The Hard-To-Tame Texan. Lass Small

the intern shook his head. “Don’t fret about us. Our Admittance Office is cold and sly. We only get people who actually need us. We wouldn’t have taken him, but he had a bad leg. That got him inside. Then the nurses didn’t care which shift got him. It don’t make no nevermind to them.”

      One of the ranch crew asked, “Where you from again?”

      The intern started out: “Uhhhh. How come you want to know?”

      “You’re getting the swing of talking TEXAN pretty good now.”

      And another of the hospital crew mentioned, “It’s the sunshine and the food. Any man and most women are susceptible to being TEXAN. It’s in the climate. And other people around and about talk thataway. It’s catching...like a cold.”

      One of the ranch crew was fascinated. “I hadn’t ever been told that. Do you suppose it’s the climate that makes us thisaway?”

      “Wouldn’t be a-tall surprised.”

      So being gossi—communicators, the critical words about Andrew Parsons’s conduct did slide along all around the area. It was just a surprise that it didn’t go on to other states and foreign countries.

      They finally figured the reason the word hadn’t spread on beyond was because the TEXANS are not gossips and only mention odd conduct to good, closed-mouthed friends. They smiled at one another. It was good to be able to trust other people. They were all TEXAN, born and bred.

      

      So Andrew Parsons had been discarded and ignored. At the Keeper Place, he was where he could recover. He had a room. His sister, Lu, visited him. He assumed she was still at the hospice, in town, near the hospital. He hadn’t been interested enough in her to find out what she was now doing, or why she hadn’t gone on back to Houston?

      And the thought came to Andrew that she was still around! He was out of hospital. There was no need for her to be there! Why was she still hanging around? Hmmmm.

      But when he went to the dining area, he didn’t see his sister anywhere. Had she left? How strange. No farewell? Well, it didn’t bother him at all. She was useless anyway. She’d insisted the family pay his hospital bills.

      The Parsons had done that. It was only right that they did. It had been their son and his horse that had been shot. No one had mentioned replacing his horse. That would come...the time when he could mention his dead horse.

      What had become of his faithful dog?

      Using the cane, Andrew ventured carefully onto the porch and whistled the call for the dog. It did not appear. Where was he? Not that Andrew cared much one way or the other. To whistle for the dog was an excuse to get out on the terrace. He didn’t want to appear physically ready for prodding around the area.

      After his horse had been shot, Andrew hadn’t felt any urge to again go out onto the land...at all. So it was no surprise that right away he went back inside the Keepers’ house. No one was anywhere around. There was no one to entertain him.

      That didn’t mean someone for him to watch. It meant someone who would ask him questions and then listen to what he had to say.

      Of course.

      All of the world was anxious to know what reply Andrew Parsons would give. He’d wondered why he hadn’t been asked back to the Oklahoma town’s television station. He asked. They said there had been no response...at all.

      When Andrew demurred, they searched for and found and gave him one postcard that had said, “Good gravy, man, can’t you find anything else for us bed-bound guys?”

      Andrew had said the obvious: That was only one person’s opinion. But he hadn’t gotten through to even one of the blank heads confronting him.

      One had said, “Do you know how many people have been on the places where you’ve ridden?”

      Andrew had replied, “Think of the people who have walked in the path of others?”

      “Most of those paths have been made by celebrated, intelligent travelers. Most of that time is past. There is nothing in your presentation that is either new or different.”

      “Then...why did you accept my interview?”

      “Desperation. We are cured of it. We are changing the concept.”

      “How will I fit in?”

      “No way. Not here. Good luck.”

      And they’d escorted him out of the place...and closed their door on his heels.

      What was it about adventure that had faltered? And his mind gave him the view of loaded cars on interstate highways. People traveling. A whole lot didn’t even look at the countryside. They read. Played games. Slept. The driver watched the road and noted the speed and maneuvering.

      Times had changed when Andrew hadn’t noticed. He was a throwback to another time. Out of it? How strange.

      If he was obsolete, then why did people go to museums? And he remembered being a child when an old cousin came to visit with them. He didn’t really visit. He read the paper and watched TV. Andrew’s own mother invited the elderly cousin to go to the museum, which was one of the eleven best in the country.

      The old cousin said, “I’ve seen a museum.”

      He indicated that if you’ve seen anything once, it was enough. It wouldn’t change. Museums did.

      Think of the people who go to see the paintings and stand and just stare at them, absorbing the lights and shadows, the colors, the genius of it.

      There are people who have such paintings or photos or drawings in their homes. They smile at them or stand and allow their eyes to draw the drawings into their brains and feel fulfilled.

      Andrew really wasn’t such a person. He was not a viewer. He felt he, himself, was enough for any audience. He was unique and precious and worthwhile. He was there for them to regard and admire.

      Yeah. Sure.

      Two

      Late that evening, Mrs. Keeper was sitting on the wide stool before her vanity mirror. She rolled her hair onto small wire rounds and pinned them with odd, bendable, plastic hairpins. She looked as if she’d just landed from some faraway planet.

      Her husband came over and sat on his side of the stool, which had been custom-made for that very reason. His legs were on either side of her and his arms were around her body, nicely, but his hands were not in control. He asked, “What are we going to do about Andrew?”

      She sighed with his “we” comment because what he actually meant was: What was she going to do about Andrew.

      She fiddled with the lengths of hair tightly wound up in all those plastic doodads. She mentioned, “I’ve called Mark’s daughter JoAnn?” That’s the TEXAS questioning do-you-understand statement. “She’s coming to see us and she’s going to smooth Andrew... out.”

      With his eyes closed, Mr. Keeper’s hands were exploring his wife’s front chest He mentioned, “Women terrify me.”

      She turned her head slightly and looked at him loftily over her shoulder from under hooded eyes. She said, “—you are terrified—with reason. You brought me out to this raw place and, even now, you expect me to adjust.”

      “You’ve done that very well.”

      “Hah!”

      Indignant, he reminded her, “I let you go in to San Antone twice a year to shop.”

      “You go along and shake your head over anything I put on!”

      “That’s how well you make a rag look when it’s on your body. I’ll not have you wearing rags.”

      She was patient. “If they look good on me, then they’re not rags.”

      And he said, “Oh,”