Alibi Creek (9 page)

17

D
EE DUSTED OFF THE CHOP
saw.

“We just moved it over here.”

Scott removed the screw from between his lips and quit drilling.

“We can't help you. These gates have to be finished today.”

Walker said, “What's more important? Moving the trailer or postponing roundup one more day? Them cows don't know the difference.”

Dee sliced through a two-by-four.

“Dad'll throw a fit. Manuel and Rudy are already lined up for Sunday and Monday.”

Walker picked up the sawed-off end and swung it like a baseball bat, raised his hand to shield his eyes as if he'd hit a home run so far out to right field he lost sight of it.

“He's going to blow up one way or the other,” he said, tossing the wood on the scrap pile. “I believe he'll be more pissed off if that trailer's still here. But maybe that's my imagination. Maybe he'll think, gosh, it's just fine having that hunk o' junk blocking the road. Maybe every time he wants to get out of here, he'll think, well, that's okay, I'll wait until tomorrow. Maybe he doesn't mind the sight of the big ugly thing at all, just looks over it or around it. Hell, maybe he even
likes
it there, a reminder of how much unexpected
joy I bring into his life. Come on. Won't take but a couple hours to reset the block and hook her back up. Then I'll help you slap these gates together.”

Scott laid the drill on the table.

Dee unplugged the saw.

A couple of hours turned into five. Dinnertime came and went.

“Tell you what,” Walker said, after completing the job. “You boys deserve a drink.”

“No thanks,” Scott said. “You going to help us now, or what?”

“Or what?” Walker whined. “Course I'm going to help. Said I would, didn't I?”

The evening star blinked in a deep purple sky as they pulled the vehicles to a stop in front of the workshop. They opened the doors to find Eugene beside the worktable, facing them.

Dee mumbled, “We were giving him a hand moving the trailer.”

“I'm here to make up for lost time,” Walker said. “These gates'll be ready to swing off their posts by midnight. Guaranteed.”

The hit to his stomach came fast and hard. Walker buckled forward and another punch caught his jaw, jerking his head to the side. He heard his neck crack. Had no breath. Dropped to the floor. Eugene stood over him, his voice coming from far away.

“I'll break your neck next time. Now, get up and get outta here.”

Walker rolled on his side and brought his knees to his chest.

“Pick him up and throw him out.”

Scott and Dee lifted Walker by the armpits, draped his arms around their necks, dragged him to his truck, and propped him in the seat. Dee headed back to the shop. Scott searched for the Pleiades and greeted the sisters, huddled together in the sparkling universe, waiting for Orion, due in January. When Dee yelled his name, he floated down to earth, tossed Walker's hat on the seat and placed his dangling hand in his lap. He reached behind the seat and yanked out an old Mexican blanket, spread it over Walker's chest and tucked it behind his shoulders.

Ouch. And more ouch. A rib might have snapped like a cracker, his spleen might have ruptured. He slouched behind the wheel, uncertain whether he could steer, if bumping over the gravel road would hurt bad enough to knock him out, if a shot of liquor would cure him or kill him. Most likely cure him. He willed his hand to reach for the ignition. Get me to the bar, baby. His head rolled back and he closed his eyes. Short, quick breaths tickled his nostrils. From time to time he heard the saw tear through a piece of wood, the whir of power drills, the whack of a hammer, laughter and an occasional cough. Thirst drove him to lean forward and turn the key, the humming engine comforting as a lullaby. The blanket crumpled and he pushed it aside. Gingerly, his foot pressed the pedal. Roll on out of here. I-n-c-h across the creek. E-a-s-y does it, up the rise and onto the highway.

The Jeep was parked in front of number 16. His rat-a-tat went unanswered. He leaned against the wall until the pain in his stomach subsided and labored across the street. Inside the bar, Jo's red hair glowed like a lantern at the end of a line of unoccupied stools, cigarette smoke rising straight up from the ashtray next to her drink. Art stood
across from her, talking low. The same hunters as last night moved between the tables.

Danielle was seated at a table for two next to the wall, leaning forward, gazing like a woman in a trance into Keith Lampert's dark eyes with adoring, mascara-caked ones of her own. Keith rested back, the Handsome Man profile semi-smiling.

Walker's feet stuck to the sticky floor. The onrush of heat could be jealousy, but he wasn't the jealous type—to each his own, and all that. If things didn't work out with one gal, on to the next. His rising temperature was due to the bitch operating on her own.

He managed a step, then another.

“I see you two have met,” he said.

Danielle kept her eyes on Keith, who kept his on her.

Walker said, “I'll get a drink and join you.”

He asked Art how long they'd been there. Over an hour, long before Jo came in.

Walker swallowed a shot and asked for another.

Jo said, “She's your wife. Go claim her.”

Shit, it didn't work that way. Under the current circumstances, marriage meant nothing, had meant little even in their youth, when they'd imagined themselves in love. He carried his drink across the room. If Keith looked at Danielle close up, say at mid-day, he couldn't ignore the signs of wear that had been visible in the trailer that morning—lines around and between her eyes, gray circles under them, sagging skin on her upper arms, some problem in her right knee that caused her to get up like an old lady. Then again, Keith might not care that she couldn't stick with a job for more than six months. He might remain blind to the fact that her only aim in life was to dazzle any man who crossed her path and follow the poor
sucker with no clear idea of where her latest conquest might lead her.

He rested a hand on the back of Danielle's chair.

“Honey, I guess Keith told you I showed him Plank's place today.”

“He did,” she purred, smiling at Keith.

The pain in his gut prevented dragging over a chair and lowering himself into it.

“You're all set, Keith,” he said. “I've set up a trailer for you. You drive on out there and make yourself at home. I'll bring the ATV in the morning. Darlin', I need a word with you.” He took her arm. “Step out back with me a moment.”

Outside, Danielle shook off his hand.

“You said we had to get that trailer
off
Plank's property,” she said.

“He wants to stay out there for a couple of days. You're going to make his visit extra special, so he falls in love with the place. I see the two of you, Miss Centerfold and Mister Tall, Dark and Sorta' Handsome, having a fling. You'll have him crooning love songs to the moon. Coyotes will answer. Mice will scatter. Your wide eyes and parted lips will suggest you want to be his slave. Shit, you hardly have to act. Watch out, though. The guy hasn't told us one thing about himself. He's locked tight as a garage door in suburbia and I ain't trusting what's inside.” Her lower lip stuck out. Just hours ago that little pout had been cute. Amazing how the most exquisite woman looks kinda' ugly if there's no beauty inside, the façade as temporary as a coat of paint peeling with age. “You'll be fine. I been watching you. You already got it figured out.” He pushed her inside. “Remember, we're married. You're doing this romancin' on the sly. You come home every night, like a good girl.”

At the bar, he pulled the stool next to Jo under his butt.

“That was quick,” she said.

He squeezed Jo's knee, making her squeal.

“You're the only gal for me,” he said, but his eyes drifted to the two-top by the wall and his foot jiggled up and down. Tonight, his bruised body would curl up alone in his single bed while those two snuggled up in number 16.

18

L
EE
A
NN CAME IN FROM
the chicken house with three eggs and put them in the fridge. The hens slowed production as the days shortened. She selected Marie Callender's Home Style Meatloaf Dinner from the freezer in the mudroom and balanced it on top of a Saran-wrapped bowl of cherry Jell-O. Mother frowned on frozen dinners. A woman's duties included serving homemade meals, preferably meat and at least one vegetable for supper, with dessert made from scratch. Planning ahead, making do with what was left in the pantry, using what was plentiful in the garden, and canning the rest were on Lee Ann's list of “should-do's.” Sunday the men would gather for roundup. There simply wasn't time this week to be the perfect countrywoman.

Announcing her arrival with a sparrow's song, she left the food on the cook stove. Get her to the bathroom, dole out her evening pills, offer an explanation for the poor excuse for a meal, or not. Wonder if she hears or comprehends. Wonder if “roundup” tickles memories of Dad and Edgar on horseback working cattle. Wonder if she cares that Saul Duran ordered official documents shredded, along with memos re-apportioning funds for Head Start. Wonder if she understands the term “closed session,” if she senses the pressure of covering up secret deals, or sympathizes with the guilt of cheating county residents.

Possibly, the commissioners' actions and Lee Ann's coercion fooled no one. While collecting files to be altered, the courthouse seemed hushed. Office doors closed. Clerks rushed down the hall, whispering, their eyes searching for double meaning in her requests.

When last consulted, the Bible had said,
Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the spirits.
Romans 8:1. She'd shoved the passage aside and held up the portrait of Jesus with both hands, his face level with hers.

“Lord, in public the commissioners proclaim to ‘walk with God, according to the spirits,' but pronouncements don't make it so.” She shook the picture. “If they steal, they should be punished. Instead, You let them get away with it.”

Her elbow knocked the Bible to the floor. She dropped the picture and snatched the Book up and wiped the front and the back with her apron and brought it to her lips. Sorry. So sorry. She propped His picture in place. A crack had split the glass across His forehead.

Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, clothed in women's dresses, wigs, and high heels, were chasing Marilyn Monroe down a busy street in
Some Like it Hot.
Boxes surrounded Mother's wheelchair, some stacked, one fallen on its side, spilling a hair dryer, alarm clock, and hand towels. Jackets and dresses draped the sofa and rocking chair. Two very upset cats cried from pet carriers on the front porch.

Mother's eyelids fluttered at a remarkable speed.

“Oh, Mother. Did we explain Walker remarried Danielle? These must be her things.” She knelt beside the wheelchair. “You see, he's bringing her here to live. I know it will take some getting used to, but the company might do you good. Remember how lively she is. And she won't be here all the time—she works the day shift at the motel.”

“Pebbles,” Mother said.

“Don't worry, dear. I haven't forgotten you're allergic to cats.”

Mother's eyelids settled down.

“Let's get you taken care of,” Lee Ann said, shoving the hair dryer and clock aside with her foot. “Manuel and Rudy are taking time off to help with roundup Sunday. There will be leftovers after the men have eaten, but tonight I brought a frozen dinner. We'll make do. Claire Marsh was at the Extension Office today and asked about you, said to remind you of the time Alma Persons gave you both basket-weaving lessons and you made a tiny, misshapen pine needle basket with a narrow neck and acted silly, stuffing it with pine needles with their sharp ends sticking out the top. You tacked it to the living room wall, joking about your talent as an
artiste.
That must have been before I was born. I don't think I ever saw it.”

The wheelchair nicked boxes on its way through the maze.

“Claire was reserving a space for the Democrats inside the exhibits building at the fair. She was huffy about it, complaining that last year they designated only one table, for Republicans. Claire warned that this year had better be different, with space allotted to
all
political parties. I pretended to sympathize.” She steered Mother to the bathroom. “Mother, if God sees all and is just, I can't understand why some are favored and some are forgiven, some are lucky and others are cursed. Dishonest men are spared. Yes, I'm talking about the commissioners. I suppose they'll receive a fair verdict on judgment day, but in the meantime they're depriving low-income women and children of essential services. It's despicable.”

Halfway down the dim hallway, she stopped short outside her old bedroom. Clothes covered the bed—sequined tee shirts and blue jeans, short skirts, and colorful blouses. Shoes and purses blocked the entrance. The room smelled like a hothouse overgrown with gardenias. Lee Ann had never dabbed scent behind an ear, sprayed her hair, or dusted with bath powder. As a teenager she'd tried lipstick, but at some point had read,
Do not let your adornment be merely outward—arranging the hair, wearing gold, or putting on fine apparel—rather, let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the incorruptible beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in the sight of God.
1 Peter 3:4. On the ranch she wore jeans, but always dressed in a skirt or pantsuit for work. A range of grays, tans, and dark blues filled her closet, no rainbows there. Bright colors conjured images of Indian powwows and native dances from south of the border. Swirling skirts and clicking heels accompanied by lively music aroused passion and excitement, emotions better kept under control. Donning a white blouse and gray suit brought things down to a calm level where the miracle of a mockingbird's song, a woodpecker's tap, and the hatching of a baby chick affirmed the glory of creation. In spring, pink apple blossoms burst open in the small orchard south of the house. All too soon their pastel beauty faded, their memory blotted out by the boisterous red and yellow red hot pokers Grace had given Mother thirty years ago. At the time, they'd formed a small clump by the porch steps. Now, they lined the entire front of the house, having multiplied to three feet deep. Although the garish, phallic flowers lived short lives and left a lush, green hedge that softened the chalk white stucco, as soon as Mother died, she'd have Scott dig them up.

She carried the two cat carriers to the workshop and set out a bowl of dry food and water, emptied a box of work gloves, filled it with dirt and set it in the corner. For years they had kept only barn cats, their feral population controlled by coyotes and bobcats. She unhooked the cat carrier doors and Danielle's two critters leapt to the floor, seeking shelter under the worktable. Eugene wouldn't be happy with these tenants. She fumbled through his toolbox for a pencil, tore a sheet from the legal pad on the table saw, scrawled a warning and tacked it to the door:
Cats inside. Enter quickly and shut the door.