by Mark Gimenez
Beck stayed on the interstate that bisected Austin, barely recognizable after twenty-four years, like a high school buddy who had packed on the weight: the sleepy college town had become a bloated city. When he had last driven through Austin, the pink granite dome of the capitol had loomed large over the skyline; now he only caught quick glimpses of it between towering skyscrapers. Back then, environmentalists had waged war with developers for the soul and skyline of Austin; now, seeing the granite-and-glass skyscrapers, it was obvious who had won.
But a few familiar landmarks had survived. The three-hundred-foot-tall white sandstone clock tower on the University of Texas campus still stood watch over the city; no doubt the tower lights still shone burnt orange on game nights when the Longhorns won. And no doubt the observation deck still remained closed, as it had since 1966 when an ex-Marine with a brain tumor and a marksman's skill stood up there with a high-powered rifle and killed sixteen people on the campus and streets below.
The UT football stadium still stood adjacent to the interstate but had been enlarged to accommodate corporate skyboxes; the stadium had been renamed after Darrell Royal, the legendary Longhorn coach, and the playing field after Joe Jamail, the billionaire plaintiffs' lawyer from Houston, surely the quid pro quo for a sizable donation to the football program.
Football had been Beck's ticket out of Texas, and he had punched it. But he couldn't drive past the UT stadium without a twinge of regret: he had been destined from birth to play in that stadium. His last visit to Austin had been a recruiting trip to UT as the top high school quarterback in the state, a country boy courted by rich and powerful businessmen and politicians who had come to him like the wise men to Baby Jesus; but Beck Hardin had held more than the mere promise of eternal salvation. He held the promise of another national championship for their alma mater. But he had chosen Notre Dame instead, no lesser a betrayal than if Davy Crockett had fought for the Mexicans at the Alamo.
Beck Hardin had never figured on coming back to Texas.
He crossed over the Colorado River and exited the interstate at Highway 290 in south Austin and turned right. Home lay seventy miles due west, in the Texas Hill Country.
TWO
The movie Giant gave the world the image of Texas that persists to this day: flat, dusty, and desolate, a land best left to longhorns, rattlesnakes, and armadillos, a place where oil rigs and barbed wire were distinct improvements on Mother Nature. And that would be true for much of Texas.
But not the Hill Country.
Mother Nature got it right here, in the land west of Austin, a landscape formed by a great tectonic event twenty million years ago. It happened after the last dinosaurs had died off and the great sea that once covered most of Texas had receded and the North and South American continents had split apart. The earth's crust fractured along a fault zone extending three hundred fifty miles in a sweeping arc from Del Rio on the Mexican border east to San Antonio and then northeast to Austin and beyond, bisecting the state. The land mass to the south and east of the fracture dropped— geologists call it a "downwarping"—and the land to the north and west rose—an "uplift"—creating a three-hundred-foot-tall escarpment, a white limestone wall rising from the plains in terraces that appeared to the first Spanish explorers as balconies. They named the escarpment Los Balcones.
The Balcones Escarpment divides Texas to this day.
East of the escarpment lies the Blackland Prairies where rain running off the escarpment made the land fertile and cotton king. West of the escarpment lies the parched High Plains of West Texas, the cattle baron land of Giant. But between the two lies the Balcones Canyonlands, the rugged terrain above the escarpment that long served as the narrow DMZ of the great Texas range wars: sodbusters stayed east of the escarpment, open-range cowboys west.
That land is known today as the Texas Hill Country.
As Texas goes, it's a small area, only about ten thousand square miles, bigger than New Jersey and Delaware combined, but not big in a state of 268,000 square miles. But it's the best land in Texas. The Hill Country has artesian springs where crystal-clear waters escape from underground aquifers, rivers called the Blanco and Pedernales and Guadalupe, and lakes called Travis and Buchanan and, of course, LBJ. It has hills and ravines and valleys with bald cypress trees shading lazy creeks. It has thick forests of oak and pecan and hackberry trees in the lowlands and stands of dark green cedar on the canyon slopes that give off a deep purplish tint in the sunlight. And it has wildflowers. In the spring the fields become carpets of bluebonnets so unbelievably blue you'd think the sky has settled down on the land.
Mother Nature got it right here.
And Texans hadn't messed it up, not much anyway, probably because neither oil nor gas had ever been discovered in the Hill Country; so industry, interstates, and people had never been lured to this land. Now, as Beck drove west on Highway 290 and the last outlying subdivisions of Austin receded in the rearview and the Navigator carried the Hardin family up and over the Balcones Escarpment, his thoughts were of this land, the land of his youth.
Beck Hardin was home.
This land had always maintained a strange hold over him, like a first love a man never completely gets over; sitting in his Chicago office and staring out at the adjacent skyscrapers, his thoughts had often returned to this land even though he never had. Now, for the first time in twenty-four years, his eyes beheld the Texas Hill Country. It took his breath away, like the first time he had laid eyes on Annie, and brought a sense of regret to his thoughts: she had asked to see the land he had once called home. It was the only time he had ever said no to Annie Parker.
He had tried to run from this land and the life he had lived here, but he might as well have tried to run from his own shadow.
An hour later Beck said, "That's the LBJ Ranch."
They had driven fifty-five miles due west of Austin and were now driving past the vast ranch in Stonewall that had been the Texas White House when Lyndon Baines Johnson had been president. It was now a state park. He glanced back in the rearview: Luke's eyes remained fixed on the Gameboy and Meggie's on the doll; she was brushing its hair and talking softly to it.
"A president lived there."
That got Meggie's attention. She looked out the window.
"George W. Bush lives there?"
She had learned about the president in her pre-K class. At the last open house, her teacher had questioned the kids in front of their proud parents: "Does anyone know the president's name?"
"George W. Bush," the children had recited in unison.
"And what's his wife's name?"
That had stumped them. The kids had glanced around at each other with confused expressions until Meggie had finally said, "Mrs. Bush." Which had seemed like a perfectly reasonable answer to Beck, the only father at her open house.
"No, honey," he said, "another president from Texas. Lyndon Johnson. He was born and raised right there."
"Are all the presidents from Texas?"
"No, thank God."
Beck chuckled at his own words, downright treasonous in Texas. He had been away a very long time.
"Was he a good president?"
"Well, some people would say yes, some would say no."
"What do you say?"
Beck had been born in 1965, so what he knew about LBJ he had learned in history classes and from the old-timers in town. His father had talked of seeing LBJ—after his presidency had ended and he was back living at the ranch—driving around town in his Lincoln convertible with his long white hair and much younger girlfriend. And Beck the boy had asked, "I thought Lady Bird was his wife?"
"She was," his father had said.
"Did he bring her along?"
"Nope. He left her back at the ranch."
Beck had studied on that for a while, then had asked, "How does that work, a man having a wife and a girlfriend?"
His father had chuckled. "Well, for most men it wouldn't work so good. It'd damn sure complicate things. But
if you're an ex-president who happens to be one mean son of a bitch, I guess it works okay, particularly if you happen to be married to a saint."
"Was he?"
"Yep, LBJ was about the meanest SOB to come down the pike."
"No. Married to a saint?"
"Oh. Yeah, matter of fact, he was." His father had paused, Beck recalled, and then had said, "Never realized I had something in common with LBJ."
As had Beck.
"No, baby, I don't think he was a good president."
They drove on westward. The sleek foreign cars of Austin with bumper stickers that read Who Would Jesus Bomb and Impeachbush.org had been replaced by bulky diesel pickups with grill guards to protect against unexpected encounters with deer and bumper stickers that read Luv Ya Dubya and Support Our Troops; and the dense subdivisions had given way to open pastures where horses, cows, sheep, and goats grazed peacefully under the July sun as if they were the happiest creatures on earth even though the Navigator's outside temperature gauge registered 98 degrees. Weathered homesteads with windmills sat back off the highway, and a series of cell towers ran parallel to the highway. A sign affixed to a fencepost offered "Hay-4-Sale."
"What are those big round things?" Meggie asked.
Beck glanced out her side at a field of hay being cut by a farmer driving a tractor and holding a cell phone to his ear.
"Hay bales."
A mile later, she said, "Mommy says those are big moo-cows."
She was holding the doll up so it could see out the left side of the car. Beck glanced that way.
"Tell her … No, honey, those are buffalo."
"Are those cows?"
She was now looking out the right side.
"No, those are horses. Says 'Eureka Thoroughbred Farm'." Beck pointed out the other side. "Now those are cows."
A small herd was grazing in a field. It wasn't a real cattle ranch; those were out west. This little ranchette was just a tax deduction for a Houston lawyer or a Dallas doctor.
"And what's that?"
Back to the right side.
"Well, that's a one-hump camel. I'm not sure what it's doing here."
Meggie asked and Beck answered as they drove past two ostriches, three wineries, and four turkey farms … the Hummingbird Farm, the Lavender Farm, and the Wildseed Farm … Engel's Peaches, Turner's Tractors, and Vogel's Peaches & Tractors … the steel-blue Lutheran Church with its tall white steeple … and longhorn cattle. They passed bare peach orchards and shuttered peach stands, vacant deer blinds waiting for hunting season, and the same abandoned houses and roadside stores that Beck had seen when he had last driven this highway twenty-four years before. They drove past Upper Albert Road and Lower Albert Road, Gellermann and Goehmann Lanes, Old San Antonio Road and the road to Luckenbach. They crossed over Flat Creek, Tow Head Creek, Rocky Creek, Three Mile Creek, South Grape Creek, Baron's Creek where it turned south, and the Pedernales River where it turned north; all had run dry.
"Plus three," he said.
"Plus three what?" Meggie said.
Beck pointed at the city limits sign: FREDERICKSBURG, TEXAS, POP. 8,911.
"Plus three. Us."
"Why's that white cross stuck in the ground?"
Under the sign was a short cross with a vase of flowers.
"Someone must've … there must have been a car accident right here."
"Did someone die?"
"Maybe."
"They'll be back. Like Mommy."
Beck sighed. How do you explain death to a five-year-old?
They drove past a new Wal-Mart on the left, Fort Martin Scott with a teepee on the right, and horses grazing around a new sewage treatment plant. Highway 290 became Main Street, and Beck slowed as they entered town; he stopped at a red light fronting the old Nimitz Hotel, now the National Museum of the Pacific War, but once a hotel, brewery, and frontier landmark with its upper stories shaped like the bow of a Mississippi steamboat complete with a hurricane deck, pilot house, and a crow's nest. The original German owner had been a sailor, as had his grandson, Admiral Chester Nimitz, the commander of the Pacific Fleet during World War Two. Back in the late 1800s, the ten-room hotel had been a traveler's last chance for a cold beer, a hot bath, and a clean bed until El Paso five hundred miles farther west. The Nimitz marked the eastern boundary of downtown Fredericksburg.
Main Street was blocked off west of the Nimitz. American, Texas, and German flags flew from standards on every building on both sides of the street. Stretched over the street was a banner that read FREDERICKSBURG SALUTES OUR ARMED FORCES AND THEIR FAMILIES. And Beck remembered what day it was.
"Hey, guys, it's the Fourth of July. I think we're in time for the parade."
Beck pulled around the corner and parked a block north of Main Street. Meggie jumped out, but Luke had to be coaxed.
"Come on, son, this'll be fun."
Luke sighed and climbed out. They walked back to Main Street and crossed over to the south side—the shady side in the summer. Spectators crowded the sidewalks and stood on the second-story balconies that overlooked Main Street and sat on the tailgates of pickup trucks and SUVs that lined the street. Some wore flags—hats, caps, shirts, and shorts; others waved flags. The sun was blazing hot, the sky was clear blue, and the flags were flying: it was the Fourth of July in Fredericksburg, Texas.
They settled into a shady spot out front of what had been the Fredericksburg Auto Parts; it was now a brew pub. They stood among white-haired folks sitting in folding chairs, wholesome looking country kids hunkered down on the curb holding red, white, and blue balloons, and their sturdy parents standing behind them holding video cameras and dogs on leashes. Customers carried German lager out of the pub and took up viewing positions; drinking on the sidewalks had been legal in Fredericksburg since the days when thirteen saloons lined Main Street, and apparently it still was. Beck had given up alcohol when he had left this town, so he bought three bottles of cold water from two girls about Luke's age who were selling it out of a red wagon and passing out little flags; Beck handed a bottle and a flag to each of his children, then pointed down at an iron ring embedded in the concrete sidewalk.
"Luke, cowboys used to tie their horses to these rings."
Luke glanced down but only grunted in response.
The four asphalt lanes of Main Street were unoccupied except for two cops on bikes and a long-legged blonde girl wearing cowboy boots and stars-and-stripes short-shorts and making a show of sashaying back and forth across the empty street. Texas girls liked attention; pretty Texas girls demanded it.
Cowboys hats, gimme caps, and umbrellas served as sunblocks for the spectators, all of whom, young and old, now abruptly stood and placed their right hands and hats over their hearts. The parade was upon them, led by a lone bagpiper wearing a kilt and followed by a military color guard, five uniformed soldiers and sailors carrying the U.S. flag and the Army, Navy, Marine, and Air Force colors flanked by Army and Marine riflemen. The high school ROTC marched behind the color guard and were followed by World War Two veterans manning a .60-caliber machine gun mounted on a half-track pulling a flat-bed trailer with national guard soldiers just back from Iraq. The crowd applauded and cheered as if they were the Chicago Bears just back from the Super Bowl. A sign listed the names of soldiers in their company killed in action. There were a lot of names. Another sign read FREEDOM IS NOT FREE.
The high school band marched past playing the "Star-Spangled Banner" followed by vintage fire trucks, antique cars, and pickup trucks with pretty girls in blonde braids tossing red, white, and blue bead necklaces into the crowd and up to the people on the balconies. Beck caught a red one and put it around Meggie's neck. She showed it to the doll.
A World War Two battle tank and more military vehicles and farm equipment rolled past followed by floats for a ministry with a sign that read KEEP CHRIST IN CHRISTMAS and the Knights of Columbus with a sign that read ONE NATION UNDER GOD. Separation of church and state had never been a major topic of debate in Fr
edericksburg, Texas. A long RV decked out in red, white, and blue drove by with loudspeakers blaring the Lee Greenwood song "God Bless the USA"; it was trailed by a truck advertising for a gun show, a 1921 Stanley Steamer, an old Cadillac convertible with longhorns on the hood, and a Boys and Girls Club float playing "Yankee Doodle Dandy." The Gillespie County Farm Bureau Queen and her court wore prom dresses and waved as their float passed by.
"Are they supermodels?" Meggie asked.
"No, honey, they're just high school girls."
Next up were clowns, kids on bikes, cowgirls on horseback, and a University of Texas cheerleader prancing like a show horse alongside a tall burnt-orange replica of the UT clock tower with NATIONAL CHAMPIONS 2005 on the side. The University of Texas had won its national championship without Beck Hardin.
A float for the Gillespie County Democratic Party was manned by five brave souls followed by a standing-room-only float for the county's Republican Party. Gillespie County had always been as red as Austin was blue; LBJ had been the only Democrat to carry the county in the last seventy-five years. The American Legion float played the Marine service hymn, and the last float had men dressed as Revolutionary soldiers. The parade ended with a truck toting a big sign that read DAS IST ALLES, Y'ALL.
God, country, and German beer: the Fourth of July parade in Fredericksburg, Texas, had been exactly as Beck had remembered. And he thought how much Annie would have loved it. She had never lived in a small town but had always thought it would be perfect. He had always told her it wasn't. But standing here now in this Norman Rockwell painting, maybe it was.
As soon as the parade had rolled out of sight, Main Street reopened for business and traffic; it quickly became crowded with cars, pickups, and eighteen-wheel rigs heading out to or in from West Texas. A semi pulling a cattle trailer braked to a stop at the Lincoln Street light. The cows were mooing woefully, as if begging for mercy.
"Daddy, look!" Meggie cried. "Moo-cows! That nice man is taking them for a ride."
