MONDAY OCTOBER 22, 2007
SHE ATE HER SANDWICH IN the courthouse common room and folded the plastic baggie into the pocket of her pants. A three-page request from the Brand volunteer fire department for funds to upgrade their equipment had been placed on her desk. The commissioners’ excuses would cause the fire chief to lose his temper and yell insults, which would further ruin his chances of getting what the fire department needed. She set the request aside.
At two o’clock, Lyle made a rare visit to the office and invited Lee Ann to take a walk. Caroline was tallying payroll, Roxanne was entering county statistics into the computer, and Maggie was working in conjunction with the clerk’s office to recruit census takers over the phone. Everything seemed in order.
“Let’s head toward the fairgrounds,” Lyle said, pushing open the glass doors.
They crossed the street toward Leo’s Garage, all the doors open, Leo out to lunch. Yvonne and Sally waved from their windows at the bank, no customers in line. One pedestrian crossed the street to the post office without looking right or left. Larry Corkin’s trailer marked the end of town and Lyle took Lee Ann’s elbow, quickening his step past three barking dogs straining at their chains behind the fence.
The fairgrounds consisted of a rodeo arena, bleachers, and a long, metal building situated on a thin strip of land between the highway and mountains. They walked under the Dax County Fairgrounds sign toward two rows of picnic tables under a metal roof. A month ago, vehicles had been parked bumper to bumper clear to the highway. Lamb, cattle, poultry, and rabbits added their aromas and sounds to the noise of excited children. Folks waited in an endless line for hot dogs slathered with mustard and hamburgers smothered with chile, while dust billowed from the arena during the barrel racing and roping competitions.
She took a seat on a picnic bench, in a patch of sun sneaking under the roof. Lyle sat in the shade, fingers folded loosely on the table.
“Lee Ann,” he said, preoccupied with the length of his fingernails.
She said, “I take it you have something to tell me.”
“This is difficult,” he said. “Last Thursday, Owen came into my office complaining that a man named Keith Lampert owns Ross Plank’s ranch. Owen is pretty upset, believing he’s the rightful heir to his family’s property. Keith Lampert claims he paid $880,000.00 cash to Walker for the place and has a quitclaim deed to prove Ross had transferred ownership.”
“Walker?”
“Of course, I checked with Eileen right away and she verified that Keith filed the deed at the courthouse last Tuesday. It’s signed by Ross and notarized. I visited with Ted Bowles to check the legality of the signatures and he assured me the deed is legitimate.”
“Explain what this means, exactly.”
“It means Walker pulled a fast one. It means the signatures on the deed are binding, signed by both parties of their own volition, in their right minds, in front of a witness. It means Walker sold Owen’s inheritance out from under him. I found Keith camped out there in the same trailer Walker had parked on the highway. He showed me the receipt for $880,000.00.”
She leaned forward on her elbows and stuck her fingers in her ears. Don’t hear. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against them so hard they hurt. Don’t look.
“Now, I need to ask you where Walker is.”
She shook her head.
“Lee Ann, look at me. I need you to remember the last time you saw him, the last time anyone in your family saw him.”
Walker. Bigger and badder than ever. Congratulations! Laugh, or cry, or scream. Hit something, throw something, kick something. Punch something. Choke something. And she, a fool. To assume. To trust. Eugene was right. A criminal. He’d said, “Admit it! He’s one step away from a hardcore criminal!” And now, Lord, he’s taken that step.
She stomped across the field, searching for the appropriate Bible quote on rage. On trickery. On deceit. On disappointment. On shame. Damn Walker. Damn him! A quick-tempered man does foolish things, and a crafty man is hated. Proverbs 14:17. Oh, she did hate him. Blood flooded her eardrums, pounded against her temples. A scream stuck in her throat, her jaw too tight to open.
Lyle caught her arm and turned her around, holding steady as she stamped her feet and beat his chest and fell against his sheepskin vest. Tension drained from her neck down her back through her limbs, the ground a sponge, drawing poison.
Lyle said, “Tell me.”
“I last saw him the day of the accident. Two weeks ago Sunday.”
Back at the office, she unlocked the top drawer of her desk and spread out three bids for the construction of a youth center on Main Street. The commissioners had adjusted the figures to ensure the contract would go to Saul Duran’s first cousin. The material and labor costs bled together, impossible to tally and compare. Lord, have You heard me? Do You see me? Do You ignore me intentionally? Have I not been faithful? Why have You allowed Walker to fall into his old pattern? Her hands shook. Mother mustn’t find out. She jostled the papers, returned them to the drawer and turned the key.
At five o’clock she walked down the street to Art’s, pushed open the door, hit a wall of cigarette smoke, yellow haze, and rank odor and moved down the length of the bar.
Jo tilted her head and raised one eyebrow, flicked her ashes as Art set down an amber-colored cocktail on a small square napkin.
“We need to talk,” Lee Ann said.
Jo drew the napkin closer. “Shoot.”
Lee Ann turned her back to Art.
“Lyle came to see me today. Walker’s in trouble.”
“What’s new?”
“Real trouble.”
“What’s new?”
“He’s sold Ross Plank’s land to some stranger from Arizona. For $880,000.00.”
The smoke Jo exhaled clouded her face.
“Walker’s not smart enough to do that.”
Lee Ann fumbled for a Kleenex in her purse. She wiped her eyes.
“You’re serious,” Jo said. “Oh, honey, I had no idea. No idea.”
“Don’t protect him.”
Jo insisted she knew nothing. He’d been absent from Art’s for over a week. She’d figured he was up to something, but didn’t know what. Since he got out of prison, he’d borrowed a couple hundred bucks and took her to supper in Show Low. Sure, she’d heard about the accident with Sonny and Dee, the whole town knew. Maybe he’d simply decided to side-step Eugene for a while. She couldn’t imagine what he’d do with the money. A bundle that big would be hard to hide, too obvious to squander. Lee Ann left her sitting there, cigarette turning to ash, drink untouched.
The cookie jar was empty, Walker’s bed unmade. She fed Mother supper and wheeled her in front of the TV with food still on her chin.
“Mother, God doesn’t acknowledge me. I search for reasons why, find none, and still trust in Him. I’m a fool. You would tell me, ‘do not falter, keep the faith,’ but I am faltering. I am in doubt. I need proof, just once.”
Psalms, Proverbs, Song of Solomon. She flipped quickly through Matthew, Luke, Romans. Faster: Galatians, Timothy, 1 Peter, James. Faster, every passage offering advice, counsel, instruction, the promise of deliverance and salvation, faster, faster. A page tore at the binding. She gasped and ran to the kitchen, rummaged through the junk drawer for the Scotch tape. With shaking fingers, she aligned the tear perfectly and attached both sides, but when the Bible was closed, the page stuck out a sixteenth of an inch.
Chicken thighs frying in a cast iron skillet spattered the stove with oil. Eugene, Scott, and Dee dipped chips into salsa and sipped Dos Equis, discussing when to take the pigs off high protein feed and start them on regular. At the first lull in the conversation Lee Ann turned the chicken and set the tongs on a paper towel. As calmly as possible, she reported Lyle’s news about Walker.
Eugene finished his beer and turned the bottle, as if looking for flaws in the glass.
Scott said, “I’ve never heard of a guy named Keith Lampert. I wonder how Walker got Ross to sign the deed.” He took over cooking the chicken while Lee Ann drained the potatoes. “How did Owen find out? If everything is legal, can Lyle do anything about it?”
She added butter, salt, pepper, and milk to the potatoes and mashed them.
“Those are good questions,” she said. “I don’t have the answers.”
Dee laughed. “Uncle Walker! Did it again! You can bet Keith isn’t likely to give up property he’s paid $880,000.00 for.”
“Quit laughing,” Scott said. “The whole thing speaks to the lawlessness in Dax County. You’re just as bad, if you think your uncle ripping off a sick old man and his naive son is funny.”
Eugene got up and pointed his beer bottle at Lee Ann from across the table.
“This is your fault,” he said. “Not a damn person in your family has ever put that son-of-a-bitch in his place.” He glared at Scott and Dee. “You boys included.”
Scott transferred the chicken onto a serving dish.
“Please,” Lee Ann said.
“Don’t defend Scott and Dee. And don’t preach.”
She lowered her head.
Eugene waved the bottle. “Sure, act humble.” He came around the table. “For once, instead of thinking you’re immune to problems because God’s on your side, own up to your part in allowing this disaster to happen.”
“I had no idea,” she said.
“Because you refuse to look. You think God takes responsibility for everything you don’t have the guts to deal with. You’ve given your self away. And the worst part is, you don’t see it.”
“We’re not discussing God,” she said. “We’re talking about Walker.”
“We shouldn’t be discussing either.”
He dropped the bottle in the trash, walked into the dining room and opened the buffet, took out the whiskey saved for weddings and wakes, and clutching the bottle by the neck, slammed the door on his way out.
Lee Ann slumped into a chair and wiped her eyes with a napkin.
Dee stood behind her and held her shoulders. “Those were pretty harsh words. No one can control Walker—God, or any of us.” He touched his chin to the top of her head. “I’ll go close up the hen house.”
Scott knelt and rested his hands on her knees. “I know how hard you try, Mom.”
No, no one knew how hard she tried, how she believed in a God who ignored her, how she reached out to a man who didn’t touch her, how she defended a brother who didn’t regard her, how she obeyed commissioners who used her. She hung her apron. Time to put Mother to bed.
She stayed long after Mother fell asleep and returned to find the fireplace cold, the chicken and potatoes in the fridge, the pots and pans washed and stacked in the rack. Eugene’s pickup was parked out front, but he wasn’t in the house. She got into bed and clasped her hands under her chin. Lord, what has happened to Eugene and me? Gestures and words at bedtime reveal the condition of a marriage. Mine is disintegrating. Asking Eugene for an explanation feels like a confrontation. I don’t want to hear his excuses. Dutiful kisses goodnight, avoidance of being in the same room together, talk of tasks instead of emotions are signs of declining love. I know your advice on marriage—Above all, love each other deeply, for love covers a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4:8. And yet You teach that Yours is the only love I need. Why then, despite my faith, does the loss of Eugene threaten my sense of wellbeing? Why, now that Walker has shamed me completely, do I seek Eugene’s support rather than Yours? Forgive the weakness of longing for a hand in mine, a body beside me at night, a smile to sweeten my day, a husband to receive the tenderness I offer. Forgive me for needing Eugene’s approval that Walker’s crimes do not reflect on me, that I am good, decent, and honorable.
Sometime after midnight his bare feet crossed the floor. He lowered himself on the bed and carefully pulled the covers over his shoulder, lying as far from her as a body could get. She lay perfectly still until his breathing deepened and he began to snore gently. Only then did she sleep.