The Perk

by Mark Gimenez

  "So she stopped the Spanish Pledge?"

  "Nope. Ms. Rodriguez, she won't back down."

  "How'd she get hired here?"

  "She was just for show. The state was all over admin to do something for the Latino students, so they figured if they hired a Latino principal, the state would back off. The state did, but Ms. Rodriguez won't. It's a war zone here, between her and the German parents. They're trying to get her fired." Ms. Young exhaled and shook her head. "So, you want me to move Meggie?"

  "No. I want you to be her teacher. But can I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "Why did you tell me all this? How do you know I'm not like those other parents—you don't even know me."

  She smiled. "I know J.B." She consulted her clipboard. "I still need Meggie's immunization records."

  "Immunization records? Oh, well, I'll have to get …"

  J.B. held out a document. "She's had all her shots."

  Ms. Young laughed. "She's not a goat, J.B."

  "I packed her lunch and snack," J.B. said. "No sodas, no sugar. Got a spare set of clothes in a ziplock bag with her name on it in the backpack and a pillow and her blankie for rest time."

  Beck looked at his father. "Her blankie?"

  His father looked back. "You got a problem with that?"

  "Why spare clothes?"

  "In case she has an accident," Ms. Young said.

  "That only happens at night."

  "Kids her age, sometimes they have accidents during rest time. We like to be prepared."

  The intercom crackled on. Ms. Young said, "I hope you win, Beck. You won't, but I'll vote for you anyway." She stepped inside the classroom and instructed the students to stand and place their hands over their hearts. Meggie waved at Beck and J.B. They waved back and walked down the hallway. A child's voice came over the intercom and recited the Pledge in English; then another child's voice came over and recited the Pledge in Spanish: "Yo prometo lealtad a la bandera de los Estados Unidos de América …"

  "Your grandfather," J.B. said, "on your mother's side, he told me when his people first got here, they spoke only German, refused to even learn English. They wanted to live out here on the frontier, isolated, didn't want any part of being American."

  "Then why'd they come here?"

  " 'Cause they couldn't own land back in Germany. Here they could. They came here 'cause they could work hard and make a better life for themselves. Now their heirs begrudge the Mexicans doing the same thing."

  "They're not so different, Germans and Mexicans."

  "Difference is, Germans will eat Mexican food."

  Hundreds of bikers had invaded Fredericksburg, Texas. Not a gang of Bandidos looking for trouble, but middle-class, middle-aged mom-and-pop bikers wearing black leather vests, pants, and chaps, riding designer Harleys, and looking for a good place to eat.

  "You'd think leather in August would be hot," Jodie said.

  "Women in chaps," Beck said. "Why's that so interesting?"

  She gave him a look. "Because you're a male of the species."

  "Jodie," Janelle said, "you really think our campaigning for Beck is helping him?"

  Janelle Jones was a frumpy woman; her hair was frizzy and black with gray streaks, and she had apparently sworn off makeup. She wore a blue denim shirt that she had worn when painting and a jean skirt; she had pink Crocs on her feet. Jodie, on the other hand, was slim and wore jeans, the red boots with the black toe caps, and a black tee shirt. Janelle drove a turquoise Thunderbird sportster; Jodie drove the Jeep 4x4. They made for an odd couple.

  "Janelle, if we don't campaign for him, who will?" To Beck: "No offense, Beck."

  Beck nodded.

  "You know what I mean," Janelle said, "what everyone thinks about us."

  "They think we're a couple of crazy liberals when we raise hell at the council and school board."

  "And the old-timers can't abide that."

  "Praise the Lord and vote Republican."

  "In Austin, we were mainstream. Out here, we're like animals in a zoo, something to point at."

  "Janelle, Beck doesn't want closed-minded right-wing conservatives voting for him—do you, Beck?"

  "Well …"

  "Then who's gonna vote for him?" Janelle said. "No offense, Beck."

  Beck nodded again.

  "Everyone we know is going to vote for him," Jodie said.

  "He's gonna get the Main Street votes, Jodie, but he won't get the Germans'."

  "So what's he supposed to do, promise to throw all the Mexicans in jail like the D.A.?"

  "No. I'm just saying, maybe we're not helping, him associating with us publicly."

  Beck said, "I'd rather associate with you two crazy liberal lesbians than with the best people in this town."

  They gave him a funny look.

  Beck shrugged. "You know what I mean."

  Other than the bikers, downtown was quiet and would remain so until noon Friday when a stream of tourists in SUVs and motor homes would begin arriving. Downtown on the weekends belonged to the tourists, so locals came into town during the week. That Monday morning Jodie and Janelle were introducing Beck the candidate to the Main Street business owners, most of whom had moved to town from Austin and voted Democrat and none of whom spoke German.

  "Every election, it's the same deal," Janelle said. "Main Street versus the Germans. We always lose. Last county election, nine Germans ran unopposed. We couldn't even get anyone to run against them … why bother?"

  "We're gonna win this time," Jodie said. "We've got Beck Hardin." To Beck: "Word around town is, you've got the D.A. worried. He's hitting the Germans up for more money." She pointed down Adams Street. "See that shop—Texas Jack's Wild West Outfitter? When Tommy Lee was filming Lonesome Dove, he came in and bought all his clothes for Captain Call there. I don't think Larry McMurtry gets the recognition he deserves as a writer, do you?"

  "Uh … I don't know."

  "I mean, he won the Pulitzer for Lonesome Dove and an Academy Award for Brokeback Mountain and—"

  Janelle yanked Jodie to an abrupt halt. Jodie said, "Not today, Janelle." Back to Beck: "But because he's a Texan—"

  " 'Not today'?"

  "Brokeback … that was the gay cowboy movie?"

  "You got a problem with that?"

  "Hey, I played quarterback. I had my hands on another guy's butt for twelve years."

  "Not today?"

  "Not today, Janelle."

  Janelle had her hands on her wide hips and an incredulous expression on her face; Jodie's face was firm. The women were locked in some kind of standoff.

  "What's up, girls?"

  "Mexican Espresso Mocha," Janelle said. "Double-shot espresso, Mexican vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, cinnamon, and whipped cream. It's to die for. We never walk past Clear River without getting one."

  They were standing outside the Clear River Pecan Co., an old-fashioned ice cream parlor with a candy-apple red storefront and an Elvis poster in the window.

  "Why don't you make that at your coffee shop?"

  "Yeah, that's what I need," Jodie said, "ice cream within arm's reach at all times. At least we have to walk here for one."

  "Well, don't change your routine on account of me. I'll sit here and wait."

  Beck sat down on a red metal bench in the shade of the awning next to a mechanical bucking horse for kids. Jodie sat next to him.

  "I'm skipping today."

  Janelle frowned. "Why?"

  "Because it's fattening."

  "That didn't stop you the first thousand times. Hell, Jodie, it's not like we're cruising for cowboys."

  "You get one, Janelle. I just don't want one today."

  "We always share one."

  "Get a small one. I've got to get in shape for the Santa Run."

  Janelle, to Beck: "Main Street owners put on a race every Christmas. You gotta dress up in a full Santa outfit to run. Jodie won a couple times." Back to Jodie: "You're sure?"

  Jodie nod
ded. Janelle went into the ice cream parlor just as a big white diesel pickup with a German shepherd in the back pulled into one of the curbside parking spots and an old-timer got out; he went inside without turning the engine off.

  "Leave your car running in Chicago," Beck said, "it'll be gone time you come back out."

  "People here still leave their homes unlocked at night," Jodie said.

  A few minutes later, the rancher returned licking a pink ice cream cone with colored sprinkles like the kind Meggie loved. He nodded at them.

  "Hidi, folks."

  He drove off in a cloud of black diesel smoke.

  "Old-timer like him," Jodie said, "he sees me on the side of the road with a flat tire, he'll stop and fix it without a thought. But if I'm driving under eighty on the farm-to-markets, he'll run right over me. Texans are the nicest people in the world … until they get behind the wheel of a pickup. Problem is, most Texans drive pickups." Jodie turned to Beck. "Thanks for running. Maybe you can change things around here."

  "The law can't make everything right."

  "But a good judge can try."

  "Why don't all the Main Street business owners get together and change things?"

  "Because we've got to win an election first. And because any business owner who bucked the Germans would be blackballed. That's how things work in a small town, Beck. So Main Street votes against the Germans in private, but they won't stand up to the Germans in public."

  "You and Janelle do."

  She smiled. "We're just crazy liberals."

  Janelle returned with her Mexican Espresso Mocha, and they continued down the sidewalk. They had met the owners at the Spunky Monkey, Zertz, and the Earthbound Trading Company with a Buddha in the front window. Jodie had said, "Better chance of selling African art in Fredericksburg than Buddhas."

  Beck paused outside Parts Unknown in the old Palace Theater. He recalled taking Mary Jo to the movies and making out in the balcony. In the display window were Tommy Bahama shirts—one was called "Orchid You Not"—that cost $100.

  "J.B. never wore anything but plaid."

  "I gave him his first one," Jodie said. "Five years ago, for Christmas. He was in a rut."

  "He likes you."

  "I like him."

  "He'd probably marry you, if you weren't … younger. So how old are you?"

  She shook her head. "I'm not that easy."

  They came to a store called Bath Junkie.

  "My favorite shop," Jodie said. "They make custom bubble bath, any scent and color."

  "Custom bubble bath for goat ranchers?"

  "For tourists. Main Street isn't for the locals." She gestured up and down the street. "The 'Three Magic Blocks.' Storefronts rent for ten thousand a month, and the stores on these three blocks bring one-point-five million tourists to town every year. That's why the Main Street business owners stick together, so the old Germans down at city hall don't screw it up."

  "How?"

  "By allowing chain stores on Main. We're trying to get a 'No Chains on Main' ordinance passed so we don't end up with a Starbucks on every corner and a Victoria's Secret next to the Nimitz. Tourists come here because our shops are different. If this place starts looking just like Houston and Dallas, why come here?"

  "But if the chains come and the tourists leave, this town will go back to the way it was when I was here, vacant buildings up and down Main Street."

  "Some of the old Germans, they'd like nothing more than to chase the tourists away. And all us newcomers with them."

  "Why?"

  "Because they don't like this town anymore. Liberals coming from Austin and Latinos from Mexico, they figure their town's going to hell in a hand basket."

  They walked past the Jeep Collins jewelry store and arrived at Dogologie—pronounced like psychology—a store just for dogs. In the window was a tee shirt with "You Had Me at Woof" printed across the front; inside were doggie beds, doggie toys, doggie strollers, doggie treats with fancy icing like you'd buy in a bakery, and doggie tutus. The pink tutus were kind of creepy. But Beck stuck his hand out to the woman behind the counter.

  "Hi, I'm Beck Hardin. I'm running for judge."

  Hi, I'm Annie Hardin, Beck's wife.

  It had been six weeks since Beck had read Annie's last email to J.B. He hadn't been able to go back—until now. The thought of her emails stored on this computer burned in his brain. He had to know. It was past eleven, and J.B. and the kids were asleep. Beck had decided to start back at the beginning, with Annie's first email to J.B. He had just found it, dated two and a half years ago.

  Dear Mr. Hardin,

  Hi, I'm Annie Hardin, Beck's wife. I can't believe I found you!

  I was searching the Net for new wines to try—no, I don't drink a lot, but I like wine and Beck doesn't have time to go wine shopping with me. He doesn't drink. Anyway, I came across wineries in the Texas Hill Country, and I knew Beck had grown up there. When I clicked on Trail's End Winery and read J.B. Hardin, I knew I had found his father. That's incredible. I love wine and my father-in-law owns a winery. But Beck said he grew up on a goat ranch?

  Anyway, a little information. You have two grandchildren, Lucas Beck, 8, and Megan Anne, 3. They're great kids. I've attached a family photo.

  Beck and I married 10 years ago, after I graduated from Notre Dame Law School. I practiced almost two years then decided to be a full-time mother. Beck is a partner in a big Chicago firm. We live in Winnetka, about 20 miles north of the city. I've begged him to take me to Texas, but he says he'll never go back. I know his mother died when he was young, but what happened between you and Beck?

  Please write back. (This will remain confidential between us, okay? Hey, trust me, I'm a lawyer.) I ordered two bottles of wine.

  Annie Hardin

  Beck now clicked on Sent and scrolled down the outgoing emails. J.B. had written Annie back that same day.

  Dear Annie,

  Well now, this was a real nice surprise. Good Lord, those are some good looking kids. And you are beautiful. Beck is a lucky man.

  Gave up goat ranching about eight years back, went into the wine business. I was in a rut.

  Beck's mother died when he was 13. I didn't handle it so good. Beck was real angry back then, left here hating me. Hard thing for a man to carry.

  Never figured Beck for the big city, but I reckon he's happy.

  I'll send you the wine you ordered, but the only charge is more photos.

  J.B.

  Beck found dozens more emails going back and forth over many months. J.B. sent more wine to Annie; she sent more family photos to him. She told him about his son's career, the Hardin family of Chicago, and her parents, who had both died; he told her about Beck's life as a boy and about Peggy, about the Texas Hill Country and those bluebonnets. The tone of their emails gradually became that of close friends.

  Dear J.B.,

  The chardonnay was wonderful! Give Hector my compliments. I ordered a case this time. Beck has never even noticed the label. Of course, he's never around when I drink.

  The kids are at school and Beck's in L.A., another long trial. He's what we call a "high-profile" trial lawyer, with corporate clients all over the country, so he travels a lot. He argued before the Supreme Court once (he won) and he's going back next year. He's very good. You would be proud of him. It's just that he's gone so much, the kids are growing up without him, and I'm raising them alone. And I get lonely. That's the world today, I know, and at least they have one full-time parent, but he's missing out on their lives. Our life. I know he loves the kids, and me, but I've learned to sleep without him. Of course, a bottle of your wine and I'm out like a baby! (I'm just kidding. Only a glass or two each night. Or three. Four last night. You can't be an alcoholic on wine, can you?)

  Okay, that's enough whining for today. Maybe I'll start going to the gym. Time to get rid of that baby fat! (It's only been four years.) Maybe I'll get real skinny (well, not real) again and Beck will spend more time at home. First day of school p
hotos are attached.

  Love, Annie

  PS: J.B., 23 years is long enough. It's time for you and Beck to make up. My children need a grandfather, and I want to hug you. And I want to see your winery and meet Hector. If it's the last thing I do, I'm getting you and Beck back together.

  Their great life had not been so great for Annie. But she had kept it a secret from him; instead, she had told his father. He had been so focused on his career that he had failed her as a husband and his children as a father. As if winning another case would have changed his life. He knew now that marriage, children, illness, and death were life-changing events. Everything else was just ripples in the river. And getting J.B. and him back together was the last thing that Annie ever did.

  TEN

  "Beck Hardin hasn't lived here for twenty-four years—he's an Ausländer now! He thought he was too good for us, so he moved north to live with Yankees in Chicago."

  He said the word as if saying Shit-cago.

  "I've lived here all my life and I'll always live here, just like you. I'm a full-blooded German just like you. My daddy was one of you, and I'm one of you. We need a judge who's one of us."

  The Gillespie County Fairgrounds were crowded with parents, children, and farm animals. The Hardin family had come for the county fair. It had a carnival, arts and crafts, cooking competitions, and pari-mutuel horse racing. It had live country-western music, a swine futurity, livestock shows, and a beauty queen pageant. It had mutton busting, tractor pulls, agricultural exhibits, and a down-home version of American Idol. It had prizes for the Grand Champion Steer, Sire, Doe, Dam, Ewe, Ram, Lamb, Billy, Bull, and Bale of Hay; for the Outstanding Cake and Pie; for the Best of Show Pickles, Pie, Canned Fruit, Crochet, Quilt, Standard Breed Chicken, and Rabbit Buck; and, of course, for the Best of Show Adult Mohair. It had goats, sheep, cows, chickens, pigs, and politics; the D.A. was campaigning at the county fair.