Beneath the Sands of Monahans

By Charles Alcorn

The tale of a stone-cold frontiersman blasting across his beloved Texas highways in an attempt to retain his sense of daring and independence among friends, family, bookies and under-reported enemies.

Beneath the Sands of Monahans introduces Archie Weesatche, a hard working orphan who’s recently sold his oil field hot shot company, Keep On Truckin’. With money in his pocket and time on his hands, Archie launches a long-planned Tour of Texas with best friend Okinawa Watkins, betting with a colorful cast of hand-picked boosters and bookies on high school and college football games.

Enter Mexican heiress Josefina Montemayor, who convinces her long-ago lover that Archie’s the only man she trusts to raise the $650,000 she needs to release millions in unrecovered cartel cash. 

Set in a map’s worth of Texas locations, this quest narrative explores cultural minefields, the precarious nature of oilfield booms and busts, and the tricky world of cash money gambling during a legendary winning streak.

• Language: English
• Publisher: La Reunion Publishing
• Release date: Aug 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781646052455

Book preview

Prologue

A HOLY GHOST’S LAMENT

BIG SPRING, TEXAS

JULY 24, 2015

Archie Weesatche is alive, well, fit.

Not yet mingling with his kin beneath the sands of Monahans.

In full, long-boned stretch he flexes his well-marbled frame in the creamy pink light of dawn. Luxuriates on his fancy new mattress of high-tech foam. Floats in that nether space between wake and sleep.

A motion picture memory of crystalline lucidity projects on the back of his orphan’s eyes. A reoccurring dream; a meticulously archived sliver of time where the adult Archie peeks in on his long-lost parents.

Lucky Room 7 at the Starlight Motel surrounded by undulating oceans of oil and sand.

A scene to which Archie returns again and again. Obsessed, some would say.

He can hear, almost touch, his beloved mom and dad.

Archie sees himself clearly; the buck-toothed boy. Eyes closed and smiling. Peacefully awake and aware; focused on the sound of Big Arch and Bunny rustling the bedsheets above him.

Sharp inhales. Breathless sighs.

Archie feels for the little guy, tucked carefully between the folds of a tidy roll-away. Wearing his favorite silk pajamas, a long-ago gift from honeymoon Hong Kong.

Archie reaches … strains for a touch; his sweet, beautiful parents … a fingertip away.

As the smell of Chanel and Old Spice drifts over the West Texas waif, a holy ghost’s lament floats on the gusts of a softly rumbling swamp cooler.

A survivor’s prayer … forever and ever … Amen.

KEEP ON TRUCKIN’

BIG SPRING, TEXAS

JULY 24, 2015

Archie Weesatche was running late.

After selling his oilfield hotshot company, Keep On Truckin’, Archie gave himself three weeks to get all the paperwork cleaned up, but there he was, sitting in his banker’s office in Big Spring, waiting to sign one more document when an Outlook alert popped up on his phone:

KOT Exit Meeting

10–11 a.m.

Mesa Building/Room 113

UTPB – Odessa, Texas

As he sped down Big Spring’s main drag, then out to I-20 West, Archie felt better. A large manila envelope with seven truck titles and eight bonus checks sat in the passenger seat—a little buffer for his drivers before their near-certain unemployment.

Admiring the otherworldly array of bone-white wind turbines spinning away atop the hogback ridges that rimmed his adopted hometown, it dawned on Archie that this was it—the last hurrah of his adult life’s work. He never imagined when he started Keep On Truckin’ out of his mom’s garage that delivering oilfield equipment would keep him productive, happy, and solvent for fifteen years—most of it, anyway.

Archie sold Keep On Truckin’ to a publicly-traded logistics firm out of Omaha that offered $2 million in January 2015. During the negotiations, another OPEC-instigated oil bust picked up steam. It was looking like a bad one—as in, no end in sight. He closed the deal, six months later, at half the original ask—$1 million.

The front page of the morning Big Spring Herald reported that Saudi Arabia was dead serious about opening up their oil taps. The new head of the House of Saud, Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, was playing hardball. As the world’s long-time swing producer, the Saudis were doing everything they could to claw back market share from the U.S. shale producers. The price of West Texas Intermediate crude was dropping daily, from a ridiculous high of $104.92 a barrel when Archie received the Nebraskan’s initial offer, to $38.24 a barrel on the Monday before July Fourth.

Drillers weren’t drilling. Service company budgets were slashed. Keep On Truckin’s total deliveries were down by two-thirds year-over-year. Archie had experienced similar downturns during the Great Recession of ‘08 and ’09, but felt fortunate—and guilty—about not having ride this one out.

The upshot: after retiring KOT’s considerable debt, paying off the trucks, and cutting bonus checks, Archie cleared $600,000.

Not bad; but about $400,000 less than he’d hoped to assemble for his long-awaited gambling odyssey. Suddenly, the Tour of Texas Archie’d planned for his one-year non-compete felt lazy. He needed to generate cash flow; not float around the blue highways of Texas looking for sucker bets.

After a forty-five-minute drive, Archie rolled through the entrance of the sprawling UT-Permian Basin campus in the no-man’s land between Midland and Odessa. He certainly admired the gumption of the UT administrators for building a public research university in the middle of one of the roughest ecosystems on the planet.

He’d decided to hold the final meeting at the regional hub of higher education because it was convenient for his far-flung drivers, but also because Archie was curious about the university’s new football team. Nobody knew how good—or bad—the UTPB Falcons might be. Just the edge a football hustler needed when it came time to lure some lucrative hometown betting action.

As his faithful F-250 came to a stop in front of the Mesa Building, named after Panhandle billionaire T. Boone Picken’s oil company, the fall of 2015 was looking bleaker than the parched chaparral surrounding the UT System’s least glamorous campus. He grabbed his hand-tooled Mary Alice Palmer portfolio, a dandy present from a long-ago girlfriend, and rushed into the building, still worried if he was doing the right thing.

A lot of KOT’s short-timers went for the easy money during the boom days of 2013 and 2014. Every oilfield outfit in the territory hired man, woman, or child—no questions asked. But the eight souls waiting for him had driven ten plus years for KOT. Four of ’em had worked for Archie the entire fifteen years.

When he pushed through the classroom door, Archie immediately noticed Ida Schustereit, KOT’s long-time dispatcher, was on the job—as always. The hot glazed doughnuts and spicy sausage klobaseks she’d laid out were picked clean. The tray holding a wet array of fresh-cut fruit sat tooth-picked and undisturbed.

Howdy, howdy, he said, setting his portfolio underneath the podium microphone. He adjusted the mic, then instantly felt silly. He turned off the speaker, pulled up a molded plastic chair in front of the lectern, turned it backward, and had a seat.

Six large, unshaven men in too-small T-shirts and oil-stained Dickies and two large women in too-small T-shirts and oil-stained designer jeans milled about in the fluorescent-lit room, a geology professor friend’s unused classroom.

Archie asked everybody to take a seat.

Don’t really need a microphone, he said, laughing, as his employees went dead quiet. How’s everybody?

Archie quickly checked his datebook to see how long it’d been (three weeks) since he’d told everybody to hang tight, that he was selling.

Come on Arch, cut the crap, said Ida, a rail-thin chain-smoker and possessor of the tightest hairdo in Ector County, courtesy of a weekly wash and perm at the Kut ‘N Kurl.

Alright, alright, he said, waving off Ida with a big smile. Damn, I miss you guys.

Well, at least you ain’t dead broke, said Bubba Howard, a native of Turkey, Texas, and one of the larger, stronger human beings in captivity. Had me a helluva weekend out on Lake C-City. Noodled me a catfish as big as Ida, but that’s about it. Let’s get to work.

Glad to hear it, Bubba, said Archie, giving the man mountain a wave. It’s really good to see everybody.

Oh hush, said Ida. What’s up?

What’s this Good News/Bad New stuff, boss? asked Lonzo Hinojosa, KOT’s Human GPS. A man with absolute encyclopedic recall of every lease road, ranch road, Farm-to-Market, state highway and Interstate in a 250-mile radius. And plenty of unmarked dirt roads, too.

Here’s what I got, said Archie, leaning over to retrieve the manila envelope from the portfolio. Real simple. Keep On Truckin’ is officially sold. That’s the bad news.

What’s the good news?

You get to keep your trucks, he said, patting the envelope. I got clean titles for all of’em, right here.

Is that it? asked Ida, looking extra-disturbed that UTPB was a tobacco-free campus. You coulda mailed the damn titles.

That’s true Ida, but then I wouldn’t get to see your pretty smile, said Archie, reaching into the envelope. And I did get y’all a little bonus.

How big a little bonus? asked Lonzo, setting his spit cup down on the polished linoleum, tobacco-free campus be damned.

Seriously? said Bubba, swatting his friend with a welder’s cap. Let the man talk.

Alright dammit, said Lonzo. My wife left me again.

Archie exchanged a knowing glance with Ida.

Yeah Lonz, I heard your girlfriend’s got a meth problem, said KOT’s only dedicated document deliverer, a blonde barrel racer from Stanton, whose name, at the moment, Archie couldn’t recall to save his life.

Archie’d hired her straight out of Coahoma High to deliver contracts and court papers in a souped-up Camaro. She was a little worse for wear after ten years on the job, but every company man in West Texas knew, and loved, the girl.

Lonzo spit, Girl, you better take care of your own damn meth problem.

"Órale cabrón, cried the barrel racer, launching out of her seat. Don’t be writin’ checks your nerdy ass cain’t cash."

Alright, alright, said Archie, interceding before fists flew. I figured ten thousand might help.

Ten thousand! Seriously! Are you kidding?

Archie smiled, crossed a Red Wing atop his knee. I got truck titles and cashier’s checks for every last one of you.

Is it drug money? Ida asked, with a straight face—the only kind she had.

No Ida, said Archie, smiling. Not unless the cartel’s workin’ outta Omaha. Although I did read where Warren Buffet’s lookin’ at some ground-floor pot opportunities.

Probably not a bad idea, Arch, confirmed the catfish strangler.

You’re probably right, Bubba, but I’ve got other plans.

What’s her name? said Ida, frowning prodigiously.

No ma’am. Nothin’ but clean livin’, said Archie. I plan to watch as much high school and college football as possible this fall, then figure out next steps come spring.

You need some ink, Arch, said the barrel racer. We’ll tat you up real good.

The barrel racer’s girlfriend, an exceptionally stout young lady, with sleeves of tattoos running up both arms into a tight, Velvet Taco tank top, waved at Archie. We’re openin’ up a new shop.

Well, that’s a bold entrepreneurial move. Especially during a downturn, he said. Can you put one where my mom can’t see it?

The girls tittered.

I’ll put something on you, your momma can’t see, said the barrel racer. It’s Melanie, by the way.

Dammit, of course. Thank you, Melanie. said Archie, by way of apology. Y’all ready to whip a little cash out?

Hells yeah! sang the chorus.

Archie was pleased indeed as he pulled checks and titles and read out names. It took a full thirty minutes to empty the envelope and say goodbyes—shaking a man’s hand and heartfelt hugs. Lots of, Let’s keep in touch.

When he called Melanie’s name, she kissed her girlfriend and came up running. I can’t believe you did this, she said, leaning over to deliver a high hard one.

Melanie Schoellmann, get your tongue out of that man’s mouth, said Ida, swatting at barrel racer’s backside. Good Lord!

He ain’t married.

Not even close, said Archie, blushing. But if that’s what you’re selling …

She’s mine, announced the greatly tattooed girlfriend, hands on hips.

Yes ma’am, said Archie, waiving his rights. Good luck with your shop.

We’re gonna offer lots of services, said the girlfriend. You should tell your friends.

Y’all are crazy, said Ida, waving off.

After everybody cleared out, Archie helped Ida clean off the tables and trash the cups and plates. When all was shipshape, Archie asked her to sit a minute.

So, you gonna babysit Lonzo and Bubba till they find a job? he asked, helping his most indispensable employee into her chair.

What, those knuckleheads? They both got good women. Lord knows how, she said, fidgeting with her hands. You’re the one I’m worried about. You ain’t too good with free time.

This is true. And you would surely know, he said, handing Ida her envelope. But no worries, I promise you. I promise everybody, I’ll stay busy.

Twenty-thousand dollars! she cried, the check fluttering in her liver-spotted hands.

You can’t afford that. Where’s all this money coming from?

Million dollars goes a long way, he said, beaming as the toughest boot in the Permian Basin teared up. You’re the best hand in the whole outfit, Ida. You ran the damn place. Plus, you don’t drive a truck … you deserve a little extra.

Well, you know I still got the first dollar you ever paid me, she said, accepting Archie’s clean handkerchief. Did you save any for yourself?

You bet. Enough to buy me a brand-new Cougar Red Cadillac, said Archie. I’m tradin’ in F-250 number twelve, tomorrow morning.

Well, look at you, Mr. Fancy Pants. I’m glad, she said, dabbing underneath her reading glasses. You always loved them Houston Cougars.

Left unsaid, but well known to Ida, were Archie’s family finances. His adopted parents, Sheriff Fuchs and Sister Ernestine, were probably the richest people in Glasscock County—every penny of their collective tens of millions, the result of the Sheriff’s shrewd land purchases (with mineral rights) over the decades and Sister Ernestine’s uncanny knack of enticing local oilmen to drill wildcats on heretofore worthless ranch land. With the invention of horizontal drilling and waterflood fracking, long-abandoned goat and cattle pastures were now producing prodigious amounts of oil.

I’m glad for you too, Ida. Thank you for everything, he said, feeling a little misty. Keep On Truckin’ was a good ride, wasn’t it?

Made me pull my hair out, she said, handing back the handkerchief. Lord, we’ve had some characters.

Nothin’ but, said Archie, hoping they wouldn’t go too far down memory lane.

But true to form, Ida Schustereit remained one of the few truly unsentimental people in these parts. She clawed a pack of Salems out of her purse, popped her polyester slacks out of the chair, and turned off the lights. It’s been real, Mr. Weesatche. Lemme know when you start something new.

As they pushed through the building’s glass doors and out into the blast furnace that was Odessa, Texas in July, Archie leaned in for a hug. You’ll be the first one I call. Take care, Ida. Love you.

Ida squinted up at her old boss as she cupped her hands to light a menthol. Love you too, Archie. God help us.

OKINAWA TAKES A POWDER

BIG SPRING, TEXAS

JULY 25, 2015

It was go time.

Bounding out the backdoor of his one-bedroom bungalow, recently made cheerful with a fresh coat of butter yellow paint and white trim, Archie waved at Okinawa Watkins, his old teammate at the University of Houston. The longtime Sports Editor of the Big Spring Herald rolled to a stop at the newspaper’s side door in his too-small Honda Civic then—slowly—walked across the street to greet his long-time friend.

The baby boy of eight children in a hard-working, God-loving family of West Texas share-croppers, Okinawa Watkins was, as they say, hell for stout. Standing six-foot tall and barrel-wide, with thick slabs of muscle, Watkins was an all-state defensive tackle at Colorado City High and three-time 2A Texas state champ in the shot put and discus. A holy terror in his heyday, Oak landed a full ride at UH and was named second-team All-Southwest Conference nose tackle his senior year—even earned a free-agent tryout with the Houston Oilers, though he didn’t make the team.

Fortunately, Okinawa also took his studies seriously. Graduated from UH with a journalism degree that led to a position with his hometown weekly, the Colorado City Record, then worked his way up the West Texas sports writer’s ladder with positions at the Amarillo Globe-News, Lubbock Avalanche-Journal, Odessa American and the Abilene Reporter-News. He was named Sports Editor of the Big Spring Herald at the turn of 2000—the same year Archie high-tailed it out of South Texas and came back to Big Spring for good.

Talk about timing.

After five years of wandering, Archie and Okinawa were back in the Permian Basin and practically inseparable. And comical as counterparts.

Archie Weesatche was tall, skinny, and all white boy. At six-foot-five, the former UH slot receiver was long in the torso that spread across broad shoulders with sinewy arms and spider-thin hands. Archie was a star at an even smaller high school than Okinawa’s—a four-year starting quarterback/linebacker for Garden City, perennially one of the finest Six-Man football teams in the state. Archie was also a splendid power forward on the basketball team as well as a gifted quarter-miler, discus thrower, long and high jumper for the Bearkats.

Archie still maintained his playing weight of 190, although a few of those pounds had admittedly migrated south. Okinawa, on the other hand, was probably closer to three bills, but still, cat-quick. Oak also maintained one the most devastating home run swings in all of West Texas softball.

In fact, Archie’s best friend was a man of many talents beyond the newsroom and field of play. In Keep On Truckin’s early days, he augmented his meager sports writer’s salary by serving as the company’s most persuasive repo man. When a KOT driver hit the skids, reality set in quick when they peeked out the window of their double-wide to see Okinawa Watkins striding up to the door with his favorite aluminum bat.

Needless to say, Oak had a 100 percent return rate.

After ten years of company-saving recovery efforts, the dean of Permian Basin sports writers retired from liberating wayward F-150’s. Okinawa was now instrumental in actualizing Archie’s Tour of Texas—a season-long high school/college football gambling extravaganza.

Problem was, Archie had a substantially smaller bankroll than previously anticipated. In the Permian Basin, everybody’s livelihood was tied to the price of oil. And the price of West Texas Intermediate was in freefall.

Nevertheless, Okinawa had the names, and approximate net worth, of every high-roller in the territory. After three decades covering every local district from Six-Man to 6A, Oak could easily cite every West Texas game worth watching, on any week, from El Paso to Ft. Worth; Pampa to Eagle Pass.

Okee-na-wah!, yelled Archie, across the wide, crumbling side street that separated his humble home from the brick-and-blue headquarters of the Big Spring Herald.

Whattup, Mr. Weesatche?

How’s that head? said Archie, stepping into the soul shake/bro hug they’d perfected over the decades. Heard you got your membership revoked down at the Settles last night. Our friend Deena was texting up a storm.

Nothing but yap, man, said Okinawa, waving off. I tol’ that girl gin makes me sin.

Gin and Juice on a school night! said Archie, Nothing a Goody’s can’t fix.

My man, said Okinawa, looking over his aviator shades, revealing a flaming case of Tabasco eye. He tucked in the shirttail of his red and black Howard College polo and followed Archie across the street to his truck.

Naw Arch, I tell you who was flexin’ last night—that sweet sista from Midland. We hook up, then she goes home and starts sendin’ me pictures. Check this out, dawg.

Archie did not require photographic evidence, but sure enough, there was the fabulous Ms. Pam Rogers, filling Oak’s phone screen with provocative poses. Finally, a cobalt-blue pedicure filled the frame—ten painted toes pointing at the astounding digital numbers—267.7 lbs.

Dude, that’s crazy!

I’m tellin’ ya, he said, whistling through his teeth. The big girls love me, dawg.

He showed Archie more photos.

Dude, please, he said, trying not to stare. Damn Oak, that girl’s gorgeous!

Arch, we was breakin’ furniture, man, he bragged. Dogs barkin’ all over the damn ‘hood. Straight up freak show.

No wonder you’re movin’ slow, said Archie, grabbing the ever-present box of orange-flavored aspirin from his truck console.

Hey, you got some water?

Archie reached into the driver’s side cubbyhole and produced a sixteen-ounce Ozarka.

Voilà!

Good for what ails ya, said Archie, laughing, as his friend killed the bottled water in three pulls.

Dr. Feelgood! Damn, I needed that! he said, handing Archie the empty bottle, then instantly grabbed it back. Hell, I’m gonna throw this at our new managing editor. Woman’s got us hustling.

Woman? Really?

Latina. UT grad. And fluent in Spanish, dawg. The press room dudes love her, said Oak. She ain’t half-bad looking either, but damn ….

What? Crackin’ the whip?

Girl’s way too smart for Big Spring, he said, shaking his head. I think she grew up in the Valley. Edinburg. Pharr. Somewhere down there.

Hell, she’s happy to be in Big Spring. She’s gotta job, said Archie, climbing in the truck and turning the engine.

Okinawa’s meaty arm came in the window for a final handshake.

"Alright brother, wish me luck. I’m coming clean with Mom. Tellin’ her all about the Texas Tour. And hey, she wants to know why they don’t deliver the Herald to Garden City anymore."

Print’s screwed, Arch, said Okinawa, shoving his hands into his khakis. It’s all digital, dawg. Internet of Everything. Whatever the hell that means.

Come on by tonight, said Arch. Gimme the scoop on all those rich boosters you been scoutin’.

Thanks for the powder, Okinawa said, turning for the Herald’s side door. I got three birds on the wire, Arch. They’re for sure. But we better rake before this bust hits.

Birds on a wire, said Archie, rolling away with a wave. Line’em up, Oak!

A MAN WITH A PLAN

BIG SPRING, TEXAS

JULY 25, 2015

The Hotel Settles was fabulous—once again.

Fifteen stories of Art Deco grandeur rising inexplicably from the dusty caprock, the venerable Hotel Settles was, for many years, the tallest building between Ft. Worth and El Paso. The elegant Jazz Age oasis, opened shortly after the market crash of 1929, was a miracle of restoration. Bought in 2006 for $75,000 and restored to the tune of $30 million by a Big Spring boy done real good in the tax consultancy game.

Archie didn’t know the taxman, G. Brint Ryan, a legitimate billionaire who hightailed it to North Texas State as soon as he graduated from Big Spring High, and stayed in Dallas to seek—and make—his fortune. But Archie fondly recalled the grand hotel’s festive re-dedication. On a breezy, cold night, just after Christmas, the entire town crowded together to watch the lighting of the new $100,000 rooftop neon. It was quite a show as each floor blazed to life culminating in a brilliant burst of red, officially announcing the hopeful rebirth of the Crossroads of the West.

An exemplar of West Texas hospitality, including—though not currently—the most accommodating brothel in the Permian Basin, the resurrection of the Hotel Settles was the best news to come out of once-prosperous Big Spring in a long, long time. Every time Archie walked into the opulent lobby, or attended an event in the meticulously restored second-floor ballrooms, he was thrilled and amazed. The transformation was just that stunning. If the city fathers could get the rest of its citizens to follow suit, Big Spring had a puncher’s chance of becoming the next Marfa—truly, one of the most unlikely tourist destinations on the planet.

Archie strode across the hotel’s polished lobby in a pressed khaki button-down and starched Levi’s belted with an alligator strap he’d splurged on at the Houston Rodeo. He nodded good morning to an elderly gaggle of tourists, then turned into the Settles Grill, a thirty-seat restaurant built in the footprint of the hotel’s old coffee shop.

Archie’s mother was waiting—early as usual—the picture of non-ecclesiastic serenity.

Sister Ernestine was also in uniform, adopted the day she arrived in Texas from her native France. A white and maroon habit, hemmed well below the knee with white stockings that disappeared inside sensible white nursing shoes. A simple crucifix hung from a long silver chain. The former Evangeline Ducornet wore a wimple in the early years as a faux-nun but gave it up as she became more comfortable with her unconventional new identity.

Hi Mom, Archie said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. How’s the tea?

Green; kind of, she answered, beaming up at her gentle man. Oh good, Archie! You’re finally rid of those awful dark circles.

Slept till seven this morning, he bragged, helping himself to the decanter of coffee. I was dreaming like crazy. I was a hawk, ridin’ the thermals.

Sister Ernestine paused and smiled.

Archie knew, more than anything, that his mother prized an energetic life of the mind—essential to survival in their thinly populated piece of Texas.

You don’t look hawkish, she said, passing Archie a tiny pitcher of cream and packet of raw sugar for his coffee. You look well-rested.

Extremely, he said, pouring in the sugar. That new mattress is a miracle.

Archie ordered biscuits and gravy, grits, and bacon. Sister Ernestine settled for oatmeal.

For a former college baller, Archie stayed in decent shape. He always talked about changing his diet, but knew he wouldn’t, until an annual physical revealed a cholesterol problem, or worse. Basically, Archie was too vain to let his weight get out of hand.

He was also lucky to have a full head of hair and Sister Ernestine assured him he was so handsome, so often, that he believed it. Of course, the mirror said otherwise. So, Archie spent a lifetime staying trim and relatively clean-cut. Clothes pressed and boots shined. His momma and daddy were beautiful people. He’d seen pictures. He was rougher around the edges. In no way as elegant in bone or feature, which of course, suited West Texas just fine.

As their cheerful waitress, a young Latina recently graduated from tiny Sands High School, laid down their plates, Archie took a deep breath.

Okay, Mom, I’m debt-free and ready for action.

Oh, do tell! said Sister, sprinkling sugar on her oats and blueberries.

Couldn’t have done it without you, Archie said, reaching for his glass of semi-fresh orange juice. Especially those first, what, six years at the house.

I loved having you at home. And the children adored you, said Sister Ernestine, putting away her reading glasses. And by the way, we’ve hired a new Superintendent and Principle—a husband-and-wife team. They’re wonderfully qualified.

After thirty-eight years, the parents and kids were reeling in the wake of their academic angel’s long-anticipated retirement from her life’s work at Garden City ISD. Sister Ernestine was over eighty years old—as far as anybody knew.

She had risen from school nurse, to nurse/teacher/Assistant Principal; to full-time Principal. After Archie graduated in 1990, Sister Ernestine was named Principal/Superintendent, a dual role she maintained till 2014. All of her promotions were earned in concert with degrees conferred: an Associates from Howard College, a distance-learning BA from Sul Ross, an MS in Secondary Education from UT-Permian Basin, and a Doctorate in Education from Texas Tech. Plus, she was the default counselor/college advisor, although never compensated for her extra-curricular efforts.

Good thing you’re right across the street, said Archie, thinking how the Ducornet homestead had expanded over the years from a two-bedroom ranch style to a compound encompassing the entire block. I guarantee you’ll get plenty of knocks on the door.

They’ll be fine, she said. If they can put up with the bad internet.

And bad DISH, said Archie.

Thank goodness they’re readers, said Sister, nibbling at her oatmeal. "Thank goodness you’re a reader."

I’m working on the latest Richard Ford novel, which are actually stories, said Archie, wiping at a slick of heavily peppered cream gravy. Set in post-Sandy New Jersey.

What’s post-Sandy New Jersey?

Hurricane Sandy, 2012; wiped out the Jersey Shore.

Yes, yes! I remember. You like?

I do. The guy’s just … very thoughtful, he continued. After McMurtry and John Irving, Ford’s my favorite. And Cormac McCarthy.

Sister Ernestine read French novelists, almost exclusively—Balzac, Proust, Zola, Jules Verne. Marguerite Duras was her favorite. And she loved Roland Barthes—the playful French existentialist. Archie marveled at his intellectual mother, happy as a Mediterranean clam in a place the exact opposite of her birthplace on the French Riviera. He told her for the hundredth time that she was the best thing that ever happened to the children of Garden City; including himself, Matt and Tallulah, his fellow orphan siblings. Even if you do dress a little funny.

Oh, you know, thank god for uniforms, said Sister Ernestine, with a chuckle. Growing up, I wore nothing but hand-me-downs. I couldn’t afford to be French.

You always look great.

Archie checked to see if she was smiling. The former Mademoiselle Ducornet hardly ever mentioned her childhood in Nice on the Côte d› Azur, but she didn’t sound bitter. Bemused and defiant seemed to define her European memories.

I look as I should, she answered. Unadorned.

Unadorned, he repeated. Archie couldn’t love his mother more when she said stuff like that. He finished his biscuits and gravy, wanted to ask for more coffee, but knew it was ridiculous. He’d already had two re-fills and a big mug at the house.

Well, I need to run something past you, Mom, Archie said, a little more haltingly than intended. Do you have time? Nothing going on back at the house?

Officially retired, said Sister Ernestine, looking over her teacup. You too. Can you believe it? How did that happen?

Not a clue, said Archie, steeling his nerves. Although Okinawa and I have big plans.

You and Okinawa, she said, waving to a foursome of older ranchers, each of whom pointed an index finger—out of respect—under the brim of their straw cowboy hats.

Archie cleared his throat.

I’m taking a sabbatical. Highly educational, and with any luck, highly lucrative.

Sister Ernestine, pushed her chair back a bit. Folded her hands. I’m listening.

As you know, I’ve driven the highways and byways of Texas all my life. Mostly in trucks, he continued. My only indulgence is a new Cadillac CT6.

Good for you, Archie, she said. I’m so proud of what you did for your drivers and Ida. I know they appreciated that.

He said all the drivers were grateful, but worried that it wouldn’t be enough.

Hopefully, I can hire ‘em all back in a year, he continued. Anyway, my plan is to wager on select high school and college football games carefully identified by Okinawa. The odds should be excellent.

So, it’s a gambling tour, she said, sipping her tea.

Yes ma’am. Football season will take me through December at which point I plan to break for the holidays, spend a full month at the compound with you, and hopefully pay for some new Smart Boards for Garden City High with my winnings.

That sounds lovely Archie.

Now, if all goes to plan, he continued. I’ll widen my radius in the winter, play a little golf, maybe go to the Final Four, Texas Relays, stuff like that. Which will complete my non-compete, and then I’ll sit down with you and Chuck and figure out what to do next. And maybe—maybe—think about starting a family.

A family! cried Sister Ernestine, clasping her hands. Oh, Archie!

Archie leaned back in his heavy wooden chair; threaded his fingers behind his head. Easy as pie, he thought. Easy as starting your own business or being a sportscaster.

I know, a family sounds nice, but I am forty-five, and that basically puts me at sixty-five when my children graduate from high school, he continued, watching his mother’s face, trying to read through her politeness. And that’s if I find the right lady, like tonight.

I can think of a half-dozen girls who would marry you tomorrow, she said, beaming over her hot tea. You’ll be such a good father.

I don’t know, mom. I’ve got some pretty serious issues.

Phooey. We all have issues, Sister Ernestine said, suddenly serious. We all have fundamental problems that want to kill us. All of us. But we carry on.

Yes ma’am, we do, he said, handing the waitress a credit card, happy that his mother was letting him pay