Tiny heard this from the back seat. “Yeah, my Pearl here was into the third verse of “How Great Thou Art,” standing by his bedside.” He grinned, but it seemed more from embarrassment than amusement. “I thought Joseph was saying, ‘I want water.’ Turns out it was ‘Our Father.’”
Aunt Lutie rolled her eyes and turned around in her seat to face her husband. “It was an honest mistake, now wasn’t it? Lord knew you were trying to help.”
I smiled thinking of the scene, wishing I knew the third verse to “How Great Thou Art” or any other hymn.
A half hour later I pulled up to the Murkee Clinic. We all trooped into the office, where Doc Perkins’ nurse-receptionist, Clara, sat behind the old metal desk. Clara had been the nurse forever, Dove had told me once, a fact I didn’t doubt. I stretched and felt like a pocketknife unfolded for the first time in years. Tiny, Tru, and Lutie sat on waiting room chairs that looked older than all of us combined, with Tiny still hugging his box of diabetic supplies.
Lutie hovered over him like a sweat bee over a cantaloupe. Those two were a piece of work: the pet names and politeness made me think of bad English comedy.
“Comfy? Anything I can get you, Sugar Bean?” Aunt Lutie said. She leaned against his bulk like a tired child, resting her head against his shoulder.
“Why I have everything I need, my little Pearl,” Tiny answered, patting her hand, “except a glass of your delicious iced tea.” Even Truman rolled his eyes after a while.
I walked over to the desk. “Hi, Clara,” I said, “I’d like to make an appointment for a week from now to check on my uncle's progress.”
“Feeling better, I hope?” Clara's smoker's voice was coarse as a gravel driveway, but I’d heard she also had a heart of gold. “Everybody in town's been so worried. Several of the ladies want to carry covered dishes out to you. All diabetic menus, of course.” She stood up and adjusted her uniform on her considerable hips. “Let me see if the doctor is available. I’ll bet he’d want to see you right away.” Clara disappeared into the patient area, and I smiled at Tiny.
Doc Perkins did want to examine his patient, as well as to write out prescriptions and dispense a stern lecture about managing diabetes. Doc asked us to come into the examination room. I was amazed that my uncle resisted the idea of insulin therapy.
“This whole business is a big hassle,” Tiny grumbled. He sat on the examining table, jiggling one foot against its side. That was the one thing he had in common with Nova—the nervous, jiggling foot syndrome. My daughter did this whenever she acted childish and mule-headed. It wasn’t much different for my uncle.
“Well, the bigger hassle,” Dr. Perkins replied with a straight face, “is getting your rear end up onto that helicopter when you’re half dead. Time you stopped whining and got this under control.” He squirted disinfectant onto the sore on Tiny's ankle and applied a fresh bandage. Tiny winced.
“It's stuff like this that’ll get you in real trouble,” the doctor warned, gesturing at the wound. He turned to Lutie and me. “If that's not healed in two weeks I want him back in here right away.” He wheeled around and strode out, his boots echoing across the scarred wood floor.
Before we left I tried to find out how much we owed, but Dr. Perkins just smiled at me. Clara shrugged her shoulders and laughed her sandpaper laugh before returning to her post. I smiled back. I’d joined a new family.
Right then I realized how much I’d been resisting membership. Until now, I’d thought of the characters I’d met as curiosities. As long as I regarded them as cardboard figures in the ghost town of Murkee, they’d remain anonymous and so could I. Somehow, though, they’d sprung to life, complete with hopes and dreams and stories that always made me think of the adage about truth being stranger than fiction. Dr. Perkins and Dove from the café and even Joseph Pond were becoming real to me now. I hoped I wasn’t mistaken in my belief that I was the genuine article too.
My immediate family, however, stood at the door waiting when we pulled up. Nova had a look of exasperation I’d never seen before. It was all I could do to keep from chuckling. The moment I stepped out of the van she hit me with a barrage of grievances. Most of them had to do with Jim and friends.
“Totally awful, Muh-ther,” she said, running her fingertips through hair that obviously hadn’t been gelled, moussed, or spiked in a while. “Two days of torture. No phone, nothing in the fridge, and these disgusting—pigs.” She shuddered as Jim pushed past her to greet Tiny. “And that one—” she pointed, “that one chewed a hole in my new jeans. So rude.”
I tried to stifle my laughter. “You mean the ones with no knees?”
“It's different when you slash them on purpose, Mother.”
“Of course. You going to ask if your uncle lived?”
“I can see that, Mom.”
“So nice of you to notice. Don’t plan to leave any time soon, okay? As soon as we get Tiny settled there's something we need to discuss.”
“Like what?” The moment she sat down her foot began to jiggle double-time.
“You figure it out while you help Aunt Lutie get lunch. I need a shower.”
I hadn’t felt this grungy since the time Chaz's Bronco broke down on that campout to Chehalis Falls. The worst part back then had been not shaving my legs for a week; the stubble on my calves had kept me awake at night. Come to think of it, Chaz had kept me awake, and fogging up the windows had no doubt resulted in Truman. At the time we both needed desperately to believe it could still work, but we ended up as totaled as the Ford. Chaz had gotten a trade-in almost immediately; he bought himself a huge SUV and picked up a sweet young thing from Washington.
Today I was just as happy to have smooth legs again as I’d been then, with the added bonus of not expecting a baby or a ten-mile hike to call AAA. I still needed to have the discussion with my daughter, though. I wrapped myself in thick, comfortable sweats and went to find her.
After hearing more protests and choice excuses, I led my daughter out to the van. She fought me all the way, reminding me of a two-year-old who doesn’t want a nap. Finally, I slid the door shut. My palms felt clammy, and my heart danced as if I was about to address Congress or talk about sex. Nova slouched against the seat and put her feet up on the dash. Her toes were alternately painted with orange and green, and one foot did all the jiggling.
“We need to talk about what happened on the Fourth of July,” I said. I forced her to make eye contact with me.
“What happened?” Nova had a wide innocent look, but I wasn’t buying it. Her eyes shrank to a look just a little past “bored.”
“You were drunk.”
“So?”
I breathed deeply to maintain composure. “First tell me how it got started. The truth, okay?” I wiped my hands on my sweatshirt and realized it was too warm for fleece in July.
Nova shifted in her seat and looked away. After a long pause, she spoke. “I don’t know what happened, Mom,” she said, her voice suddenly high and small. “After you guys left some guy offered me a beer, that's all. I was only going to have one.”
I could feel myself shifting into the “mother grizzly” mode. “I want to know if Rubin was aware of this, and if he was the one offering.”
“No, in fact it was Rubin who caught us out behind the house.”
“Caught you and who else?”
“A bunch of kids. Marv and a couple of band members. The bass player had stashed a few six-packs back there. We’d go chug a beer or two in between sets and then go back to the party.” She gazed out the window toward the creek and shrugged. “I guess Rubin got suspicious after the fourth or fifth time we all disappeared. The other kids took off when he surprised us and left me there to get in trouble. Then Rubin brought me home.”
I grabbed Nova's chin and stared into her eyes. “Anything else happen with those boys?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Mother, you really trust me, don’t you? Nothing happened, okay?” She jerked her head away from my grasp.
“It's not that I don’t trust you,” I said softly, “but I have been in that same situation and I had to be sure. You’re a young woman now, Nova, and life can get dangerous, especially if drugs or alcohol are involved.”
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
“I’m sure you can, but it's my job to back you up … at least for a little bit longer.”
For a moment I thought she’d cry and just become my little girl one more time. My arms ached to hold her, but then her walls slammed back in place.
“There will be consequences, you know,” I said finally. “I can’t allow drinking, even on the Fourth of July.”
“I’m out of here.”
“What? You stealing the van and running away again? Give me a break.”
“Don’t believe me then. You’re not—”
“I’m not what? Your mother?”
She stared at me for a moment. Without speaking, she got out of the van and stomped into the house. When I got back inside I had a big red nose and could have sworn I was the one suffering from a hangover.
JOSEPH's JOURNAL
JANUARY 1985
You are my only daughter, Muri. If I had seven sons you would still be my favorite. You’re all that's kept me alive on this road that I travel, but I’ve hung back from contacting you . I wanted to find you, every day, every year. My intentions were good, but I can’t trust myself. Every time I think I’ve got the demon licked, it grabs me and kicks my guts so hard that I wake up right where I passed out. Like old Saint Paul, I pray for God to remove this thorn; but there it is, eating me up. I don’t even like the taste anymore, but liquor doesn’t care what I like.
Today I stood on the mound and felt the vibrations of the old ones. The soles of my feet grew warmer and warmer, like they knew they touched sacred ground. Atop the burial mound, I tossed a stone into the creek and wondered how much longer I can keep these secrets. The guy next door watches me, and he must be waiting. Waiting for his chance to plunder, waiting for me to break down.
Linc doesn’t know it, but I specialize in brokenness. Jesus taught me that being broken is not the same as being weak, although I have more than my fair share of weakness too. Anyway, I once had dreams, little Muri. Big plans. I wanted to enter the ministry, just like my great-great-grandaddy. Maybe I would have been a good preacher. Maybe that way I would have beat the drink.
I never meant to harm anybody, but somehow I took a wrong turn. These things happen, and your life turns out the way you hoped it wouldn’t. I thank the Lord for giving me a curiosity for appliances. When I was young I was always the kid who took things apart. I hope you have an urge to fix things, read things, and learn things.
I remember that time you visited. I told you about General Sherman, how he cut a path of destruction across the South, and your eyes grew wider. I laughed so hard when you “emancipated” the bucket of fish we’d caught. I’ll be danged if you didn’t dump some pan-sized trout back into the river, but I took this to mean you understand the evils of slavery.
I’m glad I taught you what I could, even though you’re young. I don’t catch much these days. The old hands shake too hard. Truth be told, I keep a line in the water so nobody asks questions. The air is full of our ancestors’ artifacts and singing, but we can’t tell a soul. Word leaks out, and this place will crawl with traders and collectors and those who’ll rob a burial mound for pleasure or fortune. Still, if I land a red side or a native I’ll release it. Just to make you happy, Muri, just to keep things free.
When the pain gets to me, I admit I’ll take a nip, but it's only because I hurt so bad. I resist the pain but most times, it wins. I read my Bible until I lay aside my pole and fall asleep with the cottonwoods whispering above.
The ancestors come to me then, along with God's angels. They sing and dance and drum and beg me to go with them. I tell them, no, I have to find my daughter first. I can’t go until then. God and the angels and the spirits buried beneath me here all smile. Sometimes I dream I have wings.
12
With so many small fires to put out, I almost forgot why we were here. The next day I read the letter from the only attorney in town, a semi-retired man named George Kutzmore. He said he needed to meet because Linc Jackson was threatening to get an injunction. At the bottom of the note was written in ink, “I would have phoned if you had one. Come as soon as you can.”
“I need to talk to that George Kutzmore,” I told Lutie as I pulled on a navy pleated skirt. I hadn’t dressed up this much since I’d been to the ALA Book Awards two years ago. It was still hot outside. Already the waistband of the obligatory pantyhose chafed me. “What's he like?”
She shook her head, laying aside the gold and green crocheted beret she’d been working on. “Smooth operator, that George,” she said. “Sweet-talked many a judge into seeing things his way. Could have kept up with any U.S. senator in his prime. Too bad he was only interested in the Oregon desert.”
“Whose side is he on?” I stopped short of wearing heels and slipped on black flats.
“George is a good man,” Lutie said. “Heaven knows he's tried to find out what Linc's really up to.”
“Linc's story about generously providing water for everybody certainly doesn’t ring true.”
Lutie laughed. “Amen to that. Frieda says he's a wolf in sheep's clothing, and I believe it.”
“Forget Frieda,” I said. “I’m having a hard time keeping things straight as it is.” I didn’t add that I never thought I’d ever be interested in water at all.
Lutie came closer and began to speak in a low voice. “Want to know how much artifacts go for on the black market? A few weeks before he died, my brother overheard Linc talking about digging up a fortune near the creek bed and selling his haul to an East Coast collector.”
“It's hard to believe all this could be over a bunch of arrowheads,” I said.
Lutie sniffed. “It's about a lot more than arrowheads. Joe thought he’d stumbled onto an ancient burial ground.”
“A Nez Perce site?”
Lutie picked up her crochet work. “Much older. Maybe ten thousand years.”
“How did my dad know? Did he take something and have it dated?” How had a man with limited formal education understood archeology? Out here, we couldn’t even get The History Channel.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Lutie said. “Joe wasn’t educated, but he wasn’t a dummy either. Just before your father died, he was working with a guy from the university. The professor was convinced the sample predated the Clovis people.”
I sat, stunned. “Linc says he's only concerned with sustaining the ranches around here.”
“Sure, the neighbors think he's Santa Claus. But I know better and so did your daddy. Linc Jackson is out to own more than every square inch of Murkee. And he's not about to hand out the water to those in need.” Lutie sat up straight and folded her scarecrow arms across her chest.
I shook my head, thinking I’d need a lawyer just to untangle this mess. “So how’d George find out about me?”
“Only lawyer around these parts,” she said. “Maybe he knows somebody needs to represent us.” She was smiling.
“Why would he do that?”
“Around here people have been known to help each other.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “I still don’t understand this whole thing.”
“Well, at least hear the man out before you decide,” Lutie said. She picked up her crochet work once more. “I’ll be praying like thunder.” She smiled again, and her crochet hook wove itself into the yarns and then out again, meshing together the ugliest colors I’d seen since the seventies.
I slammed the screen door on the way out, only partly on accident. It dawned on me as I waited for the van's dual carburetors to warm up, that I was as angry as I’d been in a very long time. I’d gone through my separation from Chaz with hardly a raised voice, and now I was falling apart over a diabetic, a teenage rebel, and a bogus lawsuit. Before I’d ev
er be able to cry again I thought I might have to scream a little.
So I did, halfway to Murkee. I cursed and shouted and said very mean things about everyone I could think of. I got on the case of all the big problems and every nit-picking little pet peeve. Nova drinking with a bunch of hormonal maniacs. Tiny's refusal to care for himself. Lutie's awful taste in colors. Tru always nagging me about getting a phone.
I felt damp from the heat by the time I got to the part about Tru. The more I thought about it, though, his idea made sense. A phone would be a good thing in case Tiny had another emergency. And since I was required to talk to lawyers, it would be nice for me too. I’d check it out before the day was over.
The day wasn’t about to be over yet. I squinted hard because the afternoon sun in Murkee can be blinding, with so few trees around. Every plant looks as if it has fought to be here; even the cultivated ones outside the Murkee General Store appear tough and ready to take on most anything. The area has its own sense of beauty, although I didn’t start out thinking it was so. A sky this blue only happens in the high desert; wind is never so alive in the city. Even the twisted low bushes have a story to tell, if you listen.
The very air hung with memories of the settlement days and how the wives would use five-gallon kerosene cans to boil the baby diapers. How they would plant a matrimony vine for shade outside the kitchen and water it with dishwater. How the wells would fail, creating submarginal ranches and feuds and even a few murders. How the men would finally say, “It's sand over the dune” and go on as before.
And I had my own story, didn’t I? One that was wagging from the end of just about every resident's tongue, to hear Dove tell it. She told me that Frieda Long, down at the General Store, thought I should allow the sand to pass over the dune by agreeing to Linc's demands. According to dear Frieda, I didn’t know the first thing about living out here, where “we all depend on each other.” Plus, she said, she’d seen the way Doc Rubin looked at me on the Fourth of July, and we all knew what that meant.
The Fence My Father Built Page 11