The Fence My Father Built

by Linda S. Clare

  Tru rode the ancient yellow bus to the school that three nearby communities shared. Grades one through eight numbered exactly twenty-seven children, and the high school was only about half that. Some of the students commuted fifty miles each way. Tru only had to ride about twenty miles, but he had no illusions that it was going to be fun. It was the first time I’d been without both kids since Portland, and my separation anxiety showed.

  “Think positive, Muri,” Tiny said when he noticed my glum mood. It was early afternoon, and he stretched out the full length of the bowed sofa with his huge sock-covered feet hanging over one edge. He pulled down the serape draped across the back of the couch to cover his torso. Siesta time.

  “And keep praying,” Lutie said from the recliner, where she sat thumbing through her worn New Testament. “Warrior praying, that's what's called for.” She looked up and her stare pierced me. “Ponds don’t give up, you know.”

  Jim snuffled from his place on the rug next to Tiny. All my life I’d wished and even prayed at times to find my real family, and here they were, although they were far stranger than any relatives I could have imagined. The only things missing were a cozy fire and a bag of marshmallows. And the two children I held dear.

  “Busy hands ward off worry,” Lutie said.

  I’m not the sort who likes to sit around much, so when she asked me to help crochet soda-can hats for the bazaar, I agreed. It had been decades since I’d done any type of handwork, so I got my aunt's crash course in basic crochet stitches, which I kept confusing with knitting.

  “You work the hook in and out like this, easy as pie,” she said. “No honey, there's no purling. That's right, wrap around and pull back through. The secret is to keep the tension even all the time.” She showed me a cat's cradle type of configuration on one hand.

  I felt enough tension for everybody. It was all I could do to keep from screaming at the pigs and anyone else who crossed my path. I railed at inanimate objects and kicked a metal table leg that jumped into my way. I imagined the portrait of Jesus on the living room wall had taken on the same sort of disapproving glare I once used to quiet unruly library patrons. With my nerves crackling like live wires, I could barely be civil to my own reflection. Tiny finally got up and went outside to work on his truck so I could drive to the county seat.

  Lutie had to demonstrate the crochet techniques more times than I liked to admit. After she thought I’d finally gotten the hang of it, she handed me a blue metal hook and three skeins of acrylic worsted in hot pink, olive green, and rusty orange. The sight of a finished hat was enough to make me think of a busload of senior citizens on their way to Vegas.

  I was being pulled in too many directions at once. I sat there with the basket of yarn, wishing I could unravel the events of the last few months. I imagined having a second chance where Linc wouldn’t have turned out to be full of malice and Nova would have stayed home and joined 4-H. I should have left hours ago for the courthouse. I was also aware that I despised crocheting.

  Lutie's efforts looked the same every time—tidy little rows of stitches standing at attention. Mine looked like a rat's nest, but she was always patient with me. “The nice thing about crochet is that it's so forgiving.”

  It might be hard to forgive anything this ugly. When I heard how much business last year's hats had brought in, I prayed we’d break even this time. We’d need every cent we could get to pay all the legal fees we were racking up.

  As friendly as he’d been, Mr. Kutzmore was still a lawyer, one who probably charged a lot more than I had. Yet, besides his FBI friend, he also knew a couple of senior staffers at the National Clearinghouse for Missing Children and said he’d put in a personal word to them about Nova. Lutie wasn’t surprised that George would do so much for me. When she said this her eyes sparkled.

  I struggled with the stitches. Tru, home for a teacher work day, asked what made Mr. Kutzmore so special. Aunt Lutie said, “Like I told you, honey, we go back a long way. That's all there is to it. Just a long, long way.”

  “Like on the Oregon Trail? Are you really that old?” Tru asked. I thought Lutie looked embarrassed.

  “Truman Charles Devereaux!” I snapped. “Apologize to your aunt this minute or you’ll copy the definition of courtesy a few hundred times, plus be grounded.” I hadn’t meant to overreact; I just wanted everyone to know I wasn’t going to make the same parenting mistakes twice. Later I would realize how ridiculous grounding a kid was when you’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.

  I ripped out an entire section of gaudy tri-colored yarn where I’d doubled instead of single-crocheted. My mind continued to wander.

  Truman looked wounded, mumbled an apology, and then slunk away to his computer screen. Lutie's mouth opened as if she were about to say something, but then abruptly closed it again. I took her silence as an admonition no less important than the one from the Lord himself. My aunt stared at me, and her eyes softened, reminding me that I could be strong and not punitive, firm yet loving. I closed my eyes and tried to calm down.

  After a respectable few moments I went over to my son, still surfing away on the Web. Thankfully, he wasn’t downloading the “How to Get Revenge on Mean Moms Homepage,” if there was such a thing. I peeked over his shoulder. He was looking at pictures of missing children.

  “How can we get Nova's picture on this page?” I said.

  He turned around and glanced at me, then shrugged. He was still sulking, I could tell.

  “Sorry to bark so hard,” I said, adding, “Okay, you’re not grounded.” I hugged him, and he allowed it. Without a word he nodded and hugged me back briefly, the way pre-adolescent kids do. The nice thing about Tru was that he could be so forgiving.

  After pulling out my umpteenth stitch, I finally gave up and put away my yarns and hook, which was probably the best thing to happen to those awful hats. Lutie smiled, perhaps from relief more than anything.

  “We all have our talents,” my aunt said gently, and gave me Tru's job of punching the sides of the aluminum can strips. Maybe Lutie knew that I needed to punch something. It did make me feel calmer, as if worry was a luxury to be indulged only after all the chores were done.

  Still, I couldn’t keep my mind on even this simple task. The holes I punched snaked unevenly down the edges of the flimsy metal rectangles, so I was glad when Tiny came back inside and pronounced his truck drivable.

  “Sure you won’t take somebody with you to the county, Muri?” He wiped grease from his stocky fingers with a tea towel and then set to work with a pocketknife, digging grime from beneath his fingernails.

  “Don’t worry, Unc, I’ll be fine. Made it all the way out here, didn’t I?”

  “Well, I’m glad you got a cell phone,” he said.

  “She's got AAA, anyway,” Lutie pointed out. “Great Lord in heaven, will you keep your dirty hands off of my good towels?”

  “Sorry, my Pearl,” he said, hiding the soiled cloth behind his back like a child caught at the cookie jar. “I just worry about a woman traveling alone over that road, that's all.” He grinned at me, looking like a tanned version of the Pillsbury Doughboy. I had to laugh as he cleaned the knife on the dirty towel. Lutie sighed.

  “I’ll be okay, really,” I said. “Rubin said the same thing. But I’ll only be gone a few hours.” I hugged Tiny's still ample middle as best I could. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

  I didn’t tell them that I wouldn’t have taken Tru along if he had been in school. I missed Rubin, too, so I stopped by his place on my way out. We sat on his porch again, drinking iced tea and discussing my plan. Rubin was having as much trouble with Linc Jackson as I was these days, and I was sure he’d say I was brilliant.

  But when I gave him my take on the situation, he frowned. “Hold on,” he said. “Better get some hard evidence before you accuse Linc of thievery. Around here stealing is serious business.”

  “I am serious,” I said with a tinge of sarcasm in my voice. “And so is Linc. He's made that clear enoug
h. If he controls the creek, aren’t we both at his mercy?”

  “Not necessarily. I’m not the least bit afraid of his scare tactics, and he's seen what I’ll do if he ignores my property rights.” He crossed his arms.

  “You won’t gun down any more of his livestock, will you? He said he’d press charges.” I felt a clawing in my stomach and realized I was holding my breath.

  “He can press all the charges he wants. His cows stray onto my land, they’re fair game.” He had said this with so much conviction that I got the feeling he’d be a tree-hugging protester if he thought it would help.

  Then he turned and stared past me toward the creek. I always took these opportunities to study his face. There was a kind of clarity in him that I admired, and I hoped he would understand.

  “I’ve got to do this, Rubin.” I set my empty glass on the side table and stood up.

  “I know. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Resolute, I turned my back and strode toward the truck. I refused to get sidetracked. If anyone could locate a forged document, I could. As I started up the truck, it was as though I could feel my father's presence, watching, listening, and waiting.

  The more I thought about Dad, the more I was unable to elbow out the God he had worshiped. Holy Roller or not, Joseph Pond's faith had run deep and true, despite his tragic and shortened life. My father's belief in a loving, heavenly Father had bridged the gap between alcoholism and absolution.

  On the way to the county seat I decided to act as if God really existed and prayed out all my problems to him. When I ran out of tears and confession, I prayed simple prayers. I wasn’t ready to take a full leap of faith yet, but I wasn’t closing the door either. I would be sure to thank Tiny for fixing the truck, Rubin for his maps, Lutie and her Tabernacle Ladies for their prayers for travel mercies. When I arrived at the courthouse, I felt for once as if something was going right. Although I had to search until after lunch, I finally made my way to the right department.

  A woman, who looked about as old as the ancient microfiche machine in the corner, sat behind a counter, working a cross-stitch pattern. She might have been Native American herself. At least she knew what I was talking about and didn’t tell me it wasn’t her department. She got up to look through the dusty filing cabinets.

  “Let's see, I have one more place to look,” she said after a few minutes of small talk and several dead ends. We had both agreed that organization was the key to happiness, and I shared my best record-keeping tips, as if it would do any good. She disappeared into a room marked STAFF ONLY and emerged a few minutes later, toting a large cardboard box. This, I decided, was the extent of her organizational techniques.

  “We got all this information on the computer,” she said, as if confiding a state secret. “They’re switching us over to a new system—again. But just try to find what you need on the darn thing. Anyway, it's easier to go haul out the stuff myself.”

  “Thanks for going to so much trouble,” I said. It helped to let her know I was a librarian. “Sometimes I catch myself going to the old card catalog, just to remember what it was like. I could look through the records myself if you’re too busy.”

  The woman plopped herself onto a stool behind the counter. “We’re not supposed to do that, you know. Strictly against the rules. But my supervisor is in meetings all day.” She paused. “I say, go for it. Not my fault they can’t keep the computers up and running.”

  “If I find what I’m looking for, I’ll recommend you for promotion,” I said, smiling.

  She shrugged and picked up her needlework again, leaving me to wade through a mountain of files. I sorted through old documents and mentally classified them into logical categories. Most of them belonged in the dull and boring pile, but even those were fascinating if you looked hard enough.

  Still, a story unfolded. By scanning documents I learned of the struggle between the ranchers and the developers, the conservationists and the families whose survival depended on sustained growth. Much of central and eastern Oregon had faced the same dilemma, apparently, for as far back as the records went. You could opt in favor of the water or people it seemed, but not both. Documents recording Native American artifacts were in short supply, however.

  By the time the clerk announced it was quitting time, I had found lists of notarized documents for artifacts located at museums, universities, and held by individuals. But no sign of anything signed by Lincoln Jackson.

  23

  I trudged out of the county building empty-handed. Still, I was convinced my father was right. Linc had to be involved in the illegal artifacts trade. My search for doctored certificates had fallen short, but George had warned me a paper trail would be hard to follow. I couldn’t prove why Linc would lie to everyone about that creek, only that he needed Rubin and me to sell out and leave.

  For Tiny and Lutie, leaving was an alien idea. They appeared shocked and lost when Linc threatened to have the judge enforce Linc's water rights and leave us high and dry. Without a source of clean water, we’d be forced out. Lutie had said, “You might as well move us to the moon.”

  It was true. Tiny's junkyard, Lutie's sun porch: they were a part of them. We might all get along better in the city. Tiny would have access to more consistent medical care. Somehow, though, I doubted my aunt and uncle would thrive anywhere but in Murkee.

  Besides, I wanted to walk in the same red dust my father had walked and breathe the same crisp air he breathed. It had taken so long to become the daughter of Joseph Pond. How could I turn my back on him?

  I pulled into a small diner before setting out for home. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, out of respect for Nova and her vegetarian diet, but my head was stuffed with thoughts of my father. I pictured him, with bowed legs and a cowboy hat, waging war with Linc. My father hadn’t vandalized property, and he hadn’t bullied anybody. He tried legal avenues; he tried to make the system work. Only so far, it hadn’t worked at all. I stared out the window and tried to quench my anger with diet root beer. I was too furious to pray.

  When I left the restaurant, the shadows from nearby peaks had already darkened the early evening. The streetlights cast blurry yellow haloes onto the wooden plank sidewalks of the authentic western-style buildings. The effect was eerie. People had already disappeared from the streets, perhaps because the temperature plummeted as soon as the mountains overtook the sun. Only a few hunters dressed in camouflage jackets and orange vests rumbled by in their pickups. It was only September, but the waitress had mentioned the possibility of snow in the passes.

  This is the high desert, where winter can come early and hard if it wishes. I didn’t want to take a chance getting stuck in the mountains at night, so I phoned Lutie.

  “I’ll find a motel for the night,” I told her. “The truck's running fine, but I still don’t trust it in bad weather.” Then I said good night to Tru and promised him I’d be home the next day. “Behave for your aunt and uncle,” I said, “and do your homework.”

  I checked into a local mom and pop motel, where ten rooms all faced a gravel parking lot. You could hear the neon vacancy sign sizzle when it flashed. At least they had cable TV, but there wasn’t anything on I was interested in, so I turned out the light, stretched out on top of the covers in my clothes. Next door someone played a crackly country radio station.

  But that wasn’t what kept me awake. In my head Nova and Tru argued over trivial things and laughed about nothing. They jumped on the bed until the springs squeaked and thudded pillows up against each other's heads. I could almost hear my daughter's laughter on her tenth birthday, squealing in delight over that green tutu, only to have the trademark “whatever” and obligatory sighs rush in to overtake her innocence.

  I remembered listening for the click of the door when she’d come home late, or the cadence of her breathing when she had pneumonia last year, or the pitch of her voice as she whined about homework, or the distinct stomp of her feet w
hen she was being stubborn.

  What I would never remember was the sound of my father's voice. I’d never know if it had been tenor or bass, smooth or raspy, full of animated inflection or more subdued. I’d never know if he said Caribbean or Caribbean. I knew I would never have tired of the sound of that voice. If blood was indeed thicker than water, then a part of him coursed through me.

  Finally, I rolled off the bed, double-checked the door lock, and plumped up the meager motel pillow. Taking off my jeans, I left on my sweatshirt and climbed beneath the thin covers.

  Still my mind wouldn’t rest. Nova. I ached for her return. I ached for a real home. Would I ever find it? When Rubin talked about Murkee as his home, it sounded so natural. But I still wasn’t sure I liked small-town living, especially a small town with no real library.

  Then it hit me. Before I returned to Murkee in the morning I’d visit the small public library here. No doubt they had some reference books on water rights and Native artifacts and gravesites. If nothing else, I’d scan the archives. Finally, I slept fitfully.

  In the morning, I was the first person in the county library door. I dove into the stack of reference books I piled on a study table and took notes on a yellow legal pad, scanning through chapters on the Oregon desert and histories of different areas in this sparsely settled region. I read about feuds and fights, spanning the twentieth century, and most of them were about the same issue: water. People had even shot each other now and then.

  I reread the NAGPRA laws. Besides the FBI, state agencies included the Bureau of Land Management, Bureau of Indian Affairs, and Forestry and Land Use, as well as police. I still couldn’t figure out which office kept the document records. I found newspaper accounts of a man in Bend whose entire house had been filled with stolen artifacts. That guy was in jail. Maybe George was right. Accusing Linc of stealing might stick better than trying to trace a document.