THURSDAY OCTOBER 4, 2007
THE DUDE STOOD 6’ 4”, weighed maybe 220. Walker shook Keith Lampert’s hand, asked if he’d spent a pleasant night, and without waiting for an answer, waved him to a table, apologizing for the lumpy upholstery and Vera’s décor—chicken salt and peppershakers on soiled tablecloths printed with Barred Rocks strutting around fairytale barnyards. Walker faced him away from the Rhode Island Red plaque above the order window that read, “What is Superman’s real identity? Cluck Kent,” and the ticket holder plastered with chicken decals that twirled next to shelves of poultry bric-a-brac.
Walker studied Keith’s face. If he covered the left side with the menu, the right side would look like a cartoon of the Handsome Man with chiseled lips, smooth skin and a direct, open gaze. Covering that side, the left half would appear tight and mean, as though a cord ran through Keith’s lip and nostril, pulling them up, cutting deep lines across his cheek and over his cheekbone. A heavy brow pressed down over a squinted eye. The right side suggested he might be fifty-five, the left maybe sixty-five. Smiles seemed to be missing from his repertoire of expressions.
Walker asked for chorizo and eggs smothered in green chile. Keith ordered huevos, scrambled, red on the side.
“I got a big mouth,” Walker said. “And lots to say. I’ll dominate this conversation in two minutes if I don’t give you a chance to tell me about yourself. Go ahead.”
Keith picked up a knife, ran his thumb along the serrated edge.
“Not much to tell,” he said. “My dad and I operated a slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Phoenix. When he died last year, I sold the business and a piece of adjacent property.” He raised his eyes. “I’m wanting out of Phoenix. Too many people. Too much traffic.”
“A butcher! Man, you’ll make a killing around here come hunting season. The county has no regulations on game processing. Anybody can do it. With your skills and reputation, you’ll have all the business you can handle. Work a few months a year, bring in a bundle. As for getting out of Phoenix, I’m hearing that more and more. We’re trying to keep this part of the world a secret, but some of you Arizonans have discovered the cheap prices and low taxes in the spectacular state to your east.”
Vera set their plates down.
“I’m not sure about continuing that line of work,” Keith said. He reached for the salt.
“Sure, you want to retire. Throw your feet up. Get a few chickens, plant some tomatoes and cucumbers, a dozen rows of corn. Once you experience the P and Q, there’ll be no turning back. This is hidden treasure, man. I’m going to drive you around today, introduce you to the country and let me tell you, you’re going to feel privileged to get a piece of it. Because, to tell the truth, there’s not much land available. Less than twenty-five percent of Dax County is privately owned. The rest is public land, managed by the BLM and US Forest Service.” He picked up his fork. Shut. Up. The guy’s stingy with words. Give him an opportunity to relax, ease up, and spill a few details.
Vera poured more coffee.
Walker shoved his eggs around his plate, stifling the urge for a cigarette in case Keith agreed with the rest of the world that smoking in restaurants was offensive.
“I’ve lived here all my life,” Walker said. “A ranchero for all of it. Tried to enlist in my twenties but they wouldn’t take me. Got thrown off a bull when I was sixteen and busted my right eardrum. I guess my left ear is super sharp, ’cause I hear the slightest sounds, even some I’m not supposed to, like two gals whispering about a man’s talents, a mouse in the cat food, thunder a county away.” He shoved his plate aside. “I sure do admire any man that served.”
Keith swallowed his eggs and gulped his coffee.
“Nam,” he said.
So, that was it. The word dated the guy, implied life-altering experiences that worked on a man’s face, forever changing it. The blunt way he stated the word, like a nut cracked against a tabletop, explained one side of his face battling the other. Walker watched him chew, the tight cheek doing the work, doubting the two halves ever lived in harmony.
They hiked up the mesa through cedar and ponderosa pine and stood above the valley on a flat ledge of granite. Walker pointed.
“To the south there, that’s Solitaire Peak. Those are aspens setting fire to the eastern slope.” He set his boot heel into the rock and turned a full circle, arms outstretched, palms up. “All this is your playground. That sandstone cliff’s your slide. Your feet’ll roll on fine gravel and you’ll be flat on your ass in a split second, zooming down the slope fast as a rollercoaster with nothin’ to grab onto to break the ride. In the spring, you can play hide and seek along that rim rock, searching for elk antlers disguised as fallen tree limbs. You can dress like Davy Crocket and cut you a stack of firewood, pretend you’re sixteen and poke your girl in that open meadow over there, claim you’re King of the World and hear your voice echo off the walls in Salida Canyon.”
Keith locked his hands behind his back and inhaled.
“Yeah, take a breath. Nothing cleaner.” Walker tore a small branch off a juniper tree, crushed it in his hand. “Now, that’s perfume, man. Revlon can’t bottle this. It’s God’s concoction. He ain’t givin’ out the formula, but you can sniff all you want for free all year round. And look down there, between the mesas. See the road crossing the creek as it curves west? That there’s your property. Let’s go.”
Walker lit a Winston and let it dangle out the window. The wind blew through the cab and beside him Keith took in the land and sky. Lordy, the sun did shine, not a cloud in sight. He gave a few hits on the horn as they passed Shelley sweeping leaves off the store’s porch. That open bottle of JD she kept under the register called out to him, but he whizzed right on by.
He drove across the creek at Plank’s place super slow.
“You just missed the red Indian paintbrush, orange yerba negrita, and red and yellow gaillardia that color these fields all summer. Next year you’ll be in for a treat. Sometimes, purple bee weed takes over unused pasture and every year sunflowers damn near blind a person.”
They parked under the big cottonwood.
“Tomorrow I’ll loan you my ATV and you can follow the creek, ride the arroyos, and cover most of the territory. If you’re into hunting arrowheads, there’s a big Indian ruin on the southern rim of the west mesa. Now, the house is solid. No one’s lived here for twelve years, so you got to imagine the walls patched and painted. Ross stayed on quite a while after Charlotte died and let things slide. You know how it takes a woman’s touch to warm a place, gingham curtains and the like. I been trapping skunks under the crawl space. That smell should disappear pretty quick. Me, I’d tear the place down and start from scratch, but some folks like the feel of an older home, take comfort in the evidence of family history.”
The sun had climbed almost overhead. He took the flask from his back pocket. “Might be a little early for you,” he said, unscrewing the lid and extending his hand.
“I usually wait until four,” Keith said, but took it.
They walked around back, crunching weeds. The old fence had toppled and any semblance of a tended garden had long vanished. Walker’s ladder leaned against an apple tree still laden with fruit.
“Pick yourself some.”
“I’d like to stay on the land a couple of days, if you’ve got a tent I can borrow.”
“No tent,” Walker said, returning the flask to his pocket. He adjusted the ladder against the tree trunk. “But, I got just the trailer.”