Sweetgirl by Mulhauser Travis

Author:Mulhauser, Travis [Mulhauser, Travis]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2015-12-04T19:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Portis drove the center of Grain Road and the Ranger held a hard, straight line through the drifted shoulders. The pines were set close and the snow had started to fall again.

Somebody was on the radio, singing about the Houston sky and galloping through bluebonnets. Portis had his window cracked and he smoked as he drove. He nodded at the stereo and said it was Warren Zevon.

“Who is that?”

It was a question I immediately regretted as Portis cast a grieving look in my direction.

“Clearly I have failed you,” he said. “Clearly I did not do enough to teach you what was important when I had the chance.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Who was the third president of the United States?”

“Thomas Jefferson,” he said. “Who was the fifth?”

“I forgot you knew the presidents,” I said.

“That’s only part of what I know,” he said. “And James Monroe was the fifth president of the United States.”

“Just pay attention,” I said. “I can barely tell where the road is.”

“And you wanted to drive.”

Portis leaned forward to wipe at some fog on the windshield and I could see that he was in the height of his glory. He had a smug half smile and clearly believed some critical victory had been won against me. I shook my head at Jenna.

“Don’t mind your uncle Portis,” I said. “He’s just old and sour at the world.”

“For your information,” he said. “Warren Zevon is only one of the greatest American songwriters of all time. In spite of the fact that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has yet to recognize his brilliance. But yet Madonna is enshrined there. As is ABBA.”

“Madonna was a bad-ass,” I said.

“Madonna tongued-kissed a black Jesus,” said Portis. “For which I credit her.”

“What?”

“Forget it,” he said. “Before your time. The point is, they can induct whoever they want into their ridiculous club, but do not expect me to take you seriously as an institution when you deny artists of Warren’s stature in favor of a disco scourge like Barry Gibb.”

I wanted to say something about the road in front of us, how more and more I couldn’t tell it from the shoulder. I wanted Portis to slow down, but feared angering him in earnest, which would only lead him to hammer the gas to spite me.

I held Jenna tight and wondered if it would be better or worse for her if I strapped myself in with a belt. The belt would protect me, but if there was an accident I worried the strap would strangle her.

I thought the best thing was to put the lap belt on and slip the shoulder strap behind me. I did so quickly, worried my precautions would offend Portis.

“He wrote a song called ‘Keep Me in Your Heart,’” Portis said. “It was right before he died of cancer. And I will tell you right now that song will hollow you out with its truth. You will feel as if a piece of your own heart has been carved away. And what did Barry Gibb do? Wore tight pants and made music for homosexuals, that’s what.

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