Rich White Trash Read online

  Rich White Trash is a book of fiction.

  All events are products of the author’s imagination, and are used fictitiously, unless noted.

  Any resemblance to actual events is coincidental.

  © 2019

  ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-54398-467-5

  ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54398-468-2

  Cover art by Tony Maples.

  I am nobody

  Who are you?

  Are you nobody, too?

  -Emily Dickinson

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Part I

  Chapter One: The Mongoose

  Chapter Two: The Queen of Red Lobster

  Chapter Three: Ranch. Landry Here.

  Chapter Four: See you at Sunset, Roommate

  Part II

  Chapter Five: El Rancho Diablo

  Chapter Six: Please May I Have a Dr. Pepper?

  Chapter Seven: Divide and Conquer

  Chapter Eight: Good Night Nurse

  Chapter Nine: My Sweet Virginia

  Chapter Ten: Kiss Me Once

  Chapter Eleven: Oh Death! Where Art Thy Sting?

  Chapter Twelve: Hold Back the Dawn

  Chapter Thirteen: Horatius The Cat

  Part III

  Chapter Fourteen: Horse Fever

  Chapter Fifteen: Thunder Valley Farm

  Chapter Sixteen: A Dream Come True

  Glossary of Texas Names and Terms

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  They were a big, insular Texas family. Some people called them the Crazy Eight or the Landry Clan. The former was a play on VF Landry’s real name, Krejci. Pronounced “Cray-chee.” He used to tell his kids that his co-pilot in the war called him “Captain Crazy.”

  What few people knew is that it took a lifetime for Colonel Landry to get used to this Americanized name. After a perilous WWII mission into Czechoslovakia, Bill Casey, his commanding officer, said, “No one knows how to pronounce that Commie name anyway. We’re changing it to Landry.” Krejci meant “tailor” in English, but somehow his superiors confused the translation, thinking that it meant “landowners.” The switch to Landry seemed innocuous to them.

  There were eight kids—five girls, three boys. Enough, plus Mom and Dad, to fill the front pew at St. Ignatius’ Sunday Mass. So many children that their mom would summon most of them as a run-on sentence, “Vicki-Hap-Bits-Jillian-Iris….” and then forget the rest. Five born in six years—from ’43-‘49, then Mrs. Landry took a break for five years and had three more in six years.

  Here’s an org chart:

  People called them the crazy Landry tribe because there was always something exciting or totally nutty going on at their house: screaming, fighting, yelling, singing, trying the latest dance step with the music blaring, with two of the five beautiful girls tearing each other’s hair out because one of them stole either the other’s hair rollers or the latest issue of Seventeen magazine, or sneaking out of the “girls dorm” to make out with a handsome football star.

  Usually it was the mother, Virginia, beating on the kids or verbally abusing them. She was prone to extreme highs and lows in her behavior. She had too many children too soon in her marriage during WWII. “I didn’t count ‘em,” she’d say, “I just had ‘em.” Her anger management issues before the marriage acerbated all the hormonal changes from the pregnancies and drove her to do things she never acknowledged.

  By the time their father would arrive home from his law firm, the kids had calmed down, done their chores, made the dinner, and were ready to succumb to his demands for hearty discourse at the supper table, usually about Texas politics. “Take what you can eat, but eat what you take,” he would demand, and then he would take out a large piece of white cardboard covered in his “Top 10” questions for discussion.

  This wild little tribe fit snugly in a city that now brags to “Keep Austin Weird.”

  Today, the area of Austin, Texas where they were raised is chic, selling itself as SoCo, for South of the Colorado. In the go-go years of the 50s and 60s, it was Travis Heights, where families like the Landrys were “rich white trash.”

  “Rich” because VF was a successful attorney who was able to pay cash for a new home on Alta Vista with its view of both the UT Tower and the Capitol dome of Austin, new cars, and a ranch. Unlike a farm (which he also owned) where crops are raised, a ranch runs cattle and the owner must have a working knowledge of animal husbandry and veterinary practices.

  Spring-fed by Barton Creek and equipped with a veritable zoo of ranch animals, including armadillos, scorpions and deadly snakes, this desirable piece of property was purchased via just one major personal injury case, which eventually put Braniff Airlines out of business. Named Silvercreek Ranch because it had an abandoned silver mine beside the creek, it served as a weekend work camp for the kids. Hauling rocks, battling rattlesnakes, rounding up cattle, and shearing sheep were just a few of the tasks for these part-time cowgirls and cowboys. The teenagers would bop till they dropped at the Friday night “Y”, and then trade their bobby sox and loafers for boots come Saturday at six a.m. while the youngest of the Landry tribe stayed in the city with Virginia, their mother.

  “White” because, well, they’re white.

  “Trash” because anyone living south of the Colorado River, separating Austin between north and south, was trash. That’s how divided the city was during the 50’s through the 70’s, and the Landrys lived in south Austin. The south Austin high school, William B. Travis High, was so proud of its southern heritage that their school flag was the confederate flag. Cheerleaders for the school wore uniforms emblazoned with the flag across their chests.

  Of course, VF, whose given names were Vincent Frank, didn’t think of himself as “trash.” He was of the greatest generation, a rags-to-riches marvel who was going places. He wasn’t one to brand another person for where they lived.

  The Landrys thought they were hot shit. VF had ambition and a good friend in the PR business, so his daughters saw their photo in the Austin American Statesman every year or two—going to Girl Scout and the YWCA Teen Camp, glorifying their cheerleading trophies, displaying their first place swim meet ribbons, showing off the two generations of loyal American Legion auxiliary members, and announcing that they were Daughters of the American Revolution through Virginia’s genealogy with Roger G. Williams of Rhode Island.

  There were secrets buried within the seemingly well-behaved, well-groomed family. Secrets that everyone preferred to keep from the outside world. Most of the kids went to college, got good jobs, and began raising their families. Oh, no, no, no! I know what you’re thinking—they have an education, they can’t be trash. Well, trash they were. Put their footsteps in the wet cement in their south Austin home. Virginia couldn’t be in the Jr. League—that was the sophisticated north Austin, not south Austin. But not just white trash. Rich white trash.

  Then mortality hit.

  Part I

  Chapter One:

  The Mongoose

  1994

  “I feel like I have a mongoose in my head.” VF muttered these words to his favorite daughters as he was wheeled to surgery. He had complained about searing headaches for months—headaches that worried him as no other ailment. In fact, he never had ailments, save a broken toe when he was six. At 75, he did his calisthenics and eye exercises in the morning, drank his coffee black, ate his steak burnt, never smoked, drank sparingly and always rose with an erection.

  When the headaches began, he willed them away. For a while. Then they returned with a vengeance, causing him confusion and exhaustion. He broke down and went to see his primary c
are physician who examined his eyes and sent him to an eye specialist, Dr. Wang. He was misdiagnosed with a retinal disorder. “Dr. Wang’s a quack,” he announced. “I can see perfectly.” He had 20/10 vision, considered to be rare for his age, and didn’t even need reading glasses.

  After far too many months of muddling through the maze of health care in Austin he consulted a neurologist at Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio. “I am so lucky to live in a country that cares for its veterans,” he told his family. The neurologist gave him the usual physical tests of touching his nose with one hand while holding out another, holding his arms straight ahead while trying to keep them parallel, etc., and then ordered an MRI.

  The tumor was quite remarkable in size and position in the brain.

  “Colonel Landry,” the neurologist announced, “we need to see what this tumor is. Could be benign. We don’t know. We’ll get in there, take a sample, test it while you’re still under anesthesia, and if we need to remove it, we will. You’ll be in good hands, sir.”

  VF was so dumbstruck he couldn’t think of questions to ask the doctor. He had never had surgery. For anything. The only time he had been in a hospital was to pick up his wife after babies were born.

  The word “benign” stuck in VF’s mind. Yes, it’s benign. Of course it is. There is nothing else it could be. No one in his family died of cancer. Damn that word. His father lived to be 95. His mother died at 101. He was going to beat this beast.

  “Colonel,” the doctor said, interrupting VF’s daydream, “we’ll schedule this right away. You’ll be prepped for surgery the evening before, so you just need to arrive late afternoon, probably 1600 hours. I’ll be your surgeon and I prefer early morning surgery. I’ll have you out of the OR by oh-eight-hundred I should think…..”

  The doctor’s rapid-fire monologue stung like shot pellets hitting him in the chest. As he continued, VF heard the words “bed rest” and “recovery” and felt nauseous.

  Dear Lord. This is not what we bargained for. I’m supposed to live forever and that woman I married is supposed to die of a heart attack from all the sugar she eats. She cannot get the land. She’ll sell it, or give it away.

  Benign. It’s gotta be benign. Not cancer. That six-letter word rolled around and around in his mouth and his mind. Then he put his big boy pants on and walked out of Brooks Medical and into the bright sunshine of another hot-as-hell day in San Antonio.

  * * *

  The evening before his surgery, he lay tucked into the crisp white covers of a military bed, looking so much smaller than the strong, virile man he was. He took to orders like the soldier he was, and although lying in a hospital bed had never been his MO, he assumed the role of patient.

  His daughter Iris sat at his bedside, trying a little too hard to be optimistic. The bed faced a long line of tall, sun-drenched windows looking out at the live oaks and livelier squirrels on the grounds of the hospital. It was early June and even at 8 pm the sun was blinding.

  “I wonder if squirrels get brain tumors,” VF mused.

  “Well, if Hap was here he would say, ‘naw, they just lose their nuts!’” Iris countered. She got a smile out of her dad. Hap, the oldest son, was the jokester, and probably he would have said that. It helped break the tension in the room.

  Then VF reached under the hospital mattress, pulled out $2,000 in crisp hundred dollar bills and handed it to Iris. “I brought this just in case.”

  Iris was surprised and amused. “Dad, you won’t need this,” she said, “they’ll bill you for anything that’s not already covered under your insurance.”

  “You never know, darlin’.”

  “Yes, Dad, I do know,” Iris said kindly. “This is how it works. Your expenses are paid for. Anyway, no hospital takes cash anymore. I’ll be happy to put this back in your bank account.”

  “You do what is right.”

  The surgery began at oh-six hundred the next day. Seven and a half hours later VF’s daughters Mary and Iris sat facing the neurosurgeon who had just drilled into their father’s skull.

  “Your father’s tumor was right here,” the surgeon said as he pointed to the blurry image on the X-ray. “We got most of it. It was larger than predicted.”

  He grabbed another X-ray, turned on the adjoining light box, and pushed the film into its clasps to compare. “You can see the difference. This is after our work today.” The second X-ray had a ghostly spirit about it.

  Mary, VF’s very favorite daughter, and Iris, the most organized in the family, sat side-by-side in the surgeon’s messy office in matching Ann Taylor outfits, sticky pantyhose, and smart pumps. A faulty ceiling fan wafted the warm, humid air around their heads. Although eleven years apart, people mistook them for twins with their thin 5’6” frames, long legs, dark hair, and dark eyes framed with long thick eyelashes. They were the family members closest to the patient, and the only family there at that time. The trauma of VF’s sudden illness had sent Virginia, his wife, into a tailspin, and Vicki, the oldest, was by her side back at the ranch to calm her. Vicki lived in Colorado but drove all the way to the outskirts of Austin to help her father. The last thing the family needed was Virginia at the hospital, alternating between rage and inappropriate humor.

  Mary, a prosecuting attorney, and Iris strained to see the difference between the fuzzy films. They looked suspiciously at each other when they heard the words “most of it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mary demanded. “Why most? Why not all?” Mary knew from her work with the cancer foundation that in order for someone to be cancer free, the whole tumor must be removed.

  “This is a stage four GBM. Glioblastoma multiforme. It’s not just one separate tumor. It was entangled in your father’s brain. If I were to try to get more of the tumor, I may paralyze him…or worse. At this point of the game, he’ll need chemo and radiation, if he chooses.”

  Mary began taking notes. Iris was stupefied, trying to grasp the acronym GBM.

  There was a long pause. The surgeon stood and walked around the desk, folded his arms and lowered his voice, “I’d say he has three to five months. If it were up to me, I’d take a fishing pole and head to the nearest tank.”

  The sisters were speechless. Our father? Three to five months? How could this be? Here was a man who had the energy of ten people half his age. A handsome, chiseled-featured former college wrestler, VF was mid-seventies and looked 60 tops. He barely had any gray hair. Well, before the surgery. Chemo would definitely change that. Iris felt nauseous. Memories began swirling. She heard “three to five months” over and over and over. She pushed herself to focus.

  Mary needed more information.

  “How are you going to tell him about this death sentence?” she asked.

  “Well, I thought I’d tell your mother first so that she could soften the blow to VF….”

  The sisters exchanged glances.

  “We don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s a bit of a hysteric,” Mary noted, downplaying Virginia’s neuroses.

  “Your father confided in me that, depending on what we found, Virginia may need more medication than him,” he said with a slight smile. That opened up some air in the room. Iris and Mary sighed at the same time, knowing what an understatement that was.

  Virginia’s meltdowns had been a topic among the kids for years. Many of them wondered if she was bipolar. Vicki had been a nurse and came across the diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder. This was an explanation for people who were associated with being possessed of the devil. It fit Virginia’s behavior perfectly. She was convinced her mother needed an exorcism.

  As children they were terrified of their mother’s rages. For the slightest indiscretion, she would tear into a child—usually Hap—with one eye twitching and her body pounding the child into submission. Iris remembered a time her mom told a ten-year-old Hap to find a switch so she could whip him. He brought
back a tiny twig.

  “Are you stupid or just plain dumb?” she screamed. “Get me a strong stick.”

  Hap’s MO was first to run into his bedroom and put on two pairs of Levi’s and then find the most bendable switch imaginable, but neither the jeans nor the bendable switch prevented the terror the children felt when Virginia was mad.

  Over the years, Vicki had become her mother’s handler. Virginia refused to see a psychiatrist, although she had to know something was wrong with her when she flew into rages and her eye twitched so badly she could hardly see. She even told her girlfriends once that she “would never let anyone put me in a loony bin,” when they talked of a mutual friend who went to a sanitarium. Vicki thought that homeopathic remedies she researched and then used on Virginia helped calm her.

  After her nursing career, Vicki became a massage therapist and could read Virginia’s moods. When she saw it was time for what Virginia called a “rub down,” they would make plans for an appointment, using aromatherapy along with the deep tissue massage.

  Mary and Iris decided to break the news to Vicki so that she could run interference with Virginia and prepare her to meet with the surgeon.

  “Perhaps you should talk with Mom and Dad in the same room,” Mary suggested to the neurosurgeon. “Mom is coming to San Antonio in a couple of days. We’ll tell her that the surgery went well and that he will need a lot of medical care in the following months. That way at least she’ll be prepared to hear about the additional treatments.”

  The surgeon agreed with them. They listened (Mary took notes again) as he laid out the treatment protocol for the next several months—radiation in Austin, chemo by mouth, pain medication, and then palliative care.

  “You’ll be able to see him in a couple of hours. He is still in the ICU. Go grab an early dinner and come back.”

  The daughters pulled themselves off the stiff chairs and headed out to Mary’s favorite restaurant, Cappy’s, on Broadway.