Mornings in Two Pan

by B K Froman

  “Well, it may take you a little longer. I got a call from Roscoe Zalman. He said Gramps drove him off the road again, but this time he was on the tractor.”

  “Oh…crap,” Jiggs groaned. “Going where?”

  “I figured home, but obviously he’s not there. Maybe he’s in town. This morning he told me he had to get groceries and to punch Old Man Tower in the gut.”

  “Crap. If he’s losing his memory, why can’t he forget that? I don’t have time for this today. We’ve got to get the creek cleared. And now I’m wondering if the taxes have been paid. Did you borrow mules for this afternoon?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’ve you been doing? Why’re you calling Ox?”

  “Why’re you getting bitchy? I’m the only one who’s done any work today. I’m covered in sweat and sawdust, and I don’t have any food or water.”

  “Well, whose fault is that?” He hung up.

  Forget Ox. Jiggs walked out of the small house and tossed the sandwich into his Ford for Nap. He was at his own sink, filling the big orange thermos with ice water, when the phone rang again. It jangled ten times before it finally stopped. Good. He didn’t have time for jabber or problems.

  It began ringing again. Crap. “Hello!” he shouted into the receiver.

  “Jiggs?” Bazz’s voice carried a hint of urgency. “Ox is here in town.”

  “Go sabotage his tractor so he has to stay there. He’s already chased one person off the road today.”

  “I took his keys from him. That was after he hooked the winch and chain to Old Man Tower’s gate and pulled it out. It seems Tower wouldn’t come out and talk with him.”

  “Oh geez. Where is he now?”

  “He and Tower were taunting each other like cocks getting ready to fight. I thought about letting it go on. I could’ve sold tickets. Boy those two can really cuss.”

  “You should’ve let one of them knock the other down. Then it would have been over. I suppose you want me to come get him?”

  “Go to Miz Cliva’s. He walked off, saying he needed to talk to her.”

  If A Horse Doesn’t Want To Go There …

  THE DAMAGE AT Old Man Tower’s place wasn’t bad. Ox had pulled up a post; the gate had folded. Jiggs remembered the old door had dragged and only opened part way. The mess would be easy to fix, and it would work better than it had previously, but it was one more thing to add to his ever-growing list.

  He parked in front of Miz Cliva’s two-story, white clapboard house. An enamel kettle of red geraniums sat on the front porch. An American flag flew from a corner pillar. She’d been his teacher in the third grade and nice—for a Spinrad. She had a calm way with kids, listening to them and looking them in the eye without making them feel small. She probably had the same effect on old men. At least Jiggs hoped so.

  Fat clouds inched eastward through a blue sky. The light wasn’t playing tricks. For once, he wished it would. An extra hour or two would be handy today. He had more chores than minutes to do them. Two voices softly bumbled from inside the house. He pulled a bloom from a lilac bush and sat on the top porch step. He’d spare a minute to collect himself before confronting what was inside.

  Inhaling the sweet floral scent reminded him of sitting on the patio with Ox, only a few days ago and wondering about a skull. He’d gladly go back and stop time there. Now he’d been sired by questionable ancestry. He’d soon have a lot of worthless land if he couldn’t get water to it. Creditors may be knocking on his door any minute. And his father was...

  What was wrong with his dad? That skull seemed to have set him off. Or maybe, as Little McGinty hinted, Ox had always been crazy.

  The door opened, and Miz Cliva stepped out. “You’re welcome to come in, you know. Would you like lemonade? I keep the cups in the freezer so they’ll be frosty.”

  “No ma’am.” Jiggs removed his hat. His dad stood behind her, carrying his hat in his hand, too. Years ago, Miz Cliva had made Jiggs write two hundred sentences: I’ll take off my hat indoors and when I talk to a lady. She’d asked him to re-do the last fifty sloppy lines. “It looks like you really don’t mean what you’re promising.” From that day, Miz Cliva’s voice rolled around in his head if he didn’t remove his hat when meeting a lady. He wondered what Ox’s excuse was. He never had to deal with her in school. “Thanks ma’am. I’m the taxi service for your visitor.”

  “We had such a nice chat.” The eighty-four-year-old grabbed Jiggs’ arm, steadying herself as she came down the steps.

  “I’m drivin’ the tractor home,” Ox groused, walking past both of them.

  If Miz Cliva hadn’t been hanging onto his arm, Jiggs would’ve commented how Ox had missed a few mailboxes on his way to town. Maybe he could wipe out the rest of them on the homeward trip. But if he popped off with the comment, he’d get stabbed with a Teacher Look: disapproving eyes and a frowning mouth. Instead, he only said, “There’s been enough excitement for one day. We’ll get the tractor later. Miz Cliva, thank you for the hospitality.”

  She didn’t let go of him. She leaned her head close and whispered, “He’s tired. Real tired.”

  “Of what?” Jiggs’ said.

  “Of more than you can ever imagine.” She patted his hand and stopped walking, waving to Ox, who was already at the truck.

  Ox tipped his hat. “Bye, Cliva. And thanks.”

  Now she gave Jiggs a different Teacher Look. The one they gave at graduation that said we’re sending you out into the world. Think before you open your mouth.

  *

  Ox felt worn out as though he’d been hauling rocks. Cliva had convinced him to let the weight he was carrying drop. Now his muscles were limp. It felt like his bones were sinking to the bottom of his body. A weary relief. He wished he hadn’t taken a swing at Tower earlier. “I need an aspirin or somethin’. My arm hurts.” He waited in the truck while Jiggs hurried into Grubbs and sorted through the First Aid supplies they’d had since WWI.

  The drive home was silent—for the first half mile.

  “Dad...what’re you doin? Taking off like that?”

  Ox stared into his lap. Now of all days, his son wanted to gab. For the last thirty years it had been like riding with a rock. He considered ignoring him, but Jiggs would only talk louder and keep prodding him. “I needed to talk to Cliva. All I had was the tractor. Tried to talk to Tower too, but he said he couldn’t come out—his gate was stuck. I unstuck it for him.”

  “I would’ve taken you tomorrow. What was so important?”

  Ox thought a moment. There weren’t words for it. Just an aching pull to get thoughts off his mind and the urgent feeling he shouldn’t drag it out. “I felt like talkin’ to somebody who knew your grandmother and your mother.”

  The truck rattled down the bumpy road, neither man speaking—for another half mile. “Why? You never talk about her. Who was my grandmother?”

  Ox let out a long sigh. “It’s water under the bridge. Damn people and their problems. Best done and forgot. Cliva says I should tell you. It’d be easier to carry around. And you’d stop bugging me.” Jiggs didn’t say anything.

  “Your granny was Violet Spinrad.” Ox glanced at his son. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I’d already heard it. I guess if we have Spinrad blood, we must have a direct line to God.”

  “If so, it didn’t do Violet any good. The diphtheria took her children, save one, Lowell. So your grandpa married her. I guess he still had some family dignity, a skosh of ‘Albrecht’ left in him at that time. Violet got pregnant.

  “Lowell was hangin’ around the barn when it was her time. That’s what they did in those days, put the kids outta the house. He was only five and all by himself. It’d been rainin’ hard for a week. Even all the way out there, he could hear his mama screamin’ over the thunder and showers. All the night before, she’d been tryin’ to have the baby. Albrecht came from the house and told Lowell his ma was in trouble and to ride to the neighbors and get Mrs. Byrd.

  �
�He jumped on an old broomtail and rode it bareback. When he got to the creek, it was floodin’ past the mare’s withers. The nag rose up, and Lowell hung on, knowin’ if a horse don’t wanna go somewhere, then you can bet, you don’t wanna go there either. Lowell beat that horse until it plunged in the water and swam across.

  “It was chore time when he got to their farm, and Mr. Byrd wouldn’t let his wife come until everything was done. Then he insisted they eat because there might not be time later. Only then did he hitch up the wagon and drive her over. He even stopped at the creek, waiting for it go down, but it didn’t, so he finally crossed.

  “To hear Lowell tell it, he was pleading and crying and beating on the man. You know the rule. You come when your neighbors call. They wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

  “By the time they got there, Violet was dead. That left Albrecht with Lowell and me. My mother died birthing me.”

  “Ohhh...”

  Ox felt his son staring at him, but continued, “That’s when it all went to hell—when I came along.” He rubbed the ache in his arm. “Dad soon lost all of his ‘Albrecht’ and became ‘Brick.’ Mostly neighbor folk raised me until I was big enough to be weaned. Then Lowell watched over me. Brick took up with a floozy, Beulah Furling. She was a big, bony woman. Her face was long and her eyes wide like a giraffe’s. That’s what Lowell said. I never saw a giraffe or even a book with one in it back then. She thought Brick had money. Maybe he did, but it was gone by the time I got big enough to know what money was.

  “She made beer. Had a still. That was Lowell’s and my job—to watch the still. That’s when Brick started drinking. We boys lived in the hen house ’cause she made our home into a saloon. She wore a big wide belt, and she used it on us if we sassed her. Dad would touch her arm, and speak in this sing-songy voice, ‘Now Buelly, I don’t think the boys mean any harm.’ I don’t know which was worse. Her beatings or him watching it with that spineless, wide-eyed look like he was gonna be next.”

  Ox glanced at his son again, relieved he wasn’t asking any questions. The air in the truck felt sticky with misery. Finally he let out the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. “We had to leave before Lowell killed her. He swore he would.”

  “Good grief. How old were you?”

  “Seven. He was twelve.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Stayed in the woods. Helped on farms. There was enough work to get a meal most nights. Then the Great Depression came. Suddenly, everybody was poor. Homeless camps everywhere. I fought a grown man over an apple. An apple for hell’s sake. Now, I see ’em, layin’ by the side of the road, rotting. I think how we became animals tryin’ to survive. I’m not proud of some of the crap we did, but we only got to eat ever’ few days. Thank God for the war. Lowell signed up. I worked on a Kansas dairy, delivering milk. At least ’til I could lie and look old enough to get into the service.”

  “And after the war?”

  Ox stared at his hands in his lap. He flexed his fingers open and closed. Only a few joints hurt. They’d never failed him through a lifetime of work.

  “Lowell didn’t make it,” he said. “Died in the Philippines.” He rolled down the window and closed his eyes, letting the breeze blow against his face. Jiggs had slowed down. That was all right. The truck didn’t bump as hard over the road. “I rode that no-name mule all the way from Kansas. It was one of the best adventures I ever had. Dad was still alive. I couldn’t believe it. Beulah wasn’t handy using a whip on a grown man. She was only good at beating boys.”

  “So what did she do when you showed up?”

  “All the land had been sold off. It didn’t take much pressure to get her to look for richer pickings. She’d milked the place dry. Only the saloon-house was left, and I burned the whole damn place to the ground. I wished Lowell coulda been there to see it.”

  “What happened to Brick?”

  Ox shook his head, staring out the side window. “I ask myself that a lot. How could I have come from a man who could watch me work until I staggered and fell into a bedroll every night? Then he’d sip booze and complain of aches until dawn. He was a damn, worthless drunk. I got back what he’d lost, though. Especially our name. I knocked heads with anybody who insulted a Woolsey.”

  He poked the air with his finger. “Nobody. I mean nobody made fun of you or your brother because of your grandaddy’s drunk stupidness. I made sure you didn’t have to grow up with the shame I did. Nobody was gonna call you dim-witted or a ‘chip off the ol’ Brick.’”

  “You do,” Jiggs said quietly. “You make a point to tell anyone who’ll listen what a disappointment I am.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Oh, that makes it all right?” A hard silence wrapped around them for several miles. Finally Jiggs said, “You never said what happened to Granddad. Where’s he buried?”

  Ox stared at the fence line passing by his window. He leaned against the door and let out a long breath. Cliva was wrong. Unburdening didn’t make a damn thing better. It only led to more questions. “It’s all past and blown over. I’m tuckered out,” he sighed. “We can talk about it tonight. I’m tired of discussin’ the sonuvabitch.”

  “I’ll stop at the Bar and Grill and pick up a couple of meals. We’ll talk over pot roast. How’s that?”

  “We’ll talk after. I don’t wanna ruin my dinner.”

  “So is that Albrecht’s skull you stomped to pieces?”

  Ox’s world seemed to go white for a moment. He’d raised a son who had little respect for him. Maybe this was his fault. It was true, he hadn’t coddled his boys, but he’d taught them what they needed to know. And he’d left them a legacy. Sure, he’d been a mean S.O.B. at times. He’d pulled underhanded things to survive. He’d even been accused of murder, but Jiggs had no idea of the battles he’d fought so the dumbass could enjoy the life he had. He just kept overstepping.

  “Pull over for a minute.” Ox waved a hand. “Here.”

  The Ford braked to a stop. “What is it? You look a kinda sick,” Jiggs said.

  Ox got out. He should backhand Jiggs and bust his lip, but it would take too much energy. All he wanted was to get away from his sorry shithead of a son. Slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, he headed toward home, confirming he was right. The road needed gravel. The county commissioners were probably embezzling again.

  Behind him, Jiggs followed in the pickup. “Oh, c’mon, Dad. I’m sorry. Get in. C’mon.”

  It was satisfying to make him grovel. After forty feet, Ox paused and let the Ford pull alongside. Putting a hand on the open window, he leaned on the truck and rested.

  “Dad, I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for this today. I’ve gotta get over to Starvation Ridge. Please get in.”

  “I’m not riding with you. You’re an ungrateful little shit. Your brother was never such a disappointment.”

  “Maybe if he’d lived long enough, he would’ve been as frustrating as me. But I’m all you’ve got. So we’re stuck with each other. If I lower the tailgate, would you at least ride in back?”

  Ox looked up the road then stiffly turned and looked behind him. No one was coming to the rescue. He nodded, hoping Jiggs wouldn’t go fast and buck him out.

  Beginning Is Easy, Continuing Is Hard

  “YOU’RE LOOKING WASHED out. You want me to call a doctor?” Jiggs watched his father lie down on his bed.

  “No. Dammit. Quit buggin’ me. I didn’t sleep good last night, and I haven’t eaten all day. I’m tired.”

  “I’ve got a ham sandwich in the truck. I’ll get it.” Jiggs hurried out the door. When he returned, Ox was sleeping. His chest rising and falling, to the rhythm of a slight snore. Jiggs left him alone. After the day he’d had, he deserved some rest.

  Jiggs stowed the sandwich in the fridge. As he left, he stepped into the alcove and took the checkbook. Outside, he jammed his truck into gear and sprayed gravel pulling out. He hadn’t meant to, but half the day was gone, and he still hadn
’t done a lick of work.

  He shouldn’t have pushed about the skull. It seemed to be part of some play that had started long before he had gotten a role or a script. Once Ox had started talking, Jiggs wanted to get as much information as he could. His dad would probably clam up at dinner tonight as though his childhood had never happened. He’d suspected his dad’s life had been dismal, but he hadn’t guessed how bad. Tonight he’d listen and he’d keep his mouth shut.

  Urgency kept picking at the edges of his thoughts. Getting water onto Starvation Creek had to be his first priority. Then he’d contact the folks they did business with and make sure they’d been paid. Somewhere in-between all this, he’d take the finances away from Ox. And what to do about the old truck? He couldn’t lie that a part needed to be ordered forever.

  Get the tractor popped into his mind and onto his to-do list. He and Nap would be burning gasoline like crazy, running around and fixing all the problems Ox had created. He pulled into Slat’s Gas Station.

  The owner gave a chin nod as he unscrewed the Ford’s gas cap. “Hey, Slat.” Jiggs watched him punch electronic buttons then load the nozzle into the gas line. “Sorry to trouble you, but we lost a few pieces of mail at the house. I wanted to check if our account’s up to date.”

  The man lifted his ball cap and resettled it on his matted hair. “Boy, I’m glad you said something. I didn’t want to mention it. I’ll get you a total.” He headed for the shop.

  Jiggs watched the numbers click upward on the gas pump and wondered how many more checks he’d be writing.

  Slat handed him the bill. “Did you ever figure out the owner of that watch you found?”

  “Nope. It was smashed. Nothing to identif—”

  BOOM! roared to the north. It rolled over pasture land and blew beyond the garage. Windows rattled in their frames as it passed. A single can of oil fell from the top of a pyramid-stacked pile.

  “What the hell was that?” Slat looked up slack-jawed. “Sounded like an explosion.”

  Jiggs was already pulling the nozzle from his truck. He jammed it into the pump, yelling, “We’ll settle up later.” His tires screeched. He ignored Maxine Greenwald shaking a finger at him as he shot away from the station.