In Reach (6 page)

“It’s got to be here,” Dave said. “I know Shorty said out of Lewellen.”

Dave U-turned the Jeep to make another swipe through town.

“Dad, it’s not here. Why don’t you stop and ask?”

“Don’t tell me how to drive. This is my car and my trip.”

Jason pushed down on the door handle. The door flew open. Even though they were moving slowly, a gust of air caused the car to careen to the side. Dave lurched the Jeep to a halt in the gravel alongside the gas station. “What the hell is the matter with you?” Dave shouted.

Jason already had one leg out the door. By the time Dave followed him into the gas station, Jason had gotten directions from the attendant. Turns out the ranch wasn’t exactly out of Lewellen.

“Let me see the map,” Jason said, when they got back to the Jeep.

“You heard the guy. Porter Ranch is out of Arthur, and Arthur is north of the other end of the lake. We’ll have to go all the way back.” Still, Dave waited until Jason had wrestled open the map.

“There’s a different road around the north side,” Jason said, his finger pointing at the map. “It’s closer.”

“I forgot about that road,” Dave said, leaning over. Jason could feel his dad’s breath on his face. “Goes right through Lemoyne. Don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”

By now, the weekend traffic had picked up. Progress was slow because the road was narrow and hilly, crammed with campers and pickup trucks.

“Christ,” Dave said. “We’ll be lucky to get there by noon.” He thumped his hand on the steering wheel, took chances passing, dove in and out of the traffic. Jason hung on to the dashboard with one hand.

“My dad used to drive us out in these parts. There’s a town north of Arthur, way up there in the Sandhills, where several millionaires lived. Hyannis, I think it’s called.”

Jason tried to picture his dad as a boy, thumping along in the backseat of some washed-out Chevy. “What was your dad like?”

Dave did not take his eyes off the road. “Stubborn. And weak.” Dave snorted. “Now that, right there, is a lethal combination.”

They made it to the Porter Ranch by 10:00 a.m. Shorty was waiting for them. He’d driven down from Cabela’s to make sure the transaction went smoothly.

Shorty wore jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, boots. After shaking their hands, guffawing, pats on the back all around, Shorty introduced them to the other two guys. Leo, the owner of the ranch, may have had some Indian blood in him; he had the coloring and high cheekbones. Amos, Leo’s friend, was tall and lean, like Jimmy Stewart in
My Darling Clementine
. Jason guessed he was the oldest of the three, maybe in his sixties. Amos lifted his dad’s rifle out of the back of the Jeep and spoke in a slow Southern drawl.

“Nice little piece you got here.”

“It was my dad’s,” Dave answered. “He used to hunt deer with it.” Dave was buckling on a bandolier that held rifle shells. The brass casings glistened in the hot sun.

“I reckon it’ll take down a buffalo, all right.” Amos handed the rifle to Dave.

“Shorty,” Leo instructed. “Take these two cowboys out to the barn and get them acquainted with their horses. Amos and I are going up to the house to get the packs.”

“Do you know how to ride, Son?” Shorty asked Jason, as they trailed him to the barn.

“Sure he does,” Dave answered, clapping Jason on the shoulder.

Jason had been on a horse before, trail rides and scout camp, but he’d never ridden a range horse across open country. He shrugged off his father’s hand. “I guess so,” Jason said to Shorty.

“We’ll give you Frieda here.” Shorty pointed out a roan-colored mare. “She’s as good as they come.”

“How about you?” Shorty said to Dave. “Ride?”

“Hell, yes,” Dave said. “Been a while, but it’s like riding a bicycle, right?”

Shorty saddled up Frieda for Jason and then helped Dave with Billy, a gray gelding with a long sloping back.

“Is there a bathroom somewhere?” Jason asked. “Before we head out?”

“Sure, Son,” Shorty said. “Go on up to the house.”

Jason made his way toward the low ranch house. On the way back, he rounded the corner of the barn. Amos and Leo were saddling their horses in the shade of the overhang.

“Christ,” Leo said. “I damn near forgot the camera. Shorty said be sure to bring it, they always want a trophy picture.”

Jason stopped, embarrassed at overhearing them.

“Where’d Shorty come up with this guy, anyway?” Amos asked.

“Says he called Cabela’s, some rich banker or something out of Chicago. Wanted to take his kid on a buffalo hunt. I been needing to get rid of that old bull. Somebody wants to pay me $1,500 for the privilege of shooting him, saves me the trouble of carting him off to the slaughterhouse.”

“I hope he stays put in that draw until we get there,” Amos said. “Otherwise we’ll have a real hunt on our hands.”

“Hell,” Leo said. “He’s too old to go anywhere else. I’m surprised he didn’t just lay down and die when we drove him out there this morning.”

The two men laughed. Jason kicked himself into motion. He cleared his throat and moved forward. “Just on my way back from the house,” Jason said. He walked straight past them, not even glancing their way. He didn’t realize until he was standing in the barn that he was holding his breath. He let it out in a jagged sigh. His dad and Shorty were already mounted so there was nothing to do but put his foot in the stirrup, heft himself into the saddle, and ride out.

They trotted around the ranch for the rest of the morning. Dave was in high spirits, pointing out the call of meadowlarks, prairie dog mounds, termites housed under cow pies flipped over by the horses’ hooves. He talked genially with the other men and worked hard to include Jason. Jason rode on the edges and refused to say much. His eyes were on the prairie, on the gray sage and knife-bladed yucca, the sparse grass brown from the summer sun. Dust clogged his nostrils, gnats swarmed around his ears. He heard the saddle creak with every move of his body. The heat hung in shimmering waves, distorting the view like a funhouse mirror.

They stopped at lunchtime beside a windmill and a watering trough for the horses. A small stand of cottonwoods skirted the tank, and Dave demonstrated how to fold a leaf to make a whistle. “My dad could play ‘Yankee Doodle’ on a cottonwood leaf,” he said.

“Your dad take you hunting?” Amos said, as he and Leo handed out cold beef sandwiches, potato chips, and lemonade.

“Ducks and pheasants, mostly,” Dave said. “I was pretty young. Haven’t hunted much since then.”

“You’re lucky,” Amos said to Dave. He looked over at Jason and nodded. “My dad run off before I was born.”

“I never thought much about it at the time. Just hunting, my old man, what he did.”

“Wait,” Jason burst in. His insides roiled. He couldn’t stand watching his dad being played by these cowpokes.

“What’s the matter, Jason?” Dave said. They all turned and looked at him. His dad’s face filled with concern. Jason rocked from one foot to another.

“Dad, can I talk to you alone a minute?”

“Can’t it wait?” Dave motioned vaguely to the other men. They were comrades now. Jason would never get his dad away from them.

“It’s about . . . it’s about the hunt.” Jason saw Amos and Leo look at each other.

“Well, let’s hear it. We don’t have any secrets here,” Dave said.

“I think we should turn around and go back,” Jason said.

Jason felt his dad probing deep into his eyes. For a minute, he thought his dad might actually listen to him. Dave turned to the other men.

“I think he’s getting cold feet, what do you gentlemen think?” They all chuckled. Leo and Amos scuffed at the ground with the toes of their boots. Shorty reached up and rubbed his hand along the line of his jaw. Jason turned away from their laughing faces. He drained his lemonade onto the parched ground and crumpled the paper cup into his hand. The edges of the cup bit into his palm and without flinching, he squeezed tighter.

They saddled up and rode on, up and over the range, in circles, what difference did it make? Jason couldn’t stand to look at his father. He could feel Amos, Leo, and Shorty sneering at them behind their backs. The heat clamped down on him. He couldn’t see the land, his eyes were glazed and inward, and the men left him alone. He wished his father would hurry up, get this day over with.

Mid-afternoon, they found the buffalo. He was standing within a short draw, the banks so shallow they offered no shade. A big clump of sage partially blocked the entrance, otherwise the buffalo stood in plain sight. The men began to whisper and move in slow motion, as if they were stalking a dangerous lion. The old buffalo watched them with mournful eyes, his head hanging heavy and low. Dave motioned for Jason to walk next to him. When
they were less than fifty yards away, Dave knelt and yanked Jason down beside him. Jason looked at the dirt and tensed his body. He heard his dad load the shell into the big 270 and lock the bolt into place. He waited while Dave aimed the rifle and pulled the trigger. The shot reverberated in the open air, riding on the waves of heat, and Jason heard his dad say, “I’ll be damned.” Jason raised his eyes, prepared to face the staggering beast, and realized that his father had missed the shot. The buffalo, magnificent in his size and dignified in his presence, stood looking at them calmly.

Dave’s mouth hung slack, his eyes unblinking, surprise carved into his face. He shook his head from side to side as if to clear it.

“Here,” Dave said, shoving the rifle at Jason. “You try.”

Jason nearly dropped the rifle. “No, Dad.” He whispered it, a loud stage whisper. “I don’t want to.”

“Go on. It’s your chance.”

Jason looked at his father. How could anyone miss that shot? His dad was being played for a fool, but was his dad playing him? His dad’s face showed nothing, blank and bewildered.

Jason looked at the faces of the other men, waiting and watching him expectantly. What were they thinking? That he was just a kid, afraid to take a shot? That his dad was so lame that his own son wouldn’t follow him? He moved his eyes from face to face, looking for something, wanting somebody to help him, knowing it was impossible, and when he reached Amos, the man slowly nodded. “Go ahead, Son,” he said softly. “Can’t hurt anything.”

Jason took up the weapon in his hands. The wood felt smooth and warm under his palms. He watched himself load the shell, heard the bolt drop in place like a heavy cellar door. He looked down the barrel and sighted between the eyes of the buffalo. He squeezed the trigger. The buffalo dropped without a shudder. The men whooped and pounded Jason on the back. They rushed forward, even his dad, while Jason stood up, the rifle slack in his arms, his mind struggling with what he had done.

Jason’s ears rang. He felt weak-kneed and thought he might swoon. His dad motioned for him to come and stand beside him. “Bring the rifle,” Dave called, his voice ringing with pride. Dave crouched in front of the buffalo’s carcass, the flanks of the huge animal forming a dark backdrop.

“No, no, the other side,” Leo said, looking through the lens of his camera. “You’ll want the head,” and he motioned to Dave to come around.

Jason stepped into the camera’s range. He felt his dad’s arm go around him. He mopped his face with his shirtsleeve. He slipped his arm around his dad’s back, hooked his fingers over his shoulder. A meadowlark’s somber voice rode through the stillness, and Jason cocked his ear to it. The heat draped around him like a veil as he lifted his head for the shot.

The Sky Is Falling

Buck was asleep when Ella woke him to tell him she’d been saved at the revival meeting. She sat on the edge of their four-poster bed, her hip snugged against his, her smooth hand on his cheek. Her long, loose hair tickled his bare chest. He was aroused, conscious of her breasts, her waist. She smelled of new rain. He wanted her to slip off her cotton dress and lie naked with him. He reached for her, but as soon as his hands clasped her arms, she moved her palm to his chest and pushed him back down on the bed.

“Buck. Wait. Listen to me.”

He shook his head to clear it of dreams, of desire. He forced himself to look into her face instead of down the front of her dress, at the slope of her lovely neck and the rise of flesh. Nipples he knew by touch and taste.

“Yeah. What?”

“I got saved tonight.”

“Saved? From what?”

“Sin. Eternal fire.”

“Since when are you worried about that?”

“We’re all sinful. We can’t help it. But if we accept Jesus, then we’re cleansed.”

He sat up against the headboard and rubbed his head with his hand. His sandy hair stood on end. “We don’t need religion,” he said.

She smiled but withdrew her hand. “Maybe you don’t.”

She rose from the bed and shook out of her shoes. She slid her dress off, draped it over a chair. Buck watched her move in the moonlight, hoped she’d come straight to bed without bothering with her summer nightgown, but she took it from the top dresser drawer, drew it down over her milky thighs. When she did finally slip into bed, she propped on one elbow, tapped him on the nose with her forefinger like he was a willful child, and said, “You’ll find out.” Then she rolled over, away from him, leaving him lying in a cold sweat.

He hadn’t minded when cousin Lily asked Ella to go with her to the revival meetings in Reach. He knew Ella got bored and lonesome out here on the farm. He’d known Ella since they were kids reciting in a one-room country schoolhouse. He knew she feared spiders, that her feet were big for a woman her size, that a boy cousin once talked her out of her underpants so he could examine her (eyes only, no touching) in the haymow. He knew (and had kissed) the backs of her knees, her eyelids, run his tongue along the inside of her mouth. He knew she dreamed of far-off places, listened to Johnny Cash, once rode the Tilt-A-Whirl seven times in a row. He knew things even she didn’t know, that she snored softly when she rolled onto her back, that the tip of her tongue poked out the side of her mouth when she concentrated. He could set his watch by her habits. She brought food to the field two times a day, mid-morning and mid-afternoon, and his heart stopped every time he caught her silhouette against the prairie sun. He kissed her in the coatroom when they were seven, sent her a valentine (signed
XOXOXO
) when they were ten, and by the time they graduated from high school, he could barely wait until she grew tired of college and
agreed to marry him. What brought her home, of course, was that her mother died. By then, his people, except for cousin Lily, had moved to Wisconsin. Uncle Harold had died, leaving him this land when he was barely twenty. Ella came home to help her dad and younger siblings, but he knew—call it fate—she’d never go back.

He went to bed early because he arose early, and usually Ella got up with him, made coffee and flapjacks or scrambled eggs. The week of the revival, she slept in. She stayed up late reading the Bible, all the begats and Psalms and the Sermon on the Mount. He hadn’t minded, the first day, but he missed her. Plus, his coffee was horrible. The next day, he sat at the breakfast table, gnawed on cold cereal, drank the stinking black brew, and wished his wife would come down the stairs, knowing she wouldn’t. By the third day, his heart turned hard against the church and Jesus and the Twenty-third Psalm. He didn’t want to hear it.

Lily picked Ella up four nights in a row, and on this fifth night, Ella came home glowing, sat on the edge of their bed, and announced she’d been saved. She’d walked down the aisle to an altar call while the congregants sang “I Need Thee Every Hour,” and lying awake long after Ella had fallen into sleep, Buck realized that her taking up with the Lord Jesus was as bad as if she had a lover stashed behind the barn.

He refused to go with her to church on Sundays. Lily and John picked her up, their kids waving from the backseat of their spanking-new Impala. He thought once the revivals were over, Ella would give it up, but no, she had to go to regular church. Reverend Kane was the Baptist minister, and she thought he walked on water right next to Jesus.

He had loved their Sundays best of all, waking up slow. Sometimes they made love before they got out of bed. Ella cooked what she called brunch, a big breakfast meal late in the morning, fried potatoes and eggs, crackling bacon, a fruit salad, cinnamon rolls
or toasted home-baked bread. They lounged, walked through the day in bare feet. Sometimes they sat outside on the porch and listened to the radio. Although the talk was all Cold War and Communism, Sputnik orbiting unseen around the earth, nothing threatened them. Not here. Occasionally her dad or one of the neighbors stopped by in the afternoon. Over coffee and Ella’s gingerbread cookies, they laughed and told stories, and he felt pride in all that was his, this land, a good woman.

All that was ruined when Ella got saved. She rushed him through an early breakfast. The minute her coffee was drunk, she dashed upstairs to put on her Sunday best, nylon stockings and heels, one of the two dresses she wore to town. She bussed him on the cheek while running out the door. He spent the morning in anguish, furious at being abandoned. They ate leftovers for lunch. She used the afternoon to cook a fine meal for supper, but he ate it with bitterness. Tired and distant, they went to bed.

He endured this for four Sundays and then decided to put his foot down. He’d read the Bible, some. His parents had taken him to a Methodist Sunday School before a scandal involving the preacher and one of the deacon’s wives had soured them. He decided to take the matter up after lunch on Saturday. He cleared his throat. She was already starting the dishes. Not wanting to appear domineering, he sat at the table.

“Ella, I don’t want you going to church on Sundays.” There, it was out. Simple and clear.

She turned, her hands soapy. Her face white. Ashen, really. It pained him to look at it. Still, he knew this was best for both of them.

“Well, Buck, I don’t think that’s up to you.”

He was surprised at her tone. At her resistance. But then again, he’d planned for it. He forced himself to look in her face. He wished now he’d stood, since it’d be easier to be stern if he was looking down at her, but it felt awkward getting up at this point.
Instead, he reached for the coffeepot and slowly refilled his cup. When coffee was at the brim, he stopped and set the pot down. All this time, she waited. He thought that was good, to keep her waiting, on pins and needles for his response.

“I know what the Bible says. It says wives are to be submissive to their husbands.” He stirred sugar into his coffee.

She laughed. Laughed! “Oh Buck, you’re not going to try that, are you? That’s not you.”

Her laughter infuriated him. He stood then. Heat flamed his face. “I mean it. I forbid you to go.”

“Why?”

Why? He hadn’t expected that. Why should he have to explain? Because. Because he said so. But she stood there, her face open and lovely. He felt his hands reach out independent of his mind, turn up pleading. “Well, because I want . . . I want you here.”

“Oh, Buck.” She dried her hands on the towel wrapped round her waist. She walked across the room, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed him. “I am here. I love you. I can, you know. I can love you and want to go to church.” All this time, she nuzzled his ear, kissed his cheek and throat. He couldn’t think because his hands were busy exploring her body. “Come with me tomorrow.”

He shook his head no. No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. But then he forgot the argument entirely because she led him to the living room couch and ministered to him with her flesh, and everything felt all right again, though he knew, somewhere deep inside, that whole tectonic plates had shifted.

He set out to win her back. He strategized. Mounted a campaign. He couldn’t forbid her to go to church without losing her trust in him. He could see that. Maybe it worked for other men, but he didn’t want to order Ella to do the things he loved. He wanted her to want to please him. He wanted things to be the way they were before she got into all this religious nonsense.

“Tell me about being saved.” He said this over supper, fried chicken and green beans. He’d brought zinnias in from the garden, cut the stems himself, placed them in the blue glass vase that had belonged to her mother. He washed up before he kissed her, laced his arms around her from behind, his lips low on her neck. She swatted him playfully, nothing new in that, but he found he scrutinized her responses in a way he’d never done before. Did she sigh when he moved toward her in their bed? Did she close her eyes while they kissed so she could imagine being somewhere else?

She leaned toward him across the table. He fell into her eyes like a fly into beer batter. “It’s not like you think.”

“How do you know what I think?” He heard the defensiveness in his voice, tried to soften it with a smile.

She swept her hair and tucked it behind one ear. “It’s not about guilt and fear, like you said.” (He had said that once, in a fit of anger, a tactic that had not worked.)

“Okay. What is it about?”

“Belonging. Love. Being part of a community.”

He fidgeted in his chair. Worse than he thought. “But you belong here. I love you.”

She patted his hand. He felt five years old. He wanted to slap her. “I know. But this is different. This is being part of something bigger.”

He narrowed his eyes. She needed to have a child. He could see that now. He’d wanted to wait until they were more on their feet. Also (he’d never admit this to her), he wasn’t ready to share her. He’d seen what happened to his friends, their wives suddenly turned into mothers. Sex, if they got any, scheduled between feedings.

“I’ve been thinking.” He reached his hand out to her face, traced his finger along her cheek. “Maybe it’s time for a baby.”

She recoiled. “You think that’s what this is about? Having a baby will fix everything?”

“What do you mean, everything?”

She stood. Slammed dishes on the counter. When she turned, her hands were braced behind her. “I’m not ready for a baby. Not now. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe never.”

“What?” He knew she wanted children. They’d never talked about it. All women wanted children, didn’t they?

She waved her arms around, flailed them. Wild. He’d never seen her like this. Her face was red and, well, swollen.

“I spent my childhood taking care of my brothers and sisters. I don’t think I had a childhood. At all. I never . . . I just don’t want to think about that right now. I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“Okay. Okay.” He held his hands out, palms down, gentling her as if she were a cornered animal. What had gotten into her? He backed away, bumped his leg into the chair. “Guess I’ll go on out, check the irrigation.”

Next morning, after they’d shared a nearly silent breakfast, she handed him a brown paper bag, folded at the top. In her other hand, a thermos. “There’s hot coffee. And I packed you a snack.”

“You’re not coming out to the field?”

“Lily’s coming by this morning. We’re working on a sewing project for the Women’s Mission Society.”

She must have read the look on his face, because she quickly added. “Don’t worry. I’ll have your lunch on the table when you come in.”

Never before had the phrase—struck dumb—made so much sense to him. What could he possibly say? That he didn’t care about zucchini bread or fruit tarts or whatever the hell she packed in there. He’d made a point to praise her mid-morning offerings. He wasn’t an idiot. He wanted her to come out to the field. He wanted her, the sight of her, the knowledge of her. To go a whole morning not seeing her felt like punishment, and what had he done to deserve this?

He felt his jaw go taut. He knew the stern look that inhabited
his face; he’d seen it enough times on his father’s. He wanted to smack down her God, lay waste to whole cities. He turned on his heel and left the room, knowing full well he’d fume throughout the morning and God in heaven (or whoever, wherever), he didn’t know how they’d get through lunch.

He needn’t have worried. By the time he got back to the house, Lily’s car was gone. He walked in the back door, smelled frying pork chops, washed up at the lavatory off the kitchen. He could hear Ella humming but didn’t recognize the tune. Ella met him fresh eyed and all smiles. She kissed him on the mouth. He was relieved. Of course he was, but what the hell? How could she send him off like that and pretend everything was peachy-dandy?

He sat down in his usual place. He tried to be patient while she bowed her head and said her little prayer, her lips moving silently. When she looked up, she beamed at him. He was puzzled by it, felt the furrow in his brow.

“How was your morning, Buck?”

She handed him bowls of food. He dished up pork chops, peppery and brown, creamy mashed potatoes, gravy without a lump. After that, peas from their garden, a cucumber salad.

“Fine. Got the tubes set in the east cornfield. Beans look dry, too.”

She nodded. He fell silent, busy forking food into his mouth. He noticed she wasn’t eating much. Before second helpings, he asked, “How was Lily?”

“Oh, she was fine. We didn’t work too long, only about an hour. She brought strawberries. I had time to make that pie you like so much.”

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir. He got this feeling sometimes before a big storm, when the sky was still blue and not yet darkened.

“Is that so?”

“Buck, I want to be baptized.”

Not good. Not good. They’re getting their hooks in deeper. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I want to be baptized, and I want it to be here, on our land. In our pond. I already talked to Reverend Kane, and he said it was all right with him.”