Backlands (24 page)

“I reckon so,” Matt said. He'd noted a provision in the trust prohibiting any loan to be made against the Griggs Avenue house without his written permission. “Is my house free and clear of any debt?” he asked, wondering about the exception.

“Indeed,” Worrell answered. “As I understand it, your mother felt strongly that the property should remain yours unless you decided otherwise. In effect, she wanted to ensure that you always had a home.”

“She never told me why she divorced my Pa.”

“It was before my time,” Worrell replied, “but I believe the divorce was less than amicable, which is unfortunately too often the case.”

“Would Mr. Lipscomb know why they split up?”

“I image he might; he represented your father in the proceedings. I believe such records are public, so he should be free to tell you what he knows.”

“Did either of my parents ever mention a man named Pat Floyd?” Matt asked. “Or do any business with him?”

Worrell looked perplexed. “Not to my knowledge. Of course, with all the past trust transactions over the years, it would be almost impossible to answer your question with complete certainty. But I've never heard of him. Who is Pat Floyd?”

“I don't know,” Matt replied. “It's just a name I recently came across.” He stood and shook Mr. Worrell's hand. “I appreciate you taking the time for me.”

“Not at all,” Worrell said. “I'll write your father about our conversation. I'm sure he'll be pleased to learn you're taking such an active interest in your financial future.”

“I'm sure he will be,” Matt said, not giving a hoot what Pa thought.

***

T
he night before he was to meet with Alan Lipscomb, a bad dream woke Matt just before dawn. In it he was a little kid at the ranch alone with Pa and they were playing a game of hide-and-seek that started out as fun but suddenly changed when Pa began stalking him, making an ugly face, lunging at him with murder in his eyes, and refusing to stop when Matt, terrified, begged him to. The dream gave him the willies and brought back a vague recurring memory of being with Ma and CJ when he saw Pa for the very first time. He had a telescopic image of Pa roaring drunkenly at them to get out of his way and Ma pulling him to safety. How he wished Ma and CJ were alive to tell him if that had really happened. He went through the day wondering whether any of his memories from that time were real or if they were all just imagined.

Although Matt had made an appointment in advance, Alan Lipscomb kept him waiting twenty minutes, and when he did usher him into his office, he did so with a serious look and a tight-lipped smile.

He sat behind his desk, gestured for Matt to sit in a straight-back chair, and said in a grave tone, “Mr. Worrell informed me of the purpose of your visit. I must tell you I have no desire to occasion a rift between you and your father.”

Matt smiled sympathetically. “I sure don't want to put you in that situation, Mr. Lipscomb. As you probably know, I've never been close to my father or him to me, but I have nothing to gain by getting into a quarrel with him. I reach my majority soon and plan to finish college here and then perhaps move away. I'd like to part ways with him agreeably, if possible.”

“If that is truly your intention, why bother digging up old history?” Lipscomb asked.

“Because it's
my
history, and I've a right to know it,” Matt replied. “Since my ma died I've spent a lot of time pondering what made her divorce Pa, move to town, and raise me on her own. I've always wondered what happened.”

“I doubt you'll find those answers here,” Lipscomb warned.

“Maybe not,” Matt replied. “But at least I might learn something I didn't know before.”

Lipscomb tapped his fingers together before responding. “I cannot show you the file, but I will tell you this: Your mother gave up a sizable stake in the ranch to make a fresh start on her own. It was a brave act.”

“What did Pa do to her to get her so riled?” he asked.

“Only your father can tell you that,” Lipscomb replied. “But in a divorce, children and property are often what most parents fight about. Your parents reached an accommodation that was best for all concerned, including you and your brother CJ. Again, I suggest you ask your father these questions.”

“I plan to do that,” Matt said. “Did my Pa ever mention a man named Pat Floyd to you?”

“No, the name is unfamiliar to me.”

Matt stood and shook Lipscomb's hand. “Thank you for your time.”

“You've a bright future, Matt,” Lipscomb prophesied. “Don't dwell on the past. It serves no good purpose.”

“I won't,” Matt answered. “Good day.”

Outside, Matt walked home under cool, billowing clouds that masked the hot summer sun. Lipscomb had said Ma had been brave to break free and start fresh. Maybe that was all that really mattered.

Matt lengthened his stride. Soon he'd be free and able to make his own fresh start, just like Ma had. There was a whole world to explore and he would have the means to do it. The mere idea of it made him feel downright carefree.

W
hen Matt was five, CJ had given him a cheap alarm clock to play with. He took it apart, put it back together, and got it ticking, but much to his frustration he never got it to keep the right time no matter how hard he tried. In spite of his failure, it didn't dampen his enthusiasm for taking things apart, to the point of getting into big trouble with Ma for attempting to disassemble her trundle sewing machine. To keep him away from such mischief, she presented him with a brand new Erector set, which came in a red wooden box complete with a variety of different steel parts and nuts and bolts he could build stuff with. The set was a source of constant enjoyment, and he spent many contented hours on the living room floor constructing drawbridges, cranes, water towers, windmills, airplanes, and the like.

His more recent experiences helping Boone fiddle around with his old jalopy had reminded Matt how much he enjoyed working with his hands, so in his first semester of college he'd taken a mechanical arts course that consisted of learning how to disassemble and repair a variety of gasoline-powered motors, including an unusual twenty-four-horsepower horizontal automobile engine. The classwork also consisted of making detailed diagrams of engine components, which rekindled Matt's interest in drawing. It became his favorite course in his first semester.

Pleased with what he'd learned, in his second semester he shifted to an emphasis on applied science, with classes in drafting and basic welding and a calculus course to improve his math skills. He also signed up for an elective course in military science, taught by a veteran of the Great War. Matt enjoyed it so much, it got him to thinking he might consider the army as a career if he could serve as an officer in the Corps of Engineers.

But not yet ready to settle on a path his life should take, he figured to explore different courses in his sophomore year, including botany, a class in modern writers, and a land-surveying class, which would be useful in both agriculture and science. Classes started in six weeks and he was eager to begin.

When he wasn't at his part-time job clerking in Miller's store, he rode Patches several miles to the college outside of town, situated on the upper shelf of a wide tableland that extended beyond the Rio Grande far into the desert. With the permission of his mechanical arts professor, Augustus Merton, he'd parked a 1925 Studebaker Standard Six Roadster with a blown engine he'd bought at a salvage yard in an empty shed on campus. He hoped to have the roadster rebuilt and running before classes resumed so he could motor to and from college.

Three days of unusually cool and rainy weather had turned the gravel road to the college muddy and the surrounding land a brilliant green. He stopped at the campus gate and cleaned Patches' hooves before continuing on the horseshoe drive past ornate buildings with hipped tile roofs, arched windows, and domed towers that housed the gymnasium, classrooms, and administration offices. Science Hall and Agricultural Hall, the two most imposing, eye-catching structures on campus, soared over the desert landscape and looked down on agricultural fields divided and fenced to grow a variety of experimental crops. They also towered over the new athletic field, the college's most important feature for town residents who filled the stands on football game days.

Matt drew rein at the shed, turned Patches loose to graze on tender new grasses, opened the shed door, and ran a hand over the roadster's dusty right front fender. The shed was soon to be demolished to make way for the construction of a new men's dormitory, and Matt was in a hurry to get the car running before the wrecking crew showed up. Happily, he was almost finished.

He was on his back under the Studebaker inspecting the engine mounts with a flashlight when he heard footsteps and saw a shadow on the dirt floor. Assuming it was Professor Merton dropping by to check on his progress, he poked his head out and instead saw Pa staring down at him. Matt pushed out from under the car and stood.

“How did you find me?” he asked, clicking the flashlight off.

“You really have turned into a citified college boy, asking a dumb question like that,” Pa said scornfully. “I followed your horse tracks.”

“What do you want?” Matt asked briskly, studying his father. Pa had lost a tooth and had a week-old beard, and his hair looked straggly under his cowboy hat.

“I'm looking to get back something of mine I reckon you have.”

Matt laughed. “Now, that's a switch, seeing how you've been using my trust money to keep the Double K running.”

“I've told you where every damn cent goes,” Pa snapped. “Best you understand that.”

“What I understand is you don't give a tinker's damn for me and never have,” Matt retorted. “The only reason you wanted to get your hands on my money is to look after yourself, not me. So if you came to tell me you're taking more money, say it and go. Next year you won't get a dime from me.”

“Most men would serve up a good beating to a son for that kind of lip.”

“Son?” Matt snorted. “That's a joke. You've got no sons, old man, except by blood alone, and that doesn't count a lick.”

The punch caught Matt flush on the mouth and knocked him back into the fender. He shook it off and swung a roundhouse right with the flashlight that hit Pa in the temple and put him on his ass. Pa sat motionless in the dirt, his hat knocked off, head lowered, breathing hard.

“Don't ever hit me again,” Matt warned, tasting the blood in his mouth. His hand shook from the sheer fright of what he'd done. He dropped the flashlight.

“I didn't plan to hit you in the first place,” Pa said, slowly getting to his feet and reaching for his hat. There was an ugly welt on his temple. “I've heard from Worrell and Lipscomb you've been asking about Pat Floyd, and I want that paper you found at the ranch.”

“Is that what you've been searching for all these years?”

“Give it to me and I'll be on my way.”

“Who's Pat Floyd?” Matt demanded, struggling to maintain his composure. If Pa hit him again, he'd fall apart.

“That ain't your business,” Pa replied, rubbing his head.

“It is if you're gonna fight me about him,” Matt said. “Who is he?”

Pa shook his head. “He's a ghost, a nobody, a good-for-nothing I knew a long time ago; that's all.”

“He's you,” Matt guessed. “Otherwise you wouldn't give a damn about the pardon.”

“I ain't saying that,” Pa said.

“You don't have to. Why did Ma divorce you? What did you do to her?”

“That's a private matter.”

“Is there any one damn thing about you that isn't a secret?” Matt pushed. Pa was shrinking in his eyes, no longer terrifying, just an old, worn-down cowboy. He felt in control of the situation and, for the very first time, in control of Pa.

“You're done with me, I can tell,” Pa said. “I make no apology for who I am. Get me that pardon and I'll trouble you no more. The ranch and whatever else I have will be yours once I pass on. It's all I have to give and you're all the kin I've got to give it to.”

“Except for your other son, Juan Ignacio,” Matt chided. “I'll mail the pardon to you. I have no cause to go to the ranch.”

“That'll be fine.”

“You look like a whiskey-sodden old bum,” Matt added.

“I've been feeling poorly, if you care to know,” Pa replied. “Haven't had a drink in six months. Doc says all my teeth are rotten and have to be pulled.”

Matt had no sympathy to give. He stared at Pa until he turned and walked away. When he was sure Pa wouldn't return to resume the fisticuffs, he picked up the flashlight and crawled back under the Studebaker chassis. In the dim light, with the damp dirt floor soaking his shirt, he remained motionless, his mind churning, until he heard approaching footsteps again. He scrambled out, expecting Pa had returned, only to be greeted by Professor Merton.

“Are you ready to give it a go?” Merton asked, peering into the engine compartment.

“I need to seat the spark plugs, adjust the carburetor, and install a new fan belt,” Matt replied.

Merton nodded, took the flashlight from Matt's hand, and looked more closely at the engine. Universally liked by his students, Augustus Merton was a small man in his late forties with a mop of curly light brown hair, a round face that beamed goodwill, and lively brown eyes. He had a habit of softly commenting to himself when inspecting students' work, and no one liked hearing an unacceptable
oops
or
oh my
fall from his lips. Matt held his breath against the bleak prospect.

“I think you may have done it,” Merton said, clicking off the flashlight.

“I'll finish tomorrow,” Matt said, beaming with pride.

“Why not today?” Merton countered, rolling up his sleeves. “Come, I'll give you a hand. We'll have this fine motorcar running in time for you to drive it home, clean yourself up, and present yourself at my house for a celebratory dinner.”

Matt grabbed the new fan belt from the dashboard. “That's very kind of you, sir.”

Merton selected a screwdriver from the small worktable Matt had built. “My first Ford was a lot less complicated to work on than this Studebaker. How times have changed.”

Two hours later they rolled the Studebaker Standard Six Roadster out of the shed into the bright late-afternoon sunlight. Matt fired it up and the engine responded with the reassuring steady sound of the pumping pistons.

“Off you go, then,” Merton said with a kindly pat on Matt's shoulder. “When you get home, put some ice on that split lip. It will help the swelling go down. We'll see you for dinner.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Matt said, face lowered to hide a blush of embarrassment, and with Patches roped to the rear bumper he drove slowly homeward.

Augustus Merton waved as the departing Studebaker bumped over uneven ground toward the campus gate, the pinto pony trotting easily behind. He'd overheard a good bit of the tense altercation inside the shed before returning to his office in Science Hall for half an hour in order to allow Matt time to recover. That had prompted him to invite the lad to dinner. A meal with folks who weren't at odds with each other seemed just the medicine the young man needed. If nothing else, it might keep his lifted spirits high. He hurried to his office to call his wife, Consuelo, and let her know about their unexpected dinner guest.