“But you’re on the Centennial Committee,” Duane reminded him. “And I’m on it.”
“You’re on it but you never took it seriously,” Sonny said. “You don’t care about the past. But I care about it. I started thinking about it, and now I can’t stop. I thought the centennial would really be about the past, but it isn’t. It’s just a gimmick to get people to come here and buy souvenirs. It doesn’t have anything to do with the real past.”
“A centennial’s just mostly entertainment,” Karla said. “It’s pretty silly, but that’s no reason to go crazy.”
“It didn’t make me go crazy,” Sonny said. “It made me realize I’ve always been crazy, or I wouldn’t have wasted my life here. I should have left right after high school.”
“I thought you loved Thalia,” Duane said, very surprised. Sonny was one of the few people who, over the years, had always talked about what a nice place Thalia was. He had been president of the Chamber of Commerce four or five times.
“I used to love it,” Sonny said. “The centennial made me hate it. That’s another reason to sue.”
Duane wished they had never come to the Kwik-Sack. He didn’t know what to say to Sonny’s criticisms.
“It’s a wonder we were ever best friends,” Sonny said, looking at him sadly.
“Why?” Duane asked.
“You’re the town success,” Sonny said. “I’m the town failure. It’s been that way ever since high school. You wouldn’t think a winner and a loser could ever be best friends.”
Duane started to remind Sonny that he owned several prosperous businesses, not to mention other property. He started to point out that he had served well in virtually every city office. He started to tell Sonny that virtually everyone in town respected him—as indeed, almost everyone did.
But he didn’t say any of it. He really wanted to leave the Kwik-Sack and never set foot in it again. Karla could shop there if she wanted to. He was through.
“Jacy’s right about him,” he said to Karla, as they were walking back to the square. “He’s a loser and he likes being a loser.”
Karla looked very depressed, but not depressed enough to give up on Sonny.
“You two are too hard on him,” she said.
CHAPTER 83
WATCHING THE SUN BURN THE MORNING MIST OFF the brown lake, Karla came back to the subject of winners and losers.
“I could be considered a loser myself, Duane,” she said. “I haven’t really ever done that much.”
“You’re not a loser, though,” Duane said.
“If the only reason I’m not is because I’m married to a winner, then I am a loser,” Karla said.
Duane felt like shaking her.
“Stop calling yourself a loser!” he said. “You’re not a loser. You’re a beautiful, wonderful woman.”
“Are you getting mad, Duane?” Karla asked.
“Yes,” Duane said. “I don’t want to hear you talking like Sonny.”
“If I’m so beautiful and wonderful, how come you sleep with tacky girlfriends instead of me?” Karla asked. She was rubbing Blistex onto her lips in preparation for the blazing day ahead.
Duane sighed. Another thing he hated was conversations that worked their way around to why he was sleeping with somebody, or not sleeping with somebody.
“We’ve been married twenty-two years,” he said. “Let’s say we fucked two hundred times a year for the first ten years. That’s two thousand times. Then maybe a hundred and fifty times a year for another five years. That’s another seven fifty. I don’t know what it would be for the last six or seven years, but it must be at least a couple of hundred more times. That’s about three thousand times, not counting before we got married.”
“We got married right after we met,” Karla said. “I doubt we slept together even fifty times while we were dating.”
“It’s still three thousand times,” Duane pointed out.
“It depresses me to think about love in terms of numbers, Duane,” Karla said.
“It might not be romantic but it explains why I have girlfriends,” Duane said. “You were just talking about variety last night yourself.”
“When I talk about it I’m usually just showing off,” Karla said. “When you talk about it you actually go out and get it. I guess that’s the difference between a winner and a loser.”
“If you call yourself a loser one more time I’m gonna strangle you,” Duane said.
“Actually, you just get it and don’t talk about it,” Karla said. “That’s even worse.”
“You never look on the bright side,” Duane said.
“That’s a lie,” Karla said. “I usually look on the bright side. I’ve spent most of my life just cheering you up.”
Duane did not deny it.
“Which is the bright side, in our case?” Karla asked, a minute later.
“Three thousand first-rate fucks,” Duane said. “That’s probably about as good a sex life as anybody gets.”
“Don’t brag, Duane,” Karla said. “Not every single one was first-rate.”
“Most of them were from my point of view,” Duane said. “Ninety percent, at least.”
“That still leaves ten percent that were just so-so,” Karla pointed out.
“Most people would settle for ninety percent,” Duane said. “Why are you so stubborn?”
“What makes you think I’m stubborn?” Karla asked.
“You just seem stubborn,” he said. “I wish Jacy would come back.”
“Yeah, because it upsets you when I ask questions, or talk about sex,” Karla said. “I’m only forty-six, you know. I’m not ready to just quit.”
“Nobody said you had to quit,” Duane said.
“I do, or else I have to have tacky boyfriends,” Karla said. “The only reason you said that about three thousand times was to let me know you think your duty’s done.”
“I don’t look on it as a duty,” Duane said. “I used to spend all day at the rig, thinking about you. I’d think about what we might do when I got home.”
“That’s sweet, but it won’t help me now that I’m forty-six and you never give me a thought,” Karla said. “What about the rest of our lives?”
“I guess we’ll just plod along,” Duane said.
“Fuck plodding along,” Karla said. “I’ll go off to Europe and get in a lot of trouble and it’ll be your fault for letting me go off horny.”
“I wish Jacy would come back,” Duane said again. “If she came back at least we’d have to change the subject.”
“It’s my favorite subject,” Karla said. “I don’t want to change it.”
“Right, because you enjoy making me feel like a jerk,” Duane said.
Besides feeling like a jerk he also felt tired and old and at a loss. Such conversations always left him feeling tired, old and at a loss. What would they do with the rest of their lives? He had no idea, but whatever it was, it seemed all too likely that they would do it less well than what they had done so far—a depressing prospect.
The same conversation seemed to have the opposite effect on Karla, who suddenly looked younger, beautiful and energized. She was shuffling through Jacy’s collection of tapes, a keen look in her eye. At times she looked her age, but at that moment she could have passed for thirty-three or thirty-four. Her capacity to reclaim her youthful qualities for several hours at a time had always amazed him. He didn’t understand what made it happen. Certainly no one would ever mistake him for thirty-three, even for three seconds.
“You look wonderful,” he said. “You look just beautiful.”
Karla grinned. “It don’t make your dick get hard, though—does it, Duane?” she said. “I guess beautiful and smart and feisty’s still not enough for you, Mr. Hard to Please.”
“I’m not hard to please,” he insisted. “I guess I’m just getting old faster than you are. It’s not my fault.”
“I guess hard to get hard’s not quite the same as hard to please,” Karla said. ??
?It’s because you work all the time that you aged so quick.”
“I’m glad you’re in a good humor again,” he said.
“Just because I’m in one don’t mean I’ll stay in one,” she said.
“Karla, I know that.”
“You’d think a person who’s beautiful and smart and feisty would always get what she wants,” Karla said. “They do on TV. It’s a peculiar world if a person with my drive can’t get what she wants.”
“Think of it in terms of baseball,” Duane said. “The best hitters around just don’t bat much more than three hundred.”
“To hell with that,” Karla said. “I want to bat six or seven hundred at least.”
She popped a Pink Floyd tape into the tape player.
The mud turtle Shorty had been barking at began to walk into the water. Shorty tried to nip at its legs. Every time he nipped, the turtle stopped and withdrew into its shell. The minute it stopped Shorty began to yip at it again. His yips, even at a distance, were almost as penetrating as the music of Pink Floyd. Then Shorty noticed a killdeer and ran over and put it to flight. While he was gone the turtle hurried into the water and disappeared.
“I bet it’s a relief not to have a dog like Shorty barking into your shell,” Karla said.
“You bark into my shell,” Duane said.
“I hope you’re not going to start feeling sorry for yourself just because you’re bankrupt and have a mean wife,” Karla said.
“I’m not bankrupt,” Duane said. “Not yet.”
“I don’t know about your values, Duane,” Karla said. “How come you’re more worried about going bankrupt than you are about me going to Europe and getting in trouble?”
“I’m worried sick about both,” Duane said.
“It’s hard to think when the music’s that loud,” he added, yawning.
They saw Jacy swim slowly up to the little boat dock and rest a moment by the ladder before pulling herself out. Shorty raced to greet her. He ran around in circles on the dock.
“If I tried to swim as far as she does I’d get cramps and drown,” Karla said.
“Do you think she’ll ever marry again?” Duane asked.
“No, and I wouldn’t either, if you got killed,” Karla said.
“You would too,” Duane said. “At least I hope you would.”
“You better not hope any such thing,” Karla said, giving him a fierce look.
“I just said that accidentally,” Duane said. “I’ve never given any thought to what you might do if I die.”
“Just because I look for trouble doesn’t mean I want any husband but you,” Karla said. “What made you say that?”
“I don’t know,” Duane said. “I have no idea why I said it. I’m retreating as fast as I can.”
Jacy came walking up, a large blue towel around her shoulders. Shorty ran ahead of her, barking loudly.
“He thinks he’s my police escort,” Jacy said.
Shorty, in a delirium of happiness, began to run in circles around the Mercedes. Jacy stood by the window on Karla’s side and dried her legs.
“Duane said he hoped I’d get married again, if he died,” Karla informed her.
“He did, did he?” Jacy said, getting in the back seat.
Duane felt that he hadn’t retreated either far enough or fast enough. Having Karla beside him and Jacy behind him made him nervous. He could smell the lake on Jacy—the odor of a wet towel and a wet bathing suit on a wet woman. He glanced in the rearview mirror and met her eye. She had been waiting for his glance. She looked amused.
Duane felt a moment of desire, an urge to kiss her. It seemed sad and strange to him that he felt it for the wet woman in the back seat rather than the radiant woman in the front seat. Jacy fingered her wet hair.
He remembered that he was already in trouble because of what he had said about Karla marrying, if he died. He was not sure why the women thought it had been such a bad thing to say.
“I was just thinking of your happiness,” he said to Karla.
Both women laughed.
He felt Jacy looking at him in the mirror again, waiting for his eyes.
CHAPTER 84
ON HIS WAY HOME, KARLA BLITHELY INFORMED HIM that he had to get dressed up because the three of them had to judge the centennial art show.
“You have to wear a sports coat, at least, and it wouldn’t really hurt you to wear a tie,” she said.
“I could wear all the ties I own and it wouldn’t help me judge an art show,” he said. The art show was the one centennial event he thought he had no responsibility for. It had been Jenny’s idea, and Jenny, Karla and Lester were supposed to judge it.
“I know Lester’s run off but Jenny hasn’t run off,” he said. “Why can’t you three judge it?”
“We need a man on the panel to make it more balanced,” Karla said.
“Stop trying to get out of everything, Duane,” Jacy said. “It’s not going to hurt you to judge a little art show.”
“You don’t know what might hurt me,” Duane said. He felt picked on.
At home, Karla and Jacy put away huge breakfasts, stoking their already lavish energies. Duane ate a bowl of cereal. His stomach felt nervous.
“Are you sick?” Minerva asked. She herself was fantasizing stomach cancer.
“No,” Duane said.
“You look subdued,” Minerva observed.
“I am subdued,” Duane said. “These two subdued me.”
He nodded at Karla and Jacy, who were too busy eating to pick on him, for the moment. He felt sure they would start again as soon as their meal was finished.
“He said he wanted me to marry again if he dies,” Karla informed Minerva, between bites.
Minerva shrugged. “Par for the course,” she said. “When you have stomach cancer they take out your whole stomach.”
“I’d rather they just take out your tongue,” Duane remarked.
“I take that back,” he said immediately, as silence fell around the table. “I wouldn’t want you to lose your tongue.”
“You didn’t subdue him enough,” Minerva said to Karla. “Imagine a man saying a thing like that to an eighty-six-year-old woman.”
“What do you expect from someone who wants me to go get married the minute he dies?” Karla asked.
Duane got Barbette and sat by the pool with her for thirty minutes while Karla and Jacy got dressed. Jacy came out first, carrying a selection of ties in her hand. She held two or three of them against his collar to see how they worked.
“I don’t want to wear a tie,” he said. “I don’t want to judge an art show, either.”
“I have a feeling you just want to sulk,” Jacy said. “That’s all you seem to be doing. But that’s okay with me. It adds to your hangdog charm.”
“Why is it so bad that I said I wanted Karla to marry again if I die?” Duane asked.
“Because it means you wouldn’t care if somebody else fucked her,” Jacy said.
“If I was dead, I wouldn’t care,” he pointed out.
“The fact that you’d be dead is totally irrelevant,” Jacy said. “Wear this tie with the white spots. It makes you look sort of Las Vegas.”
“I hate that tie,” Duane said. “Somebody gave it to me for Christmas. Somebody like Bobby Lee.”
Barbette began to cry and stretch her arms out to Jacy, who took her. Barbette immediately stopped crying.
“You’re so sulky you upset your grandbaby,” Jacy said.
The art show covered the sidewalk all the way around the courthouse and slopped over onto the sidewalk between the courthouse and the jail. Duane, under duress, had put on the tie with the white spots.
“I never felt sillier in my life,” he whispered several times, walking along the rows and rows of oils with Jacy and Karla.
“Duane, hush, we don’t care if you feel silly,” Karla said.
The people who had painted the pictures, almost all of whom he knew, stood behind their canvases. Duane was extremely su
rprised to see some of the people who stood behind canvases—he had not suspected that so many of his neighbors and colleagues entertained artistic impulses.
It was apparent, though, that they not only entertained the impulses, they had high hopes for the results. He had been intending just to walk through the art show and vote for whatever pictures Karla and Jacy said should win. At once he saw that it wasn’t going to be that simple. Each painter expected him to come to a full stop and give his or her picture the attention it deserved. He started to walk past an oil of a red pickup parked at a filling station—painted by Bud Wardholt, who ran the local filling station—and glanced at Bud to say hi. Bud was a jovial man, usually, with a wad of chewing tobacco tucked into his jaw. He had a kind of juicy grin. He still had the chewing tobacco, but not the grin. Duane realized, in the nick of time, that Bud was waiting for him to stop and actually look at the picture. He stopped and looked. It was a picture of a red Chevrolet pickup with a gas nozzle stuck in its gas tank.
“That pickup looks familiar,” Duane said, looking more closely.
Bud Wardholt relaxed, and the juicy grin came back.
“I thought you’d recognize it,” he said. “It’s that old Chevy Dickie used to have.”
“My gosh,” Duane said. “When’d you take up oil painting?”
“Years ago,” Bud said, looking slightly insulted.
“That’s real pretty,” Duane said. “You can almost read the license plate on the pickup.”
He moved on to an oil painting of a fat little blob with blue eyes. The painting was titled “Our Little Darling.” It sat beside two other virtually identical paintings of blue-eyed blobs. One was titled “Our First Grandbaby,” and the other “Just a Little Bundle of Love.” The artist was old lady Collins, who with her husband ran a little bait shop out by the lake. They specialized in stink bait, but also sold worms and minnows. Their daughter Cindy, mother of the three little bundles of love, had been in trouble several times for writing hot checks.
Duane felt like strangling Lester Marlow for running off at such a time and sticking him with yet another thankless job. As he walked along the sidewalk, trying to think of something to say about each picture, his annoyance with Lester increased.