The Fence My Father Built (15 page)

The very air hung with memories of the settlement days and how the wives would use five-gallon kerosene cans to boil the baby diapers. How they would plant a matrimony vine for shade outside the kitchen and water it with dishwater. How the wells would fail, creating submarginal ranches and feuds and even a few murders. How the men would finally say, “It's sand over the dune” and go on as before.

And I had my own story, didn’t I? One that was wagging from the end of just about every resident's tongue, to hear Dove tell it. She told me that Frieda Long, down at the General Store, thought I should allow the sand to pass over the dune by agreeing to Linc's demands. According to dear Frieda, I didn’t know the first thing about living out here, where “we all depend on each other.” Plus, she said, she’d seen the way Doc Rubin looked at me on the Fourth of July, and we all knew what that meant.

I parked the van but felt as small and alone as I had in grade school, confessing to Mrs. Davis that I’d punched
Loren H. for calling me a half-breed. The law office of George S. Kutzmore was around the corner from the Mucky-Muck Café in a small bungalow in need of paint. It wasn’t exactly shabby, but it had none of the big city feel I’d come to expect from attorneys.

Just weeks ago, I’d dragged Chaz to the fifteenth-story office of Schuster, Schuster, and Schuster. I remember feeling so confident that day, as if I really knew what I was doing and how things would turn out. We’d go our separate ways and remain civilized about support and visitation. We’d even exchange Christmas cards, the sort that has a stamped-on signature, but it would be for the children anyway. I’d even worn an outfit similar to what I wore now and had thought I could dress my way past any obstacle.

I felt raw and edgy, and my cordovan leather briefcase didn’t help as much as I thought it might in boosting confidence. This meeting with George Kutzmore would be unpleasant at best, and I imagined a potbellied smooth talker in white shoes and matching belt.

I hadn’t started out being this suspicious. Before my experiences with my stepfather, Benjamin, and my ex-husband, Chaz, I’d been as open-minded as any child. I’d made it a point to always look for the good in everyone, and back then it had worked as well in the library as on the playground.

Today, I was certain I smelled a rat. I was bracing myself for the worst when he appeared from an inner office.

“You must be Muri.” George Kutzmore stuck out his hand.

“Mr. Kutzmore?” I tried not to look surprised. The man was tastefully dressed in slacks and a sport shirt that looked like he bought it at Sears. He was about sixty-five, but he had aged well. This was no used car salesman. Silver distinguished his full head of hair, and when he smiled his steely
gray eyes softened. He reminded me of Peter O’Toole riding over the Arabian sands in the movie
Lawrence of Arabia
, but it was only a fleeting resemblance.

“That's Key-utesmore,” he said, and laughed a little. “Call me George.” He motioned me toward the office and offered me a chair; it wasn’t leather, but it wasn’t Naughahyde, either.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, and sat down.

He sat behind a mahogany desk that took up over half the room. “It's nice to finally meet Joseph's daughter,” he said. “I’ve known your aunt for many, many years.”

“Aunt Lutie?”

George cleared his throat. “Your aunt Luticia and I met in Washington a long time ago. She was a Native representative to a Presbyterian Mission Convention. But let's get down to business, shall we?” He pulled open a thick file of papers.

I sat up straighter and tried to appear professional. “I confess. This whole matter seems blown out of proportion. We’re more than willing to share the creek water with Linc. I want to be a good neighbor.”

George laughed. “Linc's not interested in being neighborly, I’m afraid.”

“That much I know.” I sighed, and the waistband of my pleated skirt tightened its anaconda grip. I stared out the arched windows, wishing I could simply ignore this problem that had been dumped in my lap.

“Linc claims he filed the paperwork just shy of the five-year cutoff.” George Kutzmore shuffled through the papers on his desk and pulled one out. “And then there are the grand-fathered water rights.”

“Grandfathered water rights? What does he want now?”

The attorney handed me a sheet of paper. “See for yourself. According to this document, Linc Jackson owns the creek water rights in perpetuity. He's upstream from you and Rubin
Jonto, and I’m afraid he doesn’t have to share the water … legally, that is.”

I sagged into the chair. How would we survive without water? According to Lutie, Linc Jackson had no interest in water; he wanted to destroy our heritage. He had already tried to buy out my father; now he wanted to run me off the land too. That my land was a junk pile ringed by an oven-door fence didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to allow Linc or anyone else to take over a sacred Indian ruin.

George must have read my mind. “Linc and your dad had some bad blood between them,” he said. “I know he harassed the devil out of Joe. It's no secret Linc has something against Native Americans.”

“Lutie says my dad thought Linc was up to more than hogging the stream and hating Indians,” I said.

The attorney nodded. “There's something fishy about this whole thing.”

I sat up straighter. “Such as what Linc really wants with that creek?”

“Exactly. All this came up after your dad and the doc wouldn’t sell.”

“Aunt Lutie told me my father suspected Linc was stealing artifacts and selling them to rich collectors. But she wasn’t sure what Linc took from the site.”

“You may be on to something, Muri,” the attorney said. “Come to think of it Joe once told me he discovered there had been some digging out near the creek. I admit I thought he was exaggerating.”

“A lot of people thought my dad had gone round the bend,” I said softly. “I guess he did some pretty strange things toward the end.”

George leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. “How much do you know about Linc?”

I looked up at the ceiling, too, half expecting to see one of Lutie's angels floating up there. “Mostly what I’ve heard from Lutie and her Tabernacle Ladies.”

“Tabernacle Ladies? You mean Frieda Long and her friends. Have they mentioned Ulysses McMurphy at all?”

“Linc's great-grandfather, right?”

“Yep. At one time Ulysses—”

“Bought what's now Murkee for a thousand dollars? I heard that part too. And the water rights bit. But why won’t Linc work with us?” It flipped my switch that I was still perplexed, even after legal counsel. “What if my dad was right? What if Linc Jackson is making a fortune from ancient artifacts?”

“Bottom line is,” George said, “if we find evidence that Linc is dealing in illegal antiquities, none of his ‘gone less than five years’ argument will hold up.” He chuckled. “The Feds will get involved. Besides, we’re only a few miles from the Warm Springs reservation. If folks even suspect Linc's desecrating Indian burial sites, people will be furious. Linc Jackson will be history.”

“But isn’t Linc the town leader?” It didn’t make sense that he’d risk enraging the locals.

George shrugged. “Right now I don’t have the answer to that. First thing we need to do is a little research. See if Linc's filed any documentation on the artifacts. No reputable collector will touch a piece unless it's documented.”

I smiled. “Any research you need done, that's my specialty. Give me an address or phone number, and I’m on it.”

George scribbled some information on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. “Gone four years and eleven months my foot. A loophole if ever I saw one.” His expression turned serious. “Don’t forget, Linc does have documentation on the water rights. But if we can expose what Linc was really up to all those years he was gone and uncover who he's dealing
with … if we can trace even one illegal arrowhead back to a collector …” George closed the folder on his desk. “Or if we locate just one of the artifacts Joe's university guy had catalogued, then we have him. Linc's loophole becomes a noose.”

I gathered my briefcase and stood up. “So the first thing I need to do is research. That shouldn’t be difficult.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Get copies of the photographed items and persuade the professor to sign an affidavit. And look for any documented items Linc may have sold.”

I shook George's hand. “Then I’m you’re client?”

“Yes, Ms. Pond. I suppose you are.”

A
fter my meeting with George Kutzmore, I decided to walk down to the Mucky-Muck Café and thought about the man who was my father and his feud with Linc. This situation was getting more complicated every day. All my life I’d wanted nothing more than to know my father, to understand the where and what and how about myself and my family. Now I was finding out things I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. The worst part was that my dad wasn’t even around to ask questions of or get mad at or collapse upon in tears when the going got rough. I couldn’t look him in the eye to see my own reflection, nor was he around anymore to ask advice about teenagers or legal matters.

Joseph Pond was still a stranger to me.

But I was no longer a stranger in Murkee. The bells on the café door greeted me, as did the smell of Dove's famous cheese fries. She’d set a vase full of gladiolas next to the cash register, which made me smile. I sat down at the counter.

“Good to see you again,” she said, tugging down on the bodice of her uniform. I started to ask why she didn’t just wear jeans and a t-shirt, but then she got busy delivering
armloads of lunch platters. Her business looked profitable, so I decided not to advise her on how to dress.

I nursed a diet root beer for a while and waited until the crowd thinned out. The booths were full of cattlemen and farmers from around the area, and the hat rack was full. I overheard one man say he hadn’t been to a better grange meeting in a month of Sundays. I thought they all looked like Linc today, but if he was there I didn’t see him. Most of the men tipped their hats and smiled at me when they left. I wondered if they knew who I was.

Finally, Dove's business slowed, and she propped her elbows on the counter near me. I asked her about how to get a phone hooked up.

“No big deal. You can call on mine, and they can get right on it.” She handed me a cordless handset. “Shouldn’t be any trouble since Doc Rubin had the line strung out there last year. Great idea.”

“Since my uncle's crisis—” I thumbed through the skinny local phone book.

“I heard. He's better now?” Dove wiped the counter down and then refilled saltshakers.

“Better.” I dialed the number and was surprised at how quickly I arranged for service. Things in Portland were never this easy.

I handed the phone back to Dove. “Thanks,” I said. “Now all we need around here is a library. Until I find a job I’d be willing to start one. Can you tell I’m a librarian?”

Dove laughed. Her skin was as smooth and unwrinkled as her polyester outfit. Since she seemed to love pretty things, maybe she’d be interested in literary beauty. I wasn’t prepared for her reply.

“Why don’t you start one here?” She gestured toward a back room. “We used to hold town meetings back there, but
they haven’t had one in months now, and the room's gathering dust. You could put in some books if you think it would fly.”

“What kind of rent would Linc charge?” I remembered discussion of rent for the church bazaar.

“Linc usually does want rent. But how about I talk to him about a swap? You need work, and I sure could use some help, especially on Sundays after church.”

“I waited tables once in college.”

“You’re in, then. I’ll handle Linc. Show up here at eight on Sunday morning, and we’ll get you started.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” I said.

“No thanks required. You’re part of our little town now.” She ushered me to the room, opened the door, and invited me to look around. “Got to get back to the counter,” she said, “but feel free. It's not much, but—”

“Oh, no, it's wonderful,” I said over my shoulder. “You don’t know what this means to me.” She was smiling as she worked on the napkin dispensers.

I went inside, and it was cold, the kind of chill a room gets when it hasn’t been used in a while. The sweaty places at the back of my neck began to dry. The place was musty and not exactly clean, but a broom stood in a corner so I swept while I surveyed.

In my mind I saw it all: shelves that Tiny could build if they weren’t already available, neat boxes of alphabetized cards for check-out purposes, a display of book jackets to steer patrons beyond magazines and into the classics, reading couches arranged here and there, and lines of eager children waiting with stacks of picture books in their arms.

The fiction section would be best to the right of the door, I decided, and magazines must always go next to the check-
out counter. I tried to remember if I’d brought all the plastic sleeves to protect the periodicals.

Soon I was humming, something from Mozart, admittedly a bit off-key. I hadn’t done that since before I’d left the school library it had taken me years to build. I wouldn’t care if this one began with nothing more than a dictionary and some back issues of
Farm Digest
. At least Murkee would have a library.

The prospect of tackling a new project made things like lawsuits and pigs and teenage troubles dissolve into the dust cloud at my feet. It might take some time, but I would convince the townspeople that they needed this and somehow find ways to secure books.

Now how to get people involved? Dove would help there, I realized, with her nonstop chatter to the locals. There was so much to do, but it felt exhilarating, so much so that I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me.

“What are you doing back here?” Linc Jackson slouched against the doorjamb. “I hear you been down to see George.” He said this as if he had spies all over the town, which he probably did. Suddenly, he seemed more like an outlaw than a hero.

“Dove said you wouldn’t mind if I put a few books back here for a town library,” I said. I kept sweeping and gave him as much eye contact as I dared, and he stared right back.