The Summer Son (13 page)

“J
UST FINISHED HER UP,”
I said as Dad emerged from his truck. I swept my arm across the mown yard. Dad nodded and headed for the stairs, and I fell in behind him.

Inside, we wandered around each other. I had my preoccupation, and he seemed to have his. No matter how hard I focused on what was in front of me, I returned again to those pleading letters.

Kelly Hewins. I had never heard the name, not from Dad, not from Mom. Who was she?

If Dad noticed my detachment, he didn’t let on. He sat in his favorite chair, watching the afternoon television shows slide by.

Around six p.m., my cell phone rang. I looked at the display, saw who was calling, and exhaled.

“Hi, John.”

“Mitch.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ll get right to it. I need to know if you’re going to be here Monday.”

“I can’t say, John. Maybe. I doubt it, though.”

“Why?”

“Things are a little…well, they’re fluid right now.”

“I see. Here’s the deal: I’ve been patient, Mitch, through this thing and through your slump. I figured you would bounce back. You always do. But I don’t know how much farther I can go.”

I glanced at Dad, who was now looking at me.

“I can’t answer that question for you, John.”

“Perhaps we’ve reached a point where we should talk about whether this is still a good situation, mutually.”

“I’d be happy to do that when I get back.”

“But you don’t know when that will be?”

“That’s correct.”

John paused, and I didn’t move to fill the gap.

“By then, it may be too late,” he said.

There it was. Oddly, I wasn’t as thunderstruck as I imagined I would be.

“I understand.”

John hung up. I closed my flip phone.

“What was that all about?” Dad said.

“I think I just lost my job.”

Dad shot out of his chair.

“What? Why?”

“It’s been coming for a long time.” I sat there, amazed at the feeling that coursed through me. It wasn’t sorrow over the loss of my job. It wasn’t fear of finding a new one. No, it was relief. It was as if someone had snapped his fingers and made a burden disappear. That John Wallen had been the one to do it, I thought, was just one of life’s funny little twists. For all those years, I had focused on pleasing him and building my career. It turned out that he was my jailer and my liberator.

“Well, can you get it back?” Dad’s voice was pitched, and his pacing amounted to his biggest burst of energy of the day. “Fly home, tell him it’s all a big misunderstanding.”

“You never struck me as the groveling type.”

“Screw that. I’m not the type who would let someone who worked for me drag ass for a week in Montana when he should be at his desk doing his job.”

I smiled. He wouldn’t find an opponent in me. “Well, I’m not asking for the job back. I don’t want it.”

Dad shook his head. “You think your wife is going to be OK with that?”

“You know,” I said, “I think she just might.”

I pushed up from the couch and headed outside to find out the answer.

Though John hadn’t said, in so many words, “You’re fired,” Cindy agreed that I could be certain my job wouldn’t be waiting for me. I asked if she would be.

“You know I will,” she said.

“It’s hard to know what I know anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

I told her about the letters I’d found in the shed, recounting the cryptic passages where Kelly had said things like, “I was there too.”

“Is she talking about the orphanage?” Cindy offered.

“Maybe. But who is this Dana that she mentions burying? That doesn’t track.”

“I don’t know. Maybe this Kelly is an old girlfriend.”

“I thought of that, but I’m skeptical. Why would she profess love for him years later, while she’s talking about her husband and her kids?”

“You’re just going to have to find out, I guess.”

I shook my head.

“You know, this thing is expanding far beyond what it was intended to be. I came here to find out what’s eating Dad and to set things straight with him, not to unearth some mystery from his past.”

“Well, Mitch, that’s not entirely true. You went there to get to the bottom of something, and this is where the trail has taken you. You can’t stop now.”

I breathed in. The autumn air filled my lungs and tickled my nose.

“I know,” I acknowledged, exhaling. “And if I stay here and eat Dad’s food, it will save us money there.”

My wife chuckled. “I didn’t think of that.”

“All right, honey, I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.”

A simple, lovely moment, so long in coming, carried me back into the house.

I stabbed at my steak as I considered how to approach Dad with my questions. I was half-tempted to just spill things onto the table and hope for a straightforward answer. Instead, true to history where Dad was concerned, I stayed on the periphery.

“Dad, when did you go into the Navy?”

He looked up from his plate.

“Let’s see…I was born in ’36, and so seventeen years after that…it must have been ’53 or ’54.”

“So you went in when you were seventeen?”

“Yep.”

“What were you doing before that?”

“What’s with the questions?”

“I’m just curious. I figure we’ve talked enough about all that other stuff.”

“In the orphanage, going to school.”

“You stayed in the orphanage until you joined the Navy?”

“Yep.”

“Did you have many friends there?”

“At the orphanage?”

“Yeah.”

“A few, I guess. It was a long time ago.”

“What were their names?”

“Come on, Mitch. What’s going on?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I don’t remember. It’s been a lot of years.”

“But they were your friends. You must remember—”

Dad cut me off.

“Let’s just eat, huh?”

He filled his mouth with steak and mashed potatoes, all the better to keep the words from spilling forth and to force me to keep my queries to myself.

I tried a new tack after dinner.

“Where did you and Mom live after you came to Montana?”

“Right around here.”

“Billings?”

“Well, no, I went to work for a driller in Joliet.”

“Where is that?”

“Out toward Red Lodge.”

“Where did you live?”

“What’s going on here? You sound like you did when you were a little kid, a million questions.”

“I’m just interested. I’ve never really heard too much about the early days with you and Mom. She never talked about it.”

“Probably because there wasn’t much to talk about.”

“Humor me.”

Dad shook his head. Using his feet as pistons, he turned his easy chair around so he could face me.

“We lived in an old bunkhouse on this guy’s property. There wasn’t much to it. No kitchen, barely a bathroom.”

“Mom must have hated that.”

“She never complained, not about that at least. We ate in the main house, with the driller and his wife, and your mom toted the laundry into town once a week. That guy and me were hardly ever there. Always out on some job. And your mom, hoo boy.”

“What?”

“She really hated that woman. Whenever I’d come back on a break, that’s all she’d talk about. So, eventually, we moved to a small house there in town, so your mom could feel a little better and have some space that belonged to her.”

“Why did she dislike the woman so much?”

“Oh, she was a busybody, always telling Leila what to do and where to go, and she always had a better way. Some people just grate on you, I guess.”

I smiled, remembering Mom’s independent streak.

“It seems weird,” I said. “I never knew Mom to say anything bad about anybody.”

“She probably didn’t, except to me. Leila was a good lady.”

I smiled again. “I’ve never heard you say that.”

“What?”

“That Mom was a good lady.”

“Well, she was.”

“I know. But I always figured you disliked her.”

“Why?”

“You never talked about her, and she never talked too much about you. What else was I going to think?”

“You think silence means something. Sometimes, there’s just nothing to say.”

The night churned on. We watched a prime-time cop show—
NUMB3RS
—that I enjoyed, much to my surprise. It occurred to me that I never watched anything anymore that wasn’t some kids’ show. Imperceptibly, my knowledge of TV pop culture had been reduced to
SpongeBob
and
Bob the Builder.

During a break in the local news, I said, “Dad?”

He grunted.

“Dad, I need to ask you something.”

“What?” He turned again and faced me.

I sucked in a deep breath.

“Who’s Kelly Hewins?”

He turned away and faced the TV for a long stretch. When he finally found words, he didn’t look at me.

“Where did you hear that name?”

“I didn’t hear it. I saw it.”

“Where?”

“I was in the shed today, and there was a box—”

“That box is not yours.”

“I know.”

“So what were you doing rooting around in it?”

“I don’t know. I was intrigued.”

“So you just opened my stuff and went through it?”

“Well, yeah.”

Dad pushed up from his chair and headed into the kitchen. I stood and followed him.

“Dad, who is she?”

“Somebody I knew a long time ago.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I kicked at the floor. “Come on, man. This woman writes to you over the course of forty or so years, and that’s what you give me? I read the letters, Pop. A casual acquaintance doesn’t say the kinds of things she said.”

“You had no right to do that.” Dad shook with fury.

“You have no right to keep secrets from me.”

“It’s my stuff. It’s my life,” he boomed. “I decide what gets told and what doesn’t.”

“It’s my life too, Pop.”

“Not this. This has nothing to do with you.”

I dropped my face into my left hand and massaged my eyes. Jesus. I considered the possible responses to that and decided to sidestep a deconstruction of the flaws in his logic, though I knew that this notion that his life existed separate from mine explained so much about how fucked up we were.

“If it has to do with you, it has to do with me,” I said.

Dad set his hands on the kitchen counter and pushed weakly against it. Then he looked up at me.

“What all did you snoop through in that box?”

The question rocked me back.

“Your Navy papers and the letters. What else is there?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.”

“You just stay out of it.”

“Dad, just tell me who she is.”

“Somebody I used to know. There’s nothing else to tell.”

“Who’s Dana?”

“Who?”

“One of the letters mentioned a Dana.”

“That was her mom.”

“Did you know her?”

“Yeah.”

“The letter suggested that you knew her pretty well.”

“I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

Dad looked drawn. I had turned this into an interrogation, and that wasn’t my intent. I softened my voice and tried again.

“Look, Dad, I’m sorry about the box, OK? I didn’t mean to rile you up.”

“You should have left it alone.”

“OK. But I didn’t. Are you going to help me with this?”

“I’ve told you what there is to tell.”

“But that’s not anything.”

“Exactly.”

He made a circle around me and headed for the bedroom.

“I’m not going to let this go,” I called to the back of his head.

He replied with a closed door.

I
KEPT TO THE CLOSET
long after I heard the angry words die down. I was half-afraid to come out because of what I might find and half hoping that if I held out long enough, we would wake up the next morning and the unpleasantness would be forgotten.

Marie knocked on the door.

“Mitch.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Mitch, come on out. It’s over.”

I sat still.

I held my breath ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five.

I blew it out and sucked a fresh mouthful of air.

“Mitch, come on.”

I pulled back the sliding door and emerged, then crept toward the bedroom door.

“I don’t believe you.”

“No, Mitch, it’s done. Come out. I want to say good-bye.”

I opened the door. Marie stepped to the back wall, giving me plenty of room. A suitcase sat at her feet.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m going to stay with my sister in Billings for now. I don’t imagine I’ll see you again before you guys head back to Utah.”

“OK.”

“Mitch, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry about all this.”

“OK.”

“Come out to the living room. I’m sure your dad wants to apologize too.”

She held out her hand, and I took it.

Dad sat in his recliner, his face drawn into a faraway look.

“Sport,” he said.

I settled into the seat opposite him and said nothing. On the outskirts of our silence, Marie kicked up a storm of activity. She grabbed letters and bills and knickknacks and tucked them into her purse.

“You’ll be there Friday, Jim?” she said on one pass through the living room.

“I said I would.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Billings,” Marie answered. “We’re going to see a wise man about something.”

“What?”

“Something that’s been coming awhile.”

“A divorce,” Dad said. It was as though he were spitting out a hair. Marie shot him a hard gaze.

“Is this because I didn’t clean up the mess?” I asked.

“Mitch, no,” Marie said, sitting down on the couch. “Please don’t ever think that. It just happened. It’s nobody’s fault.”

Dad scoffed.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” she repeated.

I don’t think she was trying to convince me.

We sat there awhile longer, three islands of solitary thought, before LaVerne arrived. She helped Marie tote things to the waiting pickup, and when she met eyes with Dad, LaVerne smiled. Dad nodded slightly in acknowledgment.

“I’ll come around and check on the place tomorrow, Jim,” LaVerne said.

Dad waved her off.

“No need, LaVerne. Mitch and I have her covered. You’ll be back on the job soon enough. Enjoy the break.”

Marie made a last pass and plucked a few books off the shelves.

“I’ll come back after you’ve gone back to work and get the rest of my stuff,” she told Dad.

“Yep.” He didn’t look at her.

“Bye, Mitch,” she said, offering a hug. I stepped into Marie’s arms. I breathed in her fragrance and tried not to cry. I couldn’t believe it.

After Marie walked out, I went to the window and pressed my face against it. I heard the pickup fire up, and then I watched it head down the access road, spitting dust in its wake. I lifted my hand and waved. I don’t know if she saw it.

I heard Dad in the kitchen, digging into the refrigerator for another beer.

“It’s just us men now,” he called out.

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to have fun now.”

I didn’t answer. I hoped so.

I wasn’t inclined to lay a bet on it.

Dad didn’t object when I made a move toward the motorcycle, so I stuck to trails away from the house for much of the afternoon. Every now and again, I would cut through the main yard and down the access road, the longest, most uninterrupted stretch on the ranch. I rode until stopped by the steel gate, and there I lingered. I cut off the engine and stared down the road that led into Split Rail. Maybe Marie would turn around and come back and we would just try again. That would be nice, I thought. Couldn’t we just do that?

Alternately, I grew agitated at myself over my weird longing for Marie. I knew well enough that she was as responsible as Dad for the way things had gone to pot, and I knew that if she came back, things wouldn’t be better. I winced at the fresh memory of Dad’s suggestion that he could get his gun and end it all for everybody. Terror welled inside me. If Marie came back, I thought, we might well find out if Dad could turn declaration into deed.

I whispered a prayer for all of us and hoped Marie stayed gone.

Dad had chased Jerry away. He had chased Marie away too. He and I were the only ones left.

As the sun beat down on me through the afternoon, I found it difficult to put off a return to the house. I grew thirsty. A sunburn clawed at my neck. I had eaten more slow-flying bugs than I cared to count.

I went back in. When I removed the helmet, the perspiration popped inside my ears. I rubbed at my neck, massaging the dust and sweat into grimy balls that I pressed and rolled, repeatedly, between my thumb and forefinger as I went up the steps and slipped into the house.

Shadows, enlivened by the late-afternoon sunlight, played on the walls. I skirted through the living room and headed to Dad’s room. I opened the door and looked in. He wasn’t there.

Back down the hall, I cut to my left at the dining room and pressed beyond it to the den. A cartoon played underneath the static on the set. Dad lay on the couch, blasting a baritone snore. I knelt down and retrieved a half-drained can of warm beer from in front of the couch. I carried it into the kitchen and poured the rest into the sink, and then I counted the empties. The one in my hand made eight. It was just before five thirty. I retreated to my room.

Dad’s rapping at the bedroom door woke me.

“You in there?”

I sat up in bed, and the haze fell from my eyes.

“Yeah.”

Dad came in. He looked like hell.

“Are you hungry?”

I shrugged. “A little, I guess.”

“Come out and help me with some chores, and we’ll go into town.”

“I have to take a shower.”

Dad belched.

“Chores first. Then shower. Come on.”

I smelled the beer on Dad, but he gave no outward indication that a six-pack and beyond had impaired him. I followed him from the house, and he walked a perfectly straight line, right up to the pickup.

“Can I drive?” I asked.

“Nope.”

I climbed in and barely managed to close the door before we were moving.

“Where are we going?”

“Got to find that herd.”

Dad charted a course for the back side of the property, where I had spent the early part of the day, when Marie was still part of our lives. We hit the top of the hill, and the swale dropped below us. Cattle dotted the landscape.

“There they are,” I said.

“Yep.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You’ll see.”

Dad drove a half circle to the other side of the herd, drawing a bead on a calf standing apart.

He shut off the engine and popped open his door.

“Hop out, Mitch.”

I did as I was instructed. While Dad dug around in the cab, I watched the Hereford. It walked toward us.

“It’s coming.”

“I know,” Dad said. “Come over here.”

When I got to the other side of the truck, Dad handed me a quart bottle with an oversized rubber nipple atop it. What looked like soapy water sloshed back and forth inside.

“Shake that up and give it to the calf. Hurry.”

I shook the bottle like a maraca. “Like this?”

“Harder,” Dad said. “Shake it up good.”

The calf was upon us. He nudged his anvil head against my stomach and pushed.

“Hey!” I protested.

Dad laughed. “He knows it’s dinnertime. Better give it up.”

I presented the nipple, and damned if he didn’t take it down to the nub. I wasn’t ready for his prodigious sucking, which nearly pulled the bottle from my hands. I pulled back too hard, taking the nipple from the calf. He aggressively reclaimed what was his.

“Hold it steady, Mitch,” Dad said. “He’ll be quick.”

In about a minute, the youngster drained the bottle. He sucked for a few more seconds, until he was satisfied that nothing remained, and then he ambled away.

“What did you think, sport?”

“That was pretty neat.”

“Glad you think so,” Dad said. He put an arm on my shoulder. “That’s your chore for the week. Morning and evening, you feed that calf.”

On the ride to the house, I asked Dad, “Where’s his mom?”

“Oh, she’s out there.”

“Why do we have to do her job?”

“Because she won’t.”

We sawed on our chicken-fried steaks at the Tin Cup. I hadn’t been terribly hungry when we came in, but when the huge platters were dropped in front of us—loaded with crispy steaks, mashed potatoes, sawmill gravy, and corn on the cob—I found my appetite.

I looked across the table at Dad. He looked good, for the first time all day. He wore his favorite shirt with little blue checks and mother-of-pearl snaps, a crisp pair of jeans, and his going-to-town boots. His Elvis-inspired hair had been sprayed into perpetuity; only a sledgehammer could crack it. His face, drawn and colorless earlier in the day, radiated. It was amazing what a shower could do. Both of us were testament to that. I had wiped away my grit and grime. The Quillen men cleaned up nicely for an evening in town.

Then, my overtaxed mouth unraveled our progress.

“Dad, why did she go?”

He frowned. “I’m trying to enjoy dinner.”

“I know. But…”

“What?”

“I miss her, I think.”

Dad gazed at his food and started eating again. “Yeah, well,” he said. “You’re just a kid. You don’t know any better.”

“Don’t you miss her?”

“No.”

“I thought since you were drinking so much that—”

“Look here,” Dad said, pointing a finger at my face. “I don’t want to hear about this from you.”

“Quillen!”

Dad’s head popped up, and he scanned the room.

“Jim, over here.”

Dad turned to his left and smiled at someone behind me. I turned around to get a better look. A man in a cop’s uniform waved.

“Come over here,” Dad said, and the cop pushed up from his table and lumbered over.

“I didn’t know you were back,” the cop said. He towered over our table. I couldn’t look him in the face. Instead, I stared at his meaty forearms and, under the left one, his gun.

“Just last night,” Dad said. The cop dipped his head and made eye contact with me.

“Who’s this?”

“This here’s Mitch, my younger son.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mitch,” the cop said, extending a hand that swallowed my meek offering. “I’m Charley Rayburn.”

“He’s the police chief,” Dad said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Charley said. “And the dogcatcher. And the mayor. And a piss-poor wheat farmer, it seems.”

I squeaked out a hello in return.

“So where’s Jerry?” Charley asked Dad.

“Marines. He couldn’t take the work.”

“He’s in for a surprise, isn’t he?” They both laughed.

“And Marie?”

“She’s gone too,” I said.

Charley slapped Dad on the shoulder. “You’re losing people left and right. Better keep a close eye on this young fella.”

“You can bet on it.” Dad bit off the words.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you guys,” Charley said, putting his hat atop his buzz cut. “Got to make my rounds.”

Dad watched as Charley weaved through the restaurant and out the door. Then he turned to me.

“Eat up, Mitch, and keep your mouth full. I don’t want any more words spilling out of it.”