The Fence My Father Built (27 page)

“Sorry, my Pearl,” he said, hiding the soiled cloth behind his back like a child caught at the cookie jar. “I just worry about a woman traveling alone over that road, that's all.” He grinned at me, looking like a tanned version of the Pillsbury Doughboy. I had to laugh as he cleaned the knife on the dirty towel. Lutie sighed.

“I’ll be okay, really,” I said. “Rubin said the same thing. But I’ll only be gone a few hours.” I hugged Tiny's still ample middle as best I could. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

I didn’t tell them that I wouldn’t have taken Tru along if he had been in school. I missed Rubin, too, so I stopped by his place on my way out. We sat on his porch again, drinking iced tea and discussing my plan. Rubin was having as much trouble with Linc Jackson as I was these days, and I was sure he’d say I was brilliant.

But when I gave him my take on the situation, he frowned. “Hold on,” he said. “Better get some hard evidence before you accuse Linc of thievery. Around here stealing is serious business.”

“I am serious,” I said with a tinge of sarcasm in my voice. “And so is Linc. He's made that clear enough. If he controls the creek, aren’t we both at his mercy?”

“Not necessarily. I’m not the least bit afraid of his scare tactics, and he's seen what I’ll do if he ignores my property rights.” He crossed his arms.

“You won’t gun down any more of his livestock, will you? He said he’d press charges.” I felt a clawing in my stomach and realized I was holding my breath.

“He can press all the charges he wants. His cows stray onto my land, they’re fair game.” He had said this with so much conviction that I got the feeling he’d be a tree-hugging protester if he thought it would help.

Then he turned and stared past me toward the creek. I always took these opportunities to study his face. There was a kind of clarity in him that I admired, and I hoped he would understand.

“I’ve got to do this, Rubin.” I set my empty glass on the side table and stood up.

“I know. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Resolute, I turned my back and strode toward the truck. I refused to get sidetracked. If anyone could locate a forged document, I could. As I started up the truck, it was as though I could feel my father's presence, watching, listening, and waiting.

The more I thought about Dad, the more I was unable to elbow out the God he had worshiped. Holy Roller or not, Joseph Pond's faith had run deep and true, despite his tragic and shortened life. My father's belief in a loving, heavenly Father had bridged the gap between alcoholism and absolution.

On the way to the county seat I decided to act as if God really existed and prayed out all my problems to him. When I ran out of tears and confession, I prayed simple prayers. I wasn’t ready to take a full leap of faith yet, but I wasn’t closing the door either. I would be sure to thank Tiny for fixing the truck, Rubin for his maps, Lutie and her Tabernacle Ladies for their prayers for travel mercies. When I arrived at the courthouse, I felt for once as if something was going right. Although I had to search until after lunch, I finally made my way to the right department.

A woman, who looked about as old as the ancient microfiche machine in the corner, sat behind a counter, working a cross-stitch pattern. She might have been Native American herself. At least she knew what I was talking about and didn’t tell me it wasn’t her department. She got up to look through the dusty filing cabinets.

“Let's see, I have one more place to look,” she said after a few minutes of small talk and several dead ends. We had both agreed that organization was the key to happiness, and I shared my best record-keeping tips, as if it would do any good. She disappeared into a room marked STAFF ONLY and emerged a few minutes later, toting a large cardboard box. This, I decided, was the extent of her organizational techniques.

“We got all this information on the computer,” she said, as if confiding a state secret. “They’re switching us over to a new system—
again
. But just try to find what you need on the darn thing. Anyway, it's easier to go haul out the stuff myself.”

“Thanks for going to so much trouble,” I said. It helped to let her know I was a librarian. “Sometimes I catch myself going to the old card catalog, just to remember what it was like. I could look through the records myself if you’re too busy.”

The woman plopped herself onto a stool behind the counter. “We’re not supposed to do that, you know. Strictly against the rules. But my supervisor is in meetings all day.” She paused. “I say, go for it. Not my fault they can’t keep the computers up and running.”

“If I find what I’m looking for, I’ll recommend you for promotion,” I said, smiling.

She shrugged and picked up her needlework again, leaving me to wade through a mountain of files. I sorted through old documents and mentally classified them into logical categories. Most of them belonged in the dull and boring pile, but even those were fascinating if you looked hard enough.

Still, a story unfolded. By scanning documents I learned of the struggle between the ranchers and the developers, the conservationists and the families whose survival depended on sustained growth. Much of central and eastern Oregon had faced the same dilemma, apparently, for as far back as the records went. You could opt in favor of the water or people it seemed, but not both. Documents recording Native American artifacts were in short supply, however.

By the time the clerk announced it was quitting time, I had found lists of notarized documents for artifacts located at museums, universities, and held by individuals. But no sign of anything signed by Lincoln Jackson.

I
trudged out of the county building empty-handed. Still, I was convinced my father was right. Linc had to be involved in the illegal artifacts trade. My search for doctored certificates had fallen short, but George had warned me a paper trail would be hard to follow. I couldn’t prove why Linc would lie to everyone about that creek, only that he needed Rubin and me to sell out and leave.

For Tiny and Lutie, leaving was an alien idea. They appeared shocked and lost when Linc threatened to have the judge enforce Linc's water rights and leave us high and dry. Without a source of clean water, we’d be forced out. Lutie had said, “You might as well move us to the moon.”

It was true. Tiny's junkyard, Lutie's sun porch: they were a part of them. We might all get along better in the city. Tiny would have access to more consistent medical care. Somehow, though, I doubted my aunt and uncle would thrive anywhere but in Murkee.

Besides, I wanted to walk in the same red dust my father had walked and breathe the same crisp air he breathed. It had taken so long to become the daughter of Joseph Pond. How could I turn my back on him?

I pulled into a small diner before setting out for home. I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, out of respect for Nova and her vegetarian diet, but my head was stuffed with thoughts of my father. I pictured him, with bowed legs and a cowboy hat, waging war with Linc. My father hadn’t vandalized property, and he hadn’t bullied anybody. He tried legal avenues; he tried to make the system work. Only so far, it hadn’t worked at all. I stared out the window and tried to quench my anger with diet root beer. I was too furious to pray.

When I left the restaurant, the shadows from nearby peaks had already darkened the early evening. The streetlights cast blurry yellow haloes onto the wooden plank sidewalks of the authentic western-style buildings. The effect was eerie. People had already disappeared from the streets, perhaps because the temperature plummeted as soon as the mountains overtook the sun. Only a few hunters dressed in camouflage jackets and orange vests rumbled by in their pickups. It was only September, but the waitress had mentioned the possibility of snow in the passes.

This is the high desert, where winter can come early and hard if it wishes. I didn’t want to take a chance getting stuck in the mountains at night, so I phoned Lutie.

“I’ll find a motel for the night,” I told her. “The truck's running fine, but I still don’t trust it in bad weather.” Then I said good night to Tru and promised him I’d be home the next day. “Behave for your aunt and uncle,” I said, “and do your homework.”

I checked into a local mom and pop motel, where ten rooms all faced a gravel parking lot. You could hear the neon vacancy sign sizzle when it flashed. At least they had cable TV, but there wasn’t anything on I was interested in, so I turned out the light, stretched out on top of the covers in my
clothes. Next door someone played a crackly country radio station.

But that wasn’t what kept me awake. In my head Nova and Tru argued over trivial things and laughed about nothing. They jumped on the bed until the springs squeaked and thudded pillows up against each other's heads. I could almost hear my daughter's laughter on her tenth birthday, squealing in delight over that green tutu, only to have the trademark “whatever” and obligatory sighs rush in to overtake her innocence.

I remembered listening for the click of the door when she’d come home late, or the cadence of her breathing when she had pneumonia last year, or the pitch of her voice as she whined about homework, or the distinct stomp of her feet when she was being stubborn.

What I would never remember was the sound of my father's voice. I’d never know if it had been tenor or bass, smooth or raspy, full of animated inflection or more subdued. I’d never know if he said
Carib
bean or
Ca
rib
bean
. I knew I would never have tired of the sound of that voice. If blood was indeed thicker than water, then a part of him coursed through me.

Finally, I rolled off the bed, double-checked the door lock, and plumped up the meager motel pillow. Taking off my jeans, I left on my sweatshirt and climbed beneath the thin covers.

Still my mind wouldn’t rest. Nova. I ached for her return. I ached for a real home. Would I ever find it? When Rubin talked about Murkee as his home, it sounded so natural. But I still wasn’t sure I liked small-town living, especially a small town with no real library.

Then it hit me. Before I returned to Murkee in the morning I’d visit the small public library here. No doubt they had some reference books on water rights and Native artifacts and gravesites. If nothing else, I’d scan the archives. Finally, I slept fitfully.

I
n the morning, I was the first person in the county library door. I dove into the stack of reference books I piled on a study table and took notes on a yellow legal pad, scanning through chapters on the Oregon desert and histories of different areas in this sparsely settled region. I read about feuds and fights, spanning the twentieth century, and most of them were about the same issue: water. People had even shot each other now and then.

I reread the NAGPRA laws. Besides the FBI, state agencies included the Bureau of Land Management, Bureau of Indian Affairs, and Forestry and Land Use, as well as police. I still couldn’t figure out which office kept the document records. I found newspaper accounts of a man in Bend whose entire house had been filled with stolen artifacts. That guy was in jail. Maybe George was right. Accusing Linc of stealing might stick better than trying to trace a document.

I left with an armload of articles about water rights
in perpetuity
and Native American sacred burial sites. The townspeople thought Linc was their benefactor. It wouldn’t be simple to change that.

So far, Linc hadn’t even flinched. I was the outsider here. Since Nova's disappearance I’d begun to feel even more out of place. The urge to walk away from my father's troubles surfaced once more. What did I know about sacred objects? And was I naïve enough to think Linc would snatch the heart rock and arrowhead and then put his hands in the air in surrender? George said Jackson was a smart cookie.

I climbed into Tiny's pickup and snagged my sweater on a metal coil sticking out from the seat cushion. The truck, cranky in the morning chill, refused to start on the first three tries. Finally, after I stomped on the gas pedal and whispered a quick prayer, the engine turned over.

How could I ever hope to fit into a little one-gas station town like Murkee? I’d be forever running one step ahead of spiteful ranchers like Linc and the inevitable gossips of smalltown life. I didn’t have the first idea about how to can fruit, and I really didn’t care. I certainly hated to crochet. And even if I allowed myself to trust God I doubted if the Red Rock Tabernacle would suit my urban tastes.

Then there was Nova. When I found her, would she return to Murkee? Perhaps if I dangled in front of her the prospect of moving back to the city she might agree to some house rules.

Lost in thought, I made a wrong turn and had to back track five miles to get pointed in the right direction again. My arms ached from gripping the steering wheel.

Suddenly, I craved the familiar—the known. Portland might be a sprawling metropolis, rife with crime and pollution, but it was the only place the kids really knew and called home. For the first time I looked at the situation from their point of view. No wonder Nova had run away. I wouldn’t listen.

By the time I pulled into the sheriff's branch office to check on her, my mascara had run from more tears. Maybe we didn’t belong in Murkee. I had to find Nova and then I would make some calls to Portland. Running an audio/visual lab part-time had to be better than living in a run-down trailer with Linc Jackson for a neighbor, long-lost father or not. Nova was right. My father was dead and nothing would bring him back.

At the sheriff's department, I retold a female deputy how my daughter had been upset about the divorce, the move to Murkee, and life in general. My voice grew thick as I described her rebellious appearance and her tendency to stomp out in the middle of arguments, only to show up a few days later at a friend's home. The woman looked perplexed, as if she didn’t
understand how a parent could let these things happen. Or perhaps my guilt was simply as transparent as my attempt to be matter-of-fact.

She wanted to know when I’d last seen her. “A little over two weeks ago,” I admitted. “My neighbor's grandson is missing too, and he called once from Portland,” I added. “They may be together.”