The Fence My Father Built (17 page)

Rubin nodded. “I wouldn’t put it past Linc to build golf courses in the sand.”

I frowned. “I still don’t know much about my dad, but I doubt he’d be so upset about development. After all, Lutie says he helped build dams. Sounds like progress to me.” I imagined my father at work on the river, pouring concrete or installing reinforcing bar. “Why would he have fought Linc over a stream? Linc says he only wants to protect the water supply for the area,” I said. I already had my own ideas, but I wanted to hear what Rubin thought.

“Linc's word is worth less than emus on the hoof,” Rubin said. He pointed to the stream bank where deep muddy prints marked where the cows had walked. “Especially when it comes to grazing his livestock.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, “but it's incredible that he won’t keep his animals on his side of the property. Where I came from everyone had tidy fences around their yards.”

“How much do you know about open-range policies?” Rubin asked.

“Not much, I’m afraid.” I didn’t add that I didn’t care much, either. I felt myself blush and was thankful for the long shadows of dusk. I shook my head at the thought of ranchers killing each other over irrigation when I’d spent most of my days hating the Portland rain.

Rubin held up a cupped palm full of stream water for me to examine. “Liquid gold. The whole area depends on it. Without access to water, ranchers are out of business. This is life out here.”

“I believe you,” I said finally. Rubin stared at me for a long while, and I stared back, unaware of the damp ground or the moon, which had risen overhead.

Suddenly feeling awkward, I changed the subject. “Listen, about Nova and the other night.” I crossed my arms and took a step back.

Rubin held up a hand. “It was my fault. I should have kept them under surveillance. I’m sorry.”

I stepped up onto a soggy mound of earth, but my boots slid sideways. I lost my footing and ended up on my knees. Rubin helped me up, but I was a total mess. “I’m the one who should apologize,” I said, wiping at the wet mud on my knees. “I’m her mother.” I sat on the mound and rubbed at my dirty shins. “Nova's my responsibility.”

Rubin laughed. “Are you kidding? For all practical purposes you’re a single mom, right?”

I didn’t remember telling him my marital status but I nodded. “So?”

“Teenagers have been known to stretch their parents’ patience. Out here we all pitch in—help each other out.”

“Lutie said something like that.”

“See? From now on Nova won’t get away with underage drinking on my watch.” He gazed into the early night sky.

I looked up, too, and was stunned. I could actually see the Milky Way without light pollution. I gasped at the stars, their simple beauty hinting at an elegant design.

Rubin flinched. “Something wrong?”

I shook my head. “Sounds kind of corny, but everything's so beautiful.” I made a sweeping gesture. “The stars, the sound of the water. Everything.” I imagined my father out here, presiding over the landscape the same way I did tonight. “Lutie said my dad loved this place.”

Rubin sat beside me. “Joe spent a lot of time sitting right here on this mound.”

“I can see why. But did he pile the dirt himself?” I paused, visualizing the oven-doors fence. “My father had some strange hobbies. Was he helping you restore the streambed?”

Rubin stroked at his chin. “Not that I know of. I’d come out here in the evenings—on steer patrol—and there’d be Joe, sitting on this mound, looking up into the sky. Sometimes he’d have a bottle; sometimes he’d sing Native songs. Sometimes he’d read or look as if he were praying. I tried not to disturb him.”

I pictured what Rubin described. Somehow it comforted me to sit on the very place my father had touched. The stillness, the stars, and the sound of water playing over the creek's stones converged in my mind, and I felt a peace I hadn’t
known in ages. Before I knew what had happened, my shoulders brushed Rubin's.

“Sorry,” I said, pulling back.

“No apologies necessary,” he said. “You probably think I tricked you into coming out here, anyway.” He stood up.

“No.” I got up, too, no longer worried if the back of my skirt was muddy. “I’m impressed. You’ve done a great job out here.”

Rubin stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I try. But I’m telling you, Muri. Even if you manage to prove Linc's up to something, he won’t quit so easy. That's another reason I’m looking into getting out of here. You’d be wise to have a backup plan yourself.”

“Right now we don’t really have anywhere else to go.” I hadn’t meant to say this and instantly regretted my honesty.

“Just thought I’d warn you.”

I appreciated the advice, but I remained quiet for a moment, long enough to let the touchy subject slip away with the onset of evening.

Finally, Rubin spoke. “Guess we both ought to be getting back. Tongues will start wagging.”

“We’re friends, right?”

He nodded.

“Then there's nothing to talk about. Come over tomorrow? For dinner I mean? Tiny's lasagna night.” I added this last part in case my company wasn’t enough.

I hoped it was. “Tiny's lasagna?” he said, facing me again, laughing. “Wouldn’t miss it. Everyone in Murkee has tried to pry that recipe out of him.”

My knees ached as we trudged back to Rubin's house. He had to help me yank off the mucky rubber boots before I could slip my shoes back on. I enjoyed Rubin's company, but I was glad he wasn’t pushing me for more.

He stood outside the van as I started Homer up again. “Thanks for stopping by,” he said. “Nice to chat with someone who knows a thing or two about ecosystems.”

“Ecosystems? Don’t let that get around or Murkee will think I’m a tree-hugger too.”

“You mean you aren’t?”

I glanced at my muddy skirt. “Not dressed like this, I’m not. See you later.”

When I pulled into the yard I saw that someone had left the porch light on for me, but the house was dark. I checked my watch; I was shocked to see it was so late. The pigs lay in a huddle by the front door and only raised their snouts briefly when I tiptoed past them.

In the bedroom Nova was asleep or pretending to sleep as I let my soiled skirt drop on the floor and shimmied into a thin nightie. That night I dreamed of cattle and trout warring, each trying to consume the other, and once again I dreamed of Joseph Pond.

T
he next week my final divorce decree arrived in the mail. It was official now. I hoped Lutie's Tabernacle Ladies wouldn’t brand me as some kind of loose woman. The mere thought of explaining my ex's abandonment tired me.

For days I felt lost and found myself daydreaming a lot. Every time I thought of trout I’d get this crazy mental picture of a little kid dumping a bucket of fish back into a creek. I couldn’t stop thinking of my father or of Rubin for that matter.

Yet somehow I sensed a connection between the two men, one that ran beyond the knowledge that Joseph Pond used to fish and sit on a dirt mound out by the creek. It occurred to me that I really didn’t understand enough of the land and water disputes that both Rubin and my father waged against Linc Jackson. I decided to make good on my promise to George Kutzmore and do a little research into that issue, as well as Native artifacts.

That afternoon, I gathered all the information I could: every deed, title, and a pile of Joseph's paid bills that Lutie had kept, along with his Acme Boot box full of stuff. She
gave me a puzzled look as I surfed the Internet on Tru's computer. (I had to pay for dial-up connection, but it was worth it.) I browsed for water and land use laws and left the photo albums out in case I needed them. I placed the legal papers and all the other items in neat stacks on the bed.

One thing was becoming clear. Dad was no accountant. He had no obvious system for his affairs, just scraps of paper thrown together with some letters and some cocktail napkins scribbled with notes and diagrams. I forced myself to save the personal things for later and tried to organize the rest.

He hadn’t left much in the way of savings. But neither did there appear to be debts. He’d paid for the land outright and had developed the electrical and water hookups years ago. The only problem seemed to be the house itself, which had started out as a trailer and even now barely rated as a permanent dwelling, as Tiny kept building on.

At the bottom of the box lay a few photos of Indian artifacts, arrowheads and potsherds, mostly, but also a few ceremonial beads, a grinding stone, and a smooth stick with a pointed end. Beneath each object my father had written a title and its use. One caption read,
The “kap’n,” or pointed stick, was used by tribes such as the Warm Springs and Paiute for digging roots
.

I brushed my fingers across the faded words. Warm Springs? Paiute? Dad was a member of the Nez Perce. I knew their range had been mainly in Montana, Idaho, and Eastern Oregon. The Nez Perce reservation was located in Idaho. I stared at the photo. Where had these artifacts come from and where were they now?

The urge came over me to sit on what I’d come to think of as Joseph Pond's mound. I need to examine that spot by the creek more closely. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I found anything like an arrowhead. I thought about taking it to be
analyzed by an expert, but out of respect for my father and his people, I’d probably just set it back where it belonged.

I shoved the papers back into the boot box and then changed from my ratty shorts into a pair of khakis and a blouse with colors that flattered my winter-pale complexion. I twisted my hair up into a large claw clip and spritzed on a pear-scented body spray. Gathering up the box, I headed for Rubin's place once again.

T
he sign on his door said he was out on a call. I tore off a scrap from a blank page of Dad's journal and penned a short note asking Rubin to get in touch. As I wedged the note into the corner of the screen, the inner door suddenly opened. Startled, I dropped the box and then knelt down to pick up the papers before they blew away.

“May I help you?” A willowy woman stood there. She was maybe thirty, with reddish hair cut boy-short and big lips, the plumped-up kind people pay for. I thought I’d met every single person in Murkee, but I was wrong.

“I was leaving a note for Rub—I mean the doctor,” I said, suddenly much too warm. “Will you see that he gets this?” The faint sound of a computer printer hummed in the background.

“Of course,” she said, smiling without showing her teeth. “He’ll be a while. An emergency came up. Ed Johnson's mare got into trouble early this morning.”

“I thought I’d met everybody around here,” I said, hoping I sounded casual. “I’m Muri. I live next door.”

She ran her hand through her hair the way my daughter would. In fact, on closer inspection, this woman couldn’t be much older than Nova. “I’m Kristin. I come up here from
Prineville once a month to make some sense out of Rubin's books. He's way disorganized, you know?”

“Will you let him know I’m down at the creek? He’ll know where I’m talking about.” This time I smiled.

Kristin shrugged. “If he gets back any time soon, I’ll let him know.” The screen door creaked closed, and she disappeared into a back room. I was relieved that she was from Prineville and told myself that pouty, collagen lips weren’t that attractive.

The stream would be a good place to study the journal and photos in Dad's box, as well as check out the land better. After all, when Rubin and I slogged over there I’d been more interested in the ecosystem and watching out for stray cattle. This time I tramped through the grasses and sagebrush, eager to explore.

I climbed back onto the dirt mound near a cottonwood, close as I could to the bank without getting soaked. The trickling water soothed me. I could see where Rubin had planted native vegetation. The barbwire fence separating his land from Linc's drooped in spots and leaned inward in others. It definitely was not as sturdy as oven doors. The muddied, trampled grass proved livestock had forged paths down to the water from Linc's place.

At a sandy spot on the bank I kicked off my shoes and then dipped my toes in the clear, cold shallows, running the bottoms of my feet over smooth stones. Shy fingerlings darted into crevices as I disturbed the silt. Just like in songs and old corny poems, the stream spoke and sang, and I closed my eyes to hear what it was saying.

The power is in the water. I’d heard this once in a documentary about the Colorado River. Here in Murkee, Oregon, on a forgotten strip of land, it seemed all too true. Linc Jackson's motive must be power in the form of antiquities that
would make him a wealthy man. And my father had refused to hand over his creek and its artifacts.

And yet, if power was in the water, wisdom must be there too. Chief Joseph: the only thing I knew about the great Nez Perce chief was his famous line, “From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever.” I knew my father's side of the family had Nez Perce blood and held sacred all ruins and archaeological sites. Dad also had the unfortunate alcohol addiction that stereotypes many Native people.

Linc was a bigot and a bully … and maybe a thief. But Joseph Pond had met his enemies with the same passive resistance as his ancestors. If my daddy was anything like Chief Joseph, it might make up for other things—like dying before I had a chance to meet him. If power was in the water, I certainly didn’t feel much of it just then.

“Too late, is more like it,” I said to the minnows that nibbled at my red toenail polish. “Guess he can’t call to say he's coming home.”

Feeling powerless, I sat stock-still. Somehow in searching for my roots I’d discovered myself as a single mom, a rural librarian, and an unlikely protector of this creek cutting through the desert. How could I do it all? For an instant I wished I had some of Aunt Lutie's faith. She seemed to think God gave her enough strength to face anything. But I quickly shoved those thoughts aside. The weeks since I’d left Portland had proven that in this life, you were on your own.

Tumbling over boulders and fallen logs, the water had power; it seemed to disagree with my spiritual views. There was something more, the ripples insisted. “God is everything,” I thought I heard it whisper. “These banks are sacred, like a watered garden.”