She was an attractive woman.  Fair skinned, dark haired.  When she laughed she did it with her whole body in a way that people were drawn in to and had to laugh along with her.

Constance taught English at Jim Bowie High School.  Not because she had to.  She was what you’d call a trust fund baby nowadays.  She wouldn’t have had to do anything for a living other than check her bank balance periodically to see if funds needed to be transferred from her checking account to her investments account.  She taught because of her love for literature and her gift for making it interesting to students who otherwise wouldn’t never have cracked a book.

In the classroom she could act out scenes, complete with accents and mannerisms that would make kids see the characters on the pages as human rather than print.  In the Teachers’ Lounge she was much more reserved and withdrawn.  It’s not to say she was uncomfortable in her own skin; she had all the self confidence anyone could want.  She simply chose not to share that side of herself.

She was born and raised in Fort Stockton, graduated from Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern, Class of ’53. She was number three in her class, but could have been valedictorian had she wanted to. Not having to worry about paying tuition to college, she actually was glad to see the top spot go to someone who needed the scholarships that went along with the honor. Four years later she was walking the stage of Texas State Teachers’ College with a degree in Literature, summa cum laude.

The trip back to Fort Stockton was made all the more memorable by the gift she received as for graduation, a baby blue 1957 Ford Thunderbird.  The white removable porthole top was stored in the garage of the bungalow her father had purchased for he just a stone’s throw from Jim Bowie High, preferring instead to be able to raise and lower the navy blue cloth top at a moment’s notice in order to take advantage of a sunset or protect herself from one of those downpours that comes out of nowhere in the spring in Fort Stockton.

Not usually one for anything too showy or over the top, Constance did love the Thunderbird, quickly coming to grips with it being the nicest car in the faculty parking lot, though she did try to park near the back to make it less obvious.

Tate  Steadman was not a local boy.  He grew up in Longview, in the heart of the Piney Woods of East Texas.  He graduated with a petroleum engineering degree from Sam Houston State and stuck around long enough to tack on a masters to his resume, making him more in demand to the big oil companies that scoured Texas schools looking for local boys to hire and put to work in the booming oil fields and petroleum labs springing up like Johnson grass all over the state.  His credentials put him in the position to be qualified for any number of positions.  His personality put him at the top of firms’ lists of talent they’d like to hire.  

Outgoing, athletic, and quick with a joke, Tate was one of the rare breed who managers could quickly be at ease with clients, management, field staff, or clients. He could tell a joke that could make fellow male employees laugh without embarrassing the female secretaries that might overhear. Executives who spent more than an hour with Tate felt like he’d be perfect for their own daughters. One or two had even tried, but Tate was reluctant to mix business and pleasure. There were just too many lines to cross or get tangled in.

Tate finally accepted the position he was offered in Fort Stockton, knowing full well he would not become a lifelong resident.  It was a stepping stone to bigger positions.  He felt there was a strong likelihood he’d do a stint overseas, but would ultimately wind up in Houston.  That was where all the players in oil wound up.  There was no rush; Tate had the gift of living every day like it was his last.

With the signing bonus he’d received he purchased a brand new 1957 Oldsmobile Super 88 J-2 Golden Rocket from Jet-Age Oldsmobile / GMC in Longview before he moved to Fort Stockton. The engineering appealed to his sense of order and logic. The capabilities spoke to the fact that he was still young and enjoyed the thrill of going fast. Those who knew Tate thought he looked completely natural behind the wheel of the big Olds, in command and assured of himself. He kept it parked right out front of the Alamo Arms where he’d rented a comfortable place, signing a year-long lease. He thought that might become a two year address, but wanted to keep his options open as he moved forward.

On a Friday in late October of 1957, coworkers talked him into stopping by the Lucky Lady Lounge for a beer at the end of the day.  It was a hard earned ritual for most of them, and never limited to just one or two.  For Tate, it was an obligation he would have rather avoided, but felt like he would have been rude to say ‘No’ too many times in a row.  He’d make his appearance.  Have a single beer, two at the very most, and perhaps get to know some of the other guys from work on a different level.

His Olds Golden Rocket was parked right out front as Constance pulled her Thunderbird in and parked right next to him.  A couple of the other teachers at Jim Bowie High had finally talked her into joining them for a drink.  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to.  But, like Tate, she was one who had to have a bevy of people around her to be entertained.  A couple of her married friends seemed to think it was their duty to find someone to set Constance up with so she could join their ranks.  It wasn’t that she was opposed; she was just ambivalent.

Of course, Constance and Tate were perfect for each other.  Those attempting to set her up could not have selected a better one.  They each looked like they could be modeling fashions in the catalogs that seemed to be coming out more and more often.  In fact, they each looked like they could have found spots in the administration that would be swept into office in just a few short years.  They looked like the hope of America.

Their kids were the brightest of any of their generation.  All three were born healthy and strove to succeed just as their parents had.  They benefited from being educated at the finest private schools money could by, both overseas and in Texas once they finally got back to Texas and built their dream home in River Oaks.  Eventually, Constance gave up teaching because she was so involved in the community they settled in.  She didn’t have time to miss it.

They would take the kids back to Fort Stockton to see her parents, usually on the way to other destinations, sometimes dropping them off to be spoiled for two weeks at a time by grandparents who adored them.  Once they were older, Constance wrote them short stories based on the novels she had taught at Jim Bowie High.  The three of them would take parts and act out the plots before Constance, Tate, and whichever of their friends happened to be over for a backyard barbecue around the pool that evening.

Tate’s Oldsmobile was traded for a succession of nicer, more expensive cars benefiting an executive in the oil business.  The Thunderbird that Constance had loved in her twenties was pulled out of storage four decades later, restored to perfection and presented to her as a gift for their 40th Anniversary, just before they drove to Galveston and departed for a Caribbean Cruise.

Well, that’s what would have happened.

After pulling into the parking lot and parking the Thunderbird right next to Tate’s Rocket 88, Constance looked down at the pile of one hundred essays rubber-banded on the seat next to her that had to be graded.  She remembered how much she disliked bars, even when she was in college and it was the norm to go to them.  She remembered she had a bottle of nice pinot grigio chilled in the Frigidaire back at the bungalow.  “If I can get through these essays by 10:00, I can enjoy that wine and the copy of Peyton Place she’d order through the mail but hadn’t had a chance to crack yet.  She drove past the Alamo Arms on her way home.

Constance stayed in Fort Stockton her entire life. Never married. Was very active in the Almost United Methodist Church in Fort Stockton. She certainly never wanted for anything. A drunk driver ran into the back of her at the stoplight in front of the Eggs & Ammo and totaled the Thunderbird in ’65. She bought a new Mustang to replace it, but never loved it like she did the T-Bird.

The school put up a plaque in the cafeteria at JBH when Constance retired, honoring her years of service.  Someone from the 4-H club defaced it with references to livestock that belittled her efforts at educating the masses.

Tate did not fare as well.

His trips to the Lucky Lady became more regular and less restrained.  By spring of 1958 he was the first one there every Friday.  By summer, he was the last one out.  He’d have two beers in the Rocket 88 on his way to the Lucky Lady, more than he could remember once he got there.

By the fall of ’59 Larry Ann Ludlow saw that he was tanked up enough to get him back to his place at the Alamo Arms and have the lights down low enough make him forget his earlier decline of her offers.  Six weeks later she was in a family way and Tate’s life had been set on a completely different trajectory.  Three more offspring followed, one with a bowel condition that changed forever the way Tate would look at his Olds, the other two just generally unlikeable.

Because of his issues with alcohol abuse, a move to Houston was never in the cards.  In fact, a string of re-assignments followed Fort Stockton, each making the small berg in Southwest Texas look better and better than it ever had while he was actually there.  Tate and Larry Ann eventually separated, but she was able to find him in Pampa, where he’d taken a job as Assistant Manager at the Toot and Tote ‘Em convenience store.  “I guess I’m still in oil. Sort of,” he told someone who was passing through town and recognized him.

Life hangs by a thread.  The roads not taken can lead to as many places as the ones we choose.  Sometimes the difference between happiness and despair, wealth or poverty, even life and death, is as simple as getting out of the car and going in.  Stepping out of our comfort zone.  And into an alternate ending.