I didn’t say anything.
“The workers’ comp thing for Max fell through.” My mother pulled a cigarette from a sequined holder with a snap on the top and a pocket on the side for a lighter. Max was my sister’s husband-of-the-moment.
“Mom, remember when we lived near Waco, before moving to Dallas?”
“I hated living there.” She lit her cigarette. “No damn culture.”
Mom went to the opera once. In 1967. She never got over it or the fact that my father had relegated us to live in an area without such social opportunities. Dad’s idea of a good time was a bucket of wings, a twelve-pack, and a night at the tractor pull.
“You were friends with Billy Barringer’s mother.”
Tess looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Why on earth you took up with that hooligan, I’ll never know.” She blew a plume of smoke upward toward the wagon wheel chandelier.
“Vivian,” I said. “That was her name.”
Mom nodded.
“Where was she from?”
“What do you mean?” Mom took a long drink from her glass.
“Where was she born?” I tried not to sound exasperated. “What town did she come from?”
My mother squinted at Tess. “Are you and my son dating?”
“No.” Tess shook her head. “He’s helping me with a problem.”
“Vivian Barringer,” I said. “Where did she come from?”
No reply.
“Her maiden name was Carmichael, same as Billy’s middle name. Vivian Carmichael from . . .?” I raised an eyebrow.
Mom pointed to her husband. “Buford’s son just got a job at the Pontiac dealership.”
Buford left the room, pipe in hand.
I swore under my breath and extricated myself from the quicksand designed to look like a sofa. I offered a hand to Tess, who got up also. “You need anything around the house, Ma? Any help?”
My mother stood. “You’re never going to meet a nice girl, living like you do. Chasing thugs, going to God knows what kinds of places.”
“See you around.” I headed toward the front of the house.
Tess followed me, my mother bringing up the rear. I opened the front door and stepped outside. Buford stood by the flower bed, a spray bottle of weed killer in one hand, pipe clenched between his teeth. I was halfway down the sidewalk when she called out to me.
“Hank. Wait.”
I turned around. Tess went on to the car.
“Don’t go back there,” my mother said.
“I have to.”
“Please.” There were tears in her eyes.
“Where was Vivian Barringer from?”
My mother looked at me for a long time. The children from next door came outside and began playing in the front yard. Buford went back inside. Finally she told me the name of the town. I kissed her on the cheek and left.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Interstate 35 starts at the south end of the state, in Laredo, and winds its way northward, ending up in Minnesota. In the process it splits Texas in two, in more ways than one. To the west the soil was thin and rocky, well suited to raising cattle on large, open tracts. The dirt in the eastern section was rich and dark, a deep loam perfect for growing things like plantation crops. Mesquite and cactus to the west; magnolias and pines to the east.
Cows to one side, cotton to the other. John Wayne versus Scarlett O’Hara.
The dotted white lines blurred underneath us as we barreled down the highway, making good time. Half an hour into the drive, Tess asked me about our last stop.
“Why do you care about where Billy Barringer’s mother came from?”
“It’s the only piece of information I didn’t have.”
“And it’s important how?”
I was silent for a few miles and then said, “I don’t know.”
An hour later, we made our way through the northern part of Waco, the city on the Brazos, home to Baylor University, the Branch Davidians, eight or nine thousand Baptist churches, and more bookies and dice games than the Jersey Shore, if you knew where to look.
We stopped and ate at a place called George’s, thick slabs of chicken-fried steak swimming in cream gravy, fresh-cut french fries, and iceberg lettuce salad. We washed it all down with Miller Lite served in goblets the size of softballs.
We got on the road again as the early evening sun stretched westward. We left the interstate and headed east on a state highway. The land on the outskirts of the city had changed significantly since my last trip, pastures giving way to new subdivisions. The growth wasn’t as dramatic as in parts of Dallas, where rain forest-sized tracts of black dirt were being transformed into miles and miles of tract housing, but it was still noticeable.
Our destination was an old cotton town on the Brazos River called Seldon. Tess’s family lived in the northern portion of the county, near where the new interstate was going through. Twenty years ago, the Barringers owned a roadhouse a few miles south of town. Though their base of operations was a couple of counties east, Seldon seemed like a good place to start.
The shadows lengthened as we made our way eastward. After a while we came to the city limit sign for Seldon. Population: 4,000 and change. City water: drinkable.
The number of people was hard to verify, as the streets were deserted with only an occasional truck lumbering by. Most of the houses were in some state of disrepair, unpainted, yards overgrown. Plywood covered the windows of several places, as if they were waiting for an inland hurricane. These homes had bright orange No Trespassing signs tacked on the outside walls. Each place had six or eight cars parked in the front yard.
Tess pointed to the second one. “Know what that is?”
“Meth lab.” I nodded. It was hard not to know about the hillbilly heroin and the swath of destruction it was cutting through the Texas countryside.
“Yep.” She nodded. “My high school boyfriend grew up in that house.”
“Does he still live there?”
“Last I heard.”
Since Seldon was the county seat, the downtown was dominated by a three-story limestone courthouse. The storefronts that ringed the square originally formed the commercial district for the area. Now most were empty, with a few antique stores and lawyers’ offices the only businesses in the town center.
The interstate cutoff was a few miles past downtown. This was where the economic destiny of rural Texas lay at the dawn of the twenty-first century: a mom-and-pop video place; an unbranded motor hotel, probably owned by someone named Patel; and an all-in-one store selling liquor, beer and wine, groceries, and hardware items. The booze business was brisk. A steady stream of people emerged from the store, cases of beer tucked under one arm, a bag of ice in the other hand.
We passed the cluster of stores and the highway cutoff and soon were on a two-lane farm-to-market road, little more than a narrow valley between walls of trees and vines on either side. Every mile or so, a clearing would appear, an empty pasture or a mobile home visible in the diminishing light.
Both of us remained silent as the vegetation blurred by in a solid mass of dark green.
The road curved eastward, and we crossed the Brazos River. After a few more miles on the farm-to-market road, Tess directed me to turn right on a narrow gravel-and-dirt track.
The trees formed a canopy overhead. I flipped on the lights and slowed as the road meandered, following no discernible course. Tess rolled down her window, and I could smell the river and the dust from the narrow track we followed.
The thick mass of vegetation abruptly ended as the road shifted left into what appeared to be a driveway. The gravel surface led to a cattle guard serving as a break between two rows of white fencing.
The Bentley rattled over the livestock barrier. I stopped when we were across. A small pasture lay in front of us, maybe four or five acres dotted here and there by cottonwood trees ringing stock tanks. A couple of quarter horses grazed contentedly.
A two-story home sat a few hundred yards away.
The structure was red brick with white trim and bracketed by two old magnolia trees on either side. The driveway snaked to the right of the house.
“This is where I grew up,” Tess said.
I nodded and looked at the black, extended-cab pickup sitting in the driveway by the garage.
“That’s Dewey’s truck.” Tess’s voice was curious.
“Who is he?” I took my foot off the brake and let the big auto have its head and idle toward the house.
“A guy my sister knew in high school.” Tess shifted in her seat, appearing anxious now. “He always gave me the creeps. I wonder why he’s here.”
“Let’s find out.” I parked behind the pickup. The garage door was open. The space where two cars belonged was empty, two matching greasy spots on the concrete. Tess walked to the center and stood there, hands on her hips. She looked around for a moment and then opened the door at the back leading into the house. She walked in; I followed closely. I had my hand on the Browning but didn’t draw.
We were in the kitchen: green Formica countertops; appliances that weren’t new but weren’t old, either; a row of cereal boxes on one side of the sink, several vitamin bottles on the other side, next to a small black-and-white television. The lights were on and the air conditioner blowing.
“Hello?” Tess walked toward the dining room.
I opened the Frigidaire. A refrigerator is a lot like a medicine cabinet: Both reveal a great deal about their owners, their strengths and weaknesses, sins and indulgences, hopes and dreams, even.
The McPherson refrigerator contained a case or so of Bud Light, a half-empty bottle of ketchup, a packet of Velveeta cheese, five cans of Skoal, and an open container of baking soda. In the vegetable crisper was a head of lettuce about a week past being edible.
Tess came back into the kitchen. “No one’s here.”
“Mom and Dad drink a lot of Bud, do they?” I stood aside and let her peer into the refrigerator.
“My dad doesn’t drink very much. When he does, it’s usually red wine. He’s allergic to beer.” She picked up the can of chewing tobacco. “What the hell?”
“Is that your mom’s?”
“That’s not funny, Hank.”
I closed the door and went into the dining room and then on through the downstairs of the house. The place was nicely if not extravagantly furnished. No plasma TVs or expensive-looking antiques.
I was in the front of the house, at the head of the stairs debating whether to go up, when I heard the whine of a motor. It sounded like a dirt bike.
Tess appeared in the foyer. We looked at each other. The sound got louder, just outside the front entrance. Then it stopped.
I walked to the door, opened it, and met Dewey.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
He was standing by the dirt bike, a can of chewing tobacco in one hand: early twenties, close-cropped hair on the tops and sides, long in the back. News traveled slow to some parts of the world that the mullet was passé. The eyes were a little too far apart. He wore the uniform of a young male from rural Texas: lace-up Roper boots; skintight, faded Wranglers jeans; a plaid shirt with the sleeves ripped off, accentuating the muscles of his arms and shoulders.
“Who are you?” he said.
I didn’t reply.
Tess came up and stood beside me. “Dewey.”
“Heya, Tess.” Dewey pointed at me with the can of Skoal. “Who’s the old dude?”
I sucked in my gut a little but didn’t say anything. Old, indeed. Forty wasn’t for a few more years.
“Why are you here?” Tess crossed her arms under her breasts. “And where are my parents?”
“They’re out of town.” He put two fingers’ worth of shredded tobacco in his mouth. “Asked me to look after the place.”
“They didn’t tell me they were leaving.”
“Shit, Tess.” He laughed.
Nobody spoke for a moment. Dewey reached into a saddlebag on the side of the motorbike and pulled out a Bud Light. He opened it and took a long drink.
“The Barringers still own that place south of town?” I said. “Near the county line.”
“Why don’t y’all go on back to the city.” Dewey spat on the concrete driveway.
“Cowboys and Forty-Niners play next week. I want to place a bet.”
Dewey shrugged. “I’ll take your action.”
I shook my head. “You don’t have the math skills to be a bookie.”
“What the—” He frowned and his eyes clouded. “You saying I’m stupid?”
“The Barringers.” I kept my voice low but took a step forward. “Do they still own that bar?”
“Tess, who is this sumbitch?”
Tess shook her head and went back inside.
“It’s a yes-or-no question,” I said.
The young man frowned and nodded warily.
“Thanks.” The front door was closed, and Tess was nowhere to be seen. I turned back to the young man standing beside the dirt bike. “Where are her parents?”
“I dunno. Vacation, like I told you.”
“When are they coming back?”
“I’m supposed to watch the place.” He puffed up his chest.
“We’ve already covered that.”
“Y’all need to get some gone.” Dewey drained his beer and tossed the bottle on the front lawn. He reached in the saddlebag and got another one.
“This is Tess’s house. She can stay if she wants.”
“Mister, you ain’t getting the situation, are you?”
The front door opened and Tess walked out. “Their room is a wreck. Stuff’s gone. Like they’re not coming back.”
The sun had set now. A mercury light on the side of the house flickered and then turned on, the buzz of electricity loud in the still of the early evening.
I spoke to Tess. “Let’s go.”
She walked over to where Dewey stood. She put her face about six inches from his. “I want to know where my parents are.”
Dewey took a step backward, until he hit the dirt bike. “Get out of here, Tess. You was supposed to stay in Dallas, anyway.”
“You piece of trash.” Her face flushed, cheeks going almost purple with rage.
“Get in the car.” I grabbed her arm and pulled. She leaned against me, breathing hard, still staring at the young man.
Dewey looked at us standing together and raised one eyebrow. The scant movement spoke volumes about how he interpreted our body language.
Tess shook her head and walked to the passenger side of the Bentley. Dewey spat out the wad of tobacco. It hit the driveway with a wet-sounding plop.
“Got anything else you want to say?” I asked.
Dewey giggled, a greasy little laugh full of sexual innuendo.
I took a step forward. He swung the beer bottle at my head. His eyes had telegraphed the move a long time ago so I was more than ready. I grabbed his wrist, yanked it up into the small of his back. The bottle shattered on the pavement.
“You were gonna say something else, Dewey?” I spoke in a low voice next to his ear.
“Fuck off, old man.”
I swept a foot into his shins and pushed his back. He went down hard on the concrete.
_______
I turned the headlights on high beam and barreled down the rocky driveway toward the highway. Once on the farm-to-market road, I pointed the car south and said, “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Tess leaned across the seat and stuck her tongue in my ear, one hand groping along my crotch.
I jerked the wheel reflexively. The right-side tires rattled on gravel.
“God, you’re hot,” she said. “The way you handled Dewey. I want you, right now.”
“Maybe not while I’m driving, huh.” I yanked the car back onto the road and pushed her away.
“I’m sorry, baby.” She eased back across the console and rested her head on my shoulder, fingers tracing a slow pattern on my thigh. “I’m just so scared.”
I nodded and pa
tted the hand that was on my leg.
“My parents are gone.” She sniffled once and inched her fingers upward slowly. “I feel like I’m all alone now.”
“Any chance they might really be on vacation?” I concentrated on driving and tried to ignore the warm feel of her palm on my leg.
“You won’t leave me, will you, Hank?”
“Uhh . .. no.” Maneuvering down a narrow road combined with the pressure of her fingers on my groin made talking hard.
“Every time I care about somebody, they leave.” She kissed my cheek, her hand pressing harder on my crotch.
“Tess . ..” My voice was hoarse now, the road blurry in front of me. “What about your parents? Would they have left without telling you?”
The groin groping stopped, as did the cheek kissing. Tess moved back to her side of the car. “Give it a rest, will ya, Hank?”
I blinked a couple of times and focused on the road and tried to figure out what had happened.
“I should have told you that I’m not that close to them,” she said.
I didn’t reply.
“I was the oldest. My mother and I didn’t see eye-to-eye on much of anything.”
We passed the interstate cutoff. There were more cars at the liquor store, a full-scale party happening in the parking lot.
“What about your dad?” I slowed to let a pickup truck full of people in the back exit onto the highway. “Would he have gone off without letting you know?”
“Just because you share the same genes doesn’t mean you know somebody.” Her voice was distant, almost plaintive. “Did you ever wonder what you might have been with different parents?”
Her question seemed rhetorical, so I made no attempt to answer.
Neither of us spoke as we made our way through Seldon. People were milling around the front yard of the meth house where Tess’s high school boyfriend lived. On the southern edge of town, we passed a police cruiser parked by a convenience store. The car was at least ten years old and had a dented and rusted back bumper.
The meager lights of the town faded in the rearview mirror as the night pressed all around us, a wall of coal black trees on either side, a swath of stars overhead. The bar was about twenty minutes south, right before the next county.
The Next Time You Die Page 15
