The Fence My Father Built (16 page)

He shrugged. “Guess it's all right.” He shifted his weight, and I noticed his boots. They were caked with dirt as usual, and chunks of mud tumbled onto the just-swept floor It was all I could do not to scold him.

“If you were to do the right thing about the creek,” he said, “we might become real good neighbors. I don’t know what Lutie's been telling you, but you need to understand. I got the law on my side.”

“I’ve been informed of your water rights, if that's what you mean.” I didn’t add that I had suspicions about his real reasons for wanting the creek.

Linc stood up straighter and smiled. “That's what I like about you—besides your pretty face that is. You got a good head on your shoulders. Ready to discuss your selling price?”

“Selling price?” I swept harder and faster.

“For your little slice of heaven. And, of course, the creek, but that's a nonissue.”

I stopped and leaned on the broom. “The only thing that's a nonissue,” I said, “is that I have no intention of selling my father's land. It may not be paradise, but it's all I have left of him.”

“Everybody has a price,” he said.

“Excuse me.” I pushed my way past him. “You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

“Well, la-di-dah,” Linc said. He smirked and adjusted his hat.

I stopped at the front counter to thank Dove and tell her the room was perfect for the library. However, I really wanted to cry, and soon. The bells on the door jangled as I dashed for the van.

On the way back home, angry tears streaked my cheeks, and I turned loose, ranting at Linc. Only the sagebrush heard me. At least this time I didn’t scream as much.

A
s I drove home, the hills swallowed up the sun inch by inch. Long shadows were thrust across the road like lances barricading my way. It was hard to see. I swerved and nearly ran off the narrow road's shoulder on one of the curves. I glanced back. I’d nearly run over a dead opossum. My hands trembled, and my heart pounded. You can’t always avoid road kill.

The association brought back Marvin's Road Kill band, and what he and Nova had been up to lately. I recognized the look she wore—that dizzy, otherworldly gaze. There was no mistaking it, because I’d seen it on my own face too many times. My daughter thought she was in love.

Growing up, my desperate need for love had caused the same moony fantasies and poor judgment; I often jumped headfirst into relationships I should have avoided. Hadn’t I won an award in school once for possessing the “Best Imagination”?

Truthfully, since Chaz had left us, I hadn’t given the opposite sex much thought. I had more important things on my mind: raising my kids, watching them develop into healthy
adults, proving I could make it on my own. And now, protecting my small plot of land and uncovering why Linc Jackson was so interested in a small creek.

What about Rubin? The creek ran through his place too. He depended on the stream's water for those silly emus, so why wasn’t Linc suing him? I had to find out, but I didn’t want Rubin thinking I was hitting on him. He was a nice guy, but I was only interested in being neighborly. I only hoped he didn’t despise me after the way I’d tossed him out the night he brought Nova home.

Nova needed no help from Rubin or anyone else in order to get into trouble. I should have known better, but mothers lose their wits when it comes to protecting their children, even when their offspring sprout face jewelry or dye their heads green.

My daughter claimed I was nosy and nagged too much and didn’t have a clue about boys or style. Well, those last two were true enough. Teenage courtships had been dangerous as far back as
Romeo and Juliet
; but these days, the kids called dating “hooking up,” which sounded awful to me.

I’d put my foot down about her behavior on the Fourth. I absolutely would not tolerate drugs or alcohol. I also warned her to be cautious about boys, especially the “hooking-up” stuff. She complained that her ten o’clock curfew was better suited to someone Tru's age. When I stood my ground, yelling broke out.

Just then I glanced down at my speedometer. While worrying about Nova, my foot had pressed down on the accelerator, and the van was speeding along at sixty-five on a winding, two-lane road. I eased back on the gas pedal, telling myself to calm down.

In the last two weeks we had argued more about Marvin than we ever did about her appearance. Much more was at
stake. I was terrified she’d catch a horrid disease or end up in trouble. Worse, she’d learn the sad truth that boys want to experiment awhile before they settle on one girl. Nova said I wasn’t giving her enough respect. There was a fine line between respecting her judgment and making sure she didn’t make a mistake she would regret the rest of her life.

My worrying shifted to Rubin. I hadn’t treated him fairly, either. Most likely he thought of me as one of those women on the rebound. Still, I rounded every curve in the road fantasizing about a new scenario of our friendship, as if my indecision about him had dissipated.

I have always thought of myself as decisive to a fault. This is true even when I’m edgy and tired of being alone. As tired as I was, though, I would have secretly loved nothing more than to be staring out an open car window, letting the air push against my face, while my true love drove me home.

Was true love a myth? I thought of Chaz, and pain stomped my insides. If we had to break up, why couldn’t I be the rejecter instead of the rejectee? None of this was fair. I felt like I didn’t have a friend left in the world.

Zoned out thinking about my lonely life, on an impulse I turned at the bullet-riddled sign and drove into Rubin Jonto's front yard.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I heard myself say. “But I need some answers.” I looked up at the porch. Tattered shreds of red, white, and blue crepe paper left over from the July Fourth barbecue still flapped wildly in the stiff breeze. Several large black trash bags, overflowing with empty aluminum cans, sat on the front porch. Folding chairs stood piled against one another, as if the ladies of Rubin's clean-up crew and fan club had abandoned him. Maybe no one was home, and I could turn the van around now that I had regained my senses.

But there he was, looking out of the decrepit screen door. It banged shut behind him as he strode down the porch steps, waving. He had ditched the cowboy shirt and wore a vintage Save the Whales t-shirt.

Rubin strode to the driver's side window and wiped his hands with a very white towel—the sort medical suppliers deliver. “Hey, Muri,” he said. His hands were fascinating: big and rugged but with long, tapered fingers like a surgeon's. He folded the towel and jammed it in his back pocket. “Doozy of a morning.” He whistled softly.

I cut the engine. “I know what you mean,” I said and brushed unruly strands of hair away from my cheeks, but the wind blew them back again. That's the way it was out here. The wind would calm soon, as the colors of evening appeared, but every afternoon it was so windy it would hurl your voice back at you. Then, suddenly, it would give up and die down.

“What brings you over this way?” Rubin asked.

“I was just in the neighborhood,” I lied. “Maybe it's not a good time? I could come back later.” I started the van's engine, and its chatter filled the air.

Rubin shook his head and smiled. “I was just about to take a break. Come on in, and we’ll have tea.”

“Really, I could come back.” I felt about as obvious as lipstick on one of Tiny's pigs.

Rubin's eyes softened. “You’re not in the city anymore, Muri. Out here we consider it bad manners not to offer refreshment when folks come calling.”

“Bad manners?” I cut the engine again. “I guess I could stop for—say, do you drink coffee?”

Rubin laughed. “How do you take yours? Cream and sugar?”

“Strong and black.” I slid from the driver's seat to the ground, and we walked into his kitchen together. He put on the coffee and apologized for the mess.

The place wasn’t messy at all; at least it wasn’t cluttered, although dishes poked out of suds in the sink. We sat at the dinette, which wasn’t classic or fifties but a Scandinavian design, built with clean lines and possessing an artsy flavor. After a few minutes, Rubin served us both tall steaming mugs full of the best coffee I’d had since leaving Portland.

I blew across the cup and savored the rich aroma. “Neither Tiny nor Lutie drink anything with caffeine,” I said. “I’ve been craving coffee.”

Rubin lifted his mug. “Anytime you need a fix, you know where to find me.”

I sipped at my drink and, suddenly, realized how tired I was. Rubin's kitchen was cozy, and I felt myself relax.

“You look a little tired,” he said. I looked at him hard. “But good,” he hastily added. “You look tired, but you look good.”

“Thanks,” I said. Warmth crept across my cheeks. “Like you said, it's been a doozy of a morning.” Then I told him all about my visit to George Kutzmore. I started to tell him about Linc's behavior at the café, but held back. After all, Rubin and I barely knew one another.

When you meet a person who makes you feel at ease, it's so tempting to become transparent—to tell it all. I’m ashamed to say that I’m always looking for that, as if someone out there is waiting for me to unload. But I had learned that a person could be too honest. I’d learned the hard way not to trust any and every man I met. Sitting across from Rubin, I could tell I was falling into the same trap by the way my eyes stung with tears and by the way he paid careful attention.

After a while I stopped talking long enough for him to look thoughtful. Then he got up and rinsed out his empty mug
and sat down again. “Muri, it's too bad you had to start out here with so much trouble. George is an old guy, but he's very competent. This business about the water—” Rubin's voice suddenly hardened. “You should know that Linc's dead serious. He's been leaning on me to sell too.”

“You’re leaving?” I thought of Dr. Rubin, the vet, out taking potshots at what he believed were Linc's cows.

Rubin shook his head. “I tried to negotiate. But he's bull-headed. I tried to get him to see how we all benefit from the creek, but he insists that he's the rightful owner.”

“None of this makes sense.” I was anxious to get to Linc's true motivation. “I have a feeling there's something about that stream that's worth more than water.”

For an instant, Rubin brightened, as if he might know what that something was. Then his face clouded over again. “You’ve got that right,” he said. “If Linc wanted to keep that creek healthy, he’d be a lot more concerned about the pollution. But his livestock damage the stream again and again. That's why I have to shoot if they get in there.”

“Can’t you fence them out, or scare them off?”

He sighed, as if he’d answered these questions before. “Tried. Didn’t do a bit of good. Strays trample the fences, and they don’t want to leave where the grazing is good.”

“The fence my dad put up is such an eyesore, but I bet it's sturdy.” I laughed, thinking of a steer bulldozing through one of the oven doors to get a drink of water. “So Linc is trying to run you off too.”

“Sure. I turned his offer down. But I’m the only vet around, so he puts up with me. So far.”

“Me too. So far.” I wasn’t sure this was true. No wonder Rubin thought about moving away.

“Care to see what Linc's up in arms about?” He sounded hopeful now, and I realized it was important for me to see
whatever it was, for his sake and for my own. “And what I’ve been working to restore?”

“Love to,” I said. “But I’m not exactly dressed for hiking.”

“There's a shed where I keep rubber boots and waders. And work clothes—”

“I’ll be fine,” I insisted. “Just lend me the boots so I’m not slogging through mud in dress shoes.”

At the shed, I slipped on the black, knee-high rubber boots and tried not to think about how they looked with my navy pleated skirt.

We started out for the creek, which Rubin kept calling a “habitat.” It had been ages since I’d been around someone who used words like that, and I felt sure Rubin didn’t use his environmentalist vocabulary on the ranchers of Murkee.

Rubin and I tromped through the cheatgrass and the rabbit brush, while burrs hitched a ride on our clothes. I’d be relieved if I never had to wear this skirt again. Rubin offered me a hand as we slid down a short embankment. I didn’t tell him that to me, the creek looked like nothing more than a muddy trickle. It smelled of rotting fish.

It was nearly twilight, so it was hard to see much. Croaks and chirps filled the air the way they do in summer, and the cottonwoods whispered in the breeze.

“This is it,” Rubin said, and he jumped onto a log that lay sideways across the water. “It's taken me a year to get it back to where the fish can breed.” He pointed along the edges of the bank. “See all the grass and the shrubs? I’ve had to replant in order to keep the water cool enough and the banks stable. Once I came out here and found twenty cows having a feast.” He crossed back over. I stood on a large boulder, intrigued but not sure what to say.

“What kind of fish?” was all I could think of to ask.

He laughed and sat on a piece of bank that was fairly dry. I picked my way around the rocks, found a half-dry patch, and sat down too.

“Trout. Bull trout, mostly.” Rubin's locked his arms around his knees and absentmindedly fiddled with some pulled-up grass.

He told me all about redds per mile and rehabilitating this ecosystem to keep the fish from disappearing completely. His eyes sparked as he fumed about the torn-down fencing and Linc's refusal to keep the cattle penned up, even after he’d gone over to the Jackson place in the middle of the night to help some poor cow birth her calf.

“Linc likes to fish as well as anybody around here. I don’t know why he won’t cooperate.”

“So it's trout against cows?” My remark didn’t sound as humorous as I intended.

“Not exactly. But Linc knows as much about ranching as I do about making lace. He doesn’t give a hoot about the land or the water, except in some way that helps him make money.”

“Maybe he's set on paving paradise,” I said, thinking of the old Joni Mitchell song. “You know, put up a parking lot. ‘Big Yellow Taxi,’ remember?”