Mornings in Two Pan

by B K Froman

  George extended his hand. “So I’m stayin’ here ’til I’m ready to move in with my kids. When that happens, you’re the guys I’ll sell to. Is this good enough for a contract?”

  “Your word has always been gold.” Ox shook on it. “Let’s go, Jiggs. Never hang around after closin’ the deal. It gives the other party time to change their minds.”

  “Nap’s not done,” Jiggs said. “I can hear him on the roof, sweeping branches off. He can take you home. I’ve got other business to tend to.”

  “Like what?” Ox stared.

  Jiggs stared back. Thoughts circled his mind that he’d like for George to finish his story of how Brick had died. He studied his dad for a moment. He wouldn’t get any information if his dad were here. “Never mind.” He grabbed chip sacks and pushed empty beer bottles into Ox’s hands. “We’ll clear the mess we’ve made.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I got a gal who comes in twice a week. She’ll get it.”

  Jiggs herded Ox in front of him toward the kitchen. “She does a good job. Can I get her name?”

  “Why?" Ox squinted. “You’ve got a son to do housework. That’s what I made you and Pax do.”

  “Yeah, that’s another great memory.”

  In ten minutes they were driving away. Nap had given his best hang-dog impression, apologizing that there was too much to do there, and he’d be late for the Great-Clean-Out at Ox’s house. But not to worry. He’d eat in town, or with George, or anywhere in the county besides home.

  A Clean House Is The Sign Of A Boring Person

  AS THEY PULLED into the gravel drive, Jiggs broke the silence of the trip home. “I would’ve bought the land now. George might change his mind. Why wait?”

  “You’re a jackrabbit, hopping to the next big idea so you can mess it up. George won’t change his mind. He’s not like you.” Ox gave him a warning stare. “You don’t push a man off his land. Everybody wants old people to get out of the way. George built that ranch. He’ll stay as long as he wants. When he’s ready, he’ll sell to us, and we’ll keep it goin’.”

  Jiggs glanced at him. Ox was right about doing homework before jumping into a land deal. He doubted his dad knew if there was enough money in the savings account. At least they hadn’t saddled themselves with debt. No telling what he would discover when he pried the finances away from his dad. He motioned toward the small house. “You want to eat before we start cleaning out your badger nest or take a break in the middle?”

  “Leave everything the way it is.” Ox scowled.

  “Wouldn’t you enjoy some home-cooked meals in your fridge? That’s what George had. You could heat up a plate of pot roast or meatloaf whenever you wanted.”

  Ox fiddled with a buttonhole on his shirt, looking for a missing button.

  “Well, whether you like it or not, I’m having someone come in to fix a few meals and do a little cleaning.”

  “They can cook. That’s all.”

  “The hash-slinging tent at round-up is cleaner than your kitchen. Nobody’s going to set foot in there if we don’t unpollute it. Mom’s yelling in heaven right now about the stink in your sink.”

  Ox gave a slow headshake. “She could voice her opinion. That’s for sure.” He pulled the door latch. “Just the kitchen. That’s all.”

  Jiggs scrambled out of the pickup, remembering Ox’s advice, “Get goin’ before they change their mind.”

  *

  “Why in God’s green earth do you need twenty or thirty of these?” Jiggs shook a nested stack of shallow aluminum pans which had once held grocery-store sweet rolls. He winged them across the kitchen into the thirty-two-gallon trash can that he’d rolled into the dining area.

  “They’re handy.” Ox pulled the containers out of the bin, bending them back into shape and slapping them on the counter. “I’ll be usin’ these to hold parts for my bench if you’d ever get out of here and let me work on it.”

  “Go out there now. That’d lower my blood pressure considerably.”

  “All this stuff you wanna throw away is worth somethin’. People will pay money for it if we ever have a junk sale.”

  “Son of a monkey!” Jiggs pulled an owl decoy out of a cabinet and shook it. “I’ve been looking for this. Why’s it in your kitchen?” Ox moved magazines around on the table. “Hey!” Jiggs called louder and more annoyed. “What’s this doing here?” His words and tone were the same as he’d used when Nap was ten years old. Jiggs would find broken dishes or a melted hair brush or other evidence of boyhood experiments stashed behind curtains and under couches, then forgotten.

  “The owl scares mice,” Ox mumbled. “It’s under control. I run my mouse trap-lines every morning. Why do you think I use so much peanut butter?”

  “Gimme a break!” Jiggs threw the owl at the trash can. He’d have to get it out later—when Ox wasn’t looking—but for the moment, he felt like throwing something.

  “Sounds like a football game goin’ on in here.” Nap came through the door, leaving it open behind him. “I could hear the shouting and grunting from my truck.”

  “Glad to see you. Pick a team.” Jiggs turned back to the cabinet.

  “Dammit. We need more gravel. I didn’t hear you drive up.” Ox stood at the table, sifting through newspapers.

  Jiggs threw a dark look at his son. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Finished early. Didn’t wanna miss all this fun.” He pulled the owl from the can, and held it up, giving Ox a questioning look.

  “Your father ditched it, not me.” Ox looked to heaven as though reminding the Lord that His plans—whatever they were—weren’t working. “If your dad had an ounce of sense, he’d put that owl in the maple tree to scare off his crows in the mornings.”

  “I’m keeping this.” Nap tucked the decoy under his arm and began digging through the trash.

  Jiggs crossed the room. “I’ll trade you places. Get over there and clean out cabinets.” He quietly added, “Keep your granddad occupied. I’m going to look at the ledger.” He tried to pull the owl from Nap’s armlock, but the boy twisted and blocked him.

  “No worries.” Nap grinned.

  “Watch out for mouse traps. Clean up their crap. There’s Lysol next to the sink.” Jiggs grinned back at him and turned on his boot heel.

  “Where’re you goin’?” Ox watched him walk toward the hallway.

  “When’s the last time you changed your sheets? Or did a load of laundry?”

  “Yesterday!”

  Jiggs barked a laugh. He stepped into the alcove with the roll top desk, listening to the voices drift from the kitchen-dining area.

  “This is cool, Gramps. What is it?”

  “It used to hang over the kitchen table.”

  Jiggs pushed the licorice drops and almonds off the ledger and flipped to the Expenses section.

  “Are these the Budweiser Clydesdales?”

  “Yep. They used to circle the outside of the lamp when you turned it on. Doesn’t work anymore.”

  Ox’s scratchy handwriting listed each bill, until the last few months. Jiggs flipped pages back and forth. Entries became messy. Numbers were scratched out or written over.

  “These horses are really detailed, aren’t they? Maybe I can fix it. Where’d you get it?”

  “A hotel. Your grandma and I were in Lewiston, buying cattle. We drove past a little flophouse goin’ outta business. She just had to stop. Said she always wanted some hotel art.” A door squeaked open then shut.

  “That’s it? That’s the art she wanted? A fish drinking a beer?”

  Jiggs’ stomach growled. He tossed almonds in his mouth as he lifted and inspected papers. Scattered between auction ads and equipment catalogs were envelopes from the county assessor, Tracy’s feed store, and Minam State Bank. He began searching drawers.

  “It’s a collector’s item. Where else could you get a fish in a suit, slurping Ol’ Milwaukee? It made her laugh.”

  “I wish I could’ve known her. Where’s a screwd
river? I see a wire loose on this lamp. Maybe I can get it working again. We could hang it and the fish picture.”

  The rustle of the junk drawer covered part of Ox’s words. “…and if I don’t hold onto the bygone…the memories will be lost. I want you to know about this…” Another cabinet door opened and closed.

  Jiggs let out a silent groan, discovering the file of bank deposits. A three-month-old check for steers they’d sold was paper-clipped to the outside—never deposited. He sat on the edge of the desk, scrubbing his hand through his hair. He couldn’t even get stacks of newspapers from his dad, how was he going to take away the books?

  “Everybody leaves something when they die,” Ox was saying. “This is a bowl my mom had. Used to be, the Jewel Tea man went door to door selling tea leaves, coffee beans, and dinnerware. Out here, women were miles from neighbors. So the Jewel Tea man’s visit was something to look forward to. I can’t imagine how long it took her to save for this bowl. I’m guessing it was the only nice dish she ever had. It’s the only thing left that shows she ever existed.”

  “You’re the evidence, Gramps. You had to come from somewhere.”

  Silence, then Ox’s heavy sigh filtered down the hallway. “You need to have something your ancestors touched and used. That’s where legacy lives. That’s why I want to leave you with a ranch. You can’t do anything if you don’t have land.” His voice took on the drained tiredness of a man who’d rolled the boulder up the hill too many times. “But we pay for what our ancestors did.”

  “What’d ya mean, Gramps?”

  “I mean, you gotta save every penny you can. You never know what’s gonna come flyin’ at you and change your future. What’s taking your dad so long?”

  “Hey, what’re these?” Nap’s voice had a light, change-of-subject tone.

  Jiggs hurried to the bedroom, grabbing the shirts, jeans, and underwear draped across furniture. He flung them in the middle of the sheets. With several yanks, he stripped the bedding off the mattress and wadded it into a big ball. Trying not to make a sound, he walked on the balls of his feet, toting the sheets down the hallway. Quickly, he stepped through the arched doorway of the alcove. He stuffed envelopes and the check into the sheets. His hand was on the ledger…

  “What the hell are you doin’? The bed isn’t in here,” Ox growled.

  Jiggs turned, tossing almonds into his mouth. “I’m hungry.”

  “You can have those.” Ox watched him for a moment. Then he moved back and waved him out of the room. “I already sucked the chocolate offa them.”

  Jiggs’ eyes widened as he tongued nutmeats into his cheek like a squirrel. As soon as he stepped out the door, he spit in the weeds.

  Nap’s voice followed him across the gravel drive. “Where’s Dad goin?”

  “To do a load of laundry and gargle, I suspect.” Ox laughed like old men do when they watch someone else fall down.

  “Do you want these little ceramic figures?” Nap called out.

  “Naw. I don’t know where they came from. Look like turds. Bury ’em out back. That’ll make some scientist scratch his head and get a government grant when he digs ’em up two hundred years from now.” Ox snorted another chuckle.

  “I think I made these for you…” Nap said. “In school. Fourth grade.”

  “You want ’em back? You can have ’em.”

  “As The Old Crow Caws The Young Crow Learns”

  —Irish Saying

  THE NEXT MORNING a cacophony of cawing awakened Jiggs. It sounded like a gaggle of witches screeching and hollering through the scratchy speakers of the Two Pan Rodeo Arena. He ignored it as he scrambled a half-dozen eggs and stuck bread in the toaster.

  Nap wandered into the kitchen in pajama bottoms, yawning, “What’s with your alarm? I hadn’t planned on getting up at the break of day.”

  “Must be mating season.” Jiggs slid the carafe under the coffeemaker. “Something’s got them excited.”

  “Oh shit!” Nap ran out the backdoor, bare-chested and bare-footed. Jiggs stared for a moment then followed.

  Ox stood on the gravel drive, his hands on his hips. As soon as Jiggs appeared, he retreated to his front stoop. With a single wave, he grinned, and went inside.

  Jiggs turned to stare at the black mass flittering among the maple leaves. At least fifty birds squawked from the limbs. Without warning, three or four feathered bodies dived into the branches.

  “They’re having a shit-fit.” Nap watched, open-mouthed. “I didn’t know it would do that.” Another squadron of crows dive bombed the branches.

  “What’d you do?”

  “I climbed up there last night and tied the owl to a limb. Gramps said it’d keep them out of the tree.”

  “You have a bachelor’s of science in Agriculture and Bullshit and still don’t know to ignore anything that old man says?” Jiggs nudged Nap, directing his attention to the small house. Ox was watching from the window and laughing. “Get the owl down.”

  A larger murder of crows mobbed the tree again, pecking and scratching as they flew by. Two flew over the owl, dropping sticks.

  “I’ll get the shotgun. It’ll run them off for a while, but I’m not climbing up there until nightfall.”

  “Ignore it. C’mon, let’s go eat. We’re not putting on a show for your granddad’s entertainment.” He walked inside. “I doubt if there’ll be anything left of that decoy by the end of the day.”

  They heard Ox before they saw him. He whistled a nameless tune as he came through the mudroom, into the kitchen, and sat in his usual chair, his legs extended into the room. Jiggs and Nap kept eating. “Well, this is a somber group,” he said. “I’m glad everybody’s up early. We got things to do today.” He winked at his grandson.

  Nap gave him a stony stare. “You told me the decoy would keep the crows outta the tree.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Ox held up his hand as though swearing on a Bible or making a “halt” signal—or both. “What I said was…‘the owl would scare the crows.’ And they’re scared all right.” His voice picked up speed. His dive-bombing gestures became animated. “Did you see ’em? A big owl like that will kill and eat a crow for breakfast. They’re born enemies. Like Superman and…well…whoever the hell Superman fights.” He laughed and gave a single clap as he straightened in his chair. “More and more of ’em will keep coming from miles around, taking turns mobbing that decoy. Speaking of breakfast, whattya got? You cleaned out my ice box last night. I got nothin’ to eat.”

  Jiggs waved a fork toward the skillet of eggs they’d left for him. Ox filled his plate and coffee mug and sat back down. “So who’s taking me to town today?” Nap and Jiggs exchanged glances and continued eating.

  “Since you’re in such a good mood, Gramps, I’ve got a subject to discuss.” Jiggs looked up, trying to stare Nap into silence.

  “Let ’er rip.” Ox shoveled eggs into his mouth.

  “You read the ag magazines. You know how genetic improvements can make a herd more profitable, don’t you?” Ox didn’t say anything. “It’ll improve the yield of our beef over fifty percent. We can produce much more and not have to run as many cows. There’s less expense in vet bills, feed costs, transport—”

  “Says you,” Ox interrupted. “What do you know? College education didn’t even teach you about crows.”

  “If we were breeding crows for market,” Nap said, staring at his granddad, “then I’d learn everything there was to know about them. As it is, I’m a rancher. I know beef.”

  “Bull shit. Billy has all the genetics we need. He turns out calves that are tough enough to survive on this land. It’s taken years to cultivate his traits. You don’t see half of my calf-crop dying through the winter. Your man-made calves will have pneumonia with the first snowfall. They wouldn’t even live long enough to make a decent hot dog.”

  “BillyBull has had his run. We need to be making changes in carcass-fat composition now. A genetically superior bull will sire at least ninety calves over the next thre
e to five years, and easily pay for itself, producing more pounds for years.”

  Ox pointed a fork at Nap. “When I first came here, all I had was twenty dollars and a crazy mule that didn’t know its name.”

  “I thought you were born here,” Nap said.

  “I left and came back. What I’m saying is—”

  “Where’d you go?” Jiggs said.

  “None of your damned business.” Ox thumped the table with the side of his hand. “The point I’m making is there was nothing left of the original homestead except a share-picker’s acre and a three-teated milk cow. I slept in the dirt. Got snakebit. A scorpion stung me on the lip. It turned purple, abscessed and had to be drained. This ear got ripped up in the backlash of a barbwire fence. Nothing stopped me. I tied a bandana around whatever was bleedin’, maimed or fallin’ off, and I kept buying land and cattle. I made the Rockin’ W what it is. You don’t know diddle about ranching. And I’m sayin’—we’re not getting any robot-designed bulls.”

  “If you understood what I was talking about, you wouldn’t be so quick to condemn it. I want what’s best for—”

  “You want what’s easiest!” Ox pounded the table. “When it’s your land and your legacy, then you can make the decisions, and I wish you luck. I really do. But honestly, you don’t need to worry about it. Your father jumps without looking. He’ll lose everything before your hair-brained idea to get a damn designer bull can ever happen.”

  Silence smothered the air out of the room. Even the cawing of the crows seemed muted.

  Nap slowly let out his breath and looked at his dad. “You gonna let him talk to you like that?”

  Jiggs closed his eyes, his mouth flat lined as he tossed his fork onto his plate. “Well, this is a family moment we’ll remember for a while. It’s like being a little kid again and starting the morning with an Ox Woolsey pep talk. Boy, those were the days. The problem is, Nap, I’ve heard this ‘screw-up’ speech for about thirty years. I’ve learned to ignore it. It’s the same as that god-awful racket the crows are making. A bunch of hoodoo over nothing. But…”