Social Blunders

Copyright

Copyright © 1995 by Tim Sandlin

Cover and internal design © 2010 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by Jessie Sayward Bright

Cover image © Frank Herholdt/Getty Images

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The lines excerpted from “The Theory and Practice of Rivers” by Jim Harrison (© 1985, all rights reserved) are used with his permission.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sandlin, Tim.

Social blunders / Tim Sandlin.

Dedication

I wrote this for old Fred, young Kyle, and loyal Flip;

in memory of Richard Koeln and Mimi Levinson; and because of Carol

Acknowledgments

As usual with my books, this was a group effort. Teri Krumdick and Vici Skladanowski helped with the research. Tina Welling, Yana Sue Salomon, and my mom read earlier drafts; their comments were vital to the process. Drs. Sandy Chesney and Bruce Hayse showed me the ropes of disease and death. While Mark Wade and Grant Richins at Valley Mortuary assisted with funeral arrangements, those fine professionals are nothing in any way, shape, or visualization similar to the funeral directors I created in this novel. Competence doesn’t go over well in fiction.

I spent an interesting morning at the Red Hills Ranch kitchen table, listening to Sarah Sturges and Paula Lasson talk about winter in the mountains beyond the reach of plowed roads while a guest stitched up a slice in Paula’s son’s hand. As the Kiowas used to say, nothing was wasted.

Bert and Meg Raynes are my role models.

Special thanks go to Les and Maggie Gibson at Pearl Street Bagels for daily cranking me up on coffee, and Steve Ashley, owner of Valley Books, who gave me sanctuary.

Social Blunders

The days are stacked against what we think we are: it is nearly impossible to surprise ourselves. I will never wake up and be able to play the piano.

—Jim Harrison, “The Theory and Practice of Rivers”

Love is having to say you’re sorry every fifteen minutes.

—John Lennon

Prologue

Maurey reached for my Coke and drained it. “They shaved me again.”

“I thought that was only for abortions.”

“Doctors must shave every time they poke around down there. I might as well start shaving myself like Mom, save them the trouble.”

Maurey looked awfully chipper, considering she’d just broken her leg and had a baby. Her hair was brushed shiny, and her eyes glittered blue with interest at the baby stuck to her breast. A surf of love rolled over me, only more for Maurey than the baby. The baby was still a little abstract.

She held out a Bic pen. “Want to sign my cast?”

Her encased left leg hung by this pulley-and-hook deal. Her toes were gray.

“Does it hurt?”

“Itches like king-hell, but doesn’t hurt.”

“You never said king-hell before.”

Maurey smiled, which was neat. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

“Holy moley.” I signed—Yer pal, Sam Callahan.

“Is the baby eating breakfast?”

Maurey parted the hospital gown to give me a better view of the baby’s mouth clamped to her nipple. She looked asleep. “Her name is Shannon.”

“That’s pretty, I never heard it before.”

Shannon’s cheeks sucked in and out and the eye I could see opened, then closed slowly, like a tortoise.

“Can I touch her?”

Maurey looked worried for a second. “Okay, but be gentle. Babies aren’t footballs.”

“They don’t travel as far when you kick ’em.”

Maurey didn’t like my joke a bit. For a moment I thought I’d blown the chance to touch my baby. We hemmed around and I apologized and Maurey asked me when was the last time I’d had a bath, which she knew full well was the warm springs.

“You didn’t mind yesterday.”

“Yesterday I was different.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and touched my daughter on the back of her leg, above the plastic ID anklet thing. She was soft as a bubblegum bubble and, I imagined, just as delicate. I had created this. These toes and eyelids and all the potential for greatness and badness and beauty had come from me. I started hyperventilating and had to bend over with my head between my knees.