The Fence My Father Built (30 page)

“Oh, Lord,” I said. “Gwen thinks she knows where Nova is.”

Tiny and Tru cheered, and Lutie closed her eyes. I held up my hand for quiet.

“I’ve had Denny checking on this,” Gwen said. “One of our church's outreach guys says he's seen her hanging in the downtown area.”

“Is she still with that kid named Marvin?” I don’t know why I asked or why I thought it mattered.

“Not sure on that,” Gwen said. “But listen, sweetie, here's the tough part: outreach guy says the word on the street is that Nova has checked herself into detox.”

A fog of despair paralyzed me. Lutie and the guys fell silent. Detox? “Why on earth would she need—” I stopped before I had to say it out loud.

Gwen's voice stayed even, soothing. “I’ve got the center's number right here. They won’t give Denny or me any information, or we’d have gone down there and talked to her.” She paused. “I’m so sorry, Muri.”

Tiny took the phone from me because I could barely stand. He wrote down the information and thanked Gwen and Denny for their help. After he hung up the phone he motioned to Tru, who was stroking Jim's ears.

“Come on, son,” my uncle said. “We’ve got some bikes that need fixing.” Tiny put his arm around Tru's shoulder and led him outside, with Jim trotting along behind. The screen shut without a sound, restrained by Tiny's hand.

Lutie fixed me some kind of herbal tea while I sobbed. When I could think again, I called the detox center in Portland. It didn’t matter that I was Nova's mother. I couldn’t get any more information than Denny or Gwen.

The receptionist was friendly but firm. “We can’t give out any personal information. HIPPA Privacy Law,” she said. “Kids try to get info on their friends and try to sneak in dope. That's why clients go through blackout. Everything's locked down. Wish I could be more helpful.”

“Nova, her name's Nova,” I whispered into the receiver. “If she's there—if she comes around again, would you please tell her to call home?”

The line clicked off. It had all been too good to be true. Lutie let me alone then, solemnly lowering and raising her yellow-gloved hands in and out of sudsy water, dunking the dishes one by one. The exaggerated quiet told me she felt Nova's loss as keenly as I did.

Tiny and Tru came in and out to fetch tools and once to find the duct tape, which turned up under the serape that blanketed the back of the worn sofa. Tiny pulled off a long strip of tape, the sound ripping the tension apart a little, reminding me that life was still happening. They tracked a little mud in on the rug, too, which Lutie pointed at with a frown.

“I’m going into town for a part,” Tiny said. “You want to go, Tru?”

“No, thanks.” Tru stood next to me where I sat at the dinette table and placed his small hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” he said. I could have kissed him then for being my son and for being so rock solid. But he slipped away, off to speak the simpler language of sprockets and bicycle gears. I couldn’t hold it against him.

I heard the truck engine start, and then Tru let the screen door clap shut once more. The lace curtains fluttered while the family gallery looked on from the rickety side table like a muted cheering section. I stared hard at my father's picture and assured him I was going to find her somehow. Nova's glass angel reflected light and threw a rainbow up on the wall. I felt like the victim of some cosmic cheap trick.

Seconds later, it dawned on me that I didn’t hear Tru playing outside in the yard or hammering on wood. My son was certainly old enough to be on his own for some things, but unlike his runaway sister, he always told me where he’d be. Except that this time, he hadn’t. Panic rose in my throat.

I threw on my ratty blue sweater and waved to Lutie, crocheting in her chair. “I’m going out to look for Tru. Did he tell you where he was going?”

“What? No.” Her face pinched with worry. “And Tiny's gone to town. Lord, Lord, not again.”

“If I’m not back in twenty minutes, call the sheriff.”

“I’ll be warrior praying.” She laid down her yarn as I sprinted out the door.

I rounded the curve by the bullet-riddled power company sign. Up ahead, I heard a sound like rocks bouncing off metal. Tru's unmistakable voice floated on the breeze. I looked up and froze. My son was kicking dirt at Linc's shiny monster truck where it sat parked at the edge of our property. Linc was nowhere around.

“I hate you!” Tru yelled. “You pushed my mom. You were mean to my grandpa. I hate you!” Tru picked up a tennis ball-sized rock. Before I could stop him, he hurled it at Linc's truck. The rock clunked into the pickup bed.

I trotted to my son, shouting, “Tru! No!”

By the time I reached him, Tru had managed to climb the side of Linc's truck. He stood on the back bumper, and his feet dangled as he reached into the bed.

“Truman!”

Tru twisted around, pulling a cloth bag the size of a woman's purse with him. A pointed stick protruded from its drawstring. He jumped to the ground, clutching the bag.

I grabbed my son's shoulder. “Did you hear me? You know better than to throw rocks.” I could barely keep from shaking him.

Tru started to cry. “I’m sorry, Mom.” Still gripping the cloth bag, he took off his glasses and wiped at his tears. “Linc made fun of Grandpa, and he hurt you. I hate him.”

He leaned against the bumper and hung his head. I gathered him in my arms and hugged him, the bag in his hands squeezed between us. I stood back and pointed. “What is this?”

Tru shrugged. “I was getting my rock and this was in the back of the truck.” He opened the drawstring. “Looks like a bunch of cool stuff.”

I took the bag. “The kap’n stick,” I whispered, holding out what looked like the root stick from Dad's photo. I rifled through the bag's contents. “Oh, my goodness!” I pulled out the heart-shaped rock. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

Tru's eyes widened, and his voice shook. “I was only going to look at stuff, Mom. I was going to put it all back. Honest.”

“Don’t worry; you didn’t do anything wrong.” I crammed everything back into the bag and pulled the drawstring tight. “You’re not a thief. But I know who is.”

Tru pushed up his glasses. “Linc?”

I nodded. “Wait until George sees this. C’mon.” I took Tru's hand, and we trotted toward our place.

We followed the hill trail. Tru ran ahead by a good hundred yards. As we headed over the rise, the fence I’d come to love would be there, beckoning us home.

Tru ran back toward me, hollering and waving his arms. “Mom! Hurry! There he is! There he is!”

I yanked off my sweater and looped the bag's drawstring around one arm. The bag nestled against my side but the stick poked at my underarm. I threw the sweater back on anyway and picked up my pace until I saw what Tru was yelling about. I stopped. For one instant I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Linc Jackson, the man who called himself our neighbor, was tearing down the fence my father built.

I wheeled Tru around. “Stay here.” I shook my finger at my son. “Promise me you won’t move until I say so. Got that?” My hands shook as I buttoned my sweater up to my neck.

“Okay,” Tru said. “Promise.”

I yelled. I waved my arms and raced toward Linc, running faster than I ever have. “Hey! You can’t do that!”

Linc uprooted an aqua oven door from its place in the fence and turned around. “Watch me,” he said. He tossed the
panel onto a pile of other oven doors that had already been pulled up. “I warned you, Mizz Pond.” Linc was breathing hard. He leaned against what was left of the fence. “The water, the creek—and the Chief's place—are mine.”

“Not as long as I’m around.” I lifted the edge of the aqua door but let it thud in the dust. Those things are heavier than they look.

Linc sneered. “You got no say.” He turned and continued dismantling the fence. “You people brought it on yourselves. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“What you’ve done, Mr. Jackson, is more than wrong. It's immoral. My heritage, my father's heritage. You don’t give a flying fig what you destroy.”

“How do you destroy water?” Linc grunted with every effort. “That's what ticks me off about you city folks. You don’t know the first thing about living out here.” He tugged on the next oven door, heaving it to one side.

I picked up the edge of the same door. “I know this much,” I said between breaths, “you’d run my family off—and anyone else who stands in your way.” I dragged the bulky metal door back to where it had been and attempted to replace it. The door teetered but held fast.

Linc tugged on the base of the next door, a pink one. It didn’t budge. “Stubborn as your old man,” he said and yanked again.

“Yes, I am.” I let go of the aqua door.

Linc was undeterred. The oven doors groaned as they were pried from the earth, metal and tempered glass buckling. Tru darted up from behind me. “Tru! Get back!” I cried. Before I could stop him, it was too late.

My son tackled Linc, who looked surprised and then let a sea-green door crash to the ground.

“That's my grandpa's fence!” my son screeched. “Get your stinking hands off my grandpa's fence!” But he was no match for a grown man. Linc shook off Tru. My son went flying, landing on his rear end.

“Out of my way, kid,” Linc growled, as if he assaulted children every day. He resumed tearing out fence panels. Tru sat in the dirt, his face the same red as the earth.

I don’t know where I got the strength to hoist an oven door; my fingers barely reached around the sides. But before I knew it I’d swung a pink door around and clocked Linc a good one. At least his hat fell off. He doubled over with a loud “oof,” then grimaced and staggered over to a part of the fence that still stood upright.

I patted my side, thankful the drawstring bag had stayed under my sweater. Tru cheered like I’d just caught the “hail Mary” pass for a touchdown.

Breathing hard, I stood there not quite sure what I’d done, the bulky pink door still leaning against my thighs. “You won’t get away with this,” I said. I allowed the pink door to thud to the ground. “This creek is on my property, and you’re trespassing.”

Linc's stare cut through me until I glanced down. The dream catcher that had hung on the fence lay trampled in the dirt. I picked up the bent circle and dusted off the strings and feathers. I held it against my chest and prayed the bag under my clothing wasn’t obvious. “You may own the land temporarily, but the water's mine,” he said, holding his side. Linc narrowed his eyes. “You’re out of your skull, just like your old man.” Linc limped away over the hill.

When Linc had disappeared I said, “Go tell Aunt Lutie what's happened. And tell her to call Rubin. We’ll never get this fence repaired by ourselves.”

Tru brushed off the seat of his jeans. “Mom,” he said, “would Linc really hurt us?”

I pulled him into my arms. He was shaking. “I told you to stay put,” I said. “God only knows what Linc might do.”

Tru hung his head. I lifted his chin. He was crying. “But you were very brave, son. I’m proud of you.”

“For real?”

I nodded. “Your grandfather Joseph would have been proud too.”

Tru straightened his shoulders. “I wish he hadn’t died,” he said. “I wish he was here right now.”

“For all we know he's watching us from heaven. Now run home.”

Tru jogged toward the trailer.

Linc had only managed to pull down a few sections of the fence, but the man had a lot of nerve. I scanned the edges of the horizon in case Linc decided to finish what he’d started. He was gone, and I was alone. The hills huddled together, dark and silent. I removed the bag from under my sweater.

The stiff breeze grabbed my hat. Over and over it threatened to lift it from my head. Maybe heaven was taunting me, daring me to say I didn’t need help. This was the last straw, the way you let go of pent-up tears after you stub your toe. An intense anger welled up in me and exploded. Fears and resentments rushed out. I cursed. I screamed. I screeched and threw pebbles at what was left of the fence. God would have to give up on me now.

I stood with my fists clenched. I hated Linc Jackson for defacing my father's property and for pushing my son around. “This is
your
fault,” I yelled at God. My throat felt raw, yet as I ranted, the mystery pressed against me. A dust cloud kicked up, but instead of red, it was bright, like looking into the poet
Mary Oliver's white light. The more I tried to ignore it, the more it felt like a lover's hot breath.

The sun dipped below the skyline. I don’t know how long I stayed there, maybe minutes, maybe hours. Finally, I felt a strange calm, and my eye twitch disappeared.

There were no fireworks, no angelic hosts strumming harps, or clouds parting with shafts of light. There was no voice, audible or otherwise. There was only a deep and surefooted peace. The mysterious presence was something I’d never be able to explain but was real nonetheless. Everlasting arms encircled me. I’d never felt so safe.

My thoughts ran to Lutie with her Bible and Tiny's comforting grin. “I love these people,” I said. “They make me feel as if I know you, Dad.” When I raised my head I tasted my tears but they weren’t bitter as before.

Nova's face sprang into my mind. “Help me find her,” I begged. “Please, God.” I thought of promising to join a convent or become a missionary if God delivered Nova safely back to me, and then I laughed at my impulse to bargain. The God Lutie talked about seemed absolute and as real as my own heartbeat.

I wanted to kneel down in the red earth, but instead I sat down at the base of the splintered fence and pushed my face up to the wind. I didn’t care who saw me speaking to the air. The only thing I knew was that I was in the presence of a Father who loved me. He was there, somewhere. He’d been there all along. I pulled on dry grass and ran my fingers through the reddish earth. My father had worked on this very spot. It was here that I had opened the door to a God I’d rejected. As I brushed away soil from the hole where the pink oven door had stood, shreds of what looked like straw or raffia poked out from the fence line.

With my fingers, I scratched in the dirt. Whatever was buried lay only a few inches below the surface, revealing more of itself with every handful of soil I removed. The same oven door I’d whacked Linc with had sat atop the mystery.