Friendswood Read online

  ALSO BY RENÉ STEINKE

  Holy Skirts

  The Fires

  RIVERHEAD BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

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  Copyright © 2014 by René Steinke

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  The author gratefully acknowledges permission to reprint the excerpt from William Goyen, The House of Breath. Copyright © 1949, 1950 by William Goyen. TriQuarterly Books/Northwestern University Press edition published 1999 by arrangement with the Doris Roberts and the Charles William Goyen Trust. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Steinke, René.

  Friendswood : a novel / René Steinke.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-698-14479-8

  1. Families—Texas—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.T37926F75 2014 2014012106

  813'.54—dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For my son,

  Porter

  CONTENTS

  Also by René Steinke

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART I

  LEE

  HAL

  WILLA

  LEE

  DEX

  HAL

  WILLA

  LEE

  DEX

  LEE

  PART II

  DEX

  WILLA

  HAL

  LEE

  HAL

  WILLA

  LEE

  DEX

  WILLA

  PART III

  LEE

  HAL

  DEX

  WILLA

  HAL

  LEE

  DEX

  WILLA

  HAL

  LEE

  DEX

  HAL

  LEE

  PART IV

  WILLA

  LEE

  DEX

  HAL

  PART V

  WILLA

  LEE

  HAL

  LEE

  CULLY

  LEE

  HAL

  LEE

  DEX

  WILLA

  LEE

  Acknowledgments

  Something in the world links faces and leaves and rivers and woods and wind together and makes of them a string of medallions with all our faces on them, worn forever round our necks, kin.

  —WILLIAM GOYEN, The House of Breath

  1993

  ROSEMONT

  One of those evenings, before they knew, Lee walked past the Clarks’ ranch house, as sunlight shattered through the leaves overhead. The fan of a lawn sprinkler bowed down again in the green yard, and a few drops dotted her shoulder. Jess ran in front, dark hair splayed against the narrow back of her shirt, sneakers snapping against the concrete. Lee followed her around the bend, where the Bordens had planted an orange plastic Texas on a wooden stake right there in the garden among the marigolds. In the flat distance, another crop plane droned low in the sky, a silver spray trailing behind it, though nothing grew out where the refinery used to be.

  Jess waited at the stop sign. She was twelve, and her teeth seemed too big for her delicate mouth, her arms extra long, as if they grew ahead of the rest of her skinny body. “It’s okay, right?”

  “We figured, yes,” said Lee. “But, listen, don’t show off, just ride the horse like you’ve practiced.”

  “I don’t know why he worries. I’m a good rider—Dad knows that.”

  Jess took her hand, and Lee held some lost part of herself just returned. “Yeah,” said Lee. “But let’s not push it.”

  They turned the corner, and the sunset spread before them, two sparrows perched on a fence, radio jangling out from someone’s window. In one yard, a man stood holding a garden hose that shot at a row of hedges; his white T-shirt glowed phosphorescent in the dimness, as if he were trying hard not to disappear.

  “Can we hurry it up?” said Jess. They walked over the footbridge, over the cold, steely noise of crickets. On their street, Jess let go of her hand and ran around to the back of the neighbor’s house, where the horse was tied to the gate. Lee called after her, “I’ll be out there in a minute.”

  At home, Lee found Jack in the kitchen, smoking by the open window, squinting, face turned to the bright orange sun. They’d made up in bed that afternoon, but she was afraid, when he saw Jess on that horse, that he might get angry again. “I like that dress,” he said, eyeing her.

  “It’s not a dress, it’s a skirt.”

  “Whatever.” He smiled.

  She went over and touched his forearm, kissed his sweaty, stubbled cheek. “You smell good.”

  “It’s a wonder what a bath will do.” He pulled his shirt away from his chest and fanned himself a little. “Hot though.” He sighed, tapped his ashes into the sink. “Let’s go on outside then, I guess.”

  With that limp he wore as a strut, Jack went to set up the lawn chairs in the backyard. She took off her shoes to feel her feet in the grass, and she looked out at Banes Field, scrub weeds and stooped trees. The old, defunct refinery still stood there, as if there might be some reward in the futility of it; the small plane flew low now above the flat warehouse and white cylinder oil tank. From here, she couldn’t see the perimeters of Banes Field, only some of the other houses whose backyards ran along this edge. And though the whole block shared a nearness to the field, she could still pretend that she and Jack were the owners of it.

  Jack fell into the chair beside hers, handed her a beer. His face was shiny and tired, wet blue ovals in the underarms of his shirt.

  He winced, leaned back into the yawn of plastic chair. “I’m nervous.”

  She tapped her ring against the glass of the bottle. “It’ll be fine.”

  From behind the slope, their daughter emerged on the black horse, loose shirttail blowing, and her silhouette melded to the animal’s, a sober, elegant loping against the sky.

  She slapped Jack’s leg. “Will you look at that?”

  He craned his head to see. Jess could ride well now, but she was taking it slow. The neighbor girl Rachel was out there guiding the reins before she stepped away, red hair swept up in the breeze. Jess, her body so small against the vast brown field, took the horse into a canter, circled back, and waved at them.

  Lee took Jack’s hand, rubbed her thumb over his calloused palm. She’d won him over again, but it was better not to gloat.

  “Hey there!” Cal McHugh called over the low hedge that split his yard from theirs.
<
br />   “Hey yourself!” Jack sat up and tilted his bottle in Cal’s direction. Lee could see the citronella candles lit up on tall black stakes over the patio, where Lisa walked out, barefoot in a purple dress, carrying amber highballs.

  The unkempt yard on the other side of Lee and Jack’s was bound by a short wooden fence with hand-sized holes in it. Rachel’s sisters ran out to the edge of the property in their nightgowns, screaming, “Jess!” One of them pulled a pink plastic wagon, jiggling with rocks. Another trailed a doll with electrified hair.

  Farther away, two houses beyond, in the yard Lee couldn’t quite see, a party started to gather at the Turners’, laughing and shouting, dim music cartwheeling over in the dusk. The air was cool now, the sun fallen to that slant that nearly gilded the brown grass in the field. Jess took the horse into a gallop, turned, and disappeared behind the warehouse, then appeared and disappeared behind the tall metal poles that looked like pistons.

  Lee glanced at Jack’s face, the tense cords in his neck. “She’ll be alright.”

  She could see, next door, the McHughs watching Jess too, but casually. Cal lit a cigarette, opened the lid of the grill, and Lisa stood behind him, chatting at the back of his head.

  Out in the field, Jess galloped in a shot from behind the warehouse, her small body leaning over the horse’s strained neck. Lee was proud of how she’d learned to handle her stride and the reins. Jess patted the horse’s neck, and it slowed down, turning, head gradually more heavy, somber, nodding yes to its pace.

  Down the block at the Turners’, over the party’s murmur, a man started to sing loudly, “All I’m taking is your time.” Jess rode toward them, smiling. Her dark hair, unwashed and dull, fell awkwardly against her round, flushed face. She looked triumphant and exhausted, her torso slumped toward the huge saddle, the reins held close to her chest. She rode right up to the azaleas and bellflowers in the garden, bowed her head, and the McHughs applauded.

  Later, Lee and Jack would wander over to the Turners’ party, and Lee, a little drunk, would stroll into the field and look up at the moon’s scribbled design. From where she stood in the vast dark, the stars pinning down the night, the long weeds up to her knees, she could hear Jack’s balmy laughter.

  It was an evening that would melt into the summer, calm, humid, and expansive. The air did not yet smell of dead lemons. The red and blue sores hadn’t yet appeared on anyone’s neck. The black snakes hadn’t wriggled up from the ground. And she had no idea that this world was not without an end.

  2007

  LEE

  IT WAS SUNNY AGAIN for the first time in days, and light mirrored off all the wet surfaces. Post-storm, people drove slowly, though traffic was sparse. Here and there fallen branches and toppled road signs lay on either side of the road, but things were getting back to normal. She drove past the empty elementary school, past the ball fields, where a set of bleachers had collapsed. Up ahead, the Mexican restaurant looked intact, but a telephone pole had blown down in front of it, the wire crossed over the white face of the building. A fire engine sirened at the corner, swerved its long red body to the left, and she turned in its wake down Sunrise Drive, past the car dealer’s mansion, and past the high school, where a man stood at the pole, stringing up the flag again. She came to the stoplight, and turned onto the business strip.

  At the peaked roof of the Methodist church, the cross tilted like a weather vane. DONATIONS HERE read the hand-lettered sign. She parked in the driveway, took the old quilts and blankets out of her trunk, and walked into the wet grass. A bedraggled man sat at a card table, next to a hodgepodge of furniture and stacks of canned goods. The man’s face was jowly and flushed, and though she didn’t know his name, she recognized him from Rosemont. He’d been a friend of her old neighbor, Sy Turner.

  “Here you go,” she said, setting down the blankets.

  “I sure do thank you.” He was flipping through the pages of a Bible without looking down, a fidgeting gesture like shuffling a deck of cards. “I got a family or two could use those about right now.”

  “Which neighborhood?”

  “Empire Estates.” He shook his head. “Right up against the creek. It’ll be a long time before some of them get to live over there again.”

  “Well.” She was afraid he might start reciting Scripture. “Glad to help.” It had been ten years since they’d had to abandon Rosemont; she wasn’t surprised he didn’t remember her, but she didn’t want to remind him either. “You need any furniture?”

  “We got folks that need everything.” He opened the Bible, closed his eyes a moment, and pointed at a spot on the page. “Here you go.” He read, “‘Let every soul be subject to the higher powers. For there is no power but of God.’ Romans thirteen. That’s yours for the day.”

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “Chosen just for you, no extra charge.”

  She got back in the car and drove to the other side of town, marking the damage, the WELCOME TO FRIENDSWOOD sign blown down, the roof vanished from the German bakery, gray water flooding the low-lying parking lot of the bank. During the two days of storm, her TV still had reception, so she’d been able to follow the news—the hysterical, windy frames of rain and destruction—and when that exhausted her, she read the old paperbacks she’d had on the shelf, a few sayings of Emerson, and then a biography of Loretta Lynn that took all of her concentration as the wind lashed through the trees. She’d stared at the dark glass in the windowpanes, not fearful—because what could touch her now?—but waiting, as the body of the world thrashed around her.

  Inside McCall Hardware, it was crowded, and the line at the register was long, people holding boxes of nails, aluminum siding, hammers, and sump pumps. On a low shelf next to a stack of orange gardening gloves, she found a good hand shovel with a pointed tip, and went to pay. In line in front of her, there was Doc, fit and buoyant, his face cheerfully smudged with a day’s growth of beard. “Glad to see you all in one piece.”

  “Told you I was.” He’d called her seven times during the storm, worried about her alone in her house.

  “Well, now I can believe it,” he said. When Jack left her, Doc had offered her the job at the office and became her protector, though he had his own wife and son. “You know a worm is the only animal that can’t fall down.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m not a worm. But I’m alright. I just lost the shed out back.”

  “Alright then. Us? We’ve got to pull up carpeting.” He held up a flat, razored tool. “When we got up this morning, there were all these dead little frogs in the living room, but that’s about it. We’re lucky.”

  The man at the counter started shouting at someone behind them. “You looking for a dehumidifier? We’re all out. Try a box fan. Got more of those than you can shake a stick at.”

  “Listen,” Doc said. “Take the week off. We’re going to have a heap of cancellations anyway.”

  She’d actually been looking forward to work, to the escape from the swirl of her own thoughts. “Are you sure?”

  Doc’s eyes had melancholy circles under them. “Absolutely.” He patted her shoulder, went to pay at the counter, and waved good-bye. She was glad he didn’t ask about the shovel.

  So close to the coast, they were used to hurricanes, but this had been one of the worst. Where Crystal Creek had run over the road, she was afraid the highway might be shut down, but it was open again, at least as far as the exit. She turned onto the dirt road, her car pitching over craters, and saw that the big oak tree had snapped in half, the naked interior of the trunk left jagged and pale, its leafy branches sprawled out along the ground. Before the Rosemont houses had been torn down, there were men monitoring the site all the time, and even for a year or two after that. Now it was just Lee, the unofficial guardian, filling up empty, sterilized jelly jars with dirt.

  As she got closer, Tubb Gully was swollen all the way to the road’s shoulder, and brown water lapp
ed at the wheels of her car. Farther on, even a half mile from Banes Field, rotting wooden signs with weathered paint were posted along the chain-link fence: CONTAMINANTS DANGER and NO TRESPASSING.

  She’d already trespassed a dozen times in broad daylight. The last time she’d been chased off the property by a speeding white truck. Taft Properties—and the city—didn’t want her taking soil samples from Banes Field, but Professor Samuels said that after so many days of rain and the rise in the water table, there was a good chance the soil would show a tip in the toxin readings, and that was reason enough to try.

  The fifty-eight acres were divided by Tubb Gully, weeds and the old equipment on one side, overgrown woods on the other, where, along with the batting cage and dugouts of a Little League field, there were still a few abandoned homes left standing. Lee kept to this unwooded side of Tubb Gully, closer to where they’d buried the chemicals years ago in a number of truck-sized vinyl containers, no better than giant Tupperware, really.

  When she came to the hole in the locked gate, she parked the car. She grabbed the new shovel, the canvas bag with the camera, glass jars, and a map of Banes Field. She got out of the car and went to the gate, which was chained, but only loosely. She squeezed her frame through the opening where the end of the fence bent back, her breasts and hips just grazing the rusted metal as she pushed through. Inside, the field was muddy, the weeds pounded flat. The white tank stood about a half mile away, surrounded by freestanding pistons and pipes.

  That day years ago, when she’d first seen the oily sludge come up out of the grass, she’d thought it was a snake. She’d rushed inside the house, found Jess doing homework at the table. “Don’t go outside,” she’d said. “Stay here.”

  Today the ground was so soft that her boots weighed down with mud, and she had to slow her pace. Clouds rushed overhead. Closer to the warehouse, there was a thin gasoline smell, and the mud had an oily, purple sheen.

  The dull exterior of the warehouse was spray-painted TEX in orange and JAY LOVES RUBY in black, the walkway along the edge glittering with broken green glass. Nothing was inside, but they’d left it standing, some secret business still fuming, and the white truck that chased her the last time had seemed to come from the back of the building. She stopped at the tank, a rusted cylinder thirty yards around, patched in places with green mold. A squirrel ran up the ladder on one side. A few black birds perched at the curve of the top, looking out.