Tim Sandlin - Social Blunders

Copyright

Copyright 1995 by Tim Sandlin

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The lines excerpted from The Theory and Practice of Rivers by Jim Harrison ( 1985, all rights reserved) are used with his permission.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sandlin, Tim.

Social blunders / Tim Sandlin.

I wrote this for old Fred, young Kyle, and loyal Flip;

in memory of Richard Koeln and Mimi Levinson; and because of Carol

As usual with my books, this was a group effort. Teri Krumdick and Vici Skladanowski helped with the research. Tina Welling, Yana Sue Salomon, and my mom read earlier drafts; their comments were vital to the process. Drs. Sandy Chesney and Bruce Hayse showed me the ropes of disease and death. While Mark Wade and Grant Richins at Valley Mortuary assisted with funeral arrangements, those fine professionals are nothing in any way, shape, or visualization similar to the funeral directors I created in this novel. Competence doesnt go over well in fiction.

I spent an interesting morning at the Red Hills Ranch kitchen table, listening to Sarah Sturges and Paula Lasson talk about winter in the mountains beyond the reach of plowed roads while a guest stitched up a slice in Paulas sons hand. As the Kiowas used to say, nothing was wasted.

Bert and Meg Raynes are my role models.

Special thanks go to Les and Maggie Gibson at Pearl Street Bagels for daily cranking me up on coffee, and Steve Ashley, owner of Valley Books, who gave me sanctuary.

Maurey reached for my Coke and drained it. They shaved me again.

I thought that was only for abortions.

Doctors must shave every time they poke around down there. I might as well start shaving myself like Mom, save them the trouble.

Maurey looked awfully chipper, considering shed just broken her leg and had a baby. Her hair was brushed shiny, and her eyes glittered blue with interest at the baby stuck to her breast. A surf of love rolled over me, only more for Maurey than the baby. The baby was still a little abstract.

She held out a Bic pen. Want to sign my cast?

Her encased left leg hung by this pulley-and-hook deal. Her toes were gray.

Does it hurt?

Itches like king-hell, but doesnt hurt.

You never said king-hell before.

Maurey smiled, which was neat. Youre rubbing off on me.

Holy moley. I signedYer pal, Sam Callahan.

Is the baby eating breakfast?

Maurey parted the hospital gown to give me a better view of the babys mouth clamped to her nipple. She looked asleep. Her name is Shannon.

Thats pretty, I never heard it before.

Shannons cheeks sucked in and out and the eye I could see opened, then closed slowly, like a tortoise.

Can I touch her?

Maurey looked worried for a second. Okay, but be gentle. Babies arent footballs.

They dont travel as far when you kick em.

Maurey didnt like my joke a bit. For a moment I thought Id blown the chance to touch my baby. We hemmed around and I apologized and Maurey asked me when was the last time Id had a bath, which she knew full well was the warm springs.

You didnt mind yesterday.

Yesterday I was different.

I sat on the edge of the bed and touched my daughter on the back of her leg, above the plastic ID anklet thing. She was soft as a bubblegum bubble and, I imagined, just as delicate. I had created this. These toes and eyelids and all the potential for greatness and badness and beauty had come from me. I started hyperventilating and had to bend over with my head between my knees.

I hope she grows up to have my looks and Dads brains, Maurey said.

How about me?

Shell have your hair.

Traumatic events always happen exactly two years before I reach the maturity level to deal with them, I said, just to hear how the theory sounded out loud.

Two years from now I could handle my wife running off with an illiterate pool man. Two years from now I will have the emotional capacity to survive another divorce.

Hints that I might not survive the crisis cut no slack with my daughter. In fact, I wasnt even certain she had heard my little speech. Shannon seemed totally absorbed in aiming a garden hose at the front grill of her Mustang. As she rinsed soap off the gleaming chrome, her eyes held a distracted softness that reminded me more than somewhat of the softness her mothers eyes used to take on following an orgasm. Now, theres an awful thought. According to the two-year theory, a day would come when I could accept my daughter having orgasms, but for now Id rather drink Drano.

They say divorce cripples men more than women, I said. Women cry and purge the pain while men internalize and fester.

Shannon raised her head to peer at me through her thick bangs. Youve never internalized pain in your life. Heartbreak to you is like garlic to a cook.

Who told you such nonsense?

Mom. She says ever since you saw Hunchback of Notre Dame youve been looking for a Gypsy girl to swoop down and save. Then later you can die for her and feel your life wasnt wasted.

Secretly, I was pleased Maurey had seen the parallel, although Id always related to the hunchback more from the tragic outsider aspect than as a savior of Gypsy girls.

Do you and your mother often discuss my psychic makeup?

Everyone discusses your psychic makeupMom, Grandma Lydia, Gus. Hank Elkrunner says youre an egomaniac with delusions of inferiority.

I suppose Hank figured that out by throwing chicken bones.

Shannon shrugged the way she did when I was being too unreasonable to argue with and went back to her chrome. It was evening in October, the silver light hour when thousands of male Southerners all across the Carolinas stand back and toss lit kitchen matches at lighter fluidsoaked mounds of charcoal.

Shannon said, Youll be mooning over a new woman within a week. Why not save me some teenage anxiety and find a nice one this time? Hand me that T-shirt.

Isnt this my T-shirt? It was lime colored with Greensboro Hornets in white over a yellow cartoon hornet swinging crossed baseball bats. Wanda was nice.

Shannon stopped rubbing the headlights long enough to stare me downone of those how-dare-you-lie-to-me stares women inherently pass on to one another. Shannon looks so much like Maurey, its almost enough to make you believe in virgin birth. Where were my genes in this person who called me Daddy? Both my women had thick, dark brown hair, except Shannon cut hers short, collar length, while Maureys hair hung down her back. Long neck, small hands, cheekbones of a Victorias Secret nightie model, teeth that had never cost me a dime over checkups and cleaningthe only difference was Shannon had brown eyes while Maureys were sky blue. And Maurey had a scar on her chin from a beating she once took at the hands of a man.