Alibi Creek (12 page)

22

R
OOT
-
BOUND HOUSEPLANTS HAD BEEN MOVED
to the front porch. The ficus and jade trees desperately needed larger pots. Baby spider plants begged for freedom from their mother and the sansevieria cried to be divided. Lee Ann carried big planters from the garden shed and sliced open bags of potting soil, donned gardening gloves, and filled the watering can.

“There,” she said, after placing the newly potted plants in the mudroom and sweeping up the mess. “If you aren't happy now, you will be by next week. I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

She had learned to cook from assisting Mother and watching Grace. Meat loaf, roasts, and pies from Mother. Mexican food from Grace, who claimed Lee Ann's flour tortillas looked like maps of Australia. Mexicans, Grace said, had the gene for rolling perfectly round tortillas, estimating how hot the griddle should be to receive them, and knowing the exact moment to flip them to freckle the surface.

Manuel and Rudy, the sheriff's ranch hands who would join Eugene and the boys for roundup, were raised in the Hispanic community of Alba and preferred New Mexican green chile stew, but Eugene and the boys preferred Texas-style chile and that's what Lee Ann planned to serve for the mid-day meal at tomorrow's roundup. In addition to tortillas, she'd add chopped green chile and cheddar cheese
to a double batch of cornbread and bake a carrot cake with cream cheese icing for dessert.

From a sack in the pantry, she leveled off several cups of pinto beans into a big enamel pot and added enough water to soak them overnight. She'd already stopped by Walt's after work and picked up onions and a few of his famous withered bell peppers, lemons, and a cabbage for coleslaw.

In the old days, when they ran three times the cattle and needed three times the men, Mother would request volunteers to help in the kitchen, roundup the excuse for a social event that gathered folks from far-off ranches. The following weeks would bring the same crew and the same women to another ranch. But the cattle industry in the southwest had taken a beating. Five or six hands (depending if Walker participated or not) could handle the work these days. Edgar was too old and arthritic. The Walker Ranch acreage was puny, hardly looked upon as a ranch at all by some, lush bottomland and national forest grazing allotments the only advantages keeping them in business. The men would start early and bring the cattle in from the range, move them through the canyons, across the highway, and through the creek toward the chute, separate mothers from calves, inoculate, brand, and castrate, and pen those ready for sale. The following morning they'd move the herd to winter pasture.

Walker might ride along, or not. As a kid, he'd been too excited the night before roundup to sleep. As an adult, the events of the previous night determined the hour he'd wake and whether a hangover prevented participating. She preferred he not show. Save Eugene getting worked up.

After adjusting Mother's covers and whispering goodnight, she stopped in her old bedroom. Clothes still formed a mound at the foot of the bed and rhinestone jewelry, eye
shadow, eyeliner, and every shade of lipstick covered the bureau. She opened a tube of Hot Stuff, raised the color to her nose and sniffed.

“There you are.”

Lee Ann stiffened.

“Seems we're on opposite schedules,” Danielle said, filling the doorframe, one hand on her hip, the other patting her thigh.

“I didn't mean to be snooping,” Lee Ann said, replacing the top on the lipstick. “Just wanted to make sure you were settled. I've been meaning to stop by the motel and get re-acquainted…”

“I'm going out in an hour, just came home to change clothes.”

Home. Lee Ann snatched the word, set it aside. Not yours. Mine.
My
kitchen waiting to be filled with men's chatter, casseroles bubbling in the oven, today's mail. Home. Mother waiting, clothes blowing on the line, elk passing through, birds nesting, dogs sleeping on the porch.
My
flowers,
my
orchard,
my
garden.

She said, “I'd like to sit down over a cup of coffee, catch up, and go over Mother's schedule. Walker must have explained.”

“He did. Maybe this weekend,” Danielle said. “Where are my cats?”

Oh, dear. She'd forgotten to tell Edgar to feed them.

“They're in the workshop. I'm afraid they'll have to stay there. Mother's allergic.” She stepped away from the dresser. “Why don't you come by tomorrow afternoon after the men have eaten?”

Danielle entered the room and kicked off her shoes. “Sundays, I'm off at four.”

Lee Ann bolted toward the hall. “See you then. And congratulations on your remarriage!”

23

A
DIME
-
SIZE SPOT OF CHILE
dripped off the ladle onto Lee Ann's skirt, just above the knee. She was out of Shout. Walt's charged double for that sort of item and she refused to pay his prices. She'd quit shopping at the Alibi Creek Store since the marquis that once announced the price of gas began advertising the cost of liquor. Plus, the combined smell of booze, cigarettes, and greasy pine floor was sickening. Mother would know a home remedy. She should've written down her household tips when she'd had the chance.

Perhaps Grace had stored some spot remover at Mother's. Crossing the yard, she heard voices, a woman and man talking and laughing. Light from inside Mother's living room window shone onto the porch. The talking and laughter stopped, replaced by footsteps shuffling through leaves. Eugene carried an armload of firewood from beneath the overhang at the end of Mother's house up the steps. He walked erect, chest puffed out, shoulders back. Danielle stood above him, lit from behind, her shoulder against the porch post. Beside the front door, Eugene bent from the waist, gallantly almost, and placed each log precisely, as if he alone had perfected the art of stacking wood, his posture the same as when he and Lee Ann first started seeing each other—that of a man aroused, a man redefined by a woman, proud of his appeal, smug in his ability to seduce. Big man helping little lady.

She backed up, breathless. For heaven's sake, calm down…nothing had happened…though it could…he'd never…Lord, he'd cheated with her, she with him…do it once…really now, he was trustworthy…

But Danielle…

He hadn't laughed like that since before Walker came home…was it the night Caroline and her husband came over to play Mexican Train…or on August 21st, when Dee gave him a tiny mustache brush to comb the long wiry hairs that had begun to sprout from his eyebrows for his birthday…or the night he played the rogue and she the innocent victim…

She slipped back to the house and ate four cookies, took a bite of another one and threw it across the room, covered her face with her hands and shook with all the energy stored up from bearing up—with Walker, with the commissioners, with Mother.

Mother, Mother, Mother! All the time and effort spent caring for her. Cooking, cajoling, feeding, dressing, laundering, cleaning. Tending to her bath and toilet needs. Talking softly when a scream would better voice her frustration. Now, the skin on Mother's legs had begun to blaze red, ooze, and stretch over swollen ankles. She'd soiled herself twice this last week. Got the hiccups after every meal. Did she have a headache, toothache, stomachache? Heartache?

Eugene, whose arms comforted, words encouraged, smile praised. Couldn't remember the last time they'd held hands, exchanged knowing looks or pet names—Doll, Jellybean, Ever Girl, Captain, Jujube, Gumdrop, Buttercup. Couldn't lose him. Had been losing him. He'd been slipping away since the moment Walker returned. Damn Walker, anyway. Damn him!

But now you must put them all away: anger, wrath, malice, slander and obscene talk from your mouth.
Colossians 3:8.

The Bible. For solace. For wisdom. Read, search, understand, accept. Look to The Word to find The Way. She crossed the dining room to the round table with its perfect arrangement of Bible, bookmark, and portrait. Her pink gardening gloves had been left on the Bible and muddied the word
Holy.
Clumps of potting soil had fallen on Grandma Edna's handiwork, the tiny knots and loose spaces clogged with dirt.

Scott and Dee came in, tossed their hats on the buffet, and went to the bathroom to wash up.

“You'll have to wait for dinner tonight,” she said, whisking the Bible, blowing on it, lifting the tablecloth and running her palm underneath. “I'm busy.”

Scott turned back.

“Everything okay, Mom?”

She nodded, everything okay. She rubbed the Bible with her shirtsleeve and set it on the edge of the table. It teetered precariously and she pushed it closer to the center, dragging the tablecloth and Jesus with it. She ran outside without a jacket and hid in the trees, blowing on her fingers, pressing her knees together to prevent them from knocking.

Eugene swaggered down the steps like a teenage boy on his first date. Danielle waved. Halfway down the path he looked back and she tossed her hair, waved again.

24

W
ALKER DROVE BY
V
ERA
'
S SEARCHING
for Keith's white Suburban and not spotting it, accelerated past Owen's pickup parked in front of the Church of Christ. Rose Fletcher's flabby, bland face, contorted into exaggerated sympathy, would be advising Owen and Rita on Ross's funeral arrangements. Of course, a donation would be welcome if they chose to show their appreciation. Damn preachers and their suffering wives.

When he died, he'd be buried up the canyon under the stars between a pair of ponderosas he'd watched inch their way into the sky since he was a boy, no headstone summing up a man's life in a couple of brief sentences, no numbers dating his existence, no preacher embellishing his memory with a line of bullshit. He hadn't specifically defined his thoughts on life and death, but there had to be more to the great mystery than anyone figured. Before birth, his spirit had probably toured outer space and oops, got trapped on the physical plane and without being consulted, had been assigned a brief stint here on earth. Confined to a body too small to contain his exuberance, he'd bounce around this world as best he could until his organs wore out or a sudden accident set his essence free. Beyond that, it was anyone's guess where a soul might travel, what inconceivable realities were yet to be encountered. No sense mulling over the alternatives because no one, not Pastor Fletcher himself, could
fathom or prove anything beyond the limitations of this here planet. So, hey, “be here now,” as they say. Operate by your wits in any given situation. Play the game. On the moment of departure, the physical world and all its trappings vanish.

He zoomed along the highway, took the turn into Plank's Plot on two wheels, splashed through the creek and screeched to a halt in front of the trailer, choking on dust thick as fog. Keith came down the steps clearing the air with his hat.

Walker left the cab door open and motor running. This would only take a minute.

“Mornin'. Glad I caught you before you trekked off somewhere,” he said, withering in front of the not-so-jolly green giant. The trailer provided some consolation, its tacky construction whispering,
You and I recognize each other. It's as uncomfortable for me having him living inside as it is for you dealing with him.

“You're doing just fine, I see. I'm guessing this property has awakened your senses, excited a long lost part of yourself. The kid in you.”

“It is pretty special.”

“Damn right.” He scratched the back of his neck. Might as well come right out and say it. This dude wasn't about to make conversation easy. “The price is $880,000.00.”

Damn, he did look like a giant—feet planted, arms folded across his chest, biceps and forearms bulging.

“I'll consider that when I see proof of ownership.”

Walker scurried to produce the envelope.

“Got a quitclaim deed from Ross Plank right here. It's legit. Signed and notarized.”

Keith studied the form. “Drawn up just this week.”

“And lucky, too. The old man died yesterday, in his sleep. As I said, I'm just checking to see if you need anything.
Otherwise I'll come by Monday after you've given it some thought and we can wind things up.”

If Keith were any other man, Walker would offer to stick around, point out hidden trails, buy drinks at Art's, and treat him to a meal at Vera's. This iceberg wasn't going to melt, though. Let Danielle work him.

Keith handed back the deed.

“I'll have to see a clear title.”

“No question about the title. This property's been in the Plank family for three generations, never a loan on it, no liens against it. Reason I know is my family's been here longer than that. Around here folks got nothing better to do than keep up on other folks' business. And believe me, I could tell you some things about Ross Plank, how he saw the world through a two inch pipe, blind to everything outside that scope. The man had no imagination, wrapped up what could have been a great story in a couple of sentences. Couldn't dance, didn't drink. Repetitive as ‘Silent Night' at Christmas, so boring we'd yawn soon as he opened his mouth. But he was honest. George Washington didn't have anything on Ross in the never-told-a-lie department. If you asked how he was doing he'd tell you, ‘My feet ache. This morning I had a bout of diarrhea after a week of constipation. I sprouted this darn wart here on my left cheek and wax is clogging my ears, making me deaf. My back tooth on the upper right side needs pulling because of a quarter inch cavity worrying the nerve.' He'd reveal down to the last penny how much he paid for his yearling calves and how much his taxes went up and the amount of Charlotte's inheritance. He'd tell you if you looked bad, and how bad. You'd about want to smack him in the mouth. No, there ain't no problem with the title to this place. Half the county would know about it if there was.”

Keith said, “I'll pay you half now and the rest after the title search.”

“Look man, investigating an honest man's record is a waste of time and money.” Christ. “No, sir,” Walker said. “It's all or nothin'. I got this quitclaim deed and if you don't want it, there'll be someone else eager to grab up the best bargain this side of the state line.”

He slipped the paper back into its envelope and touched it to his hat brim.

“
Hasta
Monday,” he said.

He spent the afternoon in Show Low filling a cart with a pair of beige Dockers, a sage green shirt, white socks, and a plastic belt—the outfit something a nine-to-five nerd would wear. And white fake-leather running shoes, size nines, with lightning bolts zigzagging along the sides. He twirled the sunglasses rack, settled on silver wire frames that weighed the least and looked the best and bought a brown baseball cap with a Dallas Cowboys logo. Christ, he'd sworn never to shield his brow with one of those bird beaks advertising a bunch of dumb jocks owned by a few rich guys in big cities. Big cities, small cities, they were all the same—monster machines chugging along, oiled by mortgage payments and car payments and credit card debt, young couples signing on the dotted line for a shot at the American Dream—a house they couldn't afford, a car they could afford, a day without shopping unimaginable. Green forests a memory, silence forgotten. While he was at it, might as well get one of those cell phones with prepaid minutes.

He left his truck in the Safeway/Hairs To You/Taco Bell parking lot and walked down West Deuce of Clubs and into the High Lonesome, an upscale joint compared to Art's. He straightened his collar and ordered a Dos Equis.
Late afternoon turned into early evening, conversation moving from the world going to hell to the best whiskey to the pathetic Diamondbacks to weather predictions. A couple of older gals plopped their soft behinds on stools beside him, ready for anything on a Saturday night. Didn't take much to get them giggling. He told them about driving twenty-five miles into the forest with a woman new to Alibi Creek to collect flat rocks for her walkway. The axle broke on his truck with nothing but a cooler of beer in the bed and a ten-foot rope behind the seat. Ordered that city girl to settle down, take a walk, and be patient, they weren't going to be stranded and die of starvation. Being a genius, he used the rope to tie the axle together and drove home
very
slowly. That woman chased him around Bud Berry's New Year's Eve party until he had to hide in the closet to get away from her. Apparently, rope tying impressed women. At nine o'clock he tucked the napkin with both gals' phone numbers in his vest pocket, tossed it in the first trashcan he passed and started the two-hour drive home.

At Mother's, he tiptoed down the hall, cracked Danielle's door. Empty.

Hell, might as well ride along with the roundup crew in the morning. The saddle called.