backpacks made them look like little mountain climbers-and jumping into their parents' cars.
She didn't see Jessie.
Karen glanced around at the other drivers: mothers, grandmothers, a few fathers, and a handful of Mexican nannies, even in this small town. They were driving cars and SUVs and pickups; high-end, low-end, and barely running. The public school took all comers regardless of class, race, ethnicity, citizenship, or length of residency in the school district. Which was good; they had moved into town only two months ago, right before school had started.
Where was Jessie?
Karen had arrived at the pickup point, but her daughter had not yet appeared. The carpool traffic monitor-the P.E. teacher who looked like she could bench press the Toyota-stuck her head in the open passenger window and told her to pull around to the side parking lot. Karen steered out of the drive-through lane in front of the school and turned into the parking lot, but she had to wait for a black van with darkened windows to exit. She glanced at the driver, and he glanced at her. She felt a sudden chill.
Where was Jessie?
Her mind began conjuring up possibilities and dark images soon followed; she got out of the car. She watched the black van drive off, then she went into the school. Her pace increased without conscious thought as she walked down the corridor to Jessie's third-grade room. Ms. Nash, her teacher, was marking papers at her desk. She was alone.
'Excuse me.'
Ms. Nash looked up. 'Oh, hi, Karen.'
'Where's Jessie?'
'Why, she's gone.'
'She didn't come outside to carpool.'
'She didn't?'
'No.'
'Well, then-'
Karen was already hurrying down the hall and checking each room. Ms. Nash caught up with her at the principal's office.
'Karen, I'm sure she's here somewhere.'
The principal walked out of her office.
'Is there a problem?'
'We can't find Jessie,' Ms. Nash said.
'I'll call the police.'
'No!' Karen said.
'Jessie left with the other kids,' Ms. Nash said. 'Karen says she didn't come out for carpool.'
'Let's check the rooms.'
They searched every room on the west corridor. No Jessie. They went down to the gym; kids were playing volleyball and basketball. But not Jessie. They walked into the locker rooms.
'Jessie! Jessie!'
Principal Stephens' expression showed her fear: a child lost on her watch.
'I'd better call the police.'
'Let's check the east corridor,' Karen said.
They hurried out of the gym and down the east corridor. Jessie wasn't in the science lab or the library or the art room. Karen's mind was on the verge of full-scale panic when she spotted a head of red hair in the music room.
'Jessie!'
Her eight-year-old daughter swiveled around on the bench in front of the piano. She smiled.
'Hi, Mom.'
Jessie eyes moved to her teacher and the principal standing behind Karen; the smiled dropped off her face.
'Uh-oh. I didn't tell anyone where I'd be. I'm sorry.'
'We've been looking all over school for you.'
'I just wanted to practice a little.'
Karen took a deep breath and turned to the others.
'I'm sorry.'
They nodded and patted her shoulder. They were mothers, too. After they had left, Jessie said, 'Am I in trouble?'
'No, honey. Let's go home.'
God, she needed a cigarette.
Texas Custom Boots on South Lamar Boulevard in Austin shares a small space with a taxidermy shop; in one stop, you can get your custom boots fitted and your dead buck stuffed. Paul Prescott was standing in his white socks on a sheet of thick paper while the boot maker wrote down his exact desires-toe, heel, puller, collar bands, cross-stitch design, leather, and color-and then traced his feet and took meticulous measurements.
'Black elk,' Andy said. 'They'll be soft but sturdy.'
'Like your mother.'
Jean Prescott, Ph. D., smiled like a smitten teenager. His father was good, Andy had to give him that. Paul Prescott had that twinkle in his blue eyes that appealed to women of all ages; perhaps that was why his wife and son had accompanied him to so many honky-tonks. One day eight or nine years back when they were down at the creek, Andy had joked about the groupies who had hung out at the bars; his father had said, 'Andy, you're old enough to know the truth about your old man. I'm a drunk, but I'm a faithful drunk. To Jose Cuervo and your mother. I never betrayed her love.'
And Jean Prescott had stood by her man.
She had driven him into town that afternoon for his monthly transplant evaluation. He met with doctors (hepatologist, hematologist, cardiologist, gastroenterologist, and psychiatrist), a social worker (to ensure a reliable post-transplant caregiver was still available), and the financial representative (to confirm he still had insurance and could pay for the surgery and the expensive post-transplant drug regimen), and underwent the regular battery of tests to continue his place on the waiting list. And the team verified that he remained stone sober; one drop of alcohol, and Paul Prescott would be kicked off the list and left to die like road kill.
The boot maker finished his measurements, Andy paid half of the $1,500 price of the boots as a down payment pending delivery in seven or eight months, and they went outside. It was after six.
'How about dinner at Threadgill's?' Andy said. 'I'm buying.'
Andy expected his father to decline; he no longer liked to be seen in public because his skin was now a shade of orange. But his father surprised him.
'Hell, don't see how I can turn down a chicken-fried steak at Threadgill's. Only way I'm gonna get meat.'
Andy stowed the bike in the back of his mother's 1989 Volvo station wagon (she was terribly proud of the odometer that registered over 300,000 miles) and got into the back seat. They drove the short distance over to the restaurant on Riverside, located just down from where the Armadillo had stood.
'Breaks my heart,' his father said, 'every time I see that office building where the Armadillo used to be. Those were good times. Best times were opening for Willie.'
'How old is Willie now? Ninety?'
His father chuckled, a sound Andy enjoyed.
'He's damn sure lived ninety years, but he just turned seventy-five back in April.'
Willie Nelson was a poet, a singer, a songwriter, and a Texas icon who lived on a ranch just outside of Austin.
'He's still singing around town.'
'Willie will sing and write his songs till the day he dies. That's what he is. That's what we all are-Willie, Billy Joe, Jerry Jeff, Kris-singers and songwriters.' He paused and pulled out his little notebook and pen. 'Singers and songwriters. Might be able to use that.'
