Marking Time in Texas

“At the innermost core of all loneliness is a deep and powerful yearning for union with one's lost self.” —Brendan Behan

I had a list of observations about Dallas: It was incredibly hot, no one walked, the architecture was a mixture of Versailles, Victorian, and Hollywood excess, the women all had blowouts, wore tons of makeup even at breakfast and had perfectly manicured nails unless they were dressed as maids, while the men were costumed as cowboy executives, used sports analogies and drove around in construction vehicles that were spotlessly clean and had no connection to how they earned money. The highways merged without warning; there was nothing to do, nowhere to go; it was freezing cold because of the air-conditioning and blazingly hot.

Buckling Luke into his stroller for a walk, I discovered a dearth of actual sidewalks, no concessions to wheelchairs, and the need for a gentle transition between curb and street. Poor Luke came down so hard that his teeth made a terrible noise. We were invariably hailed by the Dallas police, who assumed my car had broken down or run out of gas. The gardeners, leaf blowers and outside workers who were, without exception, Mexicans, eyed us as we passed, making the universal sign for “bonkers.”

On April 19th, the Alfred P. Murrah Ferderal Building in Oklahoma City was blown up by two domestic terrorists who detonated a truck outside of the building. It was the anniversary of the siege of the Branch Davidians in Waco, Texas. Kevin’s news bureau covered that region, so every detail of the slaughter of the one-hundred and sixty-eight people, including nineteen children in the daycare center, was available. Sudden, inexplicable tragedy and a senseless loss of life returned me to the days after my sister Catherine was killed, and I struggled not to conflate that grief with what happened in Oklahoma, knowing logically that Luke was safe and it was irrational, not to mention selfish to feel so connected to the grief-stricken families.

photo by Peregrine Photography

Still, I kept imagining those little children lying down on their mats for naptime, expecting to wake up for juice and graham crackers and found myself gasping for air. I had nightmares of trucks parked outside Luke’s daycare blowing up. But it also helped me redirect my hatred for Dallas to Timothy McVeigh, the white supremacist who would eventually be executed. The details about the use of fertilizer and his background seared into my consciousness. It made me loathe anything connected to rural America and patriotism and then there was Waco, which was Texas, so I just hated the whole state instead of merely Dallas.

The woman Kevin had asked to be my friend called me and invited me to join her book club. The other women's names sounded like bad childhood nicknames: Muffy, Binny, Kitten, Hugs, and Princess. None of them had actual jobs, but Sue Ann thought shopping, lunching, planning catered dinner parties, going to the gym, and attending a book club were enough activities to require an extended stay at Canyon Ranch for “self-care.”

When I told Sue Ann I had been hired at SMU to teach creative writing, she insisted I attend their book club as the author of the next novel they would read and immediately ordered eight copies of the book from the local bookstore.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s incredibly sweet of you.”
“We’re just thrilled,” Sue-Ann said. “Kitten’s second cousin wrote a book called Finding Your Secret Passion. We made vision boards like on Oprah.”
“Do I need an activity? This girl finds out she’s adopted as a grown-up, and a bunch of other stuff happens. But there’s no activity.”
“Could you find an adoptee?”
“Sue-Ann, normally I just show up and listen to what you thought about the book. Maybe answer questions about writing?”
Sue Ann nodded. “Well, I think the girls will just adore anything you do.”

It was when Binny Morgan said, “Bless your heart,” that I realized I was bombing at book club. It probably began with my refusal to get drunk and went downhill from there. No one answered the door at Sue Ann’s Greek revival mansion, so I followed the loud, Texas-accented voices into the huge, decorated living room, where a lively discussion about adoption was being held.

“No, Oprah was not adopted! She was molested.“
“Sexually molested?”
“Yes! It’s a perfect miracle. Fat, molested, black, and yet she became Oprah.”
“She was always Oprah, Binny.” This voice stood out as East Coast without any drawl. The speaker was wearing black. I exhaled. I had dressed a bit formally, but all the women were wearing workout clothes and holding huge goblets of something green.

“Here’s our author,” Sue Ann said. “Cute shoes!”
“Margarita?” a woman in a maid’s outfit handed me a goblet with a salt rim.
“Oh, no thanks. Can I have a Perrier or just still water?”
“There’s Sangria,” an incredibly thin woman wearing yoga pants said. “And wine or a martini or a Tom Collins.”
“Something non-alcoholic would be good.”
“A writer who doesn’t drink. Isn’t that special?” The speaker was very tall, wearing what I believed to be the biggest diamond I had ever seen in my life, gauzy harem pants, and a low cut tank top. “I’m Kitten,” she said. “I just adored your little book.”
I smiled and glanced at where the non-Texan was making a face like she smelled something bad.
“Kitten!” she said. “That sounds like you’re telling someone you like their handbag. How long did it take to write your novel?”
“Three years.”
“Did you have a contract already?”
“No. I’m not famous enough for that.”
“So, you spent three years writing something that might never get published. That’s seriously ballsy. I’m Kate, by the way. Do you miss New York?”
“So much.”
“How can you miss New York City?  It’s just the dirtiest, smelliest place I’ve ever visited. I’d rather spend the weekend in Plano.”
“What’s wrong with Plano?” I realized the chance of discussing my novel was slim to none and felt relief.
“Well, Plano’s a poor parallel. How about South Central Los Angeles?”
“Have you ever been to South Central Los Angeles, Hugs?” Kate winked at me. “Have you ever been anywhere that didn’t have a Neiman Marcus?”
Sue Ann’s housekeeper came through the door with a tray of sandwiches.
“Why don’t we talk about Molly’s book?” Sue Ann said. “I’ll start. I really liked the way you developed Fiona’s character. At first, she seems whiny and clueless, but she is powerful by the end.”
I nodded. I was the only one who had taken a sandwich but then I realized it was made with ham, so I held it, lacking a plate.
“I really liked that negro dude.”
“Black, Binny,” Kate said. “Seriously?”
“Well, whatever. He was so interesting and funny, and happy. He seemed really happy. Until the suicide attempt,” Binny added. “Then you realized he wasn’t so happy.”
“You think?” Kate murmured. “The cross burning was sort of a bummer.”
I was still holding the ham sandwich, the bread slowly disintegrating in my hand. I looked around for a napkin or a plate, but failing to locate an acceptable resting place, I just smiled and nodded at Binny.
“Is it hard to write a novel?” asked Kitten. “I mean, how do you keep writing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “My father wrote novels, so it seemed normal. If the idea is strong enough, the story connects and sort of ripples out.“
“Like a stone in a pond,” Hugs murmured.
“Yup.” Kate picked up a plate and walked over to me. I put the flat sandwich on the plate. “Are you working on a new book?”
“I’m trying. I just found a good daycare.”
“Don’t you just love Dallas? Especially after London? We spent a week there last year, and it was cloudy.” Binny tried to look sorry, but her forehead was Botox smooth.
“I loved London,” I said.
“And Dallas?” Kitten asked.
“I hate Dallas,” I said.
“Bless your heart,” Binny said.
“Can we talk about those poor babies in Oklahoma?”
“I heard it was a terrorist, probably a Muslim.”
“No,” I said. “He’s an American, a white guy. He was angry about the federal government and taxes.”
“Well, that’s just sad,” Kitten said. “Being mad so you kill people.”
“One hundred and sixty-eight. Nineteen children.”
Sue Ann spoke quickly. “Can we not talk about something so depressing? Molly’s husband is a reporter.”
“Bureau chief,” I murmured. “Actually, I think I have to cut this short. Kevin is with Luke, but he needs to go back to the office. He has a new reporter in the field who went to the hospital where the babies were being triaged. She’s having a bad time."
The women stared at me. It felt wrong to have introduced these nice, pretty, well-dressed women to the horror of reality: dead babies and white terrorists. I felt myself treading water as fast as possible, but the riptide was inexorable. 

I pulled out of the driveway and drove through Highland Park. The air had cooled, sprinklers were whishing through the air, and in some yards, the screams of happy children getting wet were heard. Screaming children reminded me of what had occurred in Oklahoma, and I wondered how anyone could survive the death or the maiming of their child. “Is it a choice to survive?” I once asked my shrink. As usual, my shrink answered the question with another question. “If not a choice, what is it?”

I considered Eric Clapton and how his son fell from an open window. First, he disappeared and then he emerged with a song that was heartbreaking in its simplicity and truth, Tears in Heaven. When Catherine was killed, I started to drink again until I nearly drowned in self-pity and vodka. Then I stopped drinking because it didn’t help at all. The blackness descended, but then the morning came, and no matter how hard I begged God, my sister remained dead. My sister remained dead, and deep down, I wanted to live.

Kevin suggested I find a freelance writing job until SMU started again in the fall. At my women’s AA meeting, during the coffee break, I met a performance artist who had lived in New York before I moved back to Dallas. When I mentioned my quest for a story the women said she had one focusing on a prominent local politician.

“I met him at a party, and he attacked me.” The woman was in her early forties, with an interesting face and long red hair. Her name was Dottie Whiplash.
“Is that a stage name?”
“It was,” Dottie said. “I had it legally changed.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you,” I said, pulling out my address book. “Could I interview you? I have a contact at the Dallas Examiner.”
Dottie nodded. “But you’d have to drive out to Edom. I don’t have a car. My friend is an alcoholic, but I’m just supporting her. I hate alcohol.”
I had yet to meet a Texan without a car. “Sure.”

We chose a date, and I called the editor of the alternative paper and pitched the piece to him. “Sounds possible,” he said. “Dottie’s been around doing political sex stuff for years. Did she tell you the name of the guy who attacked her?”
“Not yet but I’m interviewing her on Monday. She lives in Edom.”
“Take pictures.”

Dottie Whiplash was a political stripper and a sexpert inspired by Annie Sprinkle, the New York performance artist. “I don’t show my cervix to the audience,” Dottie said. “I think that’s weird.” Driving out to Edom, I told myself I was expanding my writing repertoire, which was a good thing, not trying to please Kevin, who had made it clear he didn’t expect me to get another publisher to buy a new novel.

The sign for the New Day Resort had a picture of a family wearing fifties-era swimsuits superimposed on a church with its doors wide open. The implication was you could worship God and also have a nice vacation. I knocked on the screen door and was told to come in. It took a moment to transition from the white light outside to the dimness of the cabin. There was a couch and a kitchen table, which was mid-modern but clearly not meant to be a style choice. I felt like I had stepped into a time capsule, but then Dottie stood up, and her shorts and t-shirt revealed her tattoos. It was sweltering in Dottie’s cabin.

“This is such an interesting place,” I said, taking the water Dottie offered. “Was it a Christian retreat center?”
“My parents left me the property. They went to Zaire to be missionaries and got killed.”        
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, thanks. They drove off a cliff in the dark. My mommy wasn’t a very good driver.”
I looked at the photographs of Dottie spread-eagled and naked, lying on what looked like a water tower, in a tutu with no underwear, twirling a baton, topless.
“Your parents were missionaries?”
“They came to Edom to spread the gospel but there was only three hundred people in town who were already saved.”
“Did you go to school here?”
“I was home-schooled with six other kids. It was god-awful; no one was the same age, and the parents didn’t know how to teach past the third grade. We mainly read the Bible because there were no books. The Bible and the Sears catalogue were all we had. Did you go to college?”
I nodded.
“Thought so. You use a lot of college words.”
“My father was a professor.”
“I was sorry when my parents went over that cliff but they were a pain in my butt. All those prayer vigils to try and save my soul. You got any kids?”
“A little boy named Luke. He’s eighteen months old.”
“You like being a mommy?”
“I love it, but it’s hard to write.”
“I’m not sure I could manage motherhood.”
A baby goat came bleating through the door, pushing the screen open with its head.
“Here’s my baby!”

Giselle was the color of a brown crayon with white spots. The baby goat trotted over to me on her stubby goat legs and butted her hard, little head into my knees. Dottie picked up Giselle like a loaf of bread and settled back into the couch; Giselle sprawled across my lap. “So, you want me to tell you how Stevenson Parker raped me?”

Stevenson Parker was on the Dallas City Council and a close personal friend of the mayor. His daughter was a debutante, and his wife was the chairperson of the Bluebonnet Gala, a charity ball held every spring that raised millions for the local children’s hospital. All of this was on the microfiche I read at the Dallas Public Library to prepare for interviewing Dottie.

“How did it happen?”
“The fucker backed me up into an empty bedroom during a party, ripped my underwear off, and stuck his ding dong in my yoni.”
I was writing as fast as I could. For my first interview, this seemed like an unfortunate subject.
“Did you tell the police?”
Dottie peered over Giselle’s back and rolled her eyes. “Seriously? The Chief of Police plays poker with the mayor and Stevenson every Saturday night. You’d find my body in White Rock Lake with a big rock attached to my ankle.” Giselle let out a plaintive bleat. “That’s right, GG. You’d be really sad if mommy ended up a wet corpse.”
“Why do you think he took such a risk, Dottie? You’re not a prostitute. You’re an artist.”
Lucy laughed. “He doesn’t know the difference. When I said I was going to the cops, he told me nothing would happen because I was a whore, and he played cards with the chief and the mayor. Everyone in this city is taking bribes.”

I wrote down “bribes” and drew a star around the word. I felt overwhelmed and slightly sick. Kevin would have a ton of good questions to make the story meaningful. I couldn’t think of anything except to ask what Dottie was wearing which was unacceptable. I wanted to drive back to Dallas and take a nap with Luke. I was not a journalist. My perspective was subjective and clouded by my need to embellish. Dottie’s story was sad and terrible, but it didn’t make me want to go deeper. I longed to look away, to put my fingers in my ear and go “la la la.” I felt sorry for Dottie and depressed by the depravity of men like Stevenson Parker, but that was all.

“Thanks, Dottie,” I said, scratching Giselle behind her ears. “I’ll be in touch.”
Lucy looked surprised that the interview was over.
I drove home feeling like I had fled the scene of an accident. I didn’t deserve to call myself a writer. I was unable to portray the stark truth, preferring things to be dimly lit and pretty.

“You have to make sure you get that Parker guy on the phone. He needs a chance to comment.” Kevin told me after I described the conversation. “Seriously? I’m supposed to call the head of the Dallas City Council and ask him whether he assaulted Dottie Whiplash?”
I hadn’t counted on this being part of my job as an investigative journalist. I thought I could write the piece and defend myself when the article came out.     
“I wouldn’t say ‘assault.’ Didn’t she call it rape?”
“Maybe I can be subtle.”
“Journalists should avoid euphemisms.”

Kevin was right. As soon as Stevenson Parker answered the phone with a jovial, “How can I help you, young lady?” I blurted out my question. “Dottie Whiplash said you raped her at a party. Can you confirm that happened?” A barrage of swear words, threats, and statements like ‘I don’t know any Dottie Whiplash!’ poured through the receiver. “Who the fuck are you?” was repeated several times.

I didn’t know how to answer that question. I could claim a connection to the newspaper, but so far, I had only spoken to a receptionist who connected me with an editor who said I could write the piece, and he’d decide whether to publish it. I hung up when Parker asked me several times where I lived.

Checking on Luke, who was fast asleep, snoring slightly, I told his empty room, “I’m a novelist. I make shit up.” When Kevin came home, I described the phone call, close to tears. He seemed more amused than worried. “Were there any eyewitnesses?”
“I doubt anyone watched him rape Dottie Whiplash.”
“Maybe she told a friend.”
I thought about Dottie sitting in that hot cabin with Giselle on her lap.
“I don’t think she told anyone but me.”
“You can’t publish without any corroboration. Then It’s just gossip.”     
I nodded. I reached for a bottle to feed Luke.
“I’ll do that,” Kevin said, quickly disappearing.

The air was still warm, but it felt soft on my face. Outside I sat in a chair and looked at the other houses which were identical to our own. No one from the neighborhood had approached us. This, I thought, is what people don’t understand about places like New York City. When I had the flu, the pizza guys were upset by my disappearing, and when I was better, insisted I have several slices on the house. The doormen at my parent’s place in Chelsea were interested in Luke when he was born and what he was doing (rolling over, smiling). I felt surrounded by life. 

The windows in our subdivision were shaded, everyone drove everywhere, and it felt like the loneliest place in the world. Deep in my stomach was a gnawing ache. Clearly I was done for as a writer. People like me, chubby Texas housewives, didn’t publish books.

“I’m sorry you’re unhappy.” Kevin’s gaze was focused on his plate: chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and rice. He looked up, and I felt a tiny thrill from seeing the blue intensity of his eyes. “Why is where we live so important?”

I considered this question: If I loved him and Luke, shouldn’t their existence determine my happiness? But I knew this was naïve. When I was writing a novel, the setting was significant, and the characters were determined largely by their environment. You expected people from Maine to be terse and possibly hunched from being cold, while characters from warm climates were expansive and physically at ease. Texas felt more alien than all the European cities I had visited in the past.

“I liked New York,” I said.
“Fine,” Kevin said. “But we couldn’t stay in New York, and London was a great place to give birth, but the cost of childcare was mind-boggling. So now what?”

We breathe and we try to remember how it felt to fall in love, to find the smell, taste, touch of one another exquisite, to remember thinking this was unique, no one else could ever feel this close to another person. But then the fade began, the awareness of our faults, his obsession with money, my lack of a censor, his flat affect, my penchant for drama. Even if we focused on our Ming vase child, the damage was done, happiness shadowed, despite the beauty we had witnessed, and our memories faded. We had found one another, but slowly, there was just distance and silence. I had once described myself as rising from the foam of our love like Venus but now it felt heavy and sad.

— Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach

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