Rich White Trash

by Judi Taylor Cantor

  This is what I’ve dreamed of. Every moment spent at his job as a janitor while in the Del Valle facility and then the Huntsville prison, he thought about having a place at the ranch. His homies, as he called them—Jimbo, Catfish, Rerun—never believed him. Now he would have his own double-wide and when they were finally released they could come out to the ranch and share a cold one. Hang out.

  He would plant a real garden, grow some organic weed. Buy an Australian shepherd. He read that Australian shepherds were very smart dogs and loyal companions. He would teach his dog different languages. He’d take his dog for a dip in the cool waters of the creek and be one with the land.

  And maybe he’d even hook up with Sharon or Nora, his pen pals from the women’s prisons. They promised each other they would celebrate their release together some day. Sharon, the smart and pretty one, would be out in another month. Nora, who always signed her letters con todo mi cariño y respeto would be free in another year.

  This gave him a new world to look forward to. He needed to feel it, see it, embrace it now.

  He cradled his helmet, threw in the keys to his bike, opened his safe, pulled out $100, locked it, and closed and locked his front door. The letter and plat partition lay on the Chubbie Checker table.

  * * *

  I-35 was a mess of traffic in Austin. Richard’s 1996 Harley Dyna Wide, with heat shields, rear silencer, backrest, saddle box, and spring strut damping valve was his sleek black baby—recently purchased with the final proceeds of a court case adjudicated after he was run over ten years ago by a truck. VF helped him win that case in 1990. His broken leg brought him $85,000 with all medical bills and attorney’s fees paid.

  Richard’s left leg would never be the same, but today he was feeling no pain and the highway was his. As traffic opened up so did his baby. Sixty, seventy, eighty….he turned his head to look back. All clear. Ninety. Ninety-five.

  The eighteen-wheeler was a half-mile in front of him and slowing down. What in the world is he slowing down for? Richard thought he could make out something in the distance in the road—a deer? At this time of the day?

  It happened in a split second. He was braking and flying into the H-E-B truck simultaneously. He read the truck’s message “Because People Matter.” He held on to the handlebars, slammed into the side of the truck, and rolled to the right and down an embankment of wildflowers, over and over, the bike pounding his right arm, the smell of bluebonnets in his head.

  The bike was totaled.

  EMS arrived at the scene within ten minutes, and pulled an unconscious white male, 40 years old, serious contusions, large laceration on right arm, possibly broken in two places, second degree road burns on his back and right leg, out from under his mangled bike. An IV was administered, as well as oxygen and as much first aid as they could give under the circumstances. The bones in his arm were protruding through the skin.

  At the hospital, the admitting nurse opened his wallet and saw his name: Richard Daniel Landry. I know this guy. He’s the Richard Daniel Landry in my high school German class. He was brilliant. And handsome.

  That was before he began his career in the alternative pharmaceutical industry.

  She felt someone in the family should be notified. She also needed evidence of his insurance. She looked for more information in the wallet. It was VF Landry’s old business card, listing the home number. She dialed it.

  “Miz Landry?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?” Virginia answered.

  “I’m with Brackenridge Hospital. The trauma unit. Is Richard Daniel Landry your son?”

  “Oh, good God! What’s happened?”

  “Can you give me his date of birth?”

  “August 15th. What’s happened?”

  “Well, he’s been in an accident on IH35. He’s stable, but right now he is being wheeled into radiology for X-rays. Do you have his insurance information?”

  Virginia gave her all the relevant information since she paid for his insurance, and then called Vicki immediately.

  “That damned motorbike,” she said.

  “Mom, he’s a grown man. Let’s find out more about his condition. I’ll drive to Austin and be there for him. I have his Power of Attorney.”

  “Why in the world would you have Power of Attorney?” Virginia asked angrily.

  “Well, when we were taking care of Dad, we talked about life and death and things like that and he wanted to get his papers in order, so he asked me to be his Power of Attorney.”

  “Well, that was very prescient of him.” She slammed the phone. Why does everyone have such secrets? She hated not being in control. After all, she paid his bills, she gave him everything he wanted.

  The news of Richard’s accident spread throughout the family.

  Vicki arrived at the hospital with the Power of Attorney paperwork and spoke with the doc on duty about Richard’s condition. He had fractured his arm in two places. The orthopedic surgeon was about to “put him back together again,” the ER physician said. “It will take a couple of hours, several titanium pins, and a good stapler.”

  Vicki was not amused.

  The day was turning to night, and she needed a drink and some dinner. The Spanish Village offered both. It was the Mexican restaurant the family had frequented on special feast days, and a short stroll from the hospital.

  When she walked up the cool, smooth familiar steps into the bougainvillea-covered courtyard she felt the fond old memories return. Her favorite waiter, Jesse, still there after all these years, seated her at a private table where she could see the brightly colored frescoes of Latin lovers and hear the mariachi band in the distance.

  She remembered Orlando, her first lover. They met here, at the Spanish Village. She had taken a break from her studies at UT, and had a craving for “The Village” as she called her favorite Mexican restaurant.

  Orlando was also a student at the University of Texas in those days.

  It was a very long time ago.

  He saw a gorgeous, statuesque young lady alone at a table and asked to sit with her.

  “My name’s Orlando…or Lando for short.”

  “Lando…hmmmm…I like that name,” she said. She extended her hand to welcome him to her table. The name did have a dreamy sound.

  He was taken by her posture, he said.

  “My posture?” Vicki asked, laughing.

  “Yes, in my country, the way a lady sits is a sign of her breeding.”

  “Where is your country?”

  “I am from Argentina.”

  “Really? You came to Austin from Argentina? What’s your major?”

  “Engineering. My family are all engineers.”

  Vicki was smitten. He was as tall as she and oh so handsome. His close-cropped blonde hair was parted on the side, and his blue eyes twinkled with amusement. Oh! She delighted in his beautiful Spanish accent. They talked all evening about families, religion—he was Catholic, too—their studies, and their dreams.

  That night began a year-long courtship. The most delicious time of her life. The chemistry between them made her crazy. All he had to do was to look at her and she felt an electrical current throughout her body.

  He took her to ballet, symphony concerts, European movies, and jazz clubs. He showed her how to smoke “like a foreigner.” And he made love like a Latin lover—slow, romantic, and skillful. She, in turn, lovingly gave him Swedish massage and then gently stroked his back with her long nails as a prelude to their foreplay. She would trace circles within the smooth sway of his lower back, and outline the large valentine birthmark on his right cheek with her tongue.

  She looked at the kaleidoscope of mosaics around her and thought of the first time she made love with him. It was Barton Springs. He craved the icy blue water and she laughed at his crazy dives off the high diving board. He would stand far above her on the board, then slo
wly—all show—walk to the end and while balanced on one foot, turn and pause, looking heavenward. His long arms would stretch above his head as if in prayer. Then he would breathe deeply and back dive into the freezing water. He would swim to her at the deepest end and gather her up in his arms as she squealed. They would kiss and fall helplessly to the bottom of the pool, then jump up together to get their breath.

  On that first day at the Springs, after hours of diving and swimming, they both carried their blanket and picnic basket to a secluded area of the park, laid down the blanket and each other under an old, gnarled oak.

  Vicki looked lovingly into his eyes. “What do you see?” she asked.

  “I see the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  Vicki tickled his arm, then his hand, stroking it gently, sweetly, then gradually tickling his lips.

  “You are a dream come true,” she said.

  He kissed her gently on the shoulder, then on her neck. “Then you are my mujer de ensueño.”

  Vicki smiled, savoring the Spanish. She opened her heart and her body to him in a way she had never done before. She felt secure with Lando. She felt loved.

  For a year, he was all hers.

  Sitting at the Village this night, she ruminated over that love affair. Lando moved back to Argentina after his graduation. They wrote passionate love letters to each other for three months.

  Suddenly her letters were returned “address unknown.” She never knew what became of him. She tried to investigate. She called his thesis advisor who only said “things are happening in Argentina that you shouldn’t get involved in.”

  His two best friends disappeared. It was as if he never existed.

  It took her years after the Lando affair to trust anyone’s love for her. After nursing school, she met a cardiologist she liked. Emphasis on like. He was funny, and although he was shorter and unattractive, she married him.

  VF was not amused.

  “He is not Catholic, Vicki.”

  “Dad, not that many people are Catholic. That’s a very old fashioned way of thinking. He is very successful. He will provide.”

  “There will be a day you will regret this,” VF predicted. He knew Vicki was marrying for convenience.

  The wedding was perfunctory, and after a short time they had two beautiful daughters. Within ten years, though, he died of a heart attack. He left her with enough money from his retirement account that she could move to Colorado where she always wanted to be.

  “Darlin’,” her father would say, “if I ever had a choice of a beautiful mountain community, I would live in Denver.” Well, Denver it was for Vicki. She wanted to experience where her daddy would have lived. She wanted no other regrets.

  Vicki pulled herself out of her reflections and focused on dinner. The menu had not changed in thirty years. Comida corrida was everyone’s favorite—cheese enchilada, taco, tamale, rice and beans with a delicious covering of asiago cheese. That would not be healthy, but it would be comforting. She ordered that and a margarita gold.

  Memories of the family conversations in this very room bubbled up.

  “If you order it, you eat it,” VF would command the family. “I want to see nothing left on your plates.”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel Landry,” Joe would reply. The kids would giggle.

  Steaming fresh corn tortillas would be passed, butter and salt generously applied, and consumed as fast as the kitchen could make them. Then the children would order kids’ plates of tacos or enchiladas with refried beans and rice.

  Richard. The human vacuum. Leftovers were passed to him and quickly consumed. He was the skinniest yet the perpetual eating machine.

  She thought about his sad life. He had tasted heroin at the tender age of 15 after being incarcerated in a juvenile detention center. One of the inmates introduced it to him, showing how easy it was snort it. It was the beginning of a love affair with that narcotic, and a life within the cruel culture of Texas prisons.

  VF thought that since Richard was caught with a stolen car he should be left in the facility at least for a couple of weeks, just to “knock some sense into him.”

  He was such a smart kid. He was facile in languages—he learned Spanish, German and French in junior high and spoke fluent Spanish to all of the ranch hands. He loved Shakespeare and made As in advanced literature.

  She didn’t know when he started running guns into Mexico. Probably soon after graduating from high school. A month after his graduation, VF told him “Son, if you don’t go to college or get an honest job then don’t come home again.”

  The family didn’t see him for eight years.

  No one knew where he was. He just showed up at the ranch on a Sunday when everyone was having dinner together. He was sporting a mustache, his black hair in a ponytail, and he was riding a souped up motorcycle. He looked either like a member of the cast of Easy Rider or someone from a Mexican gang.

  Vicki took him aside to talk. “I’ve been growing marijuana on the O-Bar,” he told her.

  “The farm?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Since Dad never goes there anymore, it’s a perfect secluded venue to grow and harvest weed. Of course, I have to be careful about the processing and distribution, so I have a side business in retail firearms.”

  “That’s dangerous,” Vicki said, thinking how risky that sounded, and at the same time how much she admired his entrepreneurial skills.

  “Ah, you just need to know how to communicate,” he laughed, knowing that his facility with Spanish and his comfort level with guns kept him alive. “My favorite quote is virtus junxit mors non separabit.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Richard stared into her eyes, “What goodness has joined, death will not separate.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “A pal of mine said it’s an old Mason saying. I think it’s appropriate for our family, don’t you?”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “No, I love my family. I will always be a part of la familia. I just can’t be around you all for a long period of time. All that judgmental crap flying around in the air.”

  Most of the family was afraid of him. They needn’t be. He was a gentle soul in a costume. He just wanted to live and let live.

  Virginia was beside herself when she saw Richard that day.

  “Richard,” she said, as she led him into the study. “Don’t you know that I named you after my father? I want the very best for you. Your life on the road, or wherever you are going, it’s not good for you. You need to be around family. Stay here. Live on the ranch. We need help here. You can manage some of the ranch hands.”

  “Mom, that would never work out. Dad hates me.”

  “Dad doesn’t hate you. He just wants you to have an honest job.”

  Richard looked forlorn. “Dad will never approve of me.” He hugged her, got on his Harley, and roared away.

  That marked the day Virginia and VF’s war of wills about Richard’s future began. Richard was not above using his mother as his go-to ATM when times were tough, and VF would always be angry about that. VF’s credo is that a man supports his mother, not vice versa.

  * * *

  Vicki felt revived by the food and drink and made her way back to the hospital, found out that Richard was just getting out of recovery and waited in the appointed area to hear more. After an hour or so, she was given his room number.

  She tiptoed in to see a thoroughly bandaged brother. He was awake, sipping water, his right arm in a plaster cast with various pulleys and contraptions holding it up. The only piece of him not in gauze seemed to be his head.

  “Hey, Richard,” Vicki quietly murmured.

  “Boss. What’s the prognosis?”

  “You broke your arm. I haven’t talked to the doctor since your surgery. Are you in pain?”

  “I can s
tand the pain right now. Kinda sleepy. I think I danced with a tractor trailer.”

  “Yes, I think you did.”

  “Was going to check out my new piece of Silvercreek.”

  “Oh, you must have gotten the paperwork from Trudell. I got mine, too.”

  “Yeah, the map and the papers—I got them.”

  “Well, when you get out of here, I’ll be glad to drive you over to see your land. Are you going to sign the deed?”

  “Damned right. But if I don’t get out of here, you’ve got the paperwork.”

  Vicki knew he was referring to his will. She was the beneficiary.

  “You’ll get out of here. You should rest, and I’ll be back in the morning with Mom.”

  Richard’s eyes were already closed.

  * * *

  By eight the next morning, Virginia called Richard’s hospital room.

  “Richard, it’s your mother. How’re you feelin’ son?”

  “The pain is pretty bad, Mom. Pretty bad. I think they’re going to give me something for it soon.” His voice was strained.

  “I’m coming to see you this morning with Vicki. Anything you want?”

  “Please may I have a Dr. Pepper?”

  Dr. Pepper was always Richard’s choice soft drink. It was his grandmother Williams’ favorite too. When he was an infant she would sneak it into his bottle, cuddle him up and feed him as she rocked him in her favorite rocking chair.

  “Sure. Dr. Pepper’s on its way. We should see you in an hour or so.”

  It took nearly two hours through the Austin traffic to get to the hospital, stopping on the way for a six-pack of Dr. Pepper.

  Vicki parked in the hospital garage and she and Virginia went straight to Richard’s room. Two nurses were there, cleaning up, disassembling the traction device. There was no one in the bed.

  “Where’s Richard Landry?” Vicki asked, frightened.

  “Are you family?” The nurses were different from the previous night.

  “Well, yes, I’m his sister, this is his mother, Virginia Landry.”