East of Denver (5 page)

I got home late. Dad was asleep in his recliner. The TV was still on. Some shiny-haired jackass was pitching a plan to make a million dollars. I shut the tube off, patted Dad on the head, went upstairs to my room, and lay in bed. I couldn't sleep. I tried to read
The Empire Strikes Back
but I couldn't even open the book. I stared at the ceiling and chewed my cheeks.

A couple hours later, the sun was shining. Dad stomped upstairs and splashed water on my face. I couldn't get up. I was tired. I stayed in bed. Claimed I was sick. I was bushed. Dad called me a wimp, but I must have looked bad enough for him to pity me a little. He brought me three cups of water.

At noon, I crawled downstairs and spent a half hour on the toilet. Then I made peanut butter sandwiches. Then I called the bank to ask for an appointment with Mike Crutchfield. I talked to Neal Koenig, who said that, unfortunately, Mr. Crutchfield was caught up with some business in Greeley and he wasn't going to be able to make it to Keaton today. I asked when would he be in. Neal said try next week.

After I hung up, I went back to bed. By sundown I felt better. Not right, but better. Never accept food from Vaughn Atkins.

CHAPTER 6

MOTORBIKE

Dad was poking the juniper bush with the jack handle again.

“Whatcha doin'?”

“Don't know.”

“You sure do like that bush.”

He tossed the jack handle into the dirt. “What's on the agenda today?”

“Fixing a window.”

There was a broken window in the granary. It wouldn't be hard to repair. Find a piece of glass, cut it to size, pop it in the frame.

We walked to the granary. A granary is similar to a barn. A barn is a big wooden building where you store cows and hay. A granary is a slightly less-big wooden building where you store grain. Used to store. With the invention of grain bins, the granary lost its original purpose. Out with the grain and in with the miscellaneous farm junk.

The granary was the last original building still standing on the farm. It and the well house. The granary was older, though, and its contents held the greatest archeological significance. Harnesses from the pre-tractor era hung on nails, their leather stiff with age. There was a license plate collection from back when Colorado plates had a picture of a skier on them, and before. And lots of junk. Tires, scrap wood, boxes of glass insulators from old-time telephone poles. Lots and lots of dust.

A white barn owl used to nest in the ceiling of that granary. It was gone and dead by now, but for years that bird would scare the shit out of me. As a kid, I'd walk into the granary with the intention of finding a piece of whittling pine and that owl would glide out of its perch with wings wider than I was tall. Pass right over my head and circle out thru whatever secret hole in the ceiling it used for comings and goings.

I clapped my hands a couple of times to see if I could scare up an owl, just in case. Nothing.

As we made our way toward the cracked window, I had to step over an old bicycle frame lying in the middle of the dusty floor. Pa had modified it to hold a Briggs & Stratton washing machine engine. Homebuilt motorcycle. He did this when he was ten years old. He rode it seven miles to school each day until he got his driver's license.

At some point after he graduated, he'd dismantled the bike. Now it was in pieces with most of the parts stuffed into a wooden milk crate.

The hell with the window. “Hey, Pa, you think we could put that thing back together?”

“What thing?”

“That bike of yours. The one you turned into a motorcycle.” I pointed. “It's right there.”

He didn't recognize it. His eyes couldn't assemble shapes like they used to. I recognized it. I wanted to put it together and go for a ride.

We hauled the disassembled bike to the shed and spread the pieces on the cement floor. We had the original bike frame, a clutch assembly that Pa had built out of angle iron and wood, and a bunch of parts that could presumably be turned into an engine. The flywheel cover was decorated with hand-painted racing stripes. I laid the components of the bike out in more or less their original shape. It looked like a horse skeleton.

“That's my old bike,” said Pa. “I put an engine on it.”

“We're gonna put it back together.”

He shook his head. “I don't know about that.”

“It'll be a father-and-son project.”

“I don't know.”

“Everything's here. All we gotta do is put it all back together. Patch the tires. Nothing to it.”

“That's a big job.”

“It'll be more fun than fixing a window.”

I sent him psychic messages: Stick with me. Trust me. I'm your son. I can do things. You and I.

He said, “I gotta take a leak.” He walked away.

I squatted on the concrete floor and moved the bike parts around.

A red car pulled into the driveway. A woman wearing gigantic sunglasses stepped out. Clarissa McPhail with a movie-star scarf on her head. “You boys look like you're up to no good.”

Dad appeared from behind the shed. His pants were unzipped. He said, “Why, hello!”

I said, “Dad. Barn door.” He zipped up.

I said to Clarissa, “Shouldn't you be at the bank?”

“Hooky.” She tilted her head.

Pa couldn't take his eyes off her.

Clarissa said, “You remember me, dontcha, Emmett?”

She lifted her sunglasses, winked.

“I wouldn't forget someone like you.”

I said, “So you drove out here.”

“Seeing how the bachelors are doing.”

“You look like a movie star,” said Dad.

Clarissa patted the back of her ear. “Oh, Emmett.”

Dad continued, “You were in the TV, I think.”

Clarissa looked to me for help. I shrugged.

She poked her toe toward the pile of bike parts. “Whatcha makin'?”

Dad strutted a little. “We could tell you, but then we'd have to kill you.”

“A motorcycle,” I said. “Actually, it's a bicycle that Pa turned into a motorcycle back in the fifties. He took it apart in the seventies and now I'm trying to get him to help me resurrect it.”

“Neat. You coming to the softball games this week?”

“I don't think so.”

“Don't worry about them things D.J. was yelling. He's a drunk.”

“Maybe.”

“You know what you oughta do? Haul Vaughn out of that cave he's living in. Bring him with you. I know you been hanging out with him. You drank all his mom's beer.”

Dad's eyes popped comic-style. “You did what?!?”

“It's true, Pa. I drank some beers.” I turned to Clarissa. “How the Christ does this stuff get out?”

“Vaughn's mom works in a liquor store. I work in the bank. We pretty much got it all covered right there.”

Creepy. “Well. I ain't coming.”

“I can tell you things.”

“No, thanks.”

She said, “I can tell you things about airplanes.”

Dad said, “I used to have a plane.”

I said, “Maybe I'll see you there.”

CHAPTER 7

END OF THE SOFTBALL GAME

After Clarissa left, I put Dad in front of the TV for his afternoon nap. Once he started snoring, I drove to Vaughn's mom's house. Vaughn was in the basement, clipping his fingernails.

I said, “Where's your wheelchair?”

“Up your ass.”

I poked around until I found it, folded up beneath the bed. I dragged it out and set it up. The tires were flat.

I said, “Where's your bike pump?”

“Up your other ass.”

I squatted and peered under the bed again. I reached as far as I could. I groped around teddy bears and Star Wars figures until I felt the cool metal of a foot pump. I pulled it out and filled up the tires. Vaughn continued clipping his nails. Snip. Snip.

When the tires were filled tight, I listened carefully. No hiss.

I said, “They don't sound leaky, but we'll bring the pump with us, just in case.”

Vaughn looked at me curiously. “Bring the pump with us where?”

“Softball. Put on your outside shirt. Hurry up. Dad's taking a nap.”

“I don't own an outside shirt.”

“Yes, you do. Come on. We're gonna see some softball.”

“No, we aren't.”

“When was the last time you saw the sky?”

He tossed a chunk of thumbnail at me. “I know what the sky looks like.”

“You owe me.”

“What for?”

“That brownie you gave me the other night. What was in that thing?”

“Drugs.”

I said, “It wasn't pot.”

“Nope. Considerably stronger.”

“It was speed, wasn't it?”

“So what if it was? There wasn't hardly any in there.”

I said, “It's rude to give people speed when they don't expect it.”

“Wrong. It's
polite
to give people speed.”

“Methamphetamines rot your teeth out. Do you know how important it is to have strong teeth?” I smiled menacingly at him.

“Are you trying to smile menacingly at me?”

“You're coming with me.”

“No.” He looked scared.

I took a breath. “Look. You're a prisoner. You hate your mom. You hate yourself. And you're afraid to go outside.”

“Go fuck a duck.”

He was holding his pillow against his chest. This felt like an after-school special.

“Okay. Vaughn, you know how sometimes you know someone who's in a shitty relationship? Like Lacey and Calvin back in high school. Remember how they fought all the time? It was completely obvious to everyone that if they just stopped dating, they'd both be happier. But nobody was willing to point this out to them because we didn't want to piss them off. Remember? And remember how Lacey ended up missing the volleyball tournament because she and Calvin got in that huge hair-ripper and how that made everyone hate her because Dorton lost in the championship thingy?”

“I remember Lacey had huge tits.”

“Listen, you gimpy fuck, if you don't get out of this basement, I'm going to burn your house to the ground. I'll do it while your mom is at work and I'll make it look like it was your fault. At the funeral, she'll lean over your grave and say, ‘My son was worthless.'”

“She'll be right.”

I sat down in Vaughn's wheelchair. “Okay. What if we don't go to the softball games? We can go to the farm and say hello to Dad. We won't run into anybody. There won't be any awkward conversations.”

Vaughn said, “Every conversation with Emmett is awkward.”

I said, “We used to have fun out there.” I tried to pop a wheelie in the chair.

“Fun? We threw rotten vegetables at each other.” He started digging at his cuticles.

“Yeah, and we pretended it was World War II. We made a fort out of tumbleweeds. We tried to catch lizards. And we rode the three-wheeler all over the place. Remember that? You loved the three-wheeler.” It was true. The three-wheeler was a giant motorized tricycle with balloonish, knobby wheels. It could conquer any ditch, any mud hole. It had a top speed of thirty miles an hour. As kids, we spent hours on that thing. Vaughn would insist on driving while I bounced along on the seat behind him and tried not to burn my calf on the exhaust pipe. No hill was too steep for Vaughn. No corner too sharp. In short, he demonstrated the driving skills that would eventually send him flying thru the windshield of his first car.

Vaughn looked at me, serious. “You still have that thing? That three-wheeler?”

The fall after I graduated high school, Dad sold the three-wheeler to some pheasant hunters. It pissed me off at the time, but I got over it.

I said, “Oh, hell yes. It's still out there, in the shed. Just waiting for someone to ride it.”

Vaughn folded up the fingernail clippers and placed them on his nightstand. “You think I could ride it? With my legs and all?”

“Sure. The throttle and brakes are on the handlebars. You don't need feet. Once I put it in gear, you can go nuts.”

He held out his hands like he was driving. He squinted.

After a moment, he said, “Get out of my wheelchair and find me a pair of shoes.”

I moved quickly. Dad could wake up from his nap at any time. If I wasn't home when that happened, he could get into trouble.

Vaughn dug a T-shirt out from under his pillow and pulled it on inside out. I found a pair of tennis shoes. Vaughn poked his feet into them and then heaved himself out of his bed and into his chair. He tested the wheels, leaned back and forth. His face started to look happy. It was odd. He flexed his arms.

I said, “You ready?”

He sat in his wheelchair, dressed in tennies, pajama pants, and an inside-out T-shirt. He leaned the chair back into a wheelie and spun a quick circle. He nodded.

This was great. This was the best thing that had happened since I'd moved back home. Of course, I'd have to do some apologizing when we got to the farm and he found out there was no three-wheeler. I didn't care. Anything to get him out of that basement.

He said, “Let's get out.”

He wheeled himself to the bottom of the stairs.

I stood behind the chair and grabbed the handgrips, ready to help him up.

He said, “I can do this myself.”

“Bullshit.”

“Watch.”

He reached across his body, grabbed the handrail, and tugged. With his free hand, he rolled the wheelchair and heaved himself up a step.

He quickly repositioned his rail hand and then climbed another step. It looked painful and awkward. By the third step, his face was red and he was breathing hard. He smiled.

“I haven't done this in a while.”

I said, “You need some water?”

“Nope. Just gimme a minute.”

Steps four and five went easy. Then he took a long rest. His breaths were shaky. He still seemed happy. The strain was new and it felt good. But it was taking forever.

I thought of Dad. He was surely awake by now. Wandering around the house.

“Vaughn, maybe you should save some strength for the three-wheeler. Lemme help you here.”

I could tell he wanted to tell me to fuck off. But he cranked his head around and looked up the stairs. He was barely halfway up.

“You can help me.”

I climbed up the stairs and writhed around him, conscious of how easy it was for me to move. I grabbed the handles of the chair. Vaughn counted to three and together we tugged him up another step. Then another. Then another. His breaths became focused. I was witnessing one of the great physical feats in the history of mankind. I was participating in this feat. My thighs began to hurt from squatting and lifting. The plastic grips were pulling my palms off. The back of Vaughn's T-shirt became dark with sweat.

I said, “Rest?”

“No. Up.”

“Two more.”

He counted to three. Tug. The chair climbed to the edge of the final step. It hovered a moment, shivering. I pulled as hard as I could. With a pop, the right handgrip slipped off the chair.

With the grip still in my hand, I flew backward and sideways and slammed into the wall. I continued holding on to the chair with my left hand. I tried to straighten myself out and grab the right-hand handle, but without the grip, the steel was slick and my hand slipped right off. Everything was out of balance. Vaughn's hands tightened on the wheels. For a moment, we held the chair, balanced on the edge of the step. It was only a moment.

I lost my grip. Vaughn tumbled down the stairs.

He landed on the basement floor. The chair landed on top of him. I ran down the stairs and pushed the chair aside. He was curled up into a ball, arms gripping his flimsy knees. His eyes were closed.

I said, “Sorry.”

With his eyes still closed, he shook his head.

I said, “You all right?”

He shook his head again and raised a middle finger.

“Let me help you up.” I reached down to grab his shoulder.

His eyes opened. They were bloodshot and wet with tears. He said, “Get out.”

“You don't want me to leave you here.”

“Get out. Get out. Get out.”

I got out.

When I got home, Dad was watering the house. Thumb over the end of the garden hose, spraying the roof. He'd been at it for a while. The ground around the gutter spouts was deep with wet.

I got out of my car and hollered, “Working on a new addition?”

He nodded. I wasn't sure he'd gotten my joke so I elaborated. “You're watering the house. Gonna make it grow?”

He said, “Gonna make it wet.”

“Why's that?”

“It's hot.” He looked toward the sun. It was hot.

I said, “Yep.”

Then he pointed the hose at me. I ran and hid behind my car.

I yelled, “You wanna go to the softball games?”

He said, “Softball's okay.”

In the car, on the way to Keaton, he said three times, “How'd you get so damned wet?”

Clarissa's team was at bat. She was sitting on the bench. I waved at her thru the chain-link fence. She came outside the dugout.

She said, “Why didn't you bring Vaughn?”

“Too many stairs.” I tried not to think of Vaughn dragging himself across the basement and back into his bed.

“At least you brought Emmett.” She made eyes. Dad made eyes back.

The batter flied out. End of the inning. Someone called Clarissa's name. She jogged back to the field.

I shouted, “When are we gonna talk about airplanes?”

She ran backward and waved.

I got a hamburger. Dad got nachos. We sat on the bleachers. D.J. Beckman climbed the bleachers, sat between us, and said, “How's it hanging, buddy?”

I said, “Not bad.”

He said, “Ask me how's it hanging.”

“How is it?”

“Loose as a goose, full of juice, and ready for use.”

“Thrilling.”

D.J. said, “How's your girlfriend?”

Dad enjoyed that one. “You've got a girlfriend?”

I shook my head. “D.J. lives vicariously thru his fantasies of other people.”

“Shakespeare and Boob Ruth have got something brewing.”

I said, “We don't. How's your whiskey concoction coming?”

“I gave up.”

“That's a shame.”

“I found another hobby.”

“Neato.”

“Brownies.” He winked at me. Then he winked again. “You ever want some brownies, lemme know.”

An aluminum bat pinged. A batter knocked one of Clarissa's pitches right back at her. The ball smacked her on the knee. The batter ran around the bases while Clarissa curled up on the ground and hugged her leg. Players in their blue jeans and three-quarter-sleeve softball shirts jumped around and slapped each other five. Clarissa waved off any help and stood up slowly. She had dirt on the skin of her back where the tube top didn't cover up.

D.J. shouted, “Hey, McFailure! If that ball was a little higher, it woulda got stuck in Cleveland!”

I gave him my disapproving look.

He rolled his eyes. “Relax, Shakes. She don't have feelings.” He whispered in my ear, “You ever want any brownies, I got some real good ones.” Then he was gone.

Clarissa looked like she didn't want to be there anymore. I wanted to pat her on the arm, tell her things were okay. And encourage her to quit playing softball. But I just sat there, spectating away.

Dad—who was apparently missing all this excitement—pointed at the sky and said, “I believe it's going to rain.”

He was right. In an instant, the weather went from summer pleasant to the opening scene of a horror movie. Lightning bounced from cloud to cloud. Thunder shook our eyes in their sockets. Wind blew clothes tight against bodies. The first few drops of cold, pebbly rain fell square on my back and made me wince.

The ballplayers sprinted off the field. Spectators leaped out of the stands, off tailgates, grabbed coolers, ushered children, held farm caps, and dove into pickups. I tried to hurry Dad, but he walked slowly. “It's just some damn water.”

God almighty, there's nothing like a thunderstorm on the Great Plains. I'm serious when I say this. It's like looking at the Grand Canyon—that's how amazing the sky is. You ever notice how county fair artists are always trying to paint huge clouds into their landscapes? It's because those clouds are mighty, mighty things. You ever notice how all those paintings look like shit? That's because it's impossible to capture the essence of those clouds in paint. It's the quickness. You can't paint that. It took millions of years for the Grand Canyon to form. It takes half an hour for a fifty-thousand-foot thunderhead to appear out of nowhere. It bubbles and rotates. Little pigtails twirl out, trying to make themselves into tornadoes. Hell, you can't describe how amazing it is.

By the time we got to the car, I was soaked. Dad didn't seem hardly wet at all.

He said, “I believe it's raining.”

“I believe you are correct, Father.”

It wasn't night yet. Just sunsetty. The clouds took away the setting sun. The softball field lights came on. The wind whipped up and shook the car.