by Callan Wink
“That must have been a hard one for your mom to swallow.”
“Well, she can be difficult in her own way. Her family had some money. My dad’s people never had much. Whenever he couldn’t afford something she wanted, she could come up with the funds easy enough with a phone call or two. That had to get old. They fought about this couch she bought—it was fancy upholstery, real expensive. He’d put his boots up on it whenever he got a chance and it got stained, and then one day she had me help her drag it out into the front yard and she lit it on fire and it sat there burned out and smoking for a few days before he took an ax to it and hauled it off. He laid on the floor to watch TV for a long time. My mom never watches TV. That’s a small thing, but I guess it’s the buildup that happens over the years that does it. Never any one major problem. Who knows? At least you and Kim never had any kids.”
Ancient shook his head, his eyes widened in fake surprise. “I think that’s the most words I ever heard you string together.” He laughed. “But the problem is, when you get to my and Kim’s age, the kid aspect is the biggest issue, believe it or not. I want kids, I think. A child keeps people together and gives them a reason to behave better than they might on their own. Without a kid, it’s way too easy to just pull up stakes and go down to Billings and take yoga classes and get a job as a receptionist.” Ancient downed his whiskey and ordered another.
* * *
—
It was well past dark by the time Ancient slid, none too steadily, from his stool and fumbled his keys from his jeans pocket. “Want me to drive?” August said as they headed toward the truck.
“Shiiit,” Ancient said and swung into the driver’s seat. It took him two tries to get the key into the ignition, and when the truck rumbled to life he paused before putting it in gear. “Guess maybe I’ll take the back way,” he said.
As they drove out of town, August said, “We’ve had that hay down for a while now. How’s that baler coming along?”
“The main problem with that baler is that it is a giant hunk of crap. Was a problem almost from the time my old man bought it. I put a new idler and V-belt in it, though. I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“Should I give it a shot tomorrow?”
“Yeah, we’ll give it a shot. You know how much a new baler costs?”
“I’m guessing it’s not cheap.”
Ancient was about to say something but stopped. He’d taken the Dry Creek turnoff. They were rattling along the dirt road, and then Duncan’s signs bloomed white in the headlights. Ancient slowed. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Looks like he even added a couple new ones. GOOD FENCES MAKE GOOD NEIGHBORS. SMILE, YOU ARE UNDER SURVEILLANCE. Good fences make good neighbors? Seriously? Isn’t that from a poem?”
“I believe so.”
Ancient let the truck idle. “I told Kim about Big Tim coming and tearing up the fence, and she said that now it was even and I should let it alone. You said he just came in and tore it out and left, right? You didn’t see him messing around with Chief at all or anything like that?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“I suppose not. Fences are one thing; killing a horse is another. And Chief was older than dirt. Still, I have a suspicious mind. Wish I had my chainsaw. The ignorance of these things just irritates the hell out of me.”
“Saw probably wouldn’t do it anyway.”
“What?”
“I came by the other day, in the daylight, and he’s got T-posts behind the two-by-fours. Probably hoping you try to cut one and mess your chain up.”
“Seriously?”
“There’s definitely metal fence posts behind the wood. Yeah.”
Ancient shook his head. “Where does this asshole find the time? How many days’ work are we looking at right here? For what? To make some people driving by feel shitty? Kim’s always telling me that part of her problem is the small-mindedness of the people around here, and I try to tell her that people are people wherever they’re at, not much difference, but when you come across things like this, you have to admit that she might have a point. It’s hard to make a go around these parts and everyone hunkers to their own to survive, and sometimes that itself starts to feel like an injustice, and then pretty soon we’re all just rats eating at each other for no reason other than to get out our internal meanness. And she’s wrong about me and him being even. There’s the note that started it all, then I cut his signs, then he tore down the fence, and if my math is correct that puts him up one.” Ancient looked off the road and tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. “There’s people I’d be willing to concede a point to. Big Tim is not one of those people.”
He drove down the shallow ditch and backed the truck up next to a corner post on the fence line. He put the truck in park and hopped out. August turned to watch Ancient moving around in the red taillight glow. He had removed a tow strap from the toolbox and was looping it around the post, ducking low to hook the other end around the ball hitch.
“Fences make good neighbors, my ass,” he said, returning to the cab, shifting into drive, and accelerating out of the ditch.
In the rearview mirror August watched the corner post jolt and then pop. There was a high-pitched wail of barbed wire stretched to the max and the deadly whang of strands snapping. Several of the signs tipped and came thrashing along for the ride. Ancient drove up onto the Duncans’ driveway, and August thought he’d stop and undo the tow strap but he kept going, heading toward the lights of the house in the distance.
“Looks like someone is home,” August said.
Ancient was looking straight ahead, a knot in his jaw. “I hope so,” he said. “Should have come down here first thing, and now it’s gotten out of hand. It’s all going to be done, one way or another, after this.”
* * *
—
Ancient sped up, and the trailing signs splintered and bucked. He pulled halfway around the circular drive in front of the Duncan house and put the truck in park. The dust that had been billowing behind them caught up and swirled, motes floating through the headlights like a brown fog. Ancient laid his fist on the horn and then opened the door. Before getting out of the truck he looked at August. “Sorry to involve you in this. It’s not your deal, but I’d appreciate it if you’d make sure no one shoots me from behind.” And then he was out of the truck, heading toward the porch, the front door already opening to greet him.
* * *
—
Big Tim stood backlit in the doorway. He was barefoot, in jeans and a white undershirt. His beard trailed down his chest, and his hairline receded halfway back his skull; what was left of his hair a thin, wispy mess above his head. He had his arms at his sides, and he held something in each hand, down low next to his legs. Ancient was approaching the porch, and August got out of the truck. There was a tire iron under the seat and he gripped it, leaning against the truck in the shadow.
Ancient stopped at the foot of the porch stairs and hooked his fingers in his belt loops. “Let’s talk about fences, neighbor,” he said.
Big Tim stepped out of the doorway, and August still couldn’t make sense of what he was holding. His voice came low and calm. “I saw you coming, and I know that you’ve got a deep-seated problem, Ancient. I talked to your father about you once before he died, and he asked me to keep an eye on you. He was worried, I think.”
Ancient shook his head and spit. “Don’t even talk about my father. No more of your bullshit now, Tim. You never got over the fact that you had to sell that piece of pasture to me, and then you tried to run my fiancée out of town because you’re a small-minded, conspiracy-theory-spouting backwards ingrate.”
“The only question,” Big Tim said, “is just how deep your problem lies. It’s come to the surface now, but how far back are the wellsprings?” Big Tim came across the porch, his bare feet whispering on the boards. He was raising his arms, and in each hand he ha
d a long, thin piece of black wood or metal. They were rods, no thicker than car aerials, cylindrical and L-shaped, each with a ninety-degree bend. He had his index fingers pointing, each hand in a gun shape, the rods balanced and swaying on the protruding digits. In the headlight glare, the angled rods cast long shadows, and Tim was an arm’s length away from Ancient, moving in slowly.
“I’ve been practicing rhabdomancy since I was young,” Big Tim said. “You know that before you were born your old man came to me because his well was drying up, and in an afternoon I dowsed up the spring for the new well that you drink from to this day? Did you know that it was me that delivers your everyday water, boy?”
“Get that goofy shit away from me and talk to me normal,” Ancient said, taking a small step back.
“I can find the problem you’re having, Ancient. Springs below the earth’s surface are not so different from the springs beneath a man’s skin. If you let them, my tools will find the source of your pain, and from there we can start the work of healing.”
“I’m sorry your kid died, Tim. I truly am. But that’s no excuse to unhinge. Look at yourself, man. Do not touch me with those things. Tim, I’m telling you.”
“It’s the drink, in part. I don’t even need my tools to tell me that. I can smell your breath from here. But drinking is just a fool’s attempt to bandage the wound. Let me do my work, son.”
“I’m not your son, you loon. If you touch me, I swear to God, Tim. Get away from me with that.”
Tim appeared on the porch. He was in plaid boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He held his Marlin .22 low, pointed toward the ground. “Dad?” he said.
August stepped away from the truck, and from the corner of his eye he saw Big Tim stretch his arms toward Ancient, balancing rods trembling between them.
“Dad?” Tim was coming off the porch.
“Just relax,” Big Tim said, and then his rods made contact with Ancient’s chest, both of them touching at the same time just beneath his breastbone. August saw Ancient’s fist flash and connect with Big Tim’s jaw and they were down in a tangle, the dowsing rods landing on the rocky driveway with a tinny sound.
“Dad!” Tim shouted and came toward the downed men, rifle coming up. Big Tim and Ancient were grappling, dust raising, their limbs nearly indistinguishable. Tim saw August and stopped.
“Put it down,” August said, still holding the tire iron.
“Or what?” Tim said. “You’ll hit me with that? Why are you even here? Dad!” he shouted. “What the fuck?” He had the gun pointed in a vague place between August and the men on the ground.
“Come on,” August said. “I’m not trying to hit anyone.”
August was watching Tim, but on his periphery he could see Ancient roll atop Big Tim. He straddled him on the ground and was punching slowly and deliberately into Big Tim’s face, Big Tim’s arms trying to block but faltering. Tim took several strides closer, .22 to his shoulder. “Ancient!” he shouted. “Ancient, lay off, you fuck.” And August was coming, tire iron gathering. Tim, feeling his approach, turned, and the small black eye of the .22 focused on August, and he stopped. There was one more wet thump of fist hitting meat and then, a bass line.
Taxi!
…driver…take me…ride?
A slim figure was coming down the porch stairs, shirtless—a pale torso with hip bones jutting above the waistband of sleek leather pants, a large boom box propped on the shoulder, trailing an orange electrical cord, a strange, halting, skipping, strutting walk, a dance. The music was extremely loud, Prince’s “Lady Cab Driver,” but there was a bad connection somewhere and the song kept crackling. August could see the figure’s long black hair flowing from one side, shaved to stubble on the other. Avery. His eyes closed, nodding, he made his way toward the men on the ground, a jaunty step back, two shuffling steps forward. Everyone stopped, watching in disbelief.
He grabbed the electrical cord and resumed stepping, twirling the cord in time. He was singing along, pelvic-thrusting, moonwalking. Ancient rolled off Big Tim and got to his knees, breathing heavily, his eyes wide in the gloom. Big Tim sat up, blood on his face. Tim had the gun barrel down in the dirt, rubbing his jaw. Avery spun a complete circle as the song continued to cut in and out.
…brother, handsome…tall
…bored…believe…war
…for me, that’s who…
He wasn’t looking at anyone, eyes closed, overpowering Prince’s falsetto with his own more desperate voice, sending it out over to the black behind the headlight beams. And then he reached up, pressed a button on the boom box, and the music came to a sudden stop. He opened his eyes, and his gaze passed over all of them.
“You people are ridiculous,” he said quietly. He tucked the boom box under his arm, retraced his steps up the porch, and went inside the house, slamming the door behind.
AT THE TWO DOT Bar, August sweated, waiting for his hamburger. He’d been haying all day, and when he sat on the barstool he could still feel the tractor rumbling underneath him. Painin’ from tractor back. He was exhausted, and he hadn’t even stopped to mend the broken legs of any meadowlarks. Where was Paul Harvey with a pep talk when you needed him? He had a beer on a napkin in front of him, and it was a warm evening, so Theresa had the door propped open. In the mirror of the backbar, he saw Tim coming. Saw him pause for a moment on the threshold before entering and sitting at the far end of the bar. He ordered a shot of Jim Beam and a PBR back, and while Theresa poured his drink he sat, spine rigid on his stool, staring straight ahead. He did his shot, put the glass down on the bar softly. The bar was quiet, the jukebox silent, TVs muted, the clank of pan against stove from the kitchen.
“That one time, in the snow, when you called me a figment,” August said. “What did you mean by that?”
Tim met August’s eyes in the mirror, and he spoke to August’s reflection. “It meant something at the time,” he said. “Now I don’t know.”
Tim drained his beer in three long gulps. He laid his money down and then set the empty shot glass on top of the bills. “The change is for you, Theresa,” he said. Then he stood and settled his hat back on his head and walked out into the evening.
August was awake in the early dark, lying there in his bunk waiting for the burble of the coffee maker to begin. When it started, he heaved out of bed and ate a bowl of Frosted Shredded Wheat standing at the kitchen sink, watching the light creep up from the rise on the other side of the pasture. He made toast spread with a thick layer of apple butter. He had the radio on for the weather. It was going to be a calm morning with winds building in the afternoon. Twenty percent chance of thunderstorms. While he was finishing his toast, Ancient called.
“I’m still in Billings,” he said. “I was planning on being back bright and early, but I got hung up.” He was silent for a moment and then he laughed. “To be honest, I’m going to a damn AA meeting later. That talk we had the other day. You wouldn’t tell me that I hadn’t been acting erratic. That kind of made a light go on for me. I’m taking a month off the sauce. No beer, even. And I don’t think AA is necessary, but I’m going because I said I would. Anyway, looks like I won’t be back till this evening. I was listening to the weather. There’s a chance of some rain this afternoon.”
“I just heard that.”
“You think you can roll up that last little bit today by yourself?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You pretty much did all that piece by the river yourself anyway. I think you’ll be fine. If it binds, just toggle reverse and forward until it comes free, and if that doesn’t work, lower the speed and use that broom handle to get the stuff unstuck like I showed you.”
“I know.”
“Grease the fittings, too.”
“I will.”
“That soil moisture tester is in the cab. Test the first bale and then every few after that.
Thirty percent is what we’re looking for, right?”
“Don’t you mean twenty?”
“Exactly right. Just testing you there. Good catch. I think you should be set. If anything comes up give me a jingle. And you know what?”
“What?”
“Get that finished up and take the afternoon off. Probably going to be a hot one out there. Go down to the lake or something. I talked to old Brody at Feed-n-Need the other day, and he said he caught a bucketful out at the reservoir. Or whatever, take a nap and jack off for all I care. Just relax. Sound good?”
“Sounds fine.”
“All right. I appreciate you. See you tonight.”
August filled his thermos and headed out to the shop. The baler was already hooked up, and he spent a few minutes greasing the fittings and spooling up a new twine roll. They’d finished the second cutting and there was only one of the small side fields adjacent to the house left unbaled. August fired up the Deere and headed out to the road. He drove straddling the white line on the shoulder for the short distance to the field entrance and then turned up and into the section of mowed grass.
The first bale came out tight and symmetrical. It tested at 17 percent and August gave it a fond slap before swinging back into the cab. He watched the intake, and when the baler jammed he stopped and reversed the feed, and it started rolling again. Three more bales came out clean and tight. August was keeping an eye on a line of dark clouds forming over the low hills toward the river. He was over halfway done and it looked like he was going to get it all stitched up, just in time.
The wind was intensifying and bits of hay chaff blew in from the opened windows, the good clean herbal smell of it filling the tractor cab. August was nearly ready to spit out another bale when there was a bang, barely audible over the tractor noise, and the baler dipped and lurched, wobbling on the hitch. August slowed the tractor to a halt. He left it in idle while he hopped out. The situation was immediately apparent. The baler sagged heavily to one side, a tire completely blown out, the sidewall shredded, so the machine rested on the metal wheel rim. August considered the pregnant clouds, still a ways off. Considered the blown tire. Considered the windrows of hay still down in the field. The wind caught the brim of his hat and flipped it to the ground, and he scooped it up and tightened the band, jamming it back down on his head. He shut off the tractor and jogged the short distance back to the yard to get his truck, driving it around and out into the field next to the hobbled baler. He took the jack from behind the truck seat and spent a few moments puzzling out a spot to get it set, finally deciding on a flat area near the baler’s axle.