August

by Callan Wink

  * * *

  —

  On the short drive across town, Ancient said, “Remember that time you dropped my chainsaw into the river?”

  August shook his head.

  “No? You don’t remember that?”

  “I remember it a little different.”

  “What’s the saying? History is just the memories of the victors? Something like that. We’re all pretty much constantly victorious in our own minds.”

  “You had me out on a sketchy tree in the middle of a river, and I slipped and nearly cut my foot off.”

  “Don’t get all huffy. I’m just needling you. That thing was older than the hills anyway.”

  * * *

  —

  At the Feed-n-Need, Ancient bought a brand-new Stihl MS 311 with an eighteen-inch bar. It came with a spare chain and a heavy-duty orange plastic case. The Feed-n-Need employee threw in a gallon can of gas, a pair of safety goggles, and ear plugs. It was the same old-timer with the tobacco-stained beard, and when he recognized August he pointed and said, “The fisherman returns. How was your luck?”

  “Not too good. I got skunked.”

  “Did you do like I told you and go to Martinsdale and cast off the reeds at the south side?”

  “I just went down to the Musselshell.”

  “Well, shit. No wonder.” He shook his head and smiled, winking at Ancient. “You try to help out the youth, and it’s like their ears are deaf to the words coming out of your mouth. You give a kid a hot tip, and he goes and fishes where there aren’t any fish.”

  Ancient signed his receipt and hefted his saw. “I’ve always preferred going fishing where there’s no fish. Your naps don’t get interrupted as much that way.”

  “You know the saying. Give a man a fish, he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and he’ll be a bum for the rest of his life.”

  “Good one,” August said.

  Tobacco beard hooked his thumb in August’s direction and spoke to Ancient. “This one’s not overly impressed with my humor.”

  “Don’t take it personal,” Ancient said. “I saw him smile once. I think.”

  * * *

  —

  In the parking lot, Ancient put the saw and gas in the back of his truck, slammed up the tailgate, and slapped his hands together. “Now, that’s shopping,” he said. “Get in and get out. A purchase a man can feel good about. A lot of money to shell out, but I’ll have that saw for fifteen years, if I can keep it out of your hands.” Ancient laughed. “Your face. It’s just too easy.”

  On the road home, dark now, with a half-moon hanging over the valley, the irrigation lines spraying silver under its light, Ancient rolled his window down and took a big breath, letting it out in a long whistle. “Goddamn,” he said. “There’s something about coming into possession of a new chainsaw that makes a man eager to cut something down. I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”

  Ancient took the Dry Creek cutoff road and they rattled over a cattle guard, off the pavement, the truck light in the back, skittering over the washboards. They were nearing the Duncan place, and when the first sign loomed white in the headlights Ancient slowed, put the truck in park, and hopped out. August turned in the seat to watch. Ancient had the saw out and was tipping up the gas can, his face glowing red in the taillights. He pulled the cord twice, adjusted the choke, pulled it once more, and the saw roared to life. He revved it a few times and stepped off the road into the ditch. The saw hardly paused as he ran it through the first two-by-four signpost.

  “Hoo boy, that’s a sharp saw,” he yelled. “Come on. Slide over behind the wheel and drive me up the road. I’ll be in the back. We’re getting all these stupid things.” Ancient tossed the sign in the truck bed and sat on the tailgate, the saw idling next to him. August drove and they progressed this way—Ancient hopping out to cut the signs, the pile of them in the back of the truck growing—until they reached the head of the Duncans’ driveway.

  Ancient had August back the truck in, and he kicked and slid the signs out of the bed onto the driveway, over a dozen of them, a pile hip high. Ancient put the saw back in its case and then emptied the gas can over the signs. He put the can in the truck and produced a book of matches from his pocket. The match popped to life in his hand, and when he dropped it the signs erupted with a deep thump of blue-orange flame. From the truck August could just make out the lettering on the top sign—PREVENT WHITE GENOCIDE!—the paint beginning to bubble and melt.

  Ancient swung into the cab and August accelerated away, the bonfire fading in the rearview. Ancient wasn’t saying anything, and August could smell chainsaw gas. When they got home—the engine ticking, the house in front of them empty and black—Ancient finally laughed. He took off his hat and rubbed his head and opened his door. He paused with his foot on the running board.

  “I bought me and Kim tickets to Jamaica for our honeymoon. We were going to go this fall.”

  “Jamaica. Really?”

  “She said she wanted to go one time when we were first dating. She really likes coffee. They have the best coffee in the world there. Blue Mountain. And, believe it or not, I like the marijuana smoke occasionally. They’ve got the best of that, too. And beaches. I’ve always wanted to go scuba diving.”

  “You still think you’ll go?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Probably expensive tickets.”

  “I bought traveler’s insurance. They recommended I do that. Especially because it was a honeymoon trip. The travel agent I used said that it would definitely be a good idea, because things happen. I asked her what she meant by things happen, and she said that people have been known to change their minds. Also, hurricanes. I told myself I bought it because of the hurricanes. I think she threw that in there for that very reason. No one wants to believe their honeymoon won’t happen. Getting traveler’s insurance for something like that is kind of like going the prenup route. You know it’s a smart idea, but it’s sort of like setting yourself up to fail. Anyway, if Timmy comes asking you about the signs, you can straight-up tell him I did it.”

  “I’m not going to say anything.”

  “You don’t have to lie for me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shoot. I guess I got a little excited tonight. I might live to have regrets about this. Big Tim is generally not one to let things lie.”

  August filled a large bowl with Frosted Shredded Wheat and poured in milk. There was a sunset happening, and he ate his cereal on the small concrete patio behind the bunkhouse, watching it go. Darkness fell, with the first stars coming in like pinpricks, small holes, a buckshot pattern fired into the black sky. August slurped his milk from the bowl and went inside to call his mother.

  “Augie!” she said. “It’s great to hear your voice. I was just thinking about you.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Because it’s always true.”

  “Do you really think about me that much, or do I just happen to call when you are?”

  “It’s like breathing. Probably is the same for all mothers.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t make an effort to think about you; it’s just going on constantly in the background. Inhale, exhale. Like that.”

  “That’s kind of creepy.”

  “And that, in a nutshell, is the plight of mothers everywhere. I don’t know why we continue to put ourselves through it. Anyway, how’d those hamburgers turn out?”

  “Hamburgers?”

  “Last time we talked you said you were making hamburgers.”

  “Oh yeah. They were decent. Not as good as yours.”

  “That’s right. And they never will be. Don’t you forget it. What else have you been up to?”

  “Mostly just work.”

  “Your father’s son. I sometimes think he works so much because it’s easier than
coming up with something else he might actually like to do. Be careful about that.”

  “I went fishing.”

  “Oh? Good for you. Were they biting?”

  “Not really. Was nice to get out, though.” There was silence on the line for a moment. And then August could hear a clicking, her lighter, the sharp inhale as she sucked on her Swisher. “So,” she said. “The reason I called you was that Art asked me to marry him, and I just wanted to let you know. I said yes, of course.”

  “You didn’t call me,” August said. “I called you.”

  “We’re not going to have a ceremony. He’s not religious, either, and we’ve both been through this before. We’ll just go down to the courthouse and then have a party after. I’d like to have a little dinner. Just you, me, and Art. He wants to get to know you better, and I’m certain you two will hit it off if you just give him the time of day. And—this is exciting—Art wants to go on a trip somewhere. The word honeymoon seems a little ridiculous, but there you have it. He’s thinking Greece, and I have to say that I like that idea. He’s big on history. And I’m big on beaches and baklava and spanakopita. So I think both of us will be happy. I haven’t been on a vacation in forever.”

  “Vacation. Must be nice.”

  “Don’t act like your blind pursuit of work is a virtue. Your father always did that, and it annoyed the hell out of me. When I was a little younger than you, I studied abroad in France and Germany. You could easily do the same if you applied yourself. And anyway, I’m old. I’ve earned a vacation.”

  “Well, I hope you get travel insurance.” He could hear her long exhale, could easily picture the fine network of lines around her lips as she pursed them, cigarillo smoldering in her forked fingers. She laughed. “Travel insurance? Why do you say that?”

  “Probably an expensive ticket. And things can happen.”

  “When you say things, do you have something in particular in mind?”

  “I don’t know, Mom. Maybe a hurricane. How long have you and this guy been dating, anyway? It seems kind of drastic.”

  “It’s the Mediterranean, hon. They don’t have hurricanes. And at my age it gets increasingly harder to do anything that someone your age might call drastic. So I’m just going to take that as a compliment. How about you? You find any interesting cowgirls up there?”

  “Mom.”

  “What? You’re always so secretive. Every once and a while you could let me in on some things going on in your life.”

  “What do you mean? I wake up, I go to work, I do that all day, and then I go home and go to bed. That’s pretty much it.”

  “I don’t buy it. Even your father could only do so much nose-to-the-grindstone before he’d have to go out and blow off some steam. With a waitress, or a hairdresser, or Lisa the milkmaid, or whomever.”

  “Jesus, Mom.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. It is what it is. I’m not even mad at him anymore. We just got started too young. And we had a lot of fun. I just want you to have a fulfilling life and not have strange hang-ups. Okay? And don’t just knock up the first rancher’s daughter that comes along. These are the thoughts that keep your mother up at night.”

  “Thank you. Really appreciate that advice. Stay away from fertile ranchers’ daughters. Check.”

  “We moved right during your high school years; I know that wasn’t easy for you. You never took anyone to prom. You never really brought anyone around. And then all that stuff happened with her. I’m not worried, I just, I don’t know. I feel like you’re such an honorable, not to mention good-looking, young man, and you’d have a lot to share with someone. I hope you are having experiences. If you were in college you’d be surrounded, I mean—well, you know how I feel about it. I’ll stop harping.”

  “I learned how to dance the other day.”

  “You kid.”

  “Serious. My friend Tim taught me. We went to a rodeo, and he told me that if I didn’t dance I’d make him look bad and so he showed me a few moves beforehand and it was pretty fun, actually. Not too hard. I danced with ranchers’ daughters of all shapes and sizes.”

  “Well, I’m glad. I bet you’re a great dancer. Your dad was rather light on his feet, believe it or not. We’d go to polka parties in Grand Rapids on the weekends when we were first dating. He had the girls lined up around the block. He made me so nervous.”

  “Polka parties?”

  “Yes indeed. Mostly ironic, but still. Wild times. Well, I’m glad to hear you’re making friends and mingling. Was that so hard? Just a little insight into what exactly you’re up to, and I’m much less worried.”

  “There’s no need to be worried. I’m fine.”

  “Inhale, exhale, hon. I’ll stop the worrying when I stop the breathing.”

  August was at the bottom of an irrigation ditch hauling a ripped section of orange poly tarp out of the mud when Ancient rode up on Chief. He leaned over in the saddle, squinting down at August. “Should have worn your muck boots,” Ancient said. “You’re going to be all squelchy for the rest of the day.”

  “Don’t have any muck boots.”

  “Feel free to borrow mine next time.”

  “I’ve got size thirteen feet.”

  “Well, that’s a problem then.”

  “This mud smells like ass.”

  “That’s a fact. I don’t know how many hours of my life has been spent shuffling those stupid dams around. We used to do all of it with flood, back in the day. We’ll get this switched over to the pivot at some point. When the money comes in. No way to deny it’s more efficient.” Chief stood dumb still except for an occasional tail swish at a buzzing fly. Ancient raked his hat back on his head and sighed. “Yes, sir. Long-term plans are a bitch,” he said. “Owning some ground gets a man looking ahead, balancing the improvements he’d like to make against the things that will realistically show fruit in his life span. And then from there it’s a short trip to thoughts of legacy. You get this land, and then you start realizing that there’s only so much you can do with your allotted time.”

  August had the ripped tarp up on the bank now. He was coated in mud to midcalf. “Yeah?” he grunted. “Legacy?”

  “Definitely. Three generations of Virostoks right here,” he said, making a circling motion with his hand. “Three generations, and sometimes I think that, for all our striving, what we’ve managed is just a flesh wound on a very small patch of the earth’s hide. There could be three more generations and still we wouldn’t have dug in deep enough to leave a scar worth noticing. When my old man was alive? I never once had thoughts like this.” Ancient lifted his nose and made an exaggerated sniff. “Love the smell of cottonwood in the spring.”

  August had the new tarp in place now and was using the shovel to set the cross brace in the soil so it wouldn’t shift when he opened the gate and sent the water flowing down the ditch.

  “Cottonwood gives me allergies,” he said, stomping the loose dirt to tamp everything down.

  “My old man had the allergies bad. Hay always got him, and cats, too. If he so much as came into a room where a cat had been, his eyes would get all red and he’d start hacking and coughing and sneezing.” Ancient had a small soft cooler tied up on the back of his saddle, and he turned and unzipped it. He pulled out two cold cans of Pabst and reached one down toward August. “Getting hot out here,” he said. “Take a breather and have a beer with me.”

  August clapped the dirt off his gloves, leaned on his shovel, hawked, and spit into the dirt at his feet. “It sounds good,” he said. “But if I drink one now I’ll just get tired. I’ve still got those three tarps to move and set on the east side.”

  “It’s just one beer.” Ancient tossed the can so August had no choice but to catch it. “It’s my old man’s birthday today. He would have been eighty-four. That’s why I’m out exercising this old bag of bones here.” Ancient slapped Chie
f’s haunch, and Chief, unconcerned, continued pulling up mouthfuls of the long grass at the ditch’s edge.

  August cracked the beer and it foamed up through the mouth of the can, spilling down his wrist. He took a drink, shoved the spade head-down into the soft dirt, and leaned against the parked four-wheeler.

  “You see that up there?” Ancient pointed up toward a low hill at the back of the field, half a mile distant. “That juniper tree sticking up from the ledge rock?”

  August shaded his eyes from the sun. “That little one by itself, all twisted up and gnarly looking?”

  Ancient nodded. “That’s the one. My old man wanted his ashes buried up there, under that tree.”

  “Ashes buried?”

  “Yeah. Most people that get cremated want their ashes scattered, I know. My old man wanted to get cremated, but he wanted his ashes buried. I don’t think he liked the idea of his parts just scattering out willy-nilly. Wanted everything to be contained in one area. I go to the funeral parlor and they’ve got his remains in this little cardboard box. They tried to sell me all sorts of urns and things, but I said nah. My old man had a thermos. A big Stanley, all beat up and dented. I don’t think he ever washed it out, not once. He brought that thing with him everywhere. I took the cardboard box home and I got a funnel from the shop and I funneled my old man’s ashes into the coffee thermos, screwed the cap on tight, and Chief and I rode him up to that little rise with the little juniper tree. I had a shovel with me, thinking I was going to bury the thermos, but when I made it all the way up there I found out that the tree is growing out of a crack in bare rock. It’s the only tree around because there’s nothing but sandstone except for one crack, and that’s where its roots had gotten their hold. So I ended up just wedging the thermos down in the crack and piling up some rocks around it. Seemed to work out okay. Every year on his birthday I go up and check on it.”