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(back to page 3)
"Chas calls that herd of goats, sheep. I wonder if he knows what he's doing? Even I can tell they're goats. He's got some problems--your son. That's pretty obvious."
The daylight was sifting away when Mattie turned onto the last road, a county road, long forgotten by the government. She wove her way around cavernous potholes big enough to swallow the wheels of her car.
"You grow up on that ranch, Mr. McPherson? I bet it was a beautiful place once upon a time. It's not much to look at now, though. Your barn's about to collapse right in on itself." She sighed and ran her tongue over her parched lips. "Guess you don't care to hear a lot of doom and gloom about the place you love. Someone could fix it up. It's not that far gone, but it will be if they don't hurry." She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.
"I think it's real nice that Chas is bringing you home, Mr. McPherson. I'd do the same. If my dad was still alive, I mean." Mattie watched for the driveway, not taking her eyes from the road for fear she'd miss it and get lost. The longer she stayed focused on the road without looking at the old man, the larger he grew in the space beside her. She twisted the loose strand of hair around her finger, let it go, then twisted it again while she tried to take him in through her peripheral vision. "You seem a lot bigger to me than you are," she said. She didn't look his way this time, yet had the sense he was staring at her, though she knew it not to be true.
"My parents died when I was fourteen." She tapped the steering wheel in alternating intervals with her index fingers. "Where's the driveway? I hope I didn't miss it." She craned to see down the dark road behind her. Blackness. All the way up to the jagged tips of the trees on the ridge above. The canyon was deep--deeper than she remembered. And the ranches were farther apart. Miles, it seemed, between the faint yellow of kitchen windows, or the florescent blue flicker of televisions in darkened living rooms.
"Car accident. Lost 'em both, just like that." She snapped her fingers. "That's the thing about life, no guarantees." McPherson's hair was greasy and matted at the back of his head. She wondered if she should comb it before they reached the house, before Chas saw his father. "Guess you know that, though." She imagined the old man commanded a fair amount of respect from Chas, even in his current condition. He had an authoritarian air about him.
At last, Mattie spotted a battered mailbox missing its flag--Chas's mailbox. She could hear the river now as she turned down the lane. The sound soothed her, and the sight of the house, with all its lights ablaze, made her feel calmer. The figure pacing in the front window dampened her relief considerably though, when he caught sight of the car and stood motionless, watching. "We're almost home," she whispered. "Looks like your son is waiting for you."
Mattie waited next to the car for Chas to come out and carry his father inside. When he didn't, she started up the steps. As she reached for the knob the door burst open, and there, steeped in grimness, stood Chas. His eyes lingered on her face a moment in the pale porch light, then out to her car. And remained there.
"I'll need your help bringing him inside," she said.
She followed him into the yard. He opened the car door, then stepped back as if stunned by the sight of his father, who wore his same vacant expression.
"Hello, Dad," Chas said in a voice so tight Mattie's shoulder blades contracted into her spine. Mr. McPherson showed it no recognition. Chas hesitated, then bent and lifted his father out of the car, turning so abruptly he nearly knocked Mattie aside with his father's feet.
As he brushed past her, she smelled the whiskey. Great, she thought, a drunk. Then wondered if he'd share.
Chas cranked the come-along used to stretch fence wire so tight the mesh in its teeth threatened to snap. It would leave a nasty wound if he was in its path, and he knew it. But he worked his way down the fence-line, hammering large metal staples into the rickety wooden posts, three to each one, anyway. Occasionally, he glanced at the house, tried to see the nurse as she scrubbed every inch of it. It pissed him off, her cleaning. And it pissed him off more that he hadn't done it himself.
He'd hardly slept the night before, despite his whiskey stupor. His father had visited him over and over again as the night dragged by--not the father who lay mute in his bed now, but the father of his childhood. The stern instructor of his youth. Reprimanding him for his failure, for his neglect: the house, the barn, the yard. In the stark light of day, Chas looked around and had to agree. He'd done a pathetic job. If his father could speak, he'd have no good thing to say to him. Chas pulled the brim of his hat down low against his brow to keep the rain from pelting his eyes as he worked. His fingers ached with cold, and there was a measure of justice in the pain that satisfied him. He worked all morning outside, barely making a dent in the years of work he'd put off--or never intended to do at all. But his hunger eventually forced him inside.
She sat at the table, his father next to her in the high-backed wheelchair Chas had purchased at the last minute from an estate sale. A vestige of someone else's unfortunate journey, too anxiously gotten rid of for a fraction of what they'd paid. Chas didn't consider it a find, bargain though it was. When the day came to pass it on, he'd be inclined to burn it, himself.
"I made you a sandwich," she said. "It's in the fridge."
"You don't have to make me lunch." He stalked past her to the still hot coffee pot and poured the last of it into a cup. The heat stung his frostbitten fingers.
"Well, I didn't do anything special. Just thought you'd be hungry and I was making one for myself. Don't take it like I'm always gonna make you lunch." She shook her head and went back to feeding his father.
(continued on the next page)
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