by Mark Gimenez
J.B. was talking to two old-timers wearing plaid shirts. Just as all the old Volkswagen Beetles in the world had found their way to Mexico, all the plaid shirts had found their way to Fredericksburg. J.B. was wearing another Tommy Bahama shirt; this one had a bright floral print of gold, yellow, red, and green. As they walked up, Beck heard one old-timer say in a thick German accent, "J.B., it looks like someone throwed up on that shirt."
The old-timers laughed; J.B. shook his head.
"You old Germans ought to get out more."
"You're one to talk, J.B.," the other one said. "We ain't seen you in so long, we figure you died."
"That'll be the day."
It was all smiles and good times until one old-timer said, "Still can't believe you gave up the goats to make wine, J.B… . and with a Mexican."
The man's last words had the same effect on J.B. Hardin as a punch in the nose. The smile dropped off his face, and the old fire came into his eyes.
"His name's Hector Aurelio, and he's a damn fine man. And he ain't never taken no government money, welfare or mohair."
"Now, J.B., don't go righteous on us."
"You boys been bitching about Mexicans long as I can remember. Wish to hell you'd come up with something new to bitch about, just for a change of pace."
J.B.'s face was redder than normal, and when he pointed a big finger at the old-timers, Beck knew he was about to tell them what he really thought; but he noticed Meggie standing there with the doll, and his face softened. He turned away from the old-timers without another word.
"Why, here's my little schatzy." His little sweetheart. "Now, honey, I want you to pretend you didn't hear your J.B. say those bad words, okay?"
"Okay, J.B., we'll pretend."
"That's a good little gal."
They walked over to the metal stairway leading up to the catwalk above the open pens.
"Used their mohair money to buy ranches in Montana and New Mexico and more land here," J.B. said to Beck. "Now they're selling to Californians, making millions. Had their hands out to the government for forty years, but they bitch about welfare for Mexicans."
Meggie was walking between them. "J.B., what's a Mexican?"
"A human being, honey, just like you and me. Some folks around here just ain't figured that out yet." J.B. took her hand. "All righty, little darlin', let's find you a goat."
Beck thought, They say a man never really respects his father until he's a father himself. They're right.
Meggie and the doll went up the stairs to the catwalk with J.B. Beck followed with Luke. Beck had climbed these same stairs every Tuesday of every summer from the day he could walk until the day he had left for Notre Dame. Below them, thousands of bleating goats—Angora and Boer; kids, nannies, and billies; brown, black, white, tan with black highlights, black with tan highlights—huddled in pens tended by old men in cowboy hats. It looked like a scene from a John Wayne movie—Red River, but with goats instead of cattle. The smell was no better. The goat stink was strong enough to taste. Meggie was pinching her nose.
"J.B., it stinks!"
J.B. laughed. "It does at that. Look around, doll, pick one out. A little one."
"We can have a baby goat? For our very own?"
"Yep, for your very own."
"What are we going to do with a goat?"
"It's gonna be your pet."
"We had a goldfish for a pet in Chicago."
"Well, petunia, in the country we have fish for dinner, not for pets. We have animal pets."
"It died."
"The goldfish?"
"Unh-huh. Will our goat die?"
"Nope. Goats are tougher than bark on a shin oak."
"They don't get cancer, do they?"
"No, honey, they don't."
"That's good."
Meggie walked along the catwalk, peering down into the pens and carrying on a conversation with the doll. She waved at a girl about Luke's age who was tending goats.
"Is she a goat girl?"
"I reckon she is," J.B. said.
"Can I be a goat girl one day?"
"I reckon not. We're in the wine business now, honey."
Beck followed J.B. and Meggie around the catwalk. It was like going back in time, except that twenty-four years before the hundreds of pens had been full; today, many were empty. Meggie suddenly cried out, "J.B., that's the one we want!"
She was pointing down at a black kid with a tan face.
"Then that's the one it'll be, sweet pea."
J.B. wrote the pen number on his palm and pointed the goat out to the man tending that pen. They followed the catwalk around to the door leading into the auction arena. Inside, a dozen spectators sat in plastic seats bolted to a wood platform that stepped down to fashion theater seating; the auction pen was down front. Goats were being herded into the pen through a sliding door to the right and out through a sliding door to the left.
The auctioneer sat above the pen; the bidders, old men wearing straw cowboy hats and boots with goat shit stuck to the soles—a buyer's degree of savvy could be determined by the amount of goat shit on his soles; savvy buyers examined the goats in the pens outside before bidding inside—sat directly in front of the pen. Their plaid shirts glowed under the exposed fluorescent lights fixed in the yellowed acoustical ceiling tile. An air conditioner and two ceiling fans were blowing but couldn't blow out the goat stink. The auctioneer was calling into a microphone: "Ninety-five, ninety-five …"
One old-timer gave a little wave.
"Ninety-six, ninety-six …"
Another nodded.
"Ninety-seven, ninety-seven …"
No heated bidding contest broke out among the old-timers. They just nodded or raised a finger or touched the brim of their hats to up the bid while a young girl in short-shorts took the bidders' lunch orders; a small grease board on the wall noted that day's lunch special: barbecued beef and pinto beans. Beck picked up a few German words spoken by the same men he had last seen here; they were just twenty-four years older. It was as if these old goat ranchers were just going through the motions, buying and selling goats just for the sake of buying and selling, trying desperately to prolong a way of life, like a dying patient on life support. After a few more rounds, the auctioneer announced, "Sold to John Ed for ninety-eight."
That lot of goats was prodded out. The door to the outside pens was slid open and a fresh blast of goat stink blew in like a norther. Beck wondered how he had ever gotten used to the stink. A few sales later, a dozen kids were led into the auction pen by the nanny goat.
"That's us, honey," J.B. said.
He walked down the steps hand-in-hand with Meggie. When they arrived, he waved at the bidders then said something to the auctioneer. He pointed at the kid that Meggie had picked out and shook hands with the man tending the auction pen.
"Boys, we got us a special guest today," the auctioneer said. "J.B. Hardin. Yep, that's him looking like a tourist on Main Street. J.B., you ain't gone Democrat on us, have you?"
"I hate to break it to you boys," J.B. said, "but I've always been a Democrat."
That brought a big round of laughter. The auctioneer said, "J.B., you always been a kiddin' son of a gun. Say, is that your boy Beck back there?"
The bidders turned in their chairs and waved at Beck. He waved back.
"We're gonna win state again this year, Beck," the auctioneer said. "We got Slade."
"Beck's running for judge," J.B. said.
The bidders chuckled as if sharing a private joke.
"Well, J.B.," the auctioneer said, "we can help you with the goat, but ain't much we can do about that election." To the bidders, he said, "J.B.'s little granddaughter come to buy herself a goat. She fancies this pretty little kid here. We'll start the bidding at ninety-five."
J.B. leaned down to Meggie. She held her hand up.
The auctioneer called out: "Ninety-five to Miss Meggie. Ninety-five, ninety-five …"
One old bidder held up a finger, and everyone froz
e. J.B., the auctioneer, and every other bidder turned and stared at him as if he were Bill Clinton just walked in. He glanced around then lamely withdrew his finger. The auctioneer banged his gavel.
"Sold, to Miss Meggie Hardin for ninety-five. And good to see you, J.B., if not that shirt."
J.B. waved at him, then he and Meggie walked back up.
Meggie said to the doll, "Mommy, we own a goat!"
J.B. said to Beck in a low voice, "I wasn't kidding. I've always voted Democrat."
J.B. took Luke, Meggie, and the goat back home for lunch. Beck drove to the bookstore to get a coffee and collect the books he had ordered. Taped to the front door was a hand-painted campaign sign: BECK HARDIN FOR JUDGE.
He opened the door and stepped inside. He hadn't been back since he had learned about Jodie and Janelle, so he tried not to act differently. He walked up to the counter/coffee bar where Jodie was working.
"Small nonfat latte, please."
She looked up and stared at him. "You heard?"
"Heard what?"
"About the town lesbians."
"Does it show?"
"Yep. You okay with that?"
Beck shrugged. "Sure. Now I don't have to worry about you hustling me."
She smiled. "What does J.B. say? 'That'll be the day'? So, have you decided yet?"
"Decided what?"
"Whether you're running for judge?"
"No."
She walked around the counter. "Come with me."
"Can I have that coffee first?"
"There's not time." She called to an older woman in the stacks. "Ella, watch the store!"
She grabbed his hand and yanked him back outside. She didn't let go until they hit the Main Street sidewalk; he hadn't held a woman's hand since Annie's last night. Jodie turned west and walked fast; Beck followed her red hair and boots across Llano Street and down to the biergarten where back in high school Beck had often listened to live country-western music. She stopped so he stopped. She pointed inside.
The biergarten was open to the street, and the smell of sausage and sauerkraut wafted out. Just inside customers sat at small wood tables and ate German food and drank German beer. A long wooden bar stretched down one side of the room. On the back wall hung a big sign that read WEISSBIER. Below the beer sign stood a young man. He had blond hair and wore a suit. He was addressing the crowd of locals in for lunch.
"If you commit the crime, you will do the time. Criminals belong in state prison in Huntsville, not on our streets in Fredericksburg. Our streets are for tourists, not criminals!"
The crowd applauded and whistled.
"Who's that?"
"Niels Eichman, the D.A."
"Junior?"
"Yep."
Niels Eichman, Sr., had been the Gillespie County District Attorney back when Beck had lived here. In keeping with the long-standing local tradition, he had apparently handed down his public office father to son, German to German.
"He's running for judge," she said. "Unopposed … unless you run."
"The old Germans backing him?"
"Of course."
"He'll be tough to beat then."
Inside, the D.A. was saying, "I'm not going to stand by while the criminal element destroys this town!"
Beck turned to Jodie. "What criminal element? Crime of the week was a Porta-Potty drive-by."
Inside, the D.A.: "Our town is being inundated by illegal Mexicans and their illegal drugs …"
Beck, to Jodie: "Is there a drug problem here?"
She shrugged. "Not much, but more than there used to be."
Back inside, the D.A.: "And we all know who killed the coach's daughter with drugs—an illegal Mexican! And he's still walking our streets!"
"Is he talking about Heidi?"
"How'd you know about her?"
"Her dad, we were buddies back in high school."
She nodded inside. "That's why people like him, promising to keep drugs out of our town. Like their kids aren't using."
"What do you know about her?"
"Heidi? Just what I read in the paper."
"Can I get the papers from back then at the library?"
"You can get them from me."
"You keep old newspapers?"
"One a week, fifty-two a year. One box for each year."
Back inside, the D.A. was saying, "We are a God-fearing, law-abiding people, but illegal Mexicans are criminals. They commit a crime when they step across that border and they commit a crime when they smuggle drugs into our town …"
"Praise the Lord and blame the Mexicans," Jodie said.
"It's worked for Texas politicians since the Alamo."
Jodie shook her head and sighed. "You know, I like living in a small town, being able to walk down Main Street after dark and not having to look over my shoulder, not having gangs and drive-by shootings and murders every day and police cars running up and down the streets at all hours—"
A shrill siren went off down the street.
"Grass fire, calling in the volunteers. I like all that, but I still believe in civil rights. See, the Main Street business owners, we fled the big city … the crime, the lousy schools, Rainbow Clubs … we moved out here to the country but we didn't move to another country."
"Locals lived here all their lives, they don't appreciate diversity."
"Diversity to an old German is eating Mexican food at Mamacita's on Saturday night."
Beck laughed.
"But it's not just them, Beck. We have friends—white friends—from the city, they come out here for the first time and walk Main Street and they start to realize something's different, but they can't put their finger on it. But you can see it on their faces when it hits them: there aren't any black or brown people here. And this funny little smile comes over their faces, right before they say, 'We want to move here.' They want to live here because everyone's white."
"Like joining a private country club."
"Without the dues."
"But there were Latinos here when I was growing up. Did they all get deported?"
"No, but they don't want trouble, so they stay off Main Street, away from the tourists. Only time you see Latinos on Main Street is after closing, when they clean up. They got in trouble, Stutz threw them in prison. Now he's finally gone after forty years, but his clone wants his job."
Back inside, the D.A. shouted, "Elect me your judge and I'll guarantee you that illegal Mexicans who come to our town won't be in our town for long!"
Jodie leaned in close and grabbed Beck's arm tightly. Her eyes were green and her face was now as red as her hair. She pointed a long finger inside.
"And, Beck, if you don't run, that little prick's gonna be our judge for the next forty years!"
BECK'S BACK; WANTS TO BE JUDGE the headline of that week's newspaper read. The article detailed his life from quarterback of the Gillespie County Gallopin' Goats to quarterback of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish to top law student to partner at a big Chicago law firm. Honors, awards, important cases, his Supreme Court appearances, his children. Annie's death. His return home. Beck turned to his father. They were in the rockers on the back porch.
"J.B., how'd you know all this?"
"I kept up."
"Annie?"
"She filled in the blanks."
"So you took it on yourself to go to the paper?"
"Someone's got to do the campaigning."
"What campaigning?"
J.B. nodded at the paper. "That … and the bumper stickers. Janelle designed them, got 'em printed up."
"You been putting that bumper sticker on cars?"
"A few."
"Did you ask the owners if it was okay first?"
"A few."
"J.B… ."
"Jodie put up a big campaign sign on her door. Janelle hand-painted it."
"I saw it. Stopped in to get the books I'd ordered. Jodie dragged me down to the biergarten to hear the D.A.'s stump speech. The crowd liked him."
"Too
much like his daddy."
"He'll be hard to beat."
"You could beat him."
"Maybe."
"You want Meggie and Luke to grow up in a town with Niels Eichman as their judge?"
"No."
"Then do something about it." J.B. flipped through the paper and said, "Meggie says you bought 'em school clothes today."
"Over at the Wal-Mart."
"Why didn't you say something? I would've gone with you."
"J.B., I can do a few things on my own."
"You know their sizes?"
"No, but we figured it out."
"Mary Jo figured it out, way I heard it."
"Meggie can't keep a secret."
"Neither can lesbians. So how'd it go with Mary Jo?"
"Good. She's happy. Got four kids."
J.B. grunted and returned to the classifieds. Beck went back to the newspapers Jodie had given him. He started with the paper dated January 8, 2003, one week after Heidi's death; color images of her covered a big portion of the front page, one of her in a cheerleader uniform and another of her lying in the ditch with a white sheet over her body; the sheet did not cover her bare feet. She had been spotted by a trucker heading east out of town early on New Year's Day. He called 911. The sheriff came, the Texas Department of Public Safety mobile crime scene van came, and the justice of the peace came and pronounced her dead.
The lack of murders in Gillespie County made a medical examiner an unnecessary county expense. So the county hired out autopsies to the Travis County Medical Examiner in Austin. The M.E. ruled that the cause of Heidi's death was cardiovascular failure due to acute cocaine intoxication. No mention was made of the semen sample obtained from her body.
The sheriff requested that all males age fifteen to sixty-five provide a confidential DNA sample. All cleared samples would be destroyed; results would not be submitted to the FBI's DNA database. He assured Mexican nationals that he would not check their immigration status. He confirmed that a DNA sample had been recovered from Heidi's body, but he refused to elaborate.
Beck found the next week's paper, dated January 15, 2003. It was still all about Heidi. Over five hundred males had given DNA samples in the preceding week. The samples had been sent to the DPS crime lab in Austin. Test results were expected back in eight weeks.
By the third week, over one thousand males had given samples. The sheriff acknowledged that few Mexicans had come forward to provide DNA samples and that given the number of illegals in town, the perpetrator might be a Mexican—who might have returned to Mexico.
