The Drought (5 page)

Of the five, Griffin Tanner would have drawn the eye, not only because of how he looked and dressed, but because there was a certain intensity about the man that demanded a second glance. He had been the last to arrive and stood outside the circle. Behind them, the gaping hole of the drainage pipe remained dark and motionless.

Griffin Tanner’s presence drew Jar’s attention. In all the time he had known Barry, he had never seen his mother and Griffin Tanner standing in close proximity. Tanner had never been to the small trailer on 15th Street to drop off or pick up his son. Jar looked over at his mother. She stood farthest from Tanner and even then she was angled so she was slightly turned away. If she could have transformed herself at will into a brick wall she would have. He didn’t know what bad blood existed between her and Griffin Tanner but he knew if she’d had her way he and Barry would not be friends.

Jar noticed an obvious detail he had missed for years: There was only one parent for each of them. He, Suzy and Barry had each lost a parent. As if sensing Jar’s eyes, Griffin Tanner glanced over in his direction. Before Jar could look away, their eyes locked together.

A jolt of fear passed through him as Tanner’s intense eyes pierced him—he felt like every secret he’d ever had was being scanned by those golden orbs. By the time he broke eye contact with Tanner (and he was definitely the one who broke eye contact) he felt as if he’d been weighed, measured, probed, found lacking and cast aside. He was certain nothing could be more unnerving until he saw Tanner’s gaze drift and settle on his mother with the same intensity.

Before Jar had a chance to evaluate Griffin Tanner’s interest in his mother, Junction’s Chief of police, Horace Buckner, crossed the 2x4s laid across the mud and approached Jar, Suzy and Barry. He stood over them, his large girth silhouetted by the spotlight above and rubbed his hand along the stubble under his chin like a worried actor trying to get his lines right.

He cast a look toward the mayor and several councilmen who had joined the growing crowd at Flatrock Bridge, cleared his throat and said in a gruff voice intended to intimidate, “Let’s cut to the chase here kids. We all know the Casteel kid has a reputation for playing pranks. Now, I don’t think any of you want to be a party to costing the city tens of thousands of dollars on a rescue operation if Luke’s not really in the pipe.”

Jar wasn’t one to buck authority, he’d been raised to say yes Ma’am and no Ma’am but he was exhausted, and he was afraid. He said, “We
saw
him crawl in the pipe.” As an afterthought he added, “Sir.”

Chief Buckner rocked back onto his heels, jotted something down in his notepad, and rocked forward again. The three of them had coined him, “Rocking Horace,” after the first interview. Jar waited through this motion until the Chief asked his next question.“And why’d he go in there again?”

They’d been over it.
All of it.
Jar fought back the urge to shout but he couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice. He said, “We told you. He went in after a baseball.”

Chief Buckner stopped his rocking motion and leaned over the kids casting his shadow over them all. “Now you see, that there don’t make sense to me. He goes in after a ball, maybe he crawls two feet, maybe four. He doesn’t find the ball. It’s dark. It’s dirty. And as tough as a boy may be, it’s a little scary in there. Why go to all that trouble when you can go to any Windixie and get a ball for a dollar ninety-five?”

Jar and Suzy exchanged a glance. The truth wasn’t for them to tell. Griffin Tanner stood within hearing distance and if he was going to find out about the missing Carlton Fisk ball, it would have to come from Barry.

Rocking Horace finished his thoughts on the situation. “You know what I think? I think this here is a case of the boy who cried wolf. Luke Casteel isn’t in that hole. The fire department hasn’t found doodah and it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let the county engineers come in here and tear down Flatrock Bridge looking for a boy who isn’t lost.”

Jar’s mother came up behind Chief Buckner right as he made his last statement. She said, “People have a way of disappearing around here and never being found, don’t they Horace?” She held out her hand in a protective gesture, and Jar came to her. She pulled him close to her side.

Horace chaffed at the use of his first name in front of the kids but turned and offered a more civil tone than he had been using. “Come on Beth, let’s not start that again.”

“No, let’s not.” Her voice was soft but firm. “And let’s not treat these kids like they’re criminals. If Jared says he went in there, then the boy went in there, even if it isn’t convenient for the Mayor and the city council.”

Chief Rocking Horace flipped his notepad shut and shoved it into his pocket. He said, “I’m not through questioning them kids.”

Beth said, “We’re not exactly a flight risk. You know where we live.”

Chief Buckner was just about to step away when Barry Tanner’s voice, not as cocky as usual, entered the conversation for the first time that evening. He said, “Luke went in after my ball.”

At the sight of the baffled look still stamped on Chief Buckner’s face he added, “I stole the ball from my dad’s collection. It was signed by Carlton Fisk.” The admission wasn’t done out of benevolence or in the misguided hope they would tear apart Flatrock Bridge looking for Luke, who was surely dead. It was a calculated maneuver, made by a desperate boy.

The name didn’t alleviate the confusion on the Chief’s face. He was a Texas football fan. Talk to him about Coach Bryant, talk to him about high school football, college football, anything from the past fifty years involving football and he’d have something to say but he didn’t know anything about Carlton Fisk, the Boston Red Sox or any East Coast baseball team. Griffin Tanner, on the other hand, unaware he had a valuable stake in the game until that moment, turned with an odd gleam in his eyes. Barry had his father’s undivided attention.

Murphy Jobes felt the dull weight of sobriety taking hold. He watched Mike Casteel’s eyes glaze over and drift toward the damn drainage pipe again and again like any moment his boy might come scrambling out like the whole night had been a lark. If the boy was stuck, he’d be in there kicking up a ruckus—caterwauling and what not—and there hadn’t been diddly squat, nary a sound coming out of that pipe the whole time he’d been standing there. Silence told its own sorry tale.

He smacked his lips together and scanned the ragtag gathering of people wondering if anyone had thought to bring along a cooler. He had a bad case of cotton mouth and desperately needed a drink. The mayor and two city councilmen stood close to the dirt trail leading up to the road. It was doubtful the wound tight, uptight citizens of Junction would have a beer to spare.

Damn it was hot. Had to be a hundred degrees and the sun wasn’t even shining. Hell he would have settled for a drink of water, that’s how bad his thirst was. He spotted Suzy standing near Beth Riley and her kid. The oaf Horace Buckner stood nearby. He’d have to get Suzy up the trail and in the truck before Horace got around to thinking how ol’ Murph got out to Flatrock Bridge without driving.

He licked his lips again. He needed a drink. Bad. Deciding it was past time to go he shook Mike Casteel’s hand, wished him the best, and headed for the 2x4s laid across the mud.

Beth Riley watched Murphy Jobes approach the makeshift bridge of 2x4s like a single-minded oxen. If he saw Griffin Tanner ahead of him, he didn’t show any sign. In his haste, his size 12 work boot caught the edge of a board and sent him stumbling forward. The planks shifted and Griffin Tanner, almost across, had to step sideways to catch his balance. One leg sank to mid-calf in the mud. For a split second Griffin’s perfectly composed face twisted with rage and he spat out, “You stupid oaf.”

She thought.
Get a good look folks, that’s the real Griffin Tanner
. A smirk of satisfaction almost made it to her lips but it froze and slid away replaced by growing trepidation. That’s who Barry was going home with, not the polished, perfectly pressed version the town always saw.

She didn’t want to be involved with the Tanners, she’d been against Barry since the first day he stepped through her door, but over the past year he had become a permanent fixture in her home. As much as she wanted to take Jared and get away, a mother’s concern kept her feet rooted in place. She wanted to make certain her son’s best-friend would be all right.

Chief Buckner offered Griffin a hand and hoisted him to dry land. The genial mask returned and Griffin expressed his appreciation. “Thanks Chief. If it’s all right I think I’ll collect the boy and head home.” He pinched his wet pant leg between his thumb and fingers gave it a little shake and grimaced.

“You go on Mr. Tanner. If I have any more questions, I’ll just give you a call.”

“Just come out to the house. We can have a scotch.”

Beth waited, half expecting the chief to drop down and lick the mud from Griffin’s cordovan colored shoes but he didn’t. She glanced over at Barry who had scrambled up and taken several steps back at his father’s approach. If Griffin noticed, he didn’t show any sign. He walked past Barry as if he’d forgotten he were there. Barry didn’t wait to be summoned he fell into step behind his father like an obedient dog.

Before Beth could stop herself she called out, “Barry, you give us a call tomorrow. We’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

Griffin turned back and gave Beth an appraising look. A smile, indiscernible in nature, wavered at the corner of his mouth, never quite making it across his lips. Beth met his eyes and waited for him to turn away. He gave the slightest nod, acknowledging her unspoken challenge, turned back toward the path and made his way up to the road. Barry followed. He did not look back.

Murphy Jobes hung back like a reprimanded child until Griffin Tanner departed and Chief Buckner wandered away toward the mayor and the councilman. At her father’s approach Suzy shot a look of embarrassment toward Jar and his mother, turned away and headed up the trail ahead of him. Oblivious to his daughter’s disdain Murphy followed with an unsteady gait calling out, “Suzy Q, wait up!”

After his friends were gone, Beth gave Jar a tight squeeze. She wished he were little again so she could pick him up and carry him home, and protect him from all the things in the world that didn’t make sense, like fathers who beat their sons and drainage pipes that swallowed little boys. She said, “Just let me say goodbye to the Casteels and then we’ll head on home.”

He didn’t let go of her hand. “I’ll come too.”

“You sure?”

He nodded.

Susan Casteel’s eyes were red and nearly swollen shut. She’d been crying for hours. Jar felt a lump forming in the back of his throat as he watched her face work in a desperate hope this was all a hoax. She grabbed his arms, leaned down until she was eye level with him and searched his eyes for the truth. “You sure he’s in there Jared? You sure?”

He looked down at his feet unable to meet her anguished gaze and whispered, “He’s in there, Ma’am. I saw him go.” His voice caught and he finished in a choked whisper. “He didn’t come out. We waited and waited and he never came out.”

He felt her grip loosen, and understood she wasn’t just letting go of him, she was letting go of hope. In a desperate moment of clarity, he wished he could unsay his words and give it back to her. But it was already gone. He could see Mrs. Casteel’s face working in confusion, her gaze distant as if she were searching for something she had lost. In a flash, he felt all of her pain wash over him, and he understood about a mother’s greatest loss. He knew he had experienced his first grown up moment and he did what any twelve-year-old kid would do, he buried his face against his mother and sobbed.

Junction, Texas

It was a common refrain around town that Griffin Tanner had grown a bit big for his britches. It was often followed by a comment or two about Lloyd Tanner. “A good man. God rest his soul “Salt of the earth.” “Served in World War II.” “Decorated with a purple heart.” “I knew Lloyd when Griffin was bouncing on his knee.” Tsking would ensue, with a shake of the head, followed by a spat of tobacco hitting the ground. Speculations would follow. “What does he want with the land? He doesn’t ranch, doesn’t farm.”

In the end, Guy Davis would drawl, “It’s a damn shame is what it is.” The others would nod in agreement, squint their eyes in the general direction of Griffin’s estate—unable to fathom the thoughts of a man who never cultivated a single acre of the land he bought.

The land in question had suffered through the indignities of fire and drought, offered refuge for those in flight and in turn had soaked up its share of spilt blood. Now rising from the earth’s crust stood the house Griffin built—a monstrosity in opulence, out of place in a town where houses were often made from scraps of corrugated tin. A black wrought iron fence, easily eight feet in height and topped with spikes, marked the perimeter of the property, adding fuel to the gossip in town. “Why does a man need such privacy?” “What do ya suppose he’s hiding up there?” “Who do ya suppose he’s trying to keep out?” “More likely trying to keep in.”