Rich White Trash

by Judi Taylor Cantor

  Jillian’s lisp picked up the Beth in Elizabeth’s name and turned it into Bits. Bits enjoyed the abbreviated name. She disliked the formality of the name Elizabeth and felt that Bits was a “jolly good fun name” as her friend Larry always said.

  “Well, the Black Angus are gone and the Maine-Anjou/Angus crossbreeds are here. I’ll need a wrangler for them. Some of them are ready to drop their babies,” Virginia continued.

  “Why did you decide to buy more cattle?”

  “We’ve got the grass, and Patsy…”

  “One of your Wild Women friends? The cowgirl?”

  “Yeah, Patsy says they are the best grassfed cattle alive. Right now, Patsy’s ranch hand is helping me out.”

  That was an understatement. Bits knew that Virginia would not step foot off the paved and caliche ranch roads that crisscrossed the ranch. Virginia was not a ranch gal as she explained years ago to Bits. “There are city girls and country girls, and I will never be a country girl. Neither will you.”

  “So, will you be in town next week? I have something for you” Bits said.

  Thus began Bits’ strategy to divide and conquer. Bits was the daughter who always got what she wanted and she wanted the ranch. Ever since VF wrote that “Bits can ride a horse all the way to the barn!” in one of his short stories about his girls, she was convinced she was entitled.

  ‘All the way to the barn’ was an extraordinary compliment from VF, who once broke horses on the O-Bar farm. It meant that you could control a FAST horse, you were an expert rider. It was her claim to fame in the Landry family.

  She was more than willing to leave her fragrance business in Toronto to prove that she could come home again. She had a plan.

  “What in the world could you give me that I don’t already have, honey?” Virginia asked.

  “Only the finest for you, Mom. It’s a surprise.”

  Virginia smiled proudly that at least one of her chicks loved her enough to come see her, hung up the phone and gazed at the rest of the letters, dated 1938-42. VF’s faded love. All his hopes and dreams tied up in those shreds of paper. She divided them: those that could be seen by family and those that could not. She threw away the “could nots” in the trash, never to be found.

  The others were bound with the satin ribbon she found in a faded envelope that said “For your 50th: If I was a carpenter, and you were a lady, I would make you a palace.” What a romantic! Then she placed them in VF’s ammo trunk in the basement.

  She mysteriously kept one special letter where she thought no one would find it.

  * * *

  A February light rain was falling when Bits drove up to the main house in her rented Mercedes SUV. She honked, cut the engine and grabbed the gigantic box she brought all the way from Canada.

  Virginia had had her morning coffee and was in her element.

  “Bits! Gimme me sum shugah,” she sang as she opened the front door, and escorted Bits into the grand atrium. “What in the world is that? I don’t need another car!” They both laughed as Bits put the box on the living room table.

  “Mom, welcome to your new life,” Bits grinned.

  “Coffee?” Virginia offered.

  “Nothing stronger?”

  “Gin and tonic?”

  “That’ll do.”

  Virginia prepared a strong drink for Bits, handed it to her, settled into the large leather couch, and began to open the present.

  “It’s not my birthday….yet.”

  “An early birthday present, Mama,” Bits smiled.

  Once the top was off, Virginia waded through oceans of the finest tissue paper tied with satin ribbons and a beautiful wax seal.

  Virginia gasped. It was just the reaction Bits had hoped.

  “A full length mink?”

  “A Russian golden sable,” Bits stressed, making a point that this was the grandest of furs. “For Christ sakes, put it on!”

  Virginia’s long, manicured fingers caressed the folds of the mink. She drew the coat close to her face, loving it. Then she stood and with Bits’ help, put it on, twirled, and smiled. “Oh, my, my, my.”

  “Well, you always wanted a mink.”

  “This is a perfect size.”

  “You and I are the same size, so that was easy.”

  “Oh, Bits! I’ve never…this is expensive. And really, where can I wear it? It’s Texas, after all.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you were going to travel?”

  “Well, I guess I can wear it to Alaska.”

  They both laughed, and Virginia ran to turn down the thermostat so she could wear the fur all day.

  As Virginia sat again, she looked closely at Bits.

  “What’s going on with your nose?” she asked.

  “Oh! You noticed. I thought the make up covered it. I’m going to have to have some surgery, I think.”

  Bits looked so much like Elizabeth Taylor that people would ask for her autograph. But today, her nose was covered with a large moss-like mold of some kind. It was an unfortunate circumstance. “The dermatologist did a biopsy. I have something called lupus profundus. They think they can cut it out, and probably I’ll have a nose job at the same time.”

  Virginia moved closer to Bits and with both hands cradled her face and examined her nose. “Oh, dear, I see that bubble. Is that the disease?”

  “Yes, I believe so. It will be OK.”

  Virginia looked worried. “Do you think they can cure it?”

  “Yes, it’s nearly 100% curable. AND I’ll get a new, slimmer nose.”

  Bits was always getting something about her changed. She really didn’t need a slimmer nose, Virginia thought, but whatever Bits wanted, she got.

  “Well, I’m sure you will be happier with that,” Virginia said.

  It was a red banner day for Bits. She could not have asked for a better outcome. Virginia felt sorry for her, and they spent the rest of the day discussing all the changes that would happen at the ranch—Bits would help Virginia transform the living room into a more modern, less “ranchy” feel.

  “Feng shui” Bits explained. “It’s the new way to modernize and give this room a harmonious feeling. We’ll get rid of the leather furniture and Indian-woven rugs and bring in Roche Bobois white fabric couches and chairs with a new color scheme for the floor rugs and walls. I’ll also help you choose the appliances for the new kitchen, and upgrade all the cabinets.”

  Virginia was thrilled.

  Bits did not bore Virginia with her impending tax evasion suit, or the fact that the fur was a present from one of the lovers she was leaving. Her business was on the brink of bankruptcy, and if she could find a buyer, she would sell, move back to the ranch, subdivide her land, start a winery, and live far away from the crowd.

  After a long and spirited conversation about more of the interior decoration, Bits brought in an assortment of fruits and cheeses she purchased on her way to the ranch. She also brought a long cylinder and stood it beside the table.

  “Mom, I love the ranch. I’d like to move back to the Austin area.”

  “Really Bits? You would give up your fragrance business and move here? I thought Mon Ami was the hottest selling perfume on the market?”

  “I could be persuaded,” Bits said slyly. “If it were to help you. Anyway, it may be time for someone else to grow that business, and I could diversify.”

  Virginia did not have a clue what that meant. “What would it take to get you here?”

  “Remember after Dad died you gave us all a map of the ranch?”

  Virginia nodded, vaguely remembering.

  “I did some homework.” Bits grabbed the cylinder, popped off the lid, and showed Virginia her handiwork. She had subdivided the land, giving herself the fat of the calf.

  As the two schemed into the early evening, Bits begged off dinner because of
plans in Austin. She promised to return the next day, and at Virginia’s request, meet with Virginia’s attorney to discuss land issues.

  “You know, you can help interpret for me,“ Virginia said, not trusting that she would understand John Trudell. Legal matters made her anxious.

  They agreed that Bits would pick up Virginia at ten for the 10:30 am appointment.

  As promised, the co-conspirators met with Mr. Trudell and discussed partitioning the land.

  “I believe you and VF decided which children would share a life estate with you, is that correct?” He directed his questions to Virginia, but Bits answered.

  “Mom and I brought this map.” Bits unrolled a large plat partition on his desk. It showed six 100-acre plots, with large block letters over each plot, indicating which sibling was to take possession.

  The attorney stood, stretched his arms wide to hold the map while Bits and Virginia sat opposite side by side. “This is a moot issue, isn’t it Virginia, because you and VF decided on a life estate with equal distribution. What this plat partition would do is essentially divide the property now for possible sale.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you looking to sell?” Now his curiosity was piqued. He had a small law practice in Dripping Springs, but he made a better living as a real estate broker selling ranchettes in this little heaven on earth. This was prime property. The fifteen percent fee he received on the easy-to-sell land transactions far outpaced his attorney’s fees for cases that could stretch over years to resolve.

  “Oh, if you’re looking to sell, I have a buyer ready, willing and able,” Mr. Trudell said.

  Virginia frowned. This was getting too complicated.

  Bits took her hand into both of hers, and with her giant brown eyes turned and looked directly at Mr. Trudell. “What’s the going price of an acre these days?”

  “It’s anywhere from 25 to 100.”

  “Thousand. Right?”

  “Yep.”

  “So, Mom, if you sold just 50 acres at $50,000 per acre that would be two and a half million dollars. Look at this,” she pointed to the area on the plat with a county road easement. “Here’s a prime piece, and selling this would not disturb your herd or you—it’s way on the other side of the ranch.”

  “Bits, why would I want to sell anything?”

  “Well, Mom, if you were to decide to just give me my piece of land now, I think I could be convinced to come live out there.”

  “But you’re talkin’ about sellin’.”

  “Well, sure, Mom. It’s costly to move, build a house…”

  Virginia looked at Mr. Trudell. “John, could I do that—give Bits her land now?”

  “Miz Landry, you can do anything you want, because you are the sole life estate owner.”

  “What about the taxes?”

  “Any sales under $5.5 million would not be taxed under estate tax law.”

  “How would I do this?”

  “Well, you could draw up deeds for each of your children…”

  Bits interrupted, “Everyone except Iris. She got the O-Bar.”

  Neither Bits or Virginia cared for the O-Bar farm. They both thought it bred ticks and was a sorry excuse for a farm. “That crummy piece of land will never amount to anything,” Virginia told Bits. Bits agreed. She called it the Go-Far. As in “go far, far away from it,” she would say. Then they would both laugh. They both felt that the money was in the ranch land.

  Mr. Trudell paused and looked down at the plat partition. “Each of your eligible children…that gives them ½ their portion now, the other ½ to you and you could suggest they sign the deed now rather than wait until you pass away.”

  Bits nearly jumped for joy. “See, Mom, there’s a solution. Very easy. A deed.”

  “Doesn’t that mean they lose ½ their land?” Virginia was confused, but thrilled with this conspiracy.

  “In a manner of speaking…but if your lifestyle is suffering and you need the income now, I’m sure they’ll understand,” Mr. Trudell said.

  “Mom, John will draw up the individual deeds and the letters so that everyone understands that you need to be supported now,” Bits said convincingly.

  “I don’t think everyone will go along,” Virginia protested, growing tired.

  “Let’s let Mr. Trudell work his magic and we’ll see what happens.” Bits then handed the attorney the names and addresses of the sisters and brothers who should receive a certified letter, along with the plat partition.

  “So, John, can you ‘bibbidi bobbidi boo’ this and we’ll give you the listing on the first twenty acres?” Bits spoke very fast when she was creating havoc. She extended her hand.

  The attorney took her hand and shook vigorously. It served as their secret understanding that he was not charging legal fees, knowing that as their attorney and real estate agent, he would receive fifteen percent on the sale of the land.

  “Deal,” he grinned.

  “How long do you think that will take?” Bits asked.

  “To create and send the letters? Miz Landry, are you willing to sign the letters if I have them ready in a couple of weeks?”

  “Well, what do I have to lose?” Virginia smiled sadly. Instinctively she knew that once her chicks figured out they would lose half their land by signing it away things would never be the same. It was the beginning of the end of Silvercreek Ranch.

  Bits knew it was time for Virginia’s massage, and a sip of wine to help her relax. She drove back to the ranch and deposited her at Vicki’s.

  Vicki’s little home was set up like a spa, with soft music, gurgling indoor waterfalls, plush couches, pastels, an atrium full of light and magically attractive acacia and other subtropical trees and plants. Candles glowed in just the right places.

  “I’m glad you called ahead,” Vicki chided sarcastically when she met them at the door. Bits had not told her she was in town, or that she was bringing Virginia by for her weekly appointment.

  “What have you two been up to?” Vicki knew that when Bits and Virginia got together, trouble followed. Bits always wanted something and always got her way.

  Vicki motioned to her mother. “The room is ready, Mom. Let me get you a glass of ice water.”

  “And some wine?” Virginia asked.

  “After.”

  Virginia left them to use the restroom, undress, and relax on the warm, comfy massage table.

  “We are finding a way to give you your land now, Vicki. We think we’ve got a solution,” Bits said softly.

  Bits—the master message spinner, Vicki thought.

  “Well, the devil’s in the details, isn’t it?” Vicki asked.

  “Yes, and John Trudell is sending you all the information.”

  Thus began the disassembly of what the neighbors called “El Rancho Diablo.” The name came honestly from Virginia’s devilish behavior and the evil goings on.

  Chapter Six:

  Please May I Have a Dr. Pepper?

  A month later, 1996

  The sunny pitch perfect March day began for Richard with a bang on his door.

  The parole board again?

  He was into his first month of a two-year parole from his DUI. He had already served nearly a year in several different Texas correctional facilities. Texas was hard on its repeat offenders even when that offender had an expensive attorney, compliments of mamasita Virginia.

  Richard unlocked the deadbolts. The letter carrier cheerily handed him a certified letter and a long cardboard cylinder. “Please sign here.”

  Richard obliged.

  Curiously the documents were from attorney John Trudell in Dripping Springs. Something about signing the enclosed deed to take possession of his land at the ranch. Could that be true? He would have his land—all one hundred acres—now? The cylinder held a plat partition. His name was written across the one hundred acres closest to the m
ain house.

  This called for celebration!

  What to do first—methadone? Eat? Drink a Dr. Pepper? Call his sponsor? Go see the land? All of the above?

  He told himself to slow down. He grabbed a handful of chips and a Dr. Pepper, sat at his Chubbie Checker retro dinette set, and re-read the letter.

  Finally.

  This was real freedom! I’ll have a piece of the ranch where I can live carefree, shoot guns anytime I want, grow some weed without prying eyes, and live without the daily condemnation of bible thumping neighbors. I’ve got to go see it. Feel it. Embrace the freedom!

  But first, he called his sponsor.

  “Taco?”

  Taco was Thomas A. Comalé. Richard christened him Taco.

  “Yeah? This Rich?”

  “I really need a hit.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “I’m finally going to get my piece of the ranch!”

  “That’s terrific, Rich. You still have the methadone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Take a small dose. Get some sunshine. Do some gardening.”

  They both laughed. Taco knew there was no garden at Richard’s tiny apartment. Just a 4” x 12” rectangular Japanese garden with sand, a miniature rake, and smooth rocks.

  “OK, see you this evening?”

  “Same time as always. 8 pm.”

  “Adios, amigo.”

  The shower felt good. Hot water—a luxury that went missing while in prison. Washing his thick black hair was a pleasure. He treasured the products he now had access to, and he took his time reveling in the suds and clean water. Real shampoo, not that jail commissary crap. He quickly dried off, trimmed his Fu Manchu moustache, slicked back his hair to show the widow’s peak that said I’m my father’s son, threw on his white t-shirt, Levis, motorcycle boots, and took a dose of methadone.