by Bev Magennis
Jesus stood behind Lee Ann’s shoulder. But I say to you that hear, love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless—
She moved away from the table, away from Him.
“Please ask Walker to stack wood for you.”
Danielle lowered Woolly to the floor and whisked cat hair off her jeans.
“He wasn’t around. And I didn’t ask. Eugene offered.”
Several milk jugs filled with water lined the back edge of the table. Danielle unscrewed one of the caps. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Walker can do that for you.”
“Tell him that. Tell them both.” She retrieved the cats’ water bowl and filled it, splashing water on the legal pad beside the chop saw. “I don’t want to be here any more than you want me around,” she said. “As far as Eugene is concerned, you need to take the matter up with him.”
Before the crew returned for lunch, Lee Ann stacked plates by the stove and set out pitchers of lemonade and iced tea. She left a note telling the men to help themselves, retrieved her Bible, and called the dogs, who sensed her destination and shot past Mother’s toward the mesa. Walker’s truck was gone. Typical. Bungle things and disappear.
Up the canyon, they added paw and footprints to fresh elk and coyote tracks. Often, she’d dally along this route and admire lichen or pick up interesting rocks. This morning she trudged, leaning forward as if fighting a swift wind, one arm swinging free, the other holding the Bible like a school book. Cedar branches, stripped and mangled by bull elk in mating frenzies, hung from maimed trees, droppings everywhere, the musky odor of fresh urine pungent in the stagnant air. The trail crossed an arroyo, flattened out some, and continued climbing at a steep angle, flanked by rocky walls.
Danielle, curvaceous and coy, with skin like silk and heavy lashes, was there for the asking. Eugene was unhappy. Wordless messages passed between men and women. I’m married, but it doesn’t mean anything. I’m married, too, but looking elsewhere. I have erotic secrets to share. I want to experience them. I’ll keep things light. I’ll appreciate that. I can make you feel good in ways you can’t imagine. You already do.
The narrow passage ended at a weak spring seeping from porous rock, a destination they called “the dribble.” The pebbled conglomerate oozed water into soggy muck beneath it. Panting, she turned to Proverbs 27:4. Alternating waves of dizziness and heat left her light-headed and she swayed, struggling to keep her balance. She reached to wet her palm and cool her forehead. The Bible weighed nothing, no more than a leaf, and slipped from her hand into the mud. A single note escaped from her throat and she held her ears against the sound of her own anguish. Wrath is cruel, anger is overwhelming, but who can stand before jealousy?
30
TUESDAY OCTOBER 9, 2007
NEWSPAPER REPORTERS FROM ALBUQUERQUE, SANTA Fe and Las Cruces appeared at the courthouse first thing in the morning. Lee Ann flattened the collar of her blouse over a fitted navy blue suit jacket and invited the two men and one woman to take seats in front of her desk. Caroline served coffee and left the pot, sugar, and powdered creamer on the bookshelves.
Bill Joffe of the Albuquerque Journal started off the session by congratulating Dax County on receiving the biggest windfall in the nation.
“Actually,” Lee Ann said, “the financial analysis by the Associated Press is misleading because so much of the money will end up going into the state funding formula for schools. Basically, the money will take care of essential needs that we have not been able to fund for years.” Remembering Harley’s instructions, she added, “So, you see, it’s not a windfall.”
She explained that with the founding of the U.S. Forest Service in 1908, Congress approved a revenue-sharing program to placate rural counties, allotting them twenty-five percent of the funds generated by commercial activity on the new forest. Local governments appeared satisfied until the 1980s when logging declined due to court-ordered enforcement of the Endangered Species Act. As a result, by the 90s, county payments fell seventy percent nationwide. She defended the “windfall,” saying, “This fiscal allotment seems likely to be a one-time deal. Congress is promising to change the funding formula in 2012, once again lowering the amounts the counties would receive.”
The reporters scribbled on their pads.
“In New Mexico,” Lee Ann continued, “logging on the five national forests plummeted to a quarter of the usual amount and by 2003 three major sawmills closed around the state, Brand one of them. We’re a very depressed area. Our population is declining. Young people leave the county after high school and don’t return. We haven’t had a school bond issue pass here since 1989.”
The Santa Fe reporter, Melanie Coulter, said, “Controversy has been voiced over the handout. Adversaries claim the money undermines local governments from promoting economic diversity and encouraging new business.”
Lee Ann crossed her legs. Her low heels, worn only for special occasions, pinched her toes.
“How would you suggest we promote economic development when the federal government owns four fifths of our county’s land? It isn’t possible to convince a population subsisting on welfare to support a shopping center. Low-income families, who for generations have cooked almost every meal at home, don’t dine out. Brand can support one restaurant, Vera’s Cafe. The only time the Brand New Motel turns off the Vacancy sign is during hunting season.”
She rose to refill her coffee cup. These people hadn’t a clue what living in the wilderness meant. News from this part of the state pertained to environmental issues and crime, the most recent articles addressing the relocation of the Mexican gray wolf and the shooting of Geraldine Pierce by her “mentally challenged” grandson.
Las Cruces reporter Jim Kraft flipped a page of his notebook.
“Several New Mexico counties have voted to use the money for large, one-time purchases. Do the Dax County commissioners have a plan in effect for the money?”
Harley, Saul, and Ed had coached her—be congenial, fend them off, tell them nothing. Sweat trickled between her breasts. If the useless window opened, she’d jump out and catch a ride on that cloud floating over the Dax County Bank.
“Considering the sizable sum of money, and the fact that this might be a short-lived allocation program, the Dax County commissioners will not act quickly, but intend to evaluate the settlement with the utmost thought and consideration.”
31
WALKER PASSED THROUGH THE LAST town in Dax County—five deserted houses and a gas station, half the weathered boards fallen off half the broken windows, old washing machines and rusted cars trapped in tangled weeds. Poor suckers, thinking they could build a house and root cellar, store homegrown vegetables, raise a few cows and sheep, open a Phillips 66 service station, and survive. Must have been sweet until traffic detoured north to join the mainstream speeding along the interstate. Those sorry folks must have rocked on the porch trying to ignore the hungry ache in their bellies wondering what the hell happened. That was always the way, people lacking the flexibility or foresight to see what was coming next. The guy who invented McDonalds sure predicted the American future. Drive-thru. Smart man. Genius.
Just outside the Colorado border, he registered as Ross Plank at a Motel 6 and sat behind the wheel outside his room. Take the money inside, or leave it in the trunk. Take it in. The car might get stolen. He slept with his arm draped over the suitcase, waking several times in case a shady night manager tried to sneak in, lift his arm ever so gently, and slide it from his side.
Dax County law would still be trying to locate Danielle’s Jeep. A mechanic in Grants had given him a name and he’d followed the kid from behind the counter at Dairy Queen to his uncle’s doublewide west of town. A couple of cars in various stages of body repair were for sale under a metal carport. He’d paid too much for a just-waxed, ’97 silver Honda, considering he’d thrown in the Jeep, but there hadn’t been time to haggle over a couple hundred bucks. He paid an extra hundred for a Nevada license plate that dangle
d among others at the end of a wire from the roof. After filling out the bill of sale, he sent the kid into the house for a glass of water and transferred the suitcase to the Honda’s trunk. When the kid returned Walker handed him the key to the Jeep and wrote down the uncle’s address, promising to send the title in two days. The boy would get a lecture when the title never arrived. Never buy or trade a car without transfer of title—at least write down the name of the buyer, his address, blah blah blah. Ah, the pains of growing up. All the mistakes Dad had promised would make him smarter had never amounted to a scrap of sense. Useless logic, believing man learns from his screw-ups. Maybe the kid would learn you couldn’t learn a thing. If so, he might stand a chance of having some fun.
In the morning, frost coated the windshield. He drove to the nearest restaurant and ordered a breakfast burrito. His gut swirled and churned, the way it always did close to the border. Soon he’d be operating outside his playground. Huevos with red or green chile might not appear on a menu for a long time, if ever again.
He zoomed across back roads and passed the Welcome to Kansas sign. The sky was almost as big as New Mexico’s and the late afternoon sun shone down on flat fields, but mesas no longer defined the horizon and the air had lost the smell of piñon and sage. He took a quick look at the map and lit a smoke. This trip was going to be l-o-n-g.
The country was tidy, all right. Huge, tight hay bales seemed to have rolled randomly and stopped like a fleet of abandoned highway leveling equipment. Every last blade of wheat, hay, and sorghum had its use. No waste here. No lazy farmer here. No goofing off here. Kansas and Nebraska were serious about hog and cattle farming, and grand-scale grain production. He smelled dollars. Damn them, though, he’d never met a farmer or rancher who claimed to make a profit. No sir. Weather did them in. Disease did them in. Government did them in. Banks did them in. Yet, somehow they earned enough to build big sturdy farmhouses and enormous barns, moaning all the while about the price of feed, seed, and greed. Did anyone chuckle around here?
He rolled down the window.
“Ha ha!”
The wind tickled his ear.
Forget industrious farmers, silos, and feedlots. Focus on recent events. He popped a Tecate. Hell, it was a drag dwelling on the past, but Pat Merker’s intentions had to be addressed. Was the con in cahoots with the vet? Had they both intended to kill him, keep the land and the money, or had that been Keith’s independent plan all along? Here he was, driving to God-knows-where to partake in early retirement intrigues with Pat Merker, whose commitments and promises suddenly appeared more than dubious. Son-of-a-bitch. He ought to slam on the brakes, change direction and split for Montana. Uh-uh, hold on a second. If Pat hadn’t been in on the plan to cut his life short, he’d surely resort to murder upon arriving in the UP and discovering no Walker and no loot.
Any adventure, imagined or real, packed more zing with an accomplice along to plot tactics, share the hilarity, count the winnings, and revel in their wits. In prison, he and Pat had sat side by side on Pat’s cot memorizing each other’s social security numbers and practicing each other’s signatures over and over, until Walker didn’t even have to think about how to sign Pat’s name, how the slash missed the “t” and the “k” bled into the “er” and eased off into a scrawl at the end. Sworn to secrecy, as dedicated as teens in a backyard clubhouse, they’d declared loyalty their number one priority. Shit. Could have been a set up.
32
THURSDAY OCTOBER 11, 2007
FOR TWO DAYS CLOUDS BLOCKED the sun, not a sliver of light poking through solid gray. In prison, although the sun’s rays remained aloof, the big yellow ball did its thing. Its beams were so bright even indirect light sent the message that the planet’s bigger-than-you-can-imagine candle was burning, and because of that all was right with the world.
Back home, the sun was a constant fixture, a sidekick. It brought freezing days to a bearable temperature and relieved the winter blues. Outdoor chores were postponed until late morning when the sun helped out simply by being out. During the rainy season, only a day or two passed before great shafts of sunlight broke through parting clouds. This midwestern darkness was gloomy and constant. A pervasive dread worked its way into his playful mind and stiffness settled into his neck and joints and the wheels of the car rolled on, covering mile after mile, delivering him into what felt like a prison of a different sort. A pain popped up in the middle of his chest under the breastbone. Rolaids wouldn’t relieve it, nor Pepcid AC. He sipped from the flask. Like a little kid, he grew impatient. Mom, are we there yet?
The situation called for hunkering down out of sight for a couple of weeks. At the next gas station he opened the map. After a night in Holdrege, he’d travel on to Lincoln for a week’s stay at some cushy place. Hell, he had the money. Those clothes he’d bought in Show Low—time to put them on. Now that he was rich, a certain amount of class and a degree of cleanliness were in order. In a grand suite at the Lincoln Marriott Residence Inn, he peered inside kitchen cabinets, flopped into the over-stuffed chair, and crossed his boots on the puffy ottoman, the décor meeting his new standards. After a couple of days, though, he went on a bender and could have been anywhere. A swimming pool was useless if it was cold and anyway, he didn’t care for swimming. His arms were too skinny. Water might appeal to a fish, but to a man raised in the desert water was too wet. Fish never took a breath of air. Aquariums gave him the willies. Not only could the fish not breathe, they couldn’t get out. And he might as well be a fish right now, confined to a suite that to a person living in Tokyo would appear a mansion, but to someone raised in Alibi Creek was teensy weensy. Harvest gold and sage green walls couldn’t compare with the southwestern winter sky. Plush upholstery felt fine, but nothing like lying in a field of grama grass that whispered in the wind. Ornate bathroom fixtures didn’t improve the quality of water flowing through the pipes.
PART TWO
33
SUNDAY OCTOBER 21, 2007
TWO WEEKS AFTER ROUNDUP, DRIFTING smoke from a new neighbor’s fireplace announced the beginning of winter. Eugene wouldn’t fend off chilly mornings this early in the season, even though temperatures on the thermometer outside the kitchen window read well below freezing. The afternoons still warmed into the high sixties and like most locals, he insisted on waiting until the last day of October before striking a match.
Lee Ann buttoned her good wool coat, tucked her soiled, water-stained Bible under her arm and joined the boys in Scott’s pickup. When the Bible had fallen into the mud, it had landed on its backside. She’d carried it home splayed over her arm and let it dry over a rolling pin. The dirt had flaked off easily, but the edges of the pages remained brown.
Although Ed Moody arrived at the church an hour early to light the stove, the vaulted ceiling did nothing to hold the heat and the room had risen to only a few degrees warmer than the temperature outside. Lee Ann took her usual seat in the third row, Scott and Dee on either side, the chill from the cold chair seeping through to her thighs. Muffled sounds of women setting out baked goods alongside the chugging fifty-cup percolator came from behind the kitchen door. Folks filed in and exchanged greetings, mothers telling their children to hush and behave.
Since Dee’s accident, Lee Ann took special notice of the way he combed a wave away from his forehead and stooped to check his image in the mirror while setting his hat. She paused to listen to Scott’s gentle voice coming from Mother’s room, reading Willa Cather’s O Pioneers! Despite bickering and teasing, affection prevailed between her sons. And for this she felt blessed, and felt them blessed. The best intentions, strictest instruction, and good examples couldn’t foster compatibility if siblings didn’t prioritize congeniality. A coarse, bombastic boy would not cherish a gentle, sensitive brother, and vice versa, unless directed by God. And although she interpreted the word “brother” in the Bible to refer to any man, she had taught her sons: That in this manner no one should wrong his brother or take advantage of him. The Lord will punish
men for all such sins, as we have already told you and warned you. 1 Thessalonians 4:6.
Wayne had been softer on Scott because he’d caused less trouble. Dee had been too busy with his red wagon to care. When Wayne moved to Texas for good, without so much as a Christmas card to the boys, they’d warmed to Eugene, who’d treated them equally, until Dee’s enthusiasm for ranching established a bond that soon ranked him favorite child in Eugene’s estimation. Scott must have known he would one day leave Alibi Creek and this secret allowed him to cede first place for what he deemed would be a better place.
She jumped at the hand on her shoulder.
“Good morning,” Lyle said.
“I must have been daydreaming. Good morning. Lovely sweater, Denise.”
Lyle winked. “No sleeping until the sermon starts.” He nodded at Dee. “How’s the shoulder?”
“There, but not bad.”
“Those tourists have been investigating the legality of moving cattle along the highway. That wasn’t too smart of Walker.”
“It wasn’t his fault. We’ve all done it for short stretches plenty of times. That car was speeding.”
Walker. He’d missed Ross Plank’s funeral. The boys hadn’t seen him all week. His truck hadn’t been parked in front of Mother’s, or at Art’s. Danielle hadn’t seen him either—her Jeep was missing and she’d had to borrow Art’s second pickup with the passenger side window missing. On Friday, she’d barged into Lee Ann’s office demanding to know Walker’s whereabouts, throwing her arms in the air at Lee Ann’s shrug.