Mornings in Two Pan

by B K Froman

  He turned to face his dad, his eyes narrowing. “Ox, you should realize that things have changed. I’m not a little kid anymore. It’s low, even for you, to come into a man’s house and insult him in front of his son. That’s a line I never thought you’d cross. And you…” Jiggs looked at his son. “What do you want me to do? Punch him in the face? Grab him by the short hairs and throw him out the door? That’s a line I’m not going to cross. He’s old and he’s sick and he’s still my father.”

  “Ugggh. Shit.” Ox stood. “What a bunch of gum-bleedin’ righteousness. Your ass was hauled into the principal’s office every other day for makin’ somebody’s nose bloody. Go ahead and try to teach me a lesson. Besides…this isn’t your house.” He circled his arm, looking around him. “I built all this—” He hesitated, took two steps, and pulled a metal cracker tin out of the trash. “What the hell is this doin’ here?”

  “It’s always bugged me. I threw it away last night,” Jiggs said.

  “You take any more of my stuff, and I’ll rip off both your ears to match mine.” Ox turned and stomped out the door, carrying the tin labeled: STRINGS TOO SHORT TO USE.

  *

  Jiggs left the dishes on the table. He needed to be doing something—anything. He moved his Ford so the front wheels were on the terrace behind the house, leaving a large gap under the truck. The engine ran while he carried tools from the garage.

  “Whaddya doin?” Nap walked out the patio door and down the incline.

  “I’m kind of in a hurry. About fifteen things need to get done today.”

  “So you’re changing oil? Now?”

  “Yep.” Jiggs switched off the ignition, lay on a feed sack, and pushed himself under the truck. “It’s an hour and a half ’til the bank opens. I need to keep busy or my thoughts go to dark places.”

  “What’d you mean the other day when you said we needed to talk about gold and dead bodies?”

  “Old history. When I find the answers, I’ll tell you. Right now, we have bigger snakes to kill. Hand me the wrench and lean down here. You’re going to be busy.”

  In a moment, Nap was on the ground, sliding under the truck from the passenger side, pushing the oil pan into place. “How in the world did you survive growing up?”

  “Don’t worry about that now. It wasn’t all yelling and ducking.” Jiggs cranked the drain plug, letting it clank into the pan. A black-brown stream followed it.

  “Do you have even one good childhood memory?”

  “Yep.” The silence reeled out, as Jiggs worked on unscrewing the filter.

  Finally Nap asked, “Well, what was it?”

  “Riding. Campfires. Unimportant moments. Dad was too busy to pay attention to us when we were little. He didn’t act like that around Mom. She didn’t put up with it. When her heart gave out, Pax was sixteen. I was thirteen. Dad said she was carrying too much to deal with. That made us boys feel like crap, but we figured it was him who’d worried her into the grave. It wasn’t until after she was gone that we caught the full lick of his belt. Now that I’m older, I suppose I can understand. He didn’t know what to do with us besides teach us how to survive. And, of course, there was only one way to do that…”

  “His way,” Nap said, watching the last of the oil drip from the opening.

  “I couldn’t wait to get out of here as fast as I could and get my own place. Then life got in the way. Guilt is powerful glue.”

  “How so?”

  “My brother died. I couldn’t abandon Ox and this ranch. I did what I had to do. Then I got married at twenty-one, and life kept on happening.” He looked at Nap. “Your mother often reminded me, that I didn’t have to turn out like Ox. I could be a better father. I’ve tried. ’Course, that’s not setting the bar very high.”

  “You’re a good dad. None of my friends had the chance to go to college or create new herds. I don’t know that I could’ve sacrificed what you have.” Nap noodled his fingers in the oil pan, found the plug, and screwed it back in.

  “Well, part of your opportunities are due to the ranch Ox built up.”

  “Last night, after you left, Gramps told me stories. I worked on his lamp.” Nap rubbed oil on the gasket of the new filter. “It amazed me. He seemed normal and decent. As a little kid, I was always afraid of him. And now this morning…with anybody else that owl decoy joke would’ve been funny, but with him, it seemed mean. I don’t see how he can be decent one minute, then explode into a bastard. Why’s he so pissed at you all the time?”

  “Because I’m the one that’s left.” Jiggs took the new filter and screwed it into place. “He favored Pax, no doubt about it. But Pax crashed his truck four years after Mom died. He inconsiderately passed away before Dad had planned. That left only me around. Who else can he rant to?” Jiggs shook his head. “There’s been some moments. Boy oh boy.”

  Nap lay still, looking at the undercarriage of the pickup. “When I was little, I was jumping around the house, making stupid fart noises. Gramps was in the living room with me. I could tell I was bothering him, because he took his pipe out of his mouth and gave me one of those stares like he was melting me with fire. You know what I mean?”

  Jiggs scooched out from under the truck, and Nap wriggled out from beneath the passenger side. “Yep. I know those looks,” he said as he unscrewed the cap from a canister of 10W40 and poured it into the engine.

  “I stuck my tongue out at him. Can you believe it? I was a bold little shit back then.” Nap uncapped and readied another quart. “Then I turned my back so I didn’t have to see his laser glare, and I kept bouncing. Mom yelled from the kitchen, telling me to stop. So I made louder noises. I was hopping, bumping off furniture and all of a sudden my arm felt scalded. I was on the floor, rolling and screaming. Mom came running in. There was a round, red burn on my arm. Gramps seemed shocked and surprised. He guessed I’d bounced right into his pipe. I argued that he did it on purpose. I was snottin’ and cryin’. It hurt like I’d been stuck with a branding iron. Mom wouldn’t listen. Said it was my fault. I’ve thought about it since then. I figured I must’ve remembered it wrong. You know how a little kid blames everybody else. But I’ve still kept my distance from him.”

  “It sounds exactly like something the jackass would do.” Jiggs wiped the dipstick, stuck it in its tube, and pulled it again. “I’m sorry I didn’t know about that.”

  “Sometime later, I buried that pipe.” Nap stared at his dad. “He looked for it for days.”

  “I remember that.” Jiggs dropped the hood then pressed it until it clicked. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you probably saved his life. He quit smoking after that.”

  *

  Jiggs took a shower, dressed, and checked his watch. Time was stuck again. He glanced at the sky. The light slanting through the maple made promises, but it gave no hints if they were good or bad. He poured a cup of coffee and paced the patio to wait it out. Time had to move on eventually.

  Nap came from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. “Are you anxious because of the books? Is that why you’re goin’ to the bank as soon as the doors open?”

  “We’ve got to fix Starvation Creek, today, or we’ll have cattle in a lot of trouble. George will too. The side springs are drying up.” He checked the sky then his watch again. “But that ledger was a mess. I think he has dementia or early Alzheimer’s. I have no idea if we have money or if the bills have been paid. I tried to be calm about it this morning so he wouldn’t get suspicious and start hiding papers. I’m going to the bank and see if I can make heads or tails of it from there. Whatever you do, don’t throw anything out.”

  “We only wrangled one sack of newspapers out of him.”

  “That’s good. We’ll tackle that later.” Jiggs looked at the sky again. “To heck with it. I’m leaving now. I’ll bang on their door. I’m sure Little McGinty gets there early to count his money. You,” Jiggs pointed, “load up the chain saw, ropes, and shovel. Start cutting the tree in the creek. I’ll be there to help as soon as I
can. We’ll borrow George’s mules and drag the stump out then dig the channel so all the water flows back down the stream.”

  “George and I talked about another plan last night.”

  “What?” Jiggs stared at his son.

  “Now don’t get ‘Ox Woolsey’ on me. Just listen, okay?”

  “Always Obey Your Parents—When They Are Present”

  —Mark Twain

  NAP GLANCED AT his father then studied the cracks in the concrete patio. “After I finished at George’s last night, he tried to pay me.” His hand quickly shot up, cutting off his dad’s words. “I didn’t take his money. Instead…well, we vetoed your objections about the quick way to fix that creek. He gave me a quarter stick of dynamite.”

  A line of fury creased his dad’s forehead. His eyes could’ve driven nails.

  “I already know you think it’s too dangerous,” Nap quickly added. “And it’s illegal to do it on government land, but…Gramps thinks it’s a good idea, too.” He glanced toward the crows mobbing the decoy. “Well, you probably think the crow-thing should tell me something about Gramps’ ideas.” He widened his stance, feeling his father’s stare bulldoze against him. “But people have been clearing stumps this way for years. We’re gonna set off a charge on flat ground. A practice blast, so I can learn, before doing it up on the hillside. George will supervise. I know he can’t climb the ridge, but he’ll be below, watching the whole…” The words stuck in his throat. The last time he’d said them was to Audie Dodge.

  Actually, he’d screamed them from the bottom of his lungs. He still carried the image of the broken leather strap lying in the dirt.

  Audie had bragged about making catapults in Scouts. They’d snuck off to the south pasture and built a souped-up contraption using a car spring to get extra yardage. It happened so quickly neither boy knew what was occurring. Nap was still loading the pouch when the restraining strap broke. The concrete block counterweight whizzed past within an inch of his ear.

  “Son of a bitch!” He’d screamed. Audie blinked from the force of Nap’s breath so close to his face. “You were supposed to be watching!” Even as he was yelling, Nap could hear the fear in his voice. He could imagine his head, mashed like one of those animals smeared on the road. “I thought you knew what you’re doing!” He’d tried to make his words angry, but his voice cracked like a thirteen-year-old’s first-shocked meeting with reality.

  Nap let out a long slow breath. He wanted to focus somewhere besides his feet, but his dad’s stare showered over him, dampening his palms and armpits.

  “Okay. Okay. Maybe dynamite isn’t the most brilliant idea. I suppose it is dangerous. I’ll get the chainsaw and cut slabs off the damn tree. It’s gonna take forever, though.” He turned and walked away, wondering if his father’s hands were still clenching and unclenching. He didn’t look back. “But it woulda been cool,” he muttered to himself.

  *

  Little Bill McGinty pushed a printout of the Rockin’ W’s checking account across the desk. “What makes you think your dad is losing it?” he grunted.

  Jiggs tapped the date at the top of the paper and pushed it back with an impatient frown. He’d driven the twenty-one miles to Minam National Bank in twenty minutes. After beating on the door, Little McGinty let him wait in the lobby. The stuffed and mounted heads of antelope, deer, and elk watched him until the banker could ‘clear his desk.’ None of the McGintys were hunters. They had only contributed one head to the collection, but they encouraged their customers to bring in their mounted kills for a brief display period. They discovered the rotating show of dead animals encouraged business. Folks liked to wander into the bank to see a 10-point buck or the “one that didn’t get away.”

  “Oh. I misunderstood,” Little McGinty mumbled. “You wanted this month’s statement.” He punched a few keys on his computer. Beside him, a printer whirred into action. “Yeah, my Dad’s still coming in every day. Even at ninety he can catch an error in a teller’s receipt. It’s pretty amazing.”

  Jiggs wore a bully-for-him-how-does-that-help-me stare.

  “You remember the time your dad brought a heifer into the bank?” McGinty tapped his pen on the desk, with a faraway look as though pulling the memory from his brain vault. “Said he was making a loan payment.”

  Jiggs reached and grabbed the first sheets from the printer. He didn’t want to hear the story. And it would go on forever if he allowed Little McGinty to pick up the papers one at a time, tap them on the desk, straightening the edges, and then place the staple, just so, in the corner. Heaven help him, but bankers were nitpickers. He flipped through the documents, looking for the ending balance.

  “That calf made a mess right there in the lobby.” Little McGinty pointed. “Ox was breaking in a new ag-lending officer, Skel Burke. He was green and starting out. The economy had tanked. Nobody was buying cattle, and Ox had a loan payment due. I can still see your face. You walked in, looked at the situation, and froze like you’d been hit with a bucket of ice water. I was a teller…what were we then? About ninteen?”

  “I don’t remember.” Jiggs nabbed the next batch of papers getting pushed out of the printer.

  “Ox was cussing you. The calf was at the end of the tether, doing a little dance, spooked. Skel was trying to herd all of you into a corner, away from customers. Ox kept saying animals were his currency and the ranch his bank. His money was spread over a thousand acres, and if Skel kept demanding immediate payment or foreclosure, he could ‘damn well take a cow or allow an extension.’ Ox was growling back and forth, dragging that calf between teller windows.”

  Jiggs flipped from page to page, trying to ignore the jabber. In high school, Little McGinty had been one of those kids who’d been quick to point out the rules. He used to snitch on others. Jiggs had tried to help him outgrow the tendency by thumping it out of him.

  “Ox was raising such a fuss, it made Dad come out of his office. I remember he whispered to me, ‘Watch carefully. This is how to call a customer’s bluff.’ Without a word, he took that calf and led it back to the vault. And he was right. Ox asked for a receipt and didn’t say another word. It was over in a second.”

  “I guess all’s well that ends well, then.” Jiggs gave Little McGinty a meaningless smile. “I need copies of the savings account, too.”

  The banker punched more keys on his computer. “So what’s Ox done that makes you think he’s losing it now?”

  Jiggs stared at his old classmate. He’d grown into a round-bellied, bald, son of a banker. A farmer’s tan and a few more wallops would’ve helped him be a different fellow. “Dad lost his statements. It’s worrying him. As you pointed out, he’s very watchful of his money.”

  “Sorry.” Little McGinty stared at the screen. “There are three savings accounts. You’re not on any of them. I can’t give you a statement.”

  “You’re kidding?” Jiggs stared. “I’m a stockholder here. It’s not like I’m a stranger trying to hoodwink anybody and steal something.”

  Little McGinty shrugged. “It’s the law. I could mail them to Ox if that would help.”

  “Oh, that’d be dandy.” Jiggs gathered the papers in front of him. “I get the mail out of the box every day. It’ll cost you money to send it, and I’ll open it up and look at it tomorrow.”

  “Or Ox could call. I can tell him over the phone if you don’t do online banking.” Jiggs let out a laugh. A frown shadowed Little McGinty’s face. “You don’t remember the calf incident?”

  Jiggs cocked his head, seesawing between the truth that Ox had pulled one over on Big McGinty and the thought that he might need another loan someday. The episode was one of the few laughs he and his father shared.

  Ox had taken a runt calf into the bank, not because he thought they’d keep it, but because it was the smallest and easiest to handle. He’d gotten the idea when he read about a rancher in western Oregon who’d been foreclosed. He’d driven his entire herd into the bank’s lobby to deliver them.

 
When Big McGinty met Ox’s bluff, the banker had taken a cull heifer, a slow-growing peewee. The banker had planned on it temporarily residing in the field behind his house. Future steaks for his freezer. But his family had other intentions. They named the cow Larry, and she lived a long and healthy life. Ox and Jiggs had a quiet laugh each time they went to the bank. There on the wall, was McGinty’s only contribution to the stuffed head collection—an old Angus with a gold nameplate: Larry.

  Jiggs gave a regretful wag of his head. He held out his hand as though offering condolences. “Thanks for opening early. Sorry. I don’t remember the particular story you’re telling. Maybe Dad and I are both losing it.”

  *

  Jiggs stopped by the Latte Da coffee shop and picked up a couple of ham sandwiches before he drove home. With Little McGinty’s yapping, it’d been difficult to look at the checking account. All he wanted to find out was how close they were to the bottom of the barrel. He still didn’t know. There were funds in checking, but he had no idea if they were underwater on the bills.

  All the way home he rehearsed what he was going to tell Ox. It was time to let go of the finances. And why didn’t he put Jiggs’ name on the savings accounts?

  He parked, changed into ditch digging clothes, and took the ham sandwich to Ox’s house.

  No one answered.

  Opening the door, he went inside, stepping over boxes and piles of junk. It was messier than it had been last night. “We need to talk whether you want to or not,” he called out. A quick check of the rooms showed no one was there.

  Jiggs hurried for the ledger. Nothing on the desk had been moved. He turned pages, looking for expenses marked ‘paid.’ When the phone rang, he marked his place with his thumb and picked up the receiver. “Yeah?”

  “Dad, what’re you doin’ there?”

  “I’m doin’ about thirty things at the same time. Why’re you calling here?”

  “Looking for Gramps. I called the bank, too, looking for you.”

  “What d’ya need? I’ll be there to help as soon as I can.”