“He’s my uncle, Mitch. He wouldn’t let me down.”
“Corvallis is a long way for him to come, isn’t it?”
“He’ll be here, Mitch.”
They had arrived via a caravan of three cars and one flatbed truck. They had taken I-5 from Portland and then, at Salem, had driven southwest into the heart of lush farming country out and around the small college town of Monmouth. A few miles south of Monmouth, they had turned off the main road and onto a narrow lane that ran for a hundred yards alongside a row of evenly spaced Lombardy poplars. A pebbly, ankle-deep creek flowed just the other side of the poplars, between grassy banks, and a half-mile away a large white farmhouse sat in the shade of a dozen massive elm and maple trees.
“Corvallis is just south of here, not that much air time, really.”
“Okay, but tell me this, Lisa. How do we know the guy’s not gonna be there? I mean, what if we get there and he standing out in his backyard or something. We wave at him?”
“We dump a bag of garbage on his head.” Carlos laughed.
He had driven one of the cars and had bragged on the way down about the choice items he had saved up: pickles, tortillas, jalapeños, a dozen empty tequila bottles, a slew of Taco Bell wrappers, and a dozen used condoms. He had even managed to come up with a couple of rusty hoes with broken handles. In explaining why he had chosen a Mexican theme, he said it was his way of getting revenge on “Un Viejo Bastardo,” who probably, over the years, had exploited his share of migrant field hands. He called it a variation of Montezuma’s Revenge: dumping what amounted to shit on the guy.
Tony laughed, too. He was excited about the prospect of getting some great action shots. Heidi had promised to post them on the Internet, for all the world to see. To make sure he was fully equipped and ready to go, he had brought along his best camera, a twelve-hundred-dollar model capable of freezing a hummingbird in flight. To look the part, he had also worn a multi-pocketed vest and an Australian bush hat with one side of the brim cocked up. As he stood on the tarmac, waiting with the rest of the group, he felt every bit the war correspondent he had once wanted to be.
“Well, we oughta have a backup plan, just in case,” Mike suggested.
He, too, had dressed as he thought appropriate for the occasion: a black jumpsuit over a gray turtleneck, a pair of lace-up high-topped boots, and a black beret set at a jaunty angle. “Otherwise, we’ve wasted all the time and energy we’ve put into it.”
“Why don’t we just call and see if he’s home?” Mitch suggested, looking at the others for consensus.
Lisa walked up and put her hand over his mouth. “You’re going to jinx it for us, Mitch. There’s good karma and there’s bad karma, and right now you’re bad karma.”
She took her hand away and smiled.
Mitch smiled sheepishly. “I’m just trying to be realistic about it.”
“Well, think positive, Mitch. That’s being realistic, too.”
“He is right, you know,” Tony ventured. “What if the guy is there? What do we do then? I mean, I don’t wanna go to all this trouble…”
“Tony, don’t worry about it. You’ll have your chance to take your pictures.”
Tony, fingering his camera nervously, turned away. “Well, I hope so,” he muttered.
Just then, the distant clatter of a helicopter caused everyone to look up.
“There it is now!”
The shout had come from the Chevy flatbed. Its owner, Dalton Crocker (who went by the nickname “Whit,” after Walt Whitman, the poet) was sitting on the running board, reading poetry by Allen Ginsberg. The tan Stetson he had purchased for three dollars two years previously, at a garage sale, sat tipped back on his head at an angle reminiscent of a cowboy perched on the top railing of a split-log fence, with a piece of straw stuck in his mouth. The open-collared, long-sleeve flannel shirt he wore, also a garage sale item, had faded from multiple washings into a pastel mix of red, white, and blue, and the tag end of a sack of Bull Durham tobacco dangled from its breast pocket. His jeans and cowboy boots had the mark of much barnyard activity, though they, too, had come from someone else’s pile of used clothing.
He marked his place in the book and got into the truck. He started the engine and sat there, waiting for the chopper to land.
The blue and white, wide-bodied craft, having the look of a hospital Medivac unit, could be seen making a lazy, circuitous sweep in from the southeast. Banking slightly as it came in line with the far end of the runway, it commenced a leisurely descent that dropped it onto a shallow trajectory a half-mile out.
As it chattered in toward the row of empty hangars, about halfway down the runway it veered off, then brought itself around nose first, where it hovered six feet above a grassy meadow off to the right of the last hangar. A moment or two later, with the left skid touching down lightly ahead of the right, it slowly lowered itself onto the grass surface. Once both skids were firmly planted on the ground, the pilot disengaged the controls and cut the engine. Seconds later, the cockpit door opened and the pilot stepped out. Hunching over, he hurried out from under the range of the swirling twin blades and strode over to the group.
Running up to him, Lisa gave him a joyous kiss on the cheek. She said something that caused him to laugh, and together, arm in arm, both smiling, they walked back to the group.
“This is Uncle Sullivan, everyone!” Lisa proudly announced. “He’d normally be out in his boat, deep-sea fishing, but he’s agreed to help us.”
Wearing a baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, Uncle Sullivan had on a white shirt, khaki trousers, and tan desert boots. He looked like a corporate executive or a commercial pilot. His tan and weathered features attested to much time spent on the golf course or out on the open water. Fifty years old, with graying hair at the temples and standing just over six feet, he had the lean build of a Marine officer who’s kept himself fit with daily push-ups and five-mile runs.
He raised his hand and said, “Howdy, folks. Glad to meet y’all. So what’s the plan of action?”
Heidi quickly explained what they had in mind.
“It’s to protest careless disregard of the environment,” Lisa added.
“A lesson, huh?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“Well, God knows there’s enough of the bastards out there, that’s for sure. But, listen here, is this guy supposed to be home or what? Because if he is, I’m not sure this is the best idea. It’d be too easy to identify the craft and report it afterwards. Needless to say, I don’t need anybody meeting me when I touch down back in Corvallis, if you get my drift.”
“If his pickup’s not there, he’s not there,” Lisa assured him. “We can do a flyover first, to make sure.”
“Well, good enough. But just so you understand, if the pickup’s there, we’ll have to abort, Lisa. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. I take it the flatbed’s got all the stuff we’re talkin’ about?”
“That’s been our group project for the past two months.”
“Well, let’s get it on board.”
The black garbage bags had been loaded onto the back of Whit’s flatbed and covered with a plastic tarpaulin held in place with bungee cords. There were twelve bags in all; each had been filled to capacity with different kinds of kitchen garbage, including Carlos’s contribution—everything from watermelon rinds and moldy heads of lettuce to empty egg cartons and old ketchup bottles. The garbage itself had been amassed by all the members of the group over a period of eight or nine weeks, with each member saving his or her personal trash until a sufficient amount had been accumulated for the intended operation. With enough garbage now to more than make a point, the only remaining question concerned whether it would all fit into a helicopter designed to carry a maximum of four passengers, a pilot and a co-pilot, with space left over for several pieces of luggage.
Once the helicopter blades ceased to turn, Whit backed the flatbed in close. Undoing the bungee cords, he turned back the tarpaulin wi
th enough flourish to evoke a ceremonial unveiling. The twelve black garbage bags, stuffed to the gunnels, lay underneath.
“So, whatta ya think? Are they gonna fit or not?”
Uncle Sullivan shook his head. “Not very likely. Maybe four or five.”
“How about if whoever goes along holds one on his lap?” Lisa suggested.
“That’d work,” Heidi said, turning to the others for confirmation.
“I have to take pictures,” Tony objected. “I can’t focus my camera if I have to baby-sit fifteen pounds of garbage.”
“You don’t have to take pictures until we get there. You can hold a bag until then. So who else is coming?”
“Add me to that list.” Carlos said.
“Carlos…Anyone else? Mitch?”
“Are you coming, Lisa?”
“I’m the co-pilot.” Lisa had already donned her own pair of aviator glasses and looked ready for the job.
“Okay, count me in.”
“Room for one more…Mike? Whit?”
Mike turned to Whit. “Do you wanna go?”
“I’ll stay here and hold down the fort,” Whit said.
He had stepped apart from the group; holding an open bag of Bull Durham in one hand and a cigarette paper cradled between the thumb and index finger of the other, he tapped the bag just enough to sprinkle tobacco along the curved length of the paper. With the others looking on, nonchalantly he lifted the bag to his mouth, cinched it tight with his teeth, then stuck it back in his shirt pocket. Raising the cigarette paper to his lips, he ran his tongue along one edge, then rolled it over the other edge, lightly pressing them both together with his thumb.
He looked up and smiled. “Nothing to it,” he said, striking a wooden match off his jeans and lighting a fair semblance of a real cigarette.
Mitch had noted the scuffed cowboy boots and the weathered Stetson. “That was quite a performance,” he said. “Is that part of a cowboy shtick? Or are you the real thing?”
Whit met the query with eyes as blue as gasoline exhaust from a tailpipe. “Ya know, I never thought about it,” he said, after a pause. “I guess I just do what comes natural.”
“No kidding? We should all be so lucky.”
Heidi wanted to move things along. “We should start,” she said. And turning to Uncle Sullivan: “What now?”
“Now we load the bags.”
After Uncle Sullivan climbed aboard the craft and opened up the midsection, Whit hopped onto the flatbed and, with the cigarette angled down from his mouth, began off-loading the individual bags.
One by one, Uncle Sullivan snugged them all into a space behind the back row of passenger seats. Finishing up, he secured them all with a bungee cord. “That’ll do her,” he said. “Y’all ready to go?”
Heidi looked at Mike. “So, do you want to go?”
Mike started to say yes but then changed his mind. “I think I’ll stay here and talk shop with Whit. I’ve read some of his poetry, and it’ll give me a chance to discuss it.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay.”
With Tony insisting that for the sake of a decent camera angle he needed to sit closest to the open doorway, Mitch, Carlos, and Heidi climbed on board first. Lisa went around to the other side and got into the co-pilot’s seat. As the four passengers buckled their seat belts, Whit handed off a bag apiece, then turned to Uncle Sullivan.
“What do you think?” he asked, referring to the remaining two bags of garbage.
“If ten bags of ripe garbage doesn’t impress your guy, two more aren’t gonna do it either,” he said. “But I’m gonna start her up. We oughta be moving out.”
Taking the cue, Whit moved his truck back from the landing spot. Mike walked to a safe distance and stood by, watching.
Sliding the fuselage door shut, Uncle Sullivan ducked his head and stepped into the cockpit. Situating himself into the pilot’s seat, he draped a seat belt over each shoulder and across his chest. Once he had himself harnessed in, he set his glasses back on his nose, switched on a series of controls, and started the engine.
Accompanied by a steady, high-pitched whine, the two oar-like blades commenced a gradual rotation that rapidly increased in velocity until the craft, as though succumbing to an irresistible pull, lifted itself off the grass. Allowing it to hover in place momentarily, Uncle Sullivan accelerated the power. As the craft ascended to a more operational level, he shifted the control stick and brought it into a one-eighty-degree turn. Veering onto a southwesterly direction, he advanced the control stick and chattered off toward a range of lowlying hills mantled in thick, deciduous greenery.
12
Mobley Johnson closed the kitchen door and stepped out onto the back porch of the two-story farmhouse where he had lived since his family had migrated from the Ozarks sixty years before. He had just awakened from his afternoon nap and, momentarily, stood at the screen door of the enclosed porch and peered out into the bright sunlight.
He was a tall, rawboned man in his early sixties, in gray overalls and a long-sleeve undershirt. His jaw had a stolid, prognathous quality that evoked truculent determination and an undefined, habitually defiant attitude. Raised in a household versed in all the precepts of a biblical upbringing, he was forever fond of quoting passages from the Bible, and of reminding anyone unfortunate enough to be within ear-shot that Jesus had died for the sins of All Mankind (“Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shall be saved!”). He had little tolerance or patience for anyone disinclined to believe otherwise.
He paused long enough to scratch a two-day growth of gray whiskers and to put a fresh pinch of chewing tobacco in his mouth. Then, clutching a bagful of kitchen garbage in each hand, he pushed open the screen door with his foot and started down the back steps. The garbage had been accumulated over an eight-week period, and he had been careful to separate out everything that might incriminate him—notices from the power company, personal letters, bills, or anything else with his name and address on it.
With the two bags in hand, he walked over to a white Ford pickup. The pickup was parked in his gravel driveway and had a brown canopy over the back. He used it for hauling fertilizer for his alfalfa field, feed for his chickens and hogs, lumber for an occasional building project, and, of course, groceries. At one time, he had also used it to take his garbage to a local garbage dump. Now, since the owner had raised the price to twenty dollars a load, he used it to dispose of the garbage in his own way.
He opened the canopy’s rear window and hefted the two bags into the back of the truck, where they came to rest against other bags from the same eight-week period. Closing the canopy, he noticed that his license tags had expired, and he made a mental note to get new ones. Three or four times lately, the county sheriff had passed him on the road, and, especially on a day like today, he did not need to be stopped.
The pickup started with a roar, and he had to tap the gas pedal several times before the idle kicked in at its proper setting. As he backed out of the driveway, thinking the problem might be with the carburetor, he made another mental note to have it checked the next time he went into town.
The road past his farmhouse was narrow and blacktopped, and for several miles it passed along a corridor of rich farmland and hilly green countryside. A few of the farms were owned by folks who had grown up in the area, people he had gone to school with and whom he considered natives and therefore acceptable. They were people he regularly met with and talked to after church services on Sunday or at church-sponsored events such as picnics or fund-raisers. From time to time, when he was in town, he ran into them, and they stopped and chatted about the weather, the price of hogs, an upcoming election, or, anymore, about the immigration of city folks into the countryside.
In principle, he had nothing against people who didn’t really belong there moving out from Portland, or from wherever, and taking up residence; after all, they, too, were Americans and had a right to live anywhere they pleased. He just
didn’t like them coming out here. And more specifically, he didn’t like the changes they brought with them—little cheese and coffee boutiques (“Little boo-beeps,” he called them) and arts-and-crafts shops that catered to a strange breed of men who wore shorts and open-toed sandals, and women who appeared in tank-tops, cut-off Levi’s, and flip-flops. As though it were some kind of contagion that had followed them from the city, they all seemed to ride bicycles down country lanes, attend ungodly rock concerts where the guitarist sang and strummed un-American protest songs, and drive humungous SUVs that took up half the road.
They also brought with them teachers who espoused evolution, gay rights, feminism, androgyny, and other unsound ideas that threatened the natural order of things. In the beginning, a few years earlier, when one or two of them had moved in down the road, renovating an old, abandoned farmhouse that had been left to decay, it had been all right; he was all for the extra dollars they brought into the community. But now, like a noxious foreign plant inimical to the native species, these people were slowly taking over. (Hell, a set of new neighbors less than a quarter-mile down the road had even complained about his rooster crowing at four or five o’clock in the morning. If that wasn’t a breach of the natural order, he didn’t know what was!)
It was probably fifteen minutes after he left the house that he saw the helicopter. He actually heard it before he saw it, and he didn’t see it until it was almost directly overhead; even then, glancing up through the windshield, he only glimpsed its white underbelly. Before he could see more of it, it had passed over him and headed off in the direction he had just come.
It was not an altogether unusual sight, but it did pique his curiosity. He surmised it had something to do with the new housing development on the other side of town: another one of his pet peeves—the growth of the city limits. It had happened with Monmouth and Independence—they were virtually one city now, with no farm country left in between—and he feared the same thing would happen here.
Ten miles later, he headed up into the hills and turned onto an erst-while logging road.
The Distant Echo of a Bright Sunny Day Page 10