  Brady stood and tucked his shirt into his jeans. Thea, watching from just outside the bedroom door, felt more bewildered than angry. Brady put his hand on her arm and said in a quiet voice, almost a whisper, “Mari’s down at the South Star. I’ve got to fetch her. Shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Was that her who called just now?”

  “No. It was Gina, the bartender.”

  “So you’re the Fredericksburg after-hours taxi service?”

  He might have laughed at a comment like that, but instead he replied with a stern glare. “Something like that.” On the way out the front door, he left Thea with an ambiguous choice of words, as though he had no idea what to do with her: “The kids are all right. I’ll be back real quick.”

  • • •

  All he had to do was get to the South Star and back. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night, for as long as Brady could remember, the dateless and the desperate had the choice of going to the South Star out on the San Antonio highway or to a cowboy dive down by the stockyards that changed its name every other year. It now carried the moniker of Das Roadhaus, Ja. Their great attraction was “Bo and His Band,” which played Country Top 40,
and the mixed drinks served until 2 a.m.

  Brady’s familiarity with the honky-tonk came back in the first musty blend of beer and cigarette smoke that greeted him at the door. It was dark inside and dense with mirthful bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, neon bar lights silhouetting their hair and hats. Noise from the band and voices trying to shout over the band pounded off every wall, and there at the bar was Jeanie Geische, plastered.

  “Yo, Brady.” She grabbed at him from her stool and shouted in his ear, “Everything is cool with the fair.”

  He gave her a lost, inquisitive look and a shrug. Words were so hard in here.

  “I got it now,” she yelled, clutching at his shirt. “I’m going with my brother.”

  “Gerdie here?” he shouted back to her.

  “What?”

  “Where is Gerdie?”

  “Didn’t come …” She said something else that Brady couldn’t understand.

  “Where is Mari?”

  She gave him an ugly look and bellowed, “I couldn’t give a shit about her.” Then she pointed toward the restrooms.

  Brady elbowed his way through the dense and fetid crowd before he found Mari holding herself upright, just inside the door of the ladies’ bathroom. She was going neither in nor out—just holding on. Brady stepped in and grabbed her under the arms while two girls with fresh makeup and bloodshot eyes shoved their way past him.

  “Use your own,” one of them hollered. Then they looked at each other and laughed.

  Mari’s face was painted in a listless expression. Her head rolled around her shoulders, down to her chin, then snapped back up as if she’d suddenly awoken. When she started slithering to the floor, Brady grabbed her. She seemed to recognize Brady, but she pushed away, slurring something like, “I’m okay. Okay!”

  As she pulled away from him, she crashed hard into the back of some bad-looking dude with a black cowboy hat. When the cowboy turned to meet his assailant, Mari belched right onto his chest, depositing a disgusting glob of yellow drool on his black cowboy shirt.