by Ash Davidson
Lark snorted. “You got that right.”
They wound around the cliffs, coasting downhill into Crescent City, Lark leaning forward, nose lifted to catch the scent of the trouble he’d like to get up to.
“Where to?” Rich asked.
“Moneylender’s,” Lark said. “Why else you think I’m dressed for my own funeral?”
“Doesn’t Marsha take care of all that?”
“Trust a woman with my money? I might be old, but I’m not stupid.”
Rich pulled into the savings and loan. Just the sight of the building gave him indigestion.
“Want company?” Rich asked.
“You stay here.” Lark maneuvered himself out, muttering. “Nosier than a goddamn bloodhound.”
Rich massaged the wheel. He had eighty-six dollars left in his savings account. He’d be short on the loan payments for a few months, but as long as the lower grove stayed exactly on schedule, he could harvest the 24-7 this summer, dig his way out before they got around to foreclosing on him.
An hour went by before Lark hobbled back out, newspaper tucked under one arm.
“You seen this?” Lark asked, smacking the paper into Rich’s chest as he got in. “It’s official.”
Rich squinted to make out the headline. DAMNATION GROVE HARVEST APPROVED.
“You ever seen Merle not get what he wants? Cheat, bribe, stab, or steal.” Lark took the paper back, scrunching up his nose to examine the picture. “It’s going to be a Damnation spring, String Bean. One hell of a last season.”
Rich started the truck back up, his mind racing. He might be able to rent rigging and a yarder on credit. He’d have to find a gyppo trucker willing to work out payment-on-delivery.
“Tractor supply,” Lark announced.
“What am I, a chauffeur?” Rich asked.
“Chauffeurs are paid to drive, not talk.”
* * *
Lark banged the log splitters with his saw cane, as though he’d know the one he wanted by sound. The clerk—just a kid—showed him how to set the choke, drive the hydraulic wedge.
“Sure as hell beats ax work,” Lark announced, satisfied.
“What happened to your finger?” the clerk asked.
“This one?” Lark raised the stump like he’d just noticed it. “Whore bit it off. Lucky my dick was too big around.”
The kid grinned, hid it, helped them load the log splitter into the truck.
“That redhead still over at the Widowmaker?” Lark asked, climbing into the cab.
“She never was a redhead.”
“When I knew her she was. The carpet and the drapes.”
“You buying?”
Lark tapped his bulging breast pocket, buttoned shut. “Keep us drunk ’til next Sunday.”
“That all in ones?”
“Ones?” Lark asked. “Try hundreds.”
“Didn’t know you were so loaded.”
“Shit pays.”
* * *
Mabel’s back was turned when they came in, hair a frizzy cloud. Lark looked around, as though not convinced it was the right place, almost to a stool by the time she slapped coasters onto the bar, her low-cut top exposing her sagging breasts, skin weathered like she’d spent too much time in the sun, though she’d spent most of her life right here, breathing other people’s cigarette smoke.
“You still alive?” she asked.
Lark reached for the peanuts, tossed a few back. “When’s the last time you changed these molar busters?”
“I’ve been saving them for you.”
Lark held up two fingers, messed with his bolo—a lumberjack midswing, first prize at one of the big Oregon jubilees. Mabel set beers in front of them. Foam soaked into Lark’s mustache.
“Where you been, Corny?” Mabel asked. “You got old. You still carving?”
Lark took a figurine from his pocket—a heron, legs fine as needles—and handed it to her. Mabel traced a long red fingernail along the beak, each feather perfectly scored. It felt like a private moment Rich had walked in on.
Lark cleared his throat. “How’s Randy?”
“Still kicking. Up at Smith River today.”
“Sounds like a raw deal.”
“I’d rather work than fish.”
“Well. If you ever get tired of him.”
Mabel tried to hand the heron back.
“Keep it,” Lark said. Mabel smiled, wiped the bar, her marriage band catching the light. Lark gulped down the rest of his beer.
“You want another?”
“Next time.” Lark peeled a bill from the wad in his pocket, suddenly in a hurry, out the door before Mabel came to cash them out.
“Does he want change?” she asked, staring at the hundred.
“Guess not,” Rich said, finishing his beer.
“He okay?” Mabel asked.
Rich shrugged. “He wanted to see you.”
Mabel tucked the money into the register. “I’ll open him a tab.”
Rich made his way out to the parking lot.
“Looks like hell, doesn’t she? Wrinkled up like a goddamn prune,” Lark said when Rich got back in the truck. Lark shook his head, pressed at the spot on his chest again. “Would have spent my last dime on her.”
“What are you doing, throwing that kind of money around?” Rich asked.
Lark pulled the folded bills from his pocket.
“What is that?” Rich asked.
“Eighteen hundred dollars.” Lark held it out. “It’s all I’ve got left. I know you’re low. It’ll tide you over.”
“I’m not taking your money.”
“Gundersen, you listen up and you listen good because I’m only going to say this once. This grove trouble, you couldn’t have predicted it. Hell, nobody could have. I pushed you into buying that 24-7. You wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me.”
Rich shifted, preparing to protest.
“Hear me out,” Lark said. “I made a promise, the day your dad died. I swore I’d look after you. I’d already lost my own boys—Ossian was about four, Henry was just a baby—their mom always had them out by the river with her, and the flood…”—Lark’s voice clotted with emotion—“took ’em all. I made a grave for my wife, but not for my boys. Maybe they washed up on a beach somewhere. Maybe someday they’d find their way home. I kept that door open.” Lark swallowed. “I never got to see a son of mine grow up, but because of you, I still got to be somebody’s father. You’re too damn careful. You take too long to make up your mind. But I’m prouder than hell of you. Like my own flesh and blood. So.” Lark sniffed. “We’ll call it a loan.”
He opened the glove box, shoved the cash inside, and smacked the maw shut.
March 26 COLLEEN
Colleen hung the dishrag from the faucet. Rich sat at the table with the staked-out timber survey, his cheaters slipped down to the tip of his nose. He moved the saltshaker off the corner and the map snapped up into a roll.
“Going to be a lot of long days,” he said.
“Are they going to spray?”
He twisted his index finger in his ear, like he was dialing a rotary phone.
“Probably,” he admitted.
What do you mean, “half a brain”? he’d asked when she’d told him about Alsea. As if it could mean anything else.
“It’s not illegal.”
“But it’s poison,” Colleen said. “We’re soaking our dishes in it. We’re washing our hair.”
“So use that.” He thrust his chin toward the water dispenser. “What do you want me to do?”
“What do you want to do?” she demanded.
“Get the grove cleared. Harvest the 24-7. You want to move, move.”
“I don’t want to move. I just—” The phone dringed. “If it’s making people sick—”
“They can’t prove that,” Rich said, the phone ringing and ringing—Enid refusing to give up.
“You didn’t see that baby—” The flutter of the Larson baby’s heart, so faint. “That
’s all the proof I need.”
“That’s not how it works, Colleen. There’s no law saying they can’t spray.”
The phone rang again. Colleen picked it up and slammed it back into its cradle. “Then the law’s wrong, it’s wrong!”
“I’m telling you, Colleen, there’s nothing, there’s not a damn thing anybody can do. Not me, not you, not—your friend—” The phone trilled again.
Colleen grabbed it off the wall. “Enid, what?!—Oh. Marsha. Oh. I’m so sorry. He’s right here.”
Rich held out his hand for the receiver, but she didn’t let go. As long as she didn’t let go, it wasn’t true. Not yet.
April 2 CHUB
Chub tugged at his clip-on tie half-heartedly, wishing he could turn the argument on and off with a pull-cord, like the pantry light at Fort Eugene, his mom’s voice muffled by the bedroom door. They’d been arguing every day—water this, water that—though they stopped whenever Chub came into the room.
“Jesus, Colleen, how many times are we going to go over this?” his dad asked.
“It’s not normal,” his mom said.
“What’s not normal is fighting about this on the way to a funeral.”
The door flung open and his mom swept out, wearing a dress and her special earrings.
“Chub, let’s go,” she said.
In the truck, she crossed her arms. They shuttled over the bridge, leaving the golden bears behind. His dad turned the radio on, then off. The dashboard rattled, past the elk meadow, until finally they slowed, following a train of pickups.
The church was big, with benches, not chairs. Uncle Lark lay in his coffin. For a long time, they waited. Uncle Lark was dead, but it felt like they were waiting for him to wake up. Finally, the priest stood at the podium.
Chub didn’t see Luke until they were outside, everyone waiting to shake Chub’s dad’s hand. Luke and his mom were in line behind Mr. Sanderson. Mr. Sanderson turned around and said something, and suddenly, like nothing Chub had ever seen a mom do, Luke’s mom spat in his face. Chub’s mom gasped. Mr. Sanderson wiped the spit on his sleeve, but the angry little smile didn’t leave his face.
April 3 COLLEEN
Rich stayed in bed, his eggs going cold. Finally, at half past four, she crept down the hall.
“Rich?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sick?”
“No.” He groaned, hauling himself up. He’d stood at the head of the receiving line yesterday, the closest thing Lark had to family, shaken hand after hand. People had tried to talk to him, about Lark, about last Monday’s big news—the park ballooning out around Redwood Creek—Forty-eight thousand acres, how’s that for an expansion?—but none of it seemed to reach him.
Now she followed him out front, rose onto her tiptoes to peck him on the cheek. He looked still half-asleep.
“Be careful,” she said. She watched him reverse down the driveway, willow swaying in the wind.
Chub dragged Brownie into the kitchen with him when he woke, leaning the old hobbyhorse against the table.
“Eat your toast. You’ll be late for school.”
Chub sat down and took a big bite, then another, doing his job. He glugged his milk.
“What’s Brownie doing up so early?”
Chub shrugged, finishing his breakfast. She washed the dishes and wiped the counter, took a jar from the cabinet, filled it, checked the lid was tight, dated it, and loaded it into the canvas bag with the others. She found Chub already in his slicker and boots, holding Brownie.
“No toys at school, remember? He’ll be right here when you get home.”
“I want to bring him.”
“Chub.”
“I want to!”
She reached to take Brownie away.
“I want to give him to Luke!”
“To Luke? Why?”
“All his toys burned up. I want him to come back.”
“I know,” she said. “I know you do, Grahamcracker.”
Chub started to cry. “I want him to come back to school.” He collapsed into her arms.
“Oh, Grahamcracker. Sweetheart.” She rubbed his back. “You are such a sweet, sweet heart. Where’d you get this sweet, sweet heart?”
Chub sucked in snot. “I got it at the sweet hearts store.”
* * *
The nose of the truck dipped down ahead of her, then rose, pushing through the dense undergrowth into Daniel’s uncle’s clearing. A redwood log, split in half lengthwise, sat near the house. His uncle stooped inside it, and when Colleen turned the motor off, she heard the echo of steel biting into wood. She took the canvas bag off the seat and got out.
He didn’t look up, so she crossed the yard to him.
“Excuse me,” she said.
He was sweating, chipping away pieces of redwood, hollowing the log out. He collected chunks off the log’s floor, pitching them out so that she had to move sideways to avoid being hit. The jars clinked in their bag and he looked up, brushed bits of wood off his hands.
“Looking for Danny?” he asked, straightening up.
Colleen nodded.
“He’s not here.” Up close, the man’s hair was streaked with gray, and he was heavier and shorter than he’d seemed at the hearing, carpenter’s pencil wedged above his ear.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Colleen asked.
He tossed his head, so faint it might only have been to ward off a gnat. It was hard to imagine anyone handcuffing him, hauling him off to jail, again and again, just for feeding a net into the river.
“Is it all right if I wait?” Colleen asked.
He gave a nod and picked up his tools again. She went back to her truck and climbed in, sat watching him work. A rapping on the glass roused her. She jerked awake. Daniel stood out in the drizzle. She rolled down her window. His uncle was still chipping away at the log.
“I brought these. I had more but—they broke.” She shoved the bag into his arms. “I have to do something,” she explained. “I have to do something, or I’m going to lose my mind.”
Daniel looked off in his uncle’s direction. “They stole his outboard. He bought another one, so they sank his boat. They sink that canoe, he’ll just carve another one.”
“How’s your mom?” Colleen asked.
Daniel dropped his eyes and jostled the bag. “Thanks for bringing these,” he said, water sloshing inside.
April 9 RICH
The cemetery gate clanged. Rich watched Chub hesitate, eyeing his feet, the way Rich had as a boy, as if a hole might open and swallow him, as it had Lark, as it had, years before, Rich’s father.
Colleen took the gravel path toward the newer section, Chub trailing Rich to the willow sweeping the top of the double stone in the corner: HANK GUNDERSEN. GRETCHEN GUNDERSEN. Chub added an agate to each pile, then a red one for Colleen’s father, John, buried a few rows away from Laverne, as though, even in death, she hadn’t forgiven him for heading out onto open water, leaving her alone on shore with two little girls. Laverne’s heap of stones was scattered. Chub spent some time scooping them back together.
Rich looked down the hill toward where Colleen crouched, hugging herself.
“You got any left?” Rich asked Chub.
“One.” Chub held it out.
They followed the path around the side of the hill, through the opening in the stone wall to the old cemetery. At the funeral, Rich had laid a hand on both of Lark’s, cold and strange, slipped a pack of cigarettes into them.
Watch out for potholes and assholes.
No potholes in heaven.
Who said you’re going to heaven?
I heard the whores are better.
Lark was buried beside his wife. The heap of turned earth that covered the casket had already begun to sink into the ground.
Back the hell up, you’re on my feet. What’s a dead man have to do to get a little peace and quiet around here?
“You can talk to him,” Rich told Chub. “If you want to.”
“Lark?” Rich’s voice wobbled. He cleared his throat. “Marsha’s taking care of your dogs. That hog’s about ready for the smokehouse, but he’s as stubborn as you. He won’t go in. We’re headed over to your place today, clean things up. Chub’s going to sniff out your secret stashes and smoke ’em all.” Chub brightened with the tease. “Anyway, we’ll come by and see you again.”
Chub dropped the single agate onto the turned dirt.
“Does it hurt to die?” Chub asked.
“I don’t think so. Maybe for a moment, but then it’s over.”
“Like a shot?”
Chub’s school shots were still sharp in his memory, the marker against which he measured suffering.
“Something like that,” Rich said.
Chub toed the ground, Rich’s own tic reflected back at him. They took the path toward Colleen. Chub ran ahead and slammed into her, hugging her from behind. She gave a little, turned her head to catch Rich’s eye, tears streaming down her cheeks, the little pile of stones on the baby’s grave a tiny memorial of his visits. A year’s worth. He dug the agate he’d saved from his pocket and held it out to her.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Chub asked.
She added the agate to the pile, wiped her eyes, pushed to her feet, and held out her hand. “Let’s go, Grahamcracker.”
In the truck, Chub pressed his binoculars to the window, staring at the silver chop.
“I didn’t know you’d kept going,” Colleen said quietly.
“I try to swing by on my way home,” he confided.
“A whale!” Chub shrieked. “A whale!”
“Where?” Colleen asked.
“There!”
Rich stopped the truck.
“Right there!” Chub pointed. “There!” He thrust the binoculars at Rich. The things were tiny in his hands. It took a moment to adjust them. “See it?” Chub asked.
“Where?” And then he did: a geyser of seawater, a dark hump of back.
“I get to make a wish!” Chub squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, blinking.