Mornings in Two Pan Read online

  “I heard Lottie Lubach can’t find her old watch. Have you looked inside? Is there a picture of her grandma in there?”

  “What I found was broken up,” Jiggs said, thinking of the skull. “Doesn’t have a face.”

  “I’ll go tell her.” He pointed to the back room used for meetings. “I got roped into helping the Daughters of Two Pan plan the Fourth of July shindig.”

  “Lucky you.” Jiggs shooed him away. “Don’t mention our names.”

  As he walked off, Misty sat beers in front of Jiggs and George. “We’re getting busy. Order now. I’m not coming back two or three times to see if you’re ready.”

  Jiggs ordered burritos for Ox and himself. George requested three. They watched the twenty-two-year-old blonde turn and extort an order out of the next table. George said, “You know whose watch it coulda been?”

  Jiggs took a drink. Next thing he knew, someone would call a TV station about the trumped-up timepiece.

  “There used to be a shack on that strip of land. More like a chicken house, really.”

  “Owned by Abraham Spinrad.” Jiggs swiped the foam from his lips with the palm of his hand. “I went to county records. Looked it up.”

  “Yeah, but ol’ Abe let one of his daughters and her lazy husband live there.”

  “Cal Mosley,” Jiggs said. “Dad told me about that.”

  “It’s doubtful the watch was theirs. They didn’t have two beans to rub together, but it could be from some of the Spinrad clan. When the Spinrad gal finally moved off the place, your dad bought it before I could. Nice little piece of land. Stream running through it. He tore down the camp-house and dammed up the ditches so water continued down the creek to his and my properties. I always wanted that parcel.” He let out a sigh. “It wouldn’t do me any good now, though. If it is a Spinrad watch, keep it. It’ll be the only thing you’ll ever get out of them.”

  “How you doin’ tonight?” Ox interrupted as he dragged a heavy chair out from the table and sat down.

  “Worse now that you’re here to catch all my lies.” George raised his beer to Ox.

  “I ordered you a burrito—steak,” Jiggs told his father. “Get your own drink, if you can catch her. Did you get Tracy paid up?”

  “I told you, I paid her last week.” Ox’s voice was thorny. “I was down there listening to her jabber. That woman can talk.”

  “You enjoyed it.” George elbowed him. “Since my Vetta’s been gone and the kids have moved away, the only gal I get to talk to is Misty here.”

  The waitress smiled as she slid oval plates of burritos and mole sauce onto the table. “And the only conversation you get out of me is, ‘Here’s your dinner.’ You need anything else?”

  “A lemonade,” Ox said, and then he proceeded to tell George his plan—which included explosives—to fix the dried-up creek. Then he cussed the uselessness of the town donkey. Jiggs bedeviled him about the neddy and the dynamite to keep him distracted. He didn’t want the conversation to lull and George mention the imaginary watch again. A sudden thought made Jiggs pause. It seemed there was a lot of deception in his dealings with his dad: a truck starter that was never ordered, a watch that never existed, ear chips hidden in cattle, and the lies he’d covered up since he was a teenager.

  He decided he’d have less guilt if he steered the conversation toward George. “What are your kids doing now?”

  “My boy’s fixing computers in Oregon City. My daughter is supporting her stupid husband. He quit his government job in California to become a writer. He’s typing his memoirs.” George took a drink then decided he needed another and gulped a long swig. “He’s only thirty. He hasn’t lived long enough to do anything interesting except run over a few snakes with the county road grader. All of ’em say they’re not coming back here. My bunch couldn’t give a damn. You’re lucky, Ox. You’ve got Jiggs to carry on what you started.”

  Ox pushed his empty plate away. “I’ve never had a boo-rito before. Not bad. Order some lemon pie for dessert. I gotta find a bathroom.”

  George frowned at Ox’s back disappearing down the dark hallway.

  “The wrong son will inherit his empire.” Jiggs shrugged and signaled Misty. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  The men were silent, watching the birthday boy tear paper off a present. The fourteen-year-old pulled a pair of chaps and a roll of duct tape from the box. Surrounding tables laughed and applauded the items symbolizing his rite of passage. Every man believed in the miracle of duct tape. It was the first gadget to go into his manhood toolkit. The boy stood and held the long chaps to his legs. A red T.K.C., his initials, was tooled into the leather on each leg.

  “I remember my first pair.” Jiggs shook his head. “When the straps broke, I wore Pax’s. He wasn’t going to use them ever again. I thought Dad was going to come unglued.”

  “Ox has been hard on you since the truck crash, but he’ll mellow out. We all do.”

  “Good grief, George. It’s been over twenty-five years.”

  “It’ll take Ox longer because of his dad.”

  “What do you know of Brick? You have any idea how he died or where he’s buried?” Jiggs pointed to ‘Lemon Pie’ on the menu as Misty walked by. She nodded.

  “He was a sweet ol’ fellow. Drunk or sober. It was a damn shame how he ended up.” George shook his head.

  “Jiggs!” Chicken Thief Bob called as he ran to the table. “Ox fell in the bathroom.” Jiggs stood, not hearing the rest of what Bob was saying.

  “I didn’t fall! Quit your squealing,” Ox yelled, walking slowly down the dark hallway. “Buncha damn Taiwanese-made junk.” He waved an empty toilet roll holder in his fist. The screws protruded from the metal dispenser. A hunk of sheetrock hung on one corner. “Damn shoddy work. Popped off. Right in my hand.”

  “You okay?” Jiggs crossed the room.

  “Hell yes.” Ox shook his arm free of his son’s hand. “Let’s get outta here.” He looked at the people who were watching him. “Be damn happy it didn’t happen to you,” he announced. “An outhouse would be better than that booby-trapped crapper back there.” He tossed the dispenser as he went out the door. It clattered across the bar and onto the floor.

  “Misty,” Jiggs called. “Could I get my bill?”

  “I’ll stay with him.” Chicken Thief looked at the door then Jiggs. “I was waiting to use the restroom when I heard a commotion. I went right in. He seems okay. I think he was mostly embarrassed to be caught with his pants down. He didn’t start cussing ’til I got him up.”

  “He’ll tolerate you, better than me. He’ll rip me up if I try to look him over right now.” Jiggs said to Chicken Thief. “I’ll check the damage and pay the bill.”

  “Yeah, yeah. He seems his normal self.” The skinny man nodded. “He’s already cussed me out. I’m immune, now.”

  Jiggs stepped into the bathroom. A ragged hole gaped from the sheetrock where the toilet roll dispenser had been. A sign stating, “Put the lid down when you finish” lay on the floor. The trash basket was overturned. He flushed the remains in the toilet and used the side of his boot to sweep pieces of sheet rock into a corner.

  “Looks like he used the dispenser as a support bar,” Bazz said, leaning through the door. “Used it to push up. Came off in his hand.”

  “Sorry about this. I’ll come by to fix it tomorrow.”

  “I was in the kitchen. Heard the noise. Don’t worry about it. I need to put one of those assist bars in here anyway,” Bazz said. “If you can’t blow a bathroom out on burrito night, it’s probably not very good Mexican food.”

  “Thanks.” Jiggs nodded. “I’ll be by tomorrow.” When he passed through the dining area, conversations had resumed. A few women nodded, wearing the sympathetic face they saved for young women herding cranky toddlers.

  Misty picked up empty mugs, telling him, “You go on. George got your ticket.”

  He called across the bar, “George, I owe you.” The big man shook his head, and Jiggs headed
for the door.

  Outside, Ox sat on the passenger side of the truck, staring straight ahead. The door was open and Chicken Thief Bob was rattling on about Dooley Monroe getting chewed out for using his metal detector under the football stands.

  Jiggs recognized the story—not that he’d heard it before—but it had the same tone and lightness he’d used to distract Hop from his thoughts. Deception. They all dealt in smoke and mirrors instead of putting words out in the open. He noted it was a good thing that Chicken Thief had his foot on the running board; otherwise, Ox might’ve shut the door on him.

  “Jiggs?” a woman called. Tracy’s dark hair bobbed as she hurried down the street, carrying a plastic container with a couple pieces of pie inside. “Here. I heard.” She pushed it in his hands, staring past him at Ox. “I think he needs this. He’s had a hard week.”

  “Thanks. Did you get paid for the feed?”

  She nodded. “He wrote me a check tonight.” She followed him to the truck, reaching, past Chicken Thief to pat Ox’s arm.

  Jiggs got in, listening to them make a few jokes before they shut the pickup door.

  As he drove, he glanced at his dad. He’d planned on the meal softening up Ox. A relaxing, enjoyable evening. His father’s hard, angular face was outlined by the dashboard lights. Ox’s jaw was clenched. His eyes shiny.

  Lemon pie rode between them.

  Jiggs didn’t speak. It was the only way he knew to love the unlovable.

  In Dog Years, I’m Dead

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Jiggs knocked at Ox’s door, holding the lemon pie. There was no answer. The door creaked as he opened it and stuck his head inside. “Dad! You up yet?” The house was quiet. Jiggs stepped into the combo living-dining room.

  Ox had never been a tidy housekeeper, but the place looked like a hermit’s dump. Stacks of newspapers leaned against the furniture. Paper plates with dried sandwich crusts sat on top of mounds of clothes. In the kitchen, the cabinet tops were cluttered with cans of nails, tools, and coffee mugs. Five peanut butter jars filled with water sat in the sink. Oil and particles floated on the liquid’s surface.

  When Jiggs’ mother had died, Ox had assigned the boys chores. He’d whip his belt off and pop it across the back of their jeans if they fought about who did what. Their home had been passable for bachelor living.

  The sound of a dropping boot came from the bedroom. Jiggs walked by the alcove with its old roll top desk. The ledger book for the ranch was open and lying on top. A pile of black licorice gumdrops and a mound of almonds sat on the green-lined page. He frowned, remembering the time he’d been strapped for leafing through the book, deciding for himself if there was enough spare money for the horse he’d wanted.

  The creak of the bed made him hurry toward the back of the house. He rounded the door and came face to face with his dad.

  “What the hell are you sneakin’ around about?” Ox ran his hand across the front of his shirt.

  “Did you sleep in that?” Jiggs pointed. Ox pushed past him and headed for the kitchen. “Are you just now getting up, Dad?”

  “Why the hell are you here?” Ox opened the fridge door partway and stared inside.

  “I brought this. Tracy sent it last night, but you were too ticked off to hear me.” He held out the clear plastic box of lemon pastry.

  Ox took it, opened a drawer, looked in, and then shoved it shut. He grabbed a fork from a dirty plate on the counter.

  “When did you start living like this?” Jiggs squinted and looked around.

  “Always.” Ox stuffed a forkful of lemon custard in his mouth. “You never noticed. Why should I put on party airs? Nobody comes to visit. What are you doin’ here?”

  “I came to see if you’re all right.” Jiggs picked up Cattle and Ranch magazines from a kitchen chair and tossed them on the table as he sat down. Several sealed envelopes skittered from the pages. “This is the feed bill.” Jiggs picked one up. “And this is—”

  “Just put it right back where you found it.” Ox’s voice carried a threat.

  “But…”

  “I know damn well what it is, and that’s where I want it. Put it back.” He waved the fork at Jiggs and gave him a hot stare until Jiggs slid each envelope back into the pages of the magazine.

  “Are you going to pay those bills?”

  “They’ve already been paid. That’s why they’re there. Don’t worry about it.”

  Jiggs scrutinized his father. “Are you gonna be able to get around today?”

  “Hell no. My pickup’s broke.”

  “I meant…” He paused a few seconds, letting Ox’s voltage frizzle from the air. “Are you sore? Do you need liniment? Maybe a doctor?”

  “No.” Ox focused on his pie. “I got BenGay.”

  “I can tell.” Jiggs waved a hand past his nose as he got up. “How’re you fixed for groceries?” He opened the fridge to find half a loaf of bread, a re-sealable package of wrinkled bologna, and an open jar of marshmallow crème with a spoon sticking out of it. “Dang. You’re out of peanut butter, huh? Breakfast of champions. Why didn’t you get it last night?”

  “Buncha birdbrains working at Grubbs. I’m not giving him money. I’m shopping over at Minam from now on.”

  “Okay.” Jiggs braced both hands on the counter, leaning into it. “That’ll put Grubbs out of business for sure. I’m going to…”

  He’d stopped talking for two reasons. He was headed to town to fix the hole Ox had ripped in the bar’s restroom. His second thought was that it would be better not to mention last night. As he pushed off the counter, one hand stuck. “Jeez Louise, Dad. Is this jelly?”

  “Outta that, too.”

  “Okay. Tonight Nap and I are going clean up this stable. If you don’t want us helping, then you’d better get snapping and tidy up.”

  “I’ve got a bench to build.”

  Jiggs paused at the door. “I thought you were out of nails. I didn’t see you buy any last night when we were at Grubbs.”

  “Shit. Now I’ll have to sit around ’til you bring some.” He grunted slightly as he lowered into a recliner and flipped out the leg rest. “Seems like I’ve been waiting on you for something my whole life.”

  Jiggs went out the door, reminding himself not to slam it. He remembered the whipping Ox had striped across his backside once before for flinging a door shut and breaking the glass.

  *

  “Are you up there, Pop?” Nap called.

  “Yep.” Jiggs leaned on a pitchfork, staring through the outer doors used to load hay into the loft. He watched Harriet, the dried-up, black and white milk cow, repeatedly try to stick her head into a pile of gopher dirt like she was an ostrich.

  He should have gone to town, but for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of, he had climbed to the loft instead. He’d spent a lot of time there as a kid.

  Nap’s well-worn straw hat rose up the ladder until the young man stepped into the loft. “You don’t have to do that. I was gonna scrape up the broken bales.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve always liked the view.” Jiggs turned back to stare out the loft doors. Black Angus ate bunch grass. Harriet chased a piece of paper blowing across the field. “I can’t wait to get rid of that weird bag of bones. She thinks she’s a dog.”

  “Why does Gramps keep her? She doesn’t produce.”

  “She makes him laugh.”

  “Well, I guess that’s worth something.” Nap stood beside him, focused on the same vista. “Everything okay?”

  “Something’s screwy with your granddad.” Jiggs recounted the incidents of the toilet roll holder and the unopened bills in the magazine. “I told Ox that you and I would clean up his place tonight.”

  “Oh hell, that’ll be frickin’ World War III.”

  “You know, your mother or I didn’t cuss like that. Where ‘d you pick that up?”

  “Granddad. He gave me the vocabulary to get through college. Bless his soul.”

  “Never mind.” Jiggs used the pitchfork tines to scrape
hay into a pile. “Back your truck up to his door by six. He’s got a lot of newspapers to haul off. Don’t toss anything without looking through it. But don’t let him know we’re checking for mail. Or money.”

  “You know normal families get together and toss a baseball around.”

  “The only thing I’ve ever seen him hurl was a hoe. Right over my head. I may have deserved it that time. I left a gate open. The calves got into my mom’s garden.”

  “But you played baseball.” Nap picked up the broom hanging from a stud and began sweeping. “Who taught you?”

  “Hop Hopkins. And I had a brother to play catch with. Is that what this is about? You wanna play baseball?”

  “I came up here because I wanted to talk to you about a bull. It’s time we stepped up to genetically-engineered breeding stock. It’ll improve the herd, and we can get better prices. I’ve worked up the costs and projected gains if you’ll listen.”

  “The timing is poor. The only asset I know that’s on the ranch ledger right now is licorice drops and almonds. Help me ‘black op’ your granddad’s house tonight and we’ll talk later.”

  “I can already tell I’m going to learn some new cusswords.” Nap watched his father step onto the ladder. “Where’re you going?”

  “Well…” Jiggs climbed down the rungs. “I’d planned on getting water back on Starvation Creek today, but now I’m plastering a toilet. When I left Ox, he was lying down. I think he’s bruised and won’t admit it. If you go anywhere, see if he wants to go. His truck is out of commission.”

  “What’s the matter with it?”

  Jiggs paused on the ladder then climbed back up so he could see Nap. “There are things I need to talk to you about. Weird things that happened long ago—finding gold mines, moving frozen buildings, and missing dead people. We’ll talk, but not tonight. I doubt if Ox will want to go to town today, but hide your truck keys—in case he tries to steal them.”

  “Holy monkeys!” Nap called after him. “Normal families don’t do things like this. They work out their problems by throwing baseballs at each other.”

  *

  “This is what happens. We’re all getting older.” Bazz sawed at the hole in the Bar and Grill’s restroom with a utility knife, shaping it into a large rectangle.