“He fell out of bed?” Iris asked.
“Yes. And I left him there. Not man enough to get up and get himself to the pot.”
Iris was incredulous. “What? You left him on the floor?”
Virginia’s past cruelties—to VF and her siblings--surfaced in Iris’ memory. It was time to speak up.
“That’s criminal, Mom. How could you say and do such things? How can you deny him comfort and care?” As her anger grew, Iris was shaking. She was about to say something she had felt many times but was so disrespectful she had never articulated it. In the moment, to drive home her point, she yelled, “How can you be SUCH…A…BITCH?”
There was a complete one second silence as everyone froze and then….
Virginia jumped up again and ran towards Iris, knocking a chair out of her way. “Get the HELL out of my house!” She pulled Iris out of her chair by her hair and began throwing her out of the room.
“What are you doing?” Iris asked, frightened as Virginia pushed her harder and harder, Iris turning, stumbling.
“You’ll never set foot in this house again. I’ll make sure of that. You’ll never see your ‘precious’ father again. Period. You disrespectful little brat.”
Iris gained her footing and stood strong at the door, ready for the onslaught. “And YOU will die a lonely old woman.”
VF had entered the room by that time, startled by the ruckus. “Dad, don’t believe her—I will be back.” Her face was burning, her arm outstretched. If ever she could wield a steak knife into her mother’s cold, hard heart it would be now. Instead, she turned, walked out the door, grabbed her son who was playing with his cousin, got into her Lexus and drove over the cattle guard in a cloud of dust back to Austin, pounding the steering wheel and weeping uncontrollably.
VF turned to Virginia. “Honey, what happened?”
“What happened? That little brat thinks she rules the world. Well, she doesn’t. That’s what happened. Case closed. Asked and answered.”
VF could not have felt more helpless. A daughter he loved deeply was wounded, the gathering he hoped would engender love and tenderness had been torn apart, and he was so weak he could hardly stand.
He went to bed that night pondering what to do about the dysfunction in the family. He married Virginia thinking he could change her behavior. Yes, he had had previews of her rages, but never the kind of rages she exhibited after the birth of the first three children.
Fifty years ago, she was so beautiful. That curvaceous body, her long silky black hair, dramatic doe eyes, and full lips! And from the moment they first held hands and kissed he felt that she was the one. She was wildly exciting, sexy, reckless, and creative.
His memory turned to their first sexual encounter. She seemed so experienced for a 17-year old! She was the city girl, he the country bumpkin. He was so surprised when she removed her bra from under her blouse, held it up and giggled. They necked with abandon, him caressing and then kissing her nipples and her nibbling his ear in the back seat of his car.
He controlled his passion. He had just graduated from law school, and he knew if he went further with her this constituted statutory rape. “Hold back, Krejci, hold back,” he told himself, barely able to control the growing need within.
But she was so delicious! Every moment for the rest of his life he knew he would carry those memories with him. Even if his mind left him befuddled. He just wondered, “What happened to that woman?”
Chapter Two:
The Queen of Red Lobster
Two months later
The sun is up, the sky is blue, the day is beautiful and so are you.
Virginia accompanied the Beatles in her squeaky voice as she drove jauntily to South Austin from the ranch to meet up with her Wild Women friends. Two years ago, she had become the president of the Palette Club, twenty-five seniors who loved to paint Georgia O’Keefe knockoffs while downing Chardonnay. These five members became best friends and met at Virginia’s favorite eatery every few months just to gossip and gab. All of them loved hearing of Virginia’s exploits with her many children and what she said was her horny husband. She was always clever and made them laugh.
Virginia was dressed in her white linen suit with her black velvet hair in a French twist and red nails to accent the look. She loved looking good when the occasion called for it.
As she neared her destination she quickly turned the dial to the top 1940’s hits.
Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again….”Ah, Bing! If only I could.”
She was in her element.
You’ll never know how many dreams I’ve dreamed about you. Or just how empty they all seemed without you. So kiss me once, then kiss me twice. Then kiss me once again…
Her new gold Caddy pulled up to the front of Red Lobster and parked in the first spot. Still carrying on a conversation with herself, Virginia turned off the engine. “It helps to say your Hail Mary’s—Hail Mary full of grace, help me find a parking place! Works every time,” she continued.
She slid from the air-cooled buttercream leather seat into the stifling heat, closed the door, and strolled around the car, past the Longhorn plates.
The doors of Red Lobster swung open and the hostess greeted her with an appropriate Texas drawl, “Aw, Miz Landry, the Wild Women are here waitin’ for yew.”
Virginia giggled, “Aren’t you sweet…awwww..I see ‘em!” She nearly sprinted to the back table, arms extended, hands waving, where four 60-something friends were waiting.
Her friends turned simultaneously and squealed like teenagers, “Ginny!” “Gin!”
“Vir…gin..yuh!”
“Queen of Red Lobster!”
Virginia laughed heartily, “Gimme sum shugah!” She always fell into an exaggerated southern accent around her girlfriends. She hugged each like a long lost lover.
Max, the waiter, inquired, “Miz Landry, the usual?”
“Piña colada!”
“Coming right up.”
Dottie, the most vivacious gossiper, was dressed in blue with her Hermes cobalt blue and gold scarf around her neck, her black hair in a bun. Her accentuated eyebrows were reminiscent of Joan Collins. Dottie was French, which gave her the upper hand in all conversations. She loved braiding her English with a touch of sophistication. “Mon ami…tell us…Where’s VF? What’s happening?”
“Well, after his poor performance….first time EVER….” Virginia held up her hand and with an emphatic pout, crooked her little finger for all to see.
“And that was after doing it twice in the morning…”
Everyone laughed uproariously at the nasty anecdote and added feigned shock.“Oh, no!” several ladies added.
“Then he took off.”
Dottie was on it. “His shirt?”
Laughter from all.
Max arrived with Virginia’s drink. She sipped.
“Ya know, when I was younger, guys I met would ask my name. I’d say ‘Virginia.’ Then they’d say, ‘Ah, Virgin for short, but not for long.’”
Her friends laughed heartily.
“That’s a good one,” Dottie tittered. “But tell us about VF. What’s up?”
Virginia replied a bit too seriously, with hidden anger, “On a cruise…to Australia….he is completing his bucket list.”
Patsy, the youngest at 65, couldn’t help herself. “Oh….a cruise to down under? I’m not gonna touch that one.” She shook her head, grimaced, and placed her palms toward Virginia. Dressed like a cowgirl in stylish boots, jeans, and western shirt, Patsy always kept her sorority charm bracelet dangling from her right wrist with her nails shined natural and cut to the quick. Her thick red hair was gently streaked with grey, and flowed around her pretty freckled, clean face.
They laughed again, but saw that Virginia was not enjoying the moment. “Australia” she deadpanned, “with H
appy—the hapless son of mine.” The reference to Hap was a favorite saying of Virginia’s and her friends laughed nervously. Virginia grimaced momentarily.
“Why the sad face?” Patsy asked.
“Well, VF will be gone soon enough.”
PJ, dressed like her name in flowing flowery pants and a comfy flowery blouse, wore her dishwater blonde hair in a ponytail. “So it’s true,” she said, almost in a whisper.
The Wild Women leaned in, all eyes on Virginia.
“Brain cancer.” Virginia took two more sips.
Everyone at once began: “Aw, honey!”
“Terrible.”
“What a way to go.”
“Didn’t Ethel Merman die of a brain tumor?”
“I think it was Susan Hayward.”
“Nightmare.”
Virginia looked up from her drink. “Nightmare is right. He had the surgery five months ago, then the radiation, and now it’s just chemo. Glioblastoma they call it. Everyone holds out hope that with proper diet…or some new miracle drug or procedure… But really, practically, my doctor says a stage 4 brain tumor is an incurable cancer.” Her voice trailed off.
There was a beat.
Virginia perked up, “I suppose it’s separate beds for us…finally.”
Her friends laughed as girlfriends do, the all-knowing kind of laugh about sex, especially since Virginia was so forthcoming about what a “bull in a china shop” VF was with her.
“I’ll drink to that!” someone said.
“How’re the kids?” PJ asked.
Virginia nearly dropped her drink. “Kids?”
Patsy asked, “Doan cha have seven?”
Immediately, Dottie raised eight fingers.
“I just had ‘em, I didn’t count ‘em,” Virginia winked and laughed, trying to add wry humor.
Everyone joined in the giggles, snorts and chortles…and then Virginia couldn’t help herself, “I love every one of ‘em….Bless their hearts. But they are no longer children. Well, except Jillian.”
“You’ve never talked about Jillian,” Betty said.
“Let’s not. Sad story. This is supposed to be a fun lunch.” Virginia smiled, keeping that secret to herself.
The waiter deposited a large order of appetizers--popcorn shrimp, Cheddar Bay biscuits. Then he refreshed the drinks.
Dottie felt the need to emphasize Virginia’s statement about the kids. “Mais oui! Vraiment! They are all ad-ults. What are they doing these days?”
”Well, let’s see. Vicki, my oldest, has a massage therapy practice in Colorado. Then Hap thinks he’s a musician. I think he never got Viet Nam out of his system. Bits is the only really successful child of mine. She’s in Toronto with her fragrance business…”
“Ahhh…oui, oui, oui—she ees very successful,” Dottie exclaimed, “but all of your children are successful.”
Virginia rolled her eyes.
Betty, the baker, was kind of plump and very Austin-au-naturel stylish, her grey hair pulled back with a hand-decorated clip in a grey seersucker pantsuit. “Mais oui!” she said, smiling.
Virginia laughed, “why yes, that’s the name of Bits’ brand. Then there’s Iris. She grew up too fast. She’s in New York. And Richard. He’s away at camp. Joe you know is a priest. And then there’s little Mary the attorney.”
Virginia took another sip of her cocktail. “Good Catholic. Five in six years. Waited a few, then my Joseph and Mary. All my little chicks.”
“I think you forgot one,” Dottie noted.
“Well, yes—as I said before—Richard….and Joseph and Mary.”
“And today you’re the pretty white hen,” Dottie said, smiling.
Virginia’s tone turned sour. “Oh, yes, they’re just waiting for the land. But they’ll have to free it from my cold, dead hands.”
“Ginny, you HATE that land. Won’t you just sell it?” PJ asked.
“Oh, the damned land. I know I said I hate it. Once I loathed it. The land. The ugly cattle. The horses. The smell. Somehow, I guess I’ve grown fond of the land. You know, VF used to tell me that the Navajos would take the umbilical cord of an infant and bury it in the earth close to its birthplace so that the child would grow up tethered to the land. He said he felt that way—that he was part of the land.”
Virginia grew silent. Her friends stared wide-eyed at her. They had never seen this contemplative side of her.
“Maybe it’s growing on me. What would you do?” she finally asked.
“Oh, Ginny, you have so many options,” Patsy, an award winning realtor, opined. “That area is going to be the next bedroom community of Austin. The value will just skyrocket. It’s not my territory, but I have friends in the business who are beginning to sell ranchettes in the hillcountry for a pretty penny. There’s a fortune to be made there in the next twenty years, Ginny.”
“I’d give my left foot for all that property, Gin. You have it free and clear, right?” PJ, the former teacher and community newspaper writer, asked.
“Yes. I never thought it was worth that much,” Virginia said.
“Oh, you can do so much with it—it has water, part of Barton Springs! You could dam up that creek and create a lovely little lake and we could come out there and boat up and down the lake and sip mimosas all day long!” PJ was daydreaming.
The Wild Women had been to the ranch for little afternoon teas when no one else was around. It had been memorable.
PJ had more ideas. “You could have big barbeques and music out there, Gin. Just think of the headlines: ‘The Hillcountry Meets Austin at Silvercreek Country Club.’ Create a golf club and offer exclusive rights for a certain level of membership who could attend special musical evenings. Like with Willie Nelson. Doesn’t he live nearby?”
“That pothead? Willie Nelson? Who would want to hear him sing?” Virginia was ashamed that Willie Nelson owned nearby property, and could hardly bear to hear his name. That was not her kind of music.
“These are good ideas! Mangeon!” Dottie said.
Virginia was satisfied with the ideas, although uncomfortable thinking of all the responsibility of that land, her grown children, and her husband’s demise. The waiter brought lunch orders while the chatter of husbands, kids, grandkids, and holiday plans commenced.
* * *
Hap was VF’s designated driver to and from his law office and the American Legion meetings, and on several occasions VF had talked about Australia.
“So, you want to see kangaroos and koalas?” Hap mused.
“Well, I’d like to see the outback. I want to get a feel for the land of opals and gold. During the War, I had a sojourn at Cairns Air Base, where MacArthur built up forces to recapture New Guinea. I’ve always wanted to return.”
Hap was intrigued. He never heard VF talk about any of his exploits during the war, and decided this might be a way to heal old wounds.
“I’ll go with you,” Hap declared, and he enlisted the help of his wife’s friend, a travel agent, to make the plans.
While Virginia chatted with her Wild Women, VF was fulfilling the last wish on his bucket list. Virginia refused to travel with him to Australia, and VF would not have normally chosen Hap, since he abhorred smoking and heavy drinking. The idea of traveling with Hap grew on him, though, because he really wanted Hap to forgive him.
A James Dean look-alike, Hap was the oldest son, a Vietnam vet. He had a way with women, a thirst for Jack Daniels, and played a guitar like Willie Nelson.
“Yew look mawvelous.” Hap was at the bar of the luxury liner, speaking to an attractive older woman with rhinestone cat glasses. Her hand, large diamond rings around long fingers, rested on Hap’s arm. Even though he was happily married, he loved pouring that phrase on any woman he met just to hear her response. It never hurt to sprinkle a little fun on a woman with rhinestone glasses.
&n
bsp; “Is that your daddy over there or your sugar daddy?” the cat lady asked, pointing to a man in a New York Times baseball cap.
“Oh, the reporter?”
“Is he really a New York Times reporter?”
“Why? Doesn’t he seem like a New York Times reporter?”
“Well, his accent is odd, and he’s asking strange questions. He wanted to know if I ever smoked marijuana, and then he asked if I knew what Texas gold was.”
Hap cocked his eyebrow and smiled broadly “Well, have you?...Do you?”
The woman just smiled wryly.
Hap continued. “Listen dawlin’ I wonder if you’ve heard this one: On a really hot day, a penguin takes his car to a mechanic. The penguin asks, ‘How long will it be?’ The mechanic says, ‘Just a few minutes.’ So the penguin decides to get ice cream across the street. When the penguin gets there, he climbs inside the big freezer door and starts to eat ice cream. Three hours go by and the penguin jumps out of the freezer and races back to the mechanic with ice cream all over his face and stomach and he asks the mechanic, ‘So how’s my car?’ The mechanic comes walkin’ out wipin’ his hands on a rag and says, ‘Looks like you blew a seal.’ The penguin says, ‘Naw, I was just eatin’ ice cream.’”
The older woman pealed over in laughter. Hap gave a little grin and sipped his Jack on the rocks.
“Why don’t you sing one of your other songs?” she asked. “It’s open mike. I heard you sing that Patsy Cline song Crazy last night.”
“You do know Willie wrote that?”
“Well, you know how to sing it—don’t care who wrote it.”
“Just for yew…because…yew look mawvelous.” Hap walked to the mike, picked up his guitar, and in his deep, exaggerated Texan accent said, “This is for all of yew Eddie Chiles fans. Eddie and me toured Texas with this little song uh mine:
It was early in the morning, I was
going for my work…
I turned on my AM ra-dee—oh…
I heard a man who was
Fightin’ mad
Tell a lot a people where to go…
Rich White Trash Page 4
