The Summer Son (3 page)

O
N THE FIRST LEG
of the trip from Cedar City, I took in plenty of farmland, the deep greens reminding me in some way of what I had left behind in Olympia. Once we made the turn north, the terrain turned more foreboding. This was unrelenting country—desert, almost, with scrub brush, austere buttes, and vast flatlands laid out in a broad valley framed by distant peaks and more sky than I had ever seen. This was the country Dad ventured into, fighting the earth, pushing pipe through the ground, then dropping a charge down the hole to be detonated and picked over by another crew.

As we approached town, the highway crossed the railroad tracks and jogged right, spitting us into downtown. Marie drove past boarded-up storefronts. I took note of the most regal of downtown buildings, the Hotel Milford, with its brick exterior and flat roof. Sitting on the edge of a town block as the hotel did, the front of the hotel curved along with the corner. I wanted to see the inside of that place.

After a few blocks, Marie turned into a trailer park, and I saw up ahead the Holiday Rambler and Dad’s pickup. During the warm months, Dad usually pulled a trailer to job sites; it was less expensive than holing up in even a cheap motel. During winter, when just moving the equipment was hard enough, the trailer stayed at his ranch in Montana. As we approached, I looked up and down at Dad’s big, sturdy Supercab. My heart sank when I realized that my motorcycle wasn’t in the back.

“Looks like they’re here,” Marie said.

“Yeah.”

It seemed interminable, the time it took for Marie to park the car and open the trunk so I could grab my bag and hustle inside to see Dad.

He was sitting on the couch when we came in, his work shirt stripped from his torso and wadded on the floor. Strewn about him were maps of the work areas, and Dad studied them through bifocals. Diesel and dust, the residue from Dad’s workday, hung in the air.

“Hi, Dad.”

My father looked up and grinned at me.

“How are you, sport? How was your trip?”

“Fine, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“He had a little problem on the flight to Cedar City. Threw up,” Marie said, bending over and kissing Dad on the forehead.

“You OK?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

I took measure of my summer home. I assumed that Dad and Marie would stay in the back, in the bedroom, and that I would spend the nights on the bed that folded out of the couch. I began to worry about what the sleeping arrangement was going to be, so far as Jerry was concerned. I couldn’t imagine that he wanted to share a bed with me any more than I wanted to sleep with him. The Holiday Rambler didn’t allow for privacy in the best of circumstances. If I were bedding down with my older brother, there would be none.

“Where’s Jerry?” I asked.

“He’s off seeing that girl.” Dad spat the words out.

“Is he staying here?” Dad, who had returned to studying his maps, didn’t answer.

“Oh no,” Marie said. “Jerry’s not staying here.”

“He and the other hand rented a place,” Dad said.

Had I not known my father like I did, I might have considered it odd that he would refer to an actual human being as “the hand,” or that by extension he would refer to his own son in the same way. But that’s what workers were to Dad. They were grist, fodder, a means to an end. He went through them so quickly and ruthlessly sometimes that there wasn’t much point in becoming so acquainted that given names were necessary, save for writing out payroll checks.

“Is Jerry—”

“Mitch, look, I’m busy here,” Dad said. “There are games in the office. Why don’t you go down there and play awhile.”

Marie, fussing with her hair in the bathroom, came out without being summoned. She dug into her purse, pulled out change, and poured it into my waiting hands.

About an hour later, Marie came into the office and told me that we would be going to dinner.

“Are you feeling up to it?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Your dad is real happy to see you,” she said. “He’s just trying to figure out the work for the next week or so. He’s a little run-down. Do you understand?”

“Sure.”

Marie offered her hand, and I took it as we walked back to the trailer to meet Dad. Then we all walked down the street to a diner.

Jerry and his girlfriend waited for us in a booth. I very nearly didn’t recognize him. In the year that he had been gone, he’d gotten a lot heavier, and from what I saw, the additions were muscle. If you were to look just at Jerry’s face, there was no mistaking that he was Dad’s son; his countenance had identical chiseled angles, as if it had been carved from stone. Jerry had also grown a robust beard.

“Little brother,” he said, jabbing at my ribs as I approached the table. I smiled at him, and at the pretty girl next to him.

“Hey, this is Denise.”

“Hi,” I said.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mitch.”

Dad and Marie slid into the seats opposite Jerry and Denise, who wriggled closer to my brother and patted the seat beside her, beckoning me to sit down.

“So what’s the plan, Pop?” Jerry said.

“I’ve been looking at it. I think we should pull out where we are tomorrow, then cross the highway and start in that new section. We’ll be all alone there.”

In Dad’s business, the biggest money went to the driller who could dig the fastest. Dad got paid a flat rate per foot, so it was in his interest to dig as many holes as he could each day, until the work was gone. Once this place was drilled out, everybody would pull out and chase the next job. I gathered from the conversation that too many rigs had congregated, scrapping it out over too few holes. Dad aimed to expand the field. I also knew that nobody could hang with his endurance. I had seen many a workday extended for one more hole, then one more, then one more, with my father pushing as deep into the clock as possible before the coming of night severed his ambition.

While Dad and Jerry talked shop, Marie and Denise chatted, and the scraps I heard told me I wanted no part of it. Girl talk made no sense to me.

“Jerry, I won the spelling bee at Garfield,” I broke in.

My brother nodded at me and said, “That’s great,” and then he dove right back in with Dad.

Denise leaned over to me and whispered, “That’s really cool. I can’t spell.” That made me smile.

The food came, and the chatter stopped. We tore into our burgers, and for a while, all that could be heard at our table was chewing and soda being sucked through straws.

Between bites, I tried again with Dad.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s my motorcycle?”

“Up at the ranch. We’ll get it when we’re on break.”

“When’s that?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“Mitch, just eat.”

I glanced at Marie, and she gave me a smile and then nodded at my food. I picked up a french fry and chomped it.

When the plates were cleared, Jerry asked if I wanted to go with him and Denise to a convenience store down the street.

“Yeah,” I said. “I also need to call Mom and let her know I’m here. She wants to talk to you, too.”

“Great,” Jerry said. He shook his head.

Dad handed Jerry his calling card. “Five minutes,” he said. “No more.”

Then Dad turned to me.

“You hurry back,” he said. “We get going early, so you’re going to need some sleep. You’re coming out with us, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you,” Dad barked at Jerry. “Ease off on that rutting. I need your strength.”

Marie jabbed Dad in the ribs with her elbow. Denise looked like she wished she could burst into flames.

“Yes, Mom.”

“No, Mom.”

“It was fine.”

“Yes, he was at the gate.”

“Yes.”

“He’s right here. I will. OK. I love you too.”

I handed the phone to Jerry, who went through a similar ritual.
Are you OK? Do you need anything? Are you eating well? Watch out for your brother. Be careful. I love you.

His duty done, Jerry hung up the phone.

“Twenty questions,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“It’s good to see you, Mitch. Really. You’ve grown.”

“So have you.”

I waited, but he didn’t have anything more to offer.

“Do you like it here with Dad?” I asked.

“I knew it wasn’t going to be easy working for the old man, and it hasn’t been. In a year, he’s gone through four other guys.”

I had seen enough of Dad’s dealing with employees to guess that the partings hadn’t been amicable, a fact that Jerry confirmed for me.

“Jesus, Mitch, the last one, up in Rock Springs, that was bad. Dad rode the guy about everything. He couldn’t do anything right. Too damn slow. Didn’t know the tools. Didn’t pay attention. Hell, Dad even told him once that he didn’t eat the right way. That last day, he’d finally had enough, I guess. He took a swing at Dad.”

I winced. “Really? What happened?”

“You know. Dad beat the shit out of him. Broke his nose. I had to pull him off the guy. I thought he might kill him.”

I shuddered, and then I changed the subject.

“Where did you meet her?” I nodded at Denise, who was on the other side of the store, looking at eight-tracks.

Jerry smiled. “Nice, eh?”

That was one way to put it. Denise—her long hair blonde, her tanned legs sprouting out of short cut-off jeans—was perhaps the prettiest girl I had ever seen.

“Yeah.”

“Met her right here. She just graduated from high school. Nice girl. A really nice girl.” From the deep-voiced way he said it, I could guess what he meant.

Jerry and Denise drove me back to the trailer. In the parking lot, he stopped and said, “Mitch, don’t press too hard with Dad, OK? Just be cool about the motorcycle and stuff like that. Things are kind of tough right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to get into it now. Just keep your head down, do what you’re told, and don’t give him a lot of problems. Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning. Early.”

I climbed out of the back seat, and Jerry threw the car into reverse and backed out to the street.

I headed for the trailer and wondered what might be waiting for me on the other side of the door.

I
SLEPT ALL THE WAY
to Denver, then stared out the window of the smaller jet for the hour-plus ride to Billings. Standing at the baggage carousel in Billings for the second time in four months, I felt as fresh as could be expected. In the face of uncertainty, that gave me heart.

I had called Cindy as the plane taxied to the gate. By rote, we said, “I’m sorry” to each other a lot these days, even if we didn’t always know what we were apologizing for. I offered my regrets and sought a last dose of bucking up.

“I’m still wondering if this is the right thing to do.”

“It is,” she said. “And as a practical matter, it doesn’t really make any difference now. You’re there.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Mitch, just stay on topic with him. Find out what’s wrong, and make your peace. It’s long overdue.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You act as though there’s peace to be had.”

“Are you arguing with me because you’re afraid to argue with him?”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t argue, then. Just talk to him. Find out what’s bugging him. You’re the bigger man here. You’re smarter, and you’re more mature.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right.”

“Now that’s my big, smart man.” The breathy way she said it was playful, something she hadn’t been in a long while.

I wished I could go home.

Behind the wheel of the rental car, I plunged into the heart of Billings.

Despite my attitude about being there, I liked the city. My feelings about it came with baggage, a whole lot of it, but I always wondered how things might have been different for me, and for all of us, had Mom never left. Billings had been my home for the first three years of my life, and it’s where I spent stretches of some childhood summers. This created an odd duality in which I knew Billings and was a stranger to it.

Until Mom spirited us away to Olympia, we lived in a small ranch-style house on the south side of Interstate 90. When I saw it on the visit a few months earlier, it was much as it seemed in my foggy memories, save for a new coat of paint and a chain-link fence in front where none had been before. Billings, as a whole, was scarcely the same place. Three decades of what some folks refer to as progress had transformed it into a mini-metropolis. But the place where we lived, near the Yellowstone River and in the shadow of Sacrifice Cliff, was the Billings that time forgot.

But I wasn’t headed to that old house, nor to the cattle ranch that Dad and Marie bought in the late seventies. Those were places of a different time and of different people. No longer the self-styled drilling baron, Dad puttered around a double-wide in the middle of town, playing out his days. No longer a wide-eyed, admiring son, I was just a guy in a rented Ford Focus, pushing my way toward an uncertain visit, burdened by fears in the present and thoughts of the past.

There was no sneaking up on the old man. Dad pulled back the curtain in his kitchen, alerted by my car as it spat gravel. He eased down the stairs as I retrieved my duffel bag from the trunk. His gray hair down to a few wisps, his pronounced limp from a long-ago broken hip, his face beaten into leather by the changing seasons on the back of a drilling rig, Dad looked older than his seventy-one years.

“What are you doing here, sport?”

“Figured I’d come out and see how you were doing.”

He looked me over. “Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

He headed back up the stairs toward the front door, and I followed. “You don’t need a reason.” He paused before opening the door, then said, “Might feel better about this if you offered one, though.”

“Well, I guess you’re just going to have to live with the truth. You’re my dad, and I wanted to see you.”

That earned me a Jim Quillen snort—a half-quizzical, half-dismissive acknowledgment that I had been heard if not believed. He opened the door and waved me through.

My desperate, unlikely hope that this might be a simple task was snuffed when I saw and smelled what was inside. Dad’s place bore little resemblance to what I had seen months earlier. A home of gingham patterns and throw pillows and country charm had ceded to strewn newspapers and clothes. It looked as though he was simply retrieving the wash and dumping it out into the middle of the floor. I saw dozens of food-stained paper plates set here and there. The place reeked of garbage.

“Holy shit.”

“I’d have cleaned up if I’d known you were coming,” Dad said. He would have needed a month’s notice.

“Where you staying?” Dad asked.

“I was hoping here. Would that be all right?”

Dad didn’t say yes or no, in so many words. He simply pointed down the hallway. I followed the direction of his finger while he started plucking up newspapers.