THE NIGHT before the big affair Big Ed and Big Barb invited the out-of-towners, along with Olivia and me, for dinner at the fortress. The fortress sits on Westover Lane behind an enormous iron gate, a brick wall twelve feet high, and a moat—to keep out the illegal migrants, illegal terrorists, illegal burglars, several illegal kidnappers, rapists, and muggers, and some that are home-grown.
Versailles stands three blocks away. Edinburgh Castle is four blocks past that, and the Taj Mahal is on the street behind the Bookmans.
New money.
All of the visitors showed up. Billy Clyde and Barbara Jane, Shake and Kelly Sue, Juanita and Slick, T. J. and Donna Lou, Jim Tom and Iris, plus two close friends of the Bookmans, Dr. O. D. (“Dog”) Dawkins and his wife Savannah. They drove over from Dallas.
“Dog” Dawkins played football at TCU ten or twelve years after Big Ed. They’d become friends when Dawkins was head minister at the University Christian Church. He now heads up the Greater Dallas Christian Church, which is only slightly smaller than the Cotton Bowl. The reverend is known for his stirring sermons and lectures.
Juanita and Slick were late. They’d stopped off to see Grace, the “Mama of Sickness.” She was comfortable living at the Nonprofit Clear Fork Assisted Living Facility. Juanita was filled with pride to hear that Grace had discovered a new disease, “Trinity Fever.”
A person could catch it by standing too close to the Clear Fork of the Trinity, which weaves through enviable neighborhoods and manicured public parks in town.
Grace reasoned that the threat of “Trinity Fever” was why the West Fork of the river had diverted its route north of Fort Worth and veered east to join the Elm Fork that rolls past the west edge of downtown Dallas.
Juanita said, “I never knew rivers had that much sense.”
Grace said, “What are you saying?”
“Nothing,” Juanita said. “Just thinking out loud.”
Juanita told the crowd at Big Ed’s, “In case you don’t know, Grace is the only resident in the facility with a medical degree.”
Juanita and Slick and Jim Tom and Iris had never seen the fortress. Big Ed led them on a tour before dinner, a tour that included the three-bedroom guest cottage bordering the swimming pool, which might be the only swimming pool on the planet that’s shaped like a frog.
Juanita said, “Dang, Big Ed, this ain’t a home. This is a resort.”
The Bookmans’ private chef prepared the food and the staff didn’t let any guest go thirsty. Staffers were alert to leap out of trees, hedges, or shrubs to pour cocktails and wine when necessary.
The chef prepared two spreads for the visitors who might be craving Lone Star grub.
There was nothing fancy about the Tex-Mex, nor should there be. The cheese enchiladas were delicate and covered in the proper amount of chili gravy. The tamales were made of mild pork and fit for church ladies. All of the side dishes achieved perfection—the guacamole, refried beans, refried rice, the dishes of queso, and corn tortillas.
I congratulated Big Ed on not allowing a fajita within twenty miles of us. A fajita is not Tex-Mex. The fajita should never have been permitted to escape from its ancestral home, which is a stove in the kitchen of a dilapidated ranch in Sonora, Mexico.
Big Ed said he would offer a sizable reward to anyone who could point out the mindless soul who invented the fajita.
The barbecue spread was just as impressive as the Tex-Mex. The beef and pork were lean and tender as my heart. The meat practically fell off the ribs. I was thankful that the steep wall of the estate was keeping out the evil pepper monster, who was guilty of trying to ruin every barbecue joint in town by making the meat too peppery for humans to eat.
There was civilized ultra-lean sliced brisket and ultra-lean chopped beef or pulled pork for sandwiches. And the side dishes deserved a salute—the tame barbecue sauce, potato salad, cole slaw, pinto beans.
*****
AFTER DINNER we took comfortable chairs and sofas on the terrace facing a huge outdoor fireplace. Big Ed, T. J., and Rev. Dawkins lit up cigars. That’s where Big Ed was presented the gifts, which were planned as a surprise.
Rev. Dawkins gave him a copy of his latest motivational book, There Wasn’t No Bug Spray on Noah’s Ark.
T. J. brought him an old West Texas Tornado football jersey he’d taken to have framed.
Shake Tiller gave him a game ball signed by all the New York Giants after they won that Super Bowl.
Juanita presented him with a disc of her new album with a proper title: When Songs Had Melodies.
Barbara Jane made tears come to Big Ed’s eyes when she opened a large package and displayed the sign her daddy had posted in 1948 at the drill site. The site where he hit his first oil well near Midland. Big Ed had named the well:
The Barbara Murphy Bookman No. 1.
Big Barb said, “My word, where did you find that?”
Barbara Jane said, “In the attic on Winton Terrace when we were moving over here. I’ve kept it all these years.”
Big Barb said to her daughter, “That would have been in ’78. I do remember how you managed to enter Paschal instead of Arlington Heights or Country Day after we moved.”
Barbara Jane said, “I cried and made Daddy call the Superintendent of Schools, Mister Graves. Mister Graves let me transfer to Paschal. I didn’t want to leave the friends I’d gone to school with at Lily B. Clayton and McLean Junior High.”
She nodded at Billy Clyde and Shake.
“These two in particular,” she said.
Billy Clyde said, “What I remember is the transportation you got out of the deal. The silver Corvette.”
Shake said, “She wasn’t embarrassed about it either.”
Barbara Jane shrugged. “You guys would have been happier if I’d asked for a Dodge Dart?”
Billy Clyde said, “On further review, no.”
Big Ed smiled at the sign, and slowly mumbled, “Man oh man, the good old Permian Basin. Scurry County, Snyder, Midland, Andrews, Monahans . . . Lamesa . . . Fort Stockton . . . Lordy, Lordy.”
Jim Tom Pinch gave Big Ed an autographed first edition of Billy Clyde Puckett Talks Football. He wrote in it:
To Big Ed Bookman:
Here is everything Billy Clyde would have said if he’d thought of it.
Go, Frogs! Move the chains!
Jim Tom.
For more entertainment, Barbara Jane asked me to read the list of locals who would be on hand tomorrow night. Every name was greeted with laughs, moans, or questions.
I started with Doris and Lee Steadman.
Juanita said, “Oh, my God. She’ll talk my ears off.”
I said, “She talked mine off the other day on the phone. They’ve moved to an apartment in a retirement home on a road I’ve never heard of.”
“Doris says if she trips over one more walker, she’ll set off a fire alarm and watch all the people on walkers collide and fall in a heap.”
I named C. L. Corkins and his new wife Kitty.
Shake said, “The insurance guy? He has a new wife? His first wife probably got tired of hearing him break up laughing as he read the fine print on a policy.”
Moving on, I mentioned Dr. Neil Forcheimer, the TCU professor, and his wife Ruthie. Billy Clyde said, “Is he still teaching political science and his version of world history in contrast to Egypt’s version?”
I said, “He’s still at it. If you have tenure, you’re not allowed to die.”
Shake said, “What I remember is Dr. Forcheimer being in favor of free health care, food, housing, transportation, tuition, and money.
“I was in his class when a student asked him where the money would come from. He said the government. When the student asked him where the government would get the money, he said, ‘They have it—that’s all you need to know.’”
I brought up Foster Barton and his wife Dee Dee.
Barbara Jane said, “The funeral home guy has a wife? Did he always?”
“Always,” said Olivia. “But you only see her if you go to the same hairdresser. Or follow her to Dallas. She’s an SMU grad. Her girlfriends all stayed in Dallas and married real estate developers. Her social life is in Dallas.”
Onward to Old Jeemy Williams, the country DJ, and his wife Scooter.
“He’s been great for my career,” Juanita said. “Don’t jack with him.”
“He hasn’t robbed us yet either,” Slick said.
The next name drew laughter from Juanita. Hank Rainey, the society carpenter. “Hank has a wife named Daphne,” I added.
Juanita said, “I have a fond remembrance of Hank Rainey being the most-laid guy in town.”’
I said, “He may still hold the amateur title, but if you count the pros, he’s not in a class with Loyce Evetts.”
“Who’s that?” asked Rev. Dawkins.
“My friend Loyce Evetts. Rich guy. Keeps bimbos on the side.”
Olivia said, “Another great American and wonderful human being. Loyce is bringing one of his shapely adorables to the party. Her name is Renata.”
“What’s Renata’s last name?” Rev. Dawkins asked.
“I’ve seen her,” I said. “Renata don’t need a last name.”
Billy Clyde, Shake, and T. J. laughed.
I moved into the list of new regulars.
I began with “Montana Slim” Kramer and “Boots” Dunlap. “Gentleman bookmakers,” I said. “Boots is the only person I’ve heard of who came to Herb’s for the fried shrimp.”
Billy Clyde said, “I never knew Herb’s served fried shrimp.”
“Fresh out of the Trinity,” I said with a straight face.
I followed up the bookmakers with Jeff Sagely, the food wagon guy, and his wife Margarine. “Her name used to be Real Butter, but for reasons unknown he’s changed it to Margarine. I’ve been meaning to ask him why.”
“I do hope you’ll share his explanation with us,” Barbara Jane said.
“Jeff will be the guy with his arm in a sling,” I said. “Gunshot wound from the last time he was ripped off by the Tango gang. It happened when he was set up in the Botanic Gardens, or what Opal Parker calls ‘the Mechanical Gardens.’ It’s across University Drive from his normal location by the river in Trinity Park.”
Juanita asked, “Why doesn’t he move to a different part of town?”
I said, “Jeff says it’s safer where he is than anywhere else.”
Slick said, “That’s why I pack. No reason why the neighborhood gangs should be the only people with guns. Open borders, my ass.”
I brought up Donny Chance, the house painter, and his wife Lisa Mona. Having created the BLD—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the Bodobber—Donny was working on an afternoon snack, which, if I understand it, is made of artichokes, salami, turkey, fried egg, red peppers, and sauerkraut with mayo on rye.
He hasn’t thought of a name for it yet. I’ve suggested he ask a proctologist.
There were Hoyt Newkirk and his lady friend Denise Satterwhite.
A new regular, I explained. Hoyt moved here from Ruidoso where he ran a resort-casino for the Apache descendants of Dances with Cactus. I told the friends to be alert for a bargain offer in burial plots.
I almost forgot Chester Whooten and his wife Rosalie.
I said if you see a guy wearing a Houston Astros baseball cap, that’s him. He’s still celebrating the first major league team in Texas to win the World Series. He had been a die-hard fan of the Texas Rangers, a team that should have won the Series in 2011. But they lost it to the St. Louis Cardinals in the most torturous way conceivable. I felt his pain. I was watching on TV.
A Ranger outfielder loafed on an easy fly ball that would have been the final out in the sixth game when they were leading the Cardinals three games to two and 7-5 on the field. That hit gave St. Louis new life to tie the game. The Cards won it in the eleventh inning, then they won the seventh game to clinch the Series.
If you listened to Chester, there was a more telling reason why the Rangers let the Series slip away. They were “choking-dogs wading around in slime pits.”
Then there were the Low-Flying Ducks.
I described them as two women in their advancing years who were loyal customers. There was Gladys Hobbs, who owned a dress shop nearby, and Cora Abernathy, the co-owner of a bakery.
Gladys was happy to tell you that she “couldn’t care less” about anything that didn’t involve her own life or business. As for Cora, if you weren’t careful she would walk you through the stages of how she made the best banana layer cake in the world.
I warned everybody that the ladies were in the Hall of Fame of time bandits, room clearers, and rally killers.
“What’s a rally killer?” Hoyt Newkirk asked.
I said, “A person who changes the subject the instant a conversation turns interesting.”
“Whoa, Tommy Earl!” Shake piped up. “You just gave me a title for my next book.”
I said, “I did?”
Shake said, “I’m calling it, Time Bandits, Room Clearers, and Rally Killers. It’s perfect. Thank you.”
I said, “Well, as you know, I’ve always done what I can for the overall good of mankind.”