The Fence My Father Built (9 page)

“Hold it,” I said. “I need to keep this straight. Linc's King of Murkee, right?”

“You got it.”

“He wanted my father to sell this place, which includes that creek out there.” I pointed in the general direction of the stream.

“Right.”

“Linc claims to have rights to that water. What? From some old document he dug up that says he wasn’t gone five years, only four years and some odd months?”

“As the Lord is my witness.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “Which is more important to Linc— the land or the water rights?”

“To hear Linc tell it, our water rights are what he's really after. Something to do with prior appropriation. Well, anyway,
first come-first served. Even though Ulysses was the original owner, your daddy bought this place fair and square.”

“So how could Linc sue us, if it's our land?” I opened a cupboard and set a stack of plates inside. So far Nova hadn’t dried a single dish.

Lutie clasped her gloved hands together and glanced over at Jesus on the wall. “George says Linc's got proof. But my heart tells me it all comes down to that creek. Water is almost as precious as gold around here.”

“I still don’t get why Linc won’t build a ditch like Rubin did. And who's George?” Now I was completely at sea.

“I heard some men down at the café talking about wet gold,” Nova said. “It's like they have more water rights than they have water. Crazy.”

“Men do act crazy when it comes to gold,” I said. “Even if it is wet gold.”

“Amen to that,” Lutie said. “Linc's crazy, Muri. And George is the only lawyer around.”

“What does Linc's wife have to say about this?” I couldn’t believe I asked.

“He's divorced, but his grandson Marvin lives with him.”

Nova lay her towel down. “Can I go now?” She gave Lutie a pleading look. “Please?” Her aunt smiled, and Nova scooted over to the sofa.

“To tell you the truth, Lutie, I still don’t understand.” I dried each Spode teacup carefully. “Linc doesn’t seem crazy—far from it. He may own everything, but you said he's pretty generous too. I’ll talk to him. This is all a big misunderstanding.”

Lutie emptied the sink and stripped off her gloves. “Misunderstanding? Your daddy didn’t see it that way. Truth be told, at one time we all thought Linc was an angel. If it weren’t for him, Murkee would have dried up and blown
away long ago. Agro-biz being what it is, small-timers are barely hanging on.”

“What's agro-biz?” Tru asked. He and Tiny banged through the screen door and descended on the platter of cakes and cookies Nova hadn’t eaten.

“None of
your
biz,” Nova said. She made a face at her brother.

“Enough,” I said to both of them. “I’m sure Aunt Lutie has some chores that need doing if you have nothing else to do.”

“Why, as a matter of fact—” Lutie began. But by then Nova and Tru had already disappeared out the door.

“Nova can get some ideas for the bazaar from Frieda's girl,” Lutie went on as if my daughter hadn’t just evaporated at the mention of work. She poured the cookies back into the jar. “Rhonda Gaye is only a year or two younger. Pretty as a picture if she ever gets those braces.”

“Nova might not be interested,” I said.

“Well, Muri, I wouldn’t say this in front of her, but Nova would be downright beautiful if she’d get rid of that eyebrow thing and let her hair grow out some.” Lutie had her back to me, but I could tell she was trying to be tactful.

“I’ll speak to her if it bothers you that much,” I said.

“Folks just talk, that's all. Me, I don’t think Jesus gives a hoot what we look like on the outside.” She wiped dry the cookie plate and lifted it into the cupboard. “The Lord looks at the heart, and that's a fact.”

I wondered what God would see in my heart if he took a peek. Anger? Loneliness? What did it matter? I suspected the community would judge us all by my impending divorce and my daughter's rebellious appearance. I hoped the party at Rubin's place wouldn’t turn out to be a “
fee
-asco” as Lutie's friend had put it.

T
he barbecue at Rubin's was a community affair. “Just about anybody who's anybody shows up for his Fourth of July wingding,” Lutie said. She was dressed to the nines today, in a skirt and white blouse adorned with studs and shiny beads of fabric paint, the puffy kind in pearlescent shades of red and blue. “Made it myself,” she said when I oohed and ahhed over her outfit.

Tiny always stayed home, though, because every year the main course was pork ribs. He said he just couldn’t eat ribs and then go home and face the pigs.

“Jim's real sensitive,” he added, helping Lutie pack an enormous bowl of his Mexican potato salad and a batch of freshly baked scones into a cardboard box. “I think Doc understands.” Tiny laid the scones down gently and hiked up his pants, huge dungarees that slipped if he bent over. Nova said he should have been a plumber.

If he had, the pipes might have been in better working order. As it was, flushing the one toilet in the house was an art, requiring a strict protocol to avoid flooding. The pump that supplied the water for all our needs had to be primed at times, even cajoled, sweet-talked, and prayed over by Lutie.

And I’d never thought about it before moving here, but electricity was another luxury city folks took for granted. Out here, the power was off half the time because somebody's tractor backed into a pole, or a bird flew into a transformer, or just because it felt like it, as far as I could tell. Most everyone had a backup generator and plenty of flashlights and lanterns. One good ice storm, Tiny explained, and we might be using that stack of wood to keep warm for a week.

This was life in the outback of Oregon, I reminded myself, the place where all my father's memories were stored. Lutie missed her brother; it was written all over her days. He must have been as good a handyman as she claimed, for poor Tiny had trouble keeping everything in working order.

Lutie frequently dusted all those photos by the window, and once I heard her whispering to his picture. My father had left a hole in her life—that much was clear. She peppered her conversations with stories about how “Joseph did this” or “Joseph loved that.” So far, I hadn’t the courage to ask her anything painful, like where he was buried or if he’d ever said why he left me behind. But I knew I’d have to find the answer to that question, or I might as well have never come at all.

In the cramped room Nova and I shared, I sorted through the crowded closet looking for something to wear to the barbecue. Our clothes were shoved in with boxes of Lutie's sewing supplies and who knows what else. This would be my first real social outing since we had arrived.

I slid a boot box to one side. It fell over, and its contents tumbled out on the floor. Instead of crochet hooks or balls of yarn, a pile of papers and old photos lay at my feet. Joseph Pond stared up at me from a yellowed photo. He stood on a rise overlooking the creek. Shadows cut across the landscape and highlighted my father's profile.

I picked up the snapshot and smoothed it, running my fingers across his face. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to pray for the first time since I could remember. I felt awkward and clumsy, but I asked for guidance anyway. Before I could stop it, a tear splashed on the print. I wiped it away and wished I’d come here while he was still alive.

This was what was left of my father: old pictures, newspaper clippings, cocktail napkins scrawled with drawings, and a journal written in a strong upright hand.

My dear daughter, Muriel
, the first entry began. What followed was a heartbreaking admission of parental failure but also a life of unbendable faith. My father admitted he was a problem drinker and hadn’t been capable of raising his only offspring. One line jumped out and pricked my heart:
The good Lord has been good to this old sinner
, it said, and
I’d die a happy man if I knew you’d joined the fold of our Lord Jesus.

I still wasn’t sure I could enter into his beliefs. I wanted to believe. I just didn’t see how God could help me in my situation. I carefully flipped through the entries, which were random but chronicled three decades. I gently laid the other things back into the box and slid it back where I’d found it. I wondered if Aunt Lutie had planted it there for me to find.

Every morning since we had arrived I’d stared at the peeled places in the tiny bedroom's wallpaper, printed like a 1910 Sears and Roebuck catalog. I’d imagine that something of my dad's spirit lay hidden there among the ads for Pears Soap and Dr. Scott's Electric Hair Brush. So far I’d found only a bad photograph. I hoped the cookout would turn up people who had known Joseph Pond better than I and who had loved him at least as well.

W
e arrived a little late, and I blamed it on Nova. I knew differently, of course; I hadn’t been able to make up my mind
about what to wear. It felt ridiculous to be concerned about whether I would go with a comfortable denim jumper, or with a more defining outfit. I finally settled for an old white sundress that I’d had forever, so soft it felt like flannel next to my skin. I had no tan to speak of, so I tied a red scarf around the scooped neckline. Simple is better, I decided, and left the scarf behind.

Rubin's veranda-style porch had been draped with red, white, and blue crepe paper, and the wicker furniture was supplemented by folding chairs with
Property of Red Rock Tabernacle Church
stamped on their backs. A makeshift stage filled up a good deal of the yard, and wires for microphones and speakers lay tangled across the sparse grass. Card tables were scattered over the rest of the area, and off to one side three large gas grills had already been fired up.

Men in cowboy hats clustered around metal washtubs full of ice, soda, and beer. Most of the men's faces had deep ruts carved into them, and I wondered if the wind or years of loneliness and hard work had worn them down. Linc Jackson stood in the midst of them.

Women of all shapes and ages hovered over a long table laden with typical picnic fare: cauldrons of baked beans, rows of condiments, potato salad, and watermelons sliced into neat triangles. I recognized all the Tabernacle Ladies and a few more women I hadn’t met. Most were softer and rounder than they needed to be, dressed in bright flowery blouses and SAS shoes. Their hairdos were neat cowgirl twists or those short tight perms that only need to be redone once a year.

A couple of the younger ones looked more cosmopolitan, or perhaps they just bought the magazine now and then. Kids zipped in and out of small groups, squealing and guzzling soda.

Nova and Tru hung back until Lutie marched us all off to say hello to some of the Tabernacle Ladies. LaDonna and Velma fussed over the food, and over in a corner Frieda read stories to the younger kids. An emu had nipped one small boy when he stuck his fingers through the fence, and he sat, still howling, on his mother's lap.

Nova and Tru looked bored until Lutie finally said to go “pile some food on a plate.” They ran off, leaving me to hold a conversation with Velma, who said she’d canned fifty jars of bread and butter pickles earlier in the day. I listened and nodded at intervals, looking over her head toward the fence where the emus roamed.

Before I could decide where to begin mingling, I spotted Rubin waving at me from his spot near the grill.

“Over here,” he mouthed, so after excusing myself, I picked my way across the yard, dodging dogs and kids. I would have been happy to hang back on the edge of things, or at least say hello to Linc.

“I was hoping you’d make it,” Rubin said. He laid down the spatula.

I crossed my arms over my middle. “Looks like the whole town's here,” I said. I pointed at the crepe paper streamers on the porch. “Who's on the decoration committee?”

“The church ladies take care of me,” he said, grinning wide. “Came by yesterday and did all this. They treat me like Doc Hollywood.” He winked at me. “How's Jim doing today?”

I wished Rubin wasn’t quite so friendly. I wasn’t officially divorced yet. “He's fine, but I think the collar is bugging him a lot,” I said. “He keeps running into things. Tiny stayed home so they could watch their TV shows. Uncle said you’d understand.”

“Sure, I know. Jim might get wind of him eating ribs. But I forgot to tell Tiny that this year it's not pork. We’re eat
ing emu.” Rubin grabbed a large meaty slab from a tray with tongs and plopped it down on the grill. “Trying out some new seasonings this year too. All the neighbors say it—”

“Tastes like chicken?” I laughed.

Rubin laughed. “Actually emu's more like beef. Very tasty. What a shame Tiny stayed home. He's missing some fine barbecue. Want a sample?”

Before I could say no, a voice rang out. “Hey, Jonto!” A tall, thick man with long black hair and massive arms waved at Rubin.

“My buddy, Denny, from Portland,” Rubin whispered.

The big man introduced a petite Asian woman as his wife Gwen. Her hair, blacker than mine, was blunt cut about chin-length. She looked muscular and compact, if a bit long waisted. A baby girl squirmed in her arms. “See how big Leila's gotten since you saw her last? Before you know it you won’t recognize your own goddaughter, Rubin Jonto.”

“I should get up to Portland more often,” Rubin said. He patted the child's head. “Anyway, meet my new neighbor Muri Pond,” I stuck out my hand. Gwen handed the baby to Denny and then gave me a hug.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Gwen said, taking back the infant. “Rubin needs better company than a bunch of emus.”

Rubin laughed. “Not easy being an emu rancher, that's for sure. What do you say we get the music going?” He pointed toward the makeshift stage.

“I saw the equipment,” I said. “Who's playing?” I imagined real country music, grainy and unfiltered like fresh squeezed cider, complete with fiddlers and a harmonica or two.

“Some of the kids got themselves a band,” he said, flipping a charred rib section to its uncooked side. “Linc's grandson, Marvin, and some other boys play a little. Can’t say exactly
what yet; they’ve only been at it a few weeks. I let them jam over here after school.”

Rubin untied his apron and handed the spatula to a man he called Ed. “Let's go find out what these kids have got. I need another soda, and your hands are empty too.”