The Fence My Father Built (11 page)

It's always easy to navel gaze when nothing is going right and you’re looking up at a tacky low ceiling. You can get trapped into feeling that this is the way things will always be, that the planets will always be in some horrible aspect, and that you will always get dumped on by whatever deity you were raised to fear.

With Jim the pig snuffling by my side, and the picture of Jesus avoiding my gaze, I might have sunk into this quagmire myself. I had plenty to feel sorry about, didn’t I? My father had gone and died before I could meet him. My husband had dumped me. I was being sued. My daughter was taking up with a wannabe rock singer. And the plumbing was bad.

A tear leaked out. I tried to will it back to where I keep them hidden, but it wouldn’t budge. It just rolled down my cheek. I even tried to distract myself with visions of my father, rubbing my mother's shoulders gently, whispering that he understood. That made it worse. Before I could stop I was sobbing in ragged gasps, and Jim was looking at me with piggy eyes, straining to understand. Perhaps he did, since he’d lost something himself.

I was up searching for a Kleenex when Jim ambled over to the door. He sniffed at the air, and then I knew why. I recognized Nova's voice as the door opened.

Rubin had brought her home as promised, but my daughter reeked of alcohol. Nova blurted, “I’m sick,” held her hand across her mouth, and ran for the bathroom.

For a moment I stood there. I had to decide whether to punch Rubin for allowing this to happen or follow my daughter. I ran after Nova and found the bathroom door locked. I pleaded with her to let me in.

“You all right?” I whispered through the door, sure that her retching would wake everyone in the house.

“Go away,” she moaned in between heaves. I stood outside the door awhile longer and asked her again if she needed anything, the same way I’d done when she had stomach flu as a little girl. I wanted to hold her head and wipe away her tears, but the door stayed locked.

After a few minutes, Nova emerged, brushed by me, and disappeared into the bedroom.

It was senseless to talk; I remembered that from my days with Benjamin and his binges. Best to wait until morning. Nova had never come home drunk before, although she had done plenty of other things to infuriate her parents. This was a first, and I intended to hold Rubin Jonto responsible.

I followed Nova into the room, where she had flopped over the bed sideways, and grabbed my pillow and a lavender crocheted throw. I would have to camp on the sofa all night now, as if I was going to get any sleep with my teeth clenched that way. My daughter and Dr. Jonto would get an earful in the morning. I fumed all the way back to the living room.

“Is she okay?” Rubin was still there, standing in the shadows.

I jumped, gasping like a kid in a haunted house. “I thought you’d gone,” I said, clutching the pillow to my chest. Jim had satisfied himself that Rubin wasn’t an intruder and had gone back to his spot next to the TV. I wasn’t that sure.

Rubin's brows bunched up, and he wouldn’t look directly at me. “Sorry about all this,” he said. He added a loud sigh. “Everything was fine. Next thing I knew, those kids had all disappeared. I promised I’d watch out for her, and, well, like I said, I’m sorry.” He came closer and sat on the edge of the sofa, inviting me to sit next to him.

I shook my head and wrapped the afghan tighter around myself. “This is not acceptable,” I said and breathed deeply. “Drunkenness is not okay, especially when it's my daughter. She's sixteen, Rubin. Where I come from that's considered underage.”

“I feel like a total fool. She said she was only drinking soda.” He had a hangdog look.

“Soda? Rubin, she puked her guts out in there. Anyway, since when will a teenager admit she's drinking? The legal age is still twenty-one.” I stood there and shivered, unable to say more.

More retching sounds coming from the bathroom reinforced my point.

Rubin shook his head. “Don’t you think she's been punished enough?”

“What would you know about it? You don’t even have kids.”

“Look, she's making choices. She may not be legal, but she's old enough to make decisions.”

“That's the point,” I said, aware that my voice sounded shrill. “It's my priority to help her make good choices. So maybe you were right. Move away and my job gets easier.”

Rubin froze, as if I’d slapped him. “Fine.” He stood up and yanked at the screen door before turning back to me. “You think you wrote the book on living out here? I’ll tell you something, lady. Linc Jackson owns this town, and we’re the outsiders. Good luck making it past December without a friend or two.” He kept his hand on the door.

The fires of regret inched up my cheeks. Since when was I the perfect parent? Here was someone who had the moral fiber to come over and apologize. Wasn’t that worth anything?

“I didn’t mean that … about the moving,” I said and extended a hand. “I’m just trying to raise my kids right.”

After a few moments he smiled but didn’t accept the handshake offer. “I know I don’t have kids to worry about,” he said softly. “I should have watched them more closely. Really, I’m sorry for the trouble I caused.”

I could feel my indignation melting, but I resolved to stay clearheaded. He opened the screen again.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, the words slamming me back into reality. Jim looked up from his pig bed. I nodded, and Rubin left.

Aunt Lutie came out from her room then. Her thin knee-length gown fluttered, silhouetting her spare frame. “Everything okay out here?” she asked, looking back toward the bedrooms.

“No, but that's all right.”

“Well, you know where to find me if you need to talk.”

“I just need some sleep.” I exaggerated a yawn.

“Honey, you know your daddy wanted to be here for you, don’t you?” Her words poked a hole right through my soul.

I couldn’t fight the waver in my voice. “Aunt Lutie, I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Well, he did. Right up until the day the good Lord took him, he was calling your name. He was too ashamed to find you, but I know he loved you.”

“Really?”

“As the Lord is my witness.” She sat down on the sofa beside me and put her arms around me. She smelled faintly of talcum powder.

I had too many questions. Did I have brothers or sisters? Had he tried to find me? Did he have my picture? “I want to know everything, Aunt Lutie.”

She smiled that closemouthed smile, got up and went down the hall. She brought out the cardboard shoebox—the corners of its lid flayed out like wings—and set it next to me.
I watched her rummage through an odd assortment of papers ad dog-eared photos, until she brought out one snapshot of a toddler standing on a wicker chair.

“Your daddy carried this with him everywhere he went,” she said softly, handing me the picture.

I stared at myself, only recognizing a similar smile and the same way I still squinted my eyes when I looked into sunlight. I held it, but I didn’t cry at first.

Lutie scrabbled through the contents of the box. “There was something else,” she said. She shook her head. “I can’t imagine where it's run off to.”

“A journal?”

“That's it. He wanted you to have it. Wrote in it just before the Lord took him. Now where could it be?”

“I’ve got it,” I said. I was tearing up again. “It's safe.”

“Oh, I’m tickled you found it, honey. He loved you so much, and he wanted to share his faith before he passed away.” Lutie looked past me to the table of photos. The lace curtains stirred.

“I’m glad to have it, Aunt Lutie.” I didn’t say that I was still not ready to leap into Jesus’ arms. Not yet.

But I told her everything, about Nova, about Rubin. I even asked her why she’d punched Linc and where my father's grave was.

“Joseph always said expensive funerals were not for him. We scattered him all over the stream on Doc Rubin's place. That's where he went to sit and think. It's where things from our ancestors are buried. “

“The relics? The Nez Perce tribe?”

Lutie shook her head. “The Nez Perce reservation is in Idaho. Around here it's mostly Warm Springs, like Doc Rubin's friend you met.”

“Denny's Warm Springs Indian?”

“He's one of the few who escaped the bottle. Started out drinking like so many of the young people, but instead, he went to school and now does a lot to keep our heritage safe.”

What I knew of Northwest Native Americans was limited to a few old books I’d read. “Maybe I’ll go over to the creek,” I said. “I’ve got plenty to think about.”

She patted my shoulder and then stood up. “Listen, honey. Linc tries to make you think he's so big and bad, but I have a secret he doesn’t know about.” She leaned closer. “Our ancestors and God's angels are looking out for us.”

I sighed. Maybe she’d think I was yawning. If she mentioned angels one more time I’d fall apart again.

“Angels, please watch over us,” Lutie said.

I was too tired. Something in me snapped. “Stop it,” I clamped my hands over my ears. “I don’t want to hear about angels,” I said and jumped up. “No angels ever helped me.” I paced across the rug and avoided glancing at the Jesus picture.

“Only trying to help,” Lutie said. She looked sad. I realized that I’d started fights with two people I liked, while Nova, the teen drinker, was in the bathroom sick.

“Oh, Aunt Lutie, I didn’t mean—” I squeezed her bony shoulder. “Too many things are happening at once, I guess. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Muri, honey. I’m on your side and so are the—uh, God's messengers. You know what I mean.”

“I do.” I smiled at my aunt, and she got up to go to bed. “I think I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight.”

“Night, then. Sweet dreams, Muri.” She switched off the light and returned to where I could hear Tiny snoring loudly. I lay down and stared a long time into the still purplish night.

I
f I hadn’t witnessed flash floods in Tucson I might have been terrified the Sunday it rained in Murkee. I remembered from my college days the way the weather sneaks up on creatures of the desert. The sky opens, and everything runs for cover. Even the bushes cling to the earth for dear life, while mad waves of brown water rush through arroyos, kangaroo rat dens, and rich people's homes.

No rich people here, unless you counted Linc Jackson. But the deluge poured out in much the same sequence. First came a few fat dusty drops that then invited the masses, pelting the reddish soil; the flicker and jolt of faraway lightning, followed up by its thunderous roll, and little streams flowed down the ruts in the yard and soon formed a shallow lake. Jim's swine siblings begged to come inside too.

“You’re dreaming, pigs,” Lutie said. The entire roof dripped and leaked. We all rushed around with pots and pans and buckets that filled up too quickly. I scooped as many of the family photos as I could from the table by the window, and Lutie took down the lace curtains she was so fond of.

Tiny and Tru formed a bucket brigade, emptying containers into the kitchen sink. Nova, hung over but useful for once, crammed her clothing into empty trash bags to keep it dry.

“Does the roof always leak like this?” I asked my uncle, already suspecting the answer. He exchanged the full containers for empty ones like someone who’d done this before. I swabbed the floor with a bath towel. The knees of my jeans were soaked.

“Well, last year we didn’t get this much rain,” he said, taking the sopping towel to the sink for me. He smiled. “At least not all at once.” His hands wrung out brownish water, and he handed the soggy towel back to me.

“Let's pray the sanctuary isn’t leaking like a sieve,” Lutie said. “Tiny, can you drive me into town as soon as we get these leaks under control? I have to show up for Sunday school.”

Tiny eyed the roof, which was leaking in more spots by the minute. Outside the rain poured down in sheets. Visibility was probably about ten feet.

“My Pearl, I’d be glad to drive you, but I think we best wait out this storm,” he said. “Remember last year? I came close to getting the truck stuck.”

Lutie sighed. “Sunday evening will just have to do then. Lord knows we don’t need to get stuck in the mud.” She rolled up her sleeves and went back to wringing out towels.

I smiled and kept mopping, trying to prevent leaks from penetrating any of the numerous paper sacks that crowded every corner. They were full of Lutie's empty soda cans, but the prospect of the bags turning to a pulpy mess was enough reason to keep them dry.

The rain slammed like marbles against the roof. Aunt Lutie looked up at the ceiling now and then, eyeing the growing wet spot right over her portrait of Jesus. She finally darted over and took the picture down and carefully protected it with
plastic wrap, the kind that clings to itself and everything but what you want it to stick to. When she finished it reminded me of a large cocoon.

“Dear Jesus, you going to drown us?” she said to the picture, tucking it beside that crocheted blanket I’d left on the sofa the night before. “You’ll be safe over here.”

Nova came in and carefully sat next to the afghan. “I need Excedrin—now,” she said, fingering her temples gingerly. “Worse … splitting … headache.”

“Careful, missy, you’re about to sit on the Lord,” Lutie answered, lifting up one corner of the throw. “I’ll see what we have in the way of hangover remedies.”

Nova winced. “Too loud … whisper,” she rasped, tacking on “please?” after Lutie clucked her tongue. “A glass of water too?”

My aunt smiled. “I know. You have a mouth full of cotton, poor baby.” She went to find a pain reliever while Uncle Tiny explained to Tru the dangers of alcohol. He told him all about the morning-after effects: the dry mouth, the pounding headache, and the aversions to bright lights and the smell of frying bacon. Halfway through the description, Nova pleaded with him to stop talking. “Might … hurl … again.” Tiny obliged and winked at Tru.

“That,” he whispered, “is one good reason not to drink.” Tru nodded. He always looked serious and intense whenever Uncle Tiny handed out wisdom. I hadn’t counted on this little bonus when we moved here; my son, so lost most of the time, had found a friend in his new relative. Chaz had been flaking out on visitation so much that Tiny was the closest thing to a father image my son had. Perhaps this is what it felt like to have family.