Red Earth White Earth

by Will Weaver

  In the sunlight by the barn, Mary Ann and Guy stood on either side of Martin. Martin stared across the field. He watched the slow progress of the ambulance. His eyes were glazed. His breath came in shallow gulps, as if he had been hit hard in the gut.

  “I shoulda checked on him. I shoulda been there . . . ,” he began.

  “Stop that stuff right now,” Mary Ann said, wiping her own eyes. “Don’t even start.”

  Car doors slammed with a hollow sound. The ambulance driver and his assistant, along with the county coroner, who had ridden with the sheriff, all walked forward toward the barn. Guy met them halfway, spoke briefly with them. Mary Ann took Martin to the house. The other men went into the barn.

  Guy waited outside. He leaned on the barn wall in the sunlight.

  Voices came through the wooden wall. Soft voices. There was no argument. What had happened was clear at a glance. Helmer had reached, with his currycomb strapped on a broom handle, too far. The big white Holstein had shied, of course, at the clatter of the wheelchair as it tipped across the gutter—had kicked at the sudden man come tumbling beneath her.

  But the man just lay there. He was no trouble to her. Not this man. He never had been any trouble to her. Soon she chewed her cud again. She stood there chewing. Ruminating. Later her knees reminded her to lie down. And she had lain. When she settled onto the straw and concrete, the man was still there underneath her. But he was warm. And he was no trouble. She did not mind him there. Soon she did not think about him at all.

  Guy realized he was staring but could not see. The sunlight on the white paint of the barn was burning his eyes. He squatted and stared down at the dirt between his boots. Bits of straw and hay floated across the red lake of his vision. Chaff on dirt. Then a daddy longlegs spider. The spider stepped carefully across a twig, a tiny hand striding on thinner fingers that left no sound, no track. Guy lowered his hand. The spider paused, then crawled onto his palm. He lifted the spider to his eyes. He wanted to see its mouth, its eyes, its face.

  The ambulance driver came out and unloaded a gurney.

  Guy stood and looked once more through the barn door. He wanted once more to see the tipped wheelchair. To see the long, blanketed form of his grandfather.

  But his eyes failed him again. In their water he saw not Helmer but the great belly of the cow. He saw it as Helmer must have seen it. It was like lying on one’s back and looking up at the sky, a sky curving not blue but white. A sky with a great sweep of fine white clouds all combed and swirling toward the center. A sky whose surface was painted pink with paths that wove their way across the whiteness, paths slowly throbbing with real blood.

  But then the sky began to sway. To swell. To fill the whole horizon, the whole earth, as if the sky was falling or the earth was rising. It didn’t matter which. For Helmer they were the same.

  Martin began on the Jack Daniel’s the afternoon of his father’s death.

  Guy unpacked his suitcase halfway.

  At suppertime Guy milked the cows for Martin, who could not stand.

  When Guy came in from chores broken dishes covered the floor in a sharp confetti. Beyond, lamps with crushed shades cowered in corners. To the right, the kitchen table lay on its back, two legs broken. The refrigerator lay on its side, its food pooling on the floor, its metal skin pockmarked by boot blows.

  Walls were broken. The Sheetrock between the studs was caved forward in large diamonds that repeated themselves all around the house.

  “Martin?” Guy called.

  No answer.

  “Dad!”

  Still nothing.

  Guy rushed through the house jerking open doors, calling.

  He found Martin underneath his bed, lying on his side, staring at the wall. He clutched a Jack Daniel’s bottle.

  Guy got down eye-level with his father. Martin squinted at Guy as if trying to recall his face.

  Guy looked behind him at the mess. At floor level it looked like the house had tipped on its side, then fallen back. Not far away lay the kitchen clock, its hands still grinding. Six o’clock.

  “You didn’t make supper, then,” Guy said.

  His father stared.

  “I’ll see what I can find,” Guy said. He glanced behind him again. “You must be hungry.”

  “The bastard,” Martin murmured, still staring. “All my life, then he pulls the rug out.”

  “What’s that?” Guy said, leaning down again.

  “All my rug, then he pulls the life out—goddamn him.”

  “Come out of there!” Guy shouted, suddenly angry. He caught his father by the ankles and tried to pull him from underneath the bed. But Martin reached up and locked his fingers in the bedsprings. The whole bed skidded across the floor.

  Guy kicked at the bed. Finally he called Mary Ann.

  ***

  By eight o’clock Mary Ann had Martin cleaned up, in his pajamas, and part-way sober. Guy shoveled Sheetrock, splinters of wood, and broken dishes from the floor with a scoop shovel and pitched them out the door.

  “Once I had a chance to work in Montana. On a big cattle ranch,” Martin slurred.

  Guy kept shoveling.

  Martin stared down at his coffee. “I told the old man about it. He listened but he didn’t say anything. Nothing. Not even ‘Montana, huh?’ Not a fucking word.”

  Martin paused. He looked around for the Jack Daniel’s.

  “Forget it,” Mary Ann said, “you ain’t drinkin’ any more today.”

  Martin looked back to his coffee. He stared. “Talking to the old man was like talking to a barn wall—all you ever got back was an echo. Your own goddamn voice.” He paused again. “I didn’t go to Montana. I never brought it up again.”

  Guy stopped to look at Mary Ann.

  “‘Wait,’ he always said,” Martin muttered. “‘Wait. Go slow. Slow and steady. There’s no hurry.’ Well, I waited, didn’t I?” Martin said loudly, accusingly.

  “Yes. You waited,” Mary Ann said.

  “You think it was easy, waiting? And waiting? And waiting!” Martin called, rising from his chair. He shouted at the door.

  “Easy,” Guy said.

  “Not, not easy,” Martin shouted. “What kind of life is waiting! That’s what I want answered—what kind of life is that? Tell me, goddammit—tell me!”

  As Martin went at the walls with his fists, Guy caught him from behind.

  “What kind of life is that!” Martin shrilled.

  Guy had one of Cassandra’s Valiums. Martin drank it down in a cup of coffee and Jack Daniel’s. Then they got him to bed. Mary Ann sat on his legs—pinned him down. In three minutes he was asleep.

  After Martin slept, Mary Ann talked.

  “Maybe we ought to call somebody,” she said, looking toward the bedroom where Martin snored.

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Somebody. Like a doctor. A doc could put him under for a week. He comes to, Helmer is buried, the farm’s all his. Whole new ball game.”

  “Like Sleeping Beauty?” Guy said. “He wakes up a completely different person and everything is great? Well, he’s no princess.”

  Mary Ann’s cheeks reddened. “Sometimes you’re no goddamned prince, either. When I got here you were swearing at your father and trying to pull him out from under the bed by his goddamn ankles. If you want to know, that wasn’t the brightest thing I’ve ever seen!”

  Guy looked away.

  Mary Ann stood up. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “From now on—until after the funeral—I’ll take care of your father. I’ll cook for him. I’ll look after him. I’ll talk to him. I’ll stay with him. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get too crazy. I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”

  Guy began to speak.

  “And don’t te
ll me you don’t need no help,” she said immediately, “’cause it ain’t true. You’re no different than anybody. And neither is your daddy. He ain’t that bad of a man,” she said. “He just never had a chance.”

  “He had a chance—he just blew it by hanging around here all his life,” Guy said.

  “Nice, real nice,” Mary Ann said, her face reddening again with anger. “Who does that sound like?”

  Guy turned away.

  “Fathers and sons,” she muttered, heading through the door. “The things they do to each other. And don’t do. I never did understand why.”

  39

  The next day Mary Ann stuck with Martin like gas on water. In the morning she got him up, made him wash, shave, dress. After that she fixed him breakfast. Martin waited at the table. He stared out the window toward Helmer’s house. His face was fieldstone, a steady stare that told of cold bulk below grade. He stared through the kitchen wall and chewed his breakfast.

  In the afternoon, while Mary Ann went home to check on Jewell and a sick kid, Guy took his father to the machine shed. He handed his father a broom. Martin swept. The short jabs of his broom flung stray nuts and washers across the concrete. Little wheels clinked and rolled until they banged against the tin wall or bounded through the door into bright sunlight. Guy sorted wrenches with one eye on Martin. Once Martin’s broom rhythm slowly scraped to a stop; Guy turned to stare out the door with his father. A tiny figure, far off, was walking up the road toward the farm.

  The quick steps. The steady stride. It was Madeline.

  Martin stiffened and brought the broom in front of him. “What the hell does she want?” he said to himself.

  Madeline came into the driveway. Guy stepped through the doorway of the machine shop and called to her. She turned toward him and opened her mouth to speak, then saw Martin behind.

  “I just heard. About Helmer. You should have told me,” she said to Guy.

  “I was coming this afternoon,” Guy said.

  She looked behind to Martin, who was still in shadow. Her brown eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Martin—I’m so sorry . . .”

  “About what?” Martin said.

  “About Helmer.”

  “That’s all you’re sorry about? Nothing else?”

  Madeline set her jaw. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said. “That’s what I came to say.”

  “And now you’ve said it,” Martin said, “so why don’t you go back to your boyfriend. Or maybe I should just call him the boy. Or maybe just the friend—the family friend!”

  “That’s enough,” Guy said. He realized he was standing exactly between his father and mother.

  “Don’t tell me what’s enough,” Martin shouted. He threw the broom behind him and lurched forward into the sunlight. Madeline stepped back. “From now on nobody’s tellin’ me nothing around here. This is my farm now. Anybody makes trouble, they pay the piper,” Martin said, his eyes flaring wide in the bright light. “On this farm I’m the piper now!”

  The rest of the day and all that evening the phone rang often for Martin. To some callers he said, “Nothing we could do . . . gone when we got there . . . ’preciate it . . . yup . . . yup.”

  But to many other callers Martin lowered his voice and turned so that Guy could not overhear. Defense League stuff, Guy guessed. After those calls Martin hummed a made-up toneless melody just beneath his breath. Hummed it over and over.

  At milking time Martin swung the milkers udder to udder. Guy helped with the milking so he could stay near him. While the machines hissed and chucked, hissed and chucked, Martin stared out the barn door and hummed his little tune.

  After chores they ate the supper that Mary Ann had cooked. Halfway through the roast beef Martin said loudly, “Somebody get me a drink.”

  Guy and Mary Ann glanced at each other.

  “One,” Mary Ann said. “And I’ll pour.”

  Martin hummed his tune as Guy went to find a bottle of Jack Daniel’s with the least whiskey in it.

  Mary Ann poured.

  Martin sipped the whiskey and smacked his lips.

  Guy drew a breath and said, “Dad, we should talk about some things. Like the funeral. It’s coming up fast.”

  “Talk away,” Martin said, putting his boots on the table.

  “Did Helmer have any instructions for his funeral that you know of? A will? Papers?”

  “That little iron box in his writing desk,” Martin said. “What’s inside, I wouldn’t know. It don’t matter now anyway,” he said, draining his drink and hoisting his empty glass to Helmer.

  ***

  Guy swung open the door to his grandfather’s house. He turned on the kitchen light. A mouse skittered away. Guy listened for the hum and click of Helmer’s page-turning machine. For the whir of the wheelchair. But the doorway to the living room was dark and silent. He reached around the doorway for the light switch. When the light was on he went in.

  He opened his grandfather’s writing desk. He ran a finger over the smooth black cover of the Bible, around the rim of the pencil cup. The first drawer was filled with old implement manuals; one had on its cover a red combine faded to pink.

  In the bottom drawer his wrist touched cold metal. The iron lockbox. But there was no key anywhere.

  Back at Martin’s house, Guy worked at the box hinges with a screwdriver. Mary Ann had gone home to put her kids to bed. Martin sat across the table and watched.

  Guy finally levered open the lid. Carefully he turned over the box and emptied out the papers. Some were wrapped in oilskin—the farm abstract, the deed. There were no insurance policies. On the bottom of the pile, which meant it had been on top inside the iron box, was a faded, creamy sleeve of an envelope: “Last Will and Testament.”

  Guy pushed it toward his father’s side of the table.

  “Can we read this?” Martin said. He looked briefly at the door and then at the window that looked out on Helmer’s house.

  Guy was silent.

  They stared at each other.

  “I mean, why the hell can’t we? Who’s to stop us?” Martin said. He looked up once more to Guy, then jerked the pages from their sleeve. A single page of brighter, thinner paper fell away as Martin unfolded the will. Martin squinted first at the thicker, creamier paper. His lips moved as he read. Then he picked up the single page of new paper. He stared at it, then jerked his gaze back to the older pages. A croak of laughter came from his lips.

  Martin kept laughing until he lost his breath. He started to choke and Guy came around the table and pulled his father up from his chair and clapped him on his back. Martin gasped for air. His eyes ran tears from his laughter.

  “What the hell’s so funny?” Guy said.

  Wheezing, doubled over, Martin pushed the pages toward Guy.

  Guy read the first page of the will, then the single-page codicil. The codicil, executed by a Flatwater lawyer and dated only a week before, began:

  Because of the state of mind of my son, Martin Pehrsson, namely his difficulties with matters of judgment and financial responsibility as they affect the farm and its operation and preservation; and considering that his son (my grandson), Guy Pehrsson, has recently come back to the farm, I hereby bequeath, with the understanding that my son, Martin, will always have a place to live and work on the farm, my entire . . .

  Guy’s mouth fell open. He looked up to his father.

  “Just tell me what to do, boss,” Martin said, stooping and bowing. “Just put a shovel in my hand and I’m your man.” Martin laughed in a high, whooping cackle.

  Guy called Mary Ann. She sat on Martin until he fell asleep.

  Later that night Guy jerked awake at the heavy crash of a shotgun.

  “Dad!” he screamed.

  But then the gun crashed again and ag
ain, outside. Guy ran through the door into the black heat. A yellow flash ripped the darkness near Helmer’s house. Window glass crashed and tinkled. Guy’s vision focused. In the moonlight he saw Martin outlined behind the gun. He was sitting on a kitchen chair in the dark on the lawn. Beside him was another chair stacked with boxes of shotgun shells. The shotgun blazed yellow again, slammed against wood this time. The report clapped back in echo from the face of the barn. Then the gun clicked empty and he started to reload.

  “Dad,” Guy called, stepping toward his father.

  “Get back! I mean it!” Martin called, shoving shells into the gun. He swung and fired a round into the Mercedes. Glass sprayed in the moonlight and the car rocked. Guy cursed and dived for the grass. He crawled behind the big oak tree and waited, breathing hard.

  But Martin turned the gun back to Helmer’s house. The yellow spear leaped, the report crashed again and again. Guy lay there. He lost track of the times Martin fired. Forty. Fifty. In the thunder and echo, only the blaze of light from the gun barrel told which blast was real and which was echo.

  Into his third box of shells, Martin grunted from pain and held the shotgun lower and lower on his shooting shoulder. Soon each report spun him halfway around in his chair. He began to load shells with his left hand.

  “Dad,” Guy called softly.

  Martin whirled and shot through the Mercedes again. Guy flattened.

  Car lights came fast down the road, slowed, and swung into the driveway. Martin stood up and followed the car with the gun barrel.

  “It’s Mary Ann,” Guy called to Martin. The Galaxie skidded to a halt.

  Martin’s gun barrel wavered.

  Still behind the tree, Guy shouted to Mary Ann, “Watch him—he’s got a gun!”

  “I’ll watch him all right,” Mary Ann said, striding forward. “I’ll watch his ass under my stick if he don’t put that gun away. How in hell are we supposed to sleep with somebody out shooting up the goddamn neighborhood! Give me that thing!”

  Martin let her jerk away the gun. She threw it onto the grass, where it exploded again and they all jumped.