by Bev Magennis
Owen yelled across the room. “I surveyed your property today. You’ll get what you deserve! Serves you right for taking advantage of a helpless old man!”
“Let’s go,” Walker said, shoving his chair back. “Los Olmos is an hour south. The Hole in the Wall is open until two. They got a band.”
He stopped by Jo’s stool and squeezed in between her and the man, laid a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll be late tonight,” he said. “Introduce me.”
“Walker, this is Gerald. Gerald Murray.”
Driving south, Walker filled Pat in on the hunters’ lodge. They didn’t have zoning laws in Alibi Creek and he could build what he wanted any way he wanted. He didn’t know how to cook, but he could flip burgers and tell the difference between medium and rare, and Jo could roast a leg of lamb and whip up a few cakes and pies. The season would run from late August through November. Over the winter they’d kick back in their recliners and rest up. Out-of-state hunters had the big bucks. The only bad part would be waking up at three a.m. to get ’em fed and out the door long before sunup. Hell, he’d stay up all night. Breakfast would be served in a big kitchen with men dishing bacon and eggs on their plates, drinking OJ. Bowls of energy bars, candy bars, and cheese crackers would be available to stuff into their camo vest pockets. There’d be a separate refrigerator just for beer.
Pat grunted. Must be the adjustment of getting out. Walker asked about his plans and Pat said, “We had plans. You fucked them up.”
“Hey, I tried. You go on up to the UP and live up there. That part of the country ain’t for me.”
Pat stared straight ahead.
“Look,” Walker said. “I’d take you in as a partner on the hunting lodge if you want to stick around. What’s wrong, man? Your mouth usually runs looser than a woman’s at the beauty shop.”
At the Hole in the Wall, the three-man band played classic country. During the break Walker bought the musicians a beer. Pat loosened up some, but not enough to launch into the bullshit he’d told in prison that got Walker laughing so hard his stomach ached. Walker tapped his foot to the music. Two gals at the next table smiled.
“I’m serious, man, about going partners,” Walker said. “That little brunette sitting across from the blond has her eye on you. Ask her to dance.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“The girl or lodge?”
“Both.”
The blond met up with her date and Walker sat back as Pat and the brunette danced to a Patsy Cline song. The lead singer played the guitar like a pro and sang with his eyes closed, dragging a tune out longer than a string of TV commercials. After a couple more dances, the girl led Pat outside.
Walker wandered over to the pool tables and listened to the balls clink, sink, and rebound to the cheers and moans of the players. He knew some of the guys, but games were a drag and he sat down again, put his feet up on Pat’s chair and emptied his beer. Life was good—twenty grand in his wallet, a plan, a woman—his woman, Jo. He was as close to peaceful as he’d known. A little buzz vibrated in his right ear. He tilted his head. When everything seemed perfect, except for one little thing, that little thing usually turned out to be a big problem. He listened closely. The problem was Pat. Pat the Rat.
The rodent showed up at closing time, just before last call, all cocky, and said, “Let’s split.”
Walker stuffed a ten in the band’s tip can and followed the rat outside.
51
WEDNESDAY NOVEMBER 21, 2007
EXOTIC SPICES AND COOKING INGREDIENTS from the Asian Market, Whole Foods, and the Mediterranean Specialty Shop took up a corner of the kitchen counter, and now, the day before Thanksgiving, Lee Ann stored them in the cupboard. Tradition called for plain old salt, pepper, and sage.
She picked through the cranberries, extra red and fresh this year, added sugar, and set them to boil. Mid-afternoon she poured a cup of the morning’s coffee and leafed through a copy of Bon Appetite that she’d picked up in Albuquerque. Developing skills as a gourmet cook was pointless. Soon Scott would move, Dee would marry and get used to Ginny’s cooking, and Edgar would die. Eugene would eat with the Bidwells, owners of the dude ranch. Between shots of whiskey and chugs of beer, Walker picked at a meal with taste buds that didn’t discriminate. As for Grace, eighty years of meals prepared according to her particular tastes would resist change, and deep down, Lee Ann liked plain old-fashioned cooking, too. She closed the magazine as the phone rang.
Jo asked if Walker had been around. He’d borrowed her car and she needed it. She’d last seen him two nights ago at Art’s, drinking with some guy that looked just like him. Owen had been shouting rude remarks and Walker and his buddy had left. He’d been busy fixing up the cabin. Would Lee Ann mind driving up the creek to see if the car was there?
The north end of the ranch hadn’t been used since Dad quit raising hogs, the failed endeavor having left the property with the reputation of being good for nothing. In winter, dense thickets of matted willows and bare, young cottonwoods clustered along the creek. Deep green pines shot up between massive boulders where it seemed unlikely any seed could take root, lending a chilling enchantment to the place.
Already the sun had dropped behind the mesa. Jo’s car was parked with the key in it. Lee Ann expected Walker’s head to pop out the door and when it didn’t, she called his name and knocked, listened for creaking floorboards, and went inside. Dad had once stored slop buckets and garbage cans of ground corn and bean meal, extra fence wire, and sheets of corrugated tin, every inch of space stuffed with something or other. All that had been cleaned out and the cabin was lovely in a rustic way. As a girl, she’d despised pigs’ swollen bodies and dirty noses. Funny, Scott and Dee’s litter didn’t bother her at all, perhaps because they hadn’t grown to full size, or because the threat of Walker shoving her into the pen had long passed.
She picked Jo up that evening in front of Art’s.
“Thanks for making a special trip,” Jo said.
“It’s the least I can do. He should have returned your car.”
“Maybe he’s off looking for a truck with Leo, or hauling supplies,” Jo said, latching her seat belt. “He’s got big plans.”
Lee Ann’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. No prayer could save him. Prayers didn’t save anything. All they were good for was pinpointing problems to solve and goals to achieve and dreams to actualize.
Boxelder and scrub oak lined the road, disappearing as they passed the turnoff to the dump. The smell of cigarette smoke came off Jo’s clothes and hair. Lee Ann didn’t mind. Jo did a good job. She was one of those people who could swear without being offensive and smoke and drink as if it were as harmless as popping gum and sipping ginger ale. She minded her own business while managing to know everybody else’s and what she knew she kept to herself.
Jo said, “Gerald Murray told me all three commissioners could serve jail terms. You should run for office.”
Lee Ann laughed.
“You know as well as I do, a woman would never be elected county commissioner in Dax County.”
“Be the first.”
They drove in silence for a mile or so.
“You should stay clear of Walker’s schemes,” Lee Ann said.
“You should take my advice and I should take yours. We’ve both got points.”
Alibi Creek had iced over and they broke through it, Jo saying she wished she could see the land. In the dark, the closeness of the mesas blocked chunks of starlit sky and the willow thickets seemed like bodies crowding around. Lee Ann handed Jo her car key.
“I assume Walker has told you I want nothing else to do with him.”
Jo got out.
“I understand,” she said. “Thanks for the ride.”
52
THURSDAY NOVEMBER 22, 2007
SHE WOKE EARLY AND STUFFED the turkey while the pumpkin pie baked. The boys left to help Edgar feed and water the chickens and hogs.
“Bring in extra
firewood, and remind Edgar we’re eating at three.”
The table was set for five, with Mother’s ceramic cornucopia the centerpiece. She placed an extra plate and silverware on the buffet, brought in a folding chair from the shed and leaned it against the wall and hung her apron. In the bedroom, she fussed with her hair, tried on the navy sweater, then the off-white. The pants with the side zipper were the most flattering. She fluffed the couch pillows, straightened the painting above the buffet, and plucked the dry leaves off the geranium. When the pie came out, the turkey went in and by one o’clock the entire house smelled of juices running and skin browning. Time to whip the cream. She opened the front door and listened, and set the beaters to whirring.
She greeted Edgar with a brief hug and spoke loudly into his better ear and he nodded as if he’d heard and understood. Ginny helped carry the platters and bowls to the table, setting the stuffing in front of Dee. Scott carved. At the last minute Lee Ann remembered the cranberry sauce still in the fridge, and holding it in both hands, paused in the doorway before returning to the dining room. Scott pulled back her chair.
He said, “Let’s skip grace.”
“No,” Dee said. “I’ll say it.” He bowed his head and Ginny did the same.
“Lord, on this day of thanksgiving, we wish to express our gratitude for this meal. We send our thoughts and prayers to those who aren’t with us today. Amen.”
Scott forked turkey onto plates, dishes were passed and compliments offered, with a toast to the chef.
Before dessert, Lee Ann excused herself to take the dogs some scraps, which they lapped up with two licks of their tongues. They accompanied her along the well-worn garden path and stopped at the fence, at which point they were not permitted entrance. Clouds thin as gauze passed in front of the moon. She fumbled with the gate and walked southward, away from the house, between the hard, dry rows. He did not miss her, did not miss home, could celebrate Thanksgiving elsewhere, eat some other woman’s food, sleep in a strange bed, alone, did not care if she got chilled at night, or stressed during the day, if the place fell apart, if she fell apart.
At the end of the row, she turned. The dining room and kitchen lights shone yellow-white. The muted dirt road dipped to the creek and the tin roof of the barn, reflecting moonlight, seeming to float like a giant raft in space. Mother’s house and the weeping willow were barely visible. She turned south again, humming. “You have stolen my heart, now don’t go ’way, as we sang love’s old sweet song on Moonlight Bay.” Scott’s arm hugged her shoulder and guided her back to the house.
PART THREE
53
TUESDAY DECEMBER 25, 2007
JESUS’ BIRTHDAY. SCOTT AND DEE had argued about cutting a tree, Scott claiming every living thing should be left to complete its growth cycle, Dee saying the forests were overcrowded and thinning them for a once-a-year holiday maintained their health, as well as upheld tradition.
He said, “City people buy their trees from Christmas tree farms. Country folk don’t make a dent in the forest.”
“That’s the problem with the environment today. People like you don’t have a conscience,” Scott said.
“If butchering hogs and cows and hunting elk is acceptable, so is sacrificing a tree. What’s this family coming to?” Dee swung his chain saw into the truck. “Ginny’s family will appreciate it.”
Lee Ann hadn’t gone to church for over a month. Last week, when Pastor Fletcher came to call regarding her lack of attendance, she admitted having given up her faith, and when he wiped his brow with the dirty handkerchief from his suit pocket, sputtering about losing a lamb from the flock, his distress did not move her.
As a compromise to Dee, they’d exchanged small gifts at dinner the night before, and in the morning he left early to spend Christmas day with Ginny’s family. Lee Ann left Edgar a tin of oatmeal cookies, half a ham, and a box of Leona Webb’s peanut brittle. He still used an outhouse and would find them soon enough. She helped Scott break up the ice on the stock tank and feed the pigs. His new work gloves fit perfectly.
He’d given her two books: The Agnostic’s Bible and Women in Government. At lunch, he pressed the point of her running for commissioner.
“You and Jo,” she said. “I’d be the laughing stock, maybe get half a dozen votes.”
She counted on her fingers those who might mark an X by her name.
Scott said, “James Catlett is going to run. You could end up working with him. He’s a good man. You’re the one with experience, though.”
“I’m also the one who condoned what they did.”
“Don’t underestimate folks. They know the spot you were in. They’d have done the same to hold onto a job with benefits.” He swallowed the last bite of his sandwich with a swig of tea. “Corruption has been accepted here for so long. Accountability in local government is going to be something different. Give them a chance to elect decent people. I bet they will.”
“While we’re on the subject of decent people, help me think of who I can hire as a permanent hand.”
“I’m staying, Mom.” He put his cap on backwards. “Edgar can barely make it to the chicken yard and Dee can’t manage alone. My mind’s made up. As Uncle Walker might say,
I’m resigned
to toeing the line
and being confined
within the county line.”
She shrugged and offered a weak smile. Too much had been lost in too short a time.
“I know you don’t want to hear anything about Walker,” Scott said. “But he hasn’t been seen for weeks.”
“You’re right. I don’t want to hear.”
In the days following, she wept into her pillow, touched the backs of chairs where Eugene had sat, the mug he’d used, and door handles he’d turned. She’d heard of heartache, but she hadn’t known it referred to a specific gnawing pain under the breastbone, there at night, in the morning, and throughout the day, the only cure Eugene’s return. She wore down the path to Mother’s, back and forth, her coat wrapped tightly around her body, childhood memories drawing her into each room. The walls were cold, the sofa, closets, and beds odorless. She opened the kitchen cup-board and held one of Mother’s china plates to her chest, held the cotton dishcloth to her cheek, took her slippers home to walk in her shoes.
And Walker. Where had he gone and what was he up to this time?
54
TUESDAY JANUARY 1, 2008
ON THE FIRST DAY OF the new year she made pancakes and announced that two or more emotions could exist simultaneously. Each day presented an array of sentiments—sadness and gratitude, anger and peace, regret and hope. There was time for rest, but also for duty. Taking action while grieving was possible. She would run for office.
Scott raised his orange juice.
“Good job. Way to go, Mom.”
Dee said, “Are you crazy? You just got out of there.”
“I’m going to go back and do it right, if they’ll have me.”
“Half the county will hate you,” Dee said. “That’s the nature of a commissioner’s job. It’s worse than sheriff.”
“That’s because they’ve all been unethical bastards,” Scott said.
“She’s a woman.”
“No kidding.”
“They’ll eat her alive. Don’t do it, Mom. It’s not worth it.”
“I’ve worked there long enough to anticipate the pitfalls. Someone’s got to improve things.”
Scott clapped. “Spoken like a true politician.”
“Better get used to it, Dee,” she said. “I’ve got a call in to Jo to help me run my campaign.”
“Dad won’t like it,” Dee said.
“Dad isn’t here. And if he should come back, I think he’d approve. He’s criticized my attitude about my job.”
“Ginny’s cousin Derek has quit the rodeo circuit and is looking for work. He’s coming over this afternoon.”
“What’s the condition of his body?” Scott asked.
“Pro
bably better than someone whose nose is stuck in a book all day. It’s a toss-up, though. Man with crushed spine, cracked ribs, and busted nose versus a cowhand who’s only half here.” He grabbed the beak of Scott’s hat and pulled it down over his eyes. “Hope it works out, bro, so you can get on with figuring out how to breed that small heifer with a bigger uterus and wider birth canal.”
55
THURSDAY JANUARY 3, 2008
A MEETING HAD BEEN POSTED for seven p.m. at the Brand Community Center to inform county residents of Walker’s disappearance and ask for help locating him. Under the stark glare of overhead lighting, the dingy cedar paneling and beige linoleum floor looked the same, day or night.
Lee Ann joined twenty others seated in front of Lyle, Jeremy, and Lewis, who addressed the group from either side of a county map propped on an easel. Owen sat front center, and Art, who’d been missing his best customer, had taken a chair directly behind him. Dee pulled up a chair for Sherry from the Alibi Creek Store. Henry Gillman, who had a small plane and used any excuse to fly it, motioned to Danielle, who strutted in wearing tight jeans and a fake fur jacket, to sit next to him. Jo and Gerald Murray arrived together. Lee Ann stood in the back.
Lyle held up a calendar and pointed to November 21st, the last night anyone had seen Walker. The man he’d been with, Pat Merker, hadn’t been seen since, either. Foul play was not out of the question, since Walker had recently been issued a cashier’s check for approximately twenty thousand dollars, which had not been withdrawn from the Dax County State Bank.
Lee Ann gripped Caroline’s chair. The paneling melted into a brown haze, as if the whole room and everyone in it had been dipped in a mud puddle. The fool! Only an idiot would walk around with a check for that amount of money in his wallet. She should have taken him by the hand, like a little boy, and insist he deposit the money. Then again, it was his to squander, save, or lose.