The Fence My Father Built (7 page)

Tru came huffing back then, the vet in tow. “Sorry I wasn’t home,” Rubin said. “Ed had a problem with one of his cows.”

I straightened my shoulders a bit and jumped up, brushing the dust from my backside. “I’m so glad we found you. Uncle Tiny's in shock; some horrible person shot his pet pig.”

Rubin just stared at me, as if he were about to explain something. Then he looked away for a moment and adjusted his cap, as if he were switching to his veterinary role.

“We’d better hurry,” I said, remembering poor Aunt Lutie. I thought we must have been gone for hours, but when I glanced at my watch, a mere ten minutes had slipped by.

“Fortunately, I have my bag with me.”

When we’d met before, he’d been friendly and open. Now he averted his gaze like a guilty dog caught chewing the master's slippers. Confusing.

“Just like in the movies, Doc,” Tru said. Rubin smiled at my son. We followed Tru, who still hadn’t run out of energy, back over the hill. My sides ached, but I trotted as fast as I could.

We sidestepped down the hill and back across the creek. In the distance, mountains jutted upward, still snow-covered in June, looking like frozen giants standing guard. The sun reflected against them as if someone up there signaled with a mirror. Maybe it was a lost hiker; maybe my father wasn’t dead after all. I’d forgotten to ask Aunt Lutie where he was buried.

I was always doing this, catching my mind wandering and then chastising myself for it. But if I thought about these lapses in too negative a way, I might end up like Forrest Gump; I’d just keep on running and never stop. Besides, my daydreams kept me going when things got too tough. They were a safety valve. Otherwise, I’d probably have tipped into hysteria at the first sight of pig blood.

“Thank you, sweet Jesus!” Lutie raised her arms to the sky the moment she saw us. “Jim's hurt bad, Dr. Rubin. Real bad. Please do something.”

My aunt shook all over then, staring at the blood on her hands like Lady Macbeth. Now that help had arrived she must have given herself permission to fall apart. Tiny's eyes were glazed over, as he sat in the dirt and silently stroked his pet pig. Nova, a towel still on her head, perched on the edge of the tire planter.

Dr. Rubin went to work immediately. He quickly examined the wound and swabbed the area with a strong-smelling disinfectant, casting the used gauze pads into a heap. “Looks like a .22,” he said, probing the hole with a pair of long-handled scissors.

That was it for me. I stared in the opposite direction. When he finally said, “Aha! There's the culprit,” I peeked. The slug was clenched in the forceps’ jaws.

“It's a .22 all right,” Rubin said. Tru nodded, as if he saw bullets every day. Lutie talked nonstop, pleading with Rubin to save Jim, praying to the good Lord to have mercy and send all the angels. I wondered if my aunt thought pigs had guardian angels too.

Up to now Tiny had kept quiet. “Of course, he’ll do what he can, Pearl, honey,” he said, stroking Lutie's shoulder. “If anyone can save ol’ Jim, it's Rubin. Why don’t you go wash off your hands? Maybe Doc would like some of your iced tea. I know I would.” Tiny managed a crooked grin and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Rubin glanced up. “Yes, ma’am, iced tea sounds nice. Don’t worry. Jim's going to pull through.” He tied sutures so deftly, I thought he must have been a tailor at one time. In minutes he’d closed the wound, applied a bandage, and even
pulled out of his bag one of those lampshade collars they put on dogs.

“What's that for?” Tru wanted to know. He’d watched the whole procedure carefully, asking so many questions that I’d been tempted to shush him. He had this intense look on his face now, with his brow bunched up and jaw set.

“It's to keep Jim from messing with the bandage,” Rubin said.

“Makes him look dorky,” Nova said.

“Just like you,” Tru countered. The crisis was over.

Lutie called us in for iced tea. Suddenly, my mouth was dry and gritty. My leg muscles reminded me that I hadn’t exercised this much since before Nova was born.

We all trooped inside and crowded into the living room. Rubin seemed taller than before. We sat on the sofa, but I stayed as far away from the vet as I could. “I was sure your house was the A-frame,” I said.

“Nope, that's Linc's place. I’m just the other side of the fence.”

“I knew it,” Tru said. He did have a sixth sense about him.

And I was certain my father would have known what to do with the pig crisis too. He would have calmly taken over and handled everything, and I wouldn’t have had to run across the desert. Or he would have taught me in a patient, deliberate voice what to do in emergencies, and he would have been proud when I passed this skill on to my children. Joseph Pond would have shielded me from the worst things but taught me to stand on my own. He would have known that violence is useless, but he would have taught me how to deliver a good right hook. I don’t know how I knew all that. I just did.

“I thought it would be dull out here, but so far, it's been anything but boring,” I said. “First I meet you, and then some
wacko shoots a pig. Lutie says it's that neighbor of ours, Linc Jackson.”

Rubin was quiet for a moment. Then he stared right at me. The brim of his baseball cap shaded his eyes, but I thought they looked troubled. “Listen. Linc didn’t shoot the pig.”

“Well, then, who did?”

He sighed. “It was me. I’m the wacko.”

“But you just saved its life.”

He looked away. “I know, but just before I left to go to Linc's place I was down checking the slough. Something rustled in the bushes, and I thought it was a cow.” He looked embarrassed.

“You shot a cow?” Tru said. He plunked himself on the floor next to Rubin. “But it was an accident, right?”

“Course it was,” Tiny said. “Accidents happen.”

“Thanks, Tiny,” Rubin said. “You and I both know Linc's cows are destroying that stream.” Rubin turned to me. “Joseph and I worked out a deal. He let me dig the slough to water the emus and my other animals, and I’m responsible for restoring it for bull trout.”

I knew it. Another environ-nut.

“Anyway,” Rubin said, “cattle get in there. They trample the banks and ruin the shallows.”

Lutie brought leftover scones, butter, and jam. “Never mind the water rights or whatever Linc was yelling about.” She set down the tray and retreated to her recliner.

“Couldn’t you just put up a fence like my dad did?” I said. “I met Linc Jackson. He seems nice enough to me.”

“Yeah, Linc's a real nice rattlesnake,” Lutie said.

Rubin buttered a scone. “That's the problem. There
is
another fence, one I’ve repaired more times than I can count. Cows plow through anyway. Besides, we all know what Linc's really after.”

“I don’t,” I said. “In fact, I’m totally confused. What's the big deal about that creek? Somebody strike gold or what?”

Tiny laughed. “Don’t I wish.”

Rubin's voice took on a bitter edge. “Jackson's been after both of us to sell. He’d love to get back all his water rights. Claims he wasn’t gone past the five-year deadline.”

“I’ve heard enough about water rights to last me a lifetime,” I said.

Rubin nodded. “Welcome to the other side of Oregon,” he said. “But out here water is worth fighting for. Except that even with no rights Linc manages just fine, so there's got to be more to it. Nobody knows what he's up to. Maybe he's hoping I’ll go away, but he's in for a fight.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Killing dumb animals over the environment? Excuse me, but I’d say shooting sounds a little extreme.” I wasn’t trying to be unfriendly, but I had my limits.

Rubin sighed the way Nova sometimes did. “After you’ve lived out here awhile, maybe you’ll understand. About Linc I mean.”

Any other time his explanation wouldn’t cut it, but for some reason I was more intrigued than ever by this country vet/environmentalist. “Guess I’m not the only one with a feud going on,” I said, unable to think of anything more witty or intelligent.

Tiny stood up. “Thanks again, Doc. I got to tend to the other pigs.” He ambled out the door.

When Tiny was gone, I turned back to Rubin. “I believe in settling problems without violence where possible. Don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Rubin said. “The Hippocratic Oath is my motto, I swear.” I’d seen the way he’d worked to save Tiny's pet. The man couldn’t be lying.

“Is that why you were saying you should leave the area?”

“Some days I just get fed up, that's all.”

“Can’t say I blame you for that.”

Finally, he shrugged. “Anyway, I feel terrible about Jim. He’ll make it, but I think his voice box is gone. He probably won’t be able to squeal or oink, you know. I’ll tell Tiny about it later. Sorry.”

I smiled. “Accidents happen.”

Lutie set two tumblers of her tea on a TV tray. I was dying to figure out this water rights business. Why would Linc Jackson stand outside and yell at my father? Lutie didn’t have much to say, though. Every now and then she mumbled prayers and cast a glance up at the picture of Jesus.

Tiny came back inside, fixed Jim a bed from an old playpen, and set it right next to the TV. Rubin went out and helped carry the pig in.

“Don’t hurry off now, Doc,” Tiny said. “I figure you better make us out a bill; it being Sunday and all.”

“Thanks, but I can’t stay. I was tending to a sick steer when Muri came by. You don’t owe me anything, except maybe a batch of your scones.”

Rubin turned to Tru. “Now you come get me if Jim here has any problems.” He handed Tru some extra bandages. “Think you could help your Uncle Tiny change the dressing?”

Tru nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll come back and check on him in a couple of days.”

“I’ll walk you out,” I volunteered. Nova's eyes grew wide. But I was too tired and sore to care, and it had been a long time since I’d had any company. So we strolled out, and I didn’t even blush. Well, maybe a little. We stopped at the oven-door fence.

“How far do you think Linc would go?” I asked, thinking about the miniature range war Rubin had described.

Rubin shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that Linc Jackson means to get his way. Somehow that creek is just the tip of the iceberg.”

Rubin turned and walked toward his place before turning back to face me. “I’m throwing a barbecue next weekend on the Fourth. There’ll even be live music. Done this three years running; it's almost a tradition around here. This year the main course is a surprise.”

“I’ll ask the kids,” I stammered, unsure if this was a neighborly invitation or a more personal one.

“Bring the kids and your aunt and uncle too. And extra lawn chairs if you’ve got any.” He held out his hands, palms up. “It's the least I can do, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“I did shoot your uncle's pig.”

“Right. I’ll get back to you about the barbecue.”

“All set, then?” He smoothed back the sides of his hair where the wind had turned it loose and jammed his hands in his jeans pockets.

I frowned. “I said I’d get back to you,” I said. “But thanks for the invite.”

“I’m glad you came to get me,” he said. “Really glad.”

“See you on the Fourth,” I answered, and watched him walk away. Just like the 1970s children's classic by Robert Newton Peck that I was always trying to get kids to read, it was
A Day No Pigs Would Die
.

JOSEPH's JOURNAL
APRIL 1981

B
efore I lost you, Muri, you visited one more time. I watched you dance. That velveteen skirt is too short on you now, and you said you were the tallest girl in second grade.

Today, for a few hours, you were mine again. You twirled in your bare feet in front of the recliner where, I suppose, I’d passed out again. I’m sorry. I was out of it until you squealed, “Watch me, Daddy! I’m a ballerina!” I startled awake. I was hung over, feeling like the wrong end of the cow. Even so, I didn’t have the heart to tell you that your spins made me dizzy. My head pounded like a jack-hammer, but I had to smile at you, knowing today was good-bye.

When you tipped over my beer, you looked scared, like maybe your mother scolds you for making messes. “It's not important,” I said, grinning. You tried to wipe up the spill, and you held your nose and told me you didn’t like the beer smell. You stood and saw I was still awake. “Are you watching now?” you asked. “Watch.” You held your arms like an arch and twirled until you got dizzy and fell. You sat on the floor and your skirt fanned like a flower around your ankles.

The skirt is getting shiny in the back where the nap's worn down. I bought it for you years ago from a guy in a Prineville bar. He claimed it was Navajo, handmade, with magical powers. I paid too much for it, but you loved it. Your mother says it's too hard to wash velvet.

Daughter, you look so much more like our people than your mother's kin. I told her you must learn the old ways. But your mother won’t listen. She's remarried and now I’ll see you this last time. I’ll tell you why.

You see, the trouble with your mother is that she can’t let things go. The binges, a couple of wrecked cars, too many broken promises, she said. I swore to do better, but she kept polishing the tea service, kept shaking her head no. That was the end of your mother and me.

These days, I keep my Bible right here where I can reach it. The Word keeps me going, and I’ve asked for forgiveness more times than I can count. I tell the Man Upstairs that I’ll do better. I repent. I tell Him I’ll never touch the stuff again, for your sake. I don’t know how far I’ll get, but I pray the Lord will deliver me from the bottle for good. When it was time to go, you were still dancing, holding out your arms like angel's wings.

You are an angel—my angel. You smiled, and it reminded me of morning in the desert, when the sun breathes the world alive again. For a moment I thought about not taking you back when the visit was over.

If you stayed, you could learn the flute, the beads, and our dying Native language. You’d make sure no one disturbs the sacred things near the creek. When I’m gone, you could take my place under the cottonwood tree.