The Fence My Father Built (32 page)

“This one,” I said, pointing to the camas basket. “In his journal my father wrote about this camas basket. I found it yesterday when Linc tried to pull down the fence.”

“We’ll get him for that too,” George said.

“What matters is that Dad knew this basket was special. When he suspected Linc was stealing from the site, he buried the basket under one of the oven doors.” Unexpectedly, loss
spread over me like a wet blanket. Would I be able to make the fence as sturdy as before?

Then there was Linc. My neighbor had done terrible things, but now he’d lost everything: his reputation, his grandson to drugs, and his new Cadillac. Maybe he’d lose his freedom too.

“What will they do to Linc?”

George arched his eyebrows. “I’m glad we caught him, but in a way, nobody wins here. He's been a part of this community as long as I can remember. The FBI says they may allow him to plea-bargain in exchange for information on his buyers.”

“I don’t wish evil on Linc, but he's done a lot of damage.”

George nodded. “I didn’t think you could beat old Linc Jackson, but here you are. As your aunt would say, ‘A man reaps what he sows.’”

I sighed and gently spread open the basket's tattered edges. I lifted out the rock-like plug. “Dr. Denny says this is a real coprolite. It sounds awful, but it may be Dad's most valuable find.”

George examined the specimen. “Who would have believed that fossilized waste could be worth anything? But I doubt we can pin this on Jackson directly.”

I crossed my arms. “If Dr. Denny dates the site as pre-Clovis, won’t everything found out there increase in value?”

George laughed and helped me place the artifacts in their protective bags. “You’re as sharp as your Aunt Lutie.”

I smiled so hard that my cheeks ached. My father would have agreed. I could have kissed George, but I kept my cool, knowing we’d need to get everything formalized before we could truly relax. I had learned that nothing out in the Oregon desert is a sure thing, especially where water is concerned.

Not that long ago, I would have given anything for a taste of suburbia. A golf course might have been extreme, but how about a movie theater or even a Safeway? Now everything around me had slowed down, just as my life had gentled out from its once frenetic pace. Most of the world had never heard of Murkee Creek or seen the expanses of sagebrush buffeted by wind and the ever-present red soil.

As I left George's office, I nearly knocked over Rubin, who stood leaning against the outside wall.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“Sorry I haven’t been around. I can explain. Later, though.” He hesitated, perhaps not quite sure what I’d do. Hurt melted away. I hugged him, and he hugged me back.

“I thought you’d bailed on me,” I said.

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

I reached for his hand, but he hesitated. “What's wrong?”

“I can’t stay,” he said. A painful expression shadowed his eyes. “Come over later, will you?” I nodded, and he walked away.

B
ack at the trailer, Nova laughed about the coprolite, but no one mentioned Marvin. Had I been with less forgiving people I might have organized a lynch party for that kid. But as Aunt Lutie would later observe, “Just having Linc in your family tree is punishment enough.”

“You were right,” Nova said. “Denny and Gwen are way cool. Their church's outreach runs a meeting for homeless kids. Even if you aren’t sure what you believe, they pray for you. Did you know Gwen designs clothes too? She says I can come and learn glassblowing.”

I studied my daughter. She looked thin. Deep shadows encircled her eyes, and her cheekbones protruded. Her hair had grown out some; it was no longer orange or purple or green but a familiar and pleasant brown. The ice blue of her gaze was softer than I remembered. When she first hugged me back, she had smelled like the inside of Gwen and Denny's house.

I smiled at her. “Things will be better now, I promise. We’re a real family, just like Lutie said. No more fighting, all right?”

Later, Uncle Tiny told her she needed to fatten up. I could have warned him that any mention of weight would set her off. Like most other girls her age, Nova was convinced she was chubby, even though her jeans were loose.

In true Nova form, she grimaced at the lunch her uncle had cooked and refused to eat it. Tru acknowledged her with a “Hi, geek,” and sat down with a plateful of food. Within a minute they were at each other's throats.

“You’re such a pig,” she said. “Chew with your mouth shut, idiot.”

He displayed a half-chewed bite. “I learned it from Jim,” he said proudly, and Jim looked up from his bed beside the television set. “Bet you missed us, huh?”

“Gross. You and these disgusting pigs.” She shuddered dramatically. “You’re such a moron.”

“You’re totally, what-
ever
.” Tru mocked in a higher voice than his normal one.

“You’re so immature.”

It was a standoff, and they glared at each other, trying to come up with the consummate burn.

Tiny sat down between them and looked at Nova with that ever-present smile of his. His size alone forced an uneasy truce.

“You could always fix yourself something else, Miss Nova,” Lutie said from her recliner. She looked up at Jesus with a pleading glance and then went back to her crocheting.

“Fine.” Nova scooted her chair back loudly and flounced to the cupboard. Tru made a face at her as she passed him. I smiled. It was just like old times.

Lutie pulled on her yellow gloves. “And don’t forget, we got a ton of work to get ready for the bazaar. Rhonda Gaye is coming over this afternoon, so you two can get your entry finished.”

“Don’t you remember?” Lutie said. “Rhonda's been sewing on that outfit you dreamed up.”

“Terrific.” Nova said. She turned to make one of her dramatic exits.

“Hold on,” I said. “You and Tru pull kitchen duty. Lutie, give Nova your gloves.”

Lutie solemnly handed over the gloves, and Nova clucked her tongue. Tru just groaned and the two of them went to the sink and started a name-calling contest. At first I couldn’t understand how siblings who said they loved each other so much could bicker like that, but then I decided the put-downs were their way of saying, “Hey, I missed you.” At least they didn’t throw anything at one another.

When the dishes were finally washed, Nova stripped off the gloves and complained that her freshly painted nails were ruined. “Totally.” She put on a pouty look. I summoned her to the bedroom to tell her about my plans, and she trudged along behind me, no doubt convinced I was about to nag her some more.

“This is so not fair!” She yelled when I told her about my idea to move. The look on her face reminded me of the first time she’d tasted broccoli at age three, spit it halfway across the room, and clamped her mouth shut.

“I don’t understand.” I’d been so certain about this whole thing on my way to Portland. Now I wondered if the girl in front of me was the same Nova I knew.

Defiant, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you ask
me
if I wanted to move? How typical!” She clucked her tongue with the same disdain as her “whatevers.”

I used my best librarian's voice. “Tru and I like it fine here. You’re the one who hates it so much, the one who complains about Murkee being so ‘nowhere.’”

“Your idea sounds worse,” she said through clenched teeth, “I’d rather die.”

Patience rushed out of me, so I took a deeper breath. “I’m doing this for
you
. I thought that's what you wanted.”

“You don’t get it, Mom.”

“What exactly don’t I get?” Now
I
felt like throwing something, so I jammed my hands into the pockets of my skirt. I tried not to look at my father's photo, whose eyes pleaded with me to fight no more with my sixteen-year-old rebel.

But instead of attacking, she sat down on the bed and picked at the bumps on the faded chenille spread. “Before I left, I thought this place was like eternal damnation. I’m like, ‘Great, I live in a dump with a weird aunt and uncle and a bunch of pigs. Perfect.’” She looked up at me. “But it's different now, okay? In Portland all I thought about was getting back home, and now we’re leaving?”

I sat down beside her, stroked her hair, and she didn’t pull away. “I thought it would make you happy.”

She groaned the way teenagers do when they know they aren’t getting through. “And there's something else,” she said. She unzipped her battered backpack and took out a small New Testament. “I heard you talking to Aunt Lutie about God. Were you for real?”

I groped for words that didn’t sound awkward. “I’ve had what you might call a spiritual awakening, yes.”

“I guess I don’t mind too much.” She smiled. “Denny and Gwen made God sound pretty cool.”

“God thinks you’re pretty cool, too,” I said, “and so do I.”

Nova grimaced. “I’m not a little churchy girl.” She held up her Bible. “I said I’d give God a chance.” She tossed the Bible onto the bed.

“You’re almost a grown-up now,” I said. “Nobody's trying to make you do anything.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes the familiar way I’d grown to love. “I didn’t mean to start a fight,” she said, and I thought I saw a tear in her eye. “I’m glad to be home. Really.”

I couldn’t say anything more. I threw my arms about her.

“Happy?” I managed to say.

“Being home makes me happy,” she said.

“Even with a pesky brother and weird relatives and pigs?”

She sighed again loudly but then smiled. “Don’t forget a nagging Mom.”

“Me? Nag?” I could have kissed her, but she was already out the door.

I sat there awhile longer and smoothed over the wrinkles in the spread where Nova had sat. So much for knowing what my daughter wanted; her mind changed about as often as the color of her hair. Her pleas to stay were not without conditions. She begged me to fix up the house and wondered if Tiny could build her a separate bedroom.

“Can’t you homeschool us?” she asked later. “I don’t want to be around a bunch of cowboys.”

“Out here we’re all a bunch of cowboys,” Tiny answered.

“Whatever.”

Somehow, when Nova explained her reasons for staying in Murkee, they became my own.

T
he pigs were penned up so they would stay out of trouble. They squealed their disapproval at not being allowed to roam all over the yard. Jim was caged with them and stuck his snout through the wire fence and looked woeful.

Tru bent down to scratch Jim's black hairy ears. “Can’t we take him with us? I’ll watch him, I promise.”

“I don’t think they let pigs wander around town, son,” I said.

My uncle crisscrossed several bungee cords to strap a boy's bike to the bed of the truck, a bike he’d assembled from his stacks of parts. It was for the child of a new family in town. Lutie wanted to know “what on God's green earth” he was doing back there and why we were taking a bicycle along.

“His name is Ryan and he's eight and he needs a bike. That's what Doc Perkins told me,” Tiny said, grinning. “There, I believe that’ll do it.” He jiggled the bike to make sure it was secure.

Nova stormed out of the house, a stack of sewing supplies in her arms. “I told Rhonda I’d be over an hour ago, Mom. Can you drive me?”

“In what? We don’t have a car, and Tiny's busy.”

Nova stamped her foot. “Whatever.”

Tiny and Tru climbed into his truck. Tiny said out the window, “I’d be tickled to give you a ride.”

I held up my hand. “You said you were going the other direction, Unc. Nova needs to learn to plan things.”

“Mu-ther.”

“It's not that far out of my way,” Tiny added.

“I give up,” I said. Nova clambered into the truck and scooted Tru into the middle. Tiny ground the gears, and the truck bumped down the gravel drive.

Lutie put her arm around me. “You’re doing fine,” she said, gently brushing strands of hair away from my face. She always smelled fresh and full of life. “I already said more prayers than you could shake a stick at.”

JOSEPH's JOURNAL
MARCH 2008

T
oday, Lutie grabbed my arm and shook me out of a dream about you, Muri. “I took a slight detour,” I told her. Five minutes? An hour? I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out. When I tried to move I spilled the last of my iced tea, the only thing I can keep down these days. Lutie helped me to my feet, and I breathed in sharp to steady myself. “Let's get you outside, Joseph,” Lutie whispered. “ You can watch the sunset.”

If you saw me you wouldn’t recognize me. I’m a skeleton, shuffling along in the yard. That's what I’ve become, a suggestion of myself. I hold my hands out in front of me to keep from teetering … to be sure I’m still alive. The liver is an unforgiving thing and spiteful as a lot of women I’ve known.

Lutie guided me to a lawn chair. The yard is just as full of junk as my memory, piled with bicycle parts and flotsam no one will ever want. The fence I built with my own hands leans a little now, but I’m still glad I put those oven doors to good use.

I cling to the only thing left, a loving God, an abiding promise of eternal life. I’m not afraid to die. The Holy Ghost will carry me. When I think about walking through the tunnel I see Jesus standing with outstretched arms, beckoning.

I wish I could package up faith and give it to you and then let it become your own. If I had more time I’d dream my precious Lord into you, Muri, but time is running out. I can’t trust this body to keep going.

I don’t trust these eyes anymore, either. Seems like the mound's being tampered with again, but I can’t catch the thief. Or maybe it's just animals digging for a meal.

I press the edge of my hand against my forehead like a visor, to drive off the summer sun, waiting and listening. If I watch long enough, I’ll see a young girl dancing like we used to dance. When I do I won’t fight it. I’ll run to you and hold you forever.

B
y the end of the week all of Murkee knew Nova was home. We were the only ones, though, who knew that Linc's life had turned “slippery as hog slop,” as Tiny said. Linc was gone, supposedly to Portland to fetch his grandson. Before he left, the sheriff brought Linc over. I was suspicious he might have Ed Johnson or Frieda Long's husband waiting to shoot me or torch the trailer.