by Bev Magennis
10
TUESDAY OCTOBER 2, 2007
WALKER FUMBLED THROUGH THE RAGS behind the seat of his pickup and retrieved a crumpled road atlas, turned to Arizona, and located Sierra Vista. South of Benson, northwest of Bisbee. Population: 43,000. From Alibi Creek, about a five-hour drive. At the assessor’s office, Eileen handed a quitclaim deed across the counter with a questioning glance, but he told her that baby blue sweater sure did bring out the roses in her cheeks. Was it angora, cashmere? She’d better watch it, he might have to touch it to find out, and it was obvious where that would lead. She turned away saying, “Get on with you,” and he dashed out before the color of her neck toned down a notch.
He sprinted over to the motel. Danielle had the use of the computer and knew how to work it. She owned one of those digital cameras and he left her with orders to take pictures of the land behind Plank’s house, views without the dilapidated outbuildings and rickety barn, scenes so pristine they swelled the throat and made the eyes water, and include a couple of shots in an email to Keith Lampert. From behind Walt’s, he collected a bunch of cartons that smelled of oranges and bananas and drove out to Ross’s property and tossed them inside Danielle’s trailer with a note. Get packing.
At Mother’s, he shook the manila envelope Lee Ann used to hold the month’s receipts, dumped the contents onto the kitchen table, and inserted the quitclaim deed. The cookie jar contained $122.00 He took $80.00 and a box of apples, cut a bouquet from the last survivors of a clump of Maximilian daisies beside the front porch, and drove back to Brand. Jo would likely be in the back room of the county clerk’s office. He hooked one arm around the doorframe and waved the daisies. When there was no response, he followed the flowers into the room.
“Don’t be screwing up the records,” he said.
“Says one who wishes he could screw anything.”
“Honey, we can leave that topic alone and switch to a more pressing matter. Cash.”
“I don’t have any.”
“Yes, you do. Let me fill this jar with water. I brought you the last of the flowers and a box of apples.”
“So thoughtful. How much?”
“You’re welcome. Three hundred. Don’t shake your head. I’ll give you half in a week and the rest, plus fifty, in two weeks.”
She reached into her purse for her checkbook.
“Not a penny more until I get this back,” she said, licking her finger and tearing off the slip. “Just looking at you means losing money. And don’t think of paying me back on time so you can squeeze more out of me next time. I’m onto that one.”
“Oui, madame. Your shrewdness, astuteness, and generosity are greatly appreciated.”
“Your bullshit is not.”
“Lighten up,” he said. “It’s only money.”
“I’m the one working full-time for it.”
He folded the check and put it in his shirt pocket. Taking her hand, he pulled her out of the chair and with his other hand behind his back, pressed his lips to the top of her wrist. With all the sincerity he could muster, he said, “Thank you.”
“Christ,” Jo said. “Get out of here.”
He adored that woman. She put a smile on his face as he headed south out of town. Hell, he adored all women, but if asked to name a best friend, a loyal compadre, he wouldn’t hesitate—Jo. Underneath all that grumbling and sarcasm, she understood his secret. He was born happy. Popped right into the world that way. Intended to spend every hour of every day that way and die that way. Inside her chest a big bleeding red heart beat to a melody they both sang, like a duet, she the bass, he the tenor. When they were kids, she’d been a silent partner in his schemes, egging him on for her own delight, taking great satisfaction in predicting the disastrous, or successful, outcomes of his pranks. He should have married her instead of Danielle, but that orange, cotton candy hair and all those freckles—couldn’t do it. After Danielle split, God, he’d tried, but some things never change. Big fat rollers did nothing to calm the kinky helmet of curls, makeup couldn’t conceal the brown splotches on her arms, and the NordicTrack in the middle of her living room didn’t shrink the size of her thighs. The rest of her body was all right, but those thighs, white as cauliflower and the same texture, might never release his skinny hips if he got caught between them. Probably every man felt the same, because Jo never married. Come to think of it, she might have been so in love with him, no one else appealed to her. An image of a dart hitting the bulls-eye flashed across his mind. Yup. She’d loved him and only him, all along. He most certainly did have a way with women.
He opened a Tecate, lit a Winston. Other folks played CDs on a road trip. He liked quiet because music interfered with the consistently inconsistent brilliance of his own lyrics. Humming, he tapped a beat on the steering wheel.
Do all I can to find the old man, boom ka-cha-boom
Take a look in a telephone book, boom ba-dee-boom
Call each Elder Care, see if he’s there, ooh pa-pa-shoo
Direct this car to the closest bar, choo na-na do
Make some connections, get directions, ooh la-la-shoo
Find a notary, sign by four-thirty, oom ba-dee-boom
Back home by ten. Good deal. Amen.
He’d stop at a Burger King and order a Whopper with fries and a large Coke—food frowned upon in nursing homes. After spreading the meal on Ross’s food tray, he’d dig into the paper sack and produce a dozen sugar packets. Old people stole them to prove they were thrifty, able to recognize an opportunity to save a few cents. “You’d better believe it,” they’d say. “Every penny counts!”
The highway climbed through Sedillo Pass. Charred ground and black tree trunks told of a recent forest fire. He’d missed the event and no one had mentioned it. When he’d asked what had happened in his absence, folks had said, “Not a hell of a lot. Elmer Rodriguez got fired from his job at the high school for taking his Spanish class on a field trip to Chihuahua, buying them booze, and sleeping with two girls. At one time. Terra Thompson let her eight-year-old son offer a hot dog to a brown bear that had been curious about the contents of their garbage can and the kid got his hand chewed off. Alex Hampton couldn’t get into the Volunteer Fire Department where he’d forgotten his glasses so he shot the lock off with his pistol. The bullet ricocheted and put a hole in his radiator.” Really, seemed he never left.
Descending from the pass, prickly pear, bear grass, and yucca sprouted along the rocky mountainside. Ahead, the land spread flat as spilled paint through the rugged mountains of the Gila Wilderness. The trees were still green in the small town of Los Olmos. He continued south for another forty miles, turned west at Badger Creek and switch-backed down the tight curves into Arizona in second gear. No sense hurrying. Go slow or get killed.
Right away he felt trapped in strange surroundings, as though a twelve-foot-high concrete wall divided the two states, different as orange and purple. In Arizona, he’d have to abide by someone else’s rules, look respectable, throw trash in a can, smoke outside. The fences said, “Do Not Trespass,” instead of, “Jump Over Me,” and the gates said, “Keep Out,” instead of, “Please Close.” He’d been to Colorado once and it was the same. Civilized. Already homesick, as if an invisible rope tugged him back to Dax County, he resisted the pull back to New Mexico and stayed on course. But man, he’d take a piñon-and-juniper-covered mesa over ocotillos and saguaros any day. This bleak desert was a long way from the Grand Canyon, the one appealing Arizona attraction. He’d love to hike to the bottom of that deep crack in the earth, but they wouldn’t let you go without a guide. He’d never see it. Nobody was going to guide him, no way, no how.
He pushed through the glass doors of La Ventana Nursing Home. Holding his hat against his chest, he smiled meekly at the girl behind the reception desk, and signed in as “nephew” in the relationship column.
He found room 328 at the end of a long, wide corridor, the door ajar. Ross sat in a recliner holding a magnifying glass over the Sierra Vista Herald, t
he Tucson Daily Star scattered on the floor beside his chair. A wall-mounted TV, dresser, hospital bed, desk, and bedside table made up the furnishings. Pictures of Owen, Rita, and the grandkids faced the bed from the opposite wall. The place smelled like a mixture of antiseptic and grade school cafeteria. Through the window, wrought iron fencing enclosed manicured lawns. A grounds keeper drove by in a golf cart.
Walker cleared his throat. The old man barely moved, peering at the paper over a pair of thick glasses straddling the end of his nose.
“Hello, Ross,” Walker said. “Didn’t know if I’d find you asleep this time of day.”
Ross raised his head and looked him over.
“Well, what a surprise. Pull that desk chair over and have a seat where I can get a good look at you.”
“I brought you dinner,” Walker said, holding up the Burger King bag.
“That’s fine. Just fine.”
Walker emptied the sack on the bedside table, itemizing the contents, and took a few sugar packets out, setting them beside the bag.
“I didn’t pay for those,” he said. “The way prices have gone up, I figure fast food joints owe us a few perks.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ross said.
Well, that went over like drawing Harley McKenna’s two-ton bull at the rodeo.
Ross had lost maybe forty pounds, most of his hair, and almost all of his teeth. His ears looked twice their regular size and his cheeks seemed sucked into his mouth, leaving two round sockets, deep as pockets on a billiards table.
“They treating you good here?” Walker asked.
“Probably about the way you got treated in the last establishment you visited.”
“Ross, I forgot all about it.” Walker flipped the chair around, threw a leg over it and rested his arms across the back. “The day after I got home, the whole experience faded. Mother’s about the same, no worse at any rate. Lee Ann and Eugene got things runnin’ smooth as a Broadway musical, all the legs kickin’ at the same height. Dee and Scott help out real good. Go on. Have a few fries.”
“No. Not right now. I never did develop a taste for that kind of food. Charlotte’s chicken fried steak was all I asked for to celebrate any occasion. Her gravy and mashed potatoes went down easy, settled easy. She fixed stuffed peppers every Thursday, knowing that was my second favorite. She’d soak pinto beans and season them with pork fat. Her enchiladas beat anything they turned out at Vera’s and her pot roast…”
“Ross, I’ll come right to the point. Owen sent me down here to get your signature on a quitclaim deed to transfer the ranch.” He reached into the manila envelope and unfolded the form. “He’d have come himself, but he had an important survey to complete this week.”
“He never mentioned nothing about it when he called Sunday.”
“I know. This came up sudden. Ted Bowles advised him to have you transfer the property directly to Owen before you passed on, to save having to go through probate. You know, Ted’s the best lawyer in the county.”
Ross folded his hands in his lap.
“I believe I’ll wait until I talk to Owen.”
“Ross, I drove all the way over here.” He waved a woman into the room. “And I arranged for Miss Marlene Spencer here to meet with us in order to notarize this simple transaction. I’ll tell you what. You sign and if Owen decides against it, he can toss the form out. But, see, he’ll have the paper in case you both agree to follow Ted’s advice.”
“I’m sorry you took the trouble, ma’am,” Ross said. He turned his attention to Walker. “I reckon you can stay one more day until I speak with Owen tonight.”
“Well, now, that’s not possible because I promised Eugene I’d be there to help get ready for roundup. Owen said he’d call you Sunday as usual.”
He unwrapped the burger and tore it in two, laid a napkin across Ross’s lap and wheeled the bedside table next to his chair, aiming the open bag of fries within easy reach of his right hand.
“Try one of them fries.”
“I’m thinking.”
Christ.
“Look, Ross. I hate to be so blunt, but you may not get up tomorrow. You might rest your head on that pillow tonight, count your blessings, and drift on up to heaven leaving a hell of a mess behind. Owen will have to deal with the courts all by himself. An only child gets stuck with the entire burden. He’ll have to oversee the care of the ranch until probate is completed. Afterwards, he’ll have to decide what to do with the property while bearing the sorrow of your death. Ross, I still feel sad over my dad’s passing and it’s been over sixteen years. The missing never goes away. The love never dies. Owen will be carrying you in his heart long after you’ve gone, the way you carry Charlotte. The least you can do is make the practical matters easy on him.”
“I had no idea he considered it a burden.”
“Well, Ross, Owen is a respectful son.”
Ross adjusted his elbows on the armrests and shifted position.
“It’s just he and I agreed to do it one way and now you’re presenting me with another.”
“A better way. An easier way. A way you can prove your love and kindness. Look at it like this—you’re giving Owen a final gift.”
He cleared the burger and fries off the table, laid out the paper and stepping aside, steered Marlene next to the old man.
“I’ll need your social security number on this other piece of paper. You want your magnifying glass?”
“Just pass me a pen. Point to where I sign.”
11
LEE ANN LEFT WORK AT noon to meet Mother’s case-worker, Annette, for the quarterly documentation of the state agency’s services. Working around rules that specified Do Not Tip Caregivers, she found other ways of showing appreciation for the women who drove the long miles to Alibi Creek. Today, a Mr. Coffee 12-cup coffee maker needed a home, if not with Annette, then some other staff member. She placed the box on the front seat and waved good-bye until her arm grew heavy and fell to her side.
The file on Mother’s progress reported, “status unchanged.” There’d come a time when that phrase would be replaced by “oxygen required,” or “full time nursing care advised.” Not only Mother, but Edgar, who’d been around since before Lee Ann was born, would be needing assistance soon enough. He’d taken to sleeping past nine, and although he never complained, his bad hip and twisted fingers prevented him from riding, or tying a knot. She’d taken to sending beans and chile over to the bunkhouse once a week and for a man who insisted on attending to all his own needs, his humble acceptance of the gesture signaled his decline. Within the year he’d quit driving, his eyesight failing as fast as his hearing.
She went inside for a sweater, called the dogs, and whistling the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai, started off to the creek. Before taking thirty steps, the one-ton truck emerged from behind the workshop. She herded the dogs off to the side.
Dee pulled up and rolled down the window.
“I’m off to Plank’s,” he said. “Scott and Walker are already over there.”
She brushed her hair back from her face, searching his eyes.
“You don’t know,” he said, shifting into neutral.
“I guess not.”
“We’re moving Danielle’s trailer up the canyon behind Granny’s. Walker told us to use the cinderblocks from beside the barn for supports. We’ve been working at Plank’s all morning getting it loaded on the flatbed.” He put the truck in gear and revved the engine. “See you later.”
The dogs sat at her feet, tails wagging, waiting for the go-ahead. A scheme, this time involving Danielle. The only thing Danielle and Walker ever saw eye-to-eye on was a bottle of whiskey. If they couldn’t find a party they’d make their own, which would invariably end in a fight they’d forget the next morning, then start all over again.
Along the creek bank, Patch and Blue picked up a scent in a pile of brush and began digging. Leaves landed like bits of paper on the water and swam downstream, catching on logs reaching out
to snag them. She knelt and broke a twig in two, tossed one half in the water and followed its journey, the little stick incapable of turning back, powerless against the current. Tears filled her eyes, as if the twig was a living creature, robbed of free will, ignorant of rational thought or heart’s desire.
“Lord, it seems we are helpless against an invisible current. This must be the great lesson we are meant to learn—to accept our fate with humility and grace. I trust You have a plan beyond my understanding, but I struggle to identify my purpose and determine when to assert myself. I question whether submission and resignation make me weak or strong. If we encounter an eddy drawing us to danger, free will allows us to decide whether to jump into the whirlpool or flee. I lack the drive, or courage, to go against the current when circumstances demand I should. I’m confused about when to take matters into my own hands. I submit to You out of fear of making a mistake. I dare not oppose Your wishes.”
The twig floated downstream, undeterred.
“Walker rushes through life at a pace I can never match, driven by impulses I don’t understand. Gone for whole days at a time, sharing details when it suits him, his pickup parked at Mother’s when I leave for work, gone when I get home. Eugene insists I set limits, but You’ve created Walker untamable, uncontrollable, unteachable. I pray for him, for all things are solved through prayer. I try to forgive, as You advise.”
The wind picked up and she wrapped her sweater around her chest and hugged her waist. During the first months of Walker’s incarceration, she’d continued to hear his footsteps sneaking up from behind, until one afternoon, while planting petunias in the two oak barrels on either side of the front porch, she hummed while watering. Weeks went by, and she began moving easier, touching the fragile roots of the starts she set out, watching the clothes on the line dance in the wind, mimicking the crossbill finches on the garden fence, without worrying about what was behind her back. His return had tightened her stomach. Anxiety had raised her shoulders and stiffened her neck.