Rich White Trash

by Judi Taylor Cantor

  Lovingly,

  Dan

  Mary read and re-read the letter. Was this Dan? The same Dan that Iris said their mom whispered upon her deathbed? There was no last name. Just the postmark Seattle, the embossed letterhead, the well-written letter with impeccable penmanship. April 15, 1941. The day 200 German bombers, known as the Luftwaffe, bombed Belfast, Northern Island. Hmmm…Wonder what Daddy was doing that day? Preparing for the Germans one would think.

  Dan. Oh, Danny boy!

  Mary was thinking—if this is THE Dan who was Hap’s father, perhaps she could find out by tracing Hap’s DNA. She had just heard of a company called 23 And Me that could take one’s DNA and tell you who was related, with names and everything. Karen kept a lock of Hap’s hair! We should have it tested! And Vicki kept Dad’s hair. At the least we can find out whether Hap and Dad matched.

  Mary was on a mission. She carefully folded the letter, putting it aside to copy and send to Iris. She reorganized all of the other letters, tied them with the appropriate ribbons, and placed them back in the trunk with the bomber jacket. This may have solved the mysteries of her mother and father’s relationship. She couldn’t wait to talk with Vicki and Iris about these discoveries.

  And she couldn’t wait to visit Karen and get some of Hap’s hair.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Horatius The Cat

  March, 2010

  In the ensuing years, there were various changes in the Landry clan. Children were born to daughters of the Landrys, sons and daughters married and their children grew up, and everyone except Bits stayed in touch on the remarkable new discovery called Facebook. Jason, Iris’ middle son, created a “Silvercreek Cousins” group page, and brought all the cousins together every other year in Austin even though some cousins lived as far away as New Zealand.

  But Bits was another story.

  Vicki, Mary, and Bits all had property on Silvercreek Ranch. Although Mary did not talk to Bits, she saw that parcels of Bits’ land were being sold, and she often heard from Vicki that Bits was developing ranchettes and running her vineyard. The sisters’ respective acreage was large enough that they could go months without seeing each other, but Vicki kept in touch regularly with all of her sisters. She had a favorite saying. “Hope springs eternal.” She would say, “Someday we will be one big happy family again. That’s what Dad would want.”

  “I’m an optimist, but I don’t think that will ever happen,” Iris said when Vicki called one beautiful Texas Saturday morning repeating her favorite mantra. Vicki was on her back porch at the ranch where the reception for her new iPhone was strongest, watering her camellias. Iris still lived in New York and worked at the American Museum of Natural History. This call interrupted her meditating in the Shakespeare Garden in Central Park, on her favorite bench. Iris continued, “especially after what Bits did to all of you—how she stole property from Richard’s estate particularly. Who steals land from someone who is dead?”

  “And from your son,” Vicki blurted out.

  “What are you talking about? Which son?” Iris had three sons.

  “Your oldest son—Will. Didn’t you know?”

  “No!” Iris sat straighter, rather agitated at this disturbing news.

  “Dad and Mom gave Will twenty-five acres after he came back from the Gulf War,” Vicki said, proud of herself that she had the scoop.

  “Where was the acreage?”

  “A prime piece across from the creek.”

  “On that hill? Overlooking the ranch? Inspiration Point?” Iris asked.

  “Yes. Yes. And yes.”

  “How did she steal it?” Iris voice grew strained while she imagined that beautiful piece of property taken from her son.

  “I’m not sure how this works but this is what someone at the deeds office in Drippin’ told me. Evidently Will didn’t file the deed soon enough, so when Bits took over a lot of property soon after Dad died, she enveloped his acreage within hers, with no easement. Essentially, she stole it.”

  “How could she do that? That is pure evil.”

  “She got Mom to sign off on it. They had Trudell do the paperwork, and the result is that Will can never get access to his property unless he pays Bits to create an easement—at today’s going rate that’s about $100,000.”

  “Damn damn damn. I wonder why Will never told me. I know he’s been very upset about the ranch and angry at Bits, I just didn’t know what happened. I thought he was so angry with her because of all her land grabbing habits overall. He and I talk all the time. He often says she’ll have a sad ending. This makes me feel terrible. Maybe this is why he seems so happy when I discuss the changes I’m going to make at the farm. He understands he’ll have a third of that land after I die.”

  “Don’t you ever talk to her?” Vicki asked.

  “Why would I talk to such a thief? I have nothing whatsoever to do with her or her ransacking of the ranchland. Since my property is the farm, thank God, I don’t have to think about talking with her. I want nothing to do with her. By the way, whatever happened to her and the IRS? Wasn’t she in arrears?”

  “Oh, you’ll love this,” Vicki said. “Did you hear about the guy who flew his plane into the IRS building in Austin after he set fire to his home? I think his name was Andrew Stash—or something like that.”

  “Stash works…” Iris laughed, skipping a beat while Vicki got it.

  “Anyway, that was just last month and Iris had a hearing at that same building on the same day. It turns out all the paperwork on her case was destroyed in the kamikaze blaze!”

  “No. She just can’t be that lucky!” Iris was incredulous. “Do others in the family talk to her? Joe? Your daughters? Isn’t she your oldest daughter’s godmother?”

  “I’m afraid the rest of the family feels the same way you do. I talk to her because she is out and about on her golf cart at the ranch, but she rarely picks up her phone. She says she’s writing. Her winery isn’t doing so great after that article in Texas Monthly.”

  “Tell me more,” Iris asked, happy about Bits’ misfortune.

  “There was this investigative article in Texas Monthly about her winery, pointing out that the wine was not from grapes grown in Texas, but in Canada. It had a negative effect on her sales immediately.”

  “Can’t say I feel sorry for her.”

  “Then her husband took off with that pretty young artist who has the llama ranch down the road.”

  “Whoa….Whaaat? A llama rancher? This is news.” Iris rolled the words llama rancher over and over in her mouth and grew more delighted with Bits’ misfortune.

  It turned out that Bits’ husband had grown tired of their years-long sleeping arrangement—she in master bedroom #1, him in master bedroom #2 and no skin between them. He was a wine salesman and had met the pretty llama rancher who was half his age when he sold her a new wine cellar for her expansive ranch house.

  Serves her right, Iris thought. Who would want to live with such a cruel, self-centered jerk?

  “Want to hear what she’s writing about?” Vicki asked.

  “What?”

  “Cats.”

  “Cats? Does she have cats?” Iris asked, incredulous.

  Bits hated most animals, except for horses, and she never rode anymore.

  “In fact, several.” Vicki added, “feral cats. I think from various other ranches. She feeds them. She’s a member of the Cat Writer’s Association.”

  “There’s actually a Cat Writer’s Association?” Iris was smirking, and began to scratch her arm. Just the thought of cats made her itchy. She was horribly allergic to cats and wasps. Carried her epi pen everywhere she went.

  No surprise really that Bits would fall for cats—cats need little love. Mostly they just need to be fed. But writing about them? So strange. Bits had become a cat lady. A bona fide member of the Cat Writer’s Association.

/>   “She’s writing a book about one of the cats. It’s called Horatius the Cat. Want to read some of it?”

  “Hell, no! Why would I want to read anything she’s written? She’s just a greedy, horrible person.”

  “Iris, everyone has two sides. The yin and the yang. Even Mom had two sides.”

  “In Bits’ case, Vicki, it’s evil side one, and more evil side two. I know, Vicki, that you want to get the family to love one another and be together as a family, but frankly, Bits is not family to me. Now that I know what she did to my son Will by taking his property….I want nothing to do with her—ever….

  “Think about it, Vicki. You’ve told me how she’s schemed and stolen property from nearly everyone—the way she took the largest section of Richard’s land after Mom told Mary she could have that. Then she took parcels of everyone else’s land that mother didn’t sell when she made people sign off on half of their land. Altogether she has taken, what? Three hundred acres?”

  “About that.”

  “Damn, Vicki. You are too forgiving. This family just pushes all of the dysfunction under the rug—hiding all the anger and frustration. I think it builds up and manifests itself as addiction, health problems and mental health problems.” Iris’ voice was deliberate, nearly pleading.

  “I think we’re on pain overload. I think we don’t face what’s going on because we just can’t take any more pain. In massage therapy school you learn that the body has various pain centers, but when a person has massive pain, only one pain center is prominent, the others shut down, and the therapist can work on that area to relieve pain in the other areas.”

  “So, you think that Dad’s death, then Richard’s death, then Hap’s death…all of that pain in a relatively short time together with our childhood baggage—you think we all just shut down our feelings? Is that what you’re thinking? You think that’s why no one took you up on a group therapy session?” Iris asked.

  “I think we all still feel, but we just can’t talk about it—it’s too painful. And I think it goes all the way back to Jillian,” Vicki said.

  “Vicki, I can’t believe you mentioned Jillian. Now there’s a reason to hate Bits if I ever heard one.”

  “Why? What?” Vicki was sincerely confused.

  “Oh, give me a break. You didn’t know about Bits setting up Jillian for a beating before Jillian fell off that wall?”

  “No. This is news.”

  “About 60 years too late,” Iris said. “I think our sister Bits is a psychopath.”

  Characteristically, Vicki changed the subject. She and Iris talked about the upcoming reunion that they and Mary were going to have at Iris’ farm, which she had renamed Thunder Valley Farm. Iris was excited about the plans. “I’ve got each day planned out—we’re going to study the farm parcel by parcel and listen to Dad’s audio tape as we do.”

  “Well if anyone can put together an organized assessment of 300 acres, it’s you, Iris.”

  Iris’ anger over Bits’ pathetic life had softened. She was curious about Bits’ writing if for nothing else to see how a psychopath writes. She didn’t know if it was the scientist in her, trying to unearth fossilized creativity, or if she was genuinely curious to see what exactly a creature like Bits would about.

  “Vicki, email me one of the chapters of Bits’ book. I would like to read it, even if it’s for a laugh.”

  Iris thought about what Vicki told her about the article in Texas Monthly. Now, that was a revelation. Iris knew very little about how Bits ran her winery. She had heard that Bits cultivated grapes in Canada and had the must—the skins, juice and particulate matter—sent to her wintery in Texas, and then she processed and bottled it. Iris felt a little thrill that justice might prevail. Truth will out. One of VF’s favorite sayings.

  Shifting her focus to the luscious beauty of the Shakespeare Garden around her, Iris breathed in deeply the scent of spring. The explosion of tulips, crocuses, snowdrops, daffodils, and the hint of cherry blossoms wafted before her eyes, like a Monet pastel. When I die and am cremated, I want some of my ashes to rest here, with the beauty of this garden.

  * * *

  After a few days, Vicki sent Iris an e-mail with an attachment. It was chapter one of Bits’ book, Horatius the Cat.

  She opened and read:

  Down the rocky path he came. Gray head and body, large yellow eyes. He has a black stripe from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail. I just stood still and gaped at this beautiful creature. I judged him to weigh about fifteen pounds. The hair on his body was short—but heavy. I tried to stop him at the gate. Observing me as a barrier, the big cat opened his mouth and screamed.

  The days drifted by and I’d forgotten about him. Food scraps were placed outside for the birds. A long, low bench sat under the trees for the food. Late one evening, I could see something moving around near the bench. When I investigated the next day, I discovered the food gone. Well, birds sleep nights—they don’t prowl, I thought.

  Once again I put food outside. This time I watched and waited.

  Something terrible had happened. He was crippled. He seemed all twisted. The hair on his body had been cut. Had someone hit him with a car? Had he been shot?

  It’s quite ordinary, Iris thought as she stopped reading. No. It’s awful. She wondered what those Cat Writer’s conventions must be like. Women, mostly women, for sure. Some wearing cat glasses and sporting cat jewelry? Some with silk cat scarves tied neatly around their necks or dangling from their purses? Sponsored by cat food and cat product vendors? Maybe even cat cemetery sponsors. Do they award a cat writer of the year trophy?

  While Iris contemplated the Cat Writer’s conventions, Bits sat in her golf cart overlooking Inspiration Point, just a small part of her kingdom of ranchland. She was viewing her newest development, The Wild Side of Barton. This division of thirty new homes on fifteen acres with hike ‘n bike paths and manmade streams and waterfalls were what made her day. She should have been happy. Instead, she felt defeated. What had become of her life? She wondered. How did all of her hard work on her winery go to hell so fast just because some baby-faced writer found out the grapes are really from Toronto? Who the hell cares what kind of grapes I use?

  Bits used to confide in Virginia, when Virginia was still alive. She could tell her anything. They would sit on the vast screened in porch at the fortress and drink wine all afternoon and laugh about all those silly men Bits had been married to, and the stupid things they did. One of her favorite phrases about one of her husbands was “I had to put a bag over his head to make love with him.” That would crack Virginia up so much that she would nearly fall off the couch laughing, one hand on the crystal wine glass, the other at her throat, chortling.

  At that time there had been six. Now the sixth was gone to a llama rancher.

  One of the last times they were together like that, as sunset approached, Bits confided she was selling another piece of the property. Another million dollars.

  Virginia always said, “Bits, you know best. Go ahead and do what you think is right.”

  Bits looked at her right arm, covered with deep scratches. It seemed her skin grew thinner every day. Her favorite cat, Gertrude, used her arm as a scratching post. She drew a finger over the long scabs and felt the bumps. The arm appeared as if it had been burned, with dark pink and red blotches surfacing throughout.

  Now that Virginia was gone, Bits talked to her cats, and when any of them would join her in her golf cart, she would usher them around her compound. “Come, Gertrude,” she would say to the orange marmalade feline, “gimme some shugah.” Gertrude would stretch her back and say “yeow” loudly and jump up beside her. Today Gertrude sat nobly beside her, looking out over the vast estate. Bits looked down at Gertrude and grabbed her paw, staring at it. Gertrude screamed and jumped from the golf cart, running like a tiger to the creek below.

  Horatius would ha
ve never done that, Bits thought. He had killer instincts. Bits saw herself in Horatius. He stood up to anyone and anything. But even Horatius could not give her love.

  Today, she felt more alone than at any other time of her life.

  Part III

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Horse Fever

  1920

  A young boy who has nothing has everything.

  That’s what VF’s mother used to say before she put him to bed at night.

  Actually, she would say, “mladý chlapec, který nemá nic, má všechno.“

  VF was five years old, going on six. He was the spitting image of his slim, beautiful mother with her widow’s peak and wavy black hair and dark eyes. Everyone in his family spoke Czech. It would be another year until he began to learn English. He would dutifully kneel, say his Catholic prayers under the watchful eyes of Jesus Christ on the cross, and jump into his bunk, with its flour sack pillowcase and rough sheets. He would lie there thinking of the things he wanted so badly: a horse to ride to school that year, books to read, paper and pens to write with.

  Mainly, he wanted a horse to ride. He was willing to find a wild one and break him. That way, the horse would be his forever. He had no money so the only way he could have a horse was to find a wild one and train it. Ever since he was two years old he had watched his neighbor, old Hortus (pronounced Hor-tush), and his dad break wild horses and he knew that once you broke a horse it would follow you to the end of the world if you fed it and cared for it.

  That night he dreamed about himself and his horse.

  It’s neck felt creamy and smooth as he caressed it with long, long caring strokes. He held the end of the rope he made from discarded feed sacks and mounted the strong, dark purple colt. There was no need of a saddle. The colt smiled, cantered around the corral, and opened the gate with his teeth, pulling it wide with his front leg.