by Gregory Hill
I said, “Pa, did you sell your airplane to the guy who owns the bank?”
“Well.” He scratched his heel in the dirt. “I think I remember something about that.”
“I need you to dig deep. Tell me anything you can recall about that transaction.”
“About the airplane?”
“And the bank owner.”
“The airplane and the bank owner.” Dad poured a handful of sand on his knee. He closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. “The airplane. I sold it to the bank owner. Crutchfield.”
I felt like a hypnotist. “What else? Take yourself back.”
“Airplane. Bank owner. Airplane. Yep. He showed up one day in his cowboy hat. He made me an offer. It was a good offer.”
“How much?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“You mean twenty thousand.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty thousand?”
“What’s it matter?”
“It matters.” I was pushing him. “Any idea where you’d put a receipt for something like that?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but he was a banker. Surely he gave you a receipt.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“So tell me, where would you put a receipt?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who’s interested in everything. You tell me.”
Don’t let it get ugly. He’s not trying to be a dick. He’s just frustrated. “Maybe it’s in your wallet. Let’s see your wallet.”
Dad reached for his back pocket. No wallet.
The receipt, if there was one, probably wasn’t in the wallet. But a man needs a wallet so finding it became our new priority. We swallowed our burgers and started looking. And we continued looking. We poked around the house and all his pants pockets and the shed and everywhere else, and after the sun went down, I found it sitting on the dashboard of Dad’s pickup.
There was no receipt.
CHAPTER 5
OGALLALA AQUIFER
The next day, Dad and I drove forty miles north to Strattford, which has stoplights, and bought a dozen tomato plants. Dad paid. We planted the tomatoes that afternoon. They were straight. We set wire cages around them. They were safe. These tomatoes would feed us in three months. We were farmers.
We laid out the soaker hoses. They hadn’t been used since Mom died. When I turned on the water, the hoses leaked from dozens of tiny holes. Little fountains. The hoses still worked, even with the holes. I didn’t think it was a bad thing. Dad couldn’t stand it.
I said, “I’ll buy new ones next time we’re in Strattford.”
Dad said, “We should fix them.”
“There’s gotta be a hundred holes. How you gonna fix a hundred holes?”
He shut off the faucet and unscrewed the hoses. He put them over his shoulder and dragged them to the shed. I told him he was an idiot. He ignored me. In the shed, he marked the holes with a felt-tip pen, drilled them out with a three-sixteenth bit, squirted a dab of silicone gasket sealer into each one, and then asked me what we were doing.
I dragged the hoses back to the garden, hooked them up, and turned on the water. No fountains.
“Those snake things.”
I said, “Soaker hoses?”
“Yeah. Those soaker hoses. They work real good, don’t they?”
“Sure do.”
Water is important. The land in our corner of the Great Plains is irrigated by water from the Ogallala Aquifer. The Ogallala Aquifer is an underground reservoir larger than all five Great Lakes combined. At least that’s what they told us in school. It’s where all the wells that pump the sprinklers that water the corn get their water. Good water. It comes up unfiltered and tastes a hundred times better than the chlorine they feed you in the city.
The Ogallala Aquifer is dependable in a land where rain isn’t. It’s dependable, that is, except when the wells go dry, which was happening more and more often since the four-million-year-old water was being used up a thousand times faster than it could be replaced. When a well runs dry, you dig another, deeper well. Eventually, the water’s going to be gone; they’ll dig a hole a mile deep and find nothing but dirt.
Since everyone knows it’s a limited resource, everyone does the sensible thing and uses as much Ogallala water as they can while the getting’s good. I once heard a politician say you can’t take water out of just your half of the bucket. The mentality in Strattford County is that you can’t leave more than your share of water in the aquifer and expect it to be there for your grandchildren. Next thing you know, the damned government would start regulating the water. Probably give it to all those pricks in Kansas. Use it or lose it. But don’t overwater the garden. And we weren’t, on account of Dad fixing the soaker hose.
We watched as the water turned the dirt dark.
After the sun went down, we retired to the living room. Before I turned on the TV, Dad said, “Your mother used to play the piano.”
“She sure did.”
“You ever learn how to play piano?”
I tapped out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Dad sat in his recliner, listening, eyes closed, face relaxed into a contented grin. I played it again and again. He began snoring. I closed the piano lid and snuck out of the house.
* * *
It was Friday, a softball night, which meant that Vaughn Atkins’s mom was at the games selling beers.
I drove to Vaughn’s house, walked downstairs, and found him moaning and looking at a magazine. He had his back to me. I quickly turned around and started back up the steps with the intention of waiting outside for a few minutes and then coming back in, this time with more of a racket.
Before I could sneak back upstairs, he said, “Hang on, Shakes, I’m almost done.”
I stood with my back to him, one foot on the bottom step and waited.
With a final groan, he said, “Got it.” The bedsprings creaked.
I turned around. He was under the blankets. I said, “Sorry to interrupt.”
“I don’t have a problem. You have a problem?”
“No. It’s cool.”
“Cool.”
I said, “Yeah.”
“So you came back.”
“Sure did.”
“And you didn’t bring your dad.”
“Sure didn’t.”
“Because you figured I’d be an asshole to him.”
“Affirmative.”
“And, although you resent the fact that I’m an insensitive prick, you still value my uncompromising friendship as you begin this bittersweet return to your loathed hometown.”
“Exactly, except for the part about valuing your friendship. It’s more pity. You’re obviously lonely.”
He tossed a piece of plastic at me. A skinny yellow tube about ten inches long. I tried to catch it but failed. It landed on my shoe, where it became stuck.
“Sorry,” he said. “It appears that you have a catheter attached to your shoe.” I shook my foot vigorously until the thing was dislodged.
“You weren’t doing what I thought.”
“Sure wasn’t, pervert. I was, in fact, changing my catheter. I have to do that sometimes because they wear out. And I’m paralyzed. I can’t even do what you thought I was doing.”
“But the guys in that movie said that they can still do it.”
“Which movie?”
“Murderball.”
He spit on the floor. “Fuck Murderball. That movie’s as phony as the moon landing. Have you ever in your selfish, spoiled life bothered to wonder how a bunch of alleged quadriplegics could enjoy active sex lives and also beat the shit out of each other on a basketball court and also be quadri-fucking-plegics? They’re fakes. Propaganda intended to
make guys like me look bad. Christopher Reeve is an asshole.”
“Was.”
“Ditto My Left Foot and Born on the Fourth of July. The vast, vast majority of people in wheelchairs are pissed off and bitter just like me. Depressed? Yes. Alcoholic? Probably. Those fantasy films and celebrity role models are allegedly intended to inspire cripples like me. But the real purpose is to help walkers like you feel better about the fact that guys like me are rotting in their moms’ basements. There’s a black president. Big fuckin’ deal. Call me when we elect a dude in a wheelchair.”
“Ring, ring. FDR’s on the line.”
“You’re missing the forest for the knees.”
“You’re being incoherent.”
“I’m being clever. Remember the last time you were here and you stormed out because I was being mean? I was deliberately rude to your old man because I knew that, otherwise, you’d never come here without him. You’re too much of a pussy to split a six-pack of beer with me with your dad watching.”
“Well, I’m here. Your plan was brilliant.”
He wrinkled his nose. It made his face look fake. “I know. Now go upstairs, open the fridge, and get us something to drink.”
I fetched some beers and then came back down and put on a record. Wings over America. While Paul McCartney rumbled out of Vaughn’s fat old speakers, we drank crappy beers and bullshitted like kids.
I sat on the beanbag and talked up to Vaughn, who was on his belly on his bed.
I said, “I’m a gardener. I’m getting back in touch with my agrarian soul. I’m going to can some vegetables this year.”
Vaughn said, “Let’s start a meth lab.”
“Let’s see how the vegetables work out first.”
“I know how to do it. There’s people could show us.”
“Sounds fun, but I’ve got a farm to take care of. I’m a good son.”
“You wanna be a good son, you start by breaking the knees of the bastard who fleeced your dad.”
“Which bastard is that?”
“Everybody knows the bank ripped him off. After your mom died—remember that?—the banker got involved. Mike Crutchfield. He said he was helping. He was always out there on the farm, whispering in your old man’s ear. He organized an auction, saw that they hauled off a bunch of tractors and all sorts of stuff.”
“How do you know everything? You live in a basement.”
“People know stuff.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s ’cause you were in the city doing your city things.”
“Nobody knew for a long time how senile he was.”
“The banker knew.”
“I went to the bank yesterday. Neal Koenig said things are fine.”
“His boss—Crutchfield—bought your dad’s airplane for twenty dollars.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“People know stuff.”
“I’m gonna go talk to Crutchfield tomorrow. We’ll get it sorted out.”
“Good luck. The guy’s a prick.”
“I’m not your typical country bumpkin.”
“You’re a pussy.”
“Coming from a guy who hasn’t left his mom’s basement in twenty years.”
He waggled his empty can. “Get me another beer.”
“The fridge is empty.”
Vaughn said, “Go buy some.”
“Where?”
“Softball games. Buy ’em from my mom.”
“No.”
Vaughn said, “I figured you’d say that. Too bad we can’t open that thing.”
He pointed his head toward the liquor cabinet on the other side of the room. It was draped with chains, padlocked.
“You and your mom have trust issues?”
“It’s the special stuff for the store. If someone wants fancy booze, they let mom know and she puts the ‘Back in Five Minutes’ sign on the door, runs home, opens the cabinet, pulls out a bottle, drives back to the store, and sells it to ’em.”
“Why not keep it at the store?”
“Meth heads.”
“Nobody robs anyone out here.”
“So you think.”
We were slightly drunk. Not crazy. Not enough booze for that.
I said, “Good stuff in there?”
“Two-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch.”
“I shouldn’t drink. It makes me wonder about things.”
“You are who you are.”
I said, “I’m a guy.”
“You’re a whiner.”
“Coming from you.”
Vaughn said, “You might lose the farm, but you’ll still have your legs.”
I said, “You have a mom.”
“She’s a horse’s twat.”
“You have a basement.”
“A prison.”
“You have a record player.”
He threw his beer can at the turntable. It missed. “McCartney’s a pussy. And anyway, you have a purpose in life.”
“To watch my dad get more confused every day.”
Vaughn pulled a brownie sealed in plastic wrap out from under his pillow. “You want confused? Have a brownie. I been saving this.”
He peeled off the plastic and handed me half the brownie.
“Take a whiff.”
I pretended to smell it. “Smells like air.”
“That’s right,” he said. “You’re nasally handicapped.”
“What would I smell if I could smell?”
“A brownie.”
I chewed a bite. It was a brownie all right. I assumed it was doped with weed. I wasn’t a fan of the stuff, but he was offering. I didn’t want to be rude. And it was yummy. I ate it up. I said, “Permission to speak freely?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t know how Dad and I are going to keep the farm. We don’t have any money. I don’t have any money and Dad’s is all gone. Without money, we can’t pay taxes or eat. I’ve got to get a job and there aren’t any jobs out here. If I were to get a job, I’d have to hire someone to watch Dad while I was at work. There’s nobody out here who knows how to do that. At least not anyone who’d do it at a price I could afford.”
Vaughn said, “Actually, there was somebody but she dropped dead in your bathroom.”
“My family’s been here for a hundred and twenty years. My contribution to the Williams family legacy will be to oversee the disintegration of everything my ancestors built with blood, sweat, and wind.”
“Tragic. You know what would make you feel better? Try dating some high school girls. There’s two that look like Heather Locklear in next year’s junior class.”
The Wings record ended. I flipped it over. I was starting to feel funny. Not relaxed and silly like pot should make you feel. I felt not-relaxed. My jaws hurt.
“Shakes, you’re yellow.” Vaughn said “yellow” like he’d learned it from watching Bonanza.
“Which one of us lives in a basement since . . . since before a long time ago?” Something was wrong with my planet. My arms felt huge. I wanted to mess some shit up.
Vaughn pushed himself into a sitting position and flipped me off with both fingers.
I slugged him in the mouth. He hit me in the ear. Paul McCartney sang about bluebirds.
Footsteps. Stairs. Vaughn Atkins’s mom pounded halfway down the steps and screamed, “What the Christ?!?”
Busted. Mom’s home. Act cool. Calm down. Calm down. Don’t hit anyone. Relax.
Vaughn’s mom stood menacingly on the stairway with an empty six-pack ring on her finger. “Who said you brats could drink my beer?”
I said, “Sorry.”
Vaughn threw an Atari game cartridge at her. “You own a li
quor store, remember?”
She ran down the stairs, elbowed me aside, and started slapping Vaughn upside the head. Vaughn bared his teeth, wrinkled his nose, and fought back.
I ran up the steps three at a time, out the front door, and jumped into my car.
* * *
Three beers isn’t drunk. Even if it is, it doesn’t matter. There aren’t any cops in Strattford County. The roads are straight, flat, and empty. As long as you don’t drive like a moron, the worst thing that’ll happen is you’ll get stuck in a ditch. So I drove.
I found an AM station beaming in from Oklahoma and screamed along to the Eagles. I was on the Long Run. I spun kitties on the highway. I made my car go faster than it had ever gone before.
* * *
I got home late. Dad was asleep in his recliner. The TV was still on. Some shiny-haired jackass was pitching a plan to make a million dollars. I shut the tube off, patted Dad on the head, went upstairs to my room, and lay in bed. I couldn’t sleep. I tried to read The Empire Strikes Back but I couldn’t even open the book. I stared at the ceiling and chewed my cheeks.
A couple hours later, the sun was shining. Dad stomped upstairs and splashed water on my face. I couldn’t get up. I was tired. I stayed in bed. Claimed I was sick. I was bushed. Dad called me a wimp, but I must have looked bad enough for him to pity me a little. He brought me three cups of water.
At noon, I crawled downstairs and spent a half hour on the toilet. Then I made peanut butter sandwiches. Then I called the bank to ask for an appointment with Mike Crutchfield. I talked to Neal Koenig, who said that, unfortunately, Mr. Crutchfield was caught up with some business in Greeley and he wasn’t going to be able to make it to Keaton today. I asked when would he be in. Neal said try next week.
After I hung up, I went back to bed. By sundown I felt better. Not right, but better. Never accept food from Vaughn Atkins.
CHAPTER 6
MOTORBIKE
Dad was poking the juniper bush with the jack handle again.
“Whatcha doin’?”
