“That’s real pretty,” which was what he said in most cases, plainly didn’t satisfy the artists.
Various roughnecks were exhibiting, and almost all of them had done pictures of oil rigs at sunset. The many exhibiting farmers had either done pictures of tractors or dairy cows, though one who ran a pig farm had attempted a picture of his prize pig. The cowboys submitted pictures of their horses, or portraits of Willie Nelson. The fishermen painted fish, the hunters deer. Lady artists, of which there were many, favored fields of bluebonnets, ponds at sunset—the latter outnumbered oil rigs at sunset by a slim margin. Buster Lickle had done a watercolor of his Dairy Queen. Numerous grandchildren were represented, a few grandfathers, several brides, at least thirty cats and many dogs.
Duane had been in an art museum once, briefly, in Fort Worth. His only thought during the visit had been to try and keep Jack from destroying any of the art objects. He had kept his eyes on his son most of the time and saw almost nothing of the art, except for a sculpture of a frog, which Jack destroyed despite him, somehow knocking it off its pedestal. No one could understand how he did it, because the sculpture weighed six hundred pounds and Jack only about sixty at the time, but he did it. Duane expected to have to pay millions in damages, but the museum officials were so relieved that the frog hadn’t squashed Jack that they didn’t charge Duane anything.
As he walked through the show, Duane grew increasingly nervous. Not having to pay for a broken frog represented his only experience with the art world. How was he supposed to choose between so many little bundles of love and oil rigs at sunset? They all looked more or less alike to him.
He saw Junior Nolan looking at a picture with a sad expression on his face. Duane was startled to see that the picture he was looking at was a portrait of Dickie, sitting with his shirt off, on an orange couch. Almost before he realized it was Dickie, Duane recognized the couch. It was Suzie Nolan’s couch, the one they had made love on the day before. It must be Suzie’s painting.
Junior undoubtedly recognized the couch too. He looked sad, but not entirely sad. There was a kind of pride in his look.
“Suzie could have been an artist,” Junior said quietly. “Suzie could have been anything.”
Duane looked at the picture again. It did seem to be better than most of the other paintings in the show. There was Dickie, in all his youth and beauty, with a kind of softness in his face that Duane only rarely saw.
Jacy and Karla walked up behind him as he was looking at the painting. Junior smiled at them without losing his sad expression. Duane felt very awkward. Neither woman said anything. They just stood looking at the painting. The look on their faces resembled, for a moment, the look on Dickie’s face.
Duane would have liked to look at the painting longer. He would have liked to look at it alone. Looking at it with Karla and Jacy and Junior made him feel embarrassed. The painting made him realize that Suzie did love Dickie very much. It made him feel, again, that he had been misjudging her, not taking her seriously enough. It also made him wonder why she allowed him in her life.
The next picture he came to was Sonny’s. Duane remembered that there had been a time when Sonny tried his hand at painting. Mainly, as Duane remembered, Sonny had done paintings of buildings around the square. A few of them had been sold at the drugstore. A few still hung in the old hotel, and one or two were in the Dairy Queen.
This painting was different. Duane had never seen anything quite like it. For one thing, it was much larger than most of the paintings in the show. In an upper corner the red light blinked over an empty street. In another corner was a high school letter jacket—empty, just the jacket, with a “For Thalia” on it. In one of the lower corners a boy with a cap on was sweeping the street in front of the picture show. In the final corner an old man bent over a pool table in an empty poolroom. The center of the picture showed a football field, a smudge of crowd in the stands. On the green field a football player embraced a homecoming queen. The painting was called “Hometown.” Duane looked at it a long time, taking in the details. Some of them were tiny. There was even the name of a movie on the marquee of the picture show. It was “The Kid from Texas,” a movie Duane had never heard of.
Eddie Belt was a few yards away, standing proudly behind a picture of his bird dog, Monroe. Duane was well aware of how much Eddie thought of Monroe, because he talked about him all the time. Monroe was a skinny pointer with big sad eyes and ears that had been chewed to shreds by coyotes and other dogs. Eddie’s passion for Monroe was, in Duane’s view, totally irrational, for as a bird dog Monroe had his failings, the principal one being a habit of immediately devouring any bird that fell to Eddie’s gun. Duane and Eddie often whiled away idle hours at the rig by arguing the relative merits of Shorty and Monroe. Eddie’s position, frequently reiterated, was that Monroe was by far the most valuable pet.
“At least Monroe does something!” Eddie said. “He points them birds. That’s something. Shorty don’t do nothing.”
“Shorty does plenty,” Duane maintained.
“What?”
“He bites people I don’t like,” Duane said.
“Yeah, and people you do like, too,” Eddie said.
Duane had to admit that Eddie had skill with the brush. His portrait of Monroe was far more realistic than any of the other animal portraits in the show. He had caught Monroe’s mangled ears perfectly, Duane thought, and also his big sad eyes and protruding ribs.
“I never knew I had such a talented artist working for me,” he said. “I thought you mainly just doodled dirty pictures on the backs of envelopes.”
Eddie seemed quietly pleased with the compliment.
Jacy and Karla came over and studied the portrait of Monroe.
“That dog looks like he’s starving,” Jacy said. “If you’d feed him maybe his ribs wouldn’t stick out.”
“I feed him,” Eddie said testily. “Bird dogs are just naturally skinny.”
“He looks a little too much like one of those Ethiopian children,” Karla said. “I like it, though. I think I’m gonna vote for it.”
“Which category?” Duane said. He too was considering voting for it, both for diplomatic reasons and because he considered it an excellent likeness of Monroe.
There were only two categories in the centennial art show, Portraits and General.
“General, I guess,” Karla said. “I guess dog pictures would have to go in General.”
Eddie Belt instantly gave her a black look.
“I’ll have you know that ain’t no general dog,” Eddie said. “That’s Monroe. I raised that dog from a pup. This is a portrait. Anybody can see that.”
Karla and Jacy both smiled as if they thought Eddie was bats. While it was possible that they were right, and that he was bats, he was also subject to wild mood swings, as Duane knew better than anyone alive except Nelda, Eddie’s long-suffering wife.
Duane thought he saw a mood swing coming on. Eddie was silent, but swollen and red in the face. There was no question but that he would fight anyone in sight if he thought Monroe’s honor was being besmirched in the smallest degree.
“I think the judges had better consult,” Duane said. He took each woman by the arm and attempted to lead them a few steps away. Both immediately jerked their arms free. They were obviously ready to do combat over anything smacking of sexist treatment, such as being led by the arm by a male.
“Now look,” Duane said. “What we’ve got here is a man in love with his bird dog. I think we better put Monroe in Portraits.”
“No,” Karla said. “It’s a real good picture. I’d a lot rather vote for it than all those paintings of oil rigs and bluebonnets. If we leave it in General he could take Monroe home a blue ribbon.”
“Why can’t we vote it first prize in the portraits?” Duane asked.
“Because it’s not the best portrait,” Jacy said. “That woman’s portrait of Dickie is much the best portrait.”
“Besides, you can’t go giving a dog po
rtrait first prize when there’s portraits of people’s grandbabies in the show,” Karla said. “All those people with grandbabies would take us out and hang us if we voted a dog portrait first prize.”
Duane sighed. “Now you see, this is the kind of thing you get into when you start having art shows,” he said.
“I guess Dickie must really sleep with Suzie Nolan,” Karla said. “I didn’t believe it until I saw that picture. She makes him look real sweet.”
“He is real sweet,” Jacy said.
“I wish she hadn’t put it in the show, though,” Duane said.
Both women looked at him appraisingly.
“Why not?” Jacy said. “She had a perfect right to put it in the show.”
“I just said I wish she hadn’t,” Duane said.
“What’s it to you, one way or the other, Duane?” Karla asked.
“She’s forty-five years old,” Duane said.
“Is that supposed to explain something?” Jacy asked.
Both women were still looking at him appraisingly. Duane knew that even the most innocent remarks could sometimes get you in trouble, but it was beginning to seem that any remark got him in trouble.
“She’s forty-five and let’s say she’s having an affair with Dickie and he’s twenty-one,” Duane said. “If we give that painting first prize in the portrait category it’s gonna upset the Christian contingent.”
“Tough shit,” Karla said. “I’m voting for it for first prize.”
“Me too,” Jacy said.
Duane sighed again. “Okay,” he said. “Where does that leave Monroe the bird dog?”
“Maybe we can talk Eddie into letting us put Monroe in General,” Jacy said. “That way he can have a blue ribbon.”
“I don’t know,” Karla said. “Eddie’s a worse sulker than Duane.”
“I think Lester Marlow ought to have to go to jail for having thought up this art show,” Duane said.
“Duane, it doesn’t hurt to have a little culture with a centennial,” Karla said.
Eddie Belt, whose principles were as rock, at least where his bird dog was concerned, refused absolutely to let Monroe’s portrait be judged in the general category.
“I have to look that dog in the eye every day,” he said.
“Eddie, Monroe’s not gonna know which category his portrait got put in,” Karla said. She had lavished quite a bit of charm on Eddie in an attempt to change his mind, and was annoyed to find failure staring her in the face.
“That dog knows more than lots of people know,” Eddie said. “That’s a real sensitive dog.”
“Don’t argue with Eddie,” Duane said. “He’ll argue for weeks.”
“It’s your fault, Duane,” Karla said.
“My fault?” he said. “Why?”
“It just is,” Karla said.
“What are we gonna tell people in the portrait category whose grandbabies didn’t get judged as high as your bird dog?” Duane asked Eddie.
“I never told you to be a judge,” Eddie said.
In the end they left Monroe in Portraits. Suzie got first prize, Eddie second, and a dairy farmer third. The dairy farmer had done a recognizable rendering of John Wayne. The blue ribbon in the general category went to a painting of the Alamo, the red to a painting of a calf roper, and the white to a painting of a farmer on a tractor.
Duane suggested giving Sonny’s picture of the town an honorable mention, but all it got him was hard looks from his fellow judges.
“It’s morbid,” Jacy said. “I felt like putting my foot through it.”
“He didn’t even put me in it,” Karla said. “Who does he think’s been his friend all these years? Besides, he was real rude to me last night, telling me I drink too much vodka and have tacky boyfriends.”
“Aren’t we just supposed to judge them as art?” Duane asked.
“You didn’t take up for me either, when he was rude,” Karla said.
“Well, I started to hit him,” Duane said, “but the last time I hit him I put out his eye, remember?”
“No, because I didn’t live here then,” Karla said icily. “It’s interesting you hit him over Jacy but didn’t hit him over me.”
“I didn’t think you’d want me to hit him over you,” Duane said. “You’ve been so protective of him, I figured you’d divorce me if I hit him over you.”
“There’s good reasons and bad reasons for hitting people, Duane,” Karla said.
“My God,” Duane said. He felt worse by the second. “Talking to you women’s like handling a live wire. I can’t say anything without one of you jumping down my throat.”
“Duane, don’t use the plural when you’re just addressing me,” Karla said coolly.
Duane had used the plural because he thought he was addressing Jacy too. She was in earshot of the argument, but didn’t seem to be listening. She stared, expressionless, at Suzie Nolan’s portrait of Dickie. While she stared the twins tootled up on their new mountain bikes and stopped a moment with Jacy to look at the painting.
“I don’t see what’s so hot about Dickie,” Julie said.
“Dickie’s a puke face,” Jack said.
Jacy smiled and put her arms around them for a moment, almost tipping over their bikes. The twins soon disengaged themselves and rode on, and Jacy and Karla walked off.
Karla gave Duane a final, icy look as she was leaving, but didn’t say a word.
CHAPTER 85
DUANE WENT OVER AND SAT DOWN ON THE STEPS OF the courthouse. He felt terrible. He had never given any thought to having a nervous breakdown, but suddenly he felt that he might be having one. He wished he were home so he could shoot at the doghouse for several hours. The crashing sound of the big bullets might shut out the world for a while. He tried to remind himself that nothing that was happening was really so bad, but his mind wouldn’t listen to its own counsels. Why had it become such a desperate strain to talk to anyone, particularly Karla?
The day before, Minerva had needed some rags and had torn up an old sheet to make them. Duane watched, thinking nothing of it. The sheet had been washed many times and was very thin. Minerva tore it apart as if she were tearing paper. The sheet might have been twenty years old. He and Karla, or perhaps the older children, must have slept on it hundreds of times. And yet in five minutes it stopped being a sheet and became rags.
His companionship with Karla was only a little older than the sheet, and now it seemed to be tearing too. A few more weeks and they might only have the rags of a marriage. His children also seemed to be separating from him—easily, soundlessly—the two older ones because of age, the twins for no reason at all. They were just going.
Everything, it seemed, had been washed too many times, had worn too thin. His friendships and his little romances all seemed sad and fragile to him. They had once been the comfortable and reliable fabric that was his life. But the fabric became too old to bear the weight of all the bodies and personalities and needs of the people who tossed and turned on it. At some point a toenail or an elbow had poked through, and now it was all tearing.
Duane felt people looking at him. He didn’t know how he looked, but he didn’t want people staring at him. He got up and went in the courthouse. His legs were weak and he felt very confused. He remembered the courtrooms on the second floor of the courthouse. The courts weren’t in use at the time. A courtroom might be a peaceful place to hide.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, holding on to the varnished banisters as he went. When he got to the second floor he was surprised to hear typing coming from one of the courtrooms. The door was closed and the Court in Session sign hung on the door. That was odd. Duane knew perfectly well there was no court in session. He opened the door a crack and peeped in. Janine Wells was at the court reporter’s table, typing away on a small portable typewriter. Lester Marlow, his hair wilder than ever, sat on a sleeping bag in front of the jury box, scribbling on a legal pad. They both heard the door open and looked around in surprise.
/> “It’s just me,” Duane said, feeling foolish.
“Don’t stand there holding the door open, come in,” Janine said, testily.
Duane did as he was told.
“How’d the art show go?” Lester asked amicably.
“Well, it went,” Duane said. “Have you been hiding in here all the time? Jenny’s half crazy from worrying about you.”
“That’s an improvement then,” Lester said. “She’s two thirds crazy when I’m around.”
“He’s writing a book and I’m typing it up for him,” Janine said.
“Yeah, my autobiography,” Lester said. “I thought I’d just write it in the courtroom. Maybe I’ll be finished by the time my trial starts. When the judge asks me if I have anything to say in my own defense I’ll just read my autobiography to the jury. I think they’ll realize I meant well.”
Duane didn’t know what to say. It looked as if Janine and Lester had been living in the courtroom for weeks. One of Janine’s lavender negligees was draped over a chair, and Lester’s shaving kit was on the counsel’s table. They even had a hot plate with a coffeepot on it.
“Well,” Duane said. “I guess a courtroom wouldn’t be a bad place to write a book.”
“If I were you I’d leave town, Duane,” Lester said. “A Dallas bank’s taking over the bank. Those Dallas bankers are just waiting for the centennial to be over to start grabbing stuff. Your stuff will be the first stuff they grab, too.”
Duane was thinking how radiant Janine looked. She gave Lester a dreamy little smile, very different from the smiles she had once given him.
“Want some gum?” she asked, offering him a package of spearmint.
“Oh, no, thanks,” Duane said.
“What are you doing up here, anyway?” Janine asked.
“I was looking for a place to have a nervous breakdown,” Duane said. He realized he didn’t feel nearly as close to a nervous breakdown as he had a few minutes earlier.
“Oh, be serious,” Janine said, though it was clear she didn’t really care whether he was serious or unserious. She wanted him to leave so she could get on with typing Lester’s autobiography.