The Fence My Father Built

by Linda S. Clare

  My worrying shifted to Rubin. I hadn’t treated him fairly, either. Most likely he thought of me as one of those women on the rebound. Still, I rounded every curve in the road fantasizing about a new scenario of our friendship, as if my indecision about him had dissipated.

  I have always thought of myself as decisive to a fault. This is true even when I’m edgy and tired of being alone. As tired as I was, though, I would have secretly loved nothing more than to be staring out an open car window, letting the air push against my face, while my true love drove me home.

  Was true love a myth? I thought of Chaz, and pain stomped my insides. If we had to break up, why couldn’t I be the rejecter instead of the rejectee? None of this was fair. I felt like I didn’t have a friend left in the world.

  Zoned out thinking about my lonely life, on an impulse I turned at the bullet-riddled sign and drove into Rubin Jonto's front yard.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I heard myself say. “But I need some answers.” I looked up at the porch. Tattered shreds of red, white, and blue crepe paper left over from the July Fourth barbecue still flapped wildly in the stiff breeze. Several large black trash bags, overflowing with empty aluminum cans, sat on the front porch. Folding chairs stood piled against one another, as if the ladies of Rubin's clean-up crew and fan club had abandoned him. Maybe no one was home, and I could turn the van around now that I had regained my senses.

  But there he was, looking out of the decrepit screen door. It banged shut behind him as he strode down the porch steps, waving. He had ditched the cowboy shirt and wore a vintage Save the Whales t-shirt.

  Rubin strode to the driver's side window and wiped his hands with a very white towel—the sort medical suppliers deliver. “Hey, Muri,” he said. His hands were fascinating: big and rugged but with long, tapered fingers like a surgeon's. He folded the towel and jammed it in his back pocket. “Doozy of a morning.” He whistled softly.

  I cut the engine. “I know what you mean,” I said and brushed unruly strands of hair away from my cheeks, but the wind blew them back again. That's the way it was out here. The wind would calm soon, as the colors of evening appeared, but every afternoon it was so windy it would hurl your voice back at you. Then, suddenly, it would give up and die down.

  “What brings you over this way?” Rubin asked.

  “I was just in the neighborhood,” I lied. “Maybe it's not a good time? I could come back later.” I started the van's engine, and its chatter filled the air.

  Rubin shook his head and smiled. “I was just about to take a break. Come on in, and we’ll have tea.”

  “Really, I could come back.” I felt about as obvious as lipstick on one of Tiny's pigs.

  Rubin's eyes softened. “You’re not in the city anymore, Muri. Out here we consider it bad manners not to offer refreshment when folks come calling.”

  “Bad manners?” I cut the engine again. “I guess I could stop for—say, do you drink coffee?”

  Rubin laughed. “How do you take yours? Cream and sugar?”

  “Strong and black.” I slid from the driver's seat to the ground, and we walked into his kitchen together. He put on the coffee and apologized for the mess.

  The place wasn’t messy at all; at least it wasn’t cluttered, although dishes poked out of suds in the sink. We sat at the dinette, which wasn’t classic or fifties but a Scandinavian design, built with clean lines and possessing an artsy flavor. After a few minutes, Rubin served us both tall steaming mugs full of the best coffee I’d had since leaving Portland.

  I blew across the cup and savored the rich aroma. “Neither Tiny nor Lutie drink anything with caffeine,” I said. “I’ve been craving coffee.”

  Rubin lifted his mug. “Anytime you need a fix, you know where to find me.”

  I sipped at my drink and, suddenly, realized how tired I was. Rubin's kitchen was cozy, and I felt myself relax.

  “You look a little tired,” he said. I looked at him hard. “But good,” he hastily added. “You look tired, but you look good.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Warmth crept across my cheeks. “Like you said, it's been a doozy of a morning.” Then I told him all about my visit to George Kutzmore. I started to tell him about Linc's behavior at the café, but held back. After all, Rubin and I barely knew one another.

  When you meet a person who makes you feel at ease, it's so tempting to become transparent—to tell it all. I’m ashamed to say that I’m always looking for that, as if someone out there is waiting for me to unload. But I had learned that a person could be too honest. I’d learned the hard way not to trust any and every man I met. Sitting across from Rubin, I could tell I was falling into the same trap by the way my eyes stung with tears and by the way he paid careful attention.

  After a while I stopped talking long enough for him to look thoughtful. Then he got up and rinsed out his empty mug and sat down again. “Muri, it's too bad you had to start out here with so much trouble. George is an old guy, but he's very competent. This business about the water—” Rubin's voice suddenly hardened. “You should know that Linc's dead serious. He's been leaning on me to sell too.”

  “You’re leaving?” I thought of Dr. Rubin, the vet, out taking potshots at what he believed were Linc's cows.

  Rubin shook his head. “I tried to negotiate. But he's bull-headed. I tried to get him to see how we all benefit from the creek, but he insists that he's the rightful owner.”

  “None of this makes sense.” I was anxious to get to Linc's true motivation. “I have a feeling there's something about that stream that's worth more than water.”

  For an instant, Rubin brightened, as if he might know what that something was. Then his face clouded over again. “You’ve got that right,” he said. “If Linc wanted to keep that creek healthy, he’d be a lot more concerned about the pollution. But his livestock damage the stream again and again. That's why I have to shoot if they get in there.”

  “Can’t you fence them out, or scare them off?”

  He sighed, as if he’d answered these questions before. “Tried. Didn’t do a bit of good. Strays trample the fences, and they don’t want to leave where the grazing is good.”

  “The fence my dad put up is such an eyesore, but I bet it's sturdy.” I laughed, thinking of a steer bulldozing through one of the oven doors to get a drink of water. “So Linc is trying to run you off too.”

  “Sure. I turned his offer down. But I’m the only vet around, so he puts up with me. So far.”

  “Me too. So far.” I wasn’t sure this was true. No wonder Rubin thought about moving away.

  “Care to see what Linc's up in arms about?” He sounded hopeful now, and I realized it was important for me to see whatever it was, for his sake and for my own. “And what I’ve been working to restore?”

  “Love to,” I said. “But I’m not exactly dressed for hiking.”

  “There's a shed where I keep rubber boots and waders. And work clothes—”

  “I’ll be fine,” I insisted. “Just lend me the boots so I’m not slogging through mud in dress shoes.”

  At the shed, I slipped on the black, knee-high rubber boots and tried not to think about how they looked with my navy pleated skirt.

  We started out for the creek, which Rubin kept calling a “habitat.” It had been ages since I’d been around someone who used words like that, and I felt sure Rubin didn’t use his environmentalist vocabulary on the ranchers of Murkee.

  Rubin and I tromped through the cheatgrass and the rabbit brush, while burrs hitched a ride on our clothes. I’d be relieved if I never had to wear this skirt again. Rubin offered me a hand as we slid down a short embankment. I didn’t tell him that to me, the creek looked like nothing more than a muddy trickle. It smelled of rotting fish.

  It was nearly twilight, so it was hard to see much. Croaks and chirps filled the air the way they do in summer, and the cottonwoods whispered in the breeze.

  “This is it,” Rubin said, and he jumped onto a log that lay sideways a
cross the water. “It's taken me a year to get it back to where the fish can breed.” He pointed along the edges of the bank. “See all the grass and the shrubs? I’ve had to replant in order to keep the water cool enough and the banks stable. Once I came out here and found twenty cows having a feast.” He crossed back over. I stood on a large boulder, intrigued but not sure what to say.

  “What kind of fish?” was all I could think of to ask.

  He laughed and sat on a piece of bank that was fairly dry. I picked my way around the rocks, found a half-dry patch, and sat down too.

  “Trout. Bull trout, mostly.” Rubin's locked his arms around his knees and absentmindedly fiddled with some pulled-up grass.

  He told me all about redds per mile and rehabilitating this ecosystem to keep the fish from disappearing completely. His eyes sparked as he fumed about the torn-down fencing and Linc's refusal to keep the cattle penned up, even after he’d gone over to the Jackson place in the middle of the night to help some poor cow birth her calf.

  “Linc likes to fish as well as anybody around here. I don’t know why he won’t cooperate.”

  “So it's trout against cows?” My remark didn’t sound as humorous as I intended.

  “Not exactly. But Linc knows as much about ranching as I do about making lace. He doesn’t give a hoot about the land or the water, except in some way that helps him make money.”

  “Maybe he's set on paving paradise,” I said, thinking of the old Joni Mitchell song. “You know, put up a parking lot. ‘Big Yellow Taxi,’ remember?”

  Rubin nodded. “I wouldn’t put it past Linc to build golf courses in the sand.”

  I frowned. “I still don’t know much about my dad, but I doubt he’d be so upset about development. After all, Lutie says he helped build dams. Sounds like progress to me.” I imagined my father at work on the river, pouring concrete or installing reinforcing bar. “Why would he have fought Linc over a stream? Linc says he only wants to protect the water supply for the area,” I said. I already had my own ideas, but I wanted to hear what Rubin thought.

  “Linc's word is worth less than emus on the hoof,” Rubin said. He pointed to the stream bank where deep muddy prints marked where the cows had walked. “Especially when it comes to grazing his livestock.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, “but it's incredible that he won’t keep his animals on his side of the property. Where I came from everyone had tidy fences around their yards.”

  “How much do you know about open-range policies?” Rubin asked.

  “Not much, I’m afraid.” I didn’t add that I didn’t care much, either. I felt myself blush and was thankful for the long shadows of dusk. I shook my head at the thought of ranchers killing each other over irrigation when I’d spent most of my days hating the Portland rain.

  Rubin held up a cupped palm full of stream water for me to examine. “Liquid gold. The whole area depends on it. Without access to water, ranchers are out of business. This is life out here.”

  “I believe you,” I said finally. Rubin stared at me for a long while, and I stared back, unaware of the damp ground or the moon, which had risen overhead.

  Suddenly feeling awkward, I changed the subject. “Listen, about Nova and the other night.” I crossed my arms and took a step back.

  Rubin held up a hand. “It was my fault. I should have kept them under surveillance. I’m sorry.”

  I stepped up onto a soggy mound of earth, but my boots slid sideways. I lost my footing and ended up on my knees. Rubin helped me up, but I was a total mess. “I’m the one who should apologize,” I said, wiping at the wet mud on my knees. “I’m her mother.” I sat on the mound and rubbed at my dirty shins. “Nova's my responsibility.”

  Rubin laughed. “Are you kidding? For all practical purposes you’re a single mom, right?”

  I didn’t remember telling him my marital status but I nodded. “So?”

  “Teenagers have been known to stretch their parents’ patience. Out here we all pitch in—help each other out.”

  “Lutie said something like that.”

  “See? From now on Nova won’t get away with underage drinking on my watch.” He gazed into the early night sky.

  I looked up, too, and was stunned. I could actually see the Milky Way without light pollution. I gasped at the stars, their simple beauty hinting at an elegant design.

  Rubin flinched. “Something wrong?”

  I shook my head. “Sounds kind of corny, but everything's so beautiful.” I made a sweeping gesture. “The stars, the sound of the water. Everything.” I imagined my father out here, presiding over the landscape the same way I did tonight. “Lutie said my dad loved this place.”

  Rubin sat beside me. “Joe spent a lot of time sitting right here on this mound.”

  “I can see why. But did he pile the dirt himself?” I paused, visualizing the oven-doors fence. “My father had some strange hobbies. Was he helping you restore the streambed?”

  Rubin stroked at his chin. “Not that I know of. I’d come out here in the evenings—on steer patrol—and there’d be Joe, sitting on this mound, looking up into the sky. Sometimes he’d have a bottle; sometimes he’d sing Native songs. Sometimes he’d read or look as if he were praying. I tried not to disturb him.”

  I pictured what Rubin described. Somehow it comforted me to sit on the very place my father had touched. The stillness, the stars, and the sound of water playing over the creek's stones converged in my mind, and I felt a peace I hadn’t known in ages. Before I knew what had happened, my shoulders brushed Rubin's.

  “Sorry,” I said, pulling back.

  “No apologies necessary,” he said. “You probably think I tricked you into coming out here, anyway.” He stood up.

  “No.” I got up, too, no longer worried if the back of my skirt was muddy. “I’m impressed. You’ve done a great job out here.”

  Rubin stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I try. But I’m telling you, Muri. Even if you manage to prove Linc's up to something, he won’t quit so easy. That's another reason I’m looking into getting out of here. You’d be wise to have a backup plan yourself.”

  “Right now we don’t really have anywhere else to go.” I hadn’t meant to say this and instantly regretted my honesty.

  “Just thought I’d warn you.”

  I appreciated the advice, but I remained quiet for a moment, long enough to let the touchy subject slip away with the onset of evening.

  Finally, Rubin spoke. “Guess we both ought to be getting back. Tongues will start wagging.”

  “We’re friends, right?”

  He nodded.

  “Then there's nothing to talk about. Come over tomorrow? For dinner I mean? Tiny's lasagna night.” I added this last part in case my company wasn’t enough.

  I hoped it was. “Tiny's lasagna?” he said, facing me again, laughing. “Wouldn’t miss it. Everyone in Murkee has tried to pry that recipe out of him.”

  My knees ached as we trudged back to Rubin's house. He had to help me yank off the mucky rubber boots before I could slip my shoes back on. I enjoyed Rubin's company, but I was glad he wasn’t pushing me for more.

  He stood outside the van as I started Homer up again. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said. “Nice to chat with someone who knows a thing or two about ecosystems.”

  “Ecosystems? Don’t let that get around or Murkee will think I’m a tree-hugger too.”

  “You mean you aren’t?”

  I glanced at my muddy skirt. “Not dressed like this, I’m not. See you later.”

  When I pulled into the yard I saw that someone had left the porch light on for me, but the house was dark. I checked my watch; I was shocked to see it was so late. The pigs lay in a huddle by the front door and only raised their snouts briefly when I tiptoed past them.

  In the bedroom Nova was asleep or pretending to sleep as I let my soiled skirt drop on the floor and shimmied into a thin nightie. That night I dreamed of cattle and trout warring, each trying to consum
e the other, and once again I dreamed of Joseph Pond.

  14

  The next week my final divorce decree arrived in the mail. It was official now. I hoped Lutie's Tabernacle Ladies wouldn’t brand me as some kind of loose woman. The mere thought of explaining my ex's abandonment tired me.

  For days I felt lost and found myself daydreaming a lot. Every time I thought of trout I’d get this crazy mental picture of a little kid dumping a bucket of fish back into a creek. I couldn’t stop thinking of my father or of Rubin for that matter.

  Yet somehow I sensed a connection between the two men, one that ran beyond the knowledge that Joseph Pond used to fish and sit on a dirt mound out by the creek. It occurred to me that I really didn’t understand enough of the land and water disputes that both Rubin and my father waged against Linc Jackson. I decided to make good on my promise to George Kutzmore and do a little research into that issue, as well as Native artifacts.

  That afternoon, I gathered all the information I could: every deed, title, and a pile of Joseph's paid bills that Lutie had kept, along with his Acme Boot box full of stuff. She gave me a puzzled look as I surfed the Internet on Tru's computer. (I had to pay for dial-up connection, but it was worth it.) I browsed for water and land use laws and left the photo albums out in case I needed them. I placed the legal papers and all the other items in neat stacks on the bed.

  One thing was becoming clear. Dad was no accountant. He had no obvious system for his affairs, just scraps of paper thrown together with some letters and some cocktail napkins scribbled with notes and diagrams. I forced myself to save the personal things for later and tried to organize the rest.

  He hadn’t left much in the way of savings. But neither did there appear to be debts. He’d paid for the land outright and had developed the electrical and water hookups years ago. The only problem seemed to be the house itself, which had started out as a trailer and even now barely rated as a permanent dwelling, as Tiny kept building on.