Against the Grain

by Phil M. Williams

  Uncle smiles wide and leans back in his chair. “That’s the truth. They even had tryouts to find the best shots. These guys were professional gunfighters. The problem that the Hunts and I didn’t foresee was that the US government would step in and manipulate the market. Silver and gold are the proverbial canaries in the coal mine of the monetary system. They simply took the canary out, so it no longer served its purpose. Most people couldn’t care less, because they don’t understand how money works. It’s like what Henry Ford said, about how if people understood our banking and monetary system, there would be a revolution tomorrow. I tell you what, Matt, one day, maybe not in my lifetime, but definitely in yours, this thing is gonna blow up in our faces.”

  “Wow, that’s quite the story. I would’ve never guessed that you were a commodities broker.” Matt’s face turns serious. “What happened to Anne?”

  Uncle adjusts himself in his chair and takes a deep breath. “As you can imagine, I was upset at the time. I thought I was pretty smart, and it was quite a blow to my ego. There was nothing left for me in New York, except for Anne. I wanted us to move here together, but she couldn’t leave her job. She felt it was life and death for some of her clients. She had to be there for them. I tried to stay with her, and I did for a couple months, but I was lost. I wasn’t used to depending on someone for support, and it’s not like Anne made much money. I was miserable, and I made her miserable.

  “One night I slipped out and came down here. I never set up a phone, and she didn’t know where this place was, not that she should try to contact me after what I did. It didn’t take that long to get over losing my wealth. I love this piece of land. It’s the simple things that make me happy. But not a day goes by that I don’t regret walking out on her. It is one of the two biggest mistakes …” Uncle trails off.

  Matt sits silently, wheels turning in his mind. “What was the other mistake?”

  Uncle shakes his head. “Let’s leave it at that. It’s hard to go down memory lane, when it’s filled with regret.”

  [ 7 ]

  There Goes the Neighborhood

  At 10:00 a.m. on the dot, four police cruisers zoom down the grassy driveway, vomiting dust behind them. The old meadow, cut yesterday, is like a once thriving city burned in a day, without warning the inhabitants. Most of the flora and fauna is dead or homeless. Vegetation is piled haphazardly. Charred ground exists where bees once hummed. Matt and Uncle wait for them in front of the cabin. Matt cringes when the stocky crew-cut blond exits the lead car, with Kevlar under his short sleeves. The other officers stand just out of polite introduction range, with arms crossed and eyes obscured by mirrored sunglasses.

  “Jack, we’re here to do an inspection,” the blond says, blank-faced.

  “This is horseshit, and you know it, Dave,” Uncle says.

  “You can address me as Chief or Chief Campbell.” The cop crosses his arms. “My officers and I are gonna take a look around. If we find any new code violations, I’m gonna issue a warning. If you haven’t adequately addressed the adjudicated citations, we will fine you. If you cannot or will not pay, we will place a lien on your property. Is that clear?” The chief smirks.

  “We are within our rights to accompany you on this inspection,” Uncle says.

  “Knock yourself out, old man.”

  They walk into the wasteland; only the pond stands as an oasis of life in a desert of death. A family of ducks bobs and swims happily in the cool water. Immense bulrushes provide shade and protection. Pink water lotuses float on the surface. The chief stares at the pond. He nods to himself, with a slight grin on his face. His officers are close behind, still speechless drones, providing “needed” backup.

  “I’m gonna have to fine you for the tall vegetation in the pond and the livestock,” Chief Campbell says.

  “You might have a problem with the Department of Environmental Protection,” Uncle says. “That pond and its inhabitants are a protected waterway. I wanted to fill it in years ago. It just takes up field space and grows mosquitoes. DEP said it was illegal to fill in an established wetland.”

  The chief grunts. He looks over at the barn and the cabin. “That barn’s gonna need to be torn down. Safety hazard and all. You can’t have an outhouse either. You need to be hooked up to the public sewer. That’s gonna cost you a pretty penny.” The chief strides toward his car; Uncle hobbles behind.

  “These rules didn’t even exist when I moved here,” Uncle says.

  Chief Campbell turns around at his cruiser, a slight grin on his wide face. “They do now.” He drives away, with his entourage in tow.

  Matt closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and turns to Uncle. “Do you know the chief?”

  “We had a run-in many years ago, but it wasn’t a big deal.”

  “Well, this is a big deal. We can destroy the barn, but there is no way we can afford running the pipe to hook up to the sewer.”

  Uncle pats Matt on the back. “Don’t worry so much. We’ll sell the property well before we have to do anything about the sewer. Remember, it took them three years to make us comply. I’m just glad we passed the inspection of the old violations.”

  +++

  Matt sits on Uncle’s wooden rocking chair on the front porch, his hazel eyes intent on finishing Walden by Henry David Thoreau. A lazy breeze with a slight hint of fall replaces the afternoon heat. He pushes the planks on the porch deck with his boots, rhythmically rocking, engrossed in the multilayered classic. A black SUV, trimmed with shiny chrome, moves “drive-by” slow down the driveway. What now?

  The truck idles in front of the cabin, tinted windows concealing the driver. The engine is cut, and a tall balding man emerges. Despite his bare, sun-beaten dome, he’s handsome. His strong chin, high cheekbones, active blue eyes, athletic build, and confident stride tell the story of a man who’s used to getting what he wants. His black polo shirt is neatly pressed and tucked into his pleated khaki pants.

  Matt sets Walden on the chair and meets the man at the bottom of the porch. “Can I help you?”

  The man smiles wide. “It’s Matt, right? It’s been a couple years. Do you remember me?”

  “No.” Matt stands, with his arms crossed, blocking his path.

  “I’m John Jacobs. I need to speak with Jack Moyer. Is he here?”

  Matt ascends the porch steps two at a time. He opens the door and says, “Uncle, there’s a John Jacobs here to see you.” He whispers, “He’s one of the ones from the trail.”

  Uncle invites John inside. They sit at the table. Matt pretends to return to his book, while eavesdropping from the window over his shoulder.

  “Mr. Moyer, I know you’ve had your troubles with the township,” John says, “and, lord knows, they’ve cost me a fortune over the years, but I think we can work something out that’ll be good for everyone.”

  “I’m listening,” Uncle replies.

  “I’m prepared to offer you ten thousand dollars an acre. I’ll take care of the legal issues. You and your boy can walk away free and clear.”

  “You must think I was born yesterday. Seth Kreiser got $25,000 an acre just a few months ago.”

  “I figured you knew the comps, but you may not know how precarious your legal issues are.”

  “I passed my inspection today.”

  “Mr. Moyer, I’m a business man, I’m happy to come in and buy a distressed asset for a fair price, but I won’t overpay for one that’ll probably end up in bankruptcy. You may not realize it, but I’m trying to help you, because, if you don’t sell to me now, you may end up with nothing.”

  “Are you threatening me in my own home?”

  “It’s not a threat. I know how these things go. I really don’t wanna see you and your boy on the street with nothing. If the township wants you gone, they’ll figure out a way. If you change your mind, here’s my card.”

  John Jacobs exits the cabin and turns to Matt. “You should talk some sense into him. This is gonna go from bad to worse.”

  +++
<
br />   Matt pushes his cart alongside the three sisters’ garden. With his black hooded sweatshirt and raggedy tan pants, he could pass for homeless in Philadelphia. He vanishes when he steps inside the twelve-foot high corn stalks. Bean stalks snake up every corn plant with brown bursting bean pods. He steps carefully among the dense squash groundcover. He cuts the stem of a ten-pound winter squash, then two more, and hauls them, cradling them in his arms, to his cart. Its inflated wheels are bulging. He pushes the cart toward the cabin, stopping at the steps where two buckets await. He places forty pounds of squash in each and lugs them inside. Matt opens a trap door in the floor of the cabin. An old ventilated refrigerator lies on its back. He opens the door and places the heavy fruits inside. Will we even be here to eat these? It’s only been a month, but we haven’t had a single offer. Uncle sits on his bed in a trance, a piece of paper on the floor in front of him, and a thick legal textbook in his lap.

  “A lot of squash this year,” Matt says, as he looks over at Uncle. “You doin’ research?”

  He’s unresponsive.

  “Uncle, did you hear me?”

  “That man was right. They’re gonna take everything.” Uncle is robotic in his speech and movements.

  Matt walks to the bed and picks up the paper from the floor. He reads the paper, stating that the Kingstown Homeowner’s Association is now the legal owner of fifteen of the twenty-one acres formerly owned by Jack Moyer. Kingstown Homeowner’s Association satisfied the state’s requirements under adverse possession and is thereby awarded land use and title. The title transfer is signed by Dr. Jennifer Hansen, Kingstown Homeowner’s Association President.

  “This is crazy,” Matt says. “They can’t just take land like that, can they?”

  Uncle shakes his head in disbelief.

  “Is this real?” Matt waits for a response. “Uncle, what’s going on?”

  “Adverse possession is like squatters’ rights. It’s that damn trail they cut. Kingstown must’ve shown they’ve been using this property to walk through. I just don’t know how they could’ve shown that they’ve been using our land for twenty-one years.”

  “That community was just built. If you count when they started construction, that might have been six years ago, maybe. How would we not be notified ahead of time that they were claiming this?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how they got around the twenty-one years. I don’t know why we weren’t notified. I don’t know how they did this!”

  “All right, don’t yell at me.”

  “Where does Emily live?”

  “It’s the model home near the basketball court at the end of the trail.”

  Uncle grabs Matt’s wrist. “Take me there … now!”

  “I’d have to walk to the pay phone to call for a cab. That might take an hour or so.” Matt yanks away his arm.

  “No, take me through that goddamn trail they made to steal my land.” Uncle is shaking, his fists clenched.

  “It’s a mile at least. You can barely walk to the mailbox.”

  With bloodshot eyes and shaky hands Uncle grabs his jacket, fedora, and homemade walking stick. He stops at the front door and turns back to Matt. “Let’s go.”

  Uncle’s breathing is labored. He’s bent at the waist, leaning forcefully into the locust walking stick. He looks straight ahead through the forest path, the afternoon sunlight waning. Shredded mulch covers the pathway, creating a soft, spongy surface. The freshly mulched path silences their footsteps, further emphasizing Uncle’s wheezing.

  “You need to stop and rest,” Matt says.

  “No.”

  The pair trudges along silently at a snail’s pace, Uncle’s wild eyes fixed on his goal, with Matt using his peripheral vision to monitor the old man. He listens to the desperate wheezing, trying to decipher the point of danger and thinking they passed it long ago.

  “Uncle, please.”

  “No.”

  They reach the end of the trail. Uncle stops on the sidewalk; he leans on his walking stick, gasping. The stick starts to wobble. The old man’s legs sway. Matt embraces his uncle as his legs give way, and the walking stick falls. Uncle turns and puts his arm over Matt’s shoulder, allowing his grandnephew to support half his weight. Matt walks him to the bench by the basketball court. The old man grunts and slumps down on the metal bench. Matt retrieves the walking stick.

  “I gotta get up,” Uncle says, groaning, as he tries to push up from the bench.

  “Please sit down. Just for a minute,” Matt says, as he guides the old man back to his seat.

  Uncle’s labored breathing subsides. They look past the basketball court to the neighborhood of nearly identical single-family homes on plots of land barely big enough for the extravagant monstrosities. The homes are covered in faux brick facing and vinyl siding. In front of each are squared hedges and rounded shrubs growing in a sea of fresh brown mulch with dark green grass, chemically treated, clipped and edged to perfection, and bordered by concrete sidewalks. Beyond the enormous vinyl boxes are endless rows of townhomes, only slightly smaller in footprint. Each three-story townhome has a micropatch of grass with a sad solitary six-foot-tall twig of a tree. The sun is low in the sky, casting rays of orange-yellow light on the neighborhood. Lights are on; a late model SUV drives into a garage, but not a single person walks the streets.

  Uncle sighs; his eyes water. “Gimme my stick, will ya?” He groans as Matt helps the old man to his feet. “That’s why I didn’t wanna sit down. I wasn’t sure I could get back up.” Uncle offers a pained smile. “Now which one is it?”

  “It’s at the end of the cul-de-sac, the model home,” Matt says.

  “They all look the damn same to me.”

  “What exactly are we gonna do? Shouldn’t we make a plan?”

  “I wanna look that bitch in the eye and see what she’s made of.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a plan.”

  “It’s not.”

  Uncle staggers up the concrete driveway and walkway with Matt close behind. The walkway looks like an airport runway with short lights illuminating the path. Matt’s heart beats rapidly, his palms sweaty. Uncle appears calm and focused. A doorbell invites visitors to press the button, but Uncle jabs on the front door with the end of his walking stick. He waits for a moment, then thumps the door harder. He continues to pound on the door, until it jerks open. Chip Hansen stands blank-faced, with khaki shorts, Teva sandals, and a purple music festival T-shirt. Hair grows on the tops of his toes, but his muscular calves are clean-shaven.

  Chip smiles stiffly. “Hello, Matt. This must be your uncle.” He holds out his hand to Uncle. “I’m Chip Hansen.”

  “Cut the crap and get your wife out here,” Uncle says.

  Chip’s eyes narrow; he crosses his arms. “What’s this regarding?”

  “It’s HOA business.”

  “We don’t conduct HOA business here. We have meetings once a month at the community center, … if you have a grievance.”

  “Listen here, shit for brains. Unless you want me to go door to door telling people what your wife did, I suggest you bring her out here, right now.”

  “Excuse me,” Chip says, holding up one finger and closing the door behind him.

  Matt puts his ear to the door. He hears hushed, urgent tones.

  “Who is it?” Dr. Hansen says.

  “It’s Matt and his uncle,” Chip replies.

  “Dave said this might happen. Call him and let him know. I’ll take care of them.”

  The door flings open. Matt catches himself, almost falling over the threshold. Dr. Jennifer Hansen appears with a wide smile and dead eyes. Her blond hair is tied up in a ponytail, the sides darker from sweat and exposed roots, but her makeup is intact. Her breasts are mashed together in a tight blue sports bra that’s visible through her sweaty white tank top. Her thin legs and narrow hips are showcased by her black spandex shorts.

  “Mr. Moyer, Matt, how can I help you?” she says.

  “I’d like to kn
ow how you can live with yourself after stealing my land,” Uncle says.

  “I assure you that the land was seized legally. I am the HOA president, but I don’t control the business affairs of the association. I’m mostly just a figurehead to organize block parties and such.” The corners of Dr. Hansen’s mouth turn up ever-so-slightly.

  “Oh, bullshit! You think I fell off the turnip truck yesterday, missy? You think I can’t put the pieces together. The developer, Mr. Jacobs, Police Chief Campbell, and you, the HOA president, make quite the team.”

  Dr. Hansen scowls and taps her foot, occasionally checking over Uncle’s shoulder, as he reads her the riot act.

  “I bet I could find some irregularities in the books at the HOA and your personal finances. I wonder what kind of kickbacks you’ve been getting from Mr. Jacobs.”

  “If you think I’ve wronged you, I encourage you to call the police, let them sort it out. The homeowners association has always followed laws and protocols to the letter. If you obeyed the law, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  “Just because you think you followed some law doesn’t make it right. The law and morality aren’t the same things. Hell, slavery was legal 140 years ago. In 1865, when the Thirteenth Amendment was passed outlawing slavery, do you think slavery was moral in 1864, then immoral in 1865?”

  “Mr. Moyer, you’re not making any sense whatsoever.”

  Uncle sighs. “I guess not, for someone like you.”

  Dr. Hansen puts her hands on her hips. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, you’re a sorry excuse for a human being,” Uncle says, as he points a thick finger at the good doctor.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” Emily asks.

  “Emily, go to your room,” Dr. Hansen says.

  Emily looks over her mom’s shoulder at Matt. “What are you doing here?” Emily asks.

  “We’re here because your mom stole our land,” Matt says.

  “Mom?” Emily asks.