WALKER DROVE BY VERA’S SEARCHING for Keith’s white Suburban and not spotting it, accelerated past Owen’s pickup parked in front of the Church of Christ. Rose Fletcher’s flabby, bland face, contorted into exaggerated sympathy, would be advising Owen and Rita on Ross’s funeral arrangements. Of course, a donation would be welcome if they chose to show their appreciation. Damn preachers and their suffering wives.
When he died, he’d be buried up the canyon under the stars between a pair of ponderosas he’d watched inch their way into the sky since he was a boy, no headstone summing up a man’s life in a couple of brief sentences, no numbers dating his existence, no preacher embellishing his memory with a line of bullshit. He hadn’t specifically defined his thoughts on life and death, but there had to be more to the great mystery than anyone figured. Before birth, his spirit had probably toured outer space and oops, got trapped on the physical plane and without being consulted, had been assigned a brief stint here on earth. Confined to a body too small to contain his exuberance, he’d bounce around this world as best he could until his organs wore out or a sudden accident set his essence free. Beyond that, it was anyone’s guess where a soul might travel, what inconceivable realities were yet to be encountered. No sense mulling over the alternatives because no one, not Pastor Fletcher himself, could fathom or prove anything beyond the limitations of this here planet. So, hey, “be here now,” as they say. Operate by your wits in any given situation. Play the game. On the moment of departure, the physical world and all its trappings vanish.
He zoomed along the highway, took the turn into Plank’s Plot on two wheels, splashed through the creek and screeched to a halt in front of the trailer, choking on dust thick as fog. Keith came down the steps clearing the air with his hat.
Walker left the cab door open and motor running. This would only take a minute.
“Mornin’. Glad I caught you before you trekked off somewhere,” he said, withering in front of the not-so-jolly green giant. The trailer provided some consolation, its tacky construction whispering, You and I recognize each other. It’s as uncomfortable for me having him living inside as it is for you dealing with him.
“You’re doing just fine, I see. I’m guessing this property has awakened your senses, excited a long lost part of yourself. The kid in you.”
“It is pretty special.”
“Damn right.” He scratched the back of his neck. Might as well come right out and say it. This dude wasn’t about to make conversation easy. “The price is $880,000.00.”
Damn, he did look like a giant—feet planted, arms folded across his chest, biceps and forearms bulging.
“I’ll consider that when I see proof of ownership.”
Walker scurried to produce the envelope.
“Got a quitclaim deed from Ross Plank right here. It’s legit. Signed and notarized.”
Keith studied the form. “Drawn up just this week.”
“And lucky, too. The old man died yesterday, in his sleep. As I said, I’m just checking to see if you need anything. Otherwise I’ll come by Monday after you’ve given it some thought and we can wind things up.”
If Keith were any other man, Walker would offer to stick around, point out hidden trails, buy drinks at Art’s, and treat him to a meal at Vera’s. This iceberg wasn’t going to melt, though. Let Danielle work him.
Keith handed back the deed.
“I’ll have to see a clear title.”
“No question about the title. This property’s been in the Plank family for three generations, never a loan on it, no liens against it. Reason I know is my family’s been here longer than that. Around here folks got nothing better to do than keep up on other folks’ business. And believe me, I could tell you some things about Ross Plank, how he saw the world through a two inch pipe, blind to everything outside that scope. The man had no imagination, wrapped up what could have been a great story in a couple of sentences. Couldn’t dance, didn’t drink. Repetitive as ‘Silent Night’ at Christmas, so boring we’d yawn soon as he opened his mouth. But he was honest. George Washington didn’t have anything on Ross in the never-told-a-lie department. If you asked how he was doing he’d tell you, ‘My feet ache. This morning I had a bout of diarrhea after a week of constipation. I sprouted this darn wart here on my left cheek and wax is clogging my ears, making me deaf. My back tooth on the upper right side needs pulling because of a quarter inch cavity worrying the nerve.’ He’d reveal down to the last penny how much he paid for his yearling calves and how much his taxes went up and the amount of Charlotte’s inheritance. He’d tell you if you looked bad, and how bad. You’d about want to smack him in the mouth. No, there ain’t no problem with the title to this place. Half the county would know about it if there was.”
Keith said, “I’ll pay you half now and the rest after the title search.”
“Look man, investigating an honest man’s record is a waste of time and money.” Christ. “No, sir,” Walker said. “It’s all or nothin’. I got this quitclaim deed and if you don’t want it, there’ll be someone else eager to grab up the best bargain this side of the state line.”
He slipped the paper back into its envelope and touched it to his hat brim.
“Hasta Monday,” he said.
He spent the afternoon in Show Low filling a cart with a pair of beige Dockers, a sage green shirt, white socks, and a plastic belt—the outfit something a nine-to-five nerd would wear. And white fake-leather running shoes, size nines, with lightning bolts zigzagging along the sides. He twirled the sunglasses rack, settled on silver wire frames that weighed the least and looked the best and bought a brown baseball cap with a Dallas Cowboys logo. Christ, he’d sworn never to shield his brow with one of those bird beaks advertising a bunch of dumb jocks owned by a few rich guys in big cities. Big cities, small cities, they were all the same—monster machines chugging along, oiled by mortgage payments and car payments and credit card debt, young couples signing on the dotted line for a shot at the American Dream—a house they couldn’t afford, a car they could afford, a day without shopping unimaginable. Green forests a memory, silence forgotten. While he was at it, might as well get one of those cell phones with prepaid minutes.
He left his truck in the Safeway/Hairs To You/Taco Bell parking lot and walked down West Deuce of Clubs and into the High Lonesome, an upscale joint compared to Art’s. He straightened his collar and ordered a Dos Equis. Late afternoon turned into early evening, conversation moving from the world going to hell to the best whiskey to the pathetic Diamondbacks to weather predictions. A couple of older gals plopped their soft behinds on stools beside him, ready for anything on a Saturday night. Didn’t take much to get them giggling. He told them about driving twenty-five miles into the forest with a woman new to Alibi Creek to collect flat rocks for her walkway. The axle broke on his truck with nothing but a cooler of beer in the bed and a ten-foot rope behind the seat. Ordered that city girl to settle down, take a walk, and be patient, they weren’t going to be stranded and die of starvation. Being a genius, he used the rope to tie the axle together and drove home very slowly. That woman chased him around Bud Berry’s New Year’s Eve party until he had to hide in the closet to get away from her. Apparently, rope tying impressed women. At nine o’clock he tucked the napkin with both gals’ phone numbers in his vest pocket, tossed it in the first trashcan he passed and started the two-hour drive home.
At Mother’s, he tiptoed down the hall, cracked Danielle’s door. Empty.
Hell, might as well ride along with the roundup crew in the morning. The saddle called.