“I give up,” I said. Nova clambered into the truck and scooted Tru into the middle. Tiny ground the gears, and the truck bumped down the gravel drive.
Lutie put her arm around me. “You’re doing fine,” she said, gently brushing strands of hair away from my face. She always smelled fresh and full of life. “I already said more prayers than you could shake a stick at.”
JOSEPH's JOURNAL
MARCH 2008
Today, Lutie grabbed my arm and shook me out of a dream about you, Muri. “I took a slight detour,” I told her. Five minutes? An hour? I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out. When I tried to move I spilled the last of my iced tea, the only thing I can keep down these days. Lutie helped me to my feet, and I breathed in sharp to steady myself. “Let's get you outside, Joseph,” Lutie whispered. “ You can watch the sunset.”
If you saw me you wouldn’t recognize me. I’m a skeleton, shuffling along in the yard. That's what I’ve become, a suggestion of myself. I hold my hands out in front of me to keep from teetering … to be sure I’m still alive. The liver is an unforgiving thing and spiteful as a lot of women I’ve known.
Lutie guided me to a lawn chair. The yard is just as full of junk as my memory, piled with bicycle parts and flotsam no one will ever want. The fence I built with my own hands leans a little now, but I’m still glad I put those oven doors to good use.
I cling to the only thing left, a loving God, an abiding promise of eternal life. I’m not afraid to die. The Holy Ghost will carry me. When I think about walking through the tunnel I see Jesus standing with outstretched arms, beckoning.
I wish I could package up faith and give it to you and then let it become your own. If I had more time I’d dream my precious Lord into you, Muri, but time is running out. I can’t trust this body to keep going.
I don’t trust these eyes anymore, either. Seems like the mound's being tampered with again, but I can’t catch the thief. Or maybe it's just animals digging for a meal.
I press the edge of my hand against my forehead like a visor, to drive off the summer sun, waiting and listening. If I watch long enough, I’ll see a young girl dancing like we used to dance. When I do I won’t fight it. I’ll run to you and hold you forever.
30
By the end of the week all of Murkee knew Nova was home. We were the only ones, though, who knew that Linc's life had turned “slippery as hog slop,” as Tiny said. Linc was gone, supposedly to Portland to fetch his grandson. Before he left, the sheriff brought Linc over. I was suspicious he might have Ed Johnson or Frieda Long's husband waiting to shoot me or torch the trailer.
He came in the evening, looking rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept well. His escort wouldn’t allow Linc inside, so we both stood in the yard shivering. In late fall the nighttime desert temperature falls below freezing some years. A light dusting of snow clung to the ground and to the junk in the yard, frosting the orbs on top of the posts.
In the semidarkness I couldn’t tell if he was sincere, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I stood as far away as I could. I shot up an emergency prayer for what to say. I wasn’t afraid—only cold. I wrapped my favorite blue sweater tightly around me.
“We’ve both been through hell with the kids,” I said. “I feel awful about Marvin.”
“Don’t need your sympathy.” Linc huffed.
“What do you want then?”
He examined his fingernails perhaps so I wouldn’t see his eyes harden. “I come to ask … if you ever hear from my grandson, would you … oh well, don’t bother.”
“Look, I won’t press charges against Marvin. But he’d best find some sort of help or else he might wind up like his grandfather.”
“If you and Jonto had seen things my way, this whole mess could have been avoided,” Linc said. He still didn’t get it.
I crossed my arms. “Just tell me one thing.” I stared him straight in the eye. “Who shot those cows?”
Linc Jackson looked up at the night sky but wouldn’t answer.
“I knew it,” I whispered and fought to keep from lighting into him again. “You’d probably shoot off your own foot if you thought it would get you what you wanted.”
Linc shrugged as if he didn’t understand how pathetic he was. “You’re just like ol’ Chief Joseph.”
“You’re trespassing,” I said. “Now get off my land.”
He muttered something under his breath, glanced back at the trailer, and shook his head. He trudged to the waiting patrol car with his hat pulled down and his shoulders hunched forward.
A nudge prompted me to pray for him, although I admit I would rather pray for a rattlesnake. I unclenched my fists and did the best I could, but praying for one's enemies is harder than it sounds.
I watched him go. I’d stood up to Linc with a confidence I had never felt before. My body shook once more, but it wasn’t from adrenaline or the cold night air. I could rely on a new strength, one that welled up from someplace deep. My heavenly father had been there all along. I was no longer tormented by the mystery of what kind of man Joseph Pond had been. The power of God had opened in me a current of peace. I felt loved with every breath I took. When I stopped trembling I pushed open the screen door, which protested more loudly than usual in the cold, and walked into my home.
“Lord have mercy, honey, what's Linc gone and done to you now?” Lutie said, surrounding me with a hug and her sweet smell. Tiny stood at her side with a worried look.
“He didn’t do anything to me,” I said, hugging her back. “In fact, I think I just socked it to him, as they used to say on Laugh-In.”
Tru glanced up from his computer screen in the corner and said, “Huh?” and then shook his head and went back to his chess game.
I tousled his hair. “Maybe … maybe we’re all ready for some changes. Like getting you a haircut.”
“Aw, Mom.”
Tiny smiled. “I know a good barber.”
I smiled. “And let's just say if we’re family then maybe we ought to all be sitting in the pew together. It would have made Dad happy.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” was all Lutie could say.
That's what I loved best about life out here—the way folks just sidestep problems like they do road apples. I felt a little sorry for people like Linc, who thought they could rip into the fabric of their neighbors’ lives and still come out on top. As Lutie said, “He's got his just desserts, all right. Lord forgive him.” I wasn’t sure about the forgiveness part—not yet—but I promised I’d keep trying.
Was it too late to convince Rubin to change his mind and stay? He felt like family too. Next morning, I kept this in mind as I made my way past the emu pens. The birds fluttered their flightless wings at me and then shrunk back against each other in a cowardly clump. Rubin was right. Emus are the weirdest birds on earth.
He was in his office, standing amidst an assortment of books and papers, slightly turned away from me. I didn’t announce my presence. I wanted to watch him—the way his fingers curved around the framed certificate he held, the one that said he’d graduated vet school with top honors. I still thought they were capable hands, the hands of a surgeon, even if they operated on cows and sheep and pigs.
I studied his profile, too, for as long as I dared. There was sadness in his face, as well as strength. It was the same quality I’d seen in the photo of my father, and I couldn’t look away. Rubin turned and saw me staring.
“I’ve got so much stuff,” he said. He ran his fingers across the frame to wipe off dust. “So much stuff.”
“Rubin, I came to tell you—”
“That you’re not leaving? I figured it out.” He laid the framed certificate on his desk.
“You don’t have to go, either,” I said. “Linc's in custody.”
Rubin shook his head. “I told you before. I’m the local bad boy. My business is history.” His words had an edge to them, and he tossed a fat textbook onto a stack of papers. I cringed. He kept his back to me. “Someone's coming out to show the house
. Real estate people always want everything neat and tidy.”
“Rubin.”
He turned around. “You think I’m running away, don’t you? I’m desperate. On top of that—”
He paused and stared off into space, and then looked into my eyes. “On top of that I’m falling in love with you.” He lifted my chin so I couldn’t avoid his gaze. “Marry me, Muri. Please.”
I gasped.
“Did you hear me?”
“You don’t get it,” I said. “You’re wonderful, Rubin, but I’m not leaving.”
He took my hands. “You telling me no?”
“I’m not telling you anything yet. Give me some time.” I pulled away and set an antique novel—a George Eliot—on the stack. “I don’t know how to say this. I found—”
“Found what?”
“Something to believe in,” I said and pictured Joseph Pond in his cowboy getup. “I didn’t get here in time to meet my dad, but he left me his faith. All I know is, from now on things are going to be different.”
Rubin smiled. “That's what I love—the way you stand up for what you believe in. I may not make it to church, but I’m not opposed to the idea. Promise you’ll at least think it over?”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “If you’ll think about staying put.”
“I’ll see what I can work out—for the stream, for the land —for you crazy bunch of Ponds.” He hugged me close, and I drank in his now familiar scent.
From Rubin's house I walked the trail to the creek. The power of this land was in the water all right, but I didn’t know exactly how I’d keep it from being sucked dry. I thought of the creek, striving to keep cows and fish and people alive. I might never be a rancher or a farmer, but I could be on the side of anyone who wanted to keep this place just a little wild. Maybe I’d even join the land use watchdog group and campaign for their causes. I’d done pretty well up on Ed Johnson's truck.
I leaned against my cottonwood tree. The leaves had all fallen; the stream was iced over where rocks shaded it. Carpets of mosses and lichens—red, greens, and yellows—clung to rocks jutting from the bank. There were no cattle hooves in the muddy spots. Rubin's funny NO GRAZING ALLOWED sign creaked whenever the wind gusted, and its odd rhythm made me feel like dancing. I closed my eyes, waiting, listening.
This was the place Joseph Pond visited most often, the place where I felt I knew him best. Perhaps he’d sat out here reading his Civil War books or drowning out his pain with the birds singing, fingerlings glittering in the shallows. Or perhaps he only came here to pray.
From my spot under the tree I could see the outline of his crazy fence, the windows of the oven doors winking with flashes of sunlight. The fence my father built was odd and uneven, but it was sturdy and able to withstand storms and high winds. It had become the beacon he wrote about in his journal, showing me where to look. The creek he loved really was like a “watered garden.” I’d found the reference in Lutie's Bible—in Jeremiah, to be exact.
It won’t be that long before the camas on the stream bank will bloom again, and the leaves of the cottonwood will parachute down to the water when the wind coaxes them loose. The toads and frogs will sit on their spots and proclaim their wisdom to anyone who is listening, and I’ll be among them. God will teach me how to live and someday I’ll be where my father resides. Lutie's got me believing in angels again, and I know for sure Chief Joseph watches over me.
Discussion Questions
The Fence My Father Built is told mostly in first person through the eyes of Muri Pond, but her deceased father, Joseph, also has a voice through journals he left behind. What picture of Joseph do the journal entries paint? How do these entries help Muri know and understand where she came from? What do you know about your own heritage? How does this knowledge influence you?
When Muri arrives at the oven-door fence, the house and her father turn out to be nothing like Muri imagined. What are the invisible walls that Muri erects to shield herself and her family from things she’d rather not face? Have you ever been disappointed when something turned out different than what you expected? How did you deal with your feelings?
In Murkee, land and water are integral to the ranchers’ survival. Some of the community sees Joseph and Rubin's stream preservation efforts as hurting that survival. Is it possible to have both conservation and progress? Why or why not?
Muri initially is standoffish toward her aunt, yet Lutie turns out to be one of Muri's most steady supporters. If Lutie hadn’t been there to comfort Muri, do you think Muri would have resolved her problems in the same way? How important are friends? Have your friends helped you through crises? How?
Muri likes to sit next to the burial mound and stream, where her father had once sat. There, she feels connected, loved, and at peace. Do you have a favorite place that helps you feel peaceful and connected?
Muri's a librarian and can’t imagine life without books. What does her start-up library tell you about her as a person? How important are books to your life?
Joseph was named after Chief Joseph, the Nez Perce chief who famously said, “I will fight no more forever.” Yet Joe's journal entries reveal that he was willing to fight to protect what he loved. Do you see any parallels between his efforts and Muri's struggle to belong? Have you ever felt as if you didn’t fit in? How did you handle this?
How are Muri and Nova different and yet alike? Do you think both mother and daughter are after some of the same things? Did you ever try to be as different as you could from your parents? How are you alike or different today?
Muri's son Truman sees Uncle Tiny as a father figure. Is it a healthy relationship? If you were Muri, how would you approach their friendship?
In uncovering Linc's secrets, Muri is also forced to acknowledge her father's odd characteristics and his addiction to alcohol. In what ways does Muri reach toward forgiveness? What does forgiveness mean in this case? How do you react when you discover that someone is not all bad or all good?
Why do you think Muri's father built the fence? What does the fence symbolize for Muri? For you as the reader?
Muri finally discovers she's found her way home after all. How does her changed attitude help her believe that Murkee, her father's place, and even the oven-door start-up fence are exactly where she belongs? How do you define home?
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