When I returned home from Omaha, with my dedication to the ranch rejuvenated, I took a good look around. And I’m afraid I wasn’t happy with what I saw. It became clear to me within days, as we immersed ourselves in the harvest routine, that I had been so distracted in recent years by thoughts of Rita, and of baseball, and dreaming of far-off places, that I hadn’t been paying much attention to the world around me. I noticed that although all the work was getting done on the ranch, most of us, and I include myself in the mix, were simply going through the motions. We walked around like a bunch of horses—waiting to be cornered and bridled before we’d finally do what we knew was expected of us. Then stomping our hooves until somebody stuffed some grain in our faces at the end of the day. The only exceptions—my parents. I saw that we had all gotten so accustomed to Mom and Dad doing most of the work, especially in terms of the business end of things, that we had no notion of how out of balance everything had become.
Although I knew the basic facts about the ranch—how much land we had (over ten thousand acres), and how much stock (three hundred cattle, nearly a hundred sheep), and a general idea of what it took to keep the place running, I knew very little else. Mom had occasionally made noises about teaching me how to keep the books, but I’m sure my lack of enthusiasm dampened her desire to make the effort. But now I asked, and she was thrilled for the opportunity to pass on the knowledge.
And one thing soon became clear. I didn’t realize what a good business team my folks were. I knew we’d acquired some land here and there, but I assumed our neighbors were also picking up their share as more and more homesteaders packed up and moved on. We had a few more head of livestock than most folks, but I hadn’t seen this as a big advantage. I guess I figured we had to put more money into the place to keep the extra stock fed, so that it evened out in the long run. And the small amount of farming we did led to unpredictable results.
But apparently Dad’s extra half hour or hour every day added up, and through the years Mom squirreled away enough reserves that soon after I got back from Omaha, they laid out enough cash to build the biggest house in the county. But that makes it sound extravagant, which it wasn’t. It was nowhere near the size of the one I’d seen in Nebraska, or a lot of the houses in town. It was just big for our area. Five bedrooms, to be exact. Two stories, plus a cellar. And a nice big kitchen, a dining room, and a living room.
The house was built to last, with the oak flooring that Jack and I had traveled to Bozeman for. Since we didn’t have electrical service out that far, we had to buy a big wind charger, with a windmill twirling in one corner of the yard. And we dug a septic tank in the opposite corner. But we couldn’t afford to shingle the roof. So when we moved in, the rain sang against corrugated tin on those rare occasions when it did rain.
Still, two years later, the house wasn’t painted. It didn’t look as though it would be for a while, either. Not only was paint expensive, but of course you have to paint in warm weather, and most of the important tasks that needed our attention had to be done when the sun was shining. And Mom insisted we paint it ourselves. Always saving.
We moved in on Mom’s birthday, August 12, 1927, sleeping for the first time ever in rooms of our own. Jack and Rita and their first child, the newest George Arbuckle, even spent the night, spreading bedrolls on the living room floor. They eventually moved from their tiny house to the old house. The barn cats took over their house, multiplying in astonishing quantities until the house was literally filled with cats—close to thirty of them.
“All right. Keep an eye on her, Steve.”
“She’s pretty swelled up,” Steve shouted. “Too bad for that calf. He wouldn’t have had to worry about food for a while.”
Steve, Rita, Jack, Bob, and I moved the last bunch of our cattle in from the southeast pasture to the barn, where we would brand the new calves. Dad, Gary Glasser, and Art Walters were setting the branding gear up in the corral. And Mom, Muriel, Gary’s wife Trudy and Steve’s wife Jenny were at the house cooking. We had branded Glassers’ calves the week before and would do Art’s the following week, using the same crew, the same setup, but at different locations.
The July heat was thick, dry, and the mosquitoes were nearly as thick as the air, so everyone wore long sleeves. Art even had a sweaty kerchief around his neck. I felt for him. For some reason, mosquitoes never bothered me. Even if they did bite, I didn’t feel anything or swell up at all. But Art got big ugly welts, the size of quarters.
The cattle moved with slow submission, their heads heavy from the heat, jaws working steadily, up and down, side to side, on their cuds. One calf had an extreme, inexplicable amount of energy, and kept racing off, away from his befuddled mother. His mother would stop, crying loudly, then swing her big skull to one side, and with a slow sweep of her neck, around to the other side. Eventually, she would find the lost one, and press her nose against him, making sure it was indeed hers, mooing more softly, a soothing “mmmm” that seemed to assure the cow more than the calf. Soon the calf was off again.
We kept the cattle moving at a slow but steady pace. With no water in the mile between the pasture and the barn, we didn’t want them to get too dry. It would be a long day as it was.
Rita was happy to be back riding with us. The year before, she’d been pregnant with Teddy, their second child, and had to stay with the women and cook. Rita preferred riding. She had a straw cowboy hat broken down over her eyes, her dark hair in its thick ponytail down the middle of her back. She had taken to wearing baggy dungarees with suspenders, and she looked healthier than when she first arrived. Working outside had made her solid, her face browned by sun and wind. Her freckles had multiplied.
Jack was in danger of alienating himself from the rest of the family with his latest business venture. Because there were so few trees in our county, it was common practice, when people ran out of firewood, to use dried manure as a substitute. So Jack got the idea of collecting and selling manure. He built a box, like a coffin, with very narrow gaps between the planks. He would fill the box with manure, then add water, and while it was wet, he would compress it, stomping it down with rubber boots while the excess water leaked out between the gaps.
Once it dried, he turned the box over and dumped out the block of manure, which he then cut into bricks about the size of logs. It was a great idea, and people began stopping in to buy the “logs” which Jack sold for a nickel apiece, or six for a quarter. Soon the demand became greater. Jack built more boxes, and began knocking off a little early some days to gather and prepare his product. At first, he would just leave an hour or so before the rest of us. But he began to cut out earlier and more often, then showing up late. It bothered Dad; I could tell by the cool expression he always cast toward Jack as he departed. But in his typical fashion, he didn’t confront the issue.
So while the rest of us worked harder to make up for Jack’s absence, again, he was making a profit from ranch resources, and showing no interest in putting what he made back into the place. It went against what was considered ethical, not to mention traditional, for a ranch operation. And when it became clear that nobody else was going to do or say anything about it, I knew it was up to me.
So one evening, while Jack was working at his project, I went out to the corral, where he had his boxes set up. Jack stood in one box, his knees alternately rising and falling. Water seeped from the narrow crevices between the planks.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“All right.” Jack eyed me with a hint of skepticism, and for good reason. I had been so annoyed with him that it had been weeks since I initiated a conversation. “Not too bad,” he added.
Although I had rehearsed what I wanted to say countless times in my head, and although this was by no means the first time I’d studied Jack’s little operation, I walked around the boxes, my hands locked behind my back, trying to settle my nerves before I spoke.
“Dad send you out here?” Jack asked. “Does he need something?”
I shook my head. “No.” I cleared my throat, trying to dislodge a lump the size of a chicken.
“What’s on your mind, then?” Jack asked. He didn’t sound impatient, or testy. “Or maybe I can guess.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Jack showed a little half smile, looking at me sideways. “I been wondering how long it would be before you spoke up.”
I dug my hands into my pockets and faced Jack. “Me, or anybody?”
He stopped his stomping for a moment, his breath slightly labored. “You,” he said. “I figured it to be you.”
“Why’s that?”
Jack’s mouth curled into the half smile again. He winked. “Ah, hell, Blake. It’s obvious that it bothers you more than anyone.” Jack began stomping again, knees rising and falling. “And it’s not hard to imagine why.”
I frowned, not sure myself about the answer to that question. “Why?”
He grinned. He stopped the knees again. He put his hands on his hips. “Ah, come on, Blake. I don’t really have to spell it out, do I?” Jack had gloves on and he lifted one leg, cleaning the excess manure from that boot. Then he stepped out of the box and did the same with the other. “You of all people.” He eyed me, tilting his head. “Listen…there’s no reason we can’t both come out of this ahead. We can both get what we want here.”
I was baffled by Jack’s certainty that I understood what he was talking about. He scrutinized me, and apparently saw my confusion. He sat on the edge of the box. “All right, Blake. Let me put it this way. It’s been obvious since…well, since I can remember…that if there’s anyone who has the same feeling about this ranch as Mom and Dad, it’s you.”
I raised my brow.
“What? You don’t think I see that?” Jack asked, smiling. “Come on, Blake. It’s obvious. I don’t have what it takes to run this place. I don’t have the patience. I don’t suffer well.” He studied me. “So it’s simple, really I get what I can out of it while I’m here. Then I leave you alone. You get what you want. So do I.” He shrugged. “Then I leave you alone.”
I stood looking at the dry gray earth at my feet, and thought about what Jack was saying. Obviously, the conversation had gone very differently than I expected. In a way, I couldn’t have planned it any better. I didn’t even have to do anything. But I was uncomfortable with Jack’s proposal, for a couple of reasons. I raised one of them.
“Have you talked to Rita about this?”
For the first time, Jack’s eyes became guarded, and before he spoke, I knew the answer to my question. “That’s my business,” he answered.
And whatever slim chance there was of going along with Jack’s little arrangement died. But it wasn’t only the fact that Jack would keep such important details from Rita. In fact, when I thought about it later, I realized that I couldn’t have gone along with the plan regardless of Jack’s answer to this simple question. The whole conspiratorial nature of the idea went against all matters of principle that our family had built as a foundation. And it showed me just how far removed my brother was from those values.
I looked down at him, sitting expectantly on his creation, and I shook my head.
“Sorry, Jack,” I said. “I can’t go along with that.”
Jack raised his eyes to me, squinting, looking at the same time confused and amused. “What do you mean, you can’t go along with it, Blake? You don’t even have to do anything. There’s really nothing to go along with.”
I nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. That’s the problem. I can’t support you on this, Jack. As far as I’m concerned, if you’re going to take from the ranch, you have to put as much into it as the rest of us. You’ve got to pull your weight. It’s just the way it is, I think. It’s the way it has to be.” I shrugged.
Jack only seemed to become more amused. His shoulders shook slightly in a silent chuckle. “All right. So what are you going to do, then, if I don’t? You going to force me?”
I sighed. “Nope. I’m not going to force you. Obviously, there’s nothing I can do.” Again I shrugged, pulling my mouth to one side. “It’s up to you, Jack. If you can live with it, then I guess I’ll have to. But I just got to warn you, I won’t be happy about it. Never. It’s not something I’ll ever get used to.”
Jack kept his gaze on me, and he retained his incredulous grin. After holding my gaze for a moment, he shrugged, as if he didn’t care one way or the other. But this exchange proved to be a turning point. Jack and I rarely spoke after that. But our silence did not seem to be born of animosity. Quite the opposite. It felt as if, now that our divergent paths had been established, any rivalry that might have been brewing was gone. There was no longer any need to compete, nor was there any need to be friendly. The pressure was off. Jack also rarely knocked off early after that, which gave me a sense of satisfaction.
But a new concern had come out of this conversation. My suspicion that Jack’s return after the war was only temporary had essentially been confirmed. And the ramifications of this eventuality had changed. Now Rita was involved. Which meant I cared even more.
“Rita, watch that little guy over there!” Jack shouted, pointing.
“He’s all right,” Rita answered, calmly watching the calf kick up its heels. “He’ll be back.”
But Jack didn’t accept Rita’s assessment, and made a ridiculous show of pursuing the calf, first chasing him further from the herd before he finally got him turned around.
“Get the gate, Jack,” I shouted as he guided the runaway calf into the corral.
He swung the gate shut, and the easy part was over. The cattle filled the corral, mawing and eyeballing us with an accusing look, as though we’d betrayed them yet again by bringing them there.
I twirled my lasso a few times and set my bead on the back hooves of a calf that was trotting along separate from the rest. I caught one leg and backed Ahab while Jack went after the front legs. He laid a loop down on the ground. I kept backing, and the calf stepped into the loop with both front hooves. Jack flipped his wrist and pulled, stretching the calf out. It fell to its side. Dad straddled the calf, sat, and held its head while Gary laid the glowing iron against the calf’s right flank. The calf let out a bawl, and the smell and taste of burning hair filled the corral.
Gary lifted the iron and a wisp of smoke drifted from a perfect black “R
” in the midst of the furry brown coat. The calf was male, so Dad grabbed his pocketknife from his teeth, sliced the scrotum, and tugged the testicles from the open wound. He tossed them to one side, and the calf wriggled, bawling louder, his tongue hanging loose from the corner of his mouth. Dad sliced a notch out of the calf’s left ear to mark it as a steer. And after Gary dumped disinfectant on the wounds, Jack and I nudged our horses forward, putting enough slack in our ropes for Dad to slip the lassos from the calf’s hooves.
The little guy stood, dazed for a second, and I guided him toward the gate. When Bob opened the gate, Steve stood in the gap and waved his arms, spooking the unbranded calves to keep them in the corral. He then made a mark on one plank of the corral for each calf we’d branded, and a mark on another plank for each cow that got out. At the end of the day, we’d total these marks and figure the ratio of cows to calves. Each year a few cows would be dry, and a few would have twins. It generally balanced out to about nine calves for every ten cows, but some years, when the grass was thick, we’d have an equal number.
“Some nice fat calves you got here, George,” Steve said.
“Not too bad,” Dad answered.
Steve scrutinized Dad, his skewed eye aiming off away from everything. “You been letting these calves chew on our grass?” he asked. “I don’t believe you folks could raise nice fat calves like these on that scrawny grass you got out here.”
Dad eyed me with a mischievous smirk. “Should we tell him, Blake?”
“Hell no, Dad. I don’t think we ought to admit to anything yet. Might give him reason to start looking for some kind of payback.”
“What makes you so sure we haven’t already?” Steve asked.
In the midst of our banter, Gary turned to say something, but he bumped into a cow behind him and dropped his branding iron, which caught his boot just enough to make him jump. One side of the R left a black curve on the toe of his boot. This sudden motion spooked some of the cattle near Gary. Bob was just opening the gate to let a newly branded calf out, and the rambunctious calf saw the opening and bolted. He was out before Bob or Steve could move to stop him.
“I’ll get him.” Rita was closest to the gate. She took off after the calf, her boots bouncing out and back against her horse’s flanks.
“Now look what you done, George.” Steve pointed at Dad, as though he was about to come after him. “Scared off one of your calves and damn near branded my dad at the same time.”
“Maybe you ought to come over and brand this, Steve.” Dad bent over and stuck his rump in the air, laughing and pointing at it.
“Get him, Dad,” Steve yelled to Gary. “This is your chance.”
“Rita’s down!”
Jack and Art barreled through the gate, their horses racing past Bob, who ran toward Rita’s prone figure. Steve had the presence of mind to close the gate, but not before several calves had jumped on the opportunity to escape. I was the last one in the corral on horseback, and I had to shout for Steve to open the gate again before I could join the chase.
Rita was lying on her back several hundred yards from the corral. Her horse trotted off toward the river, stirrups flopping in all directions, reins dragging. Rita rolled over to her elbows and knees, trying briefly to pull herself to her feet, but she lowered herself to one side and rotated onto her back again.
Jack was the first to reach her, swinging down from his saddle before his horse even stopped. In fact, he was in such a hurry that his dismount pulled his horse to one side, and the horse nearly ran into Rita.
Art was right behind Jack, and by the time I got there, the two hunched over Rita, one on each side. Her face was pale, rimmed with sweat, and she held a palm flat against her side, at the base of her ribs. Her eyes were closed, clamped tight, and her teeth clenched, showing between her bloodless lips.
Jack and Art both held their hands helplessly in the air over Rita, as if they each wanted to touch her, heal her somehow, but weren’t sure where to start or what to touch. A mosquito settled onto Rita’s cheek, and in one of the most tender gestures I ever saw from him, Jack brushed the insect away, then pulled Rita’s hair from her forehead.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
“Where does it hurt?” Art asked simultaneously.
Rita sucked air through her clamped teeth and pointed at her side. “Right here.”
Art took off his shirt, rolled it up, and tucked it under Rita’s head, inviting a cloud of mosquitoes to his bare arms. They even attacked his threadbare T-shirt. Jack unhooked Rita’s suspenders and carefully unbuttoned her dungarees. He pulled her shirt from inside her pants, then peeled it away from her stomach, watching her face. She winced, but not enough for him to stop. Despite the serious nature of the situation—the possibility that Rita could be suffering from broken ribs, or some internal injuries—my vision was captured by this show of flesh. I felt my face turn red.
Halfway up her side, red and raw, was a hoof print, horseshoe shaped. The skin was scraped, not enough to bleed, but it looked damn sore. Jack placed his palm against Rita’s forehead.
“You gonna be okay, sweetheart?”
She opened her eyes. “I think so. It hurts, though. It really hurts.”
The others, who had run from the corral, gathered around, panting, asking what had happened.
“Looks like she’s probably gonna have a few cracked ribs,” Art said. “But I think she’s all right other than that. You hurting anywhere else, Rita?”
She shook her head.
Looking at the raw spot made my side ache. “You think you can move?” I asked.
Rita’s eyes got wide just thinking about it. “Give me a minute,” she said.
“Well, it’s about time for lunch anyway,” Dad said, looking up at the sun. I could see he was thinking about the time we were losing. “We might as well all head back to the house when she’s feeling up to it. You want us to get the wagon, Rita, or you think you can make it on horseback?”
“Dad, please,” she said. “Just give me a minute. I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry, darling,” Dad said. “I’m getting way ahead of everything here.”
Jack continued to stroke Rita’s cheek, and I could see that Rita was moved by this act. Lying there looking up at him, there was a softness in her gaze that was usually reserved for her boys. When a spasm rocked her, she reached out and grabbed Jack’s hand. I felt a pang of jealousy. Jack looked down at her hand, as if it was the first time he’d ever held one. He put it to his chest.
“Well, somebody’s got to catch those calves that got out,” I said. “Bob, you want to man the gate while I round them up?”
Bob nodded, starting toward the corral.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Art told Bob.
Gary suggested that his wife Trudy drive to Capitol to get the doctor.
“No, actually, one of you men should go, otherwise supper won’t get done in time,” Trudy said.
“If one of us goes, the branding won’t get done,” Dad said. “We can wait to eat if it comes to that, but we got to finish the branding today.”
“Maybe I should go,” Mom suggested. “Trudy, you’re right in the middle of making your bread. I wouldn’t want to ruin it. You seem to be the only one who can get it right.”
“No, no, no, Catherine,” Trudy insisted, waving her hand. “You won’t have any problem. A little more kneading, then it has to set for a couple hours. That’s all that’s left to do. I should go.”
Jenny Glasser, who was so quiet that when she did speak, everyone looked at her as though they’d forgotten she was in the room, made her offering. “Who’s going to watch Rita?”
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Muriel said. “I can work on the pies and watch her too.”
That covered everything, and Trudy left to find Dr. Sorenson while the rest of us went about the business of lunch. As we sat eating, Rita suddenly appeared in the doorway, bracing herself against the wall. Jack was out of his chair in a flash.
“Sweetheart, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m hungry,” she said. “I feel fine.” Sweat covered her forehead, and she had to brace herself against the door frame. She was completely white.
“We’ll bring you some food. You’ve got to stay in bed until the doctor gets a look at you,” Mom said. She started to rise from her chair, but Jack motioned for her to stay put.
Jack wrapped his arm around Rita and led her toward the bedroom.
“I think I’m okay,” Rita was saying. “I think I can go back to riding this afternoon.”
Jack chuckled. “Oh no you don’t.”
We could not hear the rest of their conversation, but Jack’s tone was insistent.
Steve sat shaking his head. “Who’d of thought someone from New Jersey would be the toughest one in this county?”
Mom prepared a plate for Rita and took it in to her. Mom and Jack came out talking quietly, their heads nearly touching. Mom had her hand in the crook of Jack’s elbow, a show of affection I hadn’t seen her show him in years.
We hardly spoke. The heat didn’t let up, nor did the mosquitoes, but those were the only nuisances of the afternoon. We not only finished, but we finished early. It was one of those rare, enchanted stretches of time when the world actually seemed like a pretty simple place.
The women were shocked to see us arrive back at the house, wearing smiles bigger than our faces and clapping each other’s back. Jack looked worried until we found out that Dr. Sorenson had determined that Rita probably had a few cracked ribs, but no internal damage.
Once Jack heard this, his shoulders relaxed. I felt the same relief, but more privately, of course. Jack started toward the bedroom, but Mom gripped his arm. “She just fell asleep.”
“All right,” he said. “Of course.”
We surrounded the table, which was soon covered with a huge beef roast, fried potatoes, fresh garden tomatoes, Trudy’s bread—straight from the oven—and a thick, dark skillet gravy. And for dessert—pies. Apple, mincemeat, and a luscious sour cream—raisin. We ate like demons, leaving hardly a scrap. And we laughed. We laughed at everything, especially after Dad broke out two bottles he’d asked Art to bring along. We rarely had liquor in our home, but this day was obviously charmed, and we filled our glasses generously, as if for this one evening we were invincible even to the effects of alcohol. But I noticed that Jack drained and refilled his glass much more frequently than anyone else did. About halfway through dinner, his eyelids began to droop.
“Here’s to the best damn neighbors in the county,” Dad said, raising his glass.
We all seconded the sentiment, draining our drinks with a synchronized tip of the glasses. We moved into the living room after dinner, filled to the brim with food, drink, and the satisfaction of a productive day.
“Are there any dances this weekend?” Trudy asked.
“Camp Crook is having one,” Bob answered.
“Is that Stillwell girl going to be there?” I asked Bob.
He gave me a hard look, blushed, and looked at his palms. “I wouldn’t know.”
“The Stillwell girl?” Steve asked, his lazy eye wandering. “You sweet on her, Bob?”
Bob rubbed his palms against his thighs. “Nah. I’m not sweet on anyone.”
“She’s pretty,” Jack said, his voice a little too loud.
“Smart, too,” Muriel added. “She was valedictorian when I was a freshman.”
“I’m not sweet on her,” Bob said, a little louder. He set his mouth in a straight line.
“Well, she’s a nice girl anyway,” Mom said. “Are you folks going?” she asked Glassers.
“Oh, you damn right,” Steve said. “You know I don’t miss a dance.”
“How about you?” Jack turned to Jenny, deliberately, with a sly grin. “Are you goin’?”
Jenny lowered her eyes, obviously uncomfortable with being addressed. It was a strange question considering Steve had just said they would be going, and Jack’s leering manner made it even more strange.
“’Course she’s going,” Steve said. “Jenny loves to dance.” We all knew otherwise, and we chuckled, trying to make light of the situation.
“Do you really like to dance, Jenny?” Jack leaned forward in his chair, moving a little closer to Jenny. His eyes were nearly closed now.
Jenny stood up. “I’m going to see how Rita’s doing.” She emphasized Rita’s name, looking directly at Jack. But Jack sank back into his chair, not the least put off, a dreamy grin on his face.
Steve got up and followed his wife to the bedroom. The rest of us sat in that sort of uncomfortable silence that numbs the brain, the kind that makes you feel as though you never have and never will carry on an intelligent conversation. I sat wishing Jack would disappear, or fall asleep, embarrassed that he would be so insensitive when Rita was lying injured just two rooms away.
Dad finally brought us out of it. “You get bit today, Art?”
Art was just then scratching away at his back. “The little bastards made a meal of me, all right,” he said. “Left me just enough blood to keep me propped up in my saddle.”
“You wearing some kind of perfume?” I asked. “I can’t figure out why they all go for you.”
“It’s my pretty smile, I guess.” Art showed his half-toothless, no-jaw grin below his drooping mustache.
“I think that face would kill ’em before it would make ’em want to suck on you,” Jack mumbled, squinting at Art.
Art smiled and shook his head, making an obvious effort to believe Jack was kidding.
“Yep, you are a piece of work, Art.” Jack tilted his sleepy-eyed face toward Art, and his cruel tone changed our laughter into nervous chuckles. Art gave him a long look, but didn’t say a word. Steve and Jenny returned, and Jenny made a point of switching seats with Steve, who had been sitting further from Jack. Steve again tried to lighten the mood.
“Well, Rita’s looking good, getting her color back. That bruise is going to be nasty, though.”
Just then, Jack stood and left the room. We all breathed easier for a minute, thinking he was going to go look in on his wife. But he came back carrying a big fruit jar. The contents sloshed over the rim, and the smell of alcohol filled the room. And the seconds passed, and the tension built as Jack guzzled the drink, and we wondered whether he was going to do something more obnoxious than he already had, or if he would pass out before he had the opportunity. I gritted my teeth, despising the fact that anyone could take a woman like Rita for granted the way my brother had for so many years. How he could claim to love her and then show such blatant disregard.
But the fear of provoking Jack kept me in my chair, my teeth clenched but my muscles tense, ready to spring if something unexpected happened. Like most of us in the room, I did not look at Jack, but kept him in the corner of my eye at all times.
Jack settled back into his seat and drank deeply, looking pleased with himself, and drunkenly unaware that his actions were causing so much discomfort. Mom got up, her face flushed, and went to the kitchen. The sounds of clattering dishes and running water echoed through the house. Jenny followed Mom. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Jack stood and announced, “I guess I’ll give them a hand in there.”
It was the one and only time I remember Jack offering to help with the dishes, and I’m sure this occurred to everyone else in the room. I watched the stiff smile disappear from Steve’s face as Jack staggered toward the kitchen.
We all sat with one ear aimed toward the kitchen, our mouths sealed shut with fear. Dad looked awful tired. We heard a steady drone, Jack’s voice, mingling with the sounds of washing dishes. I finally resorted to the only thing I could think of.
“Wonder how long this heat’s going to last.”
The others merely nodded, and more minutes of quiet followed in what I think may be the only time in the history of Montana that even the weather failed as a topic of conversation. Finally, the silence broke. A rising, angry declaration bellowed from the kitchen, punctuated by the crash of a dish shattering against the floor. We jumped up, running to the kitchen.
Jenny stood with her back against the sink, her hands clenched into tight fists at her waist. Her mouth was pinched, and her face, which was generally white as chicken feathers, was dark red right up to her hairline. Mom stood between her and Jack, with a butcher knife in her hand, aimed right at Jack’s chest. I couldn’t breathe.
I don’t think Jack even saw the knife. He still had that stupid grin on his face, and he looked right past Mom, at Jenny.
“Jenny, darling, are you rejecting my invitation?” he asked.
Dad grabbed Jack from behind.
“Hey,” Jack muttered, looking truly confused. “What’s the matter?”
“Let’s take you on home,” Dad said. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
“Oh, no,” Jack said. “I ain’t ready to go home yet.”
“Yeah, well, I think it’d be a good idea if you did anyway,” Dad insisted, his face straining.
“Jenny, do you want me to go home?” Jack raised his forehead and smiled at Jenny, trying to look sweet but falling far short of that objective.
“Shut up,” Mom muttered. “Just shut your mouth, Jack.”
My guts were tangled up like a tumbleweed as I stood watching my brother make a fool of himself. Part of me wanted to throw him to the floor and pummel some awareness into that murky brain. But he seemed so oblivious to his actions, and to the world around him, that he was almost too pathetic to be angry at. I took a deep breath through my nose.
“Come on, Jack.” I stepped up and took him by the arm, and Dad and I started to lead him toward the door. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Jenny, you don’t wanna go to the dance with that cockeyed jokester, do you?”
That was more than even Steve could tolerate. He started after Jack. Bob and Gary caught him, but Steve strained against their grasp, his veins bulging in his temple and his neck.
Through his teeth, he muttered, “Jack, I hope to God this is whiskey talk—that you don’t know what you’re saying.” Steve’s eye jumped from side to side as if it was being held back. “Otherwise…otherwise…”
Jack grinned. “Whiskey don’t talk. This is my mouth sayin’ you’re a cockeye.” Jack fixed a look on Steve that sent a chill through us all. It was a look that told us he was clearly too far gone to have any idea what he was saying. His eyes were apparently looking, in his mind, at something besides people—at some kind of vicious obstacles that stood in the way of getting what he wanted. He clearly hated us all at that moment.
This awareness seemed to hit each of us at the same time and together as we stared at the wild face, and the desperate, hateful eyes. Because the nervous, pumping energy that had been coursing through the room just minutes before melted away in an instant. Even Steve’s anger abated, and his dad and Bob let go of him. We all stood looking at Jack, then not looking at him. We looked at our feet, because looking at him, or at each other, was too painful.
“Jesus,” Jack declared, chuckling. “Who died?” He felt like an empty suit in my hands, but he shocked both Dad and me when he suddenly jerked away, lunged forward and ran from the house, slamming the door.
We were too shocked to respond at first, but when we heard Jack’s truck start up and spit gravel as he roared from the yard, I thought of his condition, and rushed out into the warm summer air. Crickets chirped, and mosquitoes whirred around my ears, but Jack’s truck was already a mile down the road. As irrational as it was, I grabbed a rock and heaved it in that direction. Nate bolted off toward the rock, then stopped and sniffed the ground.
Back inside, the mood was somber.
“Steve, Jenny,” Dad said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” His lips pursed.
“George,” Steve said. “You know we understand. He’s out of his head with the stuff. Nothing you could do. Nothing any of us could.”
“You couldn’t of stopped him with a firing squad,” Art said.
“Well, I shouldn’t have even brought the stuff out. I know it gets to him.”
“Forget it, George,” Mom insisted. “We had a good day. If there was ever a time when it seemed like a good idea, it was tonight.” She laid her hand on Dad’s back, and his body surrendered to her comfort.
“You want us to drive by the old house, see if he’s out there?” Gary offered.
“No, no. If he’s out there, he can just sleep it off. Him and the cats,” Mom said.
This brought a weak, guilty smile to every face.
So we retreated to our rooms, each of us taking with us thoughts of what we might have done to prevent this terrible turn. I lay in my bed, staring out at the black sky, and finding the same darkness in my mind as I tried for the life of me to figure out how a man who was my brother, a man who grew up in the same house, with the same people, could be so different—so unhappy, so full of mistrust. How could he look at the life we had, the gifts the land had so abundantly showered our little family with, and find anything but good in it? I couldn’t figure it out. And this didn’t even include Rita.
I decided to check on her. I crept from my bed and tiptoed into Muriel’s room, where they had moved Rita. She slept with a peaceful, calm expression. She knew nothing about what had happened, of course, and I sat wondering how she would feel about this latest escapade. What would it take for her to lose patience with him, I wondered. Muriel slept quietly in the next bed. And the scene took me back for a moment. To the last night I had reason to sit in the girls’ bedroom. The night Katie died. I remembered her knee rising slightly, time after time, and thumping against the mattress. I remembered her face when she’d reached the house, all flushed and soaked with sweat from running all that way.
And something occurred to me for the first time. I wondered why Katie had been the one who ran home that evening. Why didn’t Jack run back to tell us that they’d found George? He could have covered the ground in half the time, and he knew that Katie had been sick for a week. And a horrifying thought hit me. It had never occurred to me before that night that Jack actually had a motive for killing George. Because he would be the next in line to take over the ranch, Jack actually had a motive. I dropped my head to Rita’s side, resting it on the mattress next to her.
Her arm rested on top of the blankets, and although I felt funny about it, I reached out and took her hand. And as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t stop myself from sorting through the facts. I realized that this could explain Jack’s disappearances. It could explain his attitude. It could explain a lot, when I really let myself think about it. But still—I couldn’t believe it.
I heard a noise, a shuffle. And I looked up. Rita hadn’t moved. I looked at Muriel. She hadn’t moved either, and she was still asleep. I heard it again. And I looked over at the doorway. And there stood little George, looking like a tiny version of his father, his eyes wide and moist. I wasn’t sure what to do. I let go of Rita’s hand. George started walking toward me, and I wondered if I should leave. But when he reached my side, he leaned his head against my shoulder. He rested his head on my shoulder and held it there.