Texasville (62 page)

He told himself he was silly to worry about it. It hadn’t really been an argument, just a momentary disagreement. He could not even be sure what the issues were. Suzie had already probably forgotten the whole matter. In all likelihood she was happily reading a romance, or watching TV, while she waited for Dickie.

But Duane couldn’t forget it. Jenny Marlow, dancing with Buster Lickle, waved frantically behind Buster’s back for him to come dance with her. Duane pointed at the sleeping baby. Ordinarily he liked to dance. He could assign Bobby Lee, approaching with the beers, to watch Little Mike. But the thought of Suzie wouldn’t leave his mind.

He looked around and saw G. G. Rawley, a sledgehammer in his hand, standing in front of the Texasville replica. He picked up Little Mike and walked over. Bobby Lee followed.

“It’s a little late to start knocking down the saloon, G.G.,” Duane said. “All the sinners are already drunk.”

“The Lord don’t expect me to win every battle,” G.G. said. “He just expects me to keep fighting.”

Just at that moment something fell into Bobby Lee’s beer
cup from a considerable height. Most of the beer splashed into Bobby Lee’s face, and some of it on Duane. Bobby Lee looked surprised. He wiped his dripping face on his shirtsleeve. But when he peeped into his cup he looked even more surprised. He reached in and fished out an egg.

“It rained an egg,” he said, astonished.

G. G. Rawley raised his sledgehammer to start the demolition of Texasville, and as he did a shower of eggs fell on him, at least fifteen or twenty, splattering on his shoulders, chest and head.

As he stood, looking puzzled, a second egg shower fell. A few of the eggs missed and splattered on the ground, but several more hit their target.

G.G. was too startled to move. He looked cautiously into the heavens. Eggs were flying out of the dark skies. Some arched into the street, splattering the dancers. A dozen or so splatted onto the roof of Old Texasville. Some hit the roofs of cars.

“It’s punishment time!” G.G. concluded, a happy light coming into his eyes. “The Lord’s raining down egg bombs on this haven of sots.”

As eggs continued to fall, the preacher became more excited, and also louder.

“He’s set loose the crazy chickens!” he yelled. “He’s freed the hens of hell!”

Duane thought otherwise. From high overhead he heard laughter, and it was the twins’ laughter, not the Lord’s. He tucked Little Mike under his arm and raced for the courthouse, wondering where they got the eggs.

CHAPTER 91

IN THE COURTHOUSE THE FIRST PERSON HE SAW WAS
Minerva. She sat on a bench outside the tax collector’s office, listening to her chest with a stethoscope. Minerva never traveled without her stethoscope. Listening to her own heart was one of her favorite pastimes. Occasionally she claimed to be able to pick up sounds from other organs as well.

“It sounds like I’ve got a spot on that left lung,” she said, when Duane appeared.

“I don’t care where you’ve got a spot, take Little Mike,” he said, handing her the sleeping child.

“Why, are you too macho to take care of your own grandchild?” Minerva asked.

“I’m not too macho but I’m too confused,” Duane said.

A stream of kids raced up and down the courthouse stairs. Those going up carried numerous cartons of eggs. Outside he heard shrieks from the direction of the dance, as dancers sought cover from the egg showers.

“Where are you kids getting those eggs?” he asked a boy with ten cartons in his arms. The boy ignored the question and raced up the stairs.

“I didn’t come here to baby-sit,” Minerva informed him. “I was dancing before you were born, and I’m still dancing.”

“The twins are throwing eggs off the roof,” he pointed out. “They’re throwing
lots
of eggs off the roof.”

“Well, it’s the last night of the centennial, I say let it rip,” Minerva said.

The hens of hell, in the form of the twins, came racing down the stairs. Jack raced out the door but Duane managed to catch Julie’s arm.

“Where are you getting those eggs?” he asked.

“From an egg truck,” Julie said, as if answering a very stupid question. She twisted loose and ran after her brother.

Duane followed the twins outside, but not far out. The roof of the courthouse seemed to be ringed with children, all well supplied with eggs, which rained down like hail. Across the street he could see a semi, parked in front of Sonny’s laundry-mat. A stream of children came and went from it like ants. The truck was clearly the source of the eggs, but why it was there he had no idea.

He ran up to the roof and saw at once that the egg throwers had ammunition for a long siege. Hundreds of cartons of eggs were stacked on the roof, and more were coming. Virtually every child in town was there. He saw Lester and Jenny’s two girls, and Suzie and Junior’s handsome children.

Below there was confusion. Some of the dancers were too far away to be reached by the eggs. Some danced happily on, unaware that anything out of the ordinary was happening. On the sidewalk across the street, Dickie was still dancing with Jacy.

Just as he thought the egg rain might be confined to the courthouse lawn, he saw the twins racing toward the dancers on their bikes, their bike pouches filled with eggs. Other kids followed, on other bikes. Jack and Julie sped by the dancers like Comanches, guiding their bikes by balance. They lobbed eggs over their heads like grenades, or casually flipped them under the dancers’ feet. Soon dancers began to slip and fall. Many were victims of direct hits. The twins disappeared into the darkness, only to reappear moments later, egg pouches replenished. Jack, still wearing his mirror sunglasses, bore down on the dancers at top speed. He only veered aside at the last
moment, when his victims were frozen with panic. Then he raced along the sidewalk, flinging eggs far out into the dance. Julie, just as fast, came right behind him, flinging hers at the ground as if she were skipping stones.

Many of the dancers were confused. The kids appeared only for seconds, and then vanished into the night. Most of the dancers were so drunk they never saw them. Eggs that seemed to come out of nowhere hit them and ran down their clothes. After watching for a few minutes, Duane decided to leave town. If enough people realized that his kids were the leaders of the egg bombers he would probably be beaten to a pulp—and even if he weren’t he would certainly have to listen to complaints he would rather not hear.

The question was how to escape the courthouse without being covered with eggs. He found a janitor’s closet and borrowed a couple of large garbage bags. He meant to loan Minerva one, but when he came back to the lobby Minerva and Little Mike were nowhere to be seen.

Duane slipped one of the garbage bags over his head, poked a couple of eyeholes in it and ran out the door. Several eggs hit the garbage bag, but in seconds he was in the street and out of range. Looking back, he saw kids with cartons of eggs getting on the Ferris wheel.

As he turned to go to his pickup, he saw Toots Burns standing by his police car in a very eggy state. He looked as if he had been hit by at least a hundred eggs.

“This is getting a little wild, ain’t it, Sheriff?” Duane said.

“Yep,” Toots said affably. “I just got gang-egged, or egg-banged or something.”

“Where’d the egg truck come from?” Duane asked.

Toots shrugged. “It’s got Iowa plates,” he said. “That ol’ boy that’s driving it picked a hell of a bad time to go for a walk.”

“The driver went for a walk?”

“Yep, he just parked her and walked off,” Toots said. “He’s in for a big surprise when he comes back.”

There were screams from the carnival area. Showers of eggs were flying off the Ferris wheel, pelting down on kids driving bumper cars. They splattered on the merry-go-round and caused people to flee the cotton-candy stand.

“See you later, Toots,” Duane said. “Don’t get too stressed. It’s just eggs.”

“I’m not stressed,” Toots said. “Ain’t raw eggs supposed to be good for your complexion? I might get even prettier than I am already.”

“That’s what I call looking on the bright side,” Duane said.

CHAPTER 92

W
ALKING TO HIS PICKUP, HE SAW
K
ARLA AND
J
ACY.
They sat on the fenders of Karla’s BMW, having a drink. An ice chest with two fruit jars full of liquor sat on the hood of the car.

“Got anything that don’t have papaya juice in it?” he asked.

“Duane, the whole centennial’s nearly gone by and you haven’t danced a single dance with either one of us,” Karla pointed out.

“I would have, but watching Dickie’s given me an inferiority complex where dancing’s concerned.”

“I think you do have a massive inferiority complex,” Jacy said. “You shouldn’t blame it on Dickie though.”

“Why not, when the whole town’s in love with him?” Duane asked.

“Duane, just because you’re a little bit inferior is no reason to get depressed,” Karla said. She got off the fender and poured him a huge drink.

“I asked if it had papaya juice in it,” he reminded her.

“Oh, don’t be so picky,” Jacy said.

“For your information it’s grapefruit,” Karla said. “Minerva
forgot the papaya.” She refilled Jacy’s drink and handed it back to her.

Duane wished he had walked up another street. The women had seemed very peaceful, sitting on the car together. They seemed to share a quiet or serenity or something that he could never share with them. They even shared a mutual appetite for picking on him. Their picking on him was just a form of joking, he knew. Mostly it was even affectionate. The problem with it was that it prompted his agreement; he would start picking on himself, only he wouldn’t be joking. The more the two women joked, the more he would doubt himself. The very bond that they had formed left him out, though he was glad, very glad, that they had become friends.

Through the years, thinking about Jacy, he had often fantasized that she would come back someday and become friends with Karla. In his fantasies it was a way of having them both. For years it had been one of his pleasantest daydreams.

Now Jacy had come back, and she and Karla were friends, but the central part of the daydream hadn’t happened. Instead of having them both, he had neither of them. He felt they had become much closer to one another than either of them was to him. It was warming to see that they provided one another with such easy, relaxed companionship; but where, in the years ahead, was
his
support to come from?

“Honey pie, I’m sorry,” Jacy said. “Don’t look so sad. You’re such an easy victim, I guess we just can’t resist.”

“Don’t baby that man,” Karla said. “He’s suckered me for twenty-two years with those sad looks of his.”

“I don’t think it’s an act,” Jacy said. “I think we’re looking at a sad man.”

“Duane, are you?” Karla asked.

“No,” Duane said.

Jacy’s remark startled him. In his whole life he could not remember anyone describing him as sad. He had heard hundreds of other people described as sad, but never himself.

“You shouldn’t get drunk if you’re sad,” Karla said. “It’ll just make you worse.”

“I’m not drunk and I’m not sad,” he insisted.

“You shouldn’t lie about how you feel, either,” Jacy said.
“You might fool one of us but you could never fool both of us. We know you too well.”

“I don’t think either one of you know me very well,” Duane said angrily.

The women were silent a moment. They exchanged looks.

“My lord, you’re grumpy,” Karla said. “We were just joking. I remember when you had a sense of humor, Duane.”

“I still have a sense of humor,” Duane insisted.

At the moment, however, nothing seemed funny, though it should have. The children of Thalia were bombarding their elders with eggs, which had been made available for no reason by a trucker from Iowa who happened to park his truck in the worst possible place at the worst possible time. G. G. Rawley had been hit by twenty-five eggs which he thought came from the hens of hell. But G.G. didn’t seem funny, and neither did Toots Burns, normally a comical sight even when he wasn’t covered with raw eggs. None of it affected Duane as strongly as the sight of the two women sitting on the car, so self-possessed and quiet.

“Dickie’s coming in a minute,” Karla said. “It’s hard to dance on all those broken eggs. We’re gonna go out to Aunt Jimmie’s and dance to the jukebox. You want to come with us?”

“Don’t pressure him,” Jacy said. “If he’d rather stay here and feel left out, let him.”

“Duane, is it a midlife crisis or what?” Karla asked.

“I guess I’m just tired of the centennial,” he said. “It seems like it’s been going on for a hundred years.”

“I think you’re threatened by your own child,” Jacy said. “You practically said that yourself. It’s a common human experience—you don’t have to be defensive about it. Just admit it.”

“I think I’ll take a walk,” Duane said. “Maybe I’ll run into that truck driver and tell him he’s losing his eggs.”

He drained his drink and pitched the cup back in the ice chest.

Jacy got off the car and put her arms around him.

“Come on, honey pie, go dancing with us,” she said. “We’ll make up for all the mean things we said.”

“You didn’t say any mean things,” Duane said.

“No, but we hurt your tender feelings somehow,” she said.

“He’s too stubborn to have fun with us,” Karla said. “If we take him he’ll just sit there and be gloomy and none of us will have any fun.”

“Somebody responsible needs to stick around here,” Duane said. “The twins started this egg fight. They might get arrested or something.”

“See, he’s always got some excuse for not having fun,” Karla said.

Duane felt undecided. Part of him wanted to go dancing. On the other hand, he agreed with Karla’s appraisal of the situation. If he went dancing, in the mood he was in, none of them would have as much fun as they might have if he didn’t go.

“I think I’ll just take a walk,” he said.

Jacy let him go without another word. When he looked back, from half a block down the street, he saw Jacy and Karla standing by the car door, looking in his direction.