I pursed my lips and didn’t buy it. “Last time I gave you a driving lesson you couldn’t get the van out of first gear. How far do you think you’ll get? I’ll speak to your brother.” I brushed past her and headed toward the bathroom.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “Watch me.” She plopped down, dressed only in an extra large T-shirt and panties, and glowered at me from the living room sofa. The shirt, one of Chaz's with Grateful Dead dancing bears parading across its front, was so worn it was nearly transparent. I thought I should probably address the subject of modesty after I noticed Lutie's raised eyebrows. I told myself Nova wouldn’t really take the van and run off.
“Truman, you almost done?” I rapped lightly on the door. It seemed that just yesterday I was still helping him out of the tub, wrapping him up in a towel, laying out his clean clothes. Now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my son naked.
Moments later the door opened and a trail of steam leaked out. “I’ve only been in here ten minutes, Mom, I swear.” He slid on his glasses. “She's such a pain in the—”
“Watch your mouth,” I cut in, “even if it's true.”
“Neck, Mom, I was going to say neck.”
“Right.”
Uncle Tiny poked his head around the corner. “Hungry? I’m baking scones, with plum jelly,” he said. Suddenly, I felt starved.
“Somebody help me up,” Lutie called from the recliner. “Footrest's stuck.”
Nova sighed loudly, helped her aunt, then dashed toward the bathroom. Tru squeezed past me through the narrow hall and sat down at the dinette table. The kitchen sink was tidy and clean. Aunt Lutie had washed the mountain of dirty dishes from the night before.
A sweet aroma wafted through the trailer, so tempting that even Nova might have a hard time resisting. Tiny brought in a platter of his biscuits. “Careful, they’re still hot,” Tiny said, sliding them onto small plates. He set out a jar of the plum jelly and a tub of margarine, along with a pitcher of orange juice. In his chef's apron he looked as huge as a mainsail. Lutie pulled up a chair, and Tiny ate leaning against the counter.
“Yum,” Tru said, crumbs falling from his mouth.
“Yes, they’re delicious,” I agreed, adding, “Is there coffee? I could make it myself.”
“Sorry,” Lutie said. “We only drink tea. Herbal tea. Tiny can pick you up some coffee next time he heads into town, can’t you Tiny?” I plunged a tea ball into my cup of steaming water, yanking it up and down like a poor soul on a dunking stool.
“Yes, I can see that I’ll need to make you a list. And while I think of it, I’ve got some ideas for sprucing things up,” I said. “We could do a lot with the place.” I poured myself a cup of orange juice, too, trying not to grimace at the lumpy feel of the pulp. My head, screaming for caffeine, pulsed like a neon sign.
“What do you mean, spruce things up?” Tiny asked. His voice sounded defensive and Lutie was eyeing me. “I know it's not a mansion,” he said, waving a spatula expansively. “But it's not done yet. I got a guy in Murkee going to bring down a whole truckload of siding for the sun porch.” He folded his arms across his apron.
“I always wanted a sun porch,” Lutie said, looking over at Tiny.
“But what about building codes? Permits? If we’re going to stay here, the kids really need their own rooms.”
“Now you sound like city folk,” Lutie said, snorting. “They’re mostly the reason why Joseph is dead.”
“Why did Grandpa die?” Tru asked, reaching for another scone.
“I’ll tell you why your granddad died,” Tiny said. “He was sick, all right; but I think he just got tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of guarding the ruins.”
“Ruins?” Tru said.
Lutie gestured in the general direction of the creek. “Artifacts from the creek bank. It's a sacred place for our people.”
Tru wiped his mouth without any prompting and pushed back his chair. “What people?”
Tiny answered. “Native people. Your grandpa and Aunt Lutie here are half Nez Perce. Your granddad was named after their famous chief.”
Tru looked incredulous. “You mean I’m partly Indian?”
“A part of you, anyways,” Tiny said. “You can be proud.”
“Joe always said if we’re not careful our heritage will be gone forever,” Lutie said and nodded at her husband.
Tru glanced over at me. “Mom, can you learn calf roping even if you’re an Indian instead of a cowboy?”
“Of course you can. We don’t even know if Mr. Jackson was serious about teaching you to rope.”
“He was too! I know it!” Tru was getting anxious, I could tell. “He said he would. I believe him, Mom. Don’t you?”
I sat for a few moments, not knowing the best thing to say. “I don’t know what to believe yet,” I finally said. I picked up crumbs with my forefinger, squishing them like ants. I ate the crumbs one by one and smiled bravely. Before I could explain myself, the pigs squealed outside, and Tiny rushed to see why. Truman jumped up to follow him and I was left with Lutie and the sounds of the water pipes rattling shut.
5
“Oh God, no, come quick!” Tiny's yell had that edge to it that gives you goose bumps—the kind you know instantly is not about some minor inconvenience. Lutie must have known it too. We stared at each other for about two seconds before we jumped up and ran outside. Tiny held in his arms the pig that had caused all the trouble, the one he called Jim.
Sobbing, he cradled the pig like a child. Jim jerked and trembled, his head hung back, exposing a wound in the underside of his piggy neck. “He's bleeding bad,” Tiny said, “he just walked up and fell over.” He laid the animal on the ground and knelt beside him, stroking the pig's snout.
Tru's eyes were enormous, and he breathed hard. “I heard shots,” he said, nearly yelling as if he was afraid no one would hear him. “It sounded like a gun, Mom, just like on TV. Pop, pop. Like that.”
Some people are efficient and level-headed in emergencies. They’re the type who will put their hands inside a man's throat that's been slit open by a chain saw, to keep him from bleeding to death until the paramedics arrive. The whole time they calmly tell the victim everything will be all right. Uncle Tiny fell into a different category. He looked too scared to move, a wax figure of himself. Truman sat next to him and quietly patted his uncle's shoulders now and then.
Lutie wasn’t so paralyzed. She ran inside and brought out clean towels, as well as a confused Nova still wearing a towel turban. My aunt applied pressure to the bleeding, which was getting worse.
“Somebody call 911,” Nova said and clasped her hand across her nose and mouth. She sat on the edge of one of the tire planters.
“Who would do this?” I was stunned. There was no telephone here, a fact that made me feel stranded.
“I’ll tell you who,” Lutie said, pressing the bloody towel harder. “Linc Jackson, that's who. He's threatened us before. Stood right under the bedroom window while my brother's in there dying. Yelled his fool head off about water.”
Tiny sighed. “Well, you wouldn’t open the door so what was Linc supposed to do?”
Lutie glared at her husband. “I wasn’t about to let him in,” she said. Lutie's face flushed, even beneath her deep tan.
For a second or two I was hypnotized by the situation, fascinated by the deep red shade of swine blood, which I’d never seen before. I wasn’t tempted to stick my hand on a hog's neck, but I did remember the neighbor I’d met just an hour before.
“I’ll go get the vet,” I said. I started for the van, and then stopped. “This way?” I was getting things mixed up in my mind, and my mental road map suddenly looked upside down.
“No, that's the other side of the creek,” Lutie answered.
“Rubin's the vet, right?” The towels were turning crimson now and Lutie's hands were soaked with blood. She gave me a how-do-you-know-him look.
“We met when I was out walking.” I reached inside the screen door to gra
b my keys to the van. “Only I’m not sure exactly where he lives.”
“Quicker to get him by following the slough,” Lutie said, pointing with her free hand. “Just do something quick, honey. I’m praying for a miracle. Maybe Truman here will fetch him.”
Tru stood up, poised to run. I shoved the keys into my pocket and said, “Come on.” We jogged off in search of Rubin's place; my son mercifully slowed down to accommodate his mother. A couple of minutes later, we reached the top of a small rise. Below, two houses stood opposite each other.
The one on the right was a ranch-style, with a wraparound porch and some corrals to the side. The other home was a log A-frame, the kind people build themselves from kits. It, too, had corrals and a barn, and it was hard to tell who would live where.
“Lutie said follow the slough,” I said, panting. Power walking wasn’t anything like running.
“Let's go that way,” Tru said, not even breathing hard. He may have been a nerdy kid, but his nine-year-old lungs were in great shape. He pointed to the larger of the two houses, the one that probably looked the most familiar to him.
“I don’t know,” I said, resting my hands on my knees to get a few extra breaths in. “The vet guy I met didn’t sound much like a rancher.” I drew in a few more breaths and puffed them out.
A glint of sunlight from a distant peak hurt my eyes. I shielded them with my hand, stared into the brightness too long, and then snapped back to reality. Tru shouted, “Hurry up, Mom.” The pig, Muri, I reminded myself. Forget the scenery and get help for the pig.
“There's nobody here,” Tru said. He’d already raced to the door of the log house and back to me. “I rang the bell, and I pounded on the door. I yelled real loud but nobody came.”
His cheeks were flushed and beads of sweat rolled off his nose. He pushed up his glasses for the umpteenth time. I really should get him one of those safety straps, but wouldn’t Nova have fun with that?
“Emus, Tru. The vet said he's got emus.” The insides of my thighs stung, where they’d rubbed together. My temper, too, was beginning to chafe. This many things were not supposed to go wrong in two days. If Jim died it would be my fault.
If my son hadn’t been standing there I would have asked the sky what was going on, but I kept it in, not wanting to bruise any spiritual leanings the boy might have.
“I’ll go, Mom. Stay here.”
I let him go, as if I could have kept up anyway. I sank down in a patch of bunch grass that I first carefully inspected for anything that moved and rested my arms across my bent knees. I’d sat on the ground in the middle of nowhere twice in one day—a first. And before noon.
I waited for Tru to return, alternately worrying about my son and Tiny and poor, injured Jim. As ugly as the pig was, black with coarse hairs sprouting here and there, he did have something of a personality. For my uncle, that pig may as well have been the king.
Maybe you did need some kind of savior out here, something to hang onto when God wasn’t listening. In the last few months I’d developed this irreverent attitude that perhaps the good Lord was getting on in age and needed a Miracle Ear in order to hear the pleas of this world. I would never say that in front of the kids, though.
Tru came huffing back then, the vet in tow. “Sorry I wasn’t home,” Rubin said. “Ed had a problem with one of his cows.”
I straightened my shoulders a bit and jumped up, brushing the dust from my backside. “I’m so glad we found you. Uncle Tiny's in shock; some horrible person shot his pet pig.”
Rubin just stared at me, as if he were about to explain something. Then he looked away for a moment and adjusted his cap, as if he were switching to his veterinary role.
“We’d better hurry,” I said, remembering poor Aunt Lutie. I thought we must have been gone for hours, but when I glanced at my watch, a mere ten minutes had slipped by.
“Fortunately, I have my bag with me.”
When we’d met before, he’d been friendly and open. Now he averted his gaze like a guilty dog caught chewing the master's slippers. Confusing.
“Just like in the movies, Doc,” Tru said. Rubin smiled at my son. We followed Tru, who still hadn’t run out of energy, back over the hill. My sides ached, but I trotted as fast as I could.
We sidestepped down the hill and back across the creek. In the distance, mountains jutted upward, still snow-covered in June, looking like frozen giants standing guard. The sun reflected against them as if someone up there signaled with a mirror. Maybe it was a lost hiker; maybe my father wasn’t dead after all. I’d forgotten to ask Aunt Lutie where he was buried.
I was always doing this, catching my mind wandering and then chastising myself for it. But if I thought about these lapses in too negative a way, I might end up like Forrest Gump; I’d just keep on running and never stop. Besides, my daydreams kept me going when things got too tough. They were a safety valve. Otherwise, I’d probably have tipped into hysteria at the first sight of pig blood.
“Thank you, sweet Jesus!” Lutie raised her arms to the sky the moment she saw us. “Jim's hurt bad, Dr. Rubin. Real bad. Please do something.”
My aunt shook all over then, staring at the blood on her hands like Lady Macbeth. Now that help had arrived she must have given herself permission to fall apart. Tiny's eyes were glazed over, as he sat in the dirt and silently stroked his pet pig. Nova, a towel still on her head, perched on the edge of the tire planter.
Dr. Rubin went to work immediately. He quickly examined the wound and swabbed the area with a strong-smelling disinfectant, casting the used gauze pads into a heap. “Looks like a .22,” he said, probing the hole with a pair of long-handled scissors.
That was it for me. I stared in the opposite direction. When he finally said, “Aha! There's the culprit,” I peeked. The slug was clenched in the forceps’ jaws.
“It's a .22 all right,” Rubin said. Tru nodded, as if he saw bullets every day. Lutie talked nonstop, pleading with Rubin to save Jim, praying to the good Lord to have mercy and send all the angels. I wondered if my aunt thought pigs had guardian angels too.
Up to now Tiny had kept quiet. “Of course, he’ll do what he can, Pearl, honey,” he said, stroking Lutie's shoulder. “If anyone can save ol’ Jim, it's Rubin. Why don’t you go wash off your hands? Maybe Doc would like some of your iced tea. I know I would.” Tiny managed a crooked grin and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Rubin glanced up. “Yes, ma’am, iced tea sounds nice. Don’t worry. Jim's going to pull through.” He tied sutures so deftly, I thought he must have been a tailor at one time. In minutes he’d closed the wound, applied a bandage, and even pulled out of his bag one of those lampshade collars they put on dogs.
“What's that for?” Tru wanted to know. He’d watched the whole procedure carefully, asking so many questions that I’d been tempted to shush him. He had this intense look on his face now, with his brow bunched up and jaw set.
“It's to keep Jim from messing with the bandage,” Rubin said.
“Makes him look dorky,” Nova said.
“Just like you,” Tru countered. The crisis was over.
Lutie called us in for iced tea. Suddenly, my mouth was dry and gritty. My leg muscles reminded me that I hadn’t exercised this much since before Nova was born.
We all trooped inside and crowded into the living room. Rubin seemed taller than before. We sat on the sofa, but I stayed as far away from the vet as I could. “I was sure your house was the A-frame,” I said.
“Nope, that's Linc's place. I’m just the other side of the fence.”
“I knew it,” Tru said. He did have a sixth sense about him.
And I was certain my father would have known what to do with the pig crisis too. He would have calmly taken over and handled everything, and I wouldn’t have had to run across the desert. Or he would have taught me in a patient, deliberate voice what to do in emergencies, and he would have been proud when I passed this skill on to my children. Joseph Pond would have shielded me
from the worst things but taught me to stand on my own. He would have known that violence is useless, but he would have taught me how to deliver a good right hook. I don’t know how I knew all that. I just did.
“I thought it would be dull out here, but so far, it's been anything but boring,” I said. “First I meet you, and then some wacko shoots a pig. Lutie says it's that neighbor of ours, Linc Jackson.”
Rubin was quiet for a moment. Then he stared right at me. The brim of his baseball cap shaded his eyes, but I thought they looked troubled. “Listen. Linc didn’t shoot the pig.”
“Well, then, who did?”
He sighed. “It was me. I’m the wacko.”
“But you just saved its life.”
He looked away. “I know, but just before I left to go to Linc's place I was down checking the slough. Something rustled in the bushes, and I thought it was a cow.” He looked embarrassed.
“You shot a cow?” Tru said. He plunked himself on the floor next to Rubin. “But it was an accident, right?”
“Course it was,” Tiny said. “Accidents happen.”
“Thanks, Tiny,” Rubin said. “You and I both know Linc's cows are destroying that stream.” Rubin turned to me. “Joseph and I worked out a deal. He let me dig the slough to water the emus and my other animals, and I’m responsible for restoring it for bull trout.”
I knew it. Another environ-nut.
“Anyway,” Rubin said, “cattle get in there. They trample the banks and ruin the shallows.”
Lutie brought leftover scones, butter, and jam. “Never mind the water rights or whatever Linc was yelling about.” She set down the tray and retreated to her recliner.
“Couldn’t you just put up a fence like my dad did?” I said. “I met Linc Jackson. He seems nice enough to me.”
“Yeah, Linc's a real nice rattlesnake,” Lutie said.
Rubin buttered a scone. “That's the problem. There is another fence, one I’ve repaired more times than I can count. Cows plow through anyway. Besides, we all know what Linc's really after.”
The Fence My Father Built Page 5