WALKER SKIPPED THE COMMUNITY CENTER potluck after the funeral. He stopped at the Alibi Creek Store, charged a fifth of whiskey and drove to Mother’s. Lee Ann couldn’t be two places at once. She wasn’t that spiritual.
Mother had worn jewelry occasionally, a ring or brooch, but he was after something special. He reached for her Bible and thought better of keeping such an item around. Old lady housedresses lined the closet. Her slippers were worn and kind of disgusting. From the nightstand he took her Bulova watch and Dad’s old Hamilton and put them in his pocket. If only he could bottle her smell, capture the texture of her skin and hair. He picked up her pillow and hugged the limp down, brought the smooth cotton pillow-case to his face. In the pantry he found black plastic bags and stuffed the pillow in first, then went through his own dresser and closet and cleaned out his clothes. Dee could box up the rest and leave it at the store.
From Mother’s porch, Lee Ann’s house still shocked the landscape, rude as a white Post-it note. In a couple of hours the white stucco would darken to gray, but never quite dissolve into the night. He raised his hand in a salute and clicking his heels, paid homage to the four directions.
“Patch, Blue. Come here, you ugly mutts. Where’s Butch? Out with the cows, no doubt. You tell him I said good-bye.” He patted the dogs’ sides and kneaded their ears, took one more look around, bent an arm over his waist, stretched the other arm wide, and bowed toward Lee Ann’s house.
“It’s all yours, Lannie.”
He walked his land. Mother and Dad had always said this portion of the ranch was useless, but they looked at things through ranchers’ eyes. There were plenty of other ways to earn a living—easier, more profitable ways, and assets beyond good pastureland. He slipped through the fence to the Rossmans’ place. The rock house would make perfect hunters’ lodging. If the small amount of money Mother left didn’t cover the down payment, he’d offer the Rossmans a deal; from August through November he’d run the lodge and split the profits. They could use the house the rest of the time. He scrambled down to the creek. Here, he’d stack hay bales for archery and rifle practice. Over there, in that flat, open area he’d build a corral. He’d sell camo tee shirts with North of the Border Hunting Lodge printed in red letters in a little square left of center, over the heart. That might be too many words. Maybe just N. B. H. L. Shelly would display brochures. Jo would design a website.
He walked back to the cabin. Let’s see, a cot over here, a table there. A car pulled in, and out of nowhere Danielle appeared at the doorway carrying a legal-size folder.
“I’ve got the divorce papers,” she said.
“Efficient gal.”
“You can’t be serious about living here. I can see the entire east mesa between the logs.”
He took the folder and laid two papers on the wood counter.
“Excuse me while I read every word.”
The details seemed fair enough. He asked her for a pen and signed his name as her feet clipped along the floor, walking the perimeter of the room.
“A guy’s been looking for you,” she said. “He looks like you. Like a rat.”
He gathered some rocks and built a fire pit by the creek, propped his boots near the flames, and drank his whiskey. Coyotes howled nearby and he howled back. “Ah–ooh. Ah–ooh. Yip, yip, yip.” By midnight, the conversation had become repetitive and he drove to Jo’s.
“Gallivanting already,” she said. “You smell like smoke.”
“I’ve been up to the land. Plotting the beautiful future.”
He dropped his pants and got into bed.
“Pee-ew,” she said.
“I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No. Don’t go.” She reached for him. “The potluck was nice. Most everyone loved your mother.”
“Most everyone?”
“Yeah. Some thought her stuck up.”
“Jesus, Jo, she was the most down to earth woman who ever lived.”
“Don’t get upset. Get some sleep.”
Tomorrow (if he remembered) he’d ask just who thought Mother stuck up, straighten them out. Tell them a thing or two. On his list for the week, he’d written a broom, a bed and a chair. And a dish, a fork, a spoon, and a good skillet. Oh yeah, and a fridge and a Coleman stove and a table. That ought to keep him busy for five days. Oh, and a cat. Or a litter of six. They’d get picked off fast up there.