Anthony’s lips twitched and his teeth clamped together. “Pretty convenient for him, right? Dad’s gone and he gets the whole shooting match. He figures I’ll just walk away from it. Well, maybe I don’t want to walk away.”
Chance stood abruptly. “Not everything has to be a contest, Nino. Not everyone is out to get you. Sometimes people just make mistakes, or they’re lonely.” He let those double-edged words find their target. “He’s your uncle. At least give him a chance to do the right thing.” Chance turned his back, a shift with finality in it, and moved away toward the bedrooms.
Anthony went to the front door and stepped into the innocent green-and-brown world beyond. He could hear the wind moving in the grasslands and small things rushing and burrowing, see the shadows of raptors above and headlong tumbleweeds in endless migration. A sinister soundtrack rose up in his mind, cueing showdowns he’d rather never see. Chance could choose to let Neal slide by—look away and not see what he was—but Anthony had no such luxury. Not just his mother and his land but his whole future was on the line, and it galled him that Chance couldn’t see it or pretended not to. Anthony glanced at the steel frame of the door behind him and vacillated for a moment between hating Chance and hating himself for giving Chance reason to turn away. He gave the decking an angry kick and stomped away. It was far easier to hate himself.
Act 4, Scene 1
The following Saturday Anthony awoke before dawn on his childhood bed under a movie poster for Laurence Olivier’s Richard III. The old brown clock radio was beeping. The night before had been mercifully quiet, just a long ride on Boomerang and a quick good-night to Sarah as she sat at the table mapping out pieces for a quilting project. Neal never looked away from the baseball game. Rather than push his luck, in the morning Anthony snuck out of the house without turning on a light and headed for the Little m.
In the Murphys’ kitchen, Jayne was in a flannel robe, pouring coffee for Ed, who stood beside her blowing his nose with gusto into a cloth handkerchief.
“Mother wants me to eat before I go, but I’ll be over soon,” Ed told Chance. Jayne handed Anthony coffee and at the same time showed him a raised eyebrow that made him wonder how far Ed would be allowed to go with that cold.
“I have a few loaves of pumpkin bread to send with you,” Jayne said. She hung a heavy plastic bag from Chance’s fingertips. “Say hi to Edith for me and give my regrets. I’ve got my library board meeting I can’t miss. And, Anthony?” She turned her warm, earnest face to him and grasped his arm with sudden urgency. “I want you to know how happy I am for your mom and Neal. Your father was a good man, but I always thought she’d have been happier if she’d married Neal.”
Anthony was glad he didn’t have a mouthful of hot coffee to spit out. “Married Neal? When was she ever thinking of marrying Neal?”
“But—” Jayne looked to Chance, who gave back don’t look at me blankness, then to Anthony. “I thought you knew they were sweethearts when Chance was a baby. She stayed here to help me and they fell in love.”
Anthony put down a long slug of coffee and swallowed it fully. “Then . . . what happened? Why’d she marry Dad instead?”
“Well, you know it was right around then that your grandpa changed the will and left Dean in charge. I guess—he never said so, but we kind of figured Neal thought he didn’t have anything to offer Sarah after that. He made himself scarce and it just about broke her heart, until Dean filled the void. I thought you knew all that.”
Chance shook his head. “You never said anything, Mom. How would we know?”
In exasperation, Jayne looked to Ed for support, but he pivoted to the sink and ran water in his mug with great concentration. Jayne rolled her eyes. “The way people talk around here, I thought you’d always known,” she said. “All I meant was that you should be happy for her, Anthony. I know it’s a shock, but I think it’s a good thing. It closes the circle.”
At a loss for words, Anthony raised his mug and threw back the rest, scalding his tongue. This history made the sudden marriage both easier and harder to take. Not a sudden passion or a new understanding but a bond of decades now made public with Dean’s convenient passing. Had Sarah and Neal bided their time all these years, looking for the way to thwart Lewis’s choice? Anthony stood staring into the bottom of his mug for so long that Chance clapped him on the shoulder and steered him out the door.
The flatbed rode low with posts and tools. The two men settled in, Anthony looking forward to the ride to think through Jayne’s words. He reached for the stereo knob. Chance shut it off.
“They started in on us not long after you left, Harmony did,” Chance said without any segue from Jayne’s revelation, like he’d been waiting for the ride to get back to his spiel about Harmony. “You oughta be glad you missed it. Burlington’s threatened all the old folks, gets them alone—every trick in the book. Alma and I’ve been getting affidavits to establish a pattern of coercion. At first nobody wanted to talk. Total stonewall. They were afraid, of course. But they’re our neighbors and that still means something here. A good neighbor is the difference between failure and survival. We’re in the habit of trusting one another.”
“I know,” Anthony said. Who did Chance think he was talking to? Three years in New York hadn’t made him a different person.
“Right,” Chance agreed, as if the remark had barely registered. “It didn’t hurt to have Maddie Terrebonne or Mom along with baked goods and encyclopedic knowledge of three generations of landownership.”
Anthony had to smile. Who would be fool enough to say no to Alma’s grandma or Chance’s mom? Not him. “And it’s hard to say no to a man who’s just spent the day putting up your hay.”
“Exactly. It took months, but we chipped down the wall of silence. There’s a few more affidavits we’re hoping for and then we’re going to the FBI.”
“Why not the sheriff?”
“Tribal land involved, plus Alma thinks there’s federal criminal conspiracy. I don’t know but I sure like the idea of an FBI investigation rather than Marx patting us on the head. Listen, you know Edith better than I do. You think you could get a few minutes with her, get her talking? God knows Dwight won’t talk, but Burlington’s been badgering them going on two years.”
Faced with Chance’s intensity, there was no place for the no to go when it rose to Anthony’s lips. “Me? Oh. Well, I guess.”
The county highway led them to the adjacent drainage in a dust cloud whose motes caught the pink first light and revealed the ranch held by the Maclean family for 113 years. Beyond it, the long cut of the mine darkened the horizon. The shock of the sight made Anthony jerk in his seat.
“Yep,” Chance confirmed. “Rolling Thunder they call it, like it’s some sort of unstoppable natural phenomenon.”
“They’re coming across fast. I had no idea they’d gotten so far west. They’ll be at our property line soon.” Anthony put his hands on the dash and rose up to see better. Chance had told him but he’d only half listened. They were running out of time.
“I keep an eye on it, and it’s still a gut blow every time.”
Aside from the stirring reach of the land itself and the disorienting scale of the mine cut, there was no cinematic scene in this ranch country. Certainly no Ponderosa, none of the preening log arches that marked the entrances to ranchettes and subdivisions in more prosperous, populous counties to the west. A small sign on the road advertised the Macleans’ Angus bulls with a phone number, next to a big mailbox and a red dirt drive that ended in a clump of fruit trees where the creek widened near the house and barns. The effect was both understated and powerful. No need to advertise ran the invisible subtext of the faded sign. This is the real thing.
“So it’s mine across the Macleans’ and our place or shut down the draglines?” Anthony asked. It set off a tremor in him to think of the Macleans’ place blasted through.
“Exactly. I’d say things are getting desperate over at Harmony right about now. They’ll put the s
crews to our man Rick and he’ll pass on the favor. Especially if he gets wind of our affidavits.”
“You think he has? You’ve been careful.”
“All depends on who I can trust, don’t it?” Chance said. He didn’t have to speak Neal’s name. Even the little grammatical glitch was a statement, an identification with Maclean and his kind, the old stockmen who would never sell out. The question was a land mine at their feet. Was Anthony one of them?
Dwight Maclean idled at the head of the drive, his own pickup heavy with posts and tools. A man who measured his word count in months, not minutes, he merely waved at Chance and pulled out to lead the way. They stopped where the road crested half a mile up to reveal a long line of charred posts along one edge of the Macleans’ bull pasture. The fire had come close earlier in the spring and Anthony hadn’t been home yet to fight it. Seeing the damage, he felt the guilt of that slight as much as any verbal accusation.
They climbed out and Anthony lifted Chance’s chain saw from behind the seat. Maclean winked and pulled a chain saw twice the size from his pickup bed, and there it was: forgiveness, unasked for and undeserved, a moment of pure grace. Anthony smiled in spite of himself. Maclean moved off, Chance joined Anthony, and they moved toward the next pickup approaching. KC Graves, a stocky foreman at the coal plant, was the first to reach them, followed by a heavyset younger guy Anthony remembered as part of the Macleans’ extended family. KC shook hands and jerked a thumb at his companion.
“You know Tyler, right?”
As if leaving the county caused amnesia, Anthony thought. “Yeah, we know each other. Tyler Myers, right?” He extended his hand.
“Right. Dwight and Edith’s nephew. I got on doing security at the mine this summer, then I’m back to Bozeman in the fall.”
A college kid. Anthony nodded approval. Tyler had a shot at seeing the world more broadly than some of these old-timers.
“So, Fry, you sticking around or what?” KC asked.
Anthony adjusted the brim of his Broncos cap. “I’m gonna make sure Mom’s taken care of. Then we’ll see.”
“Sounds like a no to me,” KC replied. A few meaningful grunts backed him up as the men emptied their travel mugs of coffee and dispersed along the fence line.
Each day had become hotter and more oppressive than the last as the unusually long spring had given way to dry scorchers. After enough hours that all their work shirts were soaked in sweat, a pickup rolled up from the direction of the house and Reddy Pallante jumped out. Anthony lifted his head from where he was bent struggling with a spool of wire. It was a rare pleasure to see Reddy. She lived up the valley where she’d inherited her place from her dad, the most cussed old widower in three counties, and ran it single-handedly for several decades in much the same manner as her father, nursing eccentricity and a hair trigger like biblical commandments. Being told off or even shot at by Reddy was a local rite of passage. Her clothing consisted entirely of mismatched shades of worn and stained denim and a belt buckle as wide as her hand from her roping days. She wore the latest of a long succession of half-squashed straw hats as she moved restlessly along the fence, inspecting. The men straightened and tipped their hats to acknowledge her.
“Lady of leisure today, huh, Reddy?” KC tossed out as she passed him. He chortled and twitched away as if expecting a kick.
“That’s right, KC,” she answered. “But I figured you good old boys could use some supervision before somebody puts an eye out.” At the end of the line she put a friendly hand on Maclean’s shoulder and spoke a word in his ear. He raised his arm in a gesture that halted the work crew. “Lunchtime!” Reddy shouted for him.
Back the way they’d come and around a little bend lined by lilac bushes and pines were the Macleans’ snug one-story house and several low outbuildings. Everything that showed green near ground level was fenced with military diligence against grazing animals, as at every house in the valley. Out front an American flag flew over the POW/MIA banner on a flagpole surrounded by rosebushes, a spotlight for night, and another robust fence. Anthony paused at the sight. No one could forget that Dwight Maclean had been a prisoner of war in Vietnam, because a different man had come back.
Edith Maclean appeared before the pickups stopped rolling to smile and wave at Reddy and the men. She wore her silver hair in a boyish cut over a 4-h T-shirt, loose canvas trousers, and walking shoes with reinforced toes. Except for the lifetime written on her face, she looked more than anything like a kid at the fair.
“Aren’t you sweet, Anthony!” Edith exclaimed as she took the loaves Anthony carefully delivered to her hands. “I was just saying to Dwight the other day that it’s been way too long since we got to visit with our old friends the Murphys and the Frys. I keep meaning to come by, but any time we leave the place it’s always back-to-back errands and appointments in town, what with Dwight’s eyes going the way they have been.” She took Anthony’s arm and led him through the house toward the small patch of lawn out back, where a table was laid. “And your mama and Neal,” Edith continued. “We’re so happy for them. I have a pie to send with you as a little wedding present if you don’t mind. You must be so glad to see her taken care of. Neal plumb adored her, back when. It’s sweet to see old loves come back to life.”
It was extraordinary to Anthony the secrets this community could keep, even inadvertently, because they all assumed that certain things were known and need never be said. He nodded hello to the neighbors’ wives, marveling also at the willingness to come together to help. In New York most people wouldn’t look up from their smartphones long enough to acknowledge the person who’d just made them a sandwich. Some days he’d appreciated the anonymity. The neighbors might not be what he’d come home for, but here were the good and sacred bonds of his people, snug on him whether he liked it or not but not so strangling as he’d remembered. Reddy punched him hard on the shoulder and he smiled as he rubbed the spot, grateful for the affection of a legend even if it left a bruise.
Chance was off in a huddle, on his game today, exchanging confidences with men not given to talking much to anyone. Scenes like this had always been difficult for Anthony. His body felt acutely present and hypervisible when all he wanted was to fade and stay quiet. Among rural women the latest news was as good as cash money and refusing to share it a grave misdemeanor. They could always tell when he was holding back, and he was always holding back because talking about himself mortified him. Anthony didn’t have the words the women wanted, except perhaps for Edith, who’d taught him Sunday school and encouraged him to memorize both Bible verses and Shakespeare. Thy eternal summer shall not fade, he thought, observing the women.
He stood alone at one end of the long table, thinking these lonely thoughts that showed on his face, but Edith drew him with both hands to the clucking center of the covey. Because it was Edith welcoming him and because he belonged to the Frys and therefore to them, the women forgave his standoffish ways and folded him in with their questions and sympathies. How was Sarah doing? Were things okay at the ranch? Did they need help? He mumbled and tried not to say anything he could be held to although he plainly didn’t have the right to remain silent.
“Everyone, have a seat!” Edith urged over the crowd noise. Then to the women near her: “Chance and Anthony were here first thing, you know. They brought over an extra load of posts.” The women fell silent and nodded approval and gratitude toward him and Chance, who remained oblivious in his conversation at the far end.
“Is Ed along?” Reddy asked. “I was hoping to get some harmonica out of him after dinner.”
“He’s had a bad cold lately,” Anthony said. “He was up and around this morning, but I guess Jayne talked him out of coming. Can’t have been easy.”
“I’m surprised he’s not out there giving advice and slowing everyone down,” Reddy observed. “You know how the old fellas are. They’ve got to be out there, trying to be useful.”
Edith smiled. “If anyone can manage him, Jayne can.”
After saying grace, Edith picked up the bread basket, took a roll, and passed it, and with that signal they all fell upon the meal and began to talk. From her left, Anthony was able to lean in and speak to Edith below the general hubbub.
“I’ve been hearing some crazy stories about Rick Burlington lately. Has he come around bothering you?” He tried to make his voice casual as Edith forked green beans onto her plate.
Her head snapped up. “What did you hear?” The look on Edith’s face put fresh ice down Anthony’s spine. He regretted how his question erased the pleasure of the yard full of company from Edith’s face. To put her at ease and encourage her to tell him more, he offered a few admissions of his own. “He sure doesn’t take no for an answer. He took me to lunch and reminded me of all he’s done for the theater camp, like I owed him something. I hear he kept coming around the Terrebonnes’ place until Alma went and got a restraining order.”
Edith inhaled in a whispering sort of gasp, glancing along the table at the neighbors eating and chatting. She clenched her hands together in her lap. “A restraining order? Is that possible? But what good would it do? There’s no one here to enforce it. The sheriff’s a half hour away at best.”
“Did something happen?” Anthony persisted. “I need to know, Edith. There might be ways to stop him if we all hang together. It’s not right for him to go around intimidating people.” He leaned very slightly toward her in a watchful pose, holding his breath, not quite looking at her. It was like joining up with a green horse, as Edith’s inborn sense of justice struggled with her instinctive conflict aversion. It wasn’t wise to pick fights in this isolated country where you stood a good chance of needing your enemy one day, but she was passing that bourne before his eyes. Edith’s gaze drifted down the table to rest on the steaming roast, beef raised on the ranch, the tangible product of their lives. Her hands came up to clasp over her heart. Anthony caught the lightning of decision as it flashed.
The Weight of an Infinite Sky Page 13
