The Fence My Father Built (5 page)

“Can’t you and Dad figure things out?” Nova asked softly. She pointed at Tiny's junk piles. “All I asked for was a normal life, not a home at the dump.” She stood up, paced up and down in the reddish dirt, and then stopped and looked down at her new white canvas shoes. They were covered in dust. “I can’t stand it,” she shouted, as she yanked each sneaker off and tossed them at my feet. Then she sat down in the dust and cried.

I wanted to be transported back in time, to the place before Chaz had gotten his first big gallery client and before he stopped wanting me. Back to the time when I ran the high school library and drove kids to soccer games on weekends. Streaky clouds drifted as the sunset unfolded, and I waited for Nova's tears to die down.

The horizon was fading; the mountains looked like the backs of dark-robed grieving women, hunched over and still. I took Nova's hand and squeezed it like they do in those support groups where everyone goes by their first name. She looked up at me through smeared mascara and shrugged.

“I’m scared too,” I said, pulling her into my arms. She was taller than I was now, by a good two inches. “But I’m not helpless. I’ll get a job. Things will work out. You’ll see.”

“I’d rather be homeless than live here,” she growled. I didn’t answer.

As I prodded Nova from the rear, we walked back to the house. Tiny and Truman stood at the door, and I could tell they were about to come see what was taking so long. My daughter pulled away when I tried to touch her, but at least she kept quiet.

“Don’t worry, kiddo, we’ll be okay, I said. “We’re strong. We can handle this just fine.” I said these things out loud for her benefit, but my voice wavered. She knew the score.

Nobody said much after that. Lutie dragged out examples of the family mail order business: hats made from soft drink cans, strung together with patches of crocheted yarn. I never would have guessed a hat could be that ugly. Tiny fed us tacos and
frijoles con arroz
for supper, and I found out my aunt seldom cooked. Nova and Tru looked as bored as kids at the children's table on Thanksgiving. I couldn’t stop thinking about how sticky my skin felt, or how we would manage out here with no phone, TV, ballet, or Library Guild meetings.

But there was no lack of church. In fact, everything in Murkee was connected to the Red Rock Tabernacle in some way or another. Lutie went to services on Wednesdays and twice on Sunday. She met with her church ladies on the other days of the week. How would I explain to my aunt that organized religion wasn’t high on my list?

I still believed in God, but most of my views would raise eyebrows in a backwater town like this. Lutie had already spoken about God's love for me and my children. What she didn’t know was that I believed in God as Creator, but I wasn’t so sure about the Divine's role as my Father. A father was someone who drank too much and wasn’t around when you needed a daddy. I wasn’t proud of my belief, but I was too hurt to change now. I sat at the table until my eyes stung with private tears and exhaustion.

Around eight-thirty, Tiny nudged Lutie who lay snoring in the green recliner, and she awoke long enough to say goodnight and shuffle to the bedroom. Finally, I got Tru bedded down in the sewing room, and Nova stomped off to bed, too, to die of total boredom, she said.

After the lights were out, I sat up in Tiny's miniature living room without so much as a box fan to cool things off. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. Finally, I tossed aside my book and crept over to the door. I went outside, closing
the screen an inch at a time so it wouldn’t squeak. I sat on the edge of one of the tire planters, wide awake, wishing I’d brought out some iced tea.

I stared up at the Milky Way's river of stars spilling across the central Oregon sky. It was breathtaking. It had been years since I’d seen a night sky unpolluted by city lights. It had been even longer since I’d taken the time to think of anything but my own survival. Now here I was desperate to work out my little librarian's life in the very place where Joseph Pond had lived and died. Absently, I gouged at the split rubber of the planter with a rusty dog tie-out stake.

Before long I’d filleted the inner rim, scraping out a rage that I didn’t fully comprehend. Why had my father left me in the first place? Why hadn’t I done more to find him? Now it was too late. I’d never meet him face to face, at least not in this lifetime. Suddenly, it hit me. I was an orphan.

By now, the tire planter looked as if the pigs had chewed on it. I laid down the spike and sagged against the side of the house, watching shooting stars fall from grace.

I
n the morning, after five minutes beneath the trailer's spitting shower, I was barely wet, much less clean. The low water pressure and rust stains streaking down beneath the faucet reminded me of cheap motels, where hard, thin soaps make you sneeze and skimpy plastic curtains leak water on the floor. Still, I was grateful for a shower, and even more thankful for a few minutes of early solitude.

That was one of the things I’d discovered in single life. Aloneness was much different. Since my break up with Chaz, Truman had become clingy. Nova complained about everything or demanded to be driven someplace immediately. Lately, I craved quiet. Constructing a new life required my total concentration.

So I shut my eyes and raised my face up to the fine mist, careful to keep my mouth closed in case the water tasted funny, which I was sure it did. I pretended I was at a day spa, beneath a gold-plated showerhead, listening for Raul, the stylist, to call me to his station. I could practically smell the cappuccino. Just then a raspy voice pierced the steam.

“Muri? That you in there?” Aunt Lutie stuck her head inside the bathroom.

“Almost done, give me a minute.” Instinctively, I shielded my body.

“You know it's only five o’clock? The kangaroo rats are just going to bed. I brought you some clean towels.” Lutie closed the door and then reopened it. “You figured out that the spigots are on backwards then? Cold is hot and hot is cold.”

“I got the idea, yes.”

“It's a good thing.”

I heard the door close again, so I peeked around the edge of the tropical fish shower curtain to be sure my aunt was gone. When I cranked the faucets off, the pipes made a machine gun sound that startled me. I reached for a towel, worn but fresh, and swiped it across the small medicine cabinet mirror.

Aunt Lutie was right. I did have my father's eyes. I always told myself they were unusual eyes, dark circles notwithstanding. Chaz had said the same thing once—the day I agreed to move in with him. That was back when he was still handing out compliments. I’d ignored the fact that he was full of cheap champagne at the time, compliments of the upstart gallery where we had literally stumbled into one another, eyeing lithographs and experimental mixed media.

It was 1990, just after Mother died. Less than a month later I married Chaz in Vegas, even though I knew both he and my stepfather were too much alike. It was not a good time.

Later, loans and grants had paid for my master's degree in library science, but what had all that education bought me? After all those years, the budget ax had fallen upon the library I’d helped to build. I’d spent long hours of my own time converting the card catalog to computer, entering strings of numbers only a librarian's mind could appreciate, and laminating the bar codes onto the books themselves. I had tenure, but I
wasn’t about to split my time between three different media centers, checking out videos and repairing broken overhead projectors.

Now what? I was determined not to land in the discard pile but felt as unsure of myself as the last time I’d come home to find Chaz in bed with Victoria again.

Pushing down the memories, I wiped off the fog from the bathroom mirror, slathered on moisturizer, and ran a brush through my wet hair. Jeans and a sweatshirt seemed appropriate for the chilly early morning, and I decided I would walk a mile every day before breakfast … starting today. At least it would get me away from everyone for a while longer.

I crept past Lutie, who sat planted in the green recliner with her basket of crochet yarns and what must have been a Bible. After a wave and a whispered explanation, I tiptoed outside.

The air was still and almost icy; my eyes watered from its sting. During the night I’d awakened, shivering, not remembering at first where I was. I’d read somewhere that the desert temperature could go from a daytime sizzle to freezing after sundown, and now I didn’t doubt it.

Outside in the yard, mounds of bicycle parts glistened with early morning dew that I’d always heard called angel tears. Broken sprockets stared at me, their gaping eyes rimmed with metal eyelashes. It could have been a postmodern sculpture.

“In New York you’d fetch big bucks,” I said.

Walking would warm me. I crossed the rickety bridge that spanned the creek and started off down the road to town. I pumped my arms, striding briskly along the rutted lane, where withered and skeletal evergreens blended into the graygreen of the sagebrush. Tiny had said the trees were infested with a kind of beetle that killed them an inch at a time. That saddened me, and I walked faster.

Sunrise and earth colors inspired my visual senses with their reds and dusty pinks. I carefully avoided little holes in the ground, which I imagined to be rattlesnake hideouts and tarantula dens. I reminded myself that if I left them alone, they’d leave me alone. Still, a hawk's cry overhead startled me. A small rabbit darted back into the brush. I suspected the poor hare wouldn’t get far with my “live and let live” attitude.

That philosophy didn’t work as well with other areas of life, either, I’d discovered. For the last twenty-four hours I’d gone along with whatever came, tried not to judge, and slept in the corner of a trailer that was so junked out it set my teeth on edge. Nova had immediately stuck her glow-in-the-dark plastic stars to our bedroom ceiling, and their phosphorescence had only kept me awake.

I walked faster, no longer fighting off the urge to get this rundown place in shape. It was the last week in June, and I wasn’t used to such bright sunshine. I could barely see without sunglasses. I’d spent five years in the dusty stacks of a high school library, amazed now at how little time I’d spent outdoors. While the rest of Oregon jogged and hiked and canoed and walked to work to save the environment, I’d stayed under the fluorescent lights. I was a mole.

Out here nature was almost shocking. I was hard-pressed to escape the dirt and dust, which permeated everything. It was fine grist, like jeweler's rouge, wearing down the hills as it was transported by the relentless wind.

By the time I reached the gas company's sign at the edge of the property, I knew exactly what I had to do. No doubt Tiny and Lutie would appreciate my ability to solve their problems. Mentally, I plotted out the details of the Pond Ranch remodel. With a little ingenuity and hard work, it might be possible to turn a slum dwelling into something livable.

I was trained to think you needed—no, required—a certain amount of beauty in your surroundings. Both my mother and my husband had an appreciation for the finer things, and I was shocked to discover how much of that had rubbed off on me. Unfortunately, aesthetics was an unknown word to my aunt and uncle.

How would they react to my ideas? Did I have a right to change anything, and was this my house now or what? Suddenly, my enthusiasm shriveled. It took every ounce of energy just to keep walking. I gave into the feeling of deflation and sat down beside a bullet-riddled gas company sign.

Perhaps this rural life would supply the peace I craved. The rolling hills, bucolic and mute, offered me respite. I closed my eyes, relaxing my jaw muscles.

Moments later a slightly off-key whistle startled me. I sucked in my breath at the sound of crunching gravel. A man waved as he neared and called out, “Good morning!”

“You frightened me,” I said, brushing dust from my jeans, my heart pounding. “I didn’t hear you coming.” Suddenly, my still-damp hair felt clumped, and I raked it with my fingers.

“You always this jumpy? I keep birds that don’t bolt so easily.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone else out here so early. I was out for a walk. I do my best thinking then.” I waved back toward the trailer. “I’m staying over there, with my aunt and uncle.”

The man just smiled and listened to me babble. The first thing I noticed was his lack of western wear and his scruffy hair trailing out from beneath a baseball cap. His flannel shirtsleeves were rolled up to expose his forearms. I hoped he wasn’t a tree-hugging nut.

“Didn’t I see you in the Mucky-Muck?” he asked. “Talking to Linc?”

My palms popped sweat at the mention of the name. “Yes, I suppose I was.”

“I’m Rubin,” he said, sticking out a hand. “Rubin Jonto. I live just over the creek.” He pointed with his chin. “You must be Joseph's daughter.” His eyes crinkled up at the corners when he smiled.

“Muri. Yes, I’m Joseph's daughter. How did you know?” I shook his hand, determined to remain aloof.

“Be hard not to. You’ve got Joseph's eyes.” Rubin said.

I looked away. “I’m from Portland. Things out here are so different.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “That's why I moved here—no secrets. And no city hassles, either.”

“Or conveniences,” I said, thinking about the crummy shower. “I’m just here for a while to put my dad's affairs in order. He had some legal troubles; you probably know all about that too.” I sighed. My head throbbed. I needed my morning coffee. “Mind me asking what kind of doctor you are? I overheard the waitress in the café yesterday calling you Doc.”

“Doc? Oh right, Dove. Isn’t she a character?” Rubin said. “I’m the local vet, but they all call me Doc. I’m from Portland too.”

“You a friend of Linc's?” I asked.

Rubin ignored my question. “Been out here five years. Joseph helped me build the slough over on my place.”

“For cattle?”

“Not exactly. Emus are the weirdest animals on earth.”

“You raise emus?” I tried not to laugh. These days, it's possible to be politically incorrect about anything. I already wrestled with the discovery that I was part Nez Perce and had grown up watching John Wayne on TV. What if emus were part of this guy's religion?