The Fence My Father Built (22 page)

My daughter, the one who had pasted dandelions on scraps of construction paper to present to me on Mother's Day, was missing. The bed we’d had to share here, lately so sharply
divided, had once been a sanctuary, where she’d cuddled next to me after a bad dream.

I jerked back to reality; time was running out. I dressed hurriedly and raked a comb through my hair. The air would dry it and evaporate my tears as well. Today I needed to check in with the police station where I’d reported Nova's disappearance and find out if they had anything new.

Perhaps I’d show them more photos or an article of clothing that still carried her scent. I’d taken to sleeping with her Grateful Dead t-shirt. The faint aroma of my daughter relaxed me when no amount of Tylenol PM or even the sedatives from Doc Perkins helped. I stuffed the shirt into my purse.

Outside, the yard rang with the clattering and banging sounds of men at work. Tiny and my Truman, the once shy boy who reconfigured computers but couldn’t keep a toothpick sculpture from falling apart, hoisted boards onto sawhorses like seasoned construction workers. My son looked taller and more at ease with himself.

“Measure twice and cut once,” Tiny said.

“Sixty-five and three-eighths,” Tru said. I couldn’t tell whether he smiled at his own math skills or was simply entertained by the loud snap of the metal tape measure. Either way, he looked adorable.

“Okay, then, we’re ready to cut.”

“Careful, Unc,” Tru cautioned. “We can’t afford any accidents.”

Tiny leaned over with a handsaw and began to rip the board. His trademark red suspenders kept his pants uppants now baggier than when we’d first met. I understood now what Tru had meant by “accidents.”

Since Tiny's coma, Tru had been helping his uncle, reminding him about diet, glucose testing, and injections when they might have been conveniently forgotten. Tru had researched
diabetes mellitus on the Internet. No doubt he’d learned how difficult it is for wounds to heal and how diabetics must always protect their extremities. A cut or bruise could be serious, and my son knew it.

I watched them work. They chatted, but Tru didn’t prattle; he only asked questions that Tiny answered in a straightforward manner. They made an impressive team, smooth as a machine with all the gears in working order. It was hard to believe the two of them weren’t blood relatives.

They both loved tinkering with junk and watching bad TV show reruns, and neither my uncle nor my son was prone to irritability or meanness. I didn’t count sibling rivalry; there was nothing extraordinary about his boyish brand of harassment. Tiny and Tru didn’t appear to know how to grow bitterness, the way some people do. Lately, I’d teetered on the edge of rancor with Linc and Chaz bugging us again. But each time I looked at Tru I leaned a little more toward letting go and reminded myself I’d carried resentment long and far enough.

Tru held the two-by-fours in place as his uncle hammered. I’d never realized how strong the big man really was; nails almost melted into place with only a few bangs of the hammer. It wasn’t long before they’d framed in a wall. I was amazed that it stood upright. I was still admiring their work when the long driveway's gravel crunched under the weight of a massive diesel pickup.

Linc Jackson braked, slammed the truck's king cab door, and strode through the oven-door fence and up the path. His face and neck were redder than usual, and a toothpick bobbed up and down as he worked his jaw muscles. I prayed Rubin hadn’t shot any more cows.

“Mornin’,” Tiny said, through a mouthful of nails. Sometimes I wished my uncle was as ornery as the rest of us.
“Lutie,” he hollered, “bring us some iced tea, please, would ya? Linc's here.”

Linc didn’t acknowledge the greeting. Instead, he took off his hat and waved it at the newly framed-in wall. “What in the world do you call that?”

“We’re building a sun porch,” Tru announced importantly.

“That?” Linc laughed, but it was a cold laugh. In the harsh sunlight he looked older than I remembered. He reached out and shook the wall, and it did start to lean a little. Tiny stepped over and laid his hand on Linc's shoulder.

“I think you best back off.” My uncle loomed above him and didn’t remove his hand until Linc let go of the board.

“That's not why I’m here, anyway,” Linc said, stepping back. He stuck his hat back on his head, perhaps to hide the stark white strip of forehead where the sun couldn’t reach. He turned to where I stood outside the trailer door. “You,” he said, pointing right at me. “This is your fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t shown up here.”

“You’re not making sense.” I tried to be polite, but my heart banged against my ribs.

“I’ll tell you what makes sense,” he said, his cheeks turning dark and red. “It makes sense for you to accept my generous offer and go back to where you came from. You and that little harlot of a daughter.” You could practically see smoke coming from his ears.

I narrowed my eyes. “My daughter? What's Nova got to do with this? If you know where she is—”

“You tell me. Marvin got this call last night—my caller ID says it came from a pay phone in Portland. Now he's gone, and so is my Caddy. He's run off to meet her in my brand new car. I just drove it home yesterday. I’m holding you responsible.”

He was bellowing now, his voice hollow and hoarse. His hat trembled slightly as his finger jabbed the air to punctuate each phrase. I had no idea how far he would go. People get shot every day over even minor issues.

Lutie ran out when the shouting started, gathered Tru, and took him inside. On the way Lutie glared back at Linc, as if to control him with her piercing stare. I tried my best to stay calm, but I felt my insides harden with fury.

“Give me that number,” I said in my coolest tone. “My ex-husband lives in Portland. I’ll notify him right away. I want my daughter back as much as you want your Cadillac.” I blurted out the last part without thinking.

“Think you’re pretty cute? You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I own most of this town. Before long I’ll own you and the creek too. Jonto's not the only one with a shotgun around here.” By now he was in my face, and he hadn’t stopped shouting.

“You don’t scare me,” I yelled, tasting the angry words. “You couldn’t rip off my father, so now you’re trying to destroy us. I say Marvin better watch himself, because my daughter is underage.” My voice quivered. “Anything happens, and I’ll shoot you myself.”

Linc shook his head. “That's it. I’ve been holding back, but you leave me no choice. I’m going to see the water rights judge and settle this once and for all.”

I stuck out my chin and looked him right in the eyes, even though I was scared spitless. I’d never been a violent person, but he had just called my daughter a harlot. I lunged forward and wanted to pummel Linc Jackson, but Tiny held me back.

My uncle had been standing next to me throughout my tirade, still toting a load of boards under one massive arm.

“I said, back off, Jackson.” Uncle Tiny firmly pushed Linc away from me. My knees shook and threatened to give out but I stood my ground. “Get off my place.” This time Tiny sounded dead serious.

“Pretty soon this won’t be your place, you big ox.” Linc shoved back, and Tiny tripped backwards over one of the tire planters, dropping the heavy wood onto one of his feet. My uncle grabbed his foot and sagged against the side of the trailer as Linc Jackson swaggered past the oven-door fence to his truck, knocking over a stack of bicycle parts as he went. The gravel sprayed like spittle under the tires as he backed up and drove away.

Tiny unlaced his boot as Lutie and Tru flew out the door to help him. His foot was bleeding, where a nail had punctured the top of his big toe. My son's fears about Uncle Tiny injuring himself had come true, but it had been no accident.

JOSEPH's JOURNAL
OCTOBER 1999

M
ost days I remember too much. I remember how the Ponds— Desmond and Geraldine—took Lutie and me in. They taught us to love God. I married and had a beautiful daughter, but your mother left because I couldn’t stay away from the drink. The company putting up the dam paid me to go away after concrete claimed two of my fingers.

I bought a home out in the Oregon desert, near the Warm Springs reservation. By then it was too late. I already had liver problems that could kill a man. I couldn’t turn my back on God no matter what was taken from me, except for you. Losing you put a sinkhole in the middle of my soul.

Finding you never quite leaves my mind, and the liver disease is taking its toll. But lately I’ve been fighting another battle too. The neighbor wants me to sell the place to him—strange for a man who owns most of the town.

The neighbor—Linc is his name—says even the creek belongs to him.

I have my own theory; he knows as much about artifacts as I do. I’m sure he's been out here digging. I photographed the items. And then I left the important pieces—the Warm Springs root stick and that arrowhead—where Linc couldn’t miss them. Sure enough, now they’re gone. Fat cats and collectors pay thousands for these things, and I’ve seen the glint of covetousness in Linc's eyes. I’ve watched him go from friendly to fury in a heartbeat.

I sacrificed the artifacts to bait him, but Lutie begs me to stand clear of the trouble. Live and let live, she says. I’ve never been one to stay quiet. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. These days that's mostly no one. Someday they’ll say we should have taken heed of that drunken Indian. Then it’ll be too late. The burial site—whether it's really ancient pre-Clovis or just sacred to Native Americans— will disappear. If that happens, a piece of our heritage is lost. The mound will fall silent.

Muri, when I close my eyes I wonder where you are today. I pray you’re strong, and I hold your name up to heaven. I hope you take this small but holy land and stream and protect them as I tried to protect them. Sadness washes over me when I think of how little I know you.

I know Linc Jackson well enough. He says he's interested in the good of the community, but some kind of craving possesses the man. Linc calls me Chief. Things have gone downhill since then, but maybe it's fitting. A good chief protects and leads his people. That's all I’ve tried to do.

“S
weet Jesus,” was once again all Lutie could say. Questions raced through my head, like ants running in all directions when the nest has been disturbed. Even after Linc's departure, I could still feel the fine hairs on my neck raised.

Tru and I helped Tiny hobble inside. Lutie followed her husband to where we made him lie on the old sofa, and she sat with his foot propped on her lap. I tended to his wound with the disinfectant and some sterile pads, and Lutie fussed and fretted as if he were the prodigal son. Tru got out the literature we’d brought home from the hospital and read me the parts about treating diabetic foot injuries.

“This is quite a puncture,” I said, knowing full well he’d need a tetanus shot. You know Dr. Perkins will want to see you, don’t you?”

“We don’t need to bother Perkins,” Tiny said with a grimace. “Just smarted, that's all. Surprised the daylights out of me.” He smiled, but I thought he looked pale.

“You old goat,” Lutie said, smiling through deep worry lines. “Now you’ll just have another excuse to lie around and watch that darn TV.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Everything had happened so fast that I only now wondered why she hadn’t gotten into the fray with me. At the Fourth of July barbecue, she’d hauled off and socked Linc without hesitation. But today she had gone inside with Tru, perhaps thinking more of his protection than I had.

“‘Green Acres,’ here we come,” Tiny said to Jim, who lay on the floor next to his master.

Tru gave me an anxious look. “He going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Tiny said.

“How do you know?”

“You worry too much,” Tiny answered.

I stroked Tru's head and noticed that my hands trembled. “Let Uncle Tiny alone, will you? We’ll make sure the doctor sees him soon.”

My son ducked away from my attempt to console him. “That Jackson guy stinks,” he said, walking back toward the door. “This whole thing stinks!” He stormed outside and I could hear sounds, as if he was knocking the stuffing out of something. I thought I should go after him to address appropriate displays of anger, but then I laughed at myself. I was the she-bear who had been ready to take on Linc Jackson after he insulted my cub.

The delayed rush of adrenaline rattled me inside and out. I shook so uncontrollably that my teeth chattered, and when it subsided, fatigue took over. I felt limp and wished I could crawl off someplace and just blend in with the walls.

“We
will
go to the clinic as soon as we get in touch with the doctor,” I promised, when I was less jittery. After Tiny's last episode we couldn’t take any chances.

“It's just a scratch—really,” Tiny said. “I’ll have that sun porch done in no time, my Pearl.”

Lutie glared at him and wagged her finger. “Oh, now hush up and take a rest.” She picked up his foot and examined it.
“And if I see one red streak—” She leaned her head against the serape on the back of the couch and closed her eyes.

“Hand me the remote,” he said.

R
ubin's truck is a bumpy ride, I thought all the way over to the highway. I’d decided to go to Portland and hunt down Nova, and now Rubin was driving us there. If Tiny's pickup hadn’t quit running and my van hadn’t burned, I would have gone by myself. Yet, I had other motives—the arrowhead and heart-shaped rock were safe in my bag, along with Dad's photos and notes.

I knew almost nothing about Native American artifacts and desperately needed a professional opinion. Rubin's friend had mentioned his work during the Fourth of July bash.
Darrin
?
Davey
? I couldn’t remember the guy's name, but he was an archaeologist for Portland State. What were the odds? Rubin had called ahead and after stopping in at Chaz's, we would be meeting with the professor and his wife.