“Close it,” Rocko ordered, and when Cutter didn’t pull in his leg Rocko started the engine, pressed the accelerator hard and bolted forward. The forward lurch of the truck slammed the door against Cutter’s shin. Cutter swore, drew in his leg and pulled the door shut.
“What the fuck’s with you?” Cutter leaned forward to rub his shin, badly bruised by the door. “You get up on the wrong side of the world today?”
Rocko was silent. He turned his head slightly to glance at his passenger, noting a recent wound under his left eye, recent enough that the scab and skin around it were still red and swollen. “I hear you got thrown out of the Buckhorn two nights ago. They take you to the tank?”
“Like you could give a shit.”
As the truck rumbled over the narrow dirt road around the north end of the lake, Cutter opened the door again, letting Rocko know if he wasn’t going to stop Cutter was getting out anyway. Anticipating Cutter’s intentions, Rocko sped up, the truck fishtailing around the next three S-curves, heading for the highway. Cutter swore under his breath, thought better of jumping, and pulled the door shut again.
“You’re coming to the office with me,” Rocko said.
“Like hell. I got a crew and a truck waiting up at Calrod Junction.”
“You’re gonna be late.”
“You arresting me?”
“If that’s how you want it.”
“What are you charging me for, poaching banana slugs?” Cutter laughed as if he’d just uttered the wittiest line in the world.
“Keep it up,” Rocko said grimly, unamused, even a little embarrassed for Cutter’s childish humor. He did not want to tell Cutter that he wasn’t exactly sure how he would charge him yet, or if there was anything he or anyone else Fish and Game could do to force Cutter to correct the problem he’d created. Protocol was to refer health violations out to the county. In Lone Loon County, that meant Cutter could get away with dumping his turds into the lake for another year at least, before they got around to even investigating the complaint.
“You’re an asshole, Rocko, anybody ever tell you that? A fuckin’ asshole.”
“So I’ve heard.”
They hit the highway at 40 M.P.H. and turned south. In three minutes Rocko was pulling into the field office, a small, nondescript building set back from the road with an apron of asphalt in front, newly striped with clean white lines indicating a dozen parking slots. He pulled the truck around back and into a reserved slot next to two other trucks, exact duplicates of his. He shut off the ignition, pulled the key and swung open the door.
“I’m going inside,” he told Cutter. “If you’re not here when I get out I swear I’ll burn your ass. There’s no place you can hide and no place you can go. You follow me?”
“Make a federal offense of it. Asshole.”
Rocko opened the back door of the building and stepped inside, nodding to Betty Patton, the new intern. She tended the tall desk where the brochures and maps were displayed in neat racks.
This morning the office smelled of Pine Sol. It reminded Rocko of cleaning day at the lodge, always Tuesdays, when he was a boy. Grandma had Delta, the Indian woman who did up the rooms after guests left, wash down everything with Pine Sol to kill all the germs. She was death on germs, Granny was. Pine Sol was her secret weapon for the constant assault of the invisible enemy, and in childhood Rocko had developed an absolute aversion to the stuff. As a teenager, he slept outside whenever he could and with the windows wide open when he couldn’t.
Martha Gurling swept past him carrying a stack of manila folders.
“Seen Dean this morning?” he asked her.
“Took off,” Martha said, “right after you called.” She twisted slightly sideways to answer him as she dashed past. “You’re supposed to call him tomorrow.”
“Horse shit,” Rocko muttered. He paused at Dean’s open door. The single desk in the cramped little room was bare except for the old upright typewriter they all used for filling out reports. He stepped inside and took a seat behind the desk. Reaching into the side drawer where they kept forms, paper and envelopes, he chose a piece of letterhead and cranked it into the machine.
Hunting and pecking with his two forefingers, he typed out the current date, then Cutter Doobey’s name and address. Under that he wrote in all capitals: Sanitation violation. Code 248. He’d made up the code number though he was pretty certain there was one.
Carefully selecting one letter at a time so that he’d make no mistakes, he wrote out a full report of the offense, mimicking as best he could the kind of language he’d read in legal documents and code books. In the final paragraph, he stated that this offense had to be corrected according to current state and county codes immediately or the property would be condemned. In the meantime, inhabiting the resident was illegal and anyone found doing so would be removed by the sheriff’s department immediately. Rocko inserted a note at the bottom of the page, saying that a copy of the report was being duly filed with state and local authorities.
Satisfied with what he’d written, he signed his name, folded the letter and inserted it in an envelope with Cutter’s name on it. He shoved the typewriter back over to the side of the desk where he’d found it, placed the chair back exactly as it had been when he entered, and went back out to the truck.
In the truck heading back toward Long Creek, Cutter read the report. It took him five miles to read the whole thing, shaking his head from time to time, swearing under his breath, arguing with every statement. When he was done he wadded the letter up noisily and tossed it on the floor between his feet.
“When’d you become such a gung-ho tree hugger?” Cutter whined. “Ever since those new people come in, it’s turned to shit for all of us. A man can’t hardly live around here anymore without he’s a millionaire. You’re so fucking self-righteous, Rocko. Your own kin started the ball rolling, selling the lodge, and then La Mortacinos bringing in those tourists in their expensive rigs and their Lexus cars. Okay if they are going away, to maybe come back the next year, but they gotta buy up stuff around the lake, tear down the old places and put in their big houses with three car garages and all that bullshit. You joined them, Rocko, what you’ve done, no better than any of them. No, you’re worse, ‘cause you fucking should know better. You came up here.”
Rocko ignored Cutter’s attack on him. “How far up from Calrod Junction you cutting?”
“A mile back in,” Cutter said. “You takin’ me there?”
“You get the place fixed up, you hear? I don’t want your turds floating around in the lake anymore.”
“Rocko, fuck off. I can’t raise that kind of money.”
That evening, from his dock across the lake, Rocko watched for lights at Cutter’s cabin. There weren’t any and he felt somewhat relieved. He lay awake that night, thinking about the PVC pipe carrying Cutter’s foul effluent down to the water. He imagined the lake filling up with it, rotting turds floating out on the surface when Angelina went down to swim. He thought about the fish, the turtles, and other living beings that made the lake their home and grew increasingly angry. This went on for several days, then into a week, then two weeks. He was seeing everything he’d ever loved turning vile and malignant.
He’d heard Cutter was shacking up with a new girlfriend up at Long Creek. Her name was Hester Glass and she had a rep as a meth head who dealt a little speed to pay her mortgage every month, selling her wares at the Blood Creek Indian casino a couple miles from where she lived. The junk kept obsessive gamblers going for days, going until either their dope or their money or their luck ran out. Living on the edge suited Hester like it suited Cutter Doobey.
Twelve days had passed and the cabin across the lake stayed empty. The trout derby was that Saturday and Rocko would be patrolling with the department’s boat and later helping to give out the prizes at the lodge. It wasn’t an event he particularly looked forward to each year since it brought in too many outsiders. Originally the derby had been for families who lived on th
e lake, a time for their community to come together, celebrate and get to know each other a little bit, make plans for small improvements.
A write-up in Go West magazine made the derby practically a national event, or at least a three-state one. People came from Oregon, Nevada and as far south as Los Angeles and San Diego. Rocko could always tell the ones from out of town. They came trailering their super boats with 200 horsepower outboards, electronic fish finders and GPS tracking devices, only to discover the lake was only three miles long and there was a five mile per hour speed limit. The potential for speed was a lost cause here, there was little chance of getting lost, and the fish, dumped into the lake from the hatchery only a week before were used to regular feedings and ate only salmon eggs and marshmallow bits caked around a hook. It took little pluck to catch them, yet the trout derby still drew over 300 contestants every year. Prizes included fishing lures, free dinners at the Long Creek Mexican Restaurant, $50 in gambling tokens for the Blood Creek Indian casino, and two nights free camping at Deer Lake Lodge. Each year the local Wal-mart donated an electric trolling motor valued at $69.95, imported from China.
On Friday, throngs of out of town cars and trailers started arriving about two in the afternoon and kept arriving even four hours after the lodge had their No Vacancy signs out at the highway. The overflow was directed to the state campground twenty miles away and to two other private trailer parks further than that. At three, Rocko picked up the patrol boat at the field office and launched it at La Mortacino’s slip.
Setting out from the lodge, Rocko fixed the throttle at a fast idle and began cruising the lake, threading his way around the hundred or more boats already out there. It was a bright, beautiful day, temperatures in the mid-80s, a perfect day for the derby. He decided to swing past Cutter’s place. As he approached, he noticed that the PVC pipe had been pulled out. He slowed and moved closer into shore. That’s when he spotted fresh dirt, a narrow trench, angling across Cutter’s property, into his neighbor’s, then down the hill again. A foamy pool of water swirled under Robinson’s dock almost out of sight.
Rocko jammed the throttle full forward, veered 180 degrees and in seconds was up on plane, setting waves in motion that rocked fishing boats from one end of the lake to the other. Moments later, at his own dock, he raced up to his tool shed, heart pounding, sloshed fuel into the tank of his chain saw, and then sprinted down to the boat again, the saw swinging at his side. He jammed the throttle forward again, racing back to the Robinson’s dock. He ran up the hill, clung for a moment to one of the spindly legs that held up Cutter’s cabin, catching his breath. He pulled the starter rope of the saw. The engine caught on the third pull, its raucous buzzing echoing over the lake.
As the blade gnawed into wood, the timber vibrated like the string on a giant bass guitar. The sound was truly awesome, Rocko thought. Awesome! And then there was shouting overhead. He looked up, and saw Cutter above him, leaning precariously over the deck, waving a rifle at him.
“Fucking Rocko, I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Rocko kept sawing but stepped as far under the deck as he could, figuring Cutter would have a more difficult time hitting him there if he did work up the courage to fire. The saw ate viciously through the old timber and as the notch gave way it clamped down on the blade and stalled the engine. Rocko yanked at the saw as Cutter screamed from above, threatening to shoot. With one last yank, Rocko pulled the saw free. The timber groaned and slipped down from the stump that had once anchored it. Rocko leapt back just as one corner of the deck gave way.
He looked up in time to see Cutter flying over the railing, still holding the rifle, which suddenly discharged, twisting Cutter’s arm oddly before the gun rocketed out into the lake. Rocko stood paralyzed as Cutter plummeted toward him, arms outstretched, howling like a banshee before slamming into Rocko’s chest. The two of them tumbled down the hill in one great ball, stopped when Rocko dug in his heels, hurtling Cutter into the water.
Cutter landed face down in the very water his turds and foamy effluent had fouled. He came up sputtering and spitting, and Rocko sat back laughing at the crude justice of it all.
“Drink up,” he cried, half hysterical. “Drink up.”
Cutter clutched his arm and groaned. His right arm seemed to have a second elbow, angling off in an unnatural way, the flesh torn and actual splinters of bone shoving out through muscle and pooling blood. Rocko stopped laughing. Cutter stared vacantly at him, speechless, his mouth gaping open, showing rotten teeth and great gaps in his mouth where teeth had been pulled or were maybe knocked out in fights.
“Don’t move,” Rocko said. He pulled off his shirt and wrapped Cutter’s wound as best he could, binding it tight to stop the bleeding. He knew the pain had to be excruciating but Cutter didn’t say a word, only took great gasping breaths, expelling each one like the nearly silent warning cries of a badger.
By the time he’d loaded Cutter into the boat and raced him back to the lodge, the emergency crew and a large crowd had already gathered. As the EMTs examined Cutter and set an inflatable splint, Rocko called for a backup. He would follow the ambulance over to Emergency, make out a report and see that Cutter was properly taken care of.
The story about the chainsaw never came out. Maybe there were no witnesses, or maybe their stories didn’t line up, didn’t make sense. Maybe nobody could quite believe what they’d seen--the man below the deck with the chainsaw, the other one leaning over with a gun, then the collapse of the deck. Maybe the whole thing was too much to take in on a placid day on the lake, hoping for trout and certainly not wanting any hassles. Rocko checked in at the field office every day after the incident. But no-one came forward. No-one from the Sheriff’s department came. Nobody called.
Rocko phoned the hospital every day to ask how Cutter was doing. He’d suffered a compound fracture, requiring metal and screws to make that limb functional again. With some therapy he’d be able to handle a chainsaw and an ax again so that he could ply his trade. It would be months before he could even think about that.
On the day Cutter was released Rocko drove out there to pick him up. On the way back Cutter sat bolt upright in the cab, clinging to the heavy cast that held his bolted together arm. “I appreciate your doing this,” he told Rocko as they pulled out of the parking lot at county hospital. He did not yet know their destination but assumed it was Long Creek and Hester’s place.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Rocko said. “See, after Angelina’s mother died, Angelo Pergamon, her dad, bought himself an RV and traveled some. Went down to Florida, visited retired friends down there, back up through those sunshine states and into Arizona. Had some health problems down there and took his time driving back up here. Meanwhile I had a cement pad poured with a complete hookup so when he got here he had a more or less permanent place to park. TV and everything. Never told us what was wrong with him, wouldn’t see a doctor, didn’t trust them. Can’t hardly fault him on that, you think? A man’s got to choose how to live and how to die. Anyway, Angelina says it’s fine if you stay there for a month or two, getting back on your feet.”
Cutter didn’t say a word. Nobody had come to visit him at the hospital. He wasn’t so sure about Hester now. Maybe he couldn’t count on her to give him a place to stay while he healed. As they passed through Long Creek, Rocko read Cutter’s thoughts. “You know your girlfriend was busted?”
“Hester?”
“Like there’s anyone else who’d have you?”
“Fuck. I’ll go up to the cabin then.”
“Guess you didn’t hear. County condemned it...all boarded up. It’s likely to tumble down the hill any day now.”
Cutter shook his head, disbelieving. “My father built that place.”
This was news to Rocko. He’d heard that it belonged to an old couple back east. They never came out and apparently didn’t care who lived there or if anyone was paying the rent or keeping the place up. He’d have to check County Deeds in the morning and fi
nd out if Cutter was telling the truth.
“His ashes are up there,” Cutter said.
“Whose ashes? What are you talking about?”
“You gotta help me out here, Rocko.”
“You can’t go up there. I’m telling you.”
“It’s something I’ve gotta do for him. Sort of a promise.”
“What kind of a promise is that?”
“He asked would I scatter his remains...in the lake. Mama, she drowned herself out there when I was a kid. He never came back after that.”
“You should have scattered when you had a chance.”
“I got the ashes that day you went up there. Shipped to me UPS from back east.”
They passed through Long Creek and Rocko sped up. He wasn’t sure about Cutter’s story. Maybe it was a lie. He probably had a stash of dope up there, or maybe his cache of money.
As they turned in the driveway, Angelina was standing at the door of the RV with a mop pail and broom. She’d just come out and was closing the door behind her. Rocko pulled up beside her and cut the truck’s engine. Cutter got out, holding the cast arm with the other and looking over the RV like it was a rare animal, never before seen in these parts.
Rocko hugged Angelina, placed a perfunctory kiss on the top of her head. He thanked her, but said she shouldn’t have done all that cleanup alone. Cutter was a perfectly capable man, even with a bolted together arm. He could’ve helped. She smiled and turned toward the house with her mop and pail and broom.
Rocko swung open the narrow door of the camper and invited Cutter in. Cutter walked slowly through the space, opening drawers and cabinets, as if looking for something he’d lost. He went into the bathroom and Rocko heard water running, then realized Cutter was taking a piss. There was the sound of his fumbling around, trying to find the toilet flusher. At last Rocko heard the pump being activated as Cutter figured out what to do. When he came out he was awkwardly trying to zip up his pants, cursing at the difficulty of having only one functioning arm. He stopped in the middle of the floor, pressed his knees together and zipped again with his good hand, this time completing the job. The male nurse at the hospital had shown him that trick.
Backland Graces; Four Short Novels Page 2