The Legend of Sander Grant

by Marc Phillips

  ‘Make a fist,’ she’d say. He would and she turned his hands this way and that, feeling for tight spots, tugging on loose spots. Then, ‘Okay, take them off.’ The next day it was the same thing. This went on for a week, until he put on a pair of gloves identical to these and they fit around his hands like water. He couldn’t help smiling. She told him he’d have to go one more day without them while she made a pattern. Then he’d never be without gloves again. And he better wear them.

  As he slipped on this pair, he was looking north at the top of the hill by the stock tank. He thought about what he told his daddy. Jo did take care of him. She was more woman than a sane man would expect. He knew his daddy had to be anxious to talk to his grandson. He had planned to let Sander adjust to the low-set reality around him for a little longer, until he was maybe ten, before he introduced the two. It was a danger for them, getting so wrapped up in their strangeness that they couldn’t relate to anything normal. He saw the world enveloping his son at a much faster rate than any generation before, and he so wanted this for Sander. Yet, he wanted him to take the Grant heritage along with him. Now the greater danger seemed to be Sander picking up notions that those things which made him different were somehow wrong.

  So far as Dalton knew, the way of his people wasn’t exactly at odds with the teachings of any religion. Then again, few were privy to their ways, and the Grants had not been inside a church for generations. None of his forefathers had actually studied the Bible, any version of it, since before they came to Texas. Possibly they had ages ago sworn off mythology and the sundry Christian writings because they were there and knew how little of it was accurate. Though, had Dalton ventured a few chapters into the Good Book, he might also have guessed they cast it aside from sheer horror.

  The knowledge Dalton had of the Word of God was rudimentary at best, anecdotal. He figured it was likely what most Christians knew of the text, instead of what they claimed to know. The burr in his brain now was more instinctual, however, a nameless and nagging uneasiness over Sander’s determined foray into such matters. He resolved to show his son more truth about his own kind before any lies took foothold in the boy. He would bring Sander to his grandfather’s hill soon, and they would talk, the three of them. He didn’t have to run this one by Jo.

  Once more, where was Jo? Somewhere. He would find out soon enough. There was a lot of work left to do today, and it wouldn’t be put off any longer.

  3

  ‘Josephine! My goodness, girl. I haven’t seen you for a coon’s age. You’ve been hiding from us.’ This from Doll, the reigning gossip in town, owner of Doll House Thrift and Antiques.

  How to do this, Jo thought, so it won’t be glaringly obvious? She made big eyes at an atrocious, yellowing, second-hand wedding dress displayed on a mannequin near the sidewalk window. She felt the lace neckline and fought a shiver. This should be on the dried corpse of a widow woman, rotting under the red clay.

  ‘I’ve been busy, is all. Nobody told me mothering was a twenty-four-hour job. But it’s girl’s day out today. This is gorgeous, Doll. If I had a daughter ... How much are you asking?’

  ‘Hon, if you had a daughter, that would make a darling little toddler outfit for her to play dress-up with. Let me get a look at you.’ Doll’s hands were old and spotted, but incredibly strong, like talons gripping Jo’s shoulders. ‘Are you losing weight?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but maybe. Good of you to notice.’

  ‘It’s not a compliment, honey. You need to eat. Where’s your big man today?’

  She pulled Jo to the quilting table in the rear of the store while another woman was meandering through the racks, shopping like someone listening to every peep around her. ‘I saw you last, let’s see, about a year after your boy was born. We were so worried for you. So worried. How is he?’

  ‘Fine. They’re both fine. Out at the ranch.’

  ‘Have a seat. Take a load off. Are they eating you out of house and home?’

  The other shopper was now rifling through scarves and old silver earrings at the end of the table where they sat.

  ‘Those are already sold. Sorry,’ Doll told her. The woman sighed and left. ‘Well?’ she asked Jo. ‘Is it what you thought it would be, living with giants?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t say that. They’re already sensitive enough about it.’

  That was a lie, but Jo hoped it might unbalance Doll. Everyone knew you didn’t come here for the company. You either have a little something to hang on the grapevine, or you’re hungry to pick something off it. Generally, it’s an even exchange. Jo was hoping she wouldn’t have to give up much, as she hated gossiping and didn’t know much of it besides. This is haggling. She needed to maintain the upper hand.

  ‘That was vulgar, wasn’t it? Forgive an old lady.’

  ‘It’s alright. I know people are curious. We’re all doing very well these days. Thanks for asking. The herd is back up, and all this rain we’ve been having has Dalton about ready to sacrifice a fatted calf to the gods in thanks.’ She chuckled.

  ‘Gods?’

  ‘I’m kidding, Doll. It is nice, though, when things are looking up. Not having to worry so much about bills. Speaking of which,’ said Jo, doing her best to make it sound offhanded, ‘I have to pay Sander’s tutor. I think his studio is right over here.’

  ‘The artist?’

  ‘Yeah, Jason. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not personally. He’s bisexual, but I guess you already knew that.’

  ‘How would I know that, exactly?’

  ‘Everybody does, hon. It’s no big secret. Haven’t you seen his work? Gracious. He paints peckers nearly as much as anything. You can’t paint peckers that good unless you’ve seen a few. And the drugs. Put two and two together. To each his own, I reckon.’

  Right. What a rancid old crone this woman is. Jo could imagine what they talked about in here regarding her boy’s friendship with Jason. Wenches.

  ‘Artists paint nudes all the time, Doll. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re gay.’

  ‘What about artists who have sleepovers with other men and kiss them on the mouth in the Dairy Queen? Does that mean they’re gay? Besides, I said bisexual. He’s had women up there too. I think they’re from that church he goes to where they beat on drums and dance around.’

  ‘I reckon it means something. It’s news to me. Did you say drugs?’

  ‘Oh yes. He has a record. You should really check references more, Jo. People figured you knew these things. I said maybe you didn’t, but ...’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Where does he have a criminal record?’

  ‘I can’t say for sure. Says he comes from San Diego. But that doesn’t sound like a San Diego accent, does it? Sounds suspiciously like Little Rock to me.’

  A woman and her teenaged daughter walked in. The door chime rang and Doll steered the topic of conversation in another direction.

  ‘So, how’s your boy’s painting coming along?’

  ‘Great. I couldn’t be happier.’ Actually, at that particular instant, Jo couldn’t breathe. She wondered what to do with this information, and where all the oxygen had gone.

  A question came from the front of the store. Jo didn’t catch what it was, but Doll was standing up to see to her customers.

  Jo said, ‘I’ve got some more running around to do. I’ll catch up with you later.’

  ‘Okay, hon. Don’t be a stranger.’

  Jo started walking. It didn’t matter which direction. It was the mindless rhythm of the act she needed, not so much to get anywhere. She strode down the sidewalk until it ended on the south side of the square. She turned and walked west, in front of Walgreens, past the vacant building that read Dollar General on the storefront, and came to the end of the line again facing Mail Boxes Etc. Looking directly across the square, she saw the dome of the old stone courthouse. Two blocks behind the courthouse was Jason’s studio, and above it, his loft.

  Screw t
his private eye nonsense, she thought. She would go straight over and ask him some questions. She had a right. She was a mother. At what point had she forgotten that little tidbit? If the son of a bitch had given her boy any drugs, she’d stomp a mud hole in his ass and walk it dry.

  Jason answered his door wearing blue jeans and nothing else. His torso was covered in paint splatters and he looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed. He wore a silver chain around his neck with a stylized crucifix pendant. Jo had never noticed it before, but doubted it was new.

  ‘Mrs Grant. This is a surprise. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No. Well, I don’t know. Can I ...’ She pointed past him.

  ‘Come in, please. Excuse the mess.’

  She sat on the sofa and he offered her hot herbal tea, choice of five flavors. How very California chic of him. He took a stained white shirt from the back of his chair and put it on.

  ‘Hot tea? No. I’m hot already from walking. Thanks. You don’t have a Coke or something, do you?’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t drink caffeine anymore, so I don’t keep it around. And the milk has turned to cream. Water?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Bringing it back, he said, ‘You look stressed. What’s up?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about you, Jason. Other than you don’t drink caffeine.’

  ‘And it bothers you suddenly. That you don’t know. What have you heard? Wait. That’s a bad way to start, defensive. Let me tell you some about me and you can compare it to what you heard.’ He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his oily hair. ‘I don’t drink caffeine because they taught us in Narcotics Anonymous what the stuff does to your body. I was in Narcotics Anonymous because it was a condition of my parole. I was paroled because – or partially because – I taught art lessons in prison. Evidence of rehabilitation. I was in prison because I had become convinced that drugs were either an inspiration for, or an unavoidable side effect of my art. It’s a more common misconception than you would probably believe.’ He stood and said, ‘I’m going to need my tea to continue this conversation. Excuse me for a moment?’

  Jo took a sip of her water, placed the glass on the table and turned to stare out the window as Jason disappeared into the kitchen. The beep of the microwave filled the small loft and left in a rush through some invisible opening. The space was quieter then than it had been before. A clock ticked somewhere in the kitchen. Jason’s knees creaked when he sat down in the chair and a spring somewhere within the worn cushions twanged.

  ‘Been up all night working. If I appear dim-witted or rude this morning, that’s my excuse.’

  ‘It’s afternoon.’

  He looked out the window.

  ‘So it is. Morning to me. I’ve forgotten which part of my sordid past we were passing judgment on when I left off. Where was I?’

  Jo wouldn’t do that, make it easy for him to be flippant by giving him any comment. She looked him square in the eye until he continued.

  ‘I made ignorant choices like all children do, Mrs Grant. The difference being, I was called on the carpet for mine. Arrested for possession of marijuana and amphetamines. I had a sufficient amount to distribute, so that’s what they charged me with. I did eighteen months and my parole was up shortly before I moved here.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘San Diego. I was a Junior at San Diego State at the time. Art scholarship.’

  ‘Is that where your folks are?’

  ‘My parents are dead, but I’m originally from Texarkana, on the Arkansas side. I have a sister and two aunts there. I wanted to be close to them. I settled on Dixon. A long enough drive to make surprise pop-ins unlikely, but not long enough to give me an excuse to lose touch. My stupidity devastated them, financially and emotionally. I came out of prison with two things. Motivation, which came from the knowledge that my luck and time were running out, and these tattoos, which I did myself, from boredom.’ He rubbed his hand across his belly.

  ‘Those are tattoos?’

  ‘You thought I never washed the paint off myself. Seems like that’s what I wanted people to think when I did them. Because, spiritually, I don’t. A sort of reminder to myself as well, of what I should be doing every waking moment.’

  ‘What happened to your parents?’

  ‘Plain Jane car wreck. There’s no dirt there.’

  ‘Stop it, Jason. Call this a belated job interview, or call it a mother’s prerogative, but don’t you make me into a snoop and a gossip. It’s because I’m not those things that I never heard of your past before now. We’ve been good to you.’

  ‘You have. What else would you like to know?’

  ‘When is the last time you did drugs?’

  ‘The morning of the day I went to prison. Not inside, and not since. There’ve been plenty of chances. Don’t doubt it. Even here. I’ve talked to Sander about it. I share my daily victories over it in hopes he’ll see what a struggle it is once you start down that path. I think it’s helpful, but I’ll stop if you want.’

  ‘What else have you shared with him?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What do you talk about other than painting and drugs?’

  They stared into one another for the second time. Several slow ticks rattled out of the unseen clock.

  ‘Philosophy. That’s the big one. There’s no end to his curiosity. Girls, of course. Growing up. I tell him what it’s like being a small man, and he tells me what it’s like not. I have to admit I’m fascinated by him physically, but I try not to dwell.’

  ‘Has it gone any further than fascination?’

  ‘As an artist, I meant. Your son is not gay.’

  ‘And your religion. Is that something else you picked up in prison?’

  ‘My cellmate introduced me to the Word and gave me some food for thought. I couldn’t come to terms with the pastor, though, so I wasn’t saved until I got out. My faith could’ve been such a tremendous help to me inside, but I didn’t have it then.’

  ‘I appreciate your honesty. You won’t come over tomorrow. I have some thinking to do. I’ll call you early in the week.’ She stood.

  ‘Wait. There’s something else I’ve talked over with Sander. We were going to discuss it with you and Mr Grant tomorrow. Will you sit a while longer, please?’ She sat. ‘I’ve witnessed to him. Because he asked me. He’s seen God’s influence in my work and ... it was unavoidable. Not that I would avoid it. I strongly believe it’s a good thing and I know you agree.’

  ‘You know I agree?’

  ‘Sander says you never go to church as a family, but he’s heard you talking to the Lord. Our congregation wants to invite your family to worship at First Unitarian.’

  ‘You talk about my family at your church?’

  ‘We pray for you all the time. And the Lord speaks to Roger.’ He saw the question in Jo’s eyes and said, ‘Roger Carlson is our pastor.’

  ‘Yeah. Well. It’s something else to think about.’ She started to rise again.

  ‘You should at least let your son worship with you, Mrs Grant. My humble opinion. He desires spirituality. For what it’s worth, he does not want to be a rancher like his father.’

  ‘Look here, Jason. I don’t actually worship God. We’re more like friends, and I think we’d both prefer it if you stayed out of our relationship.’ She was stalling with that, dealing with rage and shock simultaneously while trying to remember how to move her legs. ‘In your humble opinion, what does my son want to do with his life?’

  She thought, right then, she could be sick on this man’s nasty carpet. For one thing, confronting the subject of her boy’s future without Dalton felt like treason. But something else, something malignant now seemed to hover at the horizon. Jo could not have named it, but she felt it. Other Grant women might’ve told her that you cannot play in the light without acknowledging the dark, that the magic of her life which had become marvelously commonplace had an equally powerful flipside.

  ‘He wants to travel for a star
t. He wants to develop his art abroad and have a fighting chance at making his mark. He wants a life – any life – of his own choosing that doesn’t involve cattle. At least for a while. And he wants to try church.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ll think on it.’

  Jo took the long way home. She had lost track of time. Lost her anger, lost her certainty in herself and all things, lost her intent. She had lost the ability to ask her mother’s advice on how to run her household. Or she had very recently been propelled past the threshold where one mother’s experience should rightly influence the ways and means of another. She felt as though, through some unforeseen turn of events, she had exhausted that precious bond, and this brought her to tears. She had never shared with Dalton the depth of her dependence on her mom, and so could not possibly make him understand her guilt and heartbreak at the loss of it. These feelings she considered childish and selfish, but the other things she would soon have to face were yet too fearsome. She felt weak at the moment and she wanted her mother.

  Jo pulled the car over at a deserted gas station on the county line and sobbed until she trembled. She cried out and slapped the steering wheel and shouted, walleyed and impotent, at the windshield. She wanted it all out of her. Then she dried her eyes on the sleeve of her blouse and checked her face in the rearview.

  It was late afternoon by the time she got home. Dalton would be coming in soon and he would be hungry. She heard music from the studio upstairs and knew her boy was working on something. She put on a load of clothes, took a shower, and set to cooking hamburgers because it was easy and quick to clean up. She was drained. Dalton walked through the back door at six sharp. Sander smelled the beef and was coming down the stairs about the same time. She was stacking burgers in a pyramid on the table and told them both to wash up before the patties got cold.