Western Swing by Tim Sandlin

Author:Tim Sandlin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks, Inc.
Published: 2015-02-13T05:00:00+00:00

Part Four

13

Phone ringing. God, I hate phone ringing. Consciousness fought sleep for ten or twelve jolts, almost lost, then floated to the surface. I moaned and knocked the phone off the nightstand onto the floor. The ringing died; a tiny voice came from under the bed.

“Billy. Billy G. goddammit. I know you’re in there. It’s important, Billy. Answer the damn phone.”

Billy? Some nuisances are easier dealt with than ignored. I slid half off the bed so my head hung down near the voice. Blood swept into my ears and the headache of a lifetime roared into the backs of my eyes.

“Huh?”

“Put Billy G Tanker on the phone. It’s an emergency.”

“No Billy here. I’m sleep.” I moved to hang up.

“He must be in there. We all saw him go in.”

“No Billy.”

“Listen, lady, this isn’t funny.”

Twisting my head, I saw yellow translucent shapes swimming around an unfamiliar room. No Billy in sight. My tongue tasted like old tinfoil. My skin stunk. When I raised myself back to bed level, the yellow spots turned black.

Bedroom was wrong. Walls puke green instead of logs. No cats. Loren should be making coffee. Jesus, my crotch hurt.

A body next to me rolled over with its mouth open.

Self-revulsion tidal-waved through my chest. The broken vacuum, Loren’s face when I hit him, the asphalt highway to Rock Springs, a marching storm, Mickey and Cassie on the phone, scotch, quarts of scotch—the bad dream was true.

I closed my eyes in hopes it would go away. “Jesus, what did I do this time?”

The voice on the phone begged, “Please, this is an emergency. Put Billy G on.”

The body was still there when my eyes opened. It chewed and mumbled in its sleep. Must be Billy G. I wondered where I got him. Or why. He was kind of cute, in a cleft-chin sort of way, but what a baby face. He couldn’t be young as he looked, my crotch hurt too much for that, but this Billy G was definitely a young one. Reminded me of a boyfriend Cassie or Connie had in the eighth grade. Son of a pawing psychoanalyst.

I shook the hairy arm draped over his forehead. “Are you Billy G?”

Both eyes popped open, staring at the ceiling. Green eyes, dazed green eyes.

“Phone’s for you,” I said.

“Phone?”

“Telephone.”

Naked, I slid from the bed into the bathroom. There’s no place like a bathroom for staring in the mirror and hating yourself in the morning. Weight on the palms of my hands, I leaned over the sink and looked at the slimy woman I’d turned into. Bruise-colored bags wilted under my eyes. Lines cracked from the edge of my mouth to saggy jawbones. My hair looked exhausted.

Yesterday, I lived in a cabin in the mountains, a cabin with a room all my own and a husband who knew what that meant. Today, I’m a hussy.

What would Loren think? What would Daddy think? I knew what Daddy would think. He’d tell Mama I finally reached my potential.

Not that this was the first

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