“I don’t,” I said. “In fact, I’m totally confused. What's the big deal about that creek? Somebody strike gold or what?”
Tiny laughed. “Don’t I wish.”
Rubin's voice took on a bitter edge. “Jackson's been after both of us to sell. He’d love to get back all his water rights. Claims he wasn’t gone past the five-year deadline.”
“I’ve heard enough about water rights to last me a lifetime,” I said.
Rubin nodded. “Welcome to the other side of Oregon,” he said. “But out here water is worth fighting for. Except that even with no rights Linc manages just fine, so there's got to be more to it. Nobody knows what he's up to. Maybe he's hoping I’ll go away, but he's in for a fight.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Killing dumb animals over the environment? Excuse me, but I’d say shooting sounds a little extreme.” I wasn’t trying to be unfriendly, but I had my limits.
Rubin sighed the way Nova sometimes did. “After you’ve lived out here awhile, maybe you’ll understand. About Linc I mean.”
Any other time his explanation wouldn’t cut it, but for some reason I was more intrigued than ever by this country vet/environmentalist. “Guess I’m not the only one with a feud going on,” I said, unable to think of anything more witty or intelligent.
Tiny stood up. “Thanks again, Doc. I got to tend to the other pigs.” He ambled out the door.
When Tiny was gone, I turned back to Rubin. “I believe in settling problems without violence where possible. Don’t you?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Rubin said. “The Hippocratic Oath is my motto, I swear.” I’d seen the way he’d worked to save Tiny's pet. The man couldn’t be lying.
“Is that why you were saying you should leave the area?”
“Some days I just get fed up, that's all.”
“Can’t say I blame you for that.”
Finally, he shrugged. “Anyway, I feel terrible about Jim. He’ll make it, but I think his voice box is gone. He probably won’t be able to squeal or oink, you know. I’ll tell Tiny about it later. Sorry.”
I smiled. “Accidents happen.”
Lutie set two tumblers of her tea on a TV tray. I was dying to figure out this water rights business. Why would Linc Jackson stand outside and yell at my father? Lutie didn’t have much to say, though. Every now and then she mumbled prayers and cast a glance up at the picture of Jesus.
Tiny came back inside, fixed Jim a bed from an old playpen, and set it right next to the TV. Rubin went out and helped carry the pig in.
“Don’t hurry off now, Doc,” Tiny said. “I figure you better make us out a bill; it being Sunday and all.”
“Thanks, but I can’t stay. I was tending to a sick steer when Muri came by. You don’t owe me anything, except maybe a batch of your scones.”
Rubin turned to Tru. “Now you come get me if Jim here has any problems.” He handed Tru some extra bandages. “Think you could help your Uncle Tiny change the dressing?”
Tru nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll come back and check on him in a couple of days.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I volunteered. Nova's eyes grew wide. But I was too tired and sore to care, and it had been a long time since I’d had any company. So we strolled out, and I didn’t even blush. Well, maybe a little. We stopped at the oven-door fence.
“How far do you think Linc would go?” I asked, thinking about the miniature range war Rubin had described.
Rubin shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that Linc Jackson means to get his way. Somehow that creek is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Rubin turned and walked toward his place before turning back to face me. “I’m throwing a barbecue next weekend on the Fourth. There’ll even be live music. Done this three years running; it's almost a tradition around here. This year the main course is a surprise.”
“I’ll ask the kids,” I stammered, unsure if this was a neighborly invitation or a more personal one.
“Bring the kids and your aunt and uncle too. And extra lawn chairs if you’ve got any.” He held out his hands, palms up. “It's the least I can do, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“I did shoot your uncle's pig.”
“Right. I’ll get back to you about the barbecue.”
“All set, then?” He smoothed back the sides of his hair where the wind had turned it loose and jammed his hands in his jeans pockets.
I frowned. “I said I’d get back to you,” I said. “But thanks for the invite.”
“I’m glad you came to get me,” he said. “Really glad.”
“See you on the Fourth,” I answered, and watched him walk away. Just like the 1970s children's classic by Robert Newton Peck that I was always trying to get kids to read, it was A Day No Pigs Would Die.
JOSEPH's JOURNAL
APRIL 1981
Before I lost you, Muri, you visited one more time. I watched you dance. That velveteen skirt is too short on you now, and you said you were the tallest girl in second grade.
Today, for a few hours, you were mine again. You twirled in your bare feet in front of the recliner where, I suppose, I’d passed out again. I’m sorry. I was out of it until you squealed, “Watch me, Daddy! I’m a ballerina!” I startled awake. I was hung over, feeling like the wrong end of the cow. Even so, I didn’t have the heart to tell you that your spins made me dizzy. My head pounded like a jack-hammer, but I had to smile at you, knowing today was good-bye.
When you tipped over my beer, you looked scared, like maybe your mother scolds you for making messes. “It's not important,” I said, grinning. You tried to wipe up the spill, and you held your nose and told me you didn’t like the beer smell. You stood and saw I was still awake. “Are you watching now?” you asked. “Watch.” You held your arms like an arch and twirled until you got dizzy and fell. You sat on the floor and your skirt fanned like a flower around your ankles.
The skirt is getting shiny in the back where the nap's worn down. I bought it for you years ago from a guy in a Prineville bar. He claimed it was Navajo, handmade, with magical powers. I paid too much for it, but you loved it. Your mother says it's too hard to wash velvet.
Daughter, you look so much more like our people than your mother's kin. I told her you must learn the old ways. But your mother won’t listen. She's remarried and now I’ll see you this last time. I’ll tell you why.
You see, the trouble with your mother is that she can’t let things go. The binges, a couple of wrecked cars, too many broken promises, she said. I swore to do better, but she kept polishing the tea service, kept shaking her head no. That was the end of your mother and me.
These days, I keep my Bible right here where I can reach it. The Word keeps me going, and I’ve asked for forgiveness more times than I can count. I tell the Man Upstairs that I’ll do better. I repent. I tell Him I’ll never touch the stuff again, for your sake. I don’t know how far I’ll get, but I pray the Lord will deliver me from the bottle for good. When it was time to go, you were still dancing, holding out your arms like angel's wings.
You are an angel—my angel. You smiled, and it reminded me of morning in the desert, when the sun breathes the world alive again. For a moment I thought about not taking you back when the visit was over.
If you stayed, you could learn the flute, the beads, and our dying Native language. You’d make sure no one disturbs the sacred things near the creek. When I’m gone, you could take my place under the cottonwood tree.
Keeping you sounds good, but life is too complicated for that. Even the state says you should be with your mother, although your hair is slick and straight as our ancestors. Only the freckles across your nose set you apart. I’ve wondered a million times which path you’ll take, Native or white. Like the gnarled Manzanita that grows in this desert, there are many directions you could go.
6
All my life I’ve been a seeker: seeker of truth, seeker of my past, many times seeker of my car k
eys. I knew I’d have to find the truth about Joseph Pond and untangle this mess over a silly creek. I needed to discover whether Murkee was a good place to raise kids. Chaz, I was sure about. The final papers would come through any time now. Most of all I craved the peace of country life.
I also was aware that breathing country air wasn’t going to pay the bills. I would need to apply soon to the unified school district, a tiny district twenty miles away that included three small towns. Library services were probably a luxury, but I could teach history if I had to. If no teaching posts were open, then I would sweep floors, wait tables, or whatever it took to keep us going.
If—no, when—I found work, I’d look into finding an apartment. Sharing a bed with a surly teen while my son bunked with a sewing machine wasn’t going to work out for long. Much as I appreciated Lutie's hospitality, I wasn’t sure I could stand her constant scripture-quoting or Tiny's noisy pigs. Back at the little café, Dove mentioned Mrs. Johnson's duplexes. That would be a place to start. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson needed a caretaker, a fix-it person. I didn’t have the first idea of fixing leaky pipes, but I could learn. A duplex in town would at least be a little quieter. I’d get on it—soon.
I was slowing down gradually to the pace around me, a pace that meant going to town only when necessary, doing whatever came next instead of sitting around in staff meetings writing five-year goals. Here I was on a Saturday morning, babysitting a wounded pig, daydreaming out loud.
After Jim's accident, he could no longer sleep out with the rest of the animals. At least that's what Tru and Tiny told Lutie, although she fussed about converting the space next to the newly repaired TV into a pigpen. Still, she furnished the patient with a ratty blanket and even looked the other way when Tru slipped him table scraps. As I was discovering, her crusty demeanor was a shell for a deep reverence of life, a concern that softened her.
Jim improved every day, and soon he began to wander the house freely. He’d bump into things with the Elizabethan collar and then back up with this surprised look. He couldn’t figure out what was different, poor thing, just as he obviously wasn’t sure why he could no longer snort and squeal. I sympathized with him. The changes in my life were just as baffling, and I, too, couldn’t decide exactly what was different.
“You know, Jim, they need a library in Murkee,” I said, straightening his bed while he watched a video on the TV that Tiny had so graciously repaired. “The school has about ten books, and they’re all old encyclopedias. No wonder the kids all turn out to be ranch hands and truck drivers.”
In fourth grade Loren H. had called me names in the school library, and I’d punched him so hard he knocked the globe off a shelf and split it in two. Mrs. Davis, the librarian, sent me into the hall, and I decided to have my own library some day. After that, I began to categorize and reshelve everything in my life. Here, I thought, was a great opportunity. As soon as the superintendent found out I was available, he would surely hire me.
“I’ll have the kids around here begging for John Donne instead of plasma TV,” I said aloud to Jim.
The pig stared at the tube. “See what I mean? TV just turns us all into zombies.” Jim was as responsive as Nova, although less sullen.
My daughter sat at the dinette table, painting each of her nails a different color. The bottles of polish stood open, brushes atilt, filling the kitchen with the biting smell of acetone. Shades like midnight blue and metallic green suited her; even the bright yellow gloss had a melancholy look to it. She pursed her lips and carefully stroked each fingertip, as if this was the only thing in life worth doing.
“Planning to come with us to the cookout tomorrow?” I asked her so she’d feel more like she was making her own decisions.
“And do what? Hang with geeks? Duh.” Nova let out one of her famous sighs and blew lightly on her fingertips. She could be a pretty girl, even beautiful, if she ever gave up hating the world. At least she wasn’t wearing all black yet, although I was halfway afraid to praise her for it.
“If you stay here Uncle Tiny and Jim will drive you nuts. You know how they love those Green Acres episodes.”
“He's not going?” Her breath again hissed out, louder than before. “Fine. I guess I could show for a little while. Teach the losers how to be cool.”
“You’ll be cool, all right, and don’t embarrass the rest of us. You know what I mean.”
“My hair? Come on, it's no big deal.”
“Wash out that gunk, and I’ll forget that you didn’t do the dishes yet.” I’d insisted the children take over that chore from Aunt Lutie, which was an unpopular decision to say the least.
Nova pushed away from the table and held her fingers up in the air. “My nails are wet. How can I do dishes?”
“Whatever.” I smiled. Sometimes I was more like her than I thought.
That afternoon the Tabernacle Ladies, as I called the loosely knit group, assembled at our place for a planning session for the upcoming fall bazaar. Gladys Mason and several others trouped into the living room, where Lutie had set the dinette chairs in a semicircle. They arranged themselves, and I sat next to a large woman named LaDonna Johnson, whose electric blue polyester blouse whooshed with her every move. She was taking notes on a small spiral-bound pad. Aunt Lutie sat in her recliner, holding court and wielding her usual authority.
“Frieda, will you open us in prayer today?” Lutie smiled at Frieda, a mousy shy woman. Frieda looked at her feet. “Come on,” Lutie urged, “the Lord perks right up when he hears you praying.”
This was going to be a long afternoon. I tried not to look bored and bowed my head politely as dear Frieda started in. The moment she opened her mouth, though, she was transformed from wallflower to warrior. I was impressed, in spite of the God-sized chip I still had on my spiritual shoulder. Somehow, Frieda's prayer lightened me, if only for a moment. I wondered if Nova, who had refused to come out of the bedroom, would feel the sincerity of Frieda's efforts through the trailer's thin walls.
After the “amen,” Frieda returned to her quiet self, and Lutie opened the meeting. It was mostly the kind of talk you’d expect from a bunch of church ladies: How many tote tables they’d need and how much to charge for the privilege of selling pies, canned goods, and a myriad of crafts and handiwork. LaDonna was breathless as she outlined her plan for keeping the quilts and the crocheted afghans clean and dry after last year's “ fee-asco,” she said.
“And Linc told me at the end of last season he’ll be upping the rent again,” LaDonna continued. “Maybe we ought to move the whole kit and caboodle back over to the church.” She sighed. “And pray it don’t rain.”
“But we all agreed that Linc's is the only place big enough,” Lutie said.
Gladys broke in, straightening her long legs out into the middle of the room. “That's it right there, LaDonna,” she said. “The church is just too crowded, and out in the yard everything is at the mercy of the weather and the dust. We need that hall.”
“Suppose we took up a collection beforehand?” A woman named Velma said with a smirk. “Make the menfolk pull their weight.” Velma was heavier than La Donna but a lot less cheerful.
The more I listened, the more I was convinced that they were as courageous and fulfilled in their own way as any liberated city woman. The thing that nagged at me was their silence when it came to Linc. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how he managed to run the town and keep these fiercely independent folks in line. Even here, where my outspoken aunt held her own brand of influence, the ladies refused to speak of him except as pertained to the meeting hall they needed.
When the conversation finally sounded more casual—talk of the weather and which animals were doing what, who was attending the county fair this month—I took a chance and asked a question of the group. “I’m curious,” I said, suddenly feeling as shy as Frieda. “Why would Linc charge a bunch of church ladies to set up their bazaar in his place?” All the women stared at me as if I’d asked why God made air.
&nbs
p; Frieda said, “Linc's only got that way since he's been back.” She reached for a cookie and tore a big bite from its side. “He's done so much for all of us. You’d think certain people would be grateful.”
Lutie's eyes blazed. “Frieda, if I told you once I told you twice, Linc is up to more than getting his rights back.”
Frieda sniffed. “I only meant there are a lot of us who are beholden to him. He never charged us a fee before all this came up with your brother.”
I volunteered. “What's the difference between the two venues? Couldn’t we just use the church?”
LaDonna chimed in. “At least someone has a decent head on her shoulders.”
“It's too small, LaDonna.” Lutie looked exasperated.
LaDonna rolled her eyes. “It just burns me up to pay to hold a bazaar.”
Lutie shrugged. “I know, I know.” She sighed. “But how else will we raise enough money for our own hall?”
After a few moments, Frieda spoke in a whisper. “Jesus said to render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's,” she said and looked at the floor once again. The others set their mouths into thin hard lines, and LaDonna's blouse whooshed as she folded her arms over her chest.
Lutie struggled out of the recliner and stood before the group. She looked thinner than usual. “I’ll get Muri here straightened out on this later,” she said. “Now are we ready for a vote? The hall or the churchyard? A roof over our heads or do we take our chances on the weather?”
“I guess we have no choice,” Frieda said with a huff.
“My Dresden Plate quilt was all but ruined two years ago out in the yard,” Gladys complained.
“At least the hall's got ceiling fans,” LaDonna said, and she fanned herself with her notepad.
“Well, I guess that's it then,” Lutie said. “Frieda? What do you say?”
“God is bigger than Linc,” she murmured. “Pay the tax and watch what He can do.”
The Fence My Father Built Page 6
