Desert Discord: Marijuana, Music, and Murder in a West Texas Town

By Henry D. Terrell

It's 1970 in the small West Texas city of Duro. 

Andy is a twenty-three-year-old classical musician who moves around in all strata of society, from the elite to petty criminals. One night, he is attacked and beaten unconscious by young men who think he is gay, and he sustains a serious brain injury. As he gradually recovers, he is changed. He has difficulty speaking and is subject to terrifying nightmares and vivid musical hallucinations. 

Andy’s roommates, Douglas and Reed, are trying to grow a successful marijuana crop on a barren vacant lot despite the desert heat, the police, the marauding deer, and their own ineptitude. A millionaire oilman stages the kidnapping of his wayward grandson to "deprogram" him, only to have the plan go horribly wrong. Two teenaged girls vanish under strange circumstances, and some suspect Andy may be involved. Meanwhile, the young musician observes it all with his damaged but still brilliant mind.

​Henry D. Terrell’s quirky yet believable characters blur the lines of class and order, and his story remains tense and propulsive throughout a complex and freewheeling plot. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group
• Release date: Jan 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781632991591

Book preview

Author

– 1 –

It’s All About Sex

W e have to separate the boys from the girls, said Douglas.

Why? asked Andy. He was trying to attach the garden hose to the spigot just outside the shed door, but he couldn’t stop it from leaking water furiously. Water had been dripping wastefully for quite some time, and there was a puddle of mud right under the faucet bib. Andy strained to tighten it, but water ran over his hand and onto the ground.

Douglas Fairchild stood just inside the greenhouse doorway, pointing and counting under his breath. Twenty-six, twenty-seven … twenty-eight. Twenty-eight means we probably have about fourteen males, and the males will have to go.

What’s the difference? asked Andy.

Boys are useless. We need girls, and females do better when they’re raised separately.

You should leave a couple of males, said Reed Polk. The strongest and the biggest. Just keep them nearby, but don’t let them get too close. Just to let the females know that it’s okay to go ahead and be female.

I don’t see the point, said Andy. Besides, how do you tell them apart?

At this age, you can’t, said Douglas.

Then what are we worried about?

I’m just thinking ahead, said Douglas, who set his beer down, turned around, and started shoveling alternate scoops of dirt and sand out of two buckets into a third. In a few weeks they’re gonna declare their sex, and we have to be ready to move.

Declare their sex, said Reed, nodding. Reed wasn’t doing any work, he just stood there looking thoughtful in his wire-rim glasses, smoking one of his skinny little cigars with the plastic tips. He did that a lot.

That sounds wasteful, said Andy. Though horticulture was his avocation, he wasn’t the expert here. He gave up trying to stop the faucet leak and picked up the end of the hose, where water flowed out at an unsatisfying rate. He uncoiled the hose with one hand and tossed it outward with a whipping motion, making sure it wouldn’t kink, and walked down the rows of two-gallon ice cream buckets, each of which was filled with equal parts soil and sand and had a single green plant about two feet high. With the poor water flow, this would take awhile, but Andy liked the chore. It was meditative, and he liked gardening and helping things grow. As he walked, he hummed Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue. He had read somewhere that plants liked music, particularly when a person sang to them, but that wasn’t why he hummed. Andy hummed compulsively, and only the finest music the Western world had ever created.

Andy Zamara wasn’t really in on this scheme. It wasn’t his greenhouse and wasn’t his garden. He rented a room from Douglas for twenty-five dollars a month so he could be closer to town and to the auditorium where he played in the Duro Symphony Orchestra. He loved plants and didn’t mind pitching in to help.

It was a hot day in early June, and they had gotten a late start. It took six to eight months to grow a crop, and by December there would be freezing nights and a struggle to keep the greenhouse warm. They should have planted in April, but Reed Polk had promised he would bring back killer seeds from Vietnam, so Douglas waited until Reed arrived in Duro in May, roaring up on his Triumph motorcycle following his discharge from the marines, carrying a duffel bag of clothes and a small leather pouch containing hundreds of magic seeds. It was worth the delay, Reed had said. The Cambodian grass would grow short and thick and sticky, and put the Mexican ditchweed to shame. The local heads would be impressed, and lots of money made.

Andy attended the plants one by one until water dribbled out the holes that had been drilled in the bottoms of the buckets, then sloshed through the muddy puddle over to the faucet and shut it off. He unscrewed the hose and coiled it, hanging it on the hose rack on the side of the tool shed. Reed watched him silently, smoking. Inscrutable.

That hose leaks. You need a rubber washer, he said. I think there are some in the kitchen drawer beside the sink.

Okay, said Andy. Nice to find out now. He looked at his watch. He needed to practice. Rehearsal was at seven, and he had to allow time to eat, plus an extra thirty minutes to get to the auditorium. It was less than a week till the Duro Symphony opened its summer season, and rehearsals were held every weeknight now.

Andy went into the house and washed up, scrubbing his hands thoroughly to get rid of every trace of grit. When his hands were dry, he trimmed the nails on his left hand ever so carefully down to the nub. He hated the way his fingertips looked when he played for hours every day. Thick, ugly calluses. But it went with the territory. Every week or two, Andy filed his fingertips with an emery board to smooth the calluses.

When he was in fifth grade, Andy had begged his mother to let him learn the violin. He had seen a man with crazy hair and the crazier name of Yehudi Menuhin play the violin on the Ed Sullivan show, and from that moment on he was hooked. Andy’s mom had wanted him to play piano. But every brainy nerd played the piano, or was forced to try. Any kid with minimal coordination could be taught to play a rich and pleasing chord on the piano, but the violin was special. In the right hands, it became an extension of the musician.

And so, from the time he was ten years old until he graduated from Pelham High School, class of 1965, Andy Zamara had studied music with Mrs. Usher Kellogg, as people called her back in the days when a married woman lost her identity completely. Her given name was Dorothy. Mrs. Kellogg was a fierce and angular woman who dressed impeccably and wore heavy makeup even when giving lessons to elementary-age students.

Early in his musical education, when Mrs. Kellogg was still working with him on holding his violin and bow the right way, that unnatural and painful position music teachers had insisted upon for generations, Andy noticed the fingers of her left hand. Her fingernails were trimmed so short that some of them were barely a quarter-inch long, and the ends of her fingers were thick and shiny, with black indentions. It made him question his decision to play the violin. He didn’t want his fingers to look like that. But he kept at it.

It takes months and sometimes years before a kid can play notes on a bowed instrument without sounding awful. Not just awful, but worn-out-brakes awful, angry-parrot awful. Andy had a knack for the violin, it turned out, so he was able to produce a not-excruciating sound by his fourth lesson, and a tone that was modestly pleasing by the end of his first year. At his first recital in May of 1958, he played well enough that his mother decided she had not wasted her money.

In the meantime, Andy had discovered that classical music spoke to him in a way nothing else did. The pop music his friends consumed off the radio did little for him. He appreciated some, but not all, of his mother’s Big Band recordings, especially those with female trios. His father had a beautiful voice and sang a lot when Andy was little, always in Spanish, but he owned few recordings. Although the Zamaras never spoke Spanish at home, from the time he was six, Andy could sing many songs by Trio Los Panchos all the way through, learned from his dad. When Andy got older, he stopped singing in Spanish, because his friends made fun of him.

But it was the Great Ones who spoke to him, especially the nineteenth-century composers like Verdi, Chopin, Bruckner. These so-called Romantics captured his imagination like nothing else. From the time he had an allowance and could do odd jobs, he spent his money on these records and often listened to them at low volume in the night as he drifted off to sleep, letting the music steep into his DNA.

Since graduating from Texas Tech, Andy had rented a room from his old high school friend Douglas, who had inherited a remote suburban ranch-style house from his parents. Andy claimed the front bedroom, the one farthest from the living room TV. Today, before he started practicing, he opened the window because it was a mild, sunny day, and the nearest neighbor on Jupiter Lane was 200 yards away. Out here in the Duro hinterlands, the houses were widely spaced and the yards were enormous.

The house was the last one on Jupiter, which was the last street in the subdivision. This was truly the edge of Greater Duro. Out beyond the back fence was a little-used dirt road where surveyors had plotted lots for another street—to be named Saturn, of course—but so far it had attracted no pioneers. That was for the best. They didn’t need anybody sneaking up on the property from behind.

Andy went to the kitchen door and looked out to see if the guys were paying attention, then he turned back and quickly unplugged the kitchen telephone. The phone had the loudest, most clanging ring anyone had ever heard, and Andy hated it like death. It was designed for rural living so that a half-deaf grandpa could hear it from the barn. Douglas had it turned up as loud as possible so he could hear it when he worked in the greenhouse. Andy tucked the wire into the corner of the phone jack so the minor sabotage would not be noticed. He would plug it back in after practice, but he wasn’t putting up with that goddamn phone while trying to learn new music.

Andy returned to his room, tightened the bow, and rosined it quickly, using long, confident strokes. Taking the violin out of its case, he thrummed the strings once, then played them two at a time to check the harmonics. Almost perfect. A slight turn of the E-string knob on the tailpiece, and he was ready. He opened the music bag and took out a warm-up piece, one he already knew pretty well.

What was Andy practicing for the Duro Symphony’s Summer 1970 season? Mahler? Shostakovich? No, this was the Summer Pops Extravaganza—Benny Goodman, the Best of a Legend.

Okay, here we go. Andy was learning Goody Goody, arranged for strings by Howard Beaumont. An upbeat number to get the older, wealthier audience members clapping in recognition. Dumb beyond words, but fun to play, and a nice break from the usual classical clichés. He knew he was lucky. Somebody on the symphony board had pushed hard for A Tribute to The Beatles, but the Goodman set had won out in a squeaker vote.

Andy played a few scale runs, then set his metronome for three-quarter speed and started sawing away at Goody Goody, teaching his fingers the notes. He’d worry about tone later.

He had played about forty minutes, moving on to Swingtime in the Rockies and Air Mail Special, when the sound of a car engine, revving high, cut through the harmony. He stopped playing and looked out the window. A car had turned off the highway and was now headed up Jupiter Lane at high speed. It was a red Ford Mustang, and Andy recognized it even before it reached the open gate and turned up their long gravel driveway. It was Andy’s longtime friend and Douglas’s current girlfriend, Saskia. The car roared up the driveway, throwing gravel everywhere, and crunched to a stop right in front of the house. Saskia jumped out of the car and burst through the front door.

Doug! she yelled. Doug, where are you?

Andy came out of the bedroom, violin in hand.

What’s wrong, Saskia?

Andy! Where’s Doug? I tried to call, but y’all wouldn’t answer the phone!

He’s out in the greenhouse. What on earth is wrong? said Andy.

What’s wrong is he’s coming out here! Saskia ran through the house and out the kitchen door, letting the screen door bang shut behind her. Andy followed as far as the door, then turned back to quickly plug the phone wire back into its wall jack. He felt a little bit guilty.

Outside, Douglas and Reed came out of the greenhouse, and Saskia met them, waving her hands and talking excitedly. Reed turned and trotted back to the greenhouse, while Douglas and Saskia walked quickly back to the kitchen.

What is going on? asked Andy. Who’s coming?

Jerry De Ghetto! said Saskia.

Motherfucker! said Douglas. That shyster motherfucker!

What does he want? asked Andy.

What do capitalist pigs always want? said Douglas. He wants us to pay him even more, and use our hard work to make free money for himself. Bastard!

Doug, you could have met him at a bar, like he asked, said Saskia. Then he wouldn’t be coming out here.

Oh, it’s my fault now! said Douglas.

I didn’t say that, said Saskia.

Reed came in from the back and walked right past them toward his bedroom. I locked up the greenhouse. I’m gonna get my gun, he said.

Douglas hurried after him. Wait! Wait, man.

Andy heard Douglas and Reed talking in the living room. Douglas was saying, Be cool. Be cool. Very, very cool. Reed’s voice was too low to make out.

Saskia bit her lower lip, more agitated than Andy had ever seen her.

Andy! she said. I hate this. I hate this whole thing. This was all supposed to be so easy and safe, and now there’s a mafia guy getting involved.

He’s not mafia, said Andy. He’s not even that much of a criminal. He just loaned Douglas some money. He’s been paying it back. I don’t see what the problem is.

Douglas and Reed came back into the kitchen. Douglas was in commander mode.

Okay, here’s the plan. Very simple. Reed, you wait in your room like everything is totally cool. Keep your forty-five where you can get to it, but just act like you’re reading a book or something. I’m going to talk to De Ghetto. Andy, go back and play your fiddle just like you were doing. Act like everything is totally normal and cool. Saskia, you answer the door when he knocks and be all smiling and ‘Hey, Jerry!’

You want me to be ready with the gun, in case he pulls out a piece? asked Reed.

Hopefully it won’t come to that, said Douglas. "But in case he starts getting radical, I’ll use a code word. I’ll say ‘Hey, Reed. We need your opinion.’ That’s the signal for you to come out and back me up. Listen for the word ‘opinion.’"

Opinion. Got it. Then I come out with my gun.

"No, just come out and look serious, back me up. But if I say, ‘Reed, I really need your opinion,’ that means bring the gun."

You guys are insane! said Saskia. Somebody’s gonna get killed. If he wants more money, just give him money.

Little girl, you need to learn some things about life, said Douglas. Let the men handle this. Now, go sit in the living room and do what I told you. When he gets here, let him in and be all friendly. I’ll do the talking.

Idiots, Saskia muttered, but she went to the living room. Andy returned to his room and tried to work on Air Mail Special, but he couldn’t focus. What should he do if the bullets flew? Get under the bed? He went back to scales for a little bit, to try and clear his mind and get back in practice mode.

Fifteen minutes went by, and he heard Douglas in the other room.

Where is De Ghetto? Wasn’t he right behind you?

Of course not, said Saskia.

Then how did you know he’s coming out?

Because his daughter Angela called me. She said her dad was all pissed off and was going to go out to see Doug at the farm.

That’s it? said Douglas. That’s all you know? So, when is he coming?

How should I know? said Saskia.

Ah, Jesus! said Douglas. He returned to the greenhouse, and the kitchen screen door slammed behind him.

Andy sighed and fished through his music bag. He selected One O’Clock Jump. He glanced at the desk clock. Five minutes after one. How appropriate, he thought, and started playing.

He was on the second page when the phone went off. Andy stopped playing and gritted his teeth. The phone rang a second and third time at fire-alarm levels before Reed picked it up.

Hello? … Yeah … yeah, he’s right here. Andy!

Well, that was a twist. The phone was never for Andy. He put the violin and bow on the bed, went into the kitchen, and picked up the receiver, which Reed had left dangling by its cord.

Hello?

Andy, hi, this is Florence … at the Symphony.

Hi, said Andy. Florence was first-chair viola and a member of the Symphony Board. He knew who she was, but they had never spoken directly.

Andy, Dr. Dietz asked me to call you. We’re wondering if you can come to rehearsal early tonight. About six thirty.

Uh, sure, said Andy. Why?

He wants to meet with you and discuss something. It shouldn’t take very long.

He wants to talk to me? About what?

It’s just something that he wants to talk about face-to-face. It’s not a huge issue.

Well, okay, said Andy. You don’t want to give me a hint?

I’m sorry, Andy, said Florence. Dr. Dietz just needs to talk to you. It’s kind of important.

Okay, I’ll be there. Andy hung up. Oh, man, he said.

When he walked back through the living room, Saskia looked concerned. Is everything all right, Andy?

I don’t know, said Andy. The conductor wants to talk. I’m guessing they want to kick me out. I suspected that might be in the wind. They’ve been acting weird around me lately.

Kick you out of the symphony? That’s ridiculous! Why?

SOS, sighed Andy. Same old shit. He returned to his room and closed the door.

Reed came into the living room. Andy’s getting kicked out of his orchestra? he said. Why? Just for being a fruit?

Oh, shut up, Reed! said Saskia. That’s fucking mean! We don’t know what’s going on.

I’m not saying anything, said Reed. Andy’s an okay guy. I’m on his side. Hell, half those orchestra guys are homos. It’s not fucking fair.

The second-violin part to One O’Clock Jump came through the closed door, rather slow and mournful for a Goodman tune.

– 2 –

Apollo Needs Correction

The day Professor Apollo Piedman turned fifty, he needed glasses. Not when he was around fifty, or approaching his fifties, but on his actual fiftieth birthday.

There had been signs leading up to the fateful day. He’d been having trouble driving at night. Street signs were harder to read, and headlight glare was blinding. Apollo had been blessed with superb vision his whole life. In the navy after World War II, Apollo had served as an observer in search aircraft, ranging far out over the ocean, scanning the sea and waves, able to spot tiny differences that indicated a small life raft or capsized boat, or men wearing flotation gear huddled together to keep warm. He had received several medals for distinguished service in sea rescue.

Driving to Duro Community College on Tuesday morning, still belching from the huevos rancheros breakfast his two older daughters had cooked for his birthday, Apollo suddenly could not see worth shit, as if a fog had come down in front of his face. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. It was like somebody had bumped a projector, and now it was all out of focus. Everything looked blurry. He pulled over into the SellRite Used Cars parking lot and fished around in the glove compartment because he thought there might be a bottle of Visine. There wasn’t. He decided just to rest his eyes.

After sitting still with closed eyes for five minutes, and at one point having to tell the SellRite salesman who knocked on the car window that no, he wasn’t looking to make a great trade today, Apollo drove on to the college.

Inside his office, he felt a little better. He picked up a scholarly book he had been reading called Neoplasticism and the De Stijl Movement and discovered he could read even the small type without much effort. Maybe he was okay. Perhaps his blood sugar was a little out of whack from an uncharacteristically hearty breakfast, and it was affecting his eyes. But when he looked across the room at the large wall clock, he couldn’t quite make out the time. Well, nothing to do about it now. Nearsighted or not, he had to teach in less than an hour.

Apollo had always loved being an artist. It was art as an academic subject that didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t particularly enjoy teaching—art history, the movements, the various schools of thought. Especially to these two-year college students who were looking for a piddly subject they could sleep through on their way to an associate’s degree in business, or until they transferred to a real college out of town. In his first year at Duro CC, Apollo had made Art History 301 a darn brutal course. He threw a lot of information and reading material at his students and tested them thoroughly, pushing them hard to master the subject. He reduced more than one scholar to tears in his office, begging for more time on a paper or for a more merciful grade.

After one semester, Apollo was taken to lunch by the department chairman and told gently that he needed to dial it back. His introductory course had the highest dropout rate at DCC, and this was community college, not the Sorbonne. Please just teach these small-town kids some art on their way to being real estate agents, office managers, or secretaries.

So, Apollo taught his piddly courses and tried not to resent them. What had always gotten his juices flowing was the craft and creation of art itself. The canvas, the oils and the acrylics, the clay and the bronze, the welding and brazing. A few of his students were talented enough and excited enough that he looked forward to guiding them and being a mentor. Not many, maybe one or two a year, but it got him out of bed every morning.

He made it through the morning Art History class all right, though it was a struggle. He could read his notes, and the example slides on the screen were big enough that he could comment on them intelligently. Lydia Moon, currently his favorite student, sat in her accustomed seat in the front row and asked smart questions.

After class, he was packing up his notes when Lydia came up to the front of the room to talk with him.

Dr. Piedman? she said.

He smiled at her broadly. He normally didn’t like being called doctor, since he felt that title should be reserved for medical doctors, but from Lydia he liked it.

Yes, Miss Moon?

I need to talk about my landscape, she said. I know you said we are supposed to limit ourselves to gouache paints.

That’s right, he said.

"I’ve been having a lot of trouble making it look good at all. I worked on it last night till almost midnight. I was wondering, do we have to use only the gouache? Is it a rule?"

Well, yes, in this case. It’s the assignment.

But if I could use some watercolors for the background and the clouds, I could make it look right. The paint is just so … thick. It’s really hard to work with.

That’s the point of the exercise, Miss Moon. I know it’s hard. The idea is to get you to try and achieve the appearance of translucent objects while using an opaque medium.

Lydia frowned. Okay, it’s just frustrating. It almost had me in tears last night.

Apollo put his hand on her shoulder.

It’s just an exercise, he said. I don’t expect miracles, and I don’t want anyone to go crazy trying to get it perfect. But remember, if you can learn to work in gouache, you can work with any paint. It’s not very forgiving, but some of the great painters throughout history have used it.

She looked up at him with a sweet but pleading expression. Do you think … you might have time today …

Did you bring it with you? he asked.

I did. It’s in the little studio.

I’d be happy to look at it with you and give some suggestions. It will have to be later this afternoon, after fourth period.

Lydia broke into a huge smile. Oh, thank you, thank you! She turned, gathered up her sketchbooks, and left the room briskly. If his eyes hadn’t been failing on him, Apollo would have enjoyed watching her go out the door. Of the many promising students who had come through his classes in recent years, Lydia was his favorite and the one most likely to pursue visual art later in life. Her father was a wealthy doctor, so there was hope. Sometimes Apollo joked to his students that if they didn’t give up this silly art idea, they were all destined to be dope peddlers or gold smugglers.

He made an appointment with an ophthalmologist. At first, he was just going to get his eyes checked at the walk-in clinic next to the Sears store, but one of his colleagues told him he really ought to see a full-fledged eye doctor, considering the problem had struck so suddenly. He reluctantly agreed, and found a doctor who could see him early that afternoon.

He was driving across town, feeling put upon that it was his damn birthday and suddenly he was an old man with Mr. Magoo eyesight. Ramona had promised him they’d all go out to dinner at the Trawler Restaurant, just his wife and daughters and not Reggie, who practically lived with them now, and not Erycca’s useless friend Tim, who did live with them.

My wife isn’t even going to bring her boyfriend along to my birthday dinner, he thought. How considerate of her.

He blinked and tried to read the street signs. He was looking for Forest Lane, which had a row of medical clinics on it, when suddenly a thought struck. What if it’s not just my eyes getting old? What if it’s something more horrible, like a brain tumor? He’d read somewhere that blurry vision could be caused by a tumor pressing against the optic nerve. Or something equally awful, like a minor stroke or an aneurysm ready to burst and kill him in his tracks.

That pretty much ruined his day.

– 3 –

Dr. Dietz Has the Community to Consider

Andy put his violin in the orchestra pit and went up to see Dr. Friedrich Dietz. This week, the orchestra was rehearsing on the big stage at Blocker Auditorium, getting ready for the season opening, and the orchestra pit was the safest place to keep expensive instruments.

It was 6:25 when Andy arrived at Dr. Dietz’s office. He considered waiting five minutes, but then said screw it and knocked.

Mrs. Florence Bozeman answered. She smiled a little too widely.

Andy, come on in! We were just talking about next season.

Dr. Dietz sat at his desk, which was cluttered with loose sheet music and music books. He rose and extended his hand.

Good evening, Mr.…

Zamara.

That’s right. Mr. Zamara. I knew that; it just escaped me for a moment. Please, sit down.

Andy sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair across from the desk. Mrs. Bozeman took another.

Mr. Zamara, I just wanted to chat with you a little bit, and also ask you a couple of questions. First, let’s just start simply. How do you like playing in the Duro Symphony Orchestra?

I like it a lot, sir, said Andy.

Well, that’s good, said Dietz. I know we don’t pay our orchestra members as well as we should, but I understand we do a bit better than Lubbock Ensemble.

I get by, said Andy.

Good. Now, Andy … may I call you Andy?

Sure.

Andy, I’m really glad you enjoy playing with us. We’re happy to have you. You’re one of our more accomplished violinists, and at your age, you’ll go far.

Thank you, sir.

Anyway, he said, to get right to the point, I’m looking to make a change in the orchestra lineup before the summer season starts this weekend. And I’m going to let you in on something, which doesn’t need to leave this room. Specifically, I’m thinking of making a change in the second violins.

Andy was confused. Were they dropping him? Giving him a promotion? Mrs. Bozeman’s expression hinted at bad news.

Dr. Dietz rose and walked to the window, as if he were checking to see if the lawn had been mowed properly, then turned back around.

I’ll be frank with you. For some time now, I’ve felt that Mr. Mathern does not belong in the first chair.

Peter Mathern was a middle-talent, uninspiring junior-high music teacher who, as far as Andy could tell, had ended up as the first chair of the second violins through seniority and by not falling out of that chair during performances.

I know you want what’s best for the symphony, said Dr. Dietz. You’d help us any way you could, wouldn’t you?

Of course.

I believe you’d make a top-notch first chair. I’d really like for you to take that role. It involves leadership, which I think you’re ready for. But something’s standing in your way. What I want to talk about is a little embarrassing. You know people … our community … and especially our patrons … they have a certain view of the symphony, and of our members. They have opinions about musicians, like you and me, that may not be correct. Stereotypes, you might say. With you, there’s an issue …

Mrs. Bozeman leaned forward in her chair. Andy … it’s your hair.

My hair? said Andy.

That’s right, said Dr. Dietz. I realize this is 1970. It’s a new decade, and styles are changing, but still …

Andy’s hair, in truth, was a sight to behold. He had his grandfather’s hair, a man Andy knew only from pictures. He had been a vaquero from Sonora state in Mexico. There were photographs of Pepe Zamara on horseback, with long black hair flowing out from under a cowboy hat. Andy’s own hair was jet black and thick with a slight wave, and had been growing, untouched by scissors—save the occasional trim for split ends—since his second year of college at Texas Tech. It spilled over his collar and onto his shoulders like a cavalier in a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Lately, he had begun parting