The True Father

by Steven Anderson Law

  “Interesting town,” I said.

  “Yeah, they're a dying breed,” Grandpa said.

  We continued on, passing a large school with a parking lot full of big yellow school buses, then on out into the countryside, where pastures covered with spring grass spread flat as far as my eyes could see. A short ways out of town, a white metal fence, similar to that at the rodeo arena only whiter, lined each side of the blacktop road. We eventually came to a driveway on the left side of the road and Grandpa swung the big motor home into the lane. At the end of the drive was a long one-story brick house, and out in the pasture grazed several horses and cattle.

  “Whose house is this?” I asked.

  “This ranch belongs to your Uncle Jeremiah.”

  Five

  As we pulled into a circle drive in front of the house, the front door opened and out walked Jeremiah. Except for the absence of the bolo tie, he looked like he hadn't changed clothes since I'd seen him at the commencement. He even wore the same friendly smile. And not far behind him was a woman who appeared to be a few years younger, with short brown hair and wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans.

  After the three of us climbed out of the RV, Jeremiah introduced us to his wife, Jodie, whom I learned from Grandma was only four years younger than Jeremiah. Anyone who didn't know would never believe it. Grandma said that along with smoking and drinking, Jeremiah's many days in the Oklahoma sun had aged him to where he looked over sixty. And she was right; standing next to Grandpa, who pushed seventy, Jeremiah could easily pass as his brother. In contrast, Jodie could almost pass for thirty. She looked fabulous, wearing skintight Wrangler jeans, lace-up cowboy boots, and a T-shirt advertising the 2000 National Finals Rodeo. In actuality she was the same age as my mother, forty-five, but I'd never seen my mom in such apparel, which possibly helped with the youthful image.

  They invited us to their back patio, which was a large wooden deck made of treated lumber and coated with a water seal that made it shiny. A propane barbecue grill stood next to the patio door, and along the outside rails were several pots with an assortment of pink and white flowers. We gathered around a table shaded by an umbrella, and Jodie brought out a tray that held several glasses of ice and a clear glass pitcher of lemonade with pulp and lemons floating at the top.

  “I'm sure glad you came down, Trevor,” Jeremiah said. “For so many years I've wanted to get in touch with you. I'm just sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”

  “Me, too.”

  I could tell that there was a lot on Jeremiah's mind, more than just me coming to pay my last respects to my father. Something made him edgy and I had absolutely no idea what it could be, or what possibly I could do now to help.

  Grandpa smacked his lips after taking a drink of lemonade. “I showed Trevor the old arena. A lot of old memories there.”

  “Yeah,” Jeremiah said, “Jettie and I both ate our share of dirt in that old oval.”

  They continued to share ancient memories along with a few laughs—stories that I found fascinating to say the least. It was as if Jeremiah lived in a different world, with so much freedom and depth. Growing up in Kansas City I grew used to the sounds of automobiles on concrete and the smell of their exhaust. Everything that occurred in our lives took place in and around our little mansion, which set on less than a half-acre. Our social life centered on events with whom-ever Mom was dating that week, with all the promises of a family lifestyle somewhere down the road. I never realized it until now, but we seemed to be boxed into our own little world stricken with limitations. While here, one could listen to birds sing without the background noise of motor vehicles. All the land that surrounded us Jeremiah owned. And the stories of the past centered on events shared with their family. I tried to think of something to share about my past, but I couldn't. I had never experienced anything compared to the adventurous lives these people lived.

  “So, I hear you're gonna be one of them big city accountants,” Jeremiah said.

  “Guess so,” I said, wondering how my planned career measured up to anything he had done.

  Grandpa decided to brag a little for me. “Yeah, Trev was one of the best in his class. Gonna be sitting for the CPA exam this fall.”

  “Sounds like you've got a good plan,” Jeremiah said.

  “I hope so.”

  Grandpa chuckled. “Jeremiah, you know what CPA stands for, don't you?”

  Oh no, I thought. Not this joke again.

  “Sure,” Jeremiah answered. “Certified Public Accountant.”

  “No,” Grandpa said, already laughing. “Certified Public Asshole!”

  I think Jeremiah already knew the punch line but, if so, he played along and laughed anyway.

  Finally Grandpa suggested it was time he take the RV down to the campground and get it set up, then Jeremiah insisted he hook it up next to his machine shop behind the house. They didn't argue long before Grandpa agreed to his accommodations. And Jodie suggested I stay in one of their spare rooms rather than in the RV, and after thinking of a night with Grandpa snoring, I gladly accepted.

  While Grandpa and Grandma set up the RV Jeremiah invited me on a tour of the ranch. I followed him inside the machine shop and to his pickup truck, a white GMC with a black flatbed and dual tires on the back. From out of nowhere a short-legged, silvery blue spotted dog with pointed ears ran into the machine shop and jumped up onto the flatbed. Also on top of the flatbed was a tire mounted on a silver wheel and two bales of hay, and a guard made of square steel tubing covered the back window. The dog laid down next to the tire and rested its chin between its front paws. The bottoms of the pickup doors and rocker panels were splattered with a dark green substance that I managed to get on one of the cuffs of my jeans. At first I thought it was grass, like from the bottom of a lawn mower, but the closer I looked, I realized it was cow shit. Jeremiah grinned and told me I could give my jeans to Jodie and she'd wash them for me. I looked down at his jean cuffs and noticed they were free of manure stains. He assured me that the next time I climbed into a ranch truck I'd know better.

  As we drove off through a gate and into a pasture behind the machine shed, Jeremiah pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. They were Marlboros in a red and white package. He knocked one out of the package, stuck it between his lips and lit it with a plastic butane lighter.

  He took me to all four corners of his land, showed me the boundaries, the land he hayed, his horse and cattle herds, and the bulls that he contracted for the rodeo. Not far from the bulls was a small pond shaped like a triangle with rounded corners. Two tan-colored birds with long white tails screeched and hopped in the grass near the pond. And as the bulls grazed their tails swatted back and forth to their flanks, and flies swarmed around their eyes and the sun-dried manure on their rumps.

  Jeremiah stopped the truck and killed the engine. He pushed the cigarette butt into an ashtray, which was already nearly full with older butts, then lit another.

  He shook a second cigarette halfway out of the package and held it in front of me. “You smoke?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Good for you.”

  He dropped the cigarettes back in his shirt pocket, opened the door and stepped outside. I looked out at the bulls, that now stared at us, and wondered how quickly the mammoth looking beasts would charge me once I stepped out of the truck.

  “They won't hurt you,” Jeremiah said.

  Regardless of his assurance, and my trust in him, I opened the door cautiously.

  Jeremiah leaned the seat forward, grabbed something wrapped in a small brown paper bag, then closed the door and came around to my side. He set the brown-bagged object on the back of the flatbed then lifted himself up and sat with his legs hanging. He patted his hand beside him inviting me up. I inspected the side of the bed carefully for more manure, then lifted myself up between him and the dog. I reached over and scratched the dog behind the ears. It closed its eyes and seemed to enjoy the affection.

  “What’s
his name?” I asked.

  “Her name is Jezebel.”

  “Interesting name.”

  “Yeah, a cattle buddy up by Tahlequah gave her to me, said her name was Lady. I got her home and within a week she had screwed every dog in the neighborhood. She had a litter of pups, half Redbone coonhound. Ugliest damn things you ever saw. So I had her fixed thinking that would help. Stopped the pups but it didn’t stop her from whoring around. So I said the hell with it and changed her name to Jezebel. It’s a name I can live with.”

  “What kind of dog is she?”

  “Blue Healer.”

  I kept scratching behind Jezebel’s ears, feeling somewhat sorry for her having such a label. “Are all Blue Healers so promiscuous?”

  “Hell if I know. They’re mostly known for their ability to work stock, and she does that well, too.”

  “I suppose if she does her job, then she’s entitled to a little recreation afterwards.”

  Jeremiah chuckled a bit and folded down the top of the paper bag. He unscrewed a cap from a bottle, removed the cigarette from his lips then tipped the bottle up to his mouth. He took two swallows then handed the bottle to me. “Snort?”

  I was hesitant, but I'd already turned down one of his generous offers, and besides, I liked a shot of whiskey every now and then. So I accepted the bottle, tipped it up, and like Jeremiah took two swallows. The fiery sensation afterwards took my breath, caused me to choke and wheeze, and I suddenly wondered if I was going to die right there on the back of the truck.

  Jezebel apparently drew a concern for me and raised her head and barked. But Jeremiah told her to hush and, dutifully, she returned her head back to its resting position.

  “You all right?” Jeremiah asked, almost laughing.

  I nodded and continued to wheeze.

  “I guess it's just one of those things you have to get used to,” he said.

  “What is that stuff?”

  “Oh, just a little potion a fella down near Talihina makes for me.”

  “Potion?”

  “Yeah, I don't care much for that watered down stuff they sell at the liquor stores. I like my booze to have a little kick to it.”

  “Kick? I think it took the skin off my tongue.”

  He laughed a little. “It'll grow back.”

  Still feeling the pain, I couldn't find any humor in his joke.

  “You know,” he said, “Jettie and I had our first taste of corn whiskey together. I reckon I was about fourteen. Your pa would have been ten or so. We were fishing the Arkansas River one night and before we left we found our pa's bottle and brought it with us.”

  “Well I hope you about choked to death like I did.”

  “We didn't take as big a swallow as you did.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  “I suppose I could have. But I will say we sure were sick puppies the next day. Drank the whole bottle. And pa whooped us good.”

  He handed the bottle back to me. “Best to keep going if you're ever going to get use to it.”

  “No thanks. I think I've had enough internal tissue loss for one day.”

  He put the cap back on the bottle and took a large drag off his cigarette. Then he retrieved something else from his pocket and handed it to me. “I want you to have this.”

  It was the letter he showed my mom and I at the graduation. I accepted it but didn't quite know what to say.

  “That's not the only one,” he said. “There's more down at his house.”

  I read the postmark. It was dated January 18, 1978. Back then I would have been a year old.

  “More were returned?”

  “Yeah, there's a dozen or so in a shoebox down at Jettie's place. After he died, I went down there to see if I could find a way to get in touch with you. That's all I could find.”

  Other than the sound of Jeremiah unscrewing the bottle cap, we sat for a moment in near silence. I studied the letter again. The address was the same as where we lived now—our home for the last twenty-two years.

  Jeremiah continued. “Tomorrow afternoon, after the funeral, I'll need you to come with me to the lawyer's office.”

  “Why?”

  “For the reading of Jettie's will. From what I understand, he left you some things.”

  “He did? Like what?”

  “I have no idea. But we'll find out tomorrow.”

  Now my head felt as if it was spinning. Along with two gulps of homemade whiskey burning my throat and boiling in my stomach, I had this new knowledge to absorb. My father, who I never new, included me in his will, and left behind a shoebox with several more returned letters. But the one in my hand was at the peak of my interest. For some unknown reason, I couldn’t find the courage to open it, as if when I tore through the paper something horrifying would jump out at me. With those thoughts in mind, I folded it along the age-old creases and put it in a back pocket of my jeans. When I looked back at Jeremiah, he tipped the bottle again and took another healthy swallow. Suddenly I realized that he hadn’t just offered me a drink, but probably thought I could use a little valor as well.

  Six

  While Jeremiah retired early, Jodie showed me my room and offered a closet for me to hang my garment bag. Never in my life had I met someone so hospitable, graceful and content. Everything she did, from the preparation of the lemonade to the fine barbecue supper that evening, was done with such great pride.

  I straddled the edge of a leather sofa in their living room, which was connected with the dining room and kitchen, making it feel like one spacious area. The floors in each room were hardwood, and the walls were a textured white throughout, with paintings and artwork of the American West. I took particular interest in a painting hanging behind me, of a cowboy that rode a bucking horse. The detail was incredible, but more so the action and culture that it portrayed. The artist signature in the lower right hand corner read “Frederic Remington”. Apparently they had an affinity for his work, because all the paintings on their walls bore his mark.

  On the far end of the living room was a large stone fireplace with a matching hearth. Several photographs of various sizes and frames stood propped on the mantle.

  Jodie walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door, grabbed two beers and brought one to me. It was straight Budweiser in a longneck bottle.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. But I appreciate everything.”

  She sat down across from me on a matching leather chair and took a drink of her beer. “I bet all of this is making you a bit nervous, huh?”

  “Does it show?”

  “Oh, not really. I'd say you're handling it very well.”

  “I'm sort of spinning. I really don't know how to feel.”

  “Well, maybe in a few days it will come to you. Jeremiah is sure happy that you're here.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “I don't believe this has really hit him either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He and Jettie were as close as two brothers could get. They did everything together.”

  “So how long have you and Jeremiah been married?”

  She smiled. “Almost thirty years.”

  “Then you must have known my mom.”

  “Oh, yes. I knew Bonnie. And I used to hold you when you was just a little thing.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded and her dark brown eyes studied me intently. “You sure look a lot like him.”

  “Like who?”

  “Jettie. You have his sandy hair and his nose. But he had green eyes. You got those brown eyes from your ma.”

  “I've never seen him so I wouldn't know.”

  “Not even a picture?”

  “No.”

  “My God, then get your tail over here!”

  She stood and walked over to the mantle and grabbed an eight by ten gold-framed photograph and handed it to me. “That's him on the left. The picture was taken two years ago at the NFR.”


  “NFR?”

  “National Finals Rodeo. We go every year.”

  I studied the photo closely. He and Jeremiah stood next to each other, both smiling, wearing cowboy hats and western shirts. Jeremiah looked the same as he did now. And Jodie was right. With the exception of the eye color I looked a lot like him. But there was a ruggedness about him that also drew a distinct difference between us.

  “Was he a good man?” I asked, still looking at him in the photo.

  “Sure, everybody loved Jettie. He was like a celebrity around here. And we were all just sure he was going to make us famous. Especially Jeremiah.”

  “What about my mom?”

  “What about her?”

  “Did she like him being popular?”

  “Not really. Bonnie didn’t care much for the rodeo.”

  “So what actually happened between them?”

  “Nobody knows that but your ma. We all have our opinions, but they'd just be gossip and wouldn't do you a bit of good.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “Now Trevor, what kind of question is that?”

  “Honestly. I'd like to know what people thought about her.”

  “I understand, but it would be very disrespectful for me to say anything bad about your ma.”

  “So you didn't like her.”

  She slapped me lightly on my arm. “I didn't say that!”

  “Look, Jodie, I love my mom. And nothing you or anyone said would ever change that. I don't want gossip, I just want to know your honest feelings.”

  Her face seemed to tighten up, and I felt as if I was asking her to take a lock off a box of memories she'd rather not open. She looked back up at the mantle and gazed at the many photographs. “I wouldn't know where to start.”