Mornings in Two Pan Read online

  Mornings

  in

  Two Pan

  Book 1 in the Two Pan Series

  ___________

  B.K Froman

  ___________

  Morning West Publishing

  Copyright 2014 B.K Froman

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Product names, brands, and other trademarks referred to within this book are the property of their respective trademark holders. Unless otherwise specified, no association between the author and any trademark holder is expressed or implied. Use of a term in this book should not be regarded as affecting the validity of any trademark, registered trademark, or service mark.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, NIV. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society, Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers

  Cover Design: Steven Nowak

  ISBN: 978-1-938531-12-5

  I believe that what we become depends on what our fathers teach us at odd moments when they aren’t trying to teach us. We are formed by scraps of wisdom.

  —Umberto Eco

  To David, Greg, and Ken

  “Use Time As A Tool, Not A Couch”

  —John F. Kennedy

  SOMETIMES THE DAYLIGHT in Two Pan, Oregon looks different than you’d expect. Every now and then it takes on a quality that you might say…has been “paused.” Put on hold. Waiting for something to happen. The sun’s rays seem to slow the minutes to a standstill or make an hour linger before moving on. Often, the sunsets glow with a sepia hue as though filtered through the fabric of some yesteryear.

  You’ll recognize this light when you see it. It has that same golden-drifting peculiarity that poured through school windows while you sat at your desk in the fifth grade, drawing ponies that could fly or cars that shot bolts of fire from their headlights. Meanwhile, at the front of the classroom, the teacher yammered about pronoun-antecedent agreement, and the hands on the clock didn’t move.

  Every now and then you’d look at her, mostly to be sure she wasn’t sneaking up on you. You’re smart like that. But cocooned in shafts of sunlight, you really couldn’t see her standing on the shadowy side of the room. Instead, you studied the dust motes spinning in lazy loops. It made you look like you were watching the teacher. It also had the added benefit of making you seem interested in whatever she was jabbering about. This went a long way toward mitigating other infractions she might catch you doing when the clock didn’t move. Like I said, you’re smart.

  Most folks on this dry side of the state are wise in that sort of way. The few residents still in Two Pan know about the daylight’s tricks. Some say it’s the Eagle Cap Mountains south of town, refracting the light. Others say it’s the heat and haze of the day, trying to noodle its fingers into the canyons and arroyos only to be rolled back upon the squat-doodle little town by the cool breezes of twilight.

  Whether it’s physics, geography, or hoodoo which changes the light, the folks of Two Pan know better than to let it lull them into restful living. At this edge of civilization, there’s always something growing up, falling down, caving in, breaking out, or passing by which should’ve been taken care of yesterday. It’s what makes the people a little stubborn, a little creative, a little eccentric, and sometimes—a little sleepless.

  If you think this is a bunch of foolishness—and don’t believe that light changes time—just ask Jiggs Woolsey. At the moment you’ll find him on the ground. He’s sitting exactly where he tripped when he jumped backward. He’s holding his breath, though he isn’t aware of it.

  Unmoving.

  Still as a rock with that wide-eyed stare you see on animals forever regretting their decision to cross the highway.

  Time has paused.

  The light shines off the broken white skull in the dirt in front of him. The snake coiled beside it gives its tail a rattle—a polite warning—reminding Jiggs that the light tricked him into this situation.

  Common Sense Isn’t Common

  THE CROWS LIKED to get a head start on welcoming the dawn to eastern Oregon. Each morning, they gathered in the maple tree beside Jiggs Woolsey’s bedroom and cawed their hellos, chittering plans for the morning. Jiggs reminded himself, as he did every day, to cut down the tree, even if it did shade his ranch house from the afternoon sun. The birds would have to fly half a mile to find another that size to host their breakfast meetings.

  Awake. Dressed. He stepped out the door and onto his back porch, armed with an insulated mug of coffee for the ten mile drive to Two Pan. To the east, a few ragged clouds held onto pinks and purples above a rising sun. Sky decorations. They wouldn’t bring any rain.

  A glance at the small house next door told him his Dad’s truck was missing. Jiggs went back inside, hung up his hat and cracked four eggs into the frying pan that always stayed on the stovetop. If Ox Woolsey was at the Bar and Grill, Jiggs would eat at home.

  He was smearing Lottie Lubach’s pear jam on an over-cooked slice of toast when the creak of the backdoor reached the kitchen, followed by clomping on the mud mat.

  “You don’t need to stomp.” Jiggs’ voice carried tired frustration. “There’s not enough dew in the county to muddy a toad, much less your boots.”

  “Well, if I stayed on cow paths and foot trails like you, that’d be true,” Ox Woolsey said as he crossed the linoleum. Even at eighty-four, he still filled the kitchen, his white head turning to check the stove then the coffee. He sat down at the same spot he’d occupied when he’d lived in the house. Head of the table, nearest the door, legs angled into the room.

  Jiggs glanced at him and stabbed a knife into the butter. He kept it in the covered butter bowl his wife and his mother had used, so it was room temperature and spreadable, but it wasn’t smoothing over the top of the jam. Things often got out of order when his dad was around.

  Ox picked up the butter knife as soon as Jiggs laid it down. He nabbed the other slice of toast leaning against his son’s plate. “Fired this one a little too hot,” he said, knocking the black edges off.

  “I like it that way.”

  “Sure you do. Pass the jelly.”

  With the back of his hand, Jiggs nudged the half-pint jar toward his father and kept eating.

  “You make more than one cup of that stuff you call coffee?”

  Jiggs didn’t answer.

  When Ox returned to the table he had scraped the remaining eggs from the skillet onto a plate, added a new piece of toast, and carried a mug of steaming coffee cradled in a salad saucer. Pulling his chair up to the table for serious business, he poured the coffee in the saucer and added milk as though preparing the dish for a cat. “I been up to Blank Map this morning,” he said around the eggs he forked into his mouth. “Only counted twenty head. You need to get in that downslope thicket and see if the rest are there.”

  “That’s where they were yesterday.”

  Before the old man could snort a comment, a sleepy voice mumbled, “Morning, Gramps. What’s today’s complaint?” Nap had entered the kitchen, still in baggy pajama pants, one eye closed as he scrubbed his hand through his hair. The bare-chested twenty-three-year-old had reached the full six feet of his father and grandfather’s height. Jiggs glanced between his old man, who was missing the bottom of his left ear, and his son, who still had all of his body parts and the lean muscle young men carry before they’re exposed to years of ranching, too much beer, and pie with ice cream.

  “Morning, Sleeping Beauty. Got a job for ya.” Ox took a big bite of toast. “We’re gonna start rustling cows from your dad.” Th
e old man shook his head as though he’d have to go as far as a big city to find such stupidity. “We’ll have the meat at Grubbs or on somebody’s barbecue grill before he even knows they’re missing. Already been up north. Couldn’t find three—”

  “How many times did you drive off the road?” Jiggs piled his remaining scrambled eggs onto his toast, mashing them into the jam so they’d stick. He didn’t look at the old man. He didn’t need to. He could feel the glare searing the side of his face. It was a dirty trick to pick on the old guy’s driving, but he’d developed it as a lifeline after forty-five years of shouldering criticism. Jiggs stood and carried his egg sandwich to the door. “Hope you at least ran over some gophers on your morning blitz.” He paused long enough to look at Nap. “Your grandpa ate your breakfast. I’m fixing fence posts on Starvation Creek this morning.” He turned and left.

  “You leaving these dishes for somebody else to clean up?” Ox’s voice had that get-back-here threat to it.

  Jiggs kept walking. “You live next door. Remember?” Behind him Ox’s voice rumbled, “Leave that plate right there, dammit. It’ll be waiting for him when he gets back.”

  Two steps into the yard, Jiggs heard breaking ceramics and flatware clattering across the floor. Dropping his egg sandwich, he wheeled on his boot heel and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Nap kneeled on the floor picking up the pieces of Jiggs’ plate. Ox sat in his vinyl-padded chair, his teeth clenched, his mouth pulled in a straight line. He slowly pushed away from the table and stood. No one spoke as he passed through the door, leaving a feeling of burnt air floating through the kitchen.

  Jiggs picked up the knife that had somersaulted against the cabinet, spackling pear jam onto the door.

  Head down, Nap’s cowlick and bedhead made his short, brown hair peacock-up in back. The young man’s words were surly and sharp. “I’ve got this.”

  Jiggs abandoned him to floor duty and carried Ox’s plate to the sink. “You want these eggs? He didn’t finish them.”

  “What I want…” Nap looked at his father, his forehead furrowed with the pained look of a man backed into a corner and forced to fight. “I’m tired of being caught in the crossfire. Gramps didn’t mean to make me drop the plate. I ignored him. Cleared the table anyway. He grabbed my arm. I dropped the plate. End of story.”

  Jiggs tossed him the dish sponge to wipe the floor. “I miss your grandmother. She could keep him in line.”

  Nap gave his dad a meaningful look. “And mom kept you in line.” He continued wiping the floor as silence bled into the room. After a moment, the sponge flew to the sink with more force than necessary. He stood and dumped the pieces of ceramic in the trash. The jangling sound of the shattered plate broke the quietness.

  Jiggs let out a sigh. “This is what happens when three hardheaded men live together.”

  “Then I’ll gladly go back to college. When my roommates got out of line we took it outside and knocked some common sense into each other. I can’t do that to you or Gramps. I need to move out. Find my own place.”

  “I hope not.” Jiggs gave his son a half-smile, shaking his head. “Without you around, I’m afraid your granddad and I might throttle each other. And secondly, common sense isn’t as common as you think. C’mon, I’ll take you for breakfast. I dropped mine in the dirt, hurrying back inside.”

  Nap shook his head, gazing at the floor. “I’ll fix a bowl of cereal.”

  *

  Jiggs replayed their breakfast as he lugged rocks. A mindless task. The last time he’d done this, he’d been Nap’s age, helping Ox reinforce the corner posts of the fence.

  “The land hates man-made additions,” Ox had told him. “The earth’s skin cracks in the summer and puckers in the winter, trying to push out these posts like they’re pimples.”

  It had proven true. They’d piled a pyramid of stones at each corner of the property. Then every twenty feet down the fence line, they’d built more rockjack anchors to keep the posts upright. Even so, years later some of them leaned, leaving slack in the wires, letting cattle push through the fence.

  Taking his hat off, Jiggs wiped his forehead. It was long past noon. Breakfast had played out hours ago. He rested a foot on the shovel he used to pry up rocks. His breaks were becoming longer than his rock-lugging time. Letting the shovel fall over, he tromped across the pasture toward the small creek along the back side of the property. This time of year, the snowmelt would numb his fingers and make his eye sockets cold when he splashed the clear water on his face. It would be enough to keep him going to finish the last two rockjacks.

  Ash and small cottonwoods had grown along the creek. Their budding leaves, no bigger than squirrels’ ears, made lacy patterns on the streambed. The dry streambed.

  Jiggs looked right and left. Small, round rocks dotted the sandy bottom. He kicked several out of place. The pockets they left in the sand weren’t even damp. The water had been running last fall. He’d fixed the fence along the creek to keep the cows from mucking up the entire stream.

  He walked the distance to the wide spot where homesteaders had dug out the channel to create a pool. Their old house was gone, but evidence of their lives remained. Ditches and rotting wooden gates cut through the land where they’d diverted the flow to irrigate. He checked the earthen dams to make sure water hadn’t broken through. Everything was dry.

  At one time, the dip pool had been good size, but now dead weeds and grass choked the edges. In the moving shade and light under the trees, the sandy bottom glittered with promises. But then, all the creeks in the county were flecked with bits of shine: mica, quartz, and even specks of gold the size of a bug’s eye. A row of flat stones lay in the middle of the stream like a long six-foot pile of books. He’d never seen it before, but the flowing water would have covered it. It reminded Jiggs of the old miners’ claims he’d seen around washouts.

  Stepping over the weeds, he squatted to inspect a white rock doming through the sand. Pure white quartz, the companion of gold, was never this size in the valley. Surely it was a trick of the light.

  He scratched the grit away, finding a layer of compacted pebbles. The dome was larger than he’d thought. He stood and kicked around it with the heel of his boot. The hard swing of his foot made him stumble, scattering flat rocks as he stepped through the pile.

  A brown stick beside his boot kinked into an S-shape.

  He jumped back. Bone crunched as he fell. The heel of his boot prised a white skull from the ground, flipping it into the air. As it landed in front of him, the rattlesnake struck it.

  Jiggs froze. So did time.

  Good Judgment Comes From Experience

  JUST EASE YOUR gun out real slow, slower than sunrise. Then shoot it. Jiggs could hear his father’s voice rolling through his mind. Oh? You don’t carry a gun? Guess you’re gonna die, Son. It was a useless message, but after forty-five years, his dad’s voice was stuck in his head. Even if his old man were here, he wouldn’t do anything. He’d stand back and let Jiggs contemplate the predicament he’d gotten himself into.

  “This isn’t the wild west anymore,” Jiggs mumbled loudly enough to make the snake, three feet from his boot, maraca-shake his rattles.

  Ox was the only person he knew who carried a gun into the pasture. It had been handy in a couple of situations, but the other nine thousand ninety-nine times it had been in the way. Jiggs followed Hop Hopkins’ example when it came to guns. Every summer, the old rancher had hired a team of “young bucks” to do his heavy lifting. The morning they were cutting lodge pole pines for fence posts, one of the teens found a rattler moving slowly in the chill of the shadows. Sol Meyers forked the reptile to the ground with a stick.

  “Give you five bucks if you can fling him to that big boulder downhill.” Jiggs had grinned at Sol. “Grab him by the tail. He can’t bite upside down.”

  “Bull shit.” Sol kept pressure on the stick as the snake’s body coiled. “They can move any which way to fang you. Even through water. Don’t even
have to cock to strike.”

  “I heard you can wear ’em down,” Dooley Monroe said. “Make ’em keep striking ’til they can’t raise their head anymore.” The three of them bent from the waist, inspecting the snake.

  Sol looked at the others, a grin spreading across his mouth. “Well, let’s just see. Get ready to move, girls.” He lifted the stick. Yelling and cussing followed as the boys ran.

  The rattler’s tongue flicked the air several times.

  “Leave it be. It’ll slither off.” Jiggs backed farther away, amazed how a few steps allowed the brown reptile to blend into the dirt and weeds.

  “I’m not working out here…” Dooley’s voice pitched higher, “knowing I could accidentally step on the log that sucker is hiding under. Besides, you know it has a buddy around.”

  “Here, watch this.” Sol pulled a long branch from their limb pile and poked at the snake. It rattled its tail and opened its mouth, showing a milky-white lining. Sol circled one way then the other. At the third jab of the branch, the rattler lunged. It was piston-fast, rising, striking, dipping, and then rising and striking again.

  “Shit!” Sol dropped the limb and jumped back. “Did you see that?” he yelled, but it was lost in the midst of “Whoooooooa!” and the whoops young men make when they’re playing with something that could kill them.

  “See if he can strike again,” Jiggs shouted. Something hit him on the back of the head. He saw stars. He blinked, staring at his straw hat that now lay on the ground.

  Hop Hopkins strode by. “Shut up. I don’t have time to run you ladies to the morgue today.”

  At six foot four, he was what folks called, “a big ol’ boy,” and they didn’t mean fat. His fifty-four-year-old body walked with a slight forward tilt, favoring the right knee. He complained every bone and joint ached because they’d all been busted at least once from breaking broncs. He walked behind Sol, who was teasing the snake again, and smacked him on the back of the head. The boy’s hat flew off. The snake bit it as it landed.