Martin, Crook, & Bill

by Donna Nitz Muller

  Breathing hard inside the heavy coat on an August morning, he reached the well with the once-red steel pump jack. His fingers worked in quick, deft motions over the belt and wheel, following the wiring to the box. The well would work. Martin nodded in satisfaction and moved on.

  He passed the barn, deliberately not looking at it. He turned his head away like a soldier on parade, looking sharp and straight toward the tangled apple trees. Judging that he had passed the barn, Martin straightened his head, searching for the tree. The tree stood on a mild rise, a huge oak with roots visible above the earth like fat snakes. The place they called “the bench” was still barren of bark. Martin bent to gently pat the cool, sun-bleached wood.

  Standing completely still, he arched his head to listen to the echo of his dad. “Son,” his dad called. “What are you doing? Waiting for cows to come home?” His father’s voice was strong and clear in the morning air.

  “Yes, I am,” Martin answered.

  It was their joke, and even now as Martin looked to the sky, he smiled. This was a good memory, a good selection. He remembered the old wood silverware box used to hide his drawing. It probably still lay between those roots. Martin did not look.

  It wasn’t the box that mattered. Martin caught the memory of that boy hiding his work. Even in his hurry, the boy was careful not to bend the sheets of paper before running to see what his father wanted. Martin studied that boy with great care from thirty years distance. He had been a good boy, then. He touched the memory with tenderness. Yes, it was all right. He felt no fear trying to suffocate him.

  When Martin sat on the bench, he faced the decaying farm buildings. Even in abandonment, Martin saw the beauty and balance in the scene. The thistles topped with bright pink flowers were in fact noxious weeds. From this distance, they looked like small pink splashes on the gray boards of the granary. The old building was shot through the heart and bleeding blue sky.

  Martin worked hard to look everywhere but at the barn. This was difficult because the barn was central to the scene before him. It stood down the rise, huge between the tree and the house. His eyes had to curve around it to study the granary or the chicken coops or the old garden spot and the orchard. He caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye, and fear crawled with cold fingers on his spine. “No,” he whispered, throat tight.

  Martin heard the loud laughter coming from the haymound. Joseph and Maureen and himself swung on the pulleys used to haul hay into the barn. They swung out of the haymound door until their arms were nearly pulled from their sockets and their hands had no skin left, swinging into the night and back, grasping with their toes for the ledge.

  Maureen, the last one to surrender, went to the house with her bare legs and feet a mass of scratches from the dry alfalfa. The fun was over. Joseph swung the pulleys back and tied the ropes. Was it Joe? Yes, it was all right to remember Joe at the time. It was all right to remember the laughter that always leaked from Joe no matter what the rest of his body was doing.

  He thought for several minutes, sitting as still as the hot air around him. “If I am very, very careful, I can look at the barn,” he said with some wonder.

  It was for Maureen that he waited. He had to be sure that all the business of things was correct: the taxes, the title, whatever had to be done to assure him that he could live here without problems. He presumed Maureen took care of everything even though the farm was left to him.

  Martin knew the farm was his because the lawyer read the will after his father’s funeral. In his father’s own words, the lawyer read, “The farm goes to Martin. Take care of it, son.” The lawyer did not call his father’s document a will. He called it a “legacy.” Martin’s legacy was the farm.

  Sitting in the lawyer’s office, Martin turned to Maureen and asked what Joseph was to inherit. That was the exact moment he knew he was sick. Maureen jerked toward him, her eyes shocked. Then she could not look at him at all. Now he asked the blue sky for the thousandth time, “Why?” And he heard his answer, “Joe is dead.”

  At the time of his father’s funeral eight years ago he did not care about the farm. He never returned after that, allowing the place to crumble and hoping that his father could not see it. He scorned the old farm because he was a Golden Boy with work and money and potential for more money. Now, in a sarcastic twist of fate, it was all he had. His survival was here, his final hope.

  Martin’s head was just beginning the throb at his temples when he heard the car. Maureen drove right past the barn on the almost invisible dirt track. She drove a small, red Mustang, and she drove with confidence. The weeds slid under the bumper as the car leveled itself over the uneven ground. She stopped just short of the tree roots and got out.

  “Hello, Martin,” she called, waving her arm high in the air as she stood beside her gleaming car like a picture out of Great Gatsby.

  “Maureen,” Martin yelled, surprised at his own excitement.

  “Brings back old memories, doesn’t it?” She sounded oddly cheerful as she climbed the rolling ascent to the bench. Her feet moved in white sandals and she wore a flowered sundress. Her red-blond hair gleamed and melted into the sunlight like smeared crayon.

  His mouth flopped open in amazement. When, he wondered, did Maureen turn sexy? He remembered strong, wholesome, loud, even abrasive and aggressive, but he did not remember the woman who approached on long, slim legs. Her shape had lost its wonderful power and seemed vulnerable and soft. Her cheerfulness alarmed him.

  Her fine fingers felt cool on his forehead as she lightly brushed his hair aside. Except for the smile that continued on his lips, Martin could not respond. He was painstakingly careful in his speech. He pleaded inside his head for his voice to work, for his thoughts to work.

  “Why haven’t you gotten married?” he asked her and she listened carefully. His two daughters were the only grandchildren.

  “Well,” she said, that ridiculous smile glued to her peach lips, “I met the right man, but he was already taken.” She sat beside him on the bench and gazed at the decaying farm buildings and the weeds and the grass gone to seed just as he had. She also avoided looking long at the barn. Sighing, she put her hand lightly on Martin’s shoulder.

  “The farm is mine.” Martin intended this as a question, but it sounded like a child claiming a toy. He looked down at his boots and bare shins and wished he had put his pants on.

  Maureen nodded slightly, but did not shift her gaze from the devastated property. “It was so beautiful once, Martin. It was like a picture. Now look at this. We couldn’t even sell it for half of its old value.”

  Martin wanted to tell her in no uncertain terms that he intended to live here. He reached with his hand to her chin and turned her face to look at him. He wanted her to know everything just by looking at him.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  After a long pause, she added, “You left the hospital against everyone’s wishes, even mine. But I have decided to trust you.”

  Martin was relieved. “Crook knows,” he told her.

  “Oh, God, yes, Mr. Crook knows!” The anger rose in a hot flash though her eyes. Martin looked away from her anger because she worked so hard to keep it hidden.

  This time a long silence, several minutes before either Martin or Maureen could look at each other. Tears ran freely down her freckled cheeks. “See how you can talk, Martin?” She was determined to be positive and Martin smiled at the old stubborn-willed sister he always knew. He nodded.

  “The farm?” he asked her.

  “I’ve talked with our lawyer. The farm is yours. Maybe while you reconstruct yourself, you can do some work on this place.” This time her smile was genuine.

  “Can you tell me?” That was all he could say, but she understood.

  “No,” she answered, laying her hand on his coat over his knee. “I’ve been told by every doctor you have ever seen that I must not say anything unless I want to risk a trip of no return, if you know what I mean.” He nodded, he knew.


  “Would I rather die than remember?” Halting words, but clear.

  “I would rather take a scissors and cut this disgusting hair of yours, and then I could reach your neck and choke sense into you, but I can’t do that either. Patience, patience and more patience.” She stood and faced him, bent and hugged him, fiercely.

  Martin said, “Don’t go.” He held her hand so that she could not turn away.

  She sighed and tugged her hand; he tightened his grip. At last, looking down at him, she said, “You never cried, Martin. Not for Joe, not for Mom and not for Dad. Not a single tear. It is hard for me to understand.”

  Martin nodded. Before releasing her hand, he said, “Crook understands.” Since she rolled her eyes he knew he said the words aloud. She walked with care in her tall shoes down the slope to her car.

  Martin stood suddenly, waved his arms above his head. She finally noticed him and turned to look at him while standing inside the car door. “REA,” he yelled. He had to have the power turned on. She nodded. “Groceries,” he yelled. Again she nodded.

  Before Martin stood to retrace his steps, he thought about Crook. Inside that hospital, Crook was everything. He owed his life to Crook. Furthermore, he promised to get Crook out. Maureen did not know, nor did his ex-wife Nancy, but getting Crook out of that hospital was the necessary force driving him forward.

  Planning Crook’s exit from the Nebraska State Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane in Lincoln, Nebraska was the only reason Martin had to get well. Even his children were not reason enough, love them as he did. Crook needed him, though Crook did not know it. Crook saved him and that Crook did know.

  Crook told him that the workers dying in the construction of the Milwaukee Brewers stadium triggered something repressed in Martin. The fall and the death of those construction workers triggered something Martin did not remember. Martin did remember opening the St. Paul paper and reading about that accident. He remembered looking at the picture. A chill had run through him and his mind turned to ice.

  The thick leaves above his head caught his thoughts and lifted as a green mass turning a thousand different shades, twirling. Martin watched them, listened to the sound of brittle rustling. This spot had always been the conference room and it served well indeed.

  Rain noisy on the barn roof. The smell of damp hay. Anger crushing his chest.

  The glimpse into the past was gone and he could not force it. He started toward the house, stopping again to check the pump. In the house, he waited for Maureen to bring groceries, and he waited for the lights to come on. While he waited he went into the laundry room to dress and discovered that his blue work shirt was missing. He had worn it home; he took it off before he lay down and hung it across the side of the tub to dry. Carefully he re-enacted every action including the buttons sticking in wet button holes. Rats would not carry away his blue work shirt.

  Hallucinating and blank periods were not part of his problem, at least they had not been. Flashbacks were not hallucinations. Shrugging, he reached for the gym bag with the red TWINS logo across the side. He pulled out the tan Dockers shirt. “No one does tan like Dockers,” he muttered as he buttoned the shirt and rubbed his hands down the front to iron it.

  His fingers ran over the square bulge in the pocket created from the folded, washed, dried, and washed again letter from Christie. His hand over the pocket, he recited the letter like saying the Pledge of Allegiance.

  Dear Daddy,

  I am starting third grade this year. Mom is mad that you are leaving the hospital. I am happy for you to get out. I love you. Carmen says hi.

  Love Christie

  PS. Say hello to Mr. Crook for me.

  Then he tied his shoes.

  Maureen returned with a fair supply of groceries, and the old Hot Point refrigerator hummed loud. He pulled his notebook from his gym bag and made notes, carefully numbered notes regarding wiring and plumbing. The now-dry pages crinkled as he turned them on the spiral.

  Maureen told him that the town was already buzzing about his return. He did not care.

  He told her his blue shirt was missing. She had no response for that.

  “I have money,” he said.

  “Nancy controls your money, remember. But, yes, you have money. You have to submit duplicate accounting to your accountant and to Nancy.” Maureen stood at the door like the pet dog needing to pee.

  He nodded. “Goodbye,” he said. Then he walked with her to the car. “Drop me off at Bill’s.”

  Chapter Three

  Martin knew Bill Bendix’s habit of pushing the bill of his cap together with his hands in prayer formation when things would not fix. He wore a specific cap for repair jobs that was already so black with grease and stiff with grime it was no longer a cap. It was like an ancient head ornament.

  As Martin strode around the slight curve of Bill’s gravel driveway, Bill’s cap sat high and pointed. The older man focused on his tractor as though looking mean would make it run. At sixty-five, Bill looked fit as a fiddle, lean and strong. Tools lay scattered at his feet, and the sun glimmered hot off the metal. Bill was the neighbor down the road all of Martin’s life. He was as much a part of life as the creek rising in the spring thaw or church on Sunday morning.

  Bill appeared unaware of Martin striding past the house. Martin assumed Bill felt him because like most farmers, Bill had a sixth sense of atmosphere and movement. So, when Martin said, “Hot out,” he was amazed to see the older man jump two full inches into the air.

  Bill’s glance went immediately past Martin. He checked for a vehicle, saw none. He gripped his wrench tighter. “What can I do for you?” he said to Martin, but his tone was not friendly, not like Martin expected.

  “I don’t know,” Martin stammered.

  Bill stepped closer, studied Martin, looking up into his face. “You look like shit,” Bill said. He dropped the tool and took Martin’s hand and pumped it with vigor. “I didn’t recognize you at first there, Martin. Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” His straight white teeth gleamed behind the black grease on his cheeks. Gray hair poked from under the cap.

  Martin did that quick check for sarcasm that was habitual to him in recent years. If Crook was here, Crook could tell with a glance if the man was being sarcastic. As Crook was not here, Martin had to make his own judgment. He decided to believe Bill as being the same Bill. What you saw was what you got with Bill Bendix.

  Bill glanced at the great coat with a questioning expression.

  “Security blanket,” Martin told him.

  “You fixing up your dad’s place?” Bill said. His gaze moved up and down Martin’s tall form. Bill sized him up, checking the damage so to speak. Martin felt Bill’s inspection, silently. He thought Bill looked at him exactly the same way as he looked at his tractor. Then Bill bent down and retrieved his wrench.

  “I am fixing the place, and that wrench is wrongo.”

  Bill walked with deliberate casualness toward the tractor and tossed the wrench on the scattered pile. He bent and plucked a grease rag from the tool chest and wiped his hands, carefully. Martin knew what Bill was doing, he allowed it.

  Martin walked to the side of the once bright green John Deer, patting it. Bill moved quickly to stack tools within Martin’s reach. Bill leaned against the big tractor tire, waiting. He handed, wiped, held, and jumped whichever way Martin pointed. Martin paused long enough to watch Bill fold the coat and lay it carefully inside the pick-up cab.

  Martin worked without stop for over two hours. At last he climbed up and sat on the hot steel seat. The cover and the padding had long ago worn away and only the holes in the bare steel remained. In the sun, as today, it was hot enough to fry an egg.

  The engine clunked and then purred. Martin made three circles around the yard, his ear cocked toward the engine. When Martin climbed down, he smiled and pumped his fist.

  “How long?” Bill asked.

  “Until the piston locks up again. You need to unfold some of your moldy
money and buy parts,” Martin said. For a minute they sounded and looked as though ten years could fall away like snow melt. Martin smiled.

  Tillie’s thick, energetic form crossed the yard toward them. She looked like a tug boat. She carried lemonade in big plastic glasses. She held a glass toward her husband and then toward Martin. He continued to smile though she did not recognize him.

  Her hand froze midway as she saw Martin’s face. He watched her stout German features register shock and surprise like light across a prism. He took the glass from her shaking fingers.

  “I thought we had a helper from the Colony.” She looked pointedly at Martin’s hair. “Come to the house. I will get my clippers.” Since Martin saw no secret exchanges between Bill and Tillie, he nodded.

  That was that. Martin did not clench his hands together behind his head, fully prepared to lose a finger before one strand of hair. Martin did not lie down on the ground and refuse to walk even one step toward the clippers. No, he did not. He followed, a lamb to the shearer.

  By the time Bill entered the kitchen, hair lay like a miniature haystack on the kitchen floor. Bill was obviously not pleased. “Good grief, Tillie, you have it all the same length like a girl’s. Cut that away, that part right there.” Bill frowned and winced and walked in a circle around the chair.

  Tillie stood on a step stool behind the seated Martin. When Bill was about to cross behind her, she jabbed Bill with her elbow hard enough to hurt.

  Martin said, “Ouch, Tillie.”

  The flesh on Tillie’s arms vibrated with the humming clippers, and her hands worked through Martin’s hair again and again. In her day, Tillie had cut many heads of hair, all exactly the same. For the boys it was a crew cut and for the girls a single length page boy. Martin’s hair appeared to cause her some confusion. Martin saw in the mirror a cut that left Martin’s natural curls waving around his head like a child’s wool cap.

  Both Tillie and Bill faced Martin, looking at him, hands on hips and lips pursed. They nodded simultaneously in a positive manner. Bill fetched the shaving kit.