WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 24, 2007
IN THE MORNING, THE DIESEL’S tire tracks imprinted an inch of snow out to the highway, clear as two chalk marks on slate. She walked in the tracks for a while and returned to her house and made coffee. Enough hay had been stored for the winter. The boys would drain the water from Mother’s house and help empty it of her belongings. Eventually, Dee might live there when Scott went to college. She turned from the window and paced the floor in Mother’s coat, checking the clock, listening for sounds of the boys. When she heard cupboards opening, she joined them at the table.
“Dad has left,” she said, rolling the corner of a placemat, fearing she might cry. But she was cried out. “I don’t know if or when he’ll be back.”
The boys ate with their shoulders hunched, spoons scraping their bowls, as if she’d just reported the weather. She’d fooled no one, blind to what everyone else had seen.
“Well, that leaves us in a mess,” Scott said. “Walker’s taken off, the Yanmar is leaking fluid and the fence adjoining Herrington’s is torn up. We need hay for the winter.”
“We’ll manage,” Dee said. “If you keep your mind on the job instead of catching butterflies.”
“And you quit chasing Ginny all over the county.”
“Dad’ll be back before you know it,” Dee said, refilling his coffee. “He’ll miss me.”
“He should be missing Mom.”
She said, “We’ll have to assign Edgar some chores. He can take care of the chickens and feed the pigs. I won’t plant the garden. We’ll simplify.”
“I’ll see if Lyle will send Manuel or Rudy over once a week,” Dee said. “My shoulder will be okay in a couple of months.” He socked Scott in the arm. “Until then, you’re in charge. I don’t know why that doesn’t give me confidence.”
Up the canyon, wet snow fattened oak and pine branches into smooth, soft shapes. Hugged by towering walls, she plodded toward “the dribble.” Only a few elk, javelina, and coyote prints marked the snow. The dogs shot off, a whiz of black against white, and when she turned to whistle for them, her foot hit an icy patch and she slipped. As if shaken loose, tears flowed. She searched her empty pockets for a Kleenex and wiped her nose with her coat sleeve, touched her eyes. Puffy. A dull pain throbbed in their sockets.
Had she abandoned Jesus, or had He abandoned her? Had she forced Eugene out, or had he fled? Did she miss Mother’s companionship, or did she need someone to care for to justify her life?
When the weather was beautiful, it was foolish to think God made it so, that He created snowflakes and raindrops, that He’d written the past and prescribed the future. Blind belief had deadened her curiosity, robbed her of skepticism. Now, her mind might wander, ponder, and wonder. Intuition might prove to be the only truth. This seemed backwards. When all was lost, that was the point at which people found faith, trusted God, turned to Jesus. She’d done the opposite—stepped out of God’s protective palm, discarded skin that no longer fit.
She shook her head and said, “Crap.”
Snowmelt dripped from tree limbs. The dogs poked her sides with their noses, come on, let’s go. They didn’t question whether God put a rabbit behind that bush for them to sniff out, didn’t justify the chase or the kill or near escape. Instinct drove them toward a single goal. Her instinct dictated that she be good. She could work toward that goal without Jesus telling her how. She could flounder, err, and try again without His judgment or His insipid acceptance of her weaknesses and His unrelenting forgiveness of her mistakes.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, let’s go.”
That stupid ceramic pig. Wherever Walker had gone, he’d taken every last penny. Never again. She took the cookie jar outside and smashed it with a hammer, swept up, dumped the pieces in the trash and set Mother’s recipe box in its place. The curtainless window in the living room let in the subdued tones of winter. In due time, spring, summer, and fall, each with their changing skies and foliage, would be invited in also. There would be no new drapes.
From her pocket, she unfolded a slip of paper and dialed the office of the state auditor in Santa Fe.
“I am the county manager of Dax County. I’m calling to inquire about the procedure for reporting fraud. Yes, I’ll hold.”
Gerald Murray took her call. As public investigator, he would be assigned to the case. When asked if she would like to remain anonymous, she replied, “Only for the moment. I’ll be away next week and can assist with the process when I return. At that point I’ll be willing to attach my name to the investigation and provide any information you need.”
The Central New Mexico Correctional Facility provided Pat Merker’s full mailing address. On a sheet of Mother’s plain white stationery, she wrote:
Dear Mr. Merker,
An urgent matter has come up regarding my brother, Walker. I would value your input—confidentially, of course. Please include my name on your visitor’s list. I will be there late Saturday morning.
Sincerely,
Lee Ann Walker
She drove to the mailbox. It was either too cold or too early for the men to have gathered on the store porch. A couple of numbers had fallen off the marquis, or someone had picked them off with a stick, and the six-pack special was now selling for $ .99! Even so, the place was deserted.