Cousin Herbert enjoying life outside the insane asylum?” If I wanted to identify my torturer, I would have to play investigator. Again. And people believe I go looking for trouble?
The landscape unfolded past us as the Cadillac raced toward the coast. The gently rolling hills of pastureland fenced in idle herds of Red Brangus and Santa Gertrudis cattle, grazing in the heat. We stopped at the brown-mustard-colored grocery store in tiny Swiss Alp for Dr Peppers. Wearrowed through the heart of Czech Texas. In Schulenberg and Hallettsville I saw bumper stickers written in Czech next to bumper stickers that advised me to love or leave America. We headed south on Highway 77, and as we approached Victoria the pasturelands gave way to the flatness of the coastal plain. In Victoria, an old Texas town that seems to have every new fast-food restaurant imaginable, we turned south onto Highway 87, bulleting through small towns like Placedo and Kamey. As we continued through Calhoun County one side of the road seemed thick with an unfurled skein of bush that never quite ended; the other side of the road was charcoal dark farm soil. An empty railroad track ran parallel to the road, as if from a forgotten time. Oil pumps, the eternal symbol of Texas, moved in languorous thrusts near the road. The July air grew perceptibly denser with humidity as we headed south.
Port Lavaca, which guarded Lavaca Bay and its bigger parent, Matagorda Bay, came up quickly, a sleepy, salty hamlet. Port Lavaca works too hard to be a pretty town; most of the businesses seemed industrial, the eateries cheap, and old, hand-painted signs for last winter's local elections still stood in forlorn disuse. Bob Don insisted on stopping at a colorfully painted Mexican restaurant that looked like a botulism testing site but had marvelous home-style food, prepared by a chattering grandmother who scolded Bob Don in Spanish for not visiting more often. After our meal, we drove further out on the jutting chunk of Calhoun County and headed down Highway 1289 toward Port O'Connor. The land here was hardly coastal looking—tilled flatland, tall grass, horses and cattle grazing, profusions of thick bush. I rolled down the window and could smell the barest tinge of salt. We drove over marshy areas, with signs that said NO FISHING FROM BRIDGE. Old men and boys, black and white and brown, sat inches from the sign, watching their lines dangle in the water with the patience of statues. They did not even look up as the Cadillac rumbled past.
Fishing is the main reason for Port O'Connor's existence (aside from target practice for hurricanes—Carla nearly destroyed it in 1961). Every other billboard seemed toadvertise the county's best fishing guide or a boat stall for cheap rent.
“We'll do some fishing,” Bob Don promised me. Of course, I thought, that's what fathers and sons do.
He pulled into Port O'Connor proper, stopping near the main beach—a very narrow one—and pulling into a small but well-kept driveway for a little cottage. The other homes around it looked full of vacationing families.
I craned my neck out the window to see the brackish, greenish water of Matagorda Bay. Gulls swooped above the beach as screaming children hurled bread in the air in delight. The birds were white-breasted and gray-winged. A cloud of them cawed and wheeled as two children further down the beach lured them with new treats. A sailboat plied past and I saw a pretty girl in a bikini lean against the boat's railing as though she were unimaginably bored.
“I'll fetch Rufus,” Bob Don grumbled, opening the car door and slamming it shut with extra effort. He stormed toward the cottage. Gretchen was firmly locked in
I'm trying my best
mode and she pivoted toward the backseat with a frighteningly energetic smile.
“Y'all are just going to love Sass!” she assured us for the nth time.
“I love her already.” I smiled through clenched teeth.
“Jordy,” Candace admonished me. She patted
The landscape unfolded past us as the Cadillac raced toward the coast. The gently rolling hills of pastureland fenced in idle herds of Red Brangus and Santa Gertrudis cattle, grazing in the heat. We stopped at the brown-mustard-colored grocery store in tiny Swiss Alp for Dr Peppers. Wearrowed through the heart of Czech Texas. In Schulenberg and Hallettsville I saw bumper stickers written in Czech next to bumper stickers that advised me to love or leave America. We headed south on Highway 77, and as we approached Victoria the pasturelands gave way to the flatness of the coastal plain. In Victoria, an old Texas town that seems to have every new fast-food restaurant imaginable, we turned south onto Highway 87, bulleting through small towns like Placedo and Kamey. As we continued through Calhoun County one side of the road seemed thick with an unfurled skein of bush that never quite ended; the other side of the road was charcoal dark farm soil. An empty railroad track ran parallel to the road, as if from a forgotten time. Oil pumps, the eternal symbol of Texas, moved in languorous thrusts near the road. The July air grew perceptibly denser with humidity as we headed south.
Port Lavaca, which guarded Lavaca Bay and its bigger parent, Matagorda Bay, came up quickly, a sleepy, salty hamlet. Port Lavaca works too hard to be a pretty town; most of the businesses seemed industrial, the eateries cheap, and old, hand-painted signs for last winter's local elections still stood in forlorn disuse. Bob Don insisted on stopping at a colorfully painted Mexican restaurant that looked like a botulism testing site but had marvelous home-style food, prepared by a chattering grandmother who scolded Bob Don in Spanish for not visiting more often. After our meal, we drove further out on the jutting chunk of Calhoun County and headed down Highway 1289 toward Port O'Connor. The land here was hardly coastal looking—tilled flatland, tall grass, horses and cattle grazing, profusions of thick bush. I rolled down the window and could smell the barest tinge of salt. We drove over marshy areas, with signs that said NO FISHING FROM BRIDGE. Old men and boys, black and white and brown, sat inches from the sign, watching their lines dangle in the water with the patience of statues. They did not even look up as the Cadillac rumbled past.
Fishing is the main reason for Port O'Connor's existence (aside from target practice for hurricanes—Carla nearly destroyed it in 1961). Every other billboard seemed toadvertise the county's best fishing guide or a boat stall for cheap rent.
“We'll do some fishing,” Bob Don promised me. Of course, I thought, that's what fathers and sons do.
He pulled into Port O'Connor proper, stopping near the main beach—a very narrow one—and pulling into a small but well-kept driveway for a little cottage. The other homes around it looked full of vacationing families.
I craned my neck out the window to see the brackish, greenish water of Matagorda Bay. Gulls swooped above the beach as screaming children hurled bread in the air in delight. The birds were white-breasted and gray-winged. A cloud of them cawed and wheeled as two children further down the beach lured them with new treats. A sailboat plied past and I saw a pretty girl in a bikini lean against the boat's railing as though she were unimaginably bored.
“I'll fetch Rufus,” Bob Don grumbled, opening the car door and slamming it shut with extra effort. He stormed toward the cottage. Gretchen was firmly locked in
I'm trying my best
mode and she pivoted toward the backseat with a frighteningly energetic smile.
“Y'all are just going to love Sass!” she assured us for the nth time.
“I love her already.” I smiled through clenched teeth.
“Jordy,” Candace admonished me. She patted
Similar Books
Dark Mercy
Rebecca Lyndon
Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series
Austin Rogers
Stray Bullets
Robert Rotenberg
Bossy Bridegroom
Mary Connealy
Killing for Keeps
Mari Hannah
Martine The Beginning (Cruising to Love, The Prequel)
Edwina J White
Candle in the Window
Christina Dodd
The Unearthing
Steve Karmazenuk, Christine Williston
Tempting Fate (The Blake Boys Book 9)
Rhonda Laurel