East of Denver (7 page)

I said, “Thanks, but kiss my ass.”

“Pussy,” said Vaughn.

Clarissa said, “Vaughn, you take one from one bag and I'll take one from another bag. That way we'll know which is in which.”

“Brilliant!” said Vaughn.

“You know,” I said, “you'd be just as successful if just one of you ate one brownie.”

The way they looked at me, I knew I had missed the point.

Vaughn tossed a brownie to Clarissa. It stuck in her cleavage. They both thought that was hilarious.

While they goofed around, I went upstairs to get another beer from Vaughn's mom's fridge. All the lights were off. I walked thru the living room, absorbing memories. The bathroom. That was the first place I ever took a shower. My family didn't have a shower until I was twelve. Just a tub. It was a sleepover night and Vaughn and I had been playing in the mud all day. Vaughn's mom told us to clean up for dinner. I went to the bathroom and stood in the shower stall. I didn't know what to do, how long to stay in there, how to clean my toes. I remember I turned the hot water on full blast and stayed until it went cold. Luxury.

I heard Clarissa and Vaughn laughing downstairs. I contemplated leaving. I didn't really want to go back down there and watch those two get messed up and stay awake all night confessing their insecurities and talking about old times and letting them make fun of me and us all just being losers in a basement. But Pa was down there.

I decided to slam a beer. That would improve my mood. I opened a bottle and started pouring it down my throat.

A car pulled into the driveway. I dropped the beer on the floor and sprinted downstairs.

“She's home!”

“Shit!” said Vaughn.

“Who gives a fuck?” said Clarissa.

“Gimme another brownie,” said Pa.

Clarissa, Pa, and I hid in the downstairs bathroom with the lights off. We were all breathing heavy. On the other side of the door, I could hear Vaughn grinding his teeth in his bed. Footsteps on the ceiling above us.

The basement door opened. Vaughn's mom yelled, “Whose car is that?”

Vaughn shouted, “What car?”

“That car in the driveway.”

“I didn't know there was a car.”

“It looks like that faggot-mobile the Williams kid drives.”

“You're drunk, Mom. Go to bed.”

A hand groped my crotch. I slapped it away.

“Sorry,” whispered Clarissa. “It's so dark.”

“I'm over here,” whispered Pa.

I hissed at them both to shut up.

The basement door clunked shut. Safe. Footsteps upstairs. A toe struck a half-empty bottle of beer. A muffled what-the-fuck-is-this? The door to the basement opened again. “How'd this bottle get on the floor?”

I could hear Vaughn squint his eyes. He yelled up, “You probably dropped it on your way out the door.”

Vaughn's mom was silent. Then she said, “I guess.”

Vaughn muttered, loud enough for me to hear thru the bathroom door, “Bitchosaurus.”

Vaughn's mom said, “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Muttering again, he added, “Hitler with tits.”

Something was flung. “Don't you ever!” Stomping down the stairs. Tripping, tumbling. Vaughn's mom moaning in pain. Vaughn laughing.

I cracked the bathroom door. Vaughn's mom was on her face on the carpet right where Vaughn had fallen earlier that day. Her legs were akimbo.

Vaughn cackled with glee. “The drunken toad fell down the stairs! Come on, run! Git! Before she gets up.”

Seemed reasonable. “Pa, we're moving out!” No response. I turned on the bathroom light. He and Clarissa were in the deep embrace of— Oh, Christ. I nearly retched.

“Move it!” shouted Vaughn in evil delight. “She's gonna get you!”

I grabbed Pa by the hand and dragged him away from Clarissa's lips, out of the bathroom, past Vaughn's whimpering mother, up the stairs, and out of the house. Clarissa followed, stopping to get more beers out of the fridge before she joined us in the car.

I drove us thru the country wild and fast.

CHAPTER 10

PANCAKES

I woke up in my clothes, in my bed. I looked at the clock. It was after noon. Downstairs, in the living room, someone was playing piano. “Old Rugged Cross.” It sounded just like Mom. I stayed in bed. This was what happened on Saturdays. Mom woke us up by rehearsing the songs she was gonna play at church on Sunday. “Trust and Obey.” “Ten Thousand Angels.”

I stayed in bed until the music stopped. Then I stayed in bed some more.

There was noise in the kitchen. Pots and pans. Someone was cooking breakfast, or trying to. I snuck down to the bathroom. I took a leak, splashed water on my face, and then walked thru the hallway toward the cooking noises. I felt hopeful.

Clarissa McPhail was making pancakes. She was wearing Mom's robe and her hair was wet. Dad was sitting at the table, watching her like she was a movie star.

She saw me and said, “His mom's not dead. She doesn't remember anything.”

I thought about this for a moment. I said, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I just got off the phone with Vaughn. His mom. She's okay. She got a rug burn on her face but that's all. She was so drunk she doesn't remember.”

I didn't remember.

Clarissa said, “
You
don't remember, do you?”

“What's there to remember? We went out, got drunk, and came home.”

“Softball, lightning, Dee's Liquor, Vaughn's basement. Your dad.”

I looked at Dad, who shrugged. He said, “Whatever.”

“Sit down,” said Clarissa. I sat down. She set a plate of pancakes in front of me. Strawberries and whipped cream.

“I don't much care for whipped cream,” I said.

She took the plate back.

I remembered parts of the night before. Things came back.

Clarissa said, “You like strawberries, don't you?”

I put my hands on the table. Took deep breaths. Gradually, I began to recollect. The softball game and the quest for fire and going to Vaughn's and then there was a panic and we were hiding in the bathroom and Vaughn's mom fell down and we escaped and then nothing.

Clarissa put another plate of pancakes in front of me, this time without the whipped cream. She said, “I think he's remembering.”

“Lucky him,” said Pa.

“Fun night, huh?” said Clarissa.

I squirted syrup on the pancakes. “I'd rather not talk right now.”

Clarissa shrugged.

Clarissa had kissed my pa in Vaughn's bathroom.

I put my fork down. “Where did you sleep last night?”

“That's none of his business, is it, Emmett?”

“None of your damn business,” said Pa.

“It's my house,” I said.

Pa corrected me. “Not yet, it ain't.”

I put my fork down. “I'm going to take a shower. This will take me approximately fifteen minutes. When I get out of the bathroom, I'd like you to be gone, Clarissa.”

“You gonna drive me home?” She looked out the window. “Or do I need to call a cab?”

“You're clever. Figure something out.”

I showered until the hot water was gone. And then I stayed in the cold water until I started shivering. Shameful. I was responsible for Pa.

After I got dressed, I went back to the kitchen. Clarissa was gone and so was Pa. So was Pa's pickup.

Clarissa had left a stack of pancakes on the table. There was also a note:

 

Emmett is driving me back to my car. I'll make sure he gets home. It's true. Crutchfield bought the airplane for $20.

 

I sat at the table, listening to the clock tick.

Eventually, I ate the pancakes. They weren't bad for an emetophobic anorexic.

As I was washing my plate, Dad pulled into the driveway. Clarissa's little car followed. She honked and drove away. I watched from the kitchen window. Dad idled the pickup in front of the garage for a few minutes. He bent down in the cab, looking for the garage-door opener. He finally gave up and shut off the truck.

He stepped out of the pickup in a very good mood. My own father sleeping with a girl I went to school with. With an eating disorder.

I stepped outside to greet him. He asked, “You just get up?”

“I been up.”

“I've already gotten a whole lot of things done today.”

“Such as?”

“This and that.” He was smiling real big.

“Terrific.” I didn't want to babysit him. I needed a babysitter for my own self. I led Pa into the house, made him brush his teeth, and then sat him in his recliner. “Watch TV. I'll be back.”

I took the pickup to the Keaton State Bank. Dad's airplane was parked in the grass behind the building.

I went in. Clarissa wasn't working. The teller was Charlotte Sackett. A fifty-year-old woman with long fingernails and frosted hair. I liked her all right. She used to go to all the high school basketball games. She cheered loud and cackled insults at the referees.

“Hey, Charlotte.”

She smiled at me. “I heard you were back in town.”

I said, “Here I am.” I didn't feel much like talking. “Is Mr. Crutchfield in today?”

Charlotte half-rolled her eyes. “He sure is. But he's pretty darned busy.” She shrugged apologetically.

“I was hoping I could talk to him.”

She squinted at me. “You look so much like your dad. How is he doing, anyway?”

I do not understand why some people feel compelled to screw up a perfectly normal conversation by bringing up the most depressing subject they can think of.

“He's on a long, slow decline.” I said it with a smile.

“Well, tell him hi for me.”

“Will do. Can I see Mike?”

“He's awful busy. You understand.”

“Charlotte, I need to talk to him about that airplane he's been flying. It'll take five minutes. I just want to talk to him.” My voice was getting loud. I tried to sound calm. “Tell him I'm here, willya? It's important.”

She stopped smiling. She pointed to the one of the goofy signs on the wall behind me.
There will be a $5 charge for whining
. I said, “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Please.”

Without speaking, she turned and walked toward the back of the bank. A moment later, she returned. “He said he can spare you a few minutes.”

Mike Crutchfield, master of the Keaton State Bank, was staring at a laptop. He was just a skinny guy with thick ears and a big chin. In his fifties, probably. Brown suit and bolo tie. He moved the computer aside. He grinned at me and his whole face stretched.

“Mr. Williams,” he said. He didn't stand up. He leaned back in his chair. “Thanks for taking the time to come by.”

The people of Strattford County have an accent. It's not Southern, it's not cowboy, and it definitely isn't Texas. A linguist might say that the Strattford County accent can be identified by the fact that “pen” and “pin” sound the same, or that, depending on the usage, “do” sometimes has one syllable and sometimes has two. In reality, the Strattford County accent is defined by the layer of bullshit that coats every word, like the speaker is always messing with your head. I've seen funerals where I wasn't sure if the preacher wasn't maybe
glad
that the so-and-so had died. I don't know what it is, but it's there and, even though I grew up with it, I can never tell what people are saying.

Mike Crutchfield didn't have that tinge. He sounded completely sincere. And he pronounced every vowel in every word he spoke.

He said, “I understand you're living with your father now. It is noble of you to take on this responsibility. Emmett is a great man. He has always been an upstanding member of this community. He lives a respectable life, he is known throughout the region for his wits, and, together with your mother, he contributed a great deal of time and money to those who needed both.

“Unfortunately, things have changed and now your father has neither a great deal of time nor money. I cannot speak on the subject of the thing that has shortened his time other than to say that his most precious years are being robbed of him, plain and simple, by a universe whose ultimate plans for us all are as mysterious as they are unfair.

“I can say more about the subject of money and perhaps what I say will be of help to you. Before his capacity to manage his affairs became overly restricted, your father enrolled much of his land in the Conservation Reserve Program, of which I am sure you are aware. Income from this program was instrumental in maintaining his quality of life. CRP contracts last for ten years. Unfortunately, your father's contracts expired two years ago and he was not able to renew them in time for the payments to continue. What's more, a quirk of the latest farm bill makes it impossible to bring land back into the program once its contract has expired.

“Without being farmed and without the government handouts, the land has no value to your father. I suppose you could attempt to rent it for pasture or even sell it, but I am not currently aware of anyone who would be willing to pay anything, much less a fair market price, for that land at this moment. I work with most of the farmers in this community and I can tell you that the economy is not strong. Plus, the land has been in your family for generations and, in spite of the fact that you currently do not have plans to farm it, I suspect you are very reluctant to sell it outright.”

He was correct and he knew it. He smiled so that his eyes deepened in their sockets.

“Naturally, you're also curious about the subject of your father's airplane.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a piece of paper. “This should answer any questions you have. What you're holding is a copy of a good faith contract signed by your father and me.”

I looked at it. There were lots of words.

“The contract clearly states that your father is selling me his airplane for a discounted rate in exchange for my extraordinary helpfulness in helping him organize an auction of most of his farm equipment last year. I'm sure you've noticed that several tractors and implements are no longer on his property.”

I hadn't, and it made me feel bad.

“‘Extraordinary helpfulness.' Those were your father's words, not mine. I presume that his copy of the contract has been misplaced. I'll be happy to have a duplicate mailed to you if you'd like.”

Before I could answer, he rotated his laptop so I could see the computer screen.

“Here's a photo taken the day your father sold me the airplane.”

It looked like Elvis and Nixon shaking hands. Except, instead of shaking hands, Dad was accepting a twenty-dollar bill from Mike Crutchfield. Dad was wearing jeans and a clean shirt. The banker was wearing a leather jacket and a goofy fighter helmet. They both looked delighted.

“As you can clearly see, your father is not under duress. He was, in fact, very happy that day. He told me it would be a relief not to have to worry about how his airplane would be taken care of. His exact words were, ‘You'll be a good daddy to my girl.'”

Crutchfield pressed a button on his computer and the printer started working. “Mr. Williams, I worked very hard to help your father get along after his wife passed on and as his illness has progressed. With my assistance, he was able to sell much of his unused equipment for more profit than he otherwise could have. He was simultaneously grieving and suffering from a degenerative brain disease. He was all alone.”

The banker looked right into my eyes.

“What I did for your father was nothing that I wouldn't do for any other long time customer of any of the banks I own. What your father did for me, however, was a kind and generous act, the likes of which I'll not soon forget. He insisted that I accept the airplane on the very terms on that contract. Consequently, every time I climb into that cockpit, I feel nothing but pride and humility.”

Crutchfield handed me the piece of paper from the printer. It was the photo of him and Pa. He walked me to the door, shook my hand, and said, “Thank you so much for coming in.”

I didn't notice Charlotte as I walked out of the bank. All I could see were the photos on the wall, mingled among the goofy diner signs. All those photos of Mike Crutchfield shaking hands with jolly farmers.

On my drive home, I tossed the picture out the pickup window and watched in the rearview mirror as it fluttered in the wind.

When I got back, Dad was burning the trash. In the country, there is no Wednesday garbage truck that rolls down the alley at six in the morning. Instead, you cut the top off a fifty-five-gallon drum, set it down several yards from any flammable buildings, and burn your trash. As a kid, I learned to set trash afire in any weather. Windy, winter, whatever. It was like Boy Scout training but without the dopey outfits. Bring three strike-anywhere matches, tear some junk mail envelopes into strips, light them, baby them, feed them with cereal boxes until the fire can take care of itself. Everything has its own way of burning. Cardboard burns hot and smoky with a skinny yellow flame shooting out of each corrugated hole. A stack of magazines won't burn completely unless you crumble them up. Aerosol cans aren't as dangerous as everyone says.

We kept an iron rod next to the burning barrel so we could stir the trash, open it up for air. At the moment, Dad was poking the rod into the barrel, playing with a piece of plastic that looked like the remains of a busted-up laundry basket I'd put in the throw-away pile a couple of days ago. He didn't know I was watching him. He got a glob of the melting plastic on the end of the rod and held it in the flame until it started burning. The plastic dripped burning drops of itself into the barrel. Like tiny bits of napalm. Even though I was standing behind him, I could tell Dad was fascinated. I'd done the same thing a hundred times. You could watch that stuff drip for hours and it would never stop being amazing. It was lava and water and a really pretty window into hell.

By now, the end of the rod was all aflame with that glob of plastic. With two hands, Dad held it upright, straight above his head. The flames sent up black smoke. The glob started to ooze toward his hands. Then he said, “Hyaaa!” and swung the iron around like a samurai.