Mornings in Two Pan Page 5

  “It’s me,” Bazz said, staring at the ceiling, consciously avoiding his son’s gaze. “Mayor, dog catcher, traffic control. I do it all. Fix a hot dog for the mutt. That’s an official order.”

  Junior’s eyes shot daggers at him before he stormed toward the kitchen. “I’m not feeding that dog.”

  “Hey, that sounds good. I’ll take two,” Jiggs called after him.

  “Of course you would. Damn carnie food…” The rest of Junior’s grumble was lost as he disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I’d say he’s got a ways to go before he falls in love with this place.” Jiggs used his spoon to help the milkshake slide from the metal cup into his glass.

  Bazz stared at the kitchen door. “I think it’s more of a father-son thing. We get in each other’s way a lot.”

  “Boy howdy. I know that story.” They were silent a minute, each man mulling through his thoughts. Jiggs finally said, “Get a load of this. According to Old Man Tower, I come from big money.”

  “That nutbag?” Bazz shook his head. “I barred him from this place. Used to cuss and insult the customers.” Bazz glanced at the kitchen. “That’s Junior’s job now. He’s good at it. So where’d all your money go, Daddy Warbucks?”

  “Don’t know. Petered away on fine living by one of my forbears, I think. Dad doesn’t talk about family. The only thing he’s ever said was that his father was a weak-willed drunk who died on the day I was born. Mom said he was simply a sick, tired old man. She liked to tell me Granddad handed me the baton of life as we passed each other coming through the celestial portals. Dad said he handed me a shitstick.”

  Bazz nodded. “That’d be your dad.”

  “Say,” Jiggs looked up, “are there still death records at the Opera House?”

  Bazz gazed at him a moment. “Sure.” He smiled. “Go over there and have a look. You don’t need a key. It’s open right now.”

  “Isn’t Tracy…” Misty began, but Bazz nailed her with a quick stare. Jiggs glanced back and forth between the two.

  Bazz slapped the table with a bang, shaking his head. “Believe it or not, Old Man Tower once brought me a piece of Two Pan memorabilia. It was too repugnant, even for me.”

  “You’re right. That’s hard to believe.” Junior frowned as he delivered two hotdogs in paper trays.

  Bazz ignored his son. “It was a doorbell for the bar. A taxidermist had stuffed the back half of an antelope. That’s all there was, hind feet and a tail that stuck straight up. Someone had wired it so the doorbell’s push button was in the butt.”

  Misty rolled her eyes. “And people wonder why I don’t like to talk at work.”

  “On that thought…I think I’ll go.” Jiggs picked up his hotdogs as he stood. “Tower probably wanted you to have it because he doesn’t like you. Calls you a peckerhead.”

  “I’d agree with that,” Junior said and turned to Jiggs. “You want any relish or mustard for your kid’s meal?”

  “If you’d encourage customers to stay, they’d order more,” Bazz said.

  “More junk. With wads of fake cheese,” Junior sneered. Jiggs went out the door, leaving father and son in a heated discussion over cholesterol.

  He ate as he strolled along the boardwalk. At the end of the walkway, he thudded down the steps, stopping by the dog lying in the weeds at the side of the building. The mutt lifted its snout, catching the scent of food. Through rheumy eyes, it watched him cross the street and throw trash in a can. When he’d disappeared into a building, the old hound tentatively licked the hotdog he’d put between its paws.

  *

  In its day, the Two Pan Opera House had been a gem of the West. The thick granite walls were quarried from the flanks of the Eagle Caps. Teams of freight wagons had hauled the ornate stage and padded velvet seats over the mountains.

  Seeing no cars around, Jiggs climbed freshly-cured concrete steps. The Daughters of Two Pan had been at it again, keeping the old place alive. He tried to avoid both the building and the Daughters. A pleasant conversation could become a hitch, roping a man into more work than he’d ever imagined.

  Inside, his footsteps echoed as he crossed the stone floor. The auditorium, no longer filled with stage, stairs, or seats, sent sound bouncing from wall to wall.

  He stepped into the cozy backstage space. It had been made into a conference room by placing the original twelve-foot oak doors on sawhorses, providing a table during city council meetings. Wooden file cabinets leaned against the walls. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for. He’d take a quick tour of the 1860s to see if he could find any Woolseys, how they died, and where they were buried. He checked his watch.

  Some of the files didn’t have dates, but he could suss out the timeline. Unfortunately, no amount of heaving or yanking would open a drawer. None of them. Seated on the floor, his feet braced against other cabinets, he pulled and threatened to “use a blow torch on all of you.” His grunting complaints obscured the footsteps of Tracy, the feed store lady. She watched from the doorway a moment before asking, “Good heavens. What’re you doing?”

  Jiggs thought it was obvious, but after climbing a mountain, digging for crushed skull, peeling his knuckles off, and poisoning himself with hooch, he was pretty sure he wasn’t in the best of moods. He let out a long breath, discarding his first response. Instead, he opened and closed his fist a few times to get blood pumping back into his fingers after gripping drawer handles.

  Tracy watched him without saying a word or moving.

  Finally Jiggs looked up, a flatline smile on his face that expressed no joy. “Can I help you?”

  “Is your dad all right?”

  Jiggs groaned slightly as he pushed off the floor and stood. “Why? What’s he done now?”

  “Your feed bill is overdue.”

  “That can’t be right.” He frowned.

  “Well, you know how Ox usually comes in and pays it on the last Tuesday of every month? I haven’t seen him. It’s six weeks past. Is he okay?”

  “Cranky as usual. I’m sorry, Tracy. I’ll write you a check. We keep different accounts, but he insists on paying the bills. I don’t know if I’ll ever get the ranch checkbook away from him.”

  “No, don’t pay me. He’ll be upset. He likes to pay face to face, pinching the feed sacks and cussing about the world for a half hour. I think he saves up topics. It’s his entertainment. I said something so you’d mention it to him. Would you?”

  “I’d rather pay you myself than have that conversation. Have you called him?”

  “He can’t hear a thing on the phone. Keeps yelling, ‘Who?’”

  “Have you sent out a bill?” She nodded, staring at him. “Okaaaaaay,” Jiggs said slowly. “I’ll talk to him. But I’ve got several hot topics that come before yours. He may have stormed out of the room by the time I get to your bill, and I’ll be sitting there, talking to myself.”

  “Like you were just now?”

  “That’s different. These are supposed to be accessible.”

  “Those haven’t been opened since Lillie Langtry was here. They warped so badly the files were moved to the county courthouse.”

  Jiggs glanced at his watch. “Well, I’m not sure why Bazz sent me over here, but thanks. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to make a run to Enterprise.” He squeezed past her.

  “You don’t want to go out that way,” she said.

  “There you are!” Tricia Kruger called across the hall. “We were looking for you.”

  “I tried to warn you,” Tracy said quietly.

  “Come out here, Jiggs, and look at the new steps,” Tricia called. “We need your opinion on the handrail.”

  He knew what that meant. Every man in Two Pan had been snookered by that phrase. Katie had been a member of the Daughters of Two Pan. He dearly missed his wife, but he didn’t regret losing the weekly nagging about the unending list of chores the Daughters had for every husband.

  “I’m in a hurry right now, Tricia. I need to get over to Enterprise.”
He looked at the sky as they walked outside. The daylight seemed to be marching forward without any promise of slowing down.

  She ignored him, fanning her hand toward the brackets and pile of lumber. “We don’t know where to begin.”

  “I liked the old steps. Blocks of quarried granite. Matched the building. Had character.”

  “They did. You’re right.” She leaned down and rubbed a copper penny—date side up—that someone had pressed into the concrete as it had cured. “But they were so old and used that a dip had worn in the middle of each tread. Can you imagine how many people passed through to wear them down like that?”

  She left no room for an answer, continuing on, “Water collected and froze in the tops. It was a lawsuit looking for a home. Now we have a safe, new entrance that needs a handrail. Please? We’ve got a whole peach pie we could pay you with. We were over at Tracy’s taking a break. We’ve been working all afternoon. We plan to put up pictures…”

  Jiggs held up his hand, looking at his watch. “I’ll look at it on one condition. Nobody talks to me. It’s been that kind of day. I want peace and quiet. Pound the heck out of something and get going.”

  “Oh!” Tricia blinked. She held up her hand and backed off. “I understand completely. I’m going to run over to Grubbs and get you some ice cream to go with that pie.”

  “No, thanks. I appreciate it, but I don’t need it. I do need to get some tools though. If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

  “No problem. The mayor dropped off what you’ll need.” Tricia grinned at him.

  Jiggs glanced at the house next to the Two Pan Bar and Grill. Bazz waved from the front porch.

  “He came by Tracy’s about five minutes ago. Told us you were here and left these tools.”

  Jiggs looked at the sky again. What he needed was to get to the records at Enterprise before he confronted his dad tonight. And he needed better friends. “Excuse me a minute,” he said, walking with purpose toward the mayor’s house.

  Logic Has Left The Barn

  “THAT WAS A skunkdog trick.” Jiggs threatened to bend, scar, and soak Bazz’s tools in water. He stood on the sidewalk, trying to think of more tool abuse; then it dawned on him that spouting threats from ground level was like a slave cussing Caesar in the coliseum; so he climbed the eight steps of the former cat house to bully the man eye to eye.

  By the time Tricia Kruger got there, the men were drinking beer, rocking in the porch swing, and complaining about something else. “Mr. Woolsey?” She cocked her head slightly to the side like she was looking around a corner as she walked toward them.

  Jiggs recognized this classic gesture: she was going to ask questions, and she already knew the answers to each one. He wondered why women did it. Probably they thought it produced shame. She spoke with a smile. “When you didn’t come back, we assumed you'd left for Enterprise. You said you were in quite a hurry.”

  Jiggs hesitated. There wasn’t a question in there. Usually, the “scolding quiz” was easy. A woman asked a question. He figured out the correct answer. Then he compared it with what he’d actually done, which was usually the opposite—thus, the shame. But she hadn’t asked a question. However, her tone was undeniably, What the hell are you doing? He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I needed to make a call. I don’t carry a cell phone.”

  “That’s amazing in this day.” She crossed her arms.

  Bazz shook his head. “You’re a really bad liar. I know you don’t have a phone, and that didn’t even convince me. How about saying, ‘Jugenmeir is changing pastures. About seventy-five cows are blocking the road to Enterprise,’ or ‘Everything would’ve been closed by the time I got there’?”

  Jiggs squinted at him. “I don’t need your assist with excuses. And I don’t think that’s what she’s saying. Did George really move cows today? Without help?”

  Tricia Kruger watched the men wander the conversation in a different direction. She was amazed how dense guys could be. Or maybe that was their master tactic. By “not getting it,” they got out of a lot of work. She thought about going up the steps to continue her request, but decided her strategy would be more effective from the “disadvantaged” lower position. Her eyes scanned the two Hefeweizen bottles under the swing and the two in their hands. She focused on Jiggs and began, “Were you going to finish the job today?”

  He smiled. Finally a question! He knew the correct answer, but replied, “No,” anyway. He figured he might as well skip the dancing and go right to God’s honest truth.

  “Oh!” Her expression flattened.

  “It’s really a two-man job.” Jiggs nodded, confirming his own opinion, and then hooked a thumb toward the mayor, who was taking a long pull on his bottle. “And Bazz doesn’t want to start on it—obviously.” Tricia Kruger’s eyebrows rose. “What’s your husband doing right now?” Jiggs asked.

  “Kent had to take some calves over to Colfax.” Her voice had pushback. “Then he—”

  “He doesn’t want to do it either.” Jiggs held eye contact with her. “You get that. Right?”

  “None of us want to be spending all day arguing about what pictures go where or patching an old building, only to have a different part fall off.” She stared at Jiggs, centering him in her sights as though she were looking down a shotgun barrel.

  He knew that look. His mother used to whip Ox with it. Words would gallop out fast, stepping on the one before. It didn’t really matter what was being said. It was the tone. Sharp and accusing. His mother had never cussed. She hadn’t needed to. She’d smack Jiggs and Pax for every foul word she’d heard them utter right up into their teens—then she had died. And everything went to hell.

  He watched Tricia Kruger wave her hands, palms up like she was lifting heavy objects. She kept up a steady flow of “what-ifs.” She’d have a heck of a time settling down tonight. As Ox used to say, “Logic has left the barn.”

  Tricia was pointing now. “It needs to be done. And what if we all felt that way? What would happen to this town then?”

  Jiggs stood while she was still talking. He drained his beer then interrupted because he sensed no gap in her word traffic. “Yes it does.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  He shrugged. “You’re right. It needs to be done.” He nodded toward Bazz. “You got me into this. Let’s go finish it.”

  She turned and tromped toward the Opera House. Her steps quickened upon seeing the other women get in cars and trucks and pull away. “Oh great, everyone’s leaving now.”

  “Even better,” Jiggs mumbled as he and Bazz followed.

  Tricia flagged down ladies and handed out additional duties. Bazz picked up his hammer, testing the weight of it in his hand. “You know, there’s a reason women aren’t beating down your door, and you’re not married again. When Tricia tells the other ladies about this, she’ll be referring to you as ‘jackass.’”

  “That’s not the reason, I haven’t remarried.” Jiggs examined a cedar 2X2. “But being a jackass is better than being a peckerhead.”

  The men measured, cut, and hammered. Thanks to Tricia driving away, they worked without interruption. Thanks to the world tilting toward the sun, the daylight decided not to shut down until half past eight. When they finished at 10 p.m., they headed to the Bar and Grill for supper and shared the pie. Jiggs saved two slices for Nap and Ox.

  When he got home that night, the lights were off in Ox’s house. He beat on the door anyway. “We’ve got to talk about what you did this morning. And I know why the creek dried up.” Ox didn’t answer.

  “I’m not going to stand on the stoop and talk through the door.”

  But he was.

  “I’ve got peach pie.” It was unfair to bait the old guy like that. It was like putting peanut butter on a squirrel trap. “It’s homemade.”

  And yet…there was still no answer.

  *

  Jiggs was up early the next morning, pounding on Ox’s door again. “If you don’t sho
w yourself, I’ll have to break in to see if you’re dead.”

  After a minute the curtain moved aside. The old man scowled through the glass. Jiggs stood on the porch, hands on his hips, waiting in the gray-pink dawn. Ox turned away and left him standing there. “We need to talk. I’m staying ’til you come out.” He parked himself on the low stoop, stretching his legs into the gravel drive in front of him and organizing his day. He’d spent twenty-four hours and was no closer to finding out who’d once worn the skull or why they’d left it on Starvation Ridge. And why did it matter? He should tell Sol about it and let him “sheriff” it out. That’s what he was paid for.

  Jiggs thoughts were stuck. There was a deeper secret inside that cranium. One that hinted its existence shouldn’t be trumpeted into the light of day. He glanced over his shoulder to see if his dad was watching through the window. He wasn’t. But clearly, there was something about the skull that Ox hated. Maybe it was the reason Ox rarely mentioned family. “Hey!” Jiggs called out. “You know anything about Bruno Woolsey?” There was no noise from the house.

  “Then I’m going over to the courthouse,” he yelled. “Look him up and nose around in the records.” Involving the government should’ve brought Ox storming outside, but there was still no sound.

  It didn’t take long for Jiggs’ mind to wander to leaky faucets, broken gates, getting water back in a stream, and the hundred things he had to do today. He stood up and dusted off his jeans. He was a fool. He never could wait long, and his father knew it. “We’ll talk tonight. That’s for certain,” he yelled.

  Nap leaned out the door of the big house, a slice of pie in his hand. “Who’re you talking to?”

  “Who do you think lives here?” Jiggs’ voice was thorny.

  “Well, Gramps just rode out the back of the barn.”

  “Craphouse crickets!” Jiggs jumped off the porch and rounded the house. A big blue roan trotted toward the back pasture. Ox sat atop like he was part of the horse.

  “What are you two fighting about now?”

  “Nothing.” Jiggs followed his son into the house. “You can have your granddad’s piece of pie.”