MONDAY OCTOBER 1, 2007
LEE ANN ROLLED OVER, SHUT off the alarm and rested her arm across Eugene’s pillow, his covers already pulled up. Wayne, first to share her bed, had started the night lying still, then like a great machine, sputtered and heaved, taking the blankets with him. Eugene slept quietly and soundly on his left side, facing the window, his leg in contact with hers throughout the night. Before bed, he emptied his pockets, placed his billfold, loose change, and keys on his night table, stepped out of his boots and set them together beside the closet, toes to the wall. He folded his jeans and put the day’s shirt and underwear in the hamper.
From his hand, she accepted a cup of coffee made just right, a little milk, no sugar. The mornings were dark now, the sun waiting until after seven to send its rays over the mesa, the plaid bedspread lit by the lamp on her nightstand. One of the boys ought to rake the leaves around Mother’s house and spread them on the vegetable garden and flowerbeds.
“Thanks,” she said. “Today, will you remind Dee to…”
“Rake the leaves by Kay’s back door.” He stuffed his billfold in his back pocket and picked up his keys. “Everything’s under control,” he said. “Except your brother.”
She wrapped her hands around the mug.
“Pretend he isn’t here,” she said, matter-of-factly—no problem, unless you choose to make one.
“That’ll work for about a week.”
She poked her feet out from the covers.
“Eugene, he’s a fact of life. Even if he’d leave, which he won’t, I have no right to kick him out. Mother would die. After she’s gone she’ll watch from heaven, heartbroken, when he sells his half of the ranch and squanders the money.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Hopefully, she’ll know I did all I could. She must know I’m doing all I can now.”
“You can set rules. If he breaks them, out he goes.”
She patted the mattress, please, sit down and talk this over.
He stood at the end of the bed, solid as a tree trunk, and as still.
“It isn’t up to me to make rules,” she said. “He and I are equal. You’ve disliked him from the first moment you saw him.”
With the edge of his palm, he swept yesterday’s loose change into a metal box. “As I remember it, at ten in the morning I could smell booze twenty yards away, upwind, while he sauntered around, assuming I’d fall for the B.S. he’d concocted to get out of doing a decent day’s work.”
“He’s always been a drinker.”
“A drunk.”
“Call him what you want, he’s here to stay.”
“Until his next prison stint. He’s one step away from a hard-core criminal.”
She tucked her feet back under the covers and yanked the covers up around her chest.
“Please, a little compassion.” Enough of this talk or she might cry.
“I’m not God, Lee Ann. I don’t pity the weak, unless they make an effort. In my book, everyone does his share, drunks don’t get special treatment, and rules aren’t meant to be broken.” He reached into the closet for his vest. “I’m off to Round Valley. I’ll pick up any groceries you need.”
Down the hall, the boys were getting breakfast, their morning talk muffled behind silverware and cereal bowls sliding across the table, the fridge door opening and closing.
“Some green beans, if they have any, and a sack of potatoes. He might want to help with roundup and branding.”
“So long as he keeps a good distance from me.”
She stood up, tipped her head forward, back, and around, stretching her neck. The simplest way to co-exist with Walker was to ignore him. The Lord taught turn the other cheek, seek humility and forgive those who trespass against others. Trouble was, Eugene didn’t believe in the Lord. If pressed, he said nature was his god and when she explained that God created nature, he stepped back with a pleasant expression and cast his eyes somewhere near her elbow, a reluctant student receiving a lecture, counting the minutes before being released from class.
“Be safe,” she said, straightening her side of the covers. The ranch still belonged to Mother. Lee Ann had power of attorney. Eugene and the boys ran things. Walker helped.
Eugene took a notepad from his vest pocket, added green beans and potatoes to his list.
“You be wary,” he said.
She whistled “Moon River” while buttoning Mother in a yellow housedress with a Peter Pan collar and wheeled her into the kitchen.
“Monday mornings are so rushed,” she said, heating water for instant oatmeal. “Today, I’ve got to organize the paperwork for Thursday’s meeting. It’s Tina Wiley’s birthday and the girls are taking her to lunch at the café. I suppose I’ll have to go. You know how I hate Vera’s food—she’s dipped into the same can of bacon grease for twenty years.”
Walker’s head poked around the corner.
Lee Ann’s hand flew to her chest. “You scared us to death!”
Mother looked straight ahead.
“Yep, up early, alert as a jack rabbit, ready as a cocked pistol. What a day! I can give her breakfast, Lannie. You let me know. Of course, I can’t do it as good as you, but I might make it a little more interesting, huh?” He pinched Mother’s cheek, jumped in the air and turned a half circle before landing.
Lee Ann sat down and stirred the oatmeal.
“You should see the apples weighing down those trees at Plank’s place,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m going to pick you ladies a couple of bushels today, before the birds get ’em. Apple crisp sounds good, doesn’t it, Mother, with Cool Whip? Or vanilla ice cream?” He reached for the McCall’s cookbook on the shelf above the stove, scanned the index and flipped the pages. “If there’s cinnamon, pecans, flour, and oatmeal in the pantry and butter in the fridge, I’ll bake us a batch this afternoon.”
“That might be considered trespassing,” Lee Ann said. “Or stealing.”
It wouldn’t matter. Now that apples had tempted his taste buds, he’d heave a ladder into his pickup and fill as many boxes as he saw fit.
“Danielle gave me the okay,” he said.
Lee Ann cleaned Mother’s chin with a damp paper towel, wheeled her into the living room and adjusted the volume on the TV. Judy Garland sang Clang, clang, clang went the trolley…
“You don’t happen to have a couple of twenties on you…”
“Like always, there’s cash in the cookie jar,” Lee Ann said. She checked her watch. “I’m leaving. Grace comes between ten and eleven.”
The pink stucco walls of the new, two-story courthouse were as out of place in Brand as a rose in a cactus patch. Lee Ann entered through glass doors in need of a shot of Windex and hurried across the terrazzo floor under a life-size portrait of Sheriff Woolie (1938–1946), arms folded across his plaid shirt above an elaborate silver belt buckle, cold blue eyes aimed at two men and a woman seated outside the Motor Vehicle Department. She turned left, toward the steps to the commissioners’ office on the second floor, back straight, eyes straight ahead, prepared to offer nothing more than a pleasant “good morning” to anyone she met.
Harley McKenna, one of three Dax County commissioners, raised his head from the drinking fountain, early for a man who never waddled in before eleven. The girls in the office were right—he looked exactly like a mountain with a tennis ball on top.
“Lee Ann! Just the gal I was hoping to see.” He snatched her arm and with a lopsided gait, swinging a black Naugahyde briefcase, pulled her into a corner at the foot of the stairs. Too fat to turn his neck, he pivoted a half circle and checked the hallway. A pudgy hand with a finger choked by a wedding ring withdrew a thick file containing fiscal allocations for various departments. He licked his finger, leafed through the papers, and thrust a stapled report titled “Federal Disbursement for Needy Women, Infants, and Children” at her waist.
“You look just like your mama did at your age,” he said, every pore on his nose distinct as pencil dots. “She always reminded me of Deborah Kerr, and you do, too. Lovely, just lovely.”
He squeezed her wrist. Words just above a whisper oozed out one side of his mouth.
“We’ve agreed $62,600.00 is an inappropriate designation for this department.”
She smelled his breath, disguised with Scope, and turned her head and reached for the wall.
“We’d like you to re-distribute twenty percent to the County Highway Department.”
We meant Harley, Ed Richter, and Saul Duran, the county’s commissioners. Agreed meant once again, they’d met in closed session without her. The nerve of these men! Unwitnessed decisions were illegal. County law required that she, as county manager, be present at all meetings.
This time, confront him! Challenge Harley on altering state and federal funds and hatching corrupt county deals. All highway contracts are awarded to Saul’s brother-in-law; construction projects, despite competitive bids, go to Harley’s son; commissioners’ relatives and friends fill any openings in county government. Lord, assure me I won’t appear arrogant if I speak up. I am Your servant, not a slave to unethical men. Empower me with the courage to demand what’s right. Give me a sign that You will protect my job, my benefits, and retirement.
Harley tightened his grip on her wrist. “Lee Ann, the papers.”
“Sorry, Harley… yes, of course.”
Her desk was situated in front of a window that didn’t open, facing a large room with three workstations. She stowed her purse and sweater in the bottom drawer. The wall clock said 8:26. She put her lunch in the common room fridge, pulled a few files, and reread the minutes of last month’s meeting, irritated with her subordinates who drifted in between 8:45 and 9:00. She lived farther out than any of them and managed to be prompt.
Her job required managing the courthouse according to the commissioners’ wishes and years ago, after weighing the pros and cons of reprimanding tardiness, she opted in favor of preserving a pleasant atmosphere. In reality, twenty minutes made little difference in conducting county business, the letters “ASAP” about as effective as posting a “No Poaching” sign in the national forest.
The agenda for Thursday’s meeting called for, a) the commissioners’ written response to the U.S. Forest Service’s refusal to allow the county to dump garbage on federal land without meeting the EPA requirements for the proper liner, b) consideration of Aaron Stark’s request for county funds to run a small timber operation in the abandoned sawmill that had been shut down by the federal government fifteen years ago, and c) an address by the New Mexico State Engineer on water rights.
The same issues over and over. Although commissioners had come and gone over the years, she might have been dealing with the same three ranchers sitting poker-faced behind big bellies—facts and figures flying over their heads, procrastination their talent, private deals, secret budgets, and resistance to change their pact. Appointed when her uncle had served as commissioner, she’d held onto the position by obeying orders, storing facts, keeping secrets, and remaining impartial. But cutting funds for needy women, infants, and children—my God!
She opened the filing cabinet and began gathering data for the State Engineer and estimates for operating the sawmill, miffed when the phone rang. Caroline hadn’t arrived to answer it.
“It’s me,” Eugene said.
“I thought you were going to Round Valley.”
“He’s taken my truck.”
She left the filing cabinet drawer open and walked to the window. Here we go. Nothing has changed. Still a brat. Still impossible. Doesn’t try, doesn’t care, can’t focus, won’t listen, selfish, selfish, selfish!
“There must be a reason,” she said. Lord, I have begged You.
“He could have asked. Told me he was borrowing it. I’ve got to pick up that lumber today.”
“Use Dee’s truck.”
“That’s not the point,” he said, and hung up.