Mornings in Two Pan Read online

  “Speak for yourself.” Jiggs looked at a piece of lumber, checking for cracks and knotholes. He’d pulled scraps from his woodpile. Every man in Two Pan had a stash of boards for make-do projects. They subscribed to the belief that there was no such thing as having too much lumber. The main threat to a cache was family. Kids stole cedar posts and plywood for treehouses and bridges. Wives used an expensive piece of oak or ash to prop up tomatoes or block raccoons from coming through the dog door. Without a wife or a fort-building boy, Jiggs’ stockpile had grown to a proud size. He even had drywall and joint compound. “You want me to cut a couple of 2x4s to anchor that assist bar?”

  “That’d be good.” Bazz nodded.

  Junior leaned against the door frame, watching the two men work. “Getting old is an angry process. You lose your friends and your memory. There’s chronic pain. You become incontinent. Ordinary things change. There’s a lot for you to get pissed about.”

  Jiggs paused sawing long enough to shoot Junior an irritated glance. “Stop using the word ‘you’ when you talk about aging.”

  “And the worst behavior is saved for those you’re closest to.” Junior stared at his father.

  “Good thing we’re not close, then.” Bazz smiled at his son.

  “Does Ox shower or bathe?” Junior asked.

  “Good grief. How would I know?” Jiggs handed over the 2x4s he’d cut. “He smells like horse salve.”

  “As Ox ages, he loses more control,” Junior said. Bazz began hammering the supports between studs. “Your dad is controlling what he can,” Junior shouted. “Dressing. Refusing to bathe.” Bazz grinned and banged the stud each time his son spoke.

  “Why do you know this stuff?” Jiggs gave Bazz a piece of drywall.

  “Before I came to this paradise, I worked for a senior care agency in L.A.”

  Bazz grinned. “Obviously, his patience and love of cranky people made him great at it. Here, stir up the joint compound.” He shoved a bucket of powder at his son. “Add water and make it the consistency of mashed potatoes.”

  Each of them worked silently on their task until Jiggs asked, “So what am I supposed to do about Ox?” He handed Bazz pieces of joint tape.

  “Don’t nag. The more you badger him, the more he’ll resist.”

  “And cuss,” Jiggs said.

  “That’s enough damn stirring.” Bazz reached for the bucket. “It’s not a damn entry for a damn cake contest.” He grinned at his son as he took the bucket.

  “It’s the anger and dementia that stimulates the swearing.” Junior glared at his dad.

  “Now don’t nag and badger.” Bazz used his tape knife to goop wet compound onto the patch. “What’re you supposed to do instead of carp at us old people?”

  “Distract them.” Junior wiped his hands on a rag. “You could redirect Ox’s mind. Bring up happy memories. If he’s reminiscing, he’s likely to forget what set him off. That’s what I was trained to do, and it worked most of the time. If you have questions, I could probably answer some of them over breakfast. I can make french toast kabobs with strawberries.”

  “I don’t know what that is.” Jiggs shook his head.

  “French toast on a stick.” Bazz rolled his eyes. “He’s trying to distract us.”

  “Does your dad see ghosts?” Junior asked.

  Jiggs gathered tools, cleaning off white pieces of drywall as he tossed them in the toolbox. “Good grief, I hope not.”

  “Does he hoard?”

  Jiggs froze and looked at Junior.

  “I’ll make the french kabobs.” He left for the kitchen.

  “Don’t pay him any mind.” Bazz feathered the edges of the patch into the wall. “He wants an excuse to cook gourmet stuff. It’s how he handles stress, but I’m supposed to be too old and ignorant to know that.”

  “It’s okay. He’s given me a new plan to get information out of Ox, but I’ll stay and eat his fancy-pants pancakes. It’s my way of handling stress.”

  It’s Not What You Say, But How You Say It

  THE RAGGED PINNACLES of the Eagle Caps rose above the skyline, their crevices still white with snow. Considered upstarts on the geologic timeline, the peaks’ granite shoulders cleaved the winds and thunderstorms that pestered them, making the land forget that at one time, this had been a tropical sea. At their feet, thick forests of fir and spruce drank the water they wept during the summer.

  Spring came late to the Eagle Caps, but then, time can’t be trusted here. It moves in fits and jumps…and sometimes…it doesn’t move at all.

  *

  As Jiggs drove, a cool breeze rolled off the mountains, blowing through one window and out the other. Above, a hawk floated on the currents, its wings wide and unmoving.

  He passed a pickup and trailer at the Silver Lake Trail head. The doors had been secured with a redneck lock. A chain and padlock ran through holes punched in the truck’s body, binding the door. Beside the trailer, a bearded man loaded a llama with fishing gear.

  Tourist season must be starting. It seemed early, but every year there were more people descending on the Wallowa range. Thank the Lord time ran faster in the summer, as though the mountains pushed for winter to return.

  Jiggs used the miles to think. Last week he was a native son of these hills, a descendent of pioneer stock who’d scratched out a living, had shaken a fist in the face of the Eagle Caps, and had endured to tell about it.

  This week—he was a descendent of a German draft evader who’d stumbled into a ditch of gold and married a harlot. His ancestors had the backbone and smarts of dung beetles. Instead of grit and determination, his clan seemed to have ridden a party wagon willy-nilly into their future.

  Except for Ox. His dad was the one kickback in the forefathers. The guy who had a map, knew his destination, and would punch anyone in his way. That left two possibilities for the skull: it was one of his dubious relatives or somebody else. If it were a stranger, there’d be no way he could discover who it was without involving forensics.

  He suspected it was a relative. Somebody who’d done Ox harm. The only one he knew who’d made that kind of dent in his dad’s life was Brick.

  Last night, George had started to tell him about his granddad. Today, he’d get him to finish the story. If he were lucky, another piece of the mystery would fall into place. He hoped George wouldn’t tell him he had aunts who were horse thieves or cousins who’d killed a congressman. Surely heaven set a limit on the black sheep assigned to one family.

  As Jiggs turned into George’s long driveway, a jackrabbit bounced across the road. He trailed it until braking to a stop in front of the ranch-style bungalow. He stared and mumbled, “Bound to happen.” A black Dodge was parked in front of him—Nap’s truck.

  *

  “Hey, Pop!” Nap sauntered onto the wide porch as Jiggs got out. “George says, ‘Come on in.’ What’re you doing out here?”

  “Probably the same thing as you.” Jiggs walked up the ramp built over the steps.

  Nap’s eyes widened as he shook his head. “I doubt that.”

  “It’s either drought or downpour!” George called from his big chair as Jiggs entered the living room. “Nobody’s come to see me in months. Then I get three visitors in one day.”

  “Aren’t you lucky?” They shook hands. “They’re all Woolseys.”

  “By gum, this is a celebration.” George pointed. “Nap, get us all a beer outta the fridge. There’s chips and peanuts in the cabinet. Bring it all in. That Jason at Grubbs brings me groceries every week. He knows what’s good to snack on.”

  “I bet he does,” Nap mumbled, holding an imaginary joint to his lips as he went to the kitchen.

  “I’ll help you.” Jiggs hurried out of the room as Ox began his rant about Grubbs. He looked around. “This place is tidier than ours.”

  “We must be pigs,” Nap mumbled, looking in the fridge. He opened the door wide so his father could see the containers and sealed plastic bags stacked on the shelves. Each had a day of
the week taped on it. “You want a beer, Gramps?” Nap yelled.

  “I’d rather have a soda pop.” His voice floated from the living room. Jiggs grabbed drinks. Nap announced, “Jackpot!” and pulled bags of chips, pretzels, and a gallon-sized can of mixed nuts from the cabinet over the dishwasher.

  “Why’re you out this way?” Ox eyed Jiggs as he handed him a can of root beer.

  Jiggs hesitated. He’d thought of his excuse as he’d driven up, but he doubted if his dad would buy it. Instead he turned to George, “What do I owe you for dinner last night?”

  “Nothin’. Not a thing.” George closed his eyes, shook his head, and batted the question away. “I wish we’d get together for a meal more often. I enjoy good company.”

  “Me, too. It’ll be my treat next time.” Jiggs glanced at his dad. Everyone knew George wouldn’t take money, but an offer had been made. A tentative reckoning of the books. The reason why George was left holding the bill sat down in the room with them. An awkward silence bounced between the men. Nap walked in and spread the snacks and pickings on the coffee table.

  “Hey. This looks good.” George clapped his thick hands together. “Where’re you goin? Aren’t you joining us?”

  Nap had stuffed a handful of peanuts in his mouth and was headed for the door. “After I finish.”

  “I hired him to cut the limbs and brush around here. Fire threat. I can’t keep up with it anymore.” George wrenched the cap off his beer.

  “You’re not paying him,” Jiggs said. “He’ll gladly do that for a neighbor.”

  Nap stuck his head back through the doorway. “George, I think you should convince Dad of our plan.”

  Ox waved him away. “Get the hell outta here and go work.” Nap disappeared.

  “What plans?”

  Ox shook peanuts in his palm so they rolled into his fingers. He popped them into his mouth one at a time. “It’s nothin’. He’s just bein’ stupid.”

  “Seems that stupid runs in the family. What’s going on?”

  Ox shrugged. “I only came with Nap to visit my neighbor.”

  An impish smile twitched at George’s mouth. “We’re gonna blow up that tree blocking Starvation Creek.”

  Jiggs rubbed his forehead. “Not you, too.”

  “I’ve got the dynamite.” George nodded so hard the jowls of his cheeks jiggled. “We used to blow stumps and log jams when I worked timber. It’ll move that baby out of the way. Piece of cake.”

  “Craphouse crickets! Tell me you don’t have twenty-year-old dynamite around here in some shed. Do you?”

  “Oh, settle down. It’s perfectly safe. I’ve handled the stuff all my life. It’s not dangerous unless you do something stupid.”

  “Don’t tell him anything.” Ox scowled. “He’d call the sheriff or notify the government if a cow looked at him cross-eyed.”

  “Excuse me for saying this, George…” Jiggs scooted in his chair so he was squared off, facing the big man and not his father. “But I’ve been up to that downed tree. It’s steep. There’s no trail and no solid footing. How are you going to get up there to place a charge?”

  “I can teach Nap.”

  “Mother Mary and Joseph!” Jiggs leaned back, blinking.

  “He wants to do it,” George said. “I was that age when I learned. He’s nimble and smart. He’ll be fine. Every man should know how to handle dynamite. Comes in handy.”

  “I agree, but teetering on the side of a hill shouldn’t be his first place to experiment. Where are you going to be while Nap is trying to run across a moving rockslide? You’re won’t be up there with him, and you can’t be below in case this ridge slides down on top of you. I’m telling you this is a bad idea,” Jiggs said to George’s downturned face.

  “Maybe you have a point,” Ox said. “Which is hard to believe since you’re about as sharp as a marble.”

  Jiggs ignored his dad. “We’ll do this job the old-fashioned way. First, we’ll cut the tree up.” He pounded his palm with the side of his hand, emphasizing each step. “Then we’ll use your mules to move the root ball. Lastly we’ll dig the channel out by hand and dam up the sides, forcing water to flow back downstream. Nobody’s blowing anything up. That whole ridge could come sliding down right over this property.”

  “Well, it’s gotta be done soon. The side streams are dryin’ up. The cattle are runnin’ out of water.” George shrugged. “But I guess it don’t matter. My kids don’t want the ranch, only the money. Let it dry up and go to weeds.”

  “No—because I want to buy it.” Jiggs’ voice was louder than he’d meant it to be. It took a moment for the volume to fade.

  Ox stared at him. “What do you want with this place?”

  “Crap, Dad. Really?” Jiggs stood. “Excuse me, George. I’m gonna step outside, before I open my mouth and regret it later.”

  “Too late for that,” Ox called after him.

  Jiggs stood on the porch, looking at the limbs and brush Nap had cleared from the front of the house. He wasn’t sure what fumed him more: using his son to set explosives, or having his dad question his drive and goals. Why was it hard for Ox to believe that his son wanted to add land? To be the biggest rancher in the county someday? And why was Ox here on the day he’d come to milk information out of George about Brick? His dad was a constant burr under his blanket.

  He walked around the side of the house where Nap was raking the weeds he’d cut away from the foundation. “You want some cheap help?”

  Nap looked up. “Oh man. I can tell by your face, they told you about the dynamite.”

  Jiggs shook his head. “And your grandfather calls me a moron.” He pointed. “Poison oak over here.”

  “I saw it,” Nap said.

  Jiggs went to an open shed and made a sprayer of weed killer. He dosed the poison oak and walked along the fence line, spraying plants. When he returned, Nap was working at the back of the house, running the weedwacker around a huge lilac bush. “I’ve settled down now. I think I’m ready to go back inside.” He set the sprayer on the deck. “Have you ever tried to make a business deal with heckling from the sidelines?”

  “You’re tough, Dad.” His son gave him a thumbs up. “As my ag-econ professor used to tell us before a big test,…‘Turn your papers over, and whoop ass.’”

  *

  Jiggs walked back into the living room. Both men stopped talking and looked up. He sat down. A stumbling silence wandered between them. “Nap is about halfway finished,” he finally said.

  “Now—I’m gonna pay him…” George began.

  “No. You won’t.” Impatience pricked Jiggs’ words. “Many was the time Pax or I needed to check the west side of Starvation Creek. We’d catch one of your horses and bareback him wherever we needed to go. Return him the next day. You never told dad or complained. Your wife always brought us lemonade and cake whenever we were here, fixing fence. I remember all of us haying at night and having picnics on the tailgate in the dark. Some of my family’s best times were on your ranch.” Jiggs saw Ox’s face soften and the lines disappear between his eyebrows. A wrinkled corner of his mouth turned up along with a memory playing across his eyes.

  “Dad, maybe I should’ve discussed bank accounts before I said anything to George. But I thought it’d be right to buy this land.” Several heartbeats passed. Finally Jiggs said, “Hey!”

  Ox twitched as though he’d been poked with a hoof pick. “What? What’d you say?”

  “I said,” Jiggs’ voice amped up louder, “George told me last night that his kids weren’t coming back. I thought we should sound him out about buying it.”

  “Before you came in, Ox and I were talking…” George said, “about the same thing. I hadn’t thought of selling, until lately. A realtor called, representing some fellas I let elk hunt here a few seasons ago. I told him absolutely not. So when you mentioned it, I was throwed-off, but now that you’ve opened the gate, let’s see how it is. What’re you suggesting?”

  Jiggs looked at the floor an
d rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Well exactly how many grazing acres do you have here?”

  “Heaven help us.” Ox’s head rocked back as he looked at the ceiling. “Never ask a question you don’t already know the answer. That’s like asking, ‘How old is that horse?’ Don’t trust a fella to tell you. You gotta check the nag’s teeth before you start.”

  “George isn’t going to lie.”

  “You want to learn how to trade or not? Never come at it head on.”

  “Okay, George.” Jiggs looked at the big man. “Have you reseeded the grass in those east pastures?”

  “Hell. You know he has.” Ox threw up his hands. “You can tell by hanging your head out the pickup and lookin’. But you don’t pay attention to anythin’ except the dirt in front of you when you’re drivin’.”

  Jiggs took a breath and let it out slowly. “Are you gonna do this the whole time? You can’t stay out of it, can you?”

  “Ask the questions right. It’s all in how you say it. Better yet, don’t ask anything at all. You’re just pissin’ people off, actin’ like a rube.”

  Jiggs lifted his hat and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Tell you what. Why don’t you give it a go, Dad. I’ll try to learn something.”

  “Sheee-it. You never learned a thing from me in your life. But if you want to start now, pay attention.”

  Jiggs sat back in the arm chair, a beer in one hand and a bag of Doritos on his lap. Earlier when he’d talked with Junior, he wondered what happy times he could bring up to distract his dad. To his knowledge, Ox had never lived a happy day in his life.

  The two old men were busy joking and jabbering back and forth. Jiggs noticed not one cussword came out of Ox. Not one hint that George would be leaving his land to the main Woolsey idiot. Junior was right. Let Ox reminisce about good times. And Ox’s good times seemed to be centered on building an empire to shame his father.

  Jiggs wondered if he could work this magic meeting to get what he wanted, too.

  *

  “Okay. I think it’s a good deal on both sides. It’s time to go.” Ox stood up.