Spoon

by Robert Greer

  “Fine.”

  “Good. Your mom and I are planning on doing our annual canning here shortly. Expect I’ll be seeing a lot more of you then, unless you’re headed off to U of M, that is.”

  “Not ’til January.” My morbid response, no more than a whisper, caught Spoon’s attention. When his head shot up at the reminder I’d be leaving, hurt was evident in his eyes. As quickly as he’d looked up, he turned his attention back to the ledger, flipping through half a dozen pages before stopping at one near the middle of the book to peruse it. After staring at the page for a good thirty seconds, he looked at Harriet, then me, and hollered, “Here it is!” Thumping an index finger repeatedly on the page, he locked eyes with Harriet. “Right in black and white. Here for everyone to see.”

  I took a step closer to the ledger, looking down on the perfectly ruled, age-yellowed page. The date to the right of a brief handwritten paragraph just below Spoon’s finger read November 22, 1889. I hastily read the paragraph.

  Recorded this date and witnessed by my hand and with my seal as Big Horn County Clerk and Recorder, let it be known that the warranty deed appended here is valid and that the following described real estate situated in Big Horn County, State of Montana, is conveyed and warranted to wit: Township 25 north, range 69 west of the 6th P.M., Big Horn County, Montana: Eighteen acres more or less in Section 21, NE 1/4/4 NE 1/4, also known as Powder River Bluff. Grantor, Andrew Thackett, for and in consideration of One Dollar and other valuable considerations, inhand paid, conveys and warrants such land to Elijah K. Witherspoon and S. Redhawk.

  The seal of the State of Montana and the John Hancock–sized signature of the county clerk and recorder occupied a space beneath Andrew Thackett’s signature.

  Spoon remained euphoric. “I knew it. I knew it!” A couple who’d walked in behind us smiled and nodded as if to congratulate Spoon.

  Looking as wide eyed and as filled with enthusiasm as I’d seen in weeks, Spoon asked Harriet, “Can you make a copy of this page, ma’am? I’m thinkin’ the people who originally purchased that land were my kin. Any chance you might be able to trace down what happened to the parcel?”

  “Perhaps. But I’d have to look through decades of land sales.”

  “I’ll pay you for it.”

  “No need, Mr. Witherspoon. This isn’t New York City.”

  “Sure appreciate it, ma’am.”

  “And this isn’t Stone Mountain, Georgia, either,” said Harriet. “The ma’am’s not necessary.” She smiled at me. “Besides, it makes me feel old.”

  “Then the ma’am’s gone for sure,” Spoon said, grinning.

  I had a feeling as I watched Spoon beam and Harriet play coy that if I hadn’t been there, their game of cat and mouse might have gone on a stretch longer. Sensing my raised antennae, Spoon cut things short.

  “I can come back and get that copy later,” he said, making a pretense of leaving.

  “Oh, no. It’ll just take me second.” Harriet hefted the cumbersome ledger and headed for a nearby document scanner. “I’ll be right back.”

  She returned moments later and handed Spoon a photocopy. “Have you been searching for your people for a long time, Mr. Witherspoon?”

  “Since I came back from Vietnam.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Twenty years this month, to be exact, from 1971 ’til now.”

  “A generation,” I said, surprising myself with the kind of response I’d have expected from my dad.

  “Sounds a lot longer when you put it like that, TJ. No matter—I’m gettin’ real close to the end.”

  “Good luck with the rest of your search, Mr. Witherspoon. I hope you find what you’re looking for. In the meantime, I’ll work on trying to track down whatever happened to that eighteen acres of land.”

  “I sure appreciate that. And it’s Spoon.”

  Harriet smiled. “And I’m Harriet—without the ma’am.”

  Spoon nodded and tipped his Stetson. “Thanks so much for the help, Harriet.”

  “My pleasure,” Harriet said, sounding like a schoolgirl who’d just found someone to carry her books. “And in case you hit pay dirt before I can get you that land information, let me know how your search turns out.”

  Spoon pivoted toward the exit with a broad grin on his face. “I’ll do that,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder. Uncharacteristically at a loss for more words, he stammered, “I’ll do that for sure.”

  Eight

  I couldn’t tell if the bounce in Spoon’s step, a lightness on his feet that began as we headed down the courthouse steps and continued as we walked down the sidewalk toward the pickup, had to do with the new lead on his roots or his encounter with Harriet Rankin. It didn’t matter, really; the fact that he seemed reenergized was good enough for me. I didn’t have the nerve to mention anything about his almost schoolboyish response to Harriet, but since canning season and Harriet’s visits to the ranch would soon be at hand, I had the feeling that more information would soon come to light.

  I didn’t see Sheriff Woodson standing on the far side of our pickup near the left rear wheel well, clipping his fingernails and intermittently eyeing the crew cab’s backseat, until we were almost on top of him. The look on Spoon’s face when he caught sight of the sheriff, the crestfallen look of an athlete who recognizes that the odds of winning the contest that will follow are stacked against him, told me all I needed to know.

  The sheriff, a big man with muttonchop sideburns, sandy crew-cut hair, and a square face, ambled to the front of the pickup, looked directly at me, and asked, “So what brings you into town, TJ, and with a visit to the courthouse, no less?” He seemed purposely to ignore Spoon.

  “I came in with Spoon to check on some property records.”

  As Woodson looked Spoon up and down, I had the distinct feeling that if I hadn’t been there he might have frisked him. Nonetheless, his response was polite. “Mr. Witherspoon,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’ve heard you’ve been around for a while, helping out at Willow Creek. Pleased to finally have the chance to meet you.” The sheriff touched the brim of his hat. “Harvey Woodson, Big Horn County sheriff.”

  Spoon nodded without answering.

  Woodson stepped sideways and stroked his chin thoughtfully. His eyes never left Spoon’s. “So you’re checkin’ out our county records. Looking for anything in particular?”

  “I’m hopin’ to trace down my roots. Had a great-grandfather who supposedly settled somewhere around here.”

  “I see. And what about the rest of your folks? They all from Ohio like you?”

  Spoon seemed less surprised by the question than I was, but I was sure the sheriff could tell from the looks on our faces that we were wondering how he knew Spoon was from Ohio.

  “Most of ’em,” Spoon said softly.

  “Great state, Ohio. Industry, agriculture, first-rate college football team. You ever play football, Spoon?”

  Spoon’s response was a door-slamming No! and although the sheriff probably didn’t understand the reason that Spoon was upset, I did. He never referred to himself as Spoon, and he never let others call him by that name unless he first invited them to. I’d never heard anyone except my mother, and then only on those rare occasions when she was peeved, call him Arcus, but when he initially introduced himself, Spoon typically used his full name, Arcus Witherspoon.

  I could tell from the look on his face that Spoon wanted to tell the sheriff, “It’s Mr. Witherspoon.” But he didn’t speak, and I had the sure sense that his reluctance to do so had everything to do with the fact that I was standing there.

  Woodson, who stood half a head taller than the much slimmer five-foot-eleven Spoon and an inch or so taller than me, and who outweighed either of us by a good twenty-five to thirty pounds, took a step toward us and edged his left hand along the side rail of the pickup. I’d never seen Spoon look so intimidated.

  “You ever own land back in Ohio, Spoon?” Woodson asked, his earlier politenes
s on the wane.

  “Where you headed with this, Sheriff?” Spoon asked.

  Woodson flashed a toothy grin. “I’m headed where any law enforcement officer should be headed, given your presence in our county and now our courthouse, Spoon.”

  Spoon stood stone faced and motionless as we both considered the sheriff’s choice of words. The way he’d said our made it sound as if Spoon had no right to be there. When Woodson finally turned his attention to me, his tone was condescending.

  “Seems your hired hand here had himself some problems with the law in the past, TJ. Got himself into a conflict over, of all things, a piece of land back in Ohio. It’s been several years back, right, Spoon?” Woodson said, clearly not expecting an answer. “The story I got is that when the Preble County assessor slapped a tax lien on a forty-acre parcel with a run-down old cabin on it, land that your hired man here claimed to own, Spoon beat the poor deputy sheriff who delivered the lien half to death. To make matters worse, and this is according to law enforcement people I talked to back in Ohio, when a second deputy showed up to evict Spoon from the property and make an arrest, they came close to havin’ a shootout.” Woodson cracked a wry smile. “I’m guessin’ neither you nor your pa knew that Mr. Witherspoon here served eighteen months in the Ohio State Pen.”

  I glanced at Spoon, pleading with my eyes for him to offer a rebuttal, but his only response was the brief, icy stare he flashed Woodson.

  Rocking back on his heels and looking self-satisfied, Woodson said to Spoon, “So I guess you can see my predicament and why we’re havin’ this little chat. Especially since I’ve got myself what might be described as a similar situation to the one in Ohio right here in Big Horn County—an ex-con searchin’ out property records at my county courthouse. Wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened back in the Buckeye State. So know this, Spoon. Things get handled a lot different out here than they do in Ohio. The law’s less lenient, and people have been known to get busted up, even shot at, over as minor a matter as a half inch of water height on a weir.”

  Spoon’s response caught me by surprise. “Yeah, I know. Like over coal.”

  “That too,” said Woodson, breaking into the toothy grin again. Removing his hand from the railing, he lowered it to the butt of his holstered 9-millimeter. “So consider yourself warned.” His thumb lingered briefly on the gun butt. “I don’t want one ounce of any carpetbagging trouble out of you, Spoon. Are we straight on that?”

  Spoon brushed the sheriff aside with a look of disdain, turned to me without answering, and asked, “Ready to head back to the ranch, TJ?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying my best not to look nervous.

  “Pleasure talkin’ to you, Sheriff,” Spoon said, his expression unchanged. He took a step back, swung the pickup door open, and slipped behind the wheel as I moved to get in on the passenger’s side. Poking an elbow out of the truck’s open window in clear finger-pointing defiance, Spoon said, “There’s lots of people around your county lookin’ to get their hands on other folks’ land, or what’s under it, Sheriff. I’m thinkin’ maybe you should be talkin’ to them instead of me. I’m just a man in search of his roots.” He flashed Woodson one of his penetrating, trancelike, all-knowing looks before cranking the engine. “But then again, you and them land-grabbers I just mentioned are all probably real good friends.”

  Before Woodson, his face now salmon pink, could respond, Spoon backed the pickup into the street and pointed it toward home.

  Halfway back to the ranch we hit the leading edge of a thunderstorm packed with streaming white ground-to-sky stepladder lightning so intense and so heavy with rain that Spoon had to pull the pickup to a stop along the shoulder of the county road to wait it out. As thunderclaps exploded around us, I hesitantly asked, “What really happened back in Ohio?” hoping Spoon’s answer wouldn’t jibe with the sheriff’s account.

  Looking thoughtfully serene, Spoon said, “We’ll talk about it later when I have your ma and pa there to hear me out as well. Okay?” His words had the weight of a court-case-closing gavel.

  “Yeah,” I said, sorry I’d asked. I had the sense as the storm let up and we continued on that Spoon didn’t much enjoy being ambushed by anyone, regardless of whether it was some small-town sheriff or me. From the nervous way he kept fidgeting with his seatbelt and adjusting his Stetson, I also got the feeling that something was eating at him that was far more troubling than any past transgression.

  When I caught sight of our ranch house in the hazy distance, I knew two things for certain: Spoon’s prediction about trouble on the horizon for our family had just weighed in at a hundred percent, and I’d never blindside him with an impertinent question again.

  The suppertime powwow that evening turned out to be frank talk around a dinner table overflowing with food that included my mom’s homemade biscuits and strawberry preserves, fresh string beans and summer squash from her garden, mashed potatoes and gravy, and melt-in-your-mouth, two-and-a-half-inch-thick steaks from one of the prior year’s butchered calves. It was the kind of talk that would never have occurred with me sitting there if it hadn’t been for my mom’s dogged insistence.

  I’d told her what had happened in Hardin soon after Spoon and I had gotten back to the ranch, thinking her level-headed assessment might be helpful. Later, she approached the two of us as we were repairing a temperamental lamppost in front of our house and asked Spoon about our encounter with the sheriff. He flashed me a disheartened look and said, “I was plannin’ on takin’ that up with Bill and you later, Mrs. D.”

  Taking in the crestfallen look on Spoon’s face, my mom eyed me protectively and moved a half-filled bucket of blackberries from her right hip to her left. “Don’t look at TJ so disapprovingly. He only wants to help. We’ve all got our stories, Arcus Witherspoon, sad ones and happy ones and those we aren’t particularly proud of. I’m not sure whether you knew it or not, but I was once a professional dancer, and a damn good one at that. I left that life behind for a heck of a good man who had his heart set on working the land you see around you.” She set the blackberries down and swung her arm in a wide 180-degree arc. “Land that’s become as much a part of me as it has always been for him.”

  The look of intensity on her face had me wondering if she might not be coming down too hard on Spoon.

  “You’ve been here over a year now, Spoon, and you should know better than most that at Willow Creek Ranch we try our best to act as one unit.”

  She looked out toward one of our lush green treeless mesas. “I’ve put up hay on this place when it’s been one hundred three degrees and the tractor seat beneath me seemed close to blistering. I’ve irrigated tens of thousands of acres on my own. I’ve won awards with my cutting horses and pulled stubborn, reluctant calves into this world in subzero temperatures at three in the morning.”

  Her gaze moved down to Willow Creek. “And I’ve lost a son on this place. I’m tougher than I look, Spoon, and hopefully as caring. I detest laggards and liars, and during my time in New York City I served up justice using my fists to more than one overmatched, unsuspecting letch. So we’ll talk about what happened in town at supper this evening. All four of us, like people who have concern for one another. After that, if you and Bill need to talk in private, take the whole night.”

  She didn’t wait for a response. Instead she picked up her blackberries, turned, and walked back toward the house. I expected that Spoon might have felt offended, but a few hours later he was sitting at our dining room table. The vase of wildflowers he’d brought my mom served as that night’s centerpiece.

  Spoon was wrapping up telling us about what had really happened in Ohio as I piled a second coating of blackberries onto what was left of a bowl of homemade vanilla ice cream and listened intently. His tone was a bit sad and uncharacteristically apologetic.

  “So when that land-grabbin’ deputy sheriff came after me, swingin’ the business end of a shovel in one hand and a ten-pound sledgehammer in the other, screamin’ that the
sheriff would show up next and shoot me if he had to, I hit him with the tree limb I’d picked up. I never beat him to a pulp like it said in the newspapers. Never did much more than give him a goose egg on his head and a shiner. But the newspapers and a couple of local TV stations decided to have a field day with what happened. Played it up like I was some kinda stressed-out post–Vietnam War deranged animal. And I didn’t do myself no good pickin’ a fight with a good ol’ boy. Turns out that piece of land I thought I owned, goin’ all the way back to a great-uncle, had been picked up at a tax sale by the cousin of the guy I thumped with the tree limb.”

  Spoon let out a sigh and continued. “Got myself a public defender to try and help me outta the jam, ’cause I couldn’t afford no real honest-to-goodness lawyer. He was a skinny little Irish boy who couldn’ta been outta Ohio State’s law school more than a coupla years. The kid turned out to be one of the most principled men I ever met, and smart as a whip. Smart enough to keep me from servin’ five to ten. The first time I met him, even before he asked me if I’d really clobbered Mr. Ellis McCabe like folks on TV were sayin’, he asked me whether I’d ever gotten any tax notices about the piece of property in dispute. When I told him no, I’d never gotten a dang-gone thing, he shook his head and said, ‘Par for the course—nobody ever does.’ I didn’t understand what he meant by that remark until a whole lot later.

  “I was ten months into servin’ a three-year term when it came down that my lawyer had uncovered a landgrab scam that had been cooked up by a group of tax lien schemers and the Preble County sheriff. A plan designed to hoodwink ignorant, mostly outta-state landowners and a few targeted Vietnam veterans like me who’d been outta circulation for a while. It took my lawyer another seven months to work my case up to the point that a judge would have another look at it, and by then I’d done close to eighteen months. Lucky for me, it was just about that time that The Cincinnati Enquirer started runnin’ an investigative piece on the whole landgrab scam. One that ended up makin’ mincemeat outta the people who’d set me up. So with the aid of a damn good lawyer, a newspaper lookin’ for a story, and public opinion on my side, I walked outta prison three days short of servin’ eighteen months behind bars. I left Ohio the next week and don’t never plan on returnin’. That is, unless they offer me a full pardon instead of labelin’ my situation a face-savin’ mistrial.”