"I asked John Ed if he'd support me if I made a run for the White House."
"And?"
"Said he couldn't afford it."
"He didn't lie. Supreme Court threw out the campaign finance law, so the next presidential campaign's going to cost each party a billion dollars, and that's real money, even for John Ed."
Jim Bob inhaled on his cigar and seemed to ponder the mountain sky. When he spoke, he was the Professor.
"A presidential run, Bode, it's brutal. Physically and mentally. Campaigning every day for two years, studying policy like you're cramming for a world history final so you don't come off an idiot in the debates, getting demonized by the left-wing media searching for every woman you ever dated to see if they'll claim sexual harassment… They're pit bulls with press passes. Why subject yourself to that?"
"It'd be a hell of an adventure."
"Could be a hell of a disaster."
"The thrill of victory or the agony of defeat… That's why we play the game."
The Professor puffed on his cigar.
"You're a full-blown type-T personality, you know that? T for thrills."
"Never denied it."
"We did a research study at the school, why men go into politics."
"So why do we?"
"Power, fame, money, thrills… and younger women, of course."
"Politics offers a man the complete package without the need for post-season knee surgery."
"If you win."
"One big play, Jim Bob."
The Professor exhaled cigar smoke.
"Bode, you've got a good thing going, governor-for-life. Don't fuck it up."
Bode responded with a grunt.
"Hell," the Professor said, "look at the upside. You couldn't shoot an African lion if you were president."
"True."
"And you sure as hell couldn't bring Mandy along, the press corps follows the president everywhere."
"Which would be a definite drawback, especially on the longer flights."
The Professor chuckled.
"I told her we'd drive into Marfa for lunch at the Paisano Hotel," Bode said. "She's dying to see where Elizabeth Taylor slept when she was out here to film Giant. And she wants to shop, says she gets the shakes if she goes more than twenty-four hours without buying something."
"Women."
Jim Bob shook his head.
"See, Lindsay's like us, that's why she went down to the border."
Bode had informed Jim Bob that Lindsay had gone down to the border to work as a nurse in the colonias — and that she knew about Mandy.
"But Peggy, she was just like Mandy… well, except for the looks… and liking sex."
Jim Bob and Peggy had married at twenty-five and divorced at thirty. She lived in California with their daughter. Bode's daughter was a lesbian who would never give him a grandson, but it could be worse: Jim Bob's daughter was a Californian.
"I tell you Fran got accepted to Stanford and Caltech? I'm trying to talk her into coming to UT. Be nice to have her around again. I miss that girl."
"Why the hell would she go to Stanford or Caltech if she can go to UT?"
Jim Bob shrugged. "An education?"
"But their football teams suck."
"She doesn't play."
"She could be a cheerleader."
"She wants to be an engineer."
"Train?"
"Environmental."
"See, that's what living in California does to kids."
Bode hoped for a laugh or at least a smile, but got neither. The Professor's expression turned down, as if he'd been denied tenure, and Bode knew that if he didn't get Jim Bob's mind off Fran, the melancholy would set up camp and dog him for days.
"So you were saying about Peggy?"
Jim Bob had loved Peggy with the desperation of a man who had had few opportunities for love, but she had left him for a richer man, a man who could give her the life she wanted. Bode knew that talking about Peggy would only get Jim Bob pissed off, a more favorable mood on a hunting trip than melancholy.
"Oh, yeah. So I asked Peggy one day-this was back when I was in grad school and already plotting the Republican takeover of Texas-before Rove beat me to it-and we were living in that little rent house just off campus-I said, 'Honey, what do you want to do with your life?' She said, 'I want a big house on the lake, a Mercedes coupe, a country-club membership, a…' I said, 'No. That's what you want in life. But what do you want to do with your life?' Well, she looked at me like I was fucking crazy, and she said, 'That is what I want to do with my life. I want to live in a big house on the lake, drive a Mercedes coupe, play tennis at a country club…' "
"What's your point, Jim Bob?"
"My point is, that's the basic biological difference between men and women: Men want to do things. Women want to have things. Which is why men and women don't understand each other, don't get along with each other, and don't stay married to each other. For us, it's all about the doing. Achieving something. Leaving our mark on the world. For them, it's all about the having. Acquiring something. Making their girlfriends jealous." Jim Bob puffed on his cigar and blew out smoke rings like a fucking Indian sending smoke signals. "We want to kill a big furry creature; they want to buy a fur coat."
"So what's all that got to do with Lindsay going down to the border?"
"She's not a normal woman like Peggy or Mandy. She's more like a man than most men. She doesn't give a damn about having things, she wants to do things. She wants her life to have meaning."
"What, you're an expert on my wife?"
"I've known her as long as you have."
Jim Bob pointed his cigar to the distant sky.
"Look-an eagle." He stared a moment then said, "Still, I can't believe Lindsay went down to the border by herself. That's fucking crazy. And nursing in the colonias, s hit, she might bring something back."
"What, like a Mexican?"
"Like a disease."
"She's got all her shots."
"She ain't a heifer, Bode."
"She's a stray."
"You knew that when you married her, a liberal from Boston."
"Why can't she be happy shopping at Neiman Marcus like other women?"
"Because she's not like other women."
"Most women want desperately to escape the border," the doctor said. "But you come to work here."
"I don't shop," Lindsay said.
"Ah. That explains it."
"I could never go out in public like this in Austin-these clothes, no make-up, no Ranger Roy."
"But why? You look very pretty. And your clothes, it will be nice to have some color in the colonia."
"The cameras. They're my constant companion, so I have to look perfect. The press thinks everything I do is for the cameras, that my life is scripted for a political purpose, that I'm not just getting coffee or going to the gym or teaching kids to read. I'm campaigning. Most politicians' wives live for the cameras. But I hate the cameras."
"There are no cameras in the colonias."
They had eaten breakfast tacos-scrambled eggs, refried beans, and salsa wrapped in wheat tortillas-in the doctor's kitchen and were now driving to Colonia Angeles in his old pickup truck. Pancho rode in the back. It was Saturday.