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Authors: Linda S. Clare
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Nova's eyes grew wide. But I was too tired and sore to care, and it had been a long time since I’d had any company. So we strolled out, and I didn’t even blush. Well, maybe a little. We stopped at the oven-door fence.
“How far do you think Linc would go?” I asked, thinking about the miniature range war Rubin had described.
Rubin shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that Linc Jackson means to get his way. Somehow that creek is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Rubin turned and walked toward his place before turning back to face me. “I’m throwing a barbecue next weekend on the Fourth. There’ll even be live music. Done this three years running; it's almost a tradition around here. This year the main course is a surprise.”
“I’ll ask the kids,” I stammered, unsure if this was a neighborly invitation or a more personal one.
“Bring the kids and your aunt and uncle too. And extra lawn chairs if you’ve got any.” He held out his hands, palms up. “It's the least I can do, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“I did shoot your uncle's pig.”
“Right. I’ll get back to you about the barbecue.”
“All set, then?” He smoothed back the sides of his hair where the wind had turned it loose and jammed his hands in his jeans pockets.
I frowned. “I said I’d get back to you,” I said. “But thanks for the invite.”
“I’m glad you came to get me,” he said. “Really glad.”
“See you on the Fourth,” I answered, and watched him walk away. Just like the 1970s children's classic by Robert Newton Peck that I was always trying to get kids to read, it was A Day No Pigs Would Die .
JOSEPH's JOURNAL
APRIL 1981
B efore I lost you, Muri, you visited one more time. I watched you dance. That velveteen skirt is too short on you now, and you said you were the tallest girl in second grade.
Today, for a few hours, you were mine again. You twirled in your bare feet in front of the recliner where, I suppose, I’d passed out again. I’m sorry. I was out of it until you squealed, “Watch me, Daddy! I’m a ballerina!” I startled awake. I was hung over, feeling like the wrong end of the cow. Even so, I didn’t have the heart to tell you that your spins made me dizzy. My head pounded like a jack-hammer, but I had to smile at you, knowing today was good-bye.
When you tipped over my beer, you looked scared, like maybe your mother scolds you for making messes. “It's not important,” I said, grinning. You tried to wipe up the spill, and you held your nose and told me you didn’t like the beer smell. You stood and saw I was still awake. “Are you watching now?” you asked. “Watch.” You held your arms like an arch and twirled until you got dizzy and fell. You sat on the floor and your skirt fanned like a flower around your ankles.
The skirt is getting shiny in the back where the nap's worn down. I bought it for you years ago from a guy in a Prineville bar. He claimed it was Navajo, handmade, with magical powers. I paid too much for it, but you loved it. Your mother says it's too hard to wash velvet.
Daughter, you look so much more like our people than your mother's kin. I told her you must learn the old ways. But your mother won’t listen. She's remarried and now I’ll see you this last time. I’ll tell you why.
You see, the trouble with your mother is that she can’t let things go. The binges, a couple of wrecked cars, too many broken promises, she said. I swore to do better, but she kept polishing the tea service, kept shaking her head no. That was the end of your mother and me.
These days, I keep my Bible right here where I can reach it. The Word keeps me going, and I’ve asked for forgiveness more times than I can count. I tell the Man Upstairs that I’ll do better. I repent. I tell Him I’ll never touch the stuff again, for your sake. I don’t know how far I’ll get, but I pray the Lord will deliver me from the bottle for good. When it was time to go,
“How far do you think Linc would go?” I asked, thinking about the miniature range war Rubin had described.
Rubin shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that Linc Jackson means to get his way. Somehow that creek is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Rubin turned and walked toward his place before turning back to face me. “I’m throwing a barbecue next weekend on the Fourth. There’ll even be live music. Done this three years running; it's almost a tradition around here. This year the main course is a surprise.”
“I’ll ask the kids,” I stammered, unsure if this was a neighborly invitation or a more personal one.
“Bring the kids and your aunt and uncle too. And extra lawn chairs if you’ve got any.” He held out his hands, palms up. “It's the least I can do, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“I did shoot your uncle's pig.”
“Right. I’ll get back to you about the barbecue.”
“All set, then?” He smoothed back the sides of his hair where the wind had turned it loose and jammed his hands in his jeans pockets.
I frowned. “I said I’d get back to you,” I said. “But thanks for the invite.”
“I’m glad you came to get me,” he said. “Really glad.”
“See you on the Fourth,” I answered, and watched him walk away. Just like the 1970s children's classic by Robert Newton Peck that I was always trying to get kids to read, it was A Day No Pigs Would Die .
JOSEPH's JOURNAL
APRIL 1981
B efore I lost you, Muri, you visited one more time. I watched you dance. That velveteen skirt is too short on you now, and you said you were the tallest girl in second grade.
Today, for a few hours, you were mine again. You twirled in your bare feet in front of the recliner where, I suppose, I’d passed out again. I’m sorry. I was out of it until you squealed, “Watch me, Daddy! I’m a ballerina!” I startled awake. I was hung over, feeling like the wrong end of the cow. Even so, I didn’t have the heart to tell you that your spins made me dizzy. My head pounded like a jack-hammer, but I had to smile at you, knowing today was good-bye.
When you tipped over my beer, you looked scared, like maybe your mother scolds you for making messes. “It's not important,” I said, grinning. You tried to wipe up the spill, and you held your nose and told me you didn’t like the beer smell. You stood and saw I was still awake. “Are you watching now?” you asked. “Watch.” You held your arms like an arch and twirled until you got dizzy and fell. You sat on the floor and your skirt fanned like a flower around your ankles.
The skirt is getting shiny in the back where the nap's worn down. I bought it for you years ago from a guy in a Prineville bar. He claimed it was Navajo, handmade, with magical powers. I paid too much for it, but you loved it. Your mother says it's too hard to wash velvet.
Daughter, you look so much more like our people than your mother's kin. I told her you must learn the old ways. But your mother won’t listen. She's remarried and now I’ll see you this last time. I’ll tell you why.
You see, the trouble with your mother is that she can’t let things go. The binges, a couple of wrecked cars, too many broken promises, she said. I swore to do better, but she kept polishing the tea service, kept shaking her head no. That was the end of your mother and me.
These days, I keep my Bible right here where I can reach it. The Word keeps me going, and I’ve asked for forgiveness more times than I can count. I tell the Man Upstairs that I’ll do better. I repent. I tell Him I’ll never touch the stuff again, for your sake. I don’t know how far I’ll get, but I pray the Lord will deliver me from the bottle for good. When it was time to go,
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