Read Online Western Swing by Tim Sandlin - Free Book Online

saffron, trying to find one that flourished in Houston’s climate. I don’t think gynecology was all that important to him. He only put in enough time at it to finance his real interests, like saffron.
    Poor Mama married the wrong money. She didn’t want a family of temperamental neurotics. She wanted a television commercial life. A household where the biggest problems were choosing a feminine spray and stains in the toilet bowl. She wanted two large American-made automobiles and a separate family room away from the dining and living room combination—a bathroom of her very own.
    Lord only knows what Daddy wanted—to get through it all, I suppose, to grow old with a presentable wife, plenty of insurance, virgin daughters, and enough money to bury himself with dignity.
    That was the problem right there—virgin daughters. His spells coincided with my first period, my first date, my first C in school. Any excuse from me and Daddy’s eyes filmed over and he shuffled around the house like an old man for a day, then he moaned out loud and sat down and I got sent to Roxanne’s for another night.
    Mom knew who to blame, all right. Daddy had a spell just before I ran away with Mickey. It started on Christmas Eve, midway through Perry Como.
    Perry sat on a three-legged stool, singing about the bells of Saint Somebody while Mom hummed along. She had set up a card table for stringing cranberries and popcorn. Mom just couldn’t accept the fact that we were not a regular, wholesome American family like the ones on Donna Reed and “My Three Sons.” Daddy leaned back in his recliner, smoking a cigar. Dessie was upstairs with her best friend, Brenda.
    I sat on the couch, eating a TV dinner and wondering how Mom would feel if I told her Dessie wasn’t upstairs gossiping about boys. Wouldn’t it be neat at sixteen to surprise your complacent Better Homes and Gardens mother with, “My sister’s up in her room licking Brenda’s clit, Ma.” I’d love it. She could never act so damn self-righteous around me again.
    But, I didn’t. It would be too much like stepping on a puppy’s head. Instead, I silently chewed Salisbury steak and watched Perry Como and my mother fake the Christmas spirit.
    Daddy leaned over and took off his left slipper and threw it at the television. Mom and I stopped in midhum and chew, staring at the slipper on the floor.
    Daddy groaned, “Jesus Christ.”
    He didn’t say another word clear through The Tonight Show —just sat there with one slipper on his foot and one slipper on the rug.
    Before bed, Mom caught me in the hall and pulled me into her and Daddy’s bathroom with the fuzzy toilet seat cover. The towels were red and green, used only during the holiday season.
    â€œGrandma’s blood is acting up in your father again,” she whispered loudly. “What did you do?”
    â€œI didn’t do anything, Mama,” I said, though I knew better. I didn’t know what awful injustice I’d committed, but I knew Daddy’s depression was my fault. It was never Dessie who caused him to stop talking. Always me, I was older.
    â€œYou’re so pretty and sweet,” Mom said, touching my hair. “You have all the advantages, Lannie. Don’t break your father’s heart.”
    A week later, I ran off to get laid and become a country star, but if someone says you’re breaking their heart before you’ve done anything, you might as well do something. You get blamed either way.
    A couple of years after the twins were born, I took a course in psychology at Rice. The course gave me just enough undergraduate ammunition to try defending myself.
    â€œDaddy’s manic,” I shouted at Mom. “It’s bad chemicals he inherited from Grandma or too much salt or something. I don’t cause these episodes. They just happen.”
    Mom looked at herself in the lavatory mirror, holding her