The Legend of Sander Grant

by Marc Phillips

  ‘I talked to your mom,’ confessed Allie. She combed her fingers through his chest hair beneath the sheet.

  ‘Today?’

  ‘No, no. I mean, I talked to her before we got married. I was really scared that, you know, how would we fit? What if we didn’t fit – that was my biggest worry.’ She laughed at the unintended pun.

  ‘I thought about it, too. What did mom say?’

  ‘That it would hurt. But not bad, and only at first. She told me not to worry. My body would adapt.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘I’m not sure “adapt” is the word. “Crave” is a good one.’ She slid her hand over the hard rows of his stomach and paused at his navel.

  There were slow footfalls and muffled grunts on the stairs. They both looked toward the bedroom door. It wasn’t latched and the air conditioner had opened it a crack.

  ‘That’s Frank,’ whispered Sander as he rolled out of bed. He slipped into his pants and told her, ‘I’ll see what he wants and be right back.’

  ‘Hurry.’

  Frank paused at the landing and took a drink from his glass. Sander pulled the bedroom door closed behind him and smelled the bourbon.

  ‘You busy?’ Frank asked.

  Sander rubbed his bare torso and lied. ‘Taking a nap.’ It was a lie that even Frank should’ve interpreted as a hint.

  ‘Nap later,’ he said. ‘I had to get away from them and I need to talk to you.’ He made to pass Sander, headed for the bedroom door.

  ‘In here,’ Sander said, and led him into the studio.

  Frank took the smaller chair and pointed to Allie’s easel. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Allie’s designing us a house. Something I can build when all this mess is over.’

  ‘You gonna put more cows out there?’ asked Frank.

  It made Sander laugh. He couldn’t help it. God love him, his grandpa had less tact than any man alive.

  ‘I don’t know, grandpa, we’ll see. They’re not done torching the old herd yet.’

  ‘Well,’ said Frank, as though about to offer some sage reflection on it all, ‘your grandma aint doin so hot. Type two diabetes. Found out last week. I’m not real clear on whether it’s worse than the other types, but none of em are good.’

  After a moment, Sander said, ‘Alright. It can be treated, I’m sure. Have you told mom?’

  ‘Jo has enough to worry about. And your dad – looks like you could knock him down with a feather.’

  ‘It’s not exactly a carefree milestone in my existence either.’

  ‘You’re young,’ Frank told him. ‘You’ll bounce back. Besides, it’s more you and Allie this thing concerns anyway.’

  ‘Which thing are we talking about now?’

  ‘I’m not in the best shape these days. I have spells where I can’t remember shit. Shit that I should be able to remember. Do you see what I’m saying, son?’

  ‘Maybe. The liquor can’t be helping.’

  ‘Get back to me on that when you’ve got a few more years behind you. Only reason I bring it up is because I can’t take care of Doris much longer. Especially if she gets worse. I don’t even know where she keeps the damn coffee filters.’ Sander stared at him. Frank grew angry. ‘You gonna make me have the nursing home talk with my own wife?’

  ‘I guess not.’ Then, ‘Should I do it?’

  ‘No! What you should do is offer us your bedroom once yall get this house built.’ He sloshed booze on Allie’s drawing and smudged the graphite when he tried to wipe it off. ‘Sorry. Tell her I’m sorry.’

  ‘It may be a year before I get that built, grandpa.’ The statement was true enough, yet its purpose was to buy time while Sander flailed around for some way to avoid saying, ‘This is not my house to offer you.’

  ‘I know my daughter,’ said Frank, ‘and I’ve known Dalton longer than you. Their worry is gonna be for you and Allie. Your privacy. Do they know you’re building this house?’

  ‘No, I don’t think they do. It was just something ...’ He sighed and trailed off, his eyes falling from Allie’s rudimentary sketch to Frank’s slippers, then to the carpet between them, and coming to rest on the denim tight over his thighs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We were talking about it, me and Allie. Gave us something to do to pass the time.’

  ‘Okay, so now you know where the money will come from,’ Frank said. ‘We can sell our house and the few acres. Should more than pay for what you have in mind, and we have plenty more set back.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll talk to Allie about it. Give me a little time to bring it up to mom and dad, would you?’

  ‘Time’s passing for all of us, Sander. Time is one thing that’s definitely not on our side.’

  ‘Yeah, Frank. I realize that.’

  Sander watched him walk out. Frank stumbled and nearly ran into the doorjamb. He was drunker than he first appeared and his grandson excused a portion of his insensitivity on account of that. But, thought Sander, if he was incapable of anything else, he might still refrain from adding ballast to a sinking ship. In the wake of that thought came Sander’s intense remorse for it. His grandparents were going through something more terrifying and absolute than what was happening in the fields outside. Here they were, though, and they were trying to help.

  Sander returned to the bedroom and took his shirt from the closet door.

  ‘Frank says nobody really feels like cooking anything tonight,’ he told Allie. ‘I’m gonna run a few errands in town and pick up something to eat. Any requests?’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Anything’s fine with me. You want some company?’

  ‘No, thanks. Why don’t you work on your drawing? I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  Sander didn’t see any need to call the church before he drove out. He knew Roger had begun whatever preparations he spoke of the moment they walked out his door the other day. Like Allie, Sander had no faith in the pastor’s benevolence. He had come to doubt Roger knew what an act of altruism felt like. But the man was intelligent. He was learned and he was calculating. If there was a way for Sander to slip from under God’s thumb, just enough to catch his balance, Roger stood as good a chance as any at figuring it out. It could hardly hurt to try what he had in mind. On the trip over, Sander’s only concern was how much Roger would want in return.

  Roger didn’t come out to meet him and evidently didn’t know Sander was standing on the porch. This was odd because the old pier and beam foundation had settled unevenly over the years and Sander’s seven hundred pounds caused the whole structure to moan. Before he could knock, he heard Roger’s voice from within. Thinking there was somebody else in there, maybe Jason again, Sander turned to leave. Then he realized Roger wasn’t having a conversation, but giving a lecture. He eased over to the window and peered through a gap in the curtains.

  Roger was so natural at this – and later seemed indifferent as to whether anyone believed his theories – that Sander thought he simply read over a pile of notes early Sunday morning, trotted downstairs and started talking. But there he stood with chalk in hand, practicing before empty pews; backing up and trying different turns of phrase and giving himself verbal pointers on timing.

  Sander watched for a minute or two, then stepped back to the door and knocked.

  ‘Damn,’ said Roger when he opened the door. He left it ajar as he hurried into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, ‘Have a seat.’

  Sander sat where he always did, the only pew that would accommodate his legs. Beside him was a reel-to-reel tape recorder, about the size of his mother’s sewing machine, with a microphone atop it. On the far side of the apparatus were several steno pads and a cup full of pencils. He checked to see if the tape recorder was running. It was not.

  ‘I know you said to call,’ Sander shouted, ‘but I was in the neighborhood. You record your lectures?’

  Roger returned from the kitchen with the same quickstep pace. He carried an armload of towels and his bottle of morphine.

 
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘The machine is for you. I was ready except for this stuff.’ He placed the towels and his medicine bottle on the pew in front of Sander and sat down beside them. ‘I don’t intend to be interrupted this time. Could you hand me those pads and pencils, please?’ Sander obliged. Roger glanced at the front door as though he was considering locking it, then flipped open a pad and said, ‘Push the record button on that thing.’

  ‘I’m not sure what we’re doing here.’

  ‘Please,’ Roger implored, ‘push the button before you say anything else. Then I’ll explain.’

  Sander did. The reels turned slowly and made no noise. Roger dated his tablet and scrawled two lines in some kind of shorthand.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ he told Sander. ‘We’re about to get somebody’s attention. Simply by intent, I think we already have. What we’re saying is recorded,’ he pointed to the reels, ‘and I’m making a written backup.’ He paused to scratch down another note. ‘Man reigns sovereign over history, Sander. I think I told you this already. Whether we skew it, lie about it, or lay it down as it happened, it is our right alone. Once it’s recorded, only we can destroy it. So it’s important that you keep talking, no matter what happens. Got it?’

  ‘Not really. What is it we’re talking about?’

  ‘Whatever needs saying. If I might make a suggestion, I’d start with just that: what you need.’

  ‘What I need ...’ Sander felt a twinge of awkwardness and asked, ‘Am I supposed to be talking to God, here?’

  ‘The recorder doesn’t care how you say it. Talk to me, if you like.’

  ‘Alright,’ he began. ‘Several years ago, my granddad told me this story about his first mule. He bought the thing young and he grew attached to it pretty quick. For whatever reason, the bulls didn’t like this little mule and the mule wouldn’t stay away from them. Granddad figured it would learn soon enough and things would sort themselves out. He was fifteen, not much older than me, when one of the bulls finally got a horn in that mule. A vet came out, took one look and said there was nothing to be done. The mule had to be put down. The vet asked my granddad, “You want me to do it while I’m here?” Granddad was torn up over it, but he turned to the doctor and said, “Why would I ask you to kill my mule?” He carried the animal to the woods and snapped its neck.

  ‘Then, just here recently, granddad sorta compared us to mules. I doubt he connected the two stories, but I did. So, what do I need?’ asked Sander. ‘I need to cut through the shit. If there’s nothing to be done here but put us down, somebody ought to step up and take care of his own business. Otherwise, leave us be. I don’t want any favors. I want nothing. No miracles. No more pestilence. Nothing.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Roger asked him. Sander’s mindset was fatalistic and driven by a simmering rage, but Roger knew he needed to say these things – and they served a greater good. The man who begins bargaining with rational demands leaves with less than he could’ve gained.

  ‘Naw, that aint it. I’ll absolve God from His promise not to harm me. Next time He feels the urge to inflict pain, He can bring it straight on. If my wife gets one of your nosebleeds,’ he told Roger, ‘or ends up hunched over in the yard, I’ll start pushing down churches and I won’t stop.’ Hearing his anger fall flat in an empty room, Sander chuckled to himself. ‘Did I just say pestilence? Nobody’s listening, Roger.’

  ‘I feel quite sure you have an audience. Would you like to talk more about what your grandfather said?’

  ‘Why not.’

  Sander’s memory was as sharp as ever. He recounted what Will had told him, almost verbatim, without supposition or conclusion of his own. It meshed neatly with what Roger already knew and so required no clarification, but Roger occasionally interjected verbal footnotes for the record. When he asked questions, even leading ones, Sander assured him no answers were forthcoming. He told Roger again and again to just listen.

  When he was done, Sander looked at his watch.

  ‘Do you have somewhere to be?’ asked Roger.

  ‘Yeah. I told them I would bring back supper. Can I use your phone?’

  ‘In the kitchen.’

  ‘I need to order some pizza,’ Sander said as he stood. ‘Want me to turn off the recorder?’

  ‘No. There’s plenty of tape.’

  Sander made the call and returned to his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. He was obviously eager to wrap things up. ‘I’ve got another twenty minutes, but that’s about it. What’s next?’

  ‘Well, you were clear about what you want. And it’s obvious what kind of doubt you could cast on the canon of theology with your information. Since we’re getting no response, I assume somebody’s waiting to hear what you’re willing to offer.’

  ‘Besides not holding tent revivals?’ Sander said.

  Roger smiled. ‘In addition to that.’

  Sander couldn’t have felt any more foolish, nor any less adequate than he did at that moment. When he came here thinking he had nothing to lose, he neglected to consider the measure of his pride and the value his people placed on privacy. Though he couldn’t explain it, he was somehow compelled to see the thing through. Seemed like leaving here now, without another word, would worsen the deeds already done.

  ‘What?’ he asked Roger. ‘My family is falling apart. We’ve got no livestock left and we’ll be broke in a matter of weeks. Reckon He would rather have a pound of flesh or my firstborn child?’

  Roger raised his eyebrows and stopped writing. He said, ‘I know you’re skeptical about what we’re doing. That’s fine. Some things don’t require your belief. But please listen to me when I say: do not offer anything here that you can’t bear to lose.’

  Sander turned off the recorder fifteen minutes later. ‘Still got no answer,’ he said.

  While he finished his notes, Roger asked, ‘Are you absolutely sure we didn’t?’ He looked up to see courage in the eyes staring back at him. He didn’t know what he would’ve preferred to see, but courage implied fear, which meant the young man was sure of little. Roger regretted that he would leave the church in that state. He wished there was something he could do about it. He had come to respect Sander, nearly to the point of awe considering how furiously all of this had been piled on his shoulders. Had Sander been any member of the congregation, Roger would’ve reassured him, because that’s what pastors are taught to do: encourage people to rely on their faith for stability in these situations.

  These situations, though? Possibly he had missed that day but, as far as he could remember, seminary offered no guidance on counseling giants. He was equipped with many a means for explaining the depth of God’s love, the completeness of His devotion to the salvation of man in the aftermath of what deplorable things beset them. Not one platitude or parable did he have to ease the impact on someone God holds in abomination. He vaguely remembered telling Sander something along these lines and he didn’t feel like doing it again. That left only silence, as anything from his repertoire of shibboleth would have been insulting.

  Sander pointed to the tape reels. ‘You’re gonna publish all that. What then?’

  ‘Oh, no I’m not. I figure I deserve a normal lifespan as much as you do. The decision to share this information is entirely separate from the act of recording it.’

  ‘Pretty slick, Roger. Got yourself some leverage there. If it works, that is. I wonder what’s to stop me from taking all of it.’

  ‘Take it!’ he said, extending his three tablets. ‘I can’t think of safer hands to leave it in, but I wouldn’t really call it leverage.’ Sander didn’t reach for the tablets and Roger dropped them beside the recorder. ‘In case you change your mind.’

  Sander nodded.

  ‘We’ve made our best play,’ said Roger. ‘Whether you realize it or not, I was the only one with a choice in the matter. Could’ve walked away from you, my research, and all the rest of it any time I wanted. The problem there being, I couldn’t want to. Your family, on the other hand, was caught squar
ely in the middle of something you didn’t understand. That was the case long before I came around. But you made a deal here tonight, Sander. So this stuff isn’t leverage for you anymore. It’s more like a liability. Seriously, I would take it if I were you. Just keep in mind that somebody else needs to know where to find it, and nobody ever needs to see it.’

  ‘Keep it,’ Sander said, rising to leave. ‘I just needed to talk. Use it to write your new Bible or throw it out with the garbage. I’m glad your headache didn’t come back.’

  ‘Me too.’

  His hand on the doorknob, Sander paused. ‘I can’t remember how many times I’ve said this, but I don’t think we need to see each other again. Do you?’

  ‘I think, at this point, it would be wise not to. I won’t be staying in Dixon any longer than it takes to pack my things. Goodbye, Sander.’

  14

  Dalton was so glued to his big chair in the living room that he didn’t even get up when Jo called ‘They’re leaving!’, didn’t join the rest of the family to watch the USDA trucks pull away with their machinery. He didn’t change the television channel anymore when random news stories trickled in about the public health crisis narrowly averted in East Texas, and those eventually ceased. It was the last straw for Jo when, days later, he asked her to bring him his dinner. He didn’t feel like eating at the table tonight.

  ‘Your plate will be where it always is,’ she said.