The Fence My Father Built (8 page)

Keeping you sounds good, but life is too complicated for that. Even the state says you should be with your mother, although your hair is slick and straight as our ancestors. Only the freckles across your nose set you apart. I’ve wondered a million times which path you’ll take, Native or white. Like the gnarled Manzanita that grows in this desert, there are many directions you could go.

A
ll my life I’ve been a seeker: seeker of truth, seeker of my past, many times seeker of my car keys. I knew I’d have to find the truth about Joseph Pond and untangle this mess over a silly creek. I needed to discover whether Murkee was a good place to raise kids. Chaz, I was sure about. The final papers would come through any time now. Most of all I craved the peace of country life.

I also was aware that breathing country air wasn’t going to pay the bills. I would need to apply soon to the unified school district, a tiny district twenty miles away that included three small towns. Library services were probably a luxury, but I could teach history if I had to. If no teaching posts were open, then I would sweep floors, wait tables, or whatever it took to keep us going.

If—no,
when
—I found work, I’d look into finding an apartment. Sharing a bed with a surly teen while my son bunked with a sewing machine wasn’t going to work out for long. Much as I appreciated Lutie's hospitality, I wasn’t sure I could stand her constant scripture-quoting or Tiny's noisy pigs. Back at the little café, Dove mentioned Mrs. Johnson's duplexes.
That would be a place to start. Perhaps Mrs. Johnson needed a caretaker, a fix-it person. I didn’t have the first idea of fixing leaky pipes, but I could learn. A duplex in town would at least be a little quieter. I’d get on it—soon.

I was slowing down gradually to the pace around me, a pace that meant going to town only when necessary, doing whatever came next instead of sitting around in staff meetings writing five-year goals. Here I was on a Saturday morning, babysitting a wounded pig, daydreaming out loud.

After Jim's accident, he could no longer sleep out with the rest of the animals. At least that's what Tru and Tiny told Lutie, although she fussed about converting the space next to the newly repaired TV into a pigpen. Still, she furnished the patient with a ratty blanket and even looked the other way when Tru slipped him table scraps. As I was discovering, her crusty demeanor was a shell for a deep reverence of life, a concern that softened her.

Jim improved every day, and soon he began to wander the house freely. He’d bump into things with the Elizabethan collar and then back up with this surprised look. He couldn’t figure out what was different, poor thing, just as he obviously wasn’t sure why he could no longer snort and squeal. I sympathized with him. The changes in my life were just as baffling, and I, too, couldn’t decide exactly what was different.

“You know, Jim, they need a library in Murkee,” I said, straightening his bed while he watched a video on the TV that Tiny had so graciously repaired. “The school has about ten books, and they’re all old encyclopedias. No wonder the kids all turn out to be ranch hands and truck drivers.”

In fourth grade Loren H. had called me names in the school library, and I’d punched him so hard he knocked the globe off a shelf and split it in two. Mrs. Davis, the librarian, sent me into the hall, and I decided to have my own library some
day. After that, I began to categorize and reshelve everything in my life. Here, I thought, was a great opportunity. As soon as the superintendent found out I was available, he would surely hire me.

“I’ll have the kids around here begging for John Donne instead of plasma TV,” I said aloud to Jim.

The pig stared at the tube. “See what I mean? TV just turns us all into zombies.” Jim was as responsive as Nova, although less sullen.

My daughter sat at the dinette table, painting each of her nails a different color. The bottles of polish stood open, brushes atilt, filling the kitchen with the biting smell of acetone. Shades like midnight blue and metallic green suited her; even the bright yellow gloss had a melancholy look to it. She pursed her lips and carefully stroked each fingertip, as if this was the only thing in life worth doing.

“Planning to come with us to the cookout tomorrow?” I asked her so she’d feel more like she was making her own decisions.

“And do what? Hang with geeks? Duh.” Nova let out one of her famous sighs and blew lightly on her fingertips. She could be a pretty girl, even beautiful, if she ever gave up hating the world. At least she wasn’t wearing all black yet, although I was halfway afraid to praise her for it.

“If you stay here Uncle Tiny and Jim will drive you nuts. You know how they love those
Green Acres
episodes.”

“He's not going?” Her breath again hissed out, louder than before. “Fine. I guess I could show for a little while. Teach the losers how to be cool.”

“You’ll be cool, all right, and don’t embarrass the rest of us. You know what I mean.”

“My hair? Come on, it's no big deal.”

“Wash out that gunk, and I’ll forget that you didn’t do the dishes yet.” I’d insisted the children take over that chore from Aunt Lutie, which was an unpopular decision to say the least.

Nova pushed away from the table and held her fingers up in the air. “My nails are wet. How can I do dishes?”

“Whatever.” I smiled. Sometimes I was more like her than I thought.

T
hat afternoon the Tabernacle Ladies, as I called the loosely knit group, assembled at our place for a planning session for the upcoming fall bazaar. Gladys Mason and several others trouped into the living room, where Lutie had set the dinette chairs in a semicircle. They arranged themselves, and I sat next to a large woman named LaDonna Johnson, whose electric blue polyester blouse whooshed with her every move. She was taking notes on a small spiral-bound pad. Aunt Lutie sat in her recliner, holding court and wielding her usual authority.

“Frieda, will you open us in prayer today?” Lutie smiled at Frieda, a mousy shy woman. Frieda looked at her feet. “Come on,” Lutie urged, “the Lord perks right up when he hears you praying.”

This was going to be a long afternoon. I tried not to look bored and bowed my head politely as dear Frieda started in. The moment she opened her mouth, though, she was transformed from wallflower to warrior. I was impressed, in spite of the God-sized chip I still had on my spiritual shoulder. Somehow, Frieda's prayer lightened me, if only for a moment. I wondered if Nova, who had refused to come out of the bedroom, would feel the sincerity of Frieda's efforts through the trailer's thin walls.

After the “amen,” Frieda returned to her quiet self, and Lutie opened the meeting. It was mostly the kind of talk you’d expect from a bunch of church ladies: How many tote tables they’d need and how much to charge for the privilege of selling pies, canned goods, and a myriad of crafts and handiwork. LaDonna was breathless as she outlined her plan for keeping the quilts and the crocheted afghans clean and dry after last year's “
fee-asco
,” she said.

“And Linc told me at the end of last season he’ll be upping the rent again,” LaDonna continued. “Maybe we ought to move the whole kit and caboodle back over to the church.” She sighed. “And pray it don’t rain.”

“But we all agreed that Linc's is the only place big enough,” Lutie said.

Gladys broke in, straightening her long legs out into the middle of the room. “That's it right there, LaDonna,” she said. “The church is just too crowded, and out in the yard everything is at the mercy of the weather and the dust. We need that hall.”

“Suppose we took up a collection beforehand?” A woman named Velma said with a smirk. “Make the menfolk pull their weight.” Velma was heavier than La Donna but a lot less cheerful.

The more I listened, the more I was convinced that they were as courageous and fulfilled in their own way as any liberated city woman. The thing that nagged at me was their silence when it came to Linc. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how he managed to run the town and keep these fiercely independent folks in line. Even here, where my outspoken aunt held her own brand of influence, the ladies refused to speak of him except as pertained to the meeting hall they needed.

When the conversation finally sounded more casual—talk of the weather and which animals were doing what, who was attending the county fair this month—I took a chance and asked a question of the group. “I’m curious,” I said, suddenly feeling as shy as Frieda. “Why would Linc charge a bunch of church ladies to set up their bazaar in his place?” All the women stared at me as if I’d asked why God made air.

Frieda said, “Linc's only got that way since he's been back.” She reached for a cookie and tore a big bite from its side. “He's done so much for all of us. You’d think certain people would be grateful.”

Lutie's eyes blazed. “Frieda, if I told you once I told you twice, Linc is up to more than getting his rights back.”

Frieda sniffed. “I only meant there are a lot of us who are beholden to him. He never charged us a fee before all this came up with your brother.”

I volunteered. “What's the difference between the two venues? Couldn’t we just use the church?”

LaDonna chimed in. “At least
someone
has a decent head on her shoulders.”

“It's too small, LaDonna.” Lutie looked exasperated.

LaDonna rolled her eyes. “It just burns me up to pay to hold a bazaar.”

Lutie shrugged. “I know, I know.” She sighed. “But how else will we raise enough money for our own hall?”

After a few moments, Frieda spoke in a whisper. “Jesus said to render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's,” she said and looked at the floor once again. The others set their mouths into thin hard lines, and LaDonna's blouse whooshed as she folded her arms over her chest.

Lutie struggled out of the recliner and stood before the group. She looked thinner than usual. “I’ll get Muri here straightened out on this later,” she said. “Now are we ready
for a vote? The hall or the churchyard? A roof over our heads or do we take our chances on the weather?”

“I guess we have no choice,” Frieda said with a huff.

“My Dresden Plate quilt was all but ruined two years ago out in the yard,” Gladys complained.

“At least the hall's got ceiling fans,” LaDonna said, and she fanned herself with her notepad.

“Well, I guess that's it then,” Lutie said. “Frieda? What do you say?”

“God is bigger than Linc,” she murmured. “Pay the tax and watch what He can do.”

A
fter the last Tabernacle Lady said good-bye, Nova stuck her head around the corner and said she was starving. She scavenged the leftover snacks while Aunt Lutie tried to engage her in conversation.

“You’re plenty old enough to take part in the bazaar,” Lutie said. “Here. Let me fix you up a plate.” She piled food on a paper plate, and Nova took it. I nodded at my daughter, and she understood my hint.

“Thanks,” she said and pulled a chair from the living room over to the dinette.

“You’ve got such a way with your outfits,” Lutie said, and pointed at the blouse Nova wore, the one my daughter had designed herself. “Bet you and Rhonda Gaye can create a winner,” Lutie said.

Nova stared ahead and poked at the food with her fork.

“You might make some new friends.” I could hear the wheedling tone in my voice. “Maybe Rhonda is into designing clothes too.” Nova groaned, and I let the matter drop.

But I decided it wasn’t worth waiting to catch Aunt Lutie alone before asking about Linc again. After all, she’d just said
Nova was plenty old enough for grown-up things. Tiny and Tru would be home again soon, and I needed some answers to questions like why Linc Jackson would bully my father over water in a measly creek? What Linc would need the creek for anyway, except to slake the thirst of a few stray cows? Whether Linc was really King of Murkee?

I laid my hand gently on Lutie's arm. “I need to know what's going on with Linc,” I said. Nova looked up briefly and then resumed grazing. “You said all the trouble is over water, right?

Lutie nodded. “Water rights, sure.”

“But why? Everyone I’ve met so far, including Linc, seems so neighborly.” I grabbed a basket of paper napkins and began folding them.

“We thought so, too, until a year ago. That's when Linc first asked your daddy to sell. Linc's property doesn’t butt up against the creek, but he didn’t want a slough like Doc Rubin. Joseph tried to convince Linc, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

“That creek isn’t exactly the Columbia River,” I said. “What's the big deal?”

Lutie rose and grabbed a sponge, wiping counters as she spoke. “It's a year-round creek. Out here water's everything. Anyway, Linc waved a paper in our faces—real official-looking document. Claims that creek belongs to him because of his great-granddad.”

“So why would he want to sue us?”

Nova stopped chewing and took a sip of her iced tea. “Maybe he's an evil corporate developer,” my daughter said. “Or an alien, breeding little aliens in the creek.” She smirked.

“That's enough of that,” I said.

Lutie held up her sponge. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it, kiddo? But there’ve been these rumors—”

“See?” Nova said. “I say let him have the creek. The water stinks.” She sniffed her tea and made a face.

“What rumors?” I controlled the urge to scold Nova.

“Just hearsay,” Lutie said. “Linc Jackson has kept a lot of families from going under around here.” She donned a pair of yellow rubber gloves and filled the double sink with suds and rinse water. “But some say he's bent on putting stick houses all over and some kind of fancy golf course too.”

The Tabernacle Ladies had said Linc owned everything in town but the church. “How’d Linc come to own most of Murkee?” I asked.

Lutie clanked dishes around in the sink. “This was Linc's great-granddaddy's town. Ulysses McMurphy bought it in the 1880s for around a thousand dollars, or so the story goes,” Lutie said. She looked at Nova. “Back then a thousand dollars went a lot farther than it would today.”

I grabbed two flour sack towels and handed one to Nova. She pushed back her chair loudly.