by Chris Offutt
“We have to get personal,” Frank said.
“What are you going to do?” Joe said. “Shoot me if I don’t talk?”
He tried a quick grin that faded when none of the men showed any response. He could have been talking to the land itself. The faint scent of straw and oats threaded the air. Owen’s voice was gentle, as if speaking to family.
“Where you from?”
“West Virginia,” Joe said.
“Why’d you come this way?”
“Just took a notion.”
“You on the dodge from the law?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“We need to know who you are. You just sort of leaked out of the landscape on us.”
“I’m Joe Tiller,” he said. “What else is there to know?”
Frank looked at each man in the barn before returning to Joe. His face held a sad expression, nearly apologetic, but his voice was firm. He reminded Joe of Rundell reluctantly preparing the crew to work.
“There’s eighteen people named Joe Tiller in the United States,” Frank said.
He unfolded a piece of paper and glanced at it.
“Two are women. Four are black. One’s a priest, two are in prison, and one’s a state representative. Two are in old folks’ homes. Three are dead. That leaves three more unaccounted for.”
Joe tried to keep the fear from spreading across his face. His fingers hurt from squeezing the cane.
“One of those three is you,” Frank said. His voice softened. “The problem is, you don’t seem to exist.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Joe said, “I’m as real as any of you boys here.”
“You don’t have any credit cards,” Frank said.
“I’m a cash man.”
“You’ve never been married.”
“Came awful close once,”
Joe had the feeling that he was being judged, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t defend himself until he learned in what manner he’d offended these men.
“You’ve never had health or life insurance,” Frank continued. “You never served in any branch of the military. You never held a government job. You don’t vote. You don’t have a passport. You don’t have any kids. You never owned a hunting license, a fishing license, or a boat license. You’re not a pilot, doctor, or lawyer. You never got a driving ticket or had a wreck. You’ve never been arrested. You didn’t go to college. You never won big on the lottery.”
His voice was low and steady in the tiny room, a continuous pressure. The rest of the men were staring at Joe.
“You don’t own land,” Frank said. “Or a house or a business. You don’t have a bank account. You never borrowed any money. No state has ever held money in escrow for you. You never filed for bankruptcy. You don’t own any stocks. You’ve never been sued and you never received a summons. You’ve never been to court, jail, or prison. You don’t belong to a union. You haven’t received food stamps, welfare, or workers’ comp. You never inherited any money or land. You never even had a phone.”
Frank stopped talking. No one spoke for a long time, Joe was scared to hear what else they knew, but needed to know.
“Is that it?” he said.
Frank regarded him for a moment.
“You don’t pay federal taxes,” he said.
Another man spoke. He was short and stubby with a gut that tipped his oval belt buckle to aim at his boots.
“Don’t get us wrong. We respect these things.”
A few of the men nodded.
“It’s the way the country was meant to be,” said a man, “according to the Bill of Rights.”
“There’s two reasons for you not to have any trail,” Frank said. “You’re a government spy or you’re a fugitive.”
Joe waited, To deny either was to acknowledge the other, and he couldn’t think of a third option.
“Nothing makes you look spooky,” Owen said. “The question is who you are and what you’re running from.”
“Way I see it,” Joe said, “the real question is who you think you are.”
“This isn’t the best time to go on the prod,” the short man said.
“I’m lamed up from a bullet and you threaten me,” Joe said. “You got me outnumbered in a barn. You got a piece of paper telling who I ain’t and what I never done. That don’t mean nothing. If some-body’ll give me a lift, I’ll head right back to Rock Creek.”
“We can’t do that,” the short man said.
“Why the hell not?”
“We don’t want folks to know Johnny shot you. We can’t risk you bugling on us.”
“I understand that,” Joe said. “I give you my word I won’t. That’s all I got left to give. You done took my leg, my cabin, and my gun.”
He used the cane to push himself to his feet. The tall man with the severed ear stepped in front of the door. He moved casually, but Joe understood that he would not be allowed to leave. He gestured to the sheet of paper Frank held.
“Where’d all that stuff come from, anyhow?”
“It’s public information,” Frank said. “A man can get it and not even leave the house. All you need’s a modem and a computer. There’s more than nine hundred government data banks that cover every inch of us. Lucky you don’t use credit cards, they leave a trail wide as a cow path.”
“Now that you mention it,” Joe said, “I can see how lucky I am.”
“Either lucky or smart,” Owen said. “The two partnered up’s tough to get around.”
“I never made no claim to be smart,” Joe said. “And so far it looks like my luck sprung a leak. All you know is who I ain’t. And all I know is you got a fancy computer and a brother who likes to shoot people.”
“It’s your story,” Coop said. “You can make it as big as you want.”
Joe turned to face the old man. Dribbled snuff stained the white whiskers of his chin.
“You don’t want to hear my story,” Joe said.
“There’s one thing we left out,” Frank said.
“It don’t matter to me.”
“I expect it might,” Frank said. “Your Social Security card is a recent issue out of Kentucky.”
A quick fear in Joe’s chest spread through his body and seeped along his limbs. He locked his good knee and pressed the tip of the cane hard against the earth.
“Must be one of them other Tillers,” he said.
“It’s your number, Joe.”
“How do you know? It’s not on anything I’ve got.”
“It’s in the computer files,” Frank said. “I ran your Montana driver’s license and it popped up in the data bank.”
“These days,” Owen said, “a newborn baby gets a Social Security number at the hospital. You can’t deduct a lad off your taxes without one. That’s how the government tricks you into marking your children for life.”
“Ain’t supposed to be that way,” Coop said. “When they voted in Social Security, they said they wouldn’t use the number for identification.”
“That’s right,” Frank said. “You only have to give it to an employer,” Joe shrugged. His knee was throbbing as he lowered himself to the stool.
“It ain’t a question of who I am,” Joe said. “It’s who I was. You have to understand that what’s behind me stays there. I ain’t talking about that, not now and not ever.”
“Where are you from?” Owen said.
“Like I said, West Virginia.”
“What about your Social Security number?”
“Who says it’s out of Kentucky?”
“The number does,” Frank said. “Each state’s got its own code and your first three numbers are 406. That means it’s a Kentucky issue.”
“Kentucky’s handy to West Virginia,” Joe said. “Cross the river and you’re there. It’s the same mountains and the same people, like Idaho and Montana.”
“Idaho people aren’t like us,” Coop said. “They’re barely civilized.”
“That’s how it is with Kentucky
and West Virginia,” Joe said. “I came west to get away from that. Nobody but you all know I’m here. And Ty.”
“Did you know him before?” Frank said.
“Before what?”
“Before renting that cabin.”
“No. Heard about it at the Wolf and tracked him down.”
“That damn Ty’s too easy to find,” Owen said.
“Ty’s not important right now,” Frank said. “We have this pilgrim.”
Joe wondered what Ty had to do with any of this.
“I’m no pilgrim,” Joe said. “I’m a prisoner of war with no war.”
“Oh, there’s a war all right.”
“Who with?”
“You’re a little ahead of us in action,” Frank said, “but your thinking is lagging.”
“It must be,” Joe said, “since I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If we could find this much out about you, think what the government can. Your mistake was having a driver’s license at all.”
“Maybe so,” Joe said. “But you have to have one.”
“I don’t,” Frank said. “None of us do.”
Joe glanced around the dim room. He was stunned that they could so easily dismiss something he’d worked hard to acquire.
“We don’t have bank accounts, either,” Frank said. “And we don’t pay taxes.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t recognize the authority of the federal government over private citizens.”
“I don’t understand exactly.”
“It’s simple, Joe. We aren’t afraid to defend our freedom. Right now, the biggest threat is from the government. Washington doesn’t want patriots, it wants sheep. The people of this country are mind-numb from the media. All they want is comfort.”
Frank stepped forward and spread his arms to include everyone in the room. He looked at each man, speaking slowly.
“And now our freedom is up for sale. The Second Amendment’s long gone. They’re taking guns left and right. The Fourth is unreasonable search and seizure, and that’s blown out of the water, too. If you don’t look right, the cops will shake you down.
“The Sixth Amendment protects private property from government seizure, but cops can confiscate cash from someone accused of a crime. People are in jail just for having money on them. I believe in law and order, Joe. I believe in democracy and freedom. But I don’t trust the government and I’m afraid of the police. I won’t support a country that cares so little for its people.”
Frank stopped talking abruptly. Joe was entranced by the man’s charisma, which surpassed that of the best preachers he had heard at home. The room, was quiet, and he realized that Frank was waiting for a response.
“This is new to me,” Joe said.
“We’ve gone off the grid,” Frank said. “That’s why we’re interested in you. You went one step further than us. You came back on the grid as someone else. The government can’t control you because they don’t know who you are or where you are. I admire that.”
“We all do,” Owen said. “You’re the first outsider we’ve taken, in.”
“There’ll be more,” Frank said, “People know what’s happening here. They’ve always come west for freedom, same as you, Joe. To start again, To be free.”
Frank leaned toward Joe, an expression of understanding on his face.
“That’s why I came,” Joe said, his voice a whisper.
“You left home in such a hurry,” Coop said, “you forgot to take the right name with you.”
The men laughed, Joe became aware of a new ease in the barn, as if he’d passed muster, although he wasn’t sure how.
“Gendemen,” Frank said. “I’m satisfied. If anyone isn’t, now’s the time to talk,”
Everyone was silent except the man with the damaged ear.
“I dug that possum up,” he said, “I cut it open and rooted around in there. That’s the second time it got itself skinned. If you’re anything but what Frank says, I’ll do the same to you.”
He lifted his chin to Frank, who nodded once in dismissal, and the man left the bam. One by one, the rest moved outside, squinting against the light.
Botree was a silhouette the size of Joe’s thumb at the top of the ridge. Behind her the mountains were glazed by sun, stretching in a lavender line. Joe leaned against the fence, feeling grateful for the vast space after the confines of the barn. Owen joined him on one side and Coop the other, each propping a boot on the fence in the exact same way.
“You bushwhacked them boys,” Coop said. “There’s a couple who thought you might be all hock and no spit.”
“It don’t matter to me what they think.”
“That’s to your credit,” Owen said.
Sun warmed Joe’s face. The sky was blue as water and so close that he felt as if he could drink it.
“I like how it stays light till late,” he said.
“Guess you believe in daylight saving time,” Coop said.
“Never knew it was something you believed in,” Joe said. “Like Santa Claus or flying saucers.”
“Then you’re letting Congress tell you what time it is. To hell with the moon and the earth’s rotation and all that. I don’t recognize the authority of Congress over time.”
“Time don’t have anything to do with us or Congress,” Joe said. “A wristwatch is the same as handcuffs.”
“You’re coming along,” Owen said. “Most of us don’t wear watches.”
He adjusted his hat in the same manner as his sister, and Coop spat tobacco to the rocky dirt. He rested while standing, like a workhorse that lifted a leg. The sound of a track engine filled the air, and was joined by another. Wind carried the scent of exhaust. The passing vehicles raised a quill of dust that settled to the ground like frost, Joe watched them leave. At the corner of the barn Johnny stood by a truck.
“Now that you know I ain’t no spy,” Joe said, “he can go ahead and finish the job.”
“That boy ain’t been worth two sticks since shooting you,” Coop said.
“I don’t care.”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t either,” Owen said. “But we’re stuck with him and you both.”
“Look,” Coop said. “Johnny wants to say something to you. We’d appreciate if you’d let him. It might help us get some work out of him.”
Johnny wore new jeans and a pink shirt with red piping, and crescent pockets. He stood mute and sad, and Joe realized that he had dressed for the occasion. Joe limped across the dusty land. When Johnny saw him coming, he flicked the cigarette away, spat between his teeth, smoothed his shirt, and tugged his pants. The cigarette butt trailed a line of smoke.
“Pick that up,” Joe said.
Johnny moved quickly, as if grateful for release. He mashed the paper and tobacco into the earth and scuffed it in a circle until there was nothing but dirt. He kept his head down. Joe leaned across the truck hood, to take weight off his leg. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture he recognized as having belonged to Boyd. Johnny kicked dust and looked at Joe and away. He tried to speak but no words came. He tried again.
“What happened,” he said, “you know, in the woods.”
Joe sensed that to look at Johnny or even nod would make him stop talking.
“That day,” Johnny said, “when you got shot” He stared at the ground as if he’d never seen it before. “It was my gun. Me that, you know, did it I didn’t mean to exactly. Everybody says you’re all right.” His voice tapered to a ragged whisper. “Anyhow, I’m sorry.”
There was not much Joe could say and he wanted to be sure Johnny got everything out. Johnny pressed his head against the fence rail, speaking to the dirt.
“I feel real bad about it. That’s why I never came to see you or nothing. It’s not like I go around shooting people. I’m not that way.”
He gathered breath and straightened his body.
“I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for it,” he said. “But if you want
, you can shoot me back.”
From the pocket of his jacket he withdrew a pistol and proffered it butt-first. Joe took it as casually as borrowing a pencil. It was a .22 revolver with wooden grips and a long barrel, more of a target pistol than anything else. Oil glistened along the moving parts.
“Just the leg,” Johnny said. “So’s to square things out.”
His mouth was tight and a strip of sweat clung to his forehead.
Joe held the gun loosely, its weight comfortable in his hand. He released the cylinder, swung it open, and dumped the bullets to the dirt. They made six tiny pocks in the dust like the heavy drops of rain in advance of a storm. An expression of disappointment entered Johnny’s eyes. Joe returned the empty gun.
“Owen know you got this?” Joe said.
“No. I mean yes, but he don’t know nothing about this.”
“I had a brother used to hunt squirrels with a pistol. He’d aim with his eyes instead of the gunsight. The whole idea was to put a bullet in the tree bark so close to the squirrel’s head that it died from shock. He called it barking a squirrel.”
“Not much meat to a squirrel.”
“Hunting that way gave him a challenge. He said any damn fool could kill a deer with a rifle and a scope.”
“Hard part’s getting a deer home,” Johnny said. “Last time Owen got one, he had to quarter it and make four trips out, mostly at night. He never went again.”
“Somebody should tell him to hunt close to the house.”
“Nobody tells him nothing. Not even Coop.”
“How about you?”
“Everybody tells me what to do.”
“They tell you to talk with me?”
“That was my idea,” Johnny said. “I was kind of hoping you’d shoot just now. I know it don’t make much sense.”
“I might be just the man to understand that.”
“How’s that?”
“It didn’t bother me too much you putting one in my leg.”
“No?”
“It’s not that I liked it,” Joe said. “But more a case of not minding. I guess part of me thought I deserved it.”
“Same here.”
“You don’t, Johnny. You were just doing your job out there, weren’t you.”
“Yeah.”
“A leg shot ain’t that bad.”