DR09 - Cadillac Jukebox Read Online Free

glass and drank it. "Daddy went
to the third grade. He hauled manure for a living. Rich people on East Main
made him go around to their back doors."
          I continued to look
into her face.
          "Look, when this
black civil rights guy got killed with Daddy's rifle, he started making up stories.
People talked about him. He got to be a big man for a while," she said.
          "He lied about a
murder?"
          "How'd you like
to be known as white trash in a town like New Iberia?"
          "Big
trade-off," I said.
          "What
isn't?"
          She gestured to the
bartender, pointed to a shoebox under the cash register. He handed it to her
and walked away. She lifted off the top.
          "You were in the
army. See what you recognize in there. I don't know one medal from
another," she said.
          It was heavy and
filled with watches, rings, pocketknives, and military decorations. Some of the
latter were Purple Hearts; at least two
    were Silver Stars. It also contained a .32 revolver with
electrician's tape wrapped on the grips.
          "If the medal's
got a felt-lined box, I give a three-drink credit," she said.
          "Thanks for your
time," I said.
          "You want to
find out about my father, talk to Buford LaRose. His book sent Daddy to
prison."
          "I might do
that."
          "When you see
Buford, tell him—" But she shook her head and didn't finish. She pursed
her lips slightly and kissed the air.
     
     
    I went home for lunch the next day, and as I came around the curve
on the bayou I saw Karyn LaRose's blue Mazda convertible back out of my drive
and come toward me on the dirt road. She stopped abreast of me and removed her
sunglasses. Her teeth were white when she smiled, her tanned skin and platinum
hair dappled with sunlight that fell through the oak trees.
          "What's up,
Karyn?"
          "I thought this
would be a grand time to have y'all out."
          "I beg your
pardon?"
          "Oh, stop all
this silliness, Dave."
          "Listen,
Karyn—"
          "See you,
kiddo," she said, shifted into first, and disappeared in my rearview
mirror, her hair whipping in the wind.
     
     
    I pulled into our dirt drive and parked by the side of the house,
which had been built out of notched and pegged cypress during the Depression by
my father, a huge, grinning, hard-drinking Cajun who was killed on the salt in
an oil well blowout. Over the years the tin roof on the gallery had turned
purple with rust and the wood planks in the walls had darkened and hardened
with rain and dust storms and smoke from stubble fires. My wife, Bootsie, and I
had hung baskets of impatiens from the gallery, put flower boxes in the
windows, and planted the beds with roses, hibiscus, and hydrangeas, but in the
almost year-round shade of the live oaks and pecan trees, the house had a dark
quality that seemed straight out of the year 1930, as though my father still
held claim to it.
          Bootsie had fixed ham
and onion sandwiches and iced tea and potato salad for lunch, and we set the
kitchen table together and sat down to eat. I kept waiting for her to mention
Karyn's visit. But she didn't.
          "I saw Karyn
LaRose out on the road," I said.
          "Oh, yes, I
forgot. Tomorrow evening, she wants us to come to a dinner and lawn
party."
          "What did you
tell her?"
          "I didn't think
we had anything planned. But I said I'd ask you." She had stopped eating.
I felt her eyes on my face. "You don't want to go?"
          "Not
really."
          "Do you have a
reason? Or do we just tell people to drop dead arbitrarily?"
          "Buford's too
slick for me."
          "He's a
therapist and a university professor. Maybe the state will finally have a
governor with more than two brain cells."
          "Fine, let's go.
It's not a problem," I said.
          "Dave .. ."
          "I'm looking
forward to it."
          Finally