The Bride Wore Crimson and Other Stories Read online

  The Bride Wore Crimson and Other Stories

  Bryan Woolley

  Dzanc Books

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  Copyright © 1993 by Bryan Woolley

  All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Nearly all the stories in this book originally appeared in The Dallas Morning News and its magazine, Dallas Life, some of them in a slightly altered form. “Glory Denied” as it appears here was published in Nova, but another version was in the Morning News. “West Texas” was published originally in Westways. I thank the publishers for permission to reprint my work here, and my friend Mike Maza for coming up with the title of the lead piece, which also became the title of the book.

  Published 2016 by Dzanc Books

  A Dzanc Books rEprint Series Selection

  eBooks ISBN-13: 978-1-941531-43-3

  eBook Cover Designed by Awarding Book Covers

  Published in the United States of America

  Again,

  For Isabel

  It’s all I have to bring today -

  This, and my heart beside…

  Emily Dickinson

  CONTENTS

  THE BRIDE WORE CRIMSON

  THE HANDS AND EYE OF TEXAS BILLY MAYS

  WHERE HAVE ALL THE HORNY TOADS GONE?

  THE DEATH OF AUSTIN SQUATTY

  TRUCKING

  FREEDOM FIGHTERS

  JOHN

  THE $65,000 FISH STORY

  TOWER AMONG FRIENDS

  A FAMILY NIGHTMARE

  GLORY DENIED

  BECAUSE IT’S STILL HERE

  THE REAL PEPPER-UPPER

  MEMORIES OF SELMA

  GOING WITH THE DAWGS

  HANGING IN

  THE YEAR OF RECONCILIATION

  OLD FRIENDS

  WEST TEXAS

  INTRODUCTION

  Nobody can upstage Molly Ivins’s wonderful story in her introduction to his The Edge of the West (Texas Western Press, 1990), of having “waltzed across Texas” with Bryan Woolley in the Dallas Times Herald newsroom on the day Ernest Tubb died, but I did sit next to Bryan on the evening he taught Louis L’Amour a lesson about writing Western novels.

  We were in Branson, Missouri, late in June, 1984, at the convention of Western Writers of America, Inc. This organization of 500 writers of novels and nonfiction works on the American West gives an award, called the Golden Spur, at its annual gathering, for the best Western novel, historical novel, short story, magazine article, juvenile work and movie and television script. The Spur is the Oscar of the Western writing world, and Bryan had been nominated for the award for his novel Sam Bass.

  Among his competitors in the historical novel category was the redoubtable Louis Dearborn L’Amour, author of upwards of a hundred Western novels which had sold the equivalent of two or three copies for every man, woman, child and family pet in the United States, whose books were published by the prestigious Bantam Books of New York, who had appeared on “60 Minutes,” who had received a Congressional Gold Medal, a Presidential Medal of Freedom, a Buffalo Bill Award, two American Book Awards, four honorary LL.Ds and, more than likely, a Six Maids a-Milking and a Partridge in a Pear Tree award from somebody.

  “I haven’t got a shot at this,” Bryan told me as we found our Spur banquet seats that Thursday evening of the last day of the Branson convention. “Louis L’Amour?” he said. The unspoken part of this threnody was “Why this year? Why me?”

  L’Amour’s nominated book, The Lonesome Gods, a more mystical novel, and a fatter one, than his readers-by-the-legions were accustomed to, had been elegantly jacketed and lavishly promoted by Bantam and had been warmly received by reviewers across the country.

  Bryan’s Sam Bass, published by the respectable but obscure Corona Books of San Antonio, had appeared in a grocery sack-like brown jacket, had no promotional money behind it, was well reviewed in Texas but nowhere else.

  “Louis L’Amour?” Bryan said.

  Now, one element that makes the Spur Awards meaningful to those who receive them is that they come as a result of peer-judging—historical book writers read and judge the history books submitted, novelists read and judge the novels, and so on. And these professionals are not influenced by big names, big promotional efforts, big reviews, colorful dustjackets or anything other than the quality of the book.

  Bryan and Sam Bass won, easily.

  There was a nice extra element, too. The stunned Bryan Woolley accepted his Spur that muggy summer evening in the Ozarks from C.L. “Doc” Sonnichsen, a beloved figure in WWA as he had been at Texas Western College when Bryan was one of his students in the mid-1950s. (In accepting his award, Bryan said, “Everything I know I learned from Doc Sonnichsen.”)

  In 1974, I reviewed Bryan’s first novel, Some Sweet Day, for an El Paso newspaper. I had never heard of Bryan Woolley and forget exactly what I said about his book other than that I regarded it (and still do) as among the best of all Texas novels. When we met for the first time a few years later, he reminded me of that review. I said something about how much I admired his Time and Place (1977). I discovered he had read a book or two of mine, that he had a passion for Jack London’s stories, as I do, and that he remembered books and writers out of his childhood in the Davis Mountain country of West Texas which matched my own list of youthful passions in the flatlands of central Illinois—Edgar Rice Burroughs, John R. Tunis, Harold Lamb, James Oliver Curwood, Jack O’Brien’s immortal Silver Chief, Dog of the North.

  We became friends.

  The Branson episode proved something I’d known about Bryan long before he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he would bow to Louis L’Amour in Branson: He has never known how remarkable it is that he can write novels as memorable as any written in Texas or anywhere else, can write short stories so fine they appear in the best of national magazines, and can write newspaper work of such quality that it has established him as a premiere figure in Texas journalism.

  He does not know how good and versatile a writer he is but the proof is in any of his books.

  In The Bride Wore Crimson we see both the journalist and novelist at work. This is not to say that there is fiction in these Texas pieces, but the techniques of fiction are in every one of them: characters we remember long after the story and the book have been read, descriptive lines, color, a sense of time and place, plot (in Woolley’s hands, a magazine article is plotted; it is a story, after all, even if a true story), pace, suspense, rising and falling action—all the techniques only a novelist can employ successfully.

  Small wonder, then, that the title story in this book reads like a vintage murder mystery with all the characters, events and evidence presented for the reader to judge; or that “A Family Nightmare” can leave us so horrified and frustrated; or that in reading his “The Death of Austin Squatty” we are left wondering—but somehow knowing—what happened to that strange and irrepressible Texan, John Jenkins.

  John Graves of Glen Rose, Texas, comes to life in Bryan’s story as he never has before, even to those who have admired and studied those Texas classics, Goodbye to a River and Hard Scrabble. The same may be said of the story on the late Senator John Tower and that on the Seminole Scouts.

  Even in his lighter pieces, people and things spring to life, as they do in the best of fiction. Shuffleboard meister Texas Billy Mays (“He’s so wiry he could be mistaken for scrawny,” Bryan says of him) is not just a saloon hustler who slides metal weights down a 20-foot-long slab of
waxed rock maple, he is a living, breathing and interesting character. Those who searched for Tangle-Free Tom in the Lake Texoma Crappiethon have dimension, as does the fish, and the phrynosoma cornutum isn’t just an ugly little lizard, it is the Horny Toad, friends, and you really do get concerned about where they have all gone.

  Bryan Woolley is one of my two favorite Texas writers (Elroy Bode of El Paso is the other) and my single best accomplishment as director of Texas Western Press was to be able to publish books by both these splendid writers.

  The Bride Wore Crimson is the second of Bryan’s books to appear under our imprint. I’m hoping there will be others.

  —Dale L. Walker

  THE BRIDE WORE CRIMSON

  You get a strange feeling when you discover - even half a century after the fact - that your uncle once stood trial for murder, and that the victim was his wife. Such knowledge becomes a burden, and you feel compelled to do something about it. So I’m telling the story.

  DOROTHY MARIE WOOLLEY, A BRIDE OF TWO MONTHS AND SIX DAYS, was lounging on her bed in her new honeymoon cottage on Ellsworth Avenue, trying to solve the puzzle posed by “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” in the comics section of the Sunday paper:

  “There are two volumes of a novel, each two inches thick, with covers one-fourth of an inch thick. If the volumes are upright side by side and a bookworm starts eating on the first page of the first volume and eats straight through to the last page of the second volume, how far will he go?”

  It was 9:30 a.m. The breakfast dishes were washed, the garbage had been carried out, the beds had been made. November 5, 1933, was drizzly in Dallas, a good morning to be at home and reading the paper.

  Dorothy was a pretty young woman, blond, slender, blue-eyed, just 20 years old. She was dressed as a woman might dress on a Sunday morning when her marriage was still new—a pink teddy, silk stockings, slippers, a delicate pink smock. She was lying on her side, propped on her left elbow, her left hand against her face. Her head was near the foot of the bed. Her feet were resting against the arm of a rocking chair close beside the bed.

  Dorothy’s sister-in-law, Mina Woolley, also 20 years old, also pretty, was sitting in the rocker, reading another section of the paper. On the other side of the bed, near its foot, Dorothy’s husband, Toy Woolley, sat on the vanity bench that had come with their new dresser. He was handsome, blond, blue-eyed and slender, too, and eight years older than his wife and his sister.

  Toy was facing away from the bed, holding a shotgun across his lap. It was a new Browning automatic, given to him only the day before by his wife. Dorothy had bought it as a Christmas gift, but she had presented it to him early so he could go hunting with it before the duck season ended.

  On the floor beside the bench lay a Remington .22 rifle, Toy’s own early Christmas gift to his wife. Near the rifle were a cleaning ramrod, an oil can, and some rags.

  The way Toy was holding the shotgun, its barrel protruded back toward the bed under his left arm. Its muzzle was only a couple of feet from Dorothy. With his right hand, Toy was rubbing the gun with a rag.

  “It went off,” Mina would testify later. “Toy threw the gun down and jumped. As he did this, the back of his knees sent the bench across the room several feet. At first I thought he had shot himself.”

  But it was Dorothy who had been hit. All the shot and even the wadding of the shotgun shell entered her body just above her heart. The arm that had been propping her collapsed, her head dropped, her blood poured over “Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

  Toy Woolley was my uncle. I say “was” because he has been dead for quite a few years. But even if he were alive I would say “was.” After my parents were divorced, when I was eight years old, I never had contact with my father’s side of my family. But I have a few hazy memories of Uncle Toy, and they all have guns in them.

  Shotguns, especially. When I was very young, he used to come to our farm in Comanche County to hunt with my father. This was about 10 years after he killed Dorothy. I remember him in the yellowish canvas jacket that hunters wore in those days, with loops across the front to hold shotgun shells. And the shotgun, huge and dark, cradled in his arms.

  I also remember a Christmas. World War II was on, and all the metal and rubber was being used in the fight, so our toys under the tree were crude things, made of wood. Santa Claus had brought my brother a wooden tommy gun with a ratchet thing in it, like one of those Halloween noisemakers. You turned a crank, and it made a tommy-gun noise. I remember Uncle Toy picking up that gun, pointing it at me and turning the crank. Then he laughed.

  That’s all I remember about Uncle Toy. I never heard about him and Dorothy and what happened on Ellsworth Avenue on that Sunday morning before I was born. I don’t remember ever meeting Aunt Mina. And I never heard of the “other woman,” Mae Cantrell. It wasn’t something that the family discussed very often, probably—and never around the children.

  Then one day several years ago, I was walking through the news-room of the Dallas Times Herald, and another reporter, Gary Shultz, called my name. “Do you have a relative named Toy Woolley?” he asked.

  “I used to. He was my uncle. He’s dead now.”

  “You might be interested in this,” Gary said. He handed me a yellowing clip file that he had found deep in a box in a comer of a storeroom. It was the story of the death of Dorothy Marie Woolley, and what happened before and after she died.

  Mina ran to the home of William Hidell, a neighbor. “My brother was cleaning his gun,” she said. “I think he has killed his wife.” Mr. Hidell and his wife returned with her. They found Dorothy lying in her blood on the bed. Toy was holding her head.

  “Let’s take her to a doctor,” Toy said. He laid Dorothy down and went to get his car out of the garage. When he returned, Mr. Hidell met him at the door.

  “Dorothy is dead,” he said.

  Toy collapsed. Mr. Hidell carried him into the house.

  “Did his grief seem real to you?” the defense lawyer later would ask him.

  “Yes, it was real. He couldn’t have been that good an actor.”

  “Did they get along well with each other?”

  “Like a newly married couple. They showed the utmost consideration for each other.”

  Mina telephoned Dorothy’s mother, Esta Joynes, and broke the news. When Mrs. Joynes arrived at the house, Mina and the neighbors begged her not to go into the room where Dorothy lay. But she insisted.

  “She was alone there…dead…lying on the bed,” Mrs. Joynes would testify. “It looked to me like she had been shot while she was asleep. Her eyes were closed, and there was a faint smile on her lips. Toy was in the front room. He was raving, but he never shed a tear. He told me it was an accident.”

  Mrs. Joynes went back to the living room and sat down. Toy knelt in front of her and put his head in her lap. “What am I going to do without Dorothy?” he asked. Mrs. Joynes stroked his hair.

  The police had arrived. Toy told them he had been duck hunting in East Texas the day before, and didn’t know he had left a shell in the gun. Dr. D.P. Laugenour pronounced Dorothy dead and shot a quarter grain of morphine into Toy’s arm to calm him. Justice of the Peace John Baldwin returned a verdict of accidental homicide. An ambulance carried Dorothy away.

  Monday morning, Toy went to the funeral home with Mrs. Joynes and her son, Ralph. They chose a casket, and Mrs. Joynes and Ralph signed the note for the funeral bill of $1,037.50. Toy didn’t. “He just sat there,” the funeral director would testify.

  Later that morning, two of Toy’s brothers, Lynn and Ray, and James Godfrey, their brother-in-law, accompanied Toy to a florist shop to buy flowers for the funeral, which was to be at 2 p.m. in the living room of the honeymoon cottage. James would say later that he and the brothers took turns watching over the distraught widower all day Monday. “We were afraid he might try to commit suicide because of the accident,” he said.

  The clerk at the florist shop remembered that one of the brothers had to suppor
t Toy while he was in her store, that he was too grief-stricken to choose the flowers he wanted. He left the choice to her.

  The men returned to the cottage on Ellsworth Avenue, and Toy’s brothers put him to bed. When the hearse brought Dorothy’s corpse to the house, about 1:30, Toy got up to look at her.

  “He collapsed twice,” James said. “We put him back to bed.”

  He remained there while Dr. L.N.D. Wells, pastor of East Dallas Christian Church, said the last words over Dorothy in the living room, and while the hearse carried her to her grave in Restland Memorial Park.

  Mrs. Joynes would testify that on Tuesday, two days after the shooting, Toy was “anxious” about a $1,000 life insurance policy that he recently had taken out on Dorothy.

  On Wednesday, during a meeting with Mrs. Joynes and Ralph and his own lawyer, Toy declared that he wouldn’t waive any of his legal rights to Dorothy’s estate. “He claimed all her cash and estate and an interest in my property,” Mrs. Joynes said.

  Later that day, she met with her own lawyer and learned to her dismay that since Dorothy had left no will, Toy was entitled to her entire estate, possibly including an interest in Mrs. Joynes’ own home.

  For a 20-year-old woman in the midst of the Great Depression, Dorothy had been well-fixed. A year before her own death, her father had committed suicide, leaving a note addressed only to her. He also left her a $14,000 life insurance policy and several pieces of real estate, including an interest in the family home. He left his widow less than $3,000. Ralph inherited nothing.

  Dorothy had put her money in a trust fund with the insurance company. A week after she and Toy married, they bought their new house on Ellsworth Avenue for $5,650. They paid $3,150 in cash, and signed a note, payable in 30 days, for $2,500. Both the cash and the note were paid from Dorothy’s trust fund.

  Dorothy also had paid for the car that Toy drove, most of the food they ate, and the shotgun with which Toy killed her. When she died, about $6,000 remained in her trust fund. Her checking account had a balance of about $300.