Backlands

by Michael McGarrity

  When he wasn’t at his part-time job clerking in Miller’s store, he rode Patches several miles to the college outside of town, situated on the upper shelf of a wide tableland that extended beyond the Rio Grande far into the desert. With the permission of his mechanical arts professor, Augustus Merton, he’d parked a 1925 Studebaker Standard Six Roadster with a blown engine he’d bought at a salvage yard in an empty shed on campus. He hoped to have the roadster rebuilt and running before classes resumed so he could motor to and from college.

  Three days of unusually cool and rainy weather had turned the gravel road to the college muddy and the surrounding land a brilliant green. He stopped at the campus gate and cleaned Patches’ hooves before continuing on the horseshoe drive past ornate buildings with hipped tile roofs, arched windows, and domed towers that housed the gymnasium, classrooms, and administration offices. Science Hall and Agricultural Hall, the two most imposing, eye-catching structures on campus, soared over the desert landscape and looked down on agricultural fields divided and fenced to grow a variety of experimental crops. They also towered over the new athletic field, the college’s most important feature for town residents who filled the stands on football game days.

  Matt drew rein at the shed, turned Patches loose to graze on tender new grasses, opened the shed door, and ran a hand over the roadster’s dusty right front fender. The shed was soon to be demolished to make way for the construction of a new men’s dormitory, and Matt was in a hurry to get the car running before the wrecking crew showed up. Happily, he was almost finished.

  He was on his back under the Studebaker inspecting the engine mounts with a flashlight when he heard footsteps and saw a shadow on the dirt floor. Assuming it was Professor Merton dropping by to check on his progress, he poked his head out and instead saw Pa staring down at him. Matt pushed out from under the car and stood.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, clicking the flashlight off.

  “You really have turned into a citified college boy, asking a dumb question like that,” Pa said scornfully. “I followed your horse tracks.”

  “What do you want?” Matt asked briskly, studying his father. Pa had lost a tooth and had a week-old beard, and his hair looked straggly under his cowboy hat.

  “I’m looking to get back something of mine I reckon you have.”

  Matt laughed. “Now, that’s a switch, seeing how you’ve been using my trust money to keep the Double K running.”

  “I’ve told you where every damn cent goes,” Pa snapped. “Best you understand that.”

  “What I understand is you don’t give a tinker’s damn for me and never have,” Matt retorted. “The only reason you wanted to get your hands on my money is to look after yourself, not me. So if you came to tell me you’re taking more money, say it and go. Next year you won’t get a dime from me.”

  “Most men would serve up a good beating to a son for that kind of lip.”

  “Son?” Matt snorted. “That’s a joke. You’ve got no sons, old man, except by blood alone, and that doesn’t count a lick.”

  The punch caught Matt flush on the mouth and knocked him back into the fender. He shook it off and swung a roundhouse right with the flashlight that hit Pa in the temple and put him on his ass. Pa sat motionless in the dirt, his hat knocked off, head lowered, breathing hard.

  “Don’t ever hit me again,” Matt warned, tasting the blood in his mouth. His hand shook from the sheer fright of what he’d done. He dropped the flashlight.

  “I didn’t plan to hit you in the first place,” Pa said, slowly getting to his feet and reaching for his hat. There was an ugly welt on his temple. “I’ve heard from Worrell and Lipscomb you’ve been asking about Pat Floyd, and I want that paper you found at the ranch.”

  “Is that what you’ve been searching for all these years?”

  “Give it to me and I’ll be on my way.”

  “Who’s Pat Floyd?” Matt demanded, struggling to maintain his composure. If Pa hit him again, he’d fall apart.

  “That ain’t your business,” Pa replied, rubbing his head.

  “It is if you’re gonna fight me about him,” Matt said. “Who is he?”

  Pa shook his head. “He’s a ghost, a nobody, a good-for-nothing I knew a long time ago; that’s all.”

  “He’s you,” Matt guessed. “Otherwise you wouldn’t give a damn about the pardon.”

  “I ain’t saying that,” Pa said.

  “You don’t have to. Why did Ma divorce you? What did you do to her?”

  “That’s a private matter.”

  “Is there any one damn thing about you that isn’t a secret?” Matt pushed. Pa was shrinking in his eyes, no longer terrifying, just an old, worn-down cowboy. He felt in control of the situation and, for the very first time, in control of Pa.

  “You’re done with me, I can tell,” Pa said. “I make no apology for who I am. Get me that pardon and I’ll trouble you no more. The ranch and whatever else I have will be yours once I pass on. It’s all I have to give and you’re all the kin I’ve got to give it to.”

  “Except for your other son, Juan Ignacio,” Matt chided. “I’ll mail the pardon to you. I have no cause to go to the ranch.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “You look like a whiskey-sodden old bum,” Matt added.

  “I’ve been feeling poorly, if you care to know,” Pa replied. “Haven’t had a drink in six months. Doc says all my teeth are rotten and have to be pulled.”

  Matt had no sympathy to give. He stared at Pa until he turned and walked away. When he was sure Pa wouldn’t return to resume the fisticuffs, he picked up the flashlight and crawled back under the Studebaker chassis. In the dim light, with the damp dirt floor soaking his shirt, he remained motionless, his mind churning, until he heard approaching footsteps again. He scrambled out, expecting Pa had returned, only to be greeted by Professor Merton.

  “Are you ready to give it a go?” Merton asked, peering into the engine compartment.

  “I need to seat the spark plugs, adjust the carburetor, and install a new fan belt,” Matt replied.

  Merton nodded, took the flashlight from Matt’s hand, and looked more closely at the engine. Universally liked by his students, Augustus Merton was a small man in his late forties with a mop of curly light brown hair, a round face that beamed goodwill, and lively brown eyes. He had a habit of softly commenting to himself when inspecting students’ work, and no one liked hearing an unacceptable oops or oh my fall from his lips. Matt held his breath against the bleak prospect.

  “I think you may have done it,” Merton said, clicking off the flashlight.

  “I’ll finish tomorrow,” Matt said, beaming with pride.

  “Why not today?” Merton countered, rolling up his sleeves. “Come, I’ll give you a hand. We’ll have this fine motorcar running in time for you to drive it home, clean yourself up, and present yourself at my house for a celebratory dinner.”

  Matt grabbed the new fan belt from the dashboard. “That’s very kind of you, sir.”

  Merton selected a screwdriver from the small worktable Matt had built. “My first Ford was a lot less complicated to work on than this Studebaker. How times have changed.”

  Two hours later they rolled the Studebaker Standard Six Roadster out of the shed into the bright late-afternoon sunlight. Matt fired it up and the engine responded with the reassuring steady sound of the pumping pistons.

  “Off you go, then,” Merton said with a kindly pat on Matt’s shoulder. “When you get home, put some ice on that split lip. It will help the swelling go down. We’ll see you for dinner.”

  “Thanks, Professor,” Matt said, face lowered to hide a blush of embarrassment, and with Patches roped to the rear bumper he drove slowly homeward.

  Augustus Merton waved as the departing Studebaker bumped over uneven ground toward the campus gate, the pinto pony trot
ting easily behind. He’d overheard a good bit of the tense altercation inside the shed before returning to his office in Science Hall for half an hour in order to allow Matt time to recover. That had prompted him to invite the lad to dinner. A meal with folks who weren’t at odds with each other seemed just the medicine the young man needed. If nothing else, it might keep his lifted spirits high. He hurried to his office to call his wife, Consuelo, and let her know about their unexpected dinner guest.

  20

  At home, Matt parked the Studebaker in front of the house, put Patches in his stall with fresh water, and went inside to clean up and change for dinner. He’d been to Augustus and Consuelo Merton’s hacienda once before to attend the annual late-spring gathering the professor and his wife held for students enrolled in his mechanical arts classes. They lived in the village of Mesilla, a few miles south of Las Cruces.

  Mesilla had been part of old Mexico until the middle of the nineteenth century, when the federal government bought almost thirty thousand square miles of borderlands to accommodate the construction of a railroad to Southern California. Much like Tularosa, it had remained a mostly Hispanic settlement.

  Built by Consuelo’s grandfather, Santos Mendoza, the thick-walled adobe hacienda was half a block away from the Catholic church, which had towering twin belfries that dominated the village plaza. Like many old adobe homes, it rambled on from room to room, with low-beamed passages that conked the heads of the unsuspecting, and finally opened onto a large, high-walled courtyard with an outdoor kitchen shaded by cottonwood trees. Stone-and-mortar flowerbeds filled with brilliant spring blooms lined the courtyard walls, and a fenced vegetable garden with a hearty abundance of flourishing corn, squash, and tomato plants thrived in a sunny corner. Flagstone paths led to comfortable benches and chairs, and several well-placed birdbaths under low branches attracted darting, fluttering, singing, squawking robins, wrens, and warblers.

  During his first visit, Matt had passed a pleasant few minutes in the courtyard with Señora Merton, who complimented him on his command of Spanish and asked how he’d come to speak it fluently. Without mentioning Pa or the ranch, he gave full credit to Tía Teresa, the Luceros, and Evangelina. Señora Merton, in turn, told him the story of meeting the professor at a dance when he was a student at the college and how he won her heart by reciting love poems to her in Spanish he’d learned as a child living in Barcelona. She merrily warned Matt to tread lightly on the hearts of the local señoritas lest a likely fate befall them. Señora Merton’s dark hair and pretty eyes reminded Matt of Tía Teresa, as did her easy charm and grace. He had warmed to her immediately.

  Matt and his classmates knew a little bit about Augustus Merton and his family because the professor often drew on his past experiences as an engineer when lecturing. The Mertons had lived in Mexico for many years during the professor’s successful prior career designing and supervising the construction of bridges and tunnels, before returning to teach at the college. The couple had one son, Lorenzo, a recent West Point graduate serving at a fort in Oklahoma.

  At the appointed time, shaved and wearing freshly ironed trousers and shirt, Matt tapped the heavy iron door knocker on the tall, hand-carved hacienda entry door. As he waited he gazed with smug satisfaction at his Studebaker, parked in the lane. A duplex roadster model, it came with a steel roof, four-wheel brakes, and a fifty-horsepower, six-cylinder engine. He’d added new bumpers front and back, a spare tire, and a sunscreen over the windshield, essential in the harsh New Mexico sunlight. When new, it had sold for almost twelve hundred dollars. Matt had bought it for three hundred from wages he’d earned at Sam Miller’s store.

  On the drive to Mesilla it had handled like a brand-new motorcar. Matt itched to take it on a long trip on one of the new oiled or paved highways. It was dusty from sitting idle in the shed for several months, and he hadn’t had time to wash it, but tomorrow it would shine after he gave it a good cleaning.

  The hinges on the massive door creaked open and Matt turned, expecting to see either the professor or his wife; instead, a petite, blue-eyed, redheaded girl with creamy skin, a ridge of freckles across her nose, and a stunning smile greeted him.

  “Uncle Gus told me that if a young man with a split lip arrived at the front door driving a Studebaker, I was to let him in,” she said in a breathy voice. “You must be Matt.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, miss,” Matt replied, trying to sound sophisticated. She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, far prettier than Clementine.

  “I’m Beth Merton, Uncle Gus’s favorite and only niece. Come in. He’s already opened a bottle of wine to let it breathe. I don’t know what that means, but since I’m not allowed to have any it doesn’t matter. You’ve been here before, so find your way to the library. I’m helping Tía Consuelo in the kitchen.”

  Matt nodded and followed her into the house, appreciating her girlish figure until she disappeared into the kitchen hallway. In the library Professor Merton sat in an overstuffed chair, wineglass in hand. Although it was a hot summer evening outside, the thick adobe walls kept the hacienda comfortably cool.

  “Good evening, Matt,” Gus Merton said, rising to shake his hand. “Are you a drinking man? I’ve opened a good red that has a hint of raisin and almond. May I pour you a glass?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Excellent. Did Beth behave like a lady or try to disarm you with her quick wit and saucy attitude?”

  “Both, I believe, much to my enjoyment,” Matt replied.

  “She’s irrepressible,” Merton noted, gesturing for Matt to sit.

  “Is she here for a summer holiday?” Matt asked hopefully, thinking irresistible was a more suitable depiction.

  “Alas, no,” Merton answered. “Unfortunately, Beth has a troubling case of consumption, and her father, my younger brother Darcy, sent her to us from Cleveland for the dry climate. We’ve arranged for her to be admitted to a tuberculosis sanatorium that has just opened on the Alameda. She’s to be examined by a doctor on Tuesday.”

  “She looks perfectly fine to me,” Matt said.

  “Indeed she does, and equates the sanatorium to jail, which I can understand, although it’s a pleasant enough facility, with spacious rooms, a wide veranda that catches the breeze, and an excellent professional staff. If she pleads and begs for you to help her run away, you must decline.”

  “Perhaps as an alternative, I can take her for a ride in my Studebaker,” Matt proposed.

  Professor Merton smiled. “That’s entirely up to the two of you.”

  At dinner, Matt sat across from Beth, and as the meal progressed he learned she was eighteen, had suddenly taken ill near the end of her sophomore year of college, and had plans to become a medical doctor.

  “My unfortunate illness—as Uncle Gus refers to it—should prepare me well to enter the medical profession,” she added flippantly. “At the very least I’ll be good at diagnosing at least one disease. Don’t you agree?”

  “At the very least, it might make you more sympathetic to those who are very sick,” Matt replied, thinking of Ma and all she’d endured.

  His comment caught Beth by surprise. “What a perfectly splendid observation. Uncle Gus said you were a very bright young man.”

  “What I said to Beth was that you are not one to flaunt your intelligence and that I appreciate that quality in a person,” Augustus Merton explained.

  Matt turned away from Beth’s dazzling smile. “Thank you, sir. But I must ask: Have you told her everything about me?”

  Merton laughed. “I’ve only briefly touched on those facts and qualities about you that I have at my disposal. Any serious flaws or dark secrets you may have are yours to reveal or keep as you see fit.”

  “I’m greatly relieved to hear that,” Matt replied.

  “He’s hopeful I’ll take you as my beau,” Beth said in mock seriousness.

  Consuelo Merton
stifled a laugh. “Stop it, Beth. You’re incorrigible. He said no such thing.”

  Augustus Merton pounded the table in response. “There, sir! I am innocent. My words are easily twisted by the women in this house. Look to them for any evidence of romantic collusion, not me.”

  “Enough of this, you two,” Consuelo scolded cheerfully. “Stop before Matt decides we’re all lunatics and bolts for the door.” She smiled reassuringly at Matt and added, “Beth knows no one here. We’re hoping that you might find some time to keep her company while she’s resting and recovering at the sanatorium. That is, if it’s not an imposition.”

  “I’d like that,” Beth said straight on.

  “I’m told such places can be pure tedium,” Augustus added. “As high-spirited as my niece is, she’ll need some occasional distraction, if you’d be so inclined.”

  Matt glanced from the professor to his wife to Beth. All smiled at him with genuine good humor and goodwill. He felt incredibly at ease and comfortable, as though he was spending an evening with dear, lifelong friends. “I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

  “Excellent.” Augustus raised his glass. “We are most grateful to you.”

  ***

  After dinner, Matt invited Beth on a stroll around the village plaza, and they left the hacienda with a promise to their hosts not to be long. With a cooling breeze and a lovely sky of puffy clouds tinged pink and orange by the sun low on the horizon, they entered the plaza, where a few viejos were clustered around a bench smoking and quietly telling stories while much louder sounds of merriment emanated from the open door of the corner speakeasy.

  “Consuelo tells me you speak Spanish,” Beth said. “Will you teach me?”

  “Sure.”

  She pointed at the men at the bench.

  “Viejos. Old-timers, or old men.”

  “Viejos,” she said.