Create an unforgettable sense of place, through close observation, powerful imagery, and precise description.
THE MIDDAY SUN was beating down ferociously by the time Dee finished with the health care agency and drove out to the home place. Dee felt about ready for a meltdown herself, after all the drama.
The Bennett farm was situated ten miles north of town on a two-lane road paved with caliche. Dee followed the twisting drive up over the red-rock breaks. She gritted her teeth and gunned the accelerator in the rental Hyundai to get up the hill, maneuvering carefully to avoid old washouts and ruts.
The farm house stood on a rise near the edge of the eroded breaks, affording a view of rolling farmlands to the south and east. The rugged country toward the north was punctuated by oil pumpjacks and gas wells. A steady breeze blew across the plateau from the west but did little to cool the air.
The Bennett half section had been planted in cotton every year since Wilton Bennett inherited it in 1953, and for decades before that. It was dryland cotton, irrigated only from what sporadic rainfall could be captured in the long rows and ditches. The crop was completely dependent on the vagaries of nature for its success or failure, both of which Wilton and Alice had experienced their share of.
A good-sized corner of the farm was unsuited for cultivation due to its uneven terrain. Ravines strewn with sandstone boulders cut into the caprock and led into a draw at the bottom, where mesquite, hackberry, and cottonwoods clustered thickly around a mostly dry stream. Too little land to run cattle, Wilton had always said, but too rough to farm. He’d let that part go to cover, allowing a few scrawny head of beef to forage for whatever they could find. Calves were fattened and hauled to the livestock auction in Abilene for sale.
Dee shifted into low gear to top the hill. She was pleased to see that Mama’s hollyhocks were blooming. But grass grew knee-high all the way to the kitchen door. The grapevines, with their hard, pellet-sized fruit, were starting to overwhelm the arbor Daddy had fashioned from chicken wire draped over clothesline poles unused once he’d installed a gas dryer. Makeshift cow pens—rusted box springs upended and fastened to fence posts—stood empty.
The wood frame house, its painted windowsills and eaves scarred by hailstorms, was complemented by a barn and numerous smaller outbuildings and shaded by two large, weathered mulberry trees. On the north side, protected by a shelterbelt of tall cedars, stood a row of peach trees, their rangy limbs propped by two-by-fours and their emerging fruit glowing like little suns among the branches. In the back yard, a storm cellar with heavy metal doors was nearly concealed by weeds. Farther away stood a water tank and a pump once driven by an old-fashioned windmill. Though the pump ran on electricity these days, the windmill’s creaking vanes still turned, its gearbox attached to a crankshaft long broken. A sorry testament to the machine that had settled the West, thought Dee.
It was Daddy’s Ford pickup, though, parked under a mesquite tree and covered in bird poop, that ultimately got to her. Dee cut the car’s engine. As she stepped out, a blast of wind nearly tore its door off the hinges. The West Texas wind could be ferocious, especially in spring, when it often darkened the skies with brown dust. She walked over to the truck, picking her way through dry weeds that crunched under her soles.
It was as though Wilton Bennett himself had decided to go rest under the tree and never get up again. Dee laid a hand on the truck’s hood and exhaled a long breath. Maybe this place was too much for Mama. How could one seventy-three-year-old woman possibly look after all this? Much less plant a crop, or even gather the fruit that grew of its own accord?
Dee knew exactly where her sister’s sentiments lay on that score. Penny made no secret of the fact that she didn’t like Mama staying by herself, especially this far from help or a neighbor. Now it looked like they should’ve listened to her. But five months earlier, when Daddy lost the battle with cancer, Mama had begged them not to make her move. They hadn’t pushed the issue.
From where Dee could see at the top of the rise, the fields looked to be freshly plowed. Buddy had told Mama not to fool with planting a crop this season, just let it be and he’d take care of it next year. Maybe it was time for them to consider some winter wheat or sorghum anyway, he’d suggested. As for Hector, he’d get along fine for a season—plenty of farms would be glad to hire him on.
Dee walked back up the hill to the house. The crape myrtle at the corner of the porch looked lifeless, and weeds had taken over what used to be the kitchen garden in the back.
The house wasn’t locked. She wasn’t surprised. Dee let the screen slam behind her and pushed the heavy east-facing door open to admit the slanting light. Dust motes sparkled in the pattern cast on the linoleum hall floor. She checked out each room of the rambling house just to be sure nothing was amiss. You never knew.
She went to the bathroom—the only bathroom—to freshen up. She pulled the string on the light fixture over the mirror and studied her reflection. As an infant she could fit in the large porcelain basin to be bathed. Now, nearly as tall as her father, she stood eye-level with the old beveled mirror. The bead-board wainscoting still held the scent of the pine-oil cleanser her mother used, and mingled in she could detect hints of Ivory soap and Aqua Velva.
The cool tap water felt good on her face. The clothes she’d left North Carolina in wouldn’t do for another minute, though, and she went to the car to retrieve her suitcase. Alone on the ridge, she could hear the doves cooing in the branches, the putt and rumble of a tractor’s engine across the highway.
She’d been all too eager to leave this place for good. When she was growing up her friends in town hung out at the Dairy Queen or the roller rink on Saturday nights, lived in brick ranch-style homes with fashionably paneled dens, had their own stereo systems, and bought their dresses from Gray’s on the square or even Neiman-Marcus. Dee wore clothes her sister sewed, and she’d been to Dallas only once in her young life.
Besides, back then Mama and Daddy seemed to have their hands too full to devote time to Dee. There was Penny’s senior-year pregnancy, hushed up with a speedy marriage. Then Buddy’s college football injuries. Penny’s divorce and her return to the home place with a toddler in tow. Ten-year-old Auntie Dee’s childhood ended abruptly as her parents grew into grandparents for Penny’s children, then Buddy’s.
Dee had turned to books for solace and companionship. The small Claxton Public Library became her second home after school. By eighth grade, she’d read almost every volume on its shelves. She joined the yearbook staff, excelled in English, earned a scholarship to Baylor, and left Claxton for good. These days she visited once a year or so, usually over a holiday or long weekend.
So why, Dee wondered now, was she the only one of her generation not ready to let this place go forever?
Dee brushed her hair back in a ponytail and changed into a cotton shirt and capris. She lay down on her old bed, just to rest for a moment— and promptly succumbed to sleep.
***
The telephone startled her back to reality, and she jumped and ran for the extension phone on the kitchen wall. “Bennett residence, this is Dee.”
“Mom?” came a voice half college sophistication, half little-girl worry.
“Oh, Abby, I’m so glad to hear from you! Gosh, I’ve been trying and trying to reach you. Gramma Alice—”
“It’s okay, Dad told me you called him looking for me, and I already got the scoop from Aunt Penny. You should check your phone every now and then.”
“I’m sure it’s dead,” she said, reaching for her purse.
“I’m glad Gramma Alice isn’t,” Abby quipped. “I’m glad she’s all right.”
“It’s not good, though, honey. It really changes everything for her.”
“Do I need to come?”
“No, no, you don’t need to take your mind off finals. Aunt Penny and Uncle Buddy are both here.”
“I’m really sorry—I can’t imagine Gramma Alice being hurt. She’s always been so strong.”
“Me either, sweetie. She wasn’t—well, she hasn’t been quite herself, and I don’t think you’d want to see her like this. We’ll wait and see how things progress.” Dee let her words trail off indefinitely. “What else is up with you?”
“Well . . . I have a new job that I really like.”
“Great, where?”
“At the food bank, just off West Street. It’s walking distance.”
That paycheck wouldn’t make much of a dent in living expenses, Dee thought, but she held her tongue. “Your father told me you’d moved off campus.”
“Yeah . . . there’s a reason for that.”
Dee waited for the other shoe to drop. It always did. “How are classes? Did you hear about your scholarship for fall yet?”
“Mom, I know this is not great timing, but . . . I’m not going back to Smith in the fall.”
“What, why?” Dee started to pace around the kitchen. “Are you transferring?”
“No, I’m staying in Northampton. Just not going to school.”
“You’re right, it’s not good timing. But you’re wrong—you most certainly are going back.” Dee could feel it happening. At times like this she grew imperious and inflexible. After everything she’d given up for Abby’s sake, this was what she got in return?
“Mom . . . I only called to check on Gramma. And you. We can talk about it later, when you come up.”
“Damn straight we’ll talk about it later.” Dee slammed the phone into the cradle, then squeezed her temples between her hands.
Why did she do this? She instantly regretted her reaction. Why alienate her only child, her talented, headstrong daughter, every time she managed to track her down and begin a real conversation? It seemed she could deal with only one demanding generation at a time.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Dee stomped through the kitchen, raising her voice with every step.
There was a sudden knock on the screen door. “Hola, anyone home?”
“Here—I’m coming.” Dee went to the door, embarrassed.
“Hello, I’m—” the visitor said.
“Of course, Hector, I remember.” She opened the door and offered Hector Ortiz a handshake. “I’m Dee, Alice’s youngest.”
“Yes,” Hector said. “I saw you at your father’s funeral, but you were busy.”
“Right. Please, please come in. We’ve been . . . under a lot of pressure.” Dee remembered her manners. “Would you like a glass of water? I don’t know what else there is.”
“Thanks, no. I just finished talking to your sister about Miz Alice.”
“Come have a seat and tell me what happened.”
Hector, dusty from the tractor, remained standing. Dee leaned against the kitchen counter. “Well, strange thing,” he said, “your sister said maybe a truck done run into her. But your mama, she didn’t say nothing about that when I found her. She was really in bad shape. I went back down there yesterday afternoon; I didn’t see any skid marks or nothing. Only the tracks where she ran off the road—I can show you. And there weren’t no paint smears on the car.”
“We keep wondering if she blacked out or something.”
Hector nodded, “Maybe. I hope she’ll be okay. And if there’s anything I can do for your family just let me know.”
“Sure. And I hope your family is well, too.”
“We are fine, thanks. Better get back to planting. Good rain this year, could be two bales to the acre.”
“Hector . . . did my brother talk to you about the planting?”
“Oh, no, Miz Alice and I worked all that out. We got all the seed and everything.” Hector winked. “She said she knows more about cotton than people give her credit for.”
“Well, thank you for doing that, Hector.” Dee said. “I guess I’ll spend the night here—so don’t worry if you see the lights on." She could at least get the sheets and dishes washed before Mama came home. It wouldn’t take much effort—Alice Bennett had always kept a clean and uncluttered house, and aside from dealing with the ever-present West Texas dust there wasn’t a lot of extra housework to be done.
The screen door slammed again as Penny walked in behind them. “You go right ahead. You couldn’t pay me to stay in this sweatbox. I booked a room at the Stagecoach Inn for the weekend. Hector, didn’t you say you were going to check on those terraces?”
Hector nodded good-bye and headed out the door.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Dee said to Penny. Whenever Penny and her family visited, they chose an air-conditioned motel in town over the Spartan climate control of the home place. Buddy’s kids generally did whatever Penny’s kids did, especially if it involved a swimming pool or video games. It was unspoken, though, that Dee and Abby, on their short and infrequent trips, would stay at the home place. Dee was sure they suspected she couldn’t justify a hotel bill on top of airfare.
“Mama’s sleeping again. Buddy came on back to the hospital after checking on the car. The police had it impounded, but the insurance man said the damage looked minimal.”
“That’s good, but—”
“In the meantime, I thought if we wanted to get serious about listing this place, I could get some measurements and start looking at comparables.”
“Slow down,” Dee said. “So was there a wreck or not?”
“The agent said there was no indication of impact from another vehicle,” Penny said. “It’s looking more and more like Mama just ran off the road. This may be the end of driving for her.”
“I get it. But as for the house and farm, it might not be smart to try to sell right now,” Dee countered.
“Our brokerage has been blowing and going—you may not realize I sold five million dollars’ worth of real estate last year.”
“That’s the Metroplex; this is a hundred miles from the nearest Starbucks.”
“I don’t know about Claxton, but I’ll find out.” Penny said. “It always pays to have a real estate agent in the family.”
“Maybe so,” Dee replied, taking a long look around the room, trying to imagine it as others would see it. The red leather wagon-wheel-design sofa that Daddy had given Mama for their fortieth wedding anniversary still looked good as new. The high-backed armchair had seen better days. The plain white walls, adorned with family portraits and an assortment of grocery-store promotional prints, would impress no one. “Buddy’s sleeping at the hospital again tonight?” she asked.
“Yes, and we’d better get back out there to help Mama with dinner. Before some orderly decides he’s had enough and stuffs a pillow over her face.”
***
As they reached the third-floor ICU room, Dee and Penny could hear a grating voice behind a clear partition and a series of curtains. Mama was talking loudly, and that was either a good sign or a bad one.
“Festus,” Dee heard their mother say as though the character from the old Gunsmoke TV show were right there in the room.
Buddy said something she couldn’t make out. Penny knocked on the glass as they entered, and said brightly, “How’re you feeling, Mama?”
“Like hell. Like pure-tee hell.”
“Must be the drugs,” Buddy explained. “Shhh, Mama, don’t wear yourself out.”
Mama spoke again. “Wearin’ a hat . . . like Festus,” she repeated, more insistently.
“Hey, Mama,” Dee said as she pulled back the curtain. Her mother’s vulnerability led Dee to reach over and caress her forehead. “How are you doing?”
Mama shook away the hand and turned her head in Dee’s direction with some difficulty. “I didn’t realize I had died,” she said.
“So glad you’re better, Mama.” Dee tried another tack, soothing her arm. “Thank goodness.”
“No,” Mama replied, turning her gaze back toward the ceiling, “I must be dead, because Dee Anna Bennett only shows up when there’s a funeral.”
“She’s still sort of out of it,” Buddy said. “I don’t think—”
Penny finished his sentence. “I don’t think she’s fully conscious. She’s still not really aware of the casts and all. Dee, why don’t you visit while we grab a bite? Come on, Buddy.”
“Mama, I’m going to sit with you for a while,” said Dee. “Don’t talk if you don’t feel like it.”
Mama didn’t miss a beat. “That Jew from Jersey didn’t come with you, did he? And what about Abigail?”
“You know Abby’s in college, Mama. And you know Jacob and I aren’t still—”
“I didn’t like him no way.”
“That’s ancient history. Let’s discuss something else. Have you remembered anything more about the accident?”
“Warin’ a brown cowboy hat.” Agitated but unable to turn over, Mama moved her head restlessly from side to side. “In a green pickup truck. That Oriental doctor—”
“Asian, Mama. Dr. Kim is Korean.”
“—she said I might of broke these wrists by holding onto the steering wheel real hard in a crash. But I also might have done it falling. Said I was covered in ant bites and almost died. Guess I must’ve laid there a while.”
“You don’t remember more? What about your car, did you hit something?”
“The car . . . that’s funny, the police were askin’ me about the car too. And Hector.”
“Hector? You were going somewhere with Hector?”
“Now Dee Anna, you know I wouldn’t never ride nowhere with Hector. I was comin’ out to check on the cotton. I was so glad to see . . .” Mama trailed off into silence. Dee held her breath and listened to make sure the monitor’s beeping pattern hadn’t changed.
Mama turned, with effort, and mumbled again. “Hector got me out of the ditch. A green truck.”
This wasn’t going anywhere, thought Dee. They all knew Hector drove a blue El Camino out to work the farm. Mama wasn’t making any sense, and there was no need to stress her further. “It’s okay. We just want you to get well. We’re thankful for Hector too, and we’re sure glad you’re here in the hospital where they can look after you.” Until Monday, anyway.
“Festus wore a hat. A hat like that. And Nolan Ryan.”
***
At eight p.m. it must’ve been ninety degrees still, Dee thought, as she raised windows on opposite sides of the house to let a breeze circulate. The old evaporative cooler didn’t help much, and she’d probably have to leave the windows open to sleep. The thought crossed her mind that, before her father’s illness, her mother had probably never spent a night alone there. Did it worry Mama to sleep with the windows open now? Or did she just keep them closed and suffer? Dee couldn’t remember ever hearing about a violent crime in Claxton. Sure, there were domestic disturbances, and sometimes burglaries, but nothing scarier than that, and, as Mama would always remind them, what would anyone want to steal from an old farmer’s homestead anyway?
Dee noted that the place was not as isolated as last time she’d been home—certainly not as much as when she’d grown up. A double-wide with a swing set out back now sat in the field at the bottom of the hill, across the road from the mailboxes. She took comfort in the fact that it looked to be occupied by a family and not some felon cooking meth. She wondered if her mother had met the new neighbors. Down the road the Echols house was vacant, though—Mrs. Echols had moved to the senior apartments in town after her husband died, Dee recalled.
When Dee walked to the kitchen, the floor creaked loudly. She jumped even though she knew to expect the sound. The breeze ruffled the pages of the calendar supplied by the Caprock State Bank, and Dee remembered to take care of one chore Mama would’ve done without fail each evening. Picking out a stub of pencil from the last, skinny kitchen drawer, she drew an X through the date, as well as the two before it—signifying days without rain. There was a green pencil in the drawer, too, to track rainy days. Most of May awaited, clean and unmarked as a spring field. Dee went ahead and penciled in “Dee in Mass.” in the block for June 1. She underlined it and added Abby. The afternoon’s conversation still stung.
She took down the phone, dialed the number Jake had given her and, tethered by the cord, headed to the refrigerator and poked around the shelves. She could sure use a nice glass of wine or a stiff vodka gimlet right about now . . . but in the teetotaling Bennett house there wasn’t a chance of either.
“Hi, Mom,” Abby answered instantly, her tone already forgiving.
“Hey, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about how I reacted earlier today.”
“It’s okay. I know you’re stressed. Do you know when Gramma Alice’s coming home?”
“Maybe next week. She’s in traction and pretty bruised up . . . and she’s going to need some help out here.” Dee lifted the lid on an expired carton of cottage cheese, sniffed it, and threw it in the trash.
“How about home health care?” Abby asked. “Too expensive?”
“No, that isn’t really the problem . . . but there’s only one part-time person available to help right now.”
“Well, that’s something,” Abby said. “Besides, if I know the Bennetts, you’re all too stubborn to fail. You’ll find a way.”
“Speaking of finding a way,” Dee said, as she pulled a box of macaroni noodles out of the cabinet and started water boiling on the stove, “what’s this about your not going back to school this fall?”
“Mom, Smith College is just not me,” she began. “There are two kinds of students here. Angry political types who don’t shave their armpits, and blue-blood Smithies who clerk at the Supreme Court in the summers and whose great-grandmothers have buildings named after them.”
“Okay, how about U Mass?” Dee said, setting aside her dismay.
Abby let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I just don’t know if I’m college material,” she continued. “The academic life works great for you and Dad. Did he tell you his news, by the way? He made chair.”
“Great,” Dee said weakly.
“If it makes you feel any better, he was pretty pissed too when I told him I wasn’t going back,” Abby said. “He practically demanded that I move back in with him and Melissa.”
“Ouch,” Dee said, burning her hand on the scalding water as she poured the noodles into the pot.
“What are you doing?” Abby said.
“Making dinner,” Dee replied.
“What does the picture on the box look like?”
“Very funny, Miss Organic Holier-Than-Thou,” Dee said. “I’ll have you know I’m cooking something from scratch.”
“Do tell.”
“A pasta dish.”
“Oh, you’re boiling macaroni,” Abby replied. “At least put some butter and parmesan on it. A dash of cayenne will also kick it up a bit.”
“I fully admit it. You’re a better cook than I am.”
“That’s why Chuck and I want to start our own restaurant,” Abby said.
“Who’s Chuck?”
“Just a friend,” Abby replied, “but we have a lot of the same interests, and . . .”
“If you want to open a restaurant, then why not go to culinary school?”
“Mom, some of us don’t want to spend our lives in classrooms. Sometimes the best classroom is just living.”
“Sometimes you have to get credentials to make a decent living,” Dee snapped. “Be realistic.”
“I am realistic,” Abby replied coolly. “Not idealistic.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Dee said. “I’m tired. I have a lot on my mind, and I’ve got to get some rest.”
“I understand, Mom. Keep me posted on Gramma Alice.”
“Will do. Love you, honey,” Dee said.
“Same here,” Abby said, and hung up. The silent chill on the line did nothing to alleviate the stifling heat of the kitchen.
Dee found a two-liter of generic diet cola in the pantry—previously opened and flat. She poured herself a glass and took her bowl of macaroni elbows into the living room. She located the remote beside Mama’s recliner, flicked on the TV, and recoiled from its sudden loudness. She reminded herself Mama would need to have her hearing aids checked. At least the satellite dish Buddy had given her parents was an improvement over the four channels they used to pick up with the roof antenna. Now, she figured Mama stayed tuned to the game shows and the Weather Channel.
She heard the front screen door slam, swing back, and slam again. Had the day’s anxieties made her jumpy, or was the wind picking up again? She crept into the kitchen, found a flashlight in the pantry, and took Mama’s cast-iron skillet from the stove. She tiptoed through the hall to the front door. She grabbed the knob and jerked the door open, frying pan raised.
A big yellow dog of no certain breed sauntered in, wagged its tail, and lay right down in the hallway. Dee, chiding herself for her fears, tried to usher him back out. But the dog was having none of it. He plopped to the floor, put his nose between his paws, and remained as steadfast as if he’d belonged there. Mama certainly didn’t take to pets—so whose was this?
“What are you doing way out here, fella?” Dee asked. She reached for the tag on his collar. “Chester,” it read. But there was no number or indication of an owner. She tried again to drag Chester out the door. But he only scratched and whined more. Dee gave up and let him stay. She latched the screen, closed the front door, and turned the old-fashioned lock behind them.
Through the open windows she could hear the coyotes howling. The sound wasn’t unfamiliar to her—it just took on an eerie tone when there was no one else in the house. She patted the side of the red couch, and Chester came obligingly to her side. With the dog for company, she finished off her impromptu meal and fell asleep in front of the TV dreaming of Festus plowing the farm in a green pickup truck. Maybe tomorrow would bring a solution.