“I thought you and Tiny didn’t have children. Sorry, I didn’t mean to blurt that out.”
“We didn’t,” she said. “But I remember how it was for Joseph when your mom left with you. He never really did get over it. And not many people know it, but once I lost a baby.”
“I’m so sorry. What happened?”
Lutie smiled. “Sometime I’ll tell you that story.”
17
My ears roared with Nova's angry words and the slapping sound of the screen door. I was numb. By dusk I wasn’t feeling much like practicing tough love. She should have come back by now. The daylight had faded, and I imagined the harsh desert swallowing her whole. Coyotes, snakes, even Linc Jackson were some of the dangers that raced through my mind. But what could I do? We’d already alerted the sheriff's office, where a female deputy had told me not to worry, that Nova would show up when she cooled off. Finally I went to the bedroom, where I gazed at the portrait of my father, smiling in his cowboy outfit.
Once I’d read somewhere, “Stand in the middle of the pain.” So I did this until, like some warrior being tested to the limits of his strength, I sank down to my knees. I fell back upon the chenille bedspread, stared up at Nova's plastic stars and hoped Tru didn’t come looking for me soon.
My dreams must have pitied me, because I didn’t remember any of them in the morning. After getting dressed, I concentrated on how Nova would show up any minute, pouting, hungry, and impossible as always. I went to the window, looking for signs of movement. Her hair, I thought, pulling on a light jacket. Purple hair would be easy to spot. I rushed out the door, and I heard whispers of my own thoughts. Where are you, Nova? Please come back to me. To us.
I went as far out as I dared, stopping on top of a berm next to the creek. I scanned the horizon. The water was as dark and immutable as it had been the day we arrived, and gurgling sounds near the banks taunted me. I was a hypocrite— a horrible mother. Last week I’d allowed dinner at Rubin's to go way past my intentions. When I should have been watching my daughter, I’d been caught up in an infatuation with the guy next door. If I’d been paying attention, I might have prevented the fire.
Nova would probably agree with my miserable assessment. But she wasn’t here. Suddenly, I missed her constant stream of sighs and “whatevers,” her doomsday predictions, and sarcastic remarks. I ached to stroke her woolly hair—orange or purple—watch her paint rainbows on her nails, and kiss her nose. I called her name until my throat ached, but there was no reply. Even after I’d gone back home and phoned every soul for miles around, I sat up late, on the edge of hysteria. I was too exhausted to cry, so I tried my own brand of prayers. God seemed far away. Unlike the authority my aunt had when she called upon the Almighty, I felt as if I were speaking to a frightening and distant deity. Most of my efforts at intercession came out as “please, please.” In between prayer and pleading I listened for Nova's familiar sounds, hoping the screen door would creak open in the middle of the night.
For three days I thought of little except my missing daughter. Nothing else mattered, although I had to act quickly on what I knew about the burial mound. I’d called the Warm Springs Tribal Council to find out about laws against selling artifacts and learned about the NAGPRA law. The initials stood for Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. It was a federal law passed in 1990. Apparently, the FBI routinely investigated stolen pieces, and there were stiff penalties for dealing in Native American grave goods. But I also learned that East Coast and European collectors paid top dollar for rare or ancient finds—the older the better.
Later, Lutie and I sat close together on the sofa and opened her photo albums. The faces of people I didn’t recognize stared back at me. Beneath each photo, handwritten in a neat script, a caption listed names and places and the occasional date. The earliest one was undated. It was a picture of a brave, yet sad, great-grandmother of obvious Native American heritage. Anna, her name had been, and the caption said she had died at age twenty-six of a tumor.
The photography made it difficult to see too much detail. In some the lighting was poor or the shot had been taken from so far away that I couldn’t make out features. Others were torn or faded or fragmented in some way—a little like the Ponds in general.
Especially my father. Was Joseph Pond the real daddy I never knew, the one who should have watched me grow? I’d asked myself this so many times. One day, probably next week I used to think, he’d call me on the phone and beg me to forgive him. He died before I had the chance.
I flipped through the album, running my fingers across the photos. Now I’d found what was left of him, and in the process, I had lost my own daughter. I began to sob once more.
Lutie patted my shoulder. “He’d get to feeling bad about losing you, and he’d call us in the middle of the night, just to see if I’d heard from your mom.”
I sniffled and wiped my eyes.
Lutie handed me a tissue. “Stay tough, now, and the Lord won’t let us down.”
Through all of this my mind kept straying back to Nova. Linc's threats didn’t matter until I found her. I’d called everyone we’d ever known, but so far she hadn’t surfaced. I reported her as a runaway, and Lutie prayed with the church ladies. By now, Murkee would be awash in gossip, but I didn’t care.
Tru didn’t say much. He was as quiet as Jim, who now nuzzled up against me at the oddest times. If the phone rang, I started with dread and joy. I’d combed the area on foot as far as I could walk. Nothing.
My vision narrowed until I saw my daughter in everything. Once I could have sworn I heard her voice over the rattle of the shower pipes, but it turned out to be Tru, asking for five dollars through the bathroom door. I was so shaken that I’d rinsed again to shower away the sharp smell of disappointment.
“So do I get the money?” When I emerged Tru still stood there, a large claw hammer hanging from a too-big tool belt, hanging around his waist. I was wrapped in my green robe with a shell pink towel wound around my hair. He smiled and said I looked like a giant ice cream cone.
“Ice cream?” I said, trying to sound normal through the catch in my throat. “You want five bucks for ice cream?”
Tru pushed up his glasses. “No, Mom, it's for nails. Tiny says we’re going to need more nails.”
“Nails? What are you two up to this time?”
“We’re building Aunt Lutie's sun porch. I drew the plans from some pictures we pulled off the Web. Tiny's got these rolls of screen out in the yard—had them forever, he says. That's where he got the idea in the first place.”
He followed me to the bedroom where I fished a bill out of my wallet. “Here,” I said, “But be careful. You ever swung a hammer before?”
“Aw, Mom.”
“Try not to smash your fingers, okay?”
He dashed off with the money, probably to avoid any further mothering. I couldn’t help it, though. He was my baby, and I wasn’t about to let this one get away. There is a place in every mom's heart, I imagine, where she keeps her offspring forever as children, innocent and eager to be nurtured. I was no different. Both my children could grow up all they wanted, but I would best remember their formative years. Someday I’d tell stories to their children, and I’d remember only what was true: that they were the greatest kids in the world.
Still in my robe and turban, I sat on the edge of the bed and longed to haul out the baby pictures and the school photos that I knew were here somewhere, most likely in the bottom of one of the packing boxes Tiny had stored for me. Chaz tried to get away with more than his share of our albums, but I’d discovered his plan and rescued my half. Dividing up family portraits gets ugly. Who wants to look at people with their heads neatly snipped out of the picture?
I’d kept most of the milestone photos—shots of first steps and first bikes, rationalizing that Chaz had usually been off at some gallery gala. Now I thought of Nova and her fourth-grade ballet recital, the sea foam green tutu and tiara and satin toe shoes, although they weren
’t really on toe yet. She’d worn an angelic smile, and in those days I would have bet on her future sainthood.
My daughter, the one who had pasted dandelions on scraps of construction paper to present to me on Mother's Day, was missing. The bed we’d had to share here, lately so sharply divided, had once been a sanctuary, where she’d cuddled next to me after a bad dream.
I jerked back to reality; time was running out. I dressed hurriedly and raked a comb through my hair. The air would dry it and evaporate my tears as well. Today I needed to check in with the police station where I’d reported Nova's disappearance and find out if they had anything new.
Perhaps I’d show them more photos or an article of clothing that still carried her scent. I’d taken to sleeping with her Grateful Dead t-shirt. The faint aroma of my daughter relaxed me when no amount of Tylenol PM or even the sedatives from Doc Perkins helped. I stuffed the shirt into my purse.
Outside, the yard rang with the clattering and banging sounds of men at work. Tiny and my Truman, the once shy boy who reconfigured computers but couldn’t keep a toothpick sculpture from falling apart, hoisted boards onto sawhorses like seasoned construction workers. My son looked taller and more at ease with himself.
“Measure twice and cut once,” Tiny said.
“Sixty-five and three-eighths,” Tru said. I couldn’t tell whether he smiled at his own math skills or was simply entertained by the loud snap of the metal tape measure. Either way, he looked adorable.
“Okay, then, we’re ready to cut.”
“Careful, Unc,” Tru cautioned. “We can’t afford any accidents.”
Tiny leaned over with a handsaw and began to rip the board. His trademark red suspenders kept his pants uppants now baggier than when we’d first met. I understood now what Tru had meant by “accidents.”
Since Tiny's coma, Tru had been helping his uncle, reminding him about diet, glucose testing, and injections when they might have been conveniently forgotten. Tru had researched diabetes mellitus on the Internet. No doubt he’d learned how difficult it is for wounds to heal and how diabetics must always protect their extremities. A cut or bruise could be serious, and my son knew it.
I watched them work. They chatted, but Tru didn’t prattle; he only asked questions that Tiny answered in a straightforward manner. They made an impressive team, smooth as a machine with all the gears in working order. It was hard to believe the two of them weren’t blood relatives.
They both loved tinkering with junk and watching bad TV show reruns, and neither my uncle nor my son was prone to irritability or meanness. I didn’t count sibling rivalry; there was nothing extraordinary about his boyish brand of harassment. Tiny and Tru didn’t appear to know how to grow bitterness, the way some people do. Lately, I’d teetered on the edge of rancor with Linc and Chaz bugging us again. But each time I looked at Tru I leaned a little more toward letting go and reminded myself I’d carried resentment long and far enough.
Tru held the two-by-fours in place as his uncle hammered. I’d never realized how strong the big man really was; nails almost melted into place with only a few bangs of the hammer. It wasn’t long before they’d framed in a wall. I was amazed that it stood upright. I was still admiring their work when the long driveway's gravel crunched under the weight of a massive diesel pickup.
Linc Jackson braked, slammed the truck's king cab door, and strode through the oven-door fence and up the path. His face and neck were redder than usual, and a toothpick bobbed up and down as he worked his jaw muscles. I prayed Rubin hadn’t shot any more cows.
“Mornin’,” Tiny said, through a mouthful of nails. Sometimes I wished my uncle was as ornery as the rest of us. “Lutie,” he hollered, “bring us some iced tea, please, would ya? Linc's here.”
Linc didn’t acknowledge the greeting. Instead, he took off his hat and waved it at the newly framed-in wall. “What in the world do you call that?”
“We’re building a sun porch,” Tru announced importantly.
“That?” Linc laughed, but it was a cold laugh. In the harsh sunlight he looked older than I remembered. He reached out and shook the wall, and it did start to lean a little. Tiny stepped over and laid his hand on Linc's shoulder.
“I think you best back off.” My uncle loomed above him and didn’t remove his hand until Linc let go of the board.
“That's not why I’m here, anyway,” Linc said, stepping back. He stuck his hat back on his head, perhaps to hide the stark white strip of forehead where the sun couldn’t reach. He turned to where I stood outside the trailer door. “You,” he said, pointing right at me. “This is your fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t shown up here.”
“You’re not making sense.” I tried to be polite, but my heart banged against my ribs.
“I’ll tell you what makes sense,” he said, his cheeks turning dark and red. “It makes sense for you to accept my generous offer and go back to where you came from. You and that little harlot of a daughter.” You could practically see smoke coming from his ears.
I narrowed my eyes. “My daughter? What's Nova got to do with this? If you know where she is—”
“You tell me. Marvin got this call last night—my caller ID says it came from a pay phone in Portland. Now he's gone, and so is my Caddy. He's run off to meet her in my brand new car. I just drove it home yesterday. I’m holding you responsible.”
He was bellowing now, his voice hollow and hoarse. His hat trembled slightly as his finger jabbed the air to punctuate each phrase. I had no idea how far he would go. People get shot every day over even minor issues.
Lutie ran out when the shouting started, gathered Tru, and took him inside. On the way Lutie glared back at Linc, as if to control him with her piercing stare. I tried my best to stay calm, but I felt my insides harden with fury.
“Give me that number,” I said in my coolest tone. “My ex-husband lives in Portland. I’ll notify him right away. I want my daughter back as much as you want your Cadillac.” I blurted out the last part without thinking.
“Think you’re pretty cute? You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I own most of this town. Before long I’ll own you and the creek too. Jonto's not the only one with a shotgun around here.” By now he was in my face, and he hadn’t stopped shouting.
“You don’t scare me,” I yelled, tasting the angry words. “You couldn’t rip off my father, so now you’re trying to destroy us. I say Marvin better watch himself, because my daughter is underage.” My voice quivered. “Anything happens, and I’ll shoot you myself.”
Linc shook his head. “That's it. I’ve been holding back, but you leave me no choice. I’m going to see the water rights judge and settle this once and for all.”
I stuck out my chin and looked him right in the eyes, even though I was scared spitless. I’d never been a violent person, but he had just called my daughter a harlot. I lunged forward and wanted to pummel Linc Jackson, but Tiny held me back.
My uncle had been standing next to me throughout my tirade, still toting a load of boards under one massive arm.
“I said, back off, Jackson.” Uncle Tiny firmly pushed Linc away from me. My knees shook and threatened to give out but I stood my ground. “Get off my place.” This time Tiny sounded dead serious.
“Pretty soon this won’t be your place, you big ox.” Linc shoved back, and Tiny tripped backwards over one of the tire planters, dropping the heavy wood onto one of his feet. My uncle grabbed his foot and sagged against the side of the trailer as Linc Jackson swaggered past the oven-door fence to his truck, knocking over a stack of bicycle parts as he went. The gravel sprayed like spittle under the tires as he backed up and drove away.
Tiny unlaced his boot as Lutie and Tru flew out the door to help him. His foot was bleeding, where a nail had punctured the top of his big toe. My son's fears about Uncle Tiny injuring himself had come true, but it had been no accident.
JOSEPH's JOURN
AL
OCTOBER 1999
Most days I remember too much. I remember how the Ponds— Desmond and Geraldine—took Lutie and me in. They taught us to love God. I married and had a beautiful daughter, but your mother left because I couldn’t stay away from the drink. The company putting up the dam paid me to go away after concrete claimed two of my fingers.
I bought a home out in the Oregon desert, near the Warm Springs reservation. By then it was too late. I already had liver problems that could kill a man. I couldn’t turn my back on God no matter what was taken from me, except for you. Losing you put a sinkhole in the middle of my soul.
Finding you never quite leaves my mind, and the liver disease is taking its toll. But lately I’ve been fighting another battle too. The neighbor wants me to sell the place to him—strange for a man who owns most of the town.
The neighbor—Linc is his name—says even the creek belongs to him.
I have my own theory; he knows as much about artifacts as I do. I’m sure he's been out here digging. I photographed the items. And then I left the important pieces—the Warm Springs root stick and that arrowhead—where Linc couldn’t miss them. Sure enough, now they’re gone. Fat cats and collectors pay thousands for these things, and I’ve seen the glint of covetousness in Linc's eyes. I’ve watched him go from friendly to fury in a heartbeat.
I sacrificed the artifacts to bait him, but Lutie begs me to stand clear of the trouble. Live and let live, she says. I’ve never been one to stay quiet. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. These days that's mostly no one. Someday they’ll say we should have taken heed of that drunken Indian. Then it’ll be too late. The burial site—whether it's really ancient pre-Clovis or just sacred to Native Americans— will disappear. If that happens, a piece of our heritage is lost. The mound will fall silent.
Muri, when I close my eyes I wonder where you are today. I pray you’re strong, and I hold your name up to heaven. I hope you take this small but holy land and stream and protect them as I tried to protect them. Sadness washes over me when I think of how little I know you.
The Fence My Father Built Page 17
