Thalia

by Larry McMurtry

  He hadn’t been parked long when he saw his father leave the café and come walking up the empty street toward the square, shivering and shaking. All he ever wore was summer slacks and a thin cotton jacket, too short at the wrists. Sonny felt briefly guilty for not offering him a ride to the hotel. He would have, but his father would only try to give him ten dollars and that would make them both nervous. It would not be worth it to either of them to get in a money argument that late at night. Money arguments often upset them for hours. Frank couldn’t help offering it and Sonny couldn’t help refusing to take it. Sonny did not want it, nor could he see how his father could possibly do without it, as high as his prescriptions were. Frank Crawford was not the town’s only drug addict, but he was the one with the best excuse: he had been high-school principal in Thalia, until his car wreck. One night he was coming home from a high-school football game and sideswiped a cattle truck. Sonny’s mother was killed and Frank was injured so badly that six operations failed to restore him to health. He couldn’t stand the strain of teaching, tried to learn pharmacy and failed, and finally had to settle for the job at the domino hall. He got through life on prescriptions, but the prescriptions didn’t make him feel any better about the fact that his son was living in a rooming house rather than in a proper home.

  Sonny was a little afraid his father might spot the pickup, but Frank Crawford had his chin tucked down and the cold wind made his eyes water so badly that he hardly even saw the street. He passed under the blinking traffic light and went into the hotel, and Sonny quickly started the pickup and drove back to the café. Five soldiers had just come out and were standing around their car flipping quarters to see who drove the next stint. Their car had Kansas license plates and the boy who lost the toss looked depressed at the thought of how far there was to go.

  When Sonny went in Genevieve was back in the kitchen cleaning off the grill. He sat down at the counter and tapped the countertop with a fifty-cent piece until she came out of the kitchen to see who the customer was.

  “Surprise,” he said. “I guess I’ll have a cheeseburger to go to bed on.”

  “You would,” Genevieve said, far from surprised. She went back to the kitchen and slapped a hamburger patty on her clean grill. When the burger was ready she carried it right past Sonny and set it down at one of the red leatherette booths. Then she got a glass of milk for him and a cup of coffee for herself.

  “If you’ll sit in that booth I’ll keep you company,” she said.

  Sonny was quick to obey. The steam from her coffee rose between them as he ate his cheeseburger. The window by the booth was all fogged over, but the misted glass was cold to the touch, and the knowledge that the freezing wind was just outside made the booth seem all the cozier. Genevieve sat quietly, her hands on the coffee cup; the warmth against her palms was lovely, but it made her a little too nostalgic for all the winter nights she had spent at home, sleeping against her husband. Then her whole body had felt as warm and comfortable as her palms felt against the cup.

  “Your dad was in a few minutes ago,” she said, raising her arm to tuck a strand of black hair back in place.

  “Guess I just missed him,” Sonny said quickly.

  “Where’d you hide?” she asked, giving him a perceptive grin. Her teeth were a little uneven, but strong. Sonny pretended he hadn’t understood her and tried to think of a way to change the subject. Charlene was the only thing that occurred to him.

  “I guess you’ll have to be my girl friend now,” he said. “Me and Charlene broke up tonight.”

  “It was about time. I better take advantage of the situation while I can. Come on back in the kitchen and have a piece of pie while I do some dishwashing.”

  Sonny gladly went with her, but he was painfully aware that she was only joking about being his girl friend. He sat in a chair and ate a big piece of apricot pie while Genevieve attended to a sinkful of dishes. For a minute, lost in her work, she forgot Sonny completely and he felt free to watch her. Gallons of hot water poured into the sink and working over it soon had her sweating. Her cheeks and forehead shone with it; there were beads on her upper lip, and the armpits of her green uniform darkened. The errant strand of hair hung over her forehead when she bent to fish the knives and forks out of the water. As always, Sonny found himself strongly affected by her. Sweat, if it was Genevieve’s, seemed a very intimate and feminine moisture. Even Jacy didn’t affect him quite as strongly; beside Genevieve, Jacy seemed strangely diminished, and apparently Jacy knew it. She always made Duane take her to the drive-in rather than the café when they ate together.

  When Genevieve finished her dishes she glanced over at Sonny and saw that he seemed rather melancholy.

  “Honey, you shouldn’t be down in the mouth about Charlene,” she said. “You put up with her long enough. She didn’t even have a good disposition.”

  “I ain’t blue about her,” Sonny said, handing her the pie dish.

  When she asked him why he was blue, he shrugged, not knowing what to say. He was blue because he wanted her and knew he would never have her, but that wasn’t something he could talk about. “There ain’t nobody to go with in this town,” he said finally. “Jacy’s the only pretty girl in high school, and Duane’s got her.”

  Genevieve squeezed out her gray dishrag. “I’d call that his tough luck,” she said. “She’ll bring him more misery than she’ll ever be worth. She’s just like her grandmother. Besides, I doubt Lois and Gene want her marrying a poor boy.”

  “What’s the matter with them?” Sonny asked. “Why do they think everybody has to be rich?”

  “Oh, I don’t guess they do,” Genevieve said. “I oughtn’t to even talk about them. We were all good friends once. Gene and Dan roughnecked together when we first moved here and we all went to dances together. Lois’ mother had disowned her and she and Gene were livin’ in a little one-room place over the newspaper office. She couldn’t even afford a flour-sack apron, much less a mink coat.”

  Genevieve untied her own apron, which was damp from having been pressed against the sink. She stared at the floor a moment, her look full of memory.

  I’ll always have a soft spot for Lois,” she said. “Lois is some woman. Gene just never could handle her. Since he started making his strikes we haven’t seen much of one another. When folks get rich all of a sudden it makes them feel sort of guilty to be around folks who’ve stayed poor.”

  “I hate people like that,” Sonny said.

  Genevieve sighed and got herself a fresh apron. “You oughtn’t to,” she said. “It’s perfectly natural. I’ve always wondered what would have happened if Dan had bought the rig and made the strikes. They offered that rig to Dan first. In fact, Gene Farrow tried to get Dan to go partners with him on it, but when it comes to money Dan Morgan never took a chance in his life. If we had made the money we might be just as touchy about it now as they are. It can change people, you know.”

  Sonny looked at her curiously. He could not imagine Genevieve rich.

  “Do you wish you all had made it?” he asked.

  “Oh sure,” she said, smiling tiredly. “I wish we’d made it.”

  Sonny handed her a ten-dollar bill in payment for the cheeseburger.

  “Your dad give you this?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I never take money from him if I can help it. He needs all he’s got.”

  Genevieve frowned, and Sonny nervously began popping toothpicks out of the toothpick machine. “It wouldn’t hurt you to take a little something from him once in a while,” she said. “You’re the only boy I know who won’t even let his own father give him money.”

  But Sonny had his mind on other things. “I hear Dan’s goin’ back to work soon,” he said. “I guess you’ll be quittin’ work before long.”

  Genevieve slapped at his hand to make him let the toothpicks alone, but she was touched by the question. Of all the boys who had crushes on her, Sonny was her favorite. Also, he had the worst crush, and was the most vulnera
ble. She watched a moment as he walked over to the brightly lit jukebox and stooped to catch his reflection in the shiny plastic dome. He got out his pocket comb and began to comb his brown hair. He was so young and so intent on himself that the sight of him made her feel good about life for a moment; she almost wanted to cry, and since her husband’s accident that was something she only dared do in moments of optimism.

  “Honey, we got four thousand dollars worth of doctor bills to pay,” she said finally. “I’ll probably be making cheeseburgers for your grandkids.”

  Sonny shoved his comb back in his hip pocket. Four thousand dollars in debts was something he couldn’t really imagine; it was a misfortune, of course, but somehow he felt lighter about things. He went back and got one more toothpick to show Genevieve he wasn’t intimidated.

  She ignored him and drew herself another cup of coffee. It was such a cold night that there probably wouldn’t be any more customers until the bus came through at 3 A.M., and then it would only be the bus driver. The only time anyone ever got on or off in Thalia was when some soldierboy was coming home on leave or else going back to his base. The two hours before the bus came were the loneliest of the night.

  “See you,” Sonny said. “If I knew how to cook I’d stay and substitute for you.”

  Genevieve was idly peeling the polish off a fingernail, while her coffee cooled. “If you knew how to cook I’d let you,” she said.

  When he got within a block of the rooming house, Sonny killed his motor and let the pickup coast up to the curb. Sometimes just the sound of a pickup would waken Old Lady Malone. He tiptoed in, trying to miss all the squeaky boards. When Old Lady Malone woke up she always came slopping down the hall in her dead husband’s house shoes to tell Sonny to be sure and turn out his fire. Then she frequently went in the bathroom and made bad smells for half an hour.

  His room was discouragingly cold, and smelled dusty. Things always smelled dusty after the wind had been blowing for a day or two. He considered reading for a while, but there was nothing there to read except a couple of old Reader’s Digests and a few sports magazines. He had read them all so many times he had them practically memorized.

  That morning he hadn’t bothered to make his bed and the quilts were all in a heap. He undressed and snuggled under the heap, his mind returning at once to Genevieve. Not Genevieve at the café, though—Genevieve naked, just out of her bath, with the ends of her black hair dampened and drops of water on her breasts. In a room so dry, with the dusty air chafing his nostrils, the thought of Genevieve dripping water was very exciting; but unfortunately the fantasy was disturbed by his feet poking out from under the ill-arranged covers into the cold air. For a moment he attempted to kick the covers straight but they were too tangled. He had to get up, turn on the light, and made the bed, all the while somewhat embarrassed by his own tumescence. Like most of his friends he went through life half-convinced that the adults of Thalia would somehow detect even his most secret erections and put them down in the book against him. The chill of the room and his own nervousness were distracting, and by the time the quilts were spread right his only thought was to get under them and get warm. Before he could reestablish his picture of Genevieve naked he was asleep.

  Four

  THE ONE REALLY NICE THING ABOUT HIGH SCHOOL IN Thalia was that it gave everybody a chance to catch up on their sleep. Sonny and Duane habitually slept through their three study halls and were often able to do a considerable amount of sleeping in class. Working as hard as they did, school was the only thing that saved them. Occasionally they tried to stay awake in English class, but that was only because John Cecil, the teacher, was too nice a man to go to sleep on.

  When they got to English class on Monday morning Jacy was already there, wearing a new blue blouse and looking fresh and cheerful. Mr. Cecil sat on his desk, and he also looked happy. He had on a brown suit and an old green tie that had been knotted so many times the edges were beginning to unravel. His wife Irene kept the family accounts and had decided the tie was good for one more year. She was a fat bossy woman and their two little girls took after her. Yet somehow, despite his family, Mr. Cecil managed to keep liking people. When he wasn’t actually teaching he was always hauling a carload of kids somewhere, to a fair or a play or a concert. In the summertime he often hauled carloads of boys over to an irrigation ditch where they could swim. He didn’t swim himself but he loved to sit on the bank and watch the boys.

  “Well, I wonder what my chances are of interesting you kids in John Keats this morning,” he said, when the class was settled.

  “None at all,” Duane said, and everybody laughed. Mr. Cecil laughed too—it was all in fun. The kids didn’t hold it against him that he liked poetry, and he didn’t hold it against them that they didn’t. He read them whatever poetry he felt like reading, and they dozed or got other homework done and didn’t interrupt. Once in a while he told good stories about the poets’ lives; Lord Byron and all his mistresses interested the boys in the class a good deal. They agreed among themselves that Lord Byron must have been a great cocksman, but why he had bothered to write poetry they couldn’t figure.

  While Mr. Cecil was trying to decide what poetry to read that day Sonny got Joe Bob Blanton’s algebra homework and began to copy it. For a year or two it had been necessary to threaten to whip Joe Bob before he would hand over his problems, but in time he began to want to be popular and handed them over willingly. That morning, to everyone’s surprise, he held up his hand and got in an argument with Mr. Cecil over one of Keats’s poems.

  “I read the one about the nightingale,” he said. “It didn’t sound so good to me. It sounded like he wanted to be a nightingale, and I think it’s silly of all these poets to want to be something besides what the Lord made them. It’s criticizing the Lord.”

  Everybody snickered except Mr. Cecil. Joe Bob was sort of religion crazy, but nobody could blame him for it, considering the family he had. He was even a preacher himself, already: the summer before he had gone to church camp and got the call. Everybody figured Joe Bob had just done it to get a little extra attention from the girls at the church camp, but if that was it it sure backfired. So far as Brother Blanton was concerned the Lord’s call was final: once you heard it you were a preacher forever. He started Joe Bob preaching sermons right away.

  Mr. Cecil never quite knew what to do when Joe Bob got started. “Oh, I don’t really think he wanted to be a nightingale, Joe Bob,” he said. “Maybe he just wanted to be immortal.”

  Joe Bob was not satisfied with that either; he took out his pocket comb and slicked back his blond hair.

  “All you have to do to be immortal is lead a good Christian life,” he said. “Anybody can do it if they love the Lord, and you can’t do it by writing poems anyway.”

  “Maybe not, maybe not,” Mr. Cecil said, chuckling a little. “Here, now let me read you this.”

  He started reading the “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” but the class was not listening. Joe Bob, having said his say, had lost interest in the whole matter and was doing his chemistry. Duane was catching a little nap, and Jacy was studying her mouth in a little mirror she kept behind her English book—she had been considering changing her lipstick shade but didn’t want to do so hastily. Sonny looked out the window, and Mr. Cecil read peacefully on until the bell rang.

  Civics class was next, a very popular class. Sonny and Duane had taken the precaution to sit in the back of the room, so they could cheat or sleep or do whatever they wanted to, but actually, in civics class, they could have done about as much if they had been sitting in the front row. Coach Popper taught civics—if what he did could be called teaching—and he could not have cared less what went on.

  Not only was the coach the dumbest teacher in school, he was also the laziest. Three days out of four he would go to sleep in class while he was trying to figure out some paragraph in the textbook. He didn’t even know the Pledge of Allegiance, and some of the kids at least knew that. When he went to sleep, he n
ever woke up until the bell rang, and the kids did just as they pleased. Duane usually took a nap, and Joe Bob made a big point of reading the Bible. The only girl in class was a big ugly junior named Agnes Bean; the boys who didn’t have anything else to do teased her. Leroy Malone, Old Lady Malone’s grandson, sat right behind Agnes and kept the class amused by popping her brassiere strap against her back. Once he made her so mad popping the strap that Agnes reached under the desk, slipped off her brogan shoe, and turned and cold-cocked him with it before he could get his guard up. His nose bled all over his desk and he had to get up and sneak down to the rest room and hold wet towels on it until it stopped.

  Another time, for meanness, the boys all ganged up on Joe Bob and stuck him out the window. They hung on to his ankles and let him dangle upside down a while, assuring him that if he yelled and woke up the coach they would drop him. Nobody was sure whether they really would have dropped him or not, but Joe Bob was sensible and kept quiet. The classroom was just on the second floor, so the fall might not have hurt him much even if they had dropped him.

  After civics there was a study hall, and then lunch, a boring time. One year Duane and Jacy had been able to sneak off to the lake and court during lunch, but it was only because Lois Farrow was drinking unusually hard that year and wasn’t watching her daughter too closely. Lois was the only woman in Thalia who drank and made no bones about it. That same year Gene Farrow gave a big barbecue out at a little ranch he owned, and all his employees were invited. Duane was roughnecking for Gene then and took Sonny along on his invitation. Lois was there in a low-necked yellow dress, drinking whiskey as fast as most of the roughnecks drank beer. She was also shooting craps with anyone who cared to shoot with her. That was the day that Abilene won over a thousand dollars shooting craps, six hundred of it from Lois and the other four hundred from Lester Marlow, who was Jacy’s official date. Lois thought Abilene cheated her and wanted Gene to fire him on the spot, but Gene wouldn’t. She cussed them both out, got in her Cadillac, and started for town, but the steering wheel got away from her as the Cadillac was speeding up and she smashed into a mesquite tree. Lois just got out, gave everybody a good hard look, and started to town on foot. Nobody stopped her. Gene Farrow got drunk and Abilene kept gambling. While he was rolling dice with Lester, Duane took Jacy over behind some cars and in excitement almost got her brassiere off. Sonny himself won $27 in a blackjack game, and he was not even an employee. That night somebody busted Lois’ lip and blacked her eye; some thought Gene Farrow did it but others claimed it was Abilene. He had known the Farrows before they were rich, and he wasn’t a man to put up with much name calling, and nobody but Lois would have had the guts to call him names in the first place; if there was anything in the world she was scared of nobody knew what it was. She was a tall, rangy blonde, still almost as slim as her daughter, and she was not in the habit of walking around anyone.