The Kingdom Land (7 page)

“
My mom left when I was three and my
dad died in a car crash when I was eleven.”

Once again the sound of the restaurant became obvious
and neither Erik nor John spoke. Erik surprised himself by bluntly
stating the facts. Suddenly the conversation had gone from the love
of God to the reality of Erik's life. It took time for either of
them to speak. Erik knew John wanted him to continue, but Erik
couldn't find the right words.

“
I'm sorry. I was too busy giving my
sermon that I forgot about you,” were the only words John could
muster.

“
Not much to ask about. As I said, I
live with my aunt and uncle, Henry and Mary Cooper. Not much
excitement there. They've gone to Fairfield Community for years.
You probably know them if you go to church.” Erik saw John nod in
acknowledgement.

“
Yes, I know them. They're great
people. I don't go to Fairfield Community, but to New Life Center,
but that's not important. What is important is you.”

“
My mom left dad and me before I
could remember. I was about three. It took me years to find out
what happened. People don't seem to want to trust me with the
truth. My good Christian Aunt Mary even lied to me. That happens a
lot. I guess people think they're doing me a favor by not telling
me the whole story. I don't know why they do it, but they're
lying.

My Aunt told me my mom had to go away ‘cause she was
sick. The only thing my mom was sick of was me. She left me and my
dad and I guess she didn't like the farm. I don't know where she
went or where she's at now. I quit wondering about her years ago.
If she didn't care about me, why should I care about her?

“
It's not just my aunt who's lied to
me. I can't really think of anyone who hasn't lied. My mom did by
leaving. My dad never told me the truth, and the list goes on. It's
like they think I'm a basket case or something, and think they
should hide everything. There're no secrets in Fairfield; we all
know that, but they try to keep things from me anyway. “

“
Why didn't your dad tell you about
your mom?” John asked.

“
I don't know. He was never much of
a talker. Just like me, but you won't know that by the way I'm
going on today. I think dad was probably embarrassed. Probably felt
guilty that he wasn't a good enough husband to keep a wife. He
never said much of anything to me. I loved—love him a lot, but he
took it hard when mom left, and he never had much to say to me.”
Erik's mind went back thirteen years, and as he sat at that
counter, it seemed as if his dad was still there with
him.

In the midst of the Glacier Inn that carried the
smell of frying bacon and large quantities of strong, brewing
coffee, Erik could almost smell the distinct smell of his dad. When
he smelled that mixture of shaving lotion and hard work, or
anything else that replicated it, it seemed as if his dad was with
him again. At that moment his dad seemed so close Erik forgot about
the restaurant and even John. There was nothing in that café that
would have generated that smell, but Erik sensed it anyway as he
spoke of his memories.

“
Mom didn't leave dad ‘cause he was
a bad man or wasn't good to her. From what the gossips in Fairfield
tell me, he was very good to her. Dad wasn't a bad man. You know
what a man is like when they've lived too long in Fairfield. I can
only hope I don't become like that.

“
My uncle is the same way. A man
goes through enough droughts and enough blizzards, they become like
everyone else. They work hard, get dragged down by the work, drink
hard, and try to forget. Dad tried to be a good father to me, but
with trying to run a farm and trying to forget a wife who left him,
he didn't have much time for me.”

Erik remembered back to the two of them living in a
farmhouse that carried the signs of two bachelors. The house was
rarely clean, and his dad made sure they never got visitors, he
didn't want them to see the mess. The door to his parent's room was
always locked. One day when Erik was left alone he found an old key
in the medicine chest. He tried it in the door, and it worked, and
he walked into the room for the first time he could remember.

The room still carried the touch of a woman; a small,
empty jewelry box, some small figurines that she probably didn't
have room to pack, and even three simple dresses in the closest. It
was obvious to Erik that his dad had locked the room the day his
mom left and had never opened it again.

To Erik the room carried a sense of emptiness, almost
a haunted feeling. There was little talk between Erik and his dad.
Erik didn't blame his dad. He knew all too well that to survive on
a farm, the farmer had to put in 16-hour days, especially during
seeding and harvest. There was no room for frivolity or play. It
was work. It was hard work, and the end of the day meant only
escaping to a coma-like state in a recliner in front of the TV to
make it to the next day. There was no time or energy to relate to a
young boy. This wasn't Jimmie's fault. It was his lot. To some
degree Erik might have realized that fact, but still he needed some
touch of some type. Being twenty-two miles from town and other
people, Erik's dad was his only human touch, but there was little
response.

John interrupted Erik's silent withdrawal. “You said
you loved your dad. There must have been some good times on the
farm,”

I'm not sure that I would exactly say ‘good times.' I
tried. As early as six I started to do chores on the farm. Dad told
me to do them, but it gave me a chance to be with him so it was
fun, at first. He had me feed the chickens and gather the few eggs
they produced. I made sure the water tank was full for the few cows
and I held the light when dad worked on the farm equipment late
into the night. When Dad told me to do something, I didn't walk. I
ran. If dad needed a socket wrench that was in the shop 300 yards
from the barn, I'd run to the shop. I knew dad would yell at me if
I didn't run, even at the age of six. But I also ran to please dad.
Sometimes, not often, it worked.

“
Some of my best memories were of
doing something right for my dad. It made me feel like I was part
of his life and just like him. I would do anything to just see him
nod his head in approval. A “thank you” or “good job” wasn't
necessary and wouldn't be coming. But a nod: a nod was
enough.

“
But I made mistakes. I remember
when dad wanted me to gather the eggs. I was lost in my own little
world and didn't look in all the usual places around the farmyard
where the chickens laid their eggs. I was too busy hiding in my own
dream world to think of the chores. When I came back to the house
the basket was half full.

“‘
That basket isn't very full. Did
you look everywhere?' my dad asked.

“‘
Yeah, I guess the chickens just
aren't lying. Maybe a coyote made them nervous.' I lied. Just like
other people lie to me, I lied; I panicked and lied to my dad to
hide my mistake.

“‘
Did you check the feed stalls and
the straw pile by the barn?' Dad knew I was lying. He probably
could see it in my face. I'm a terrible liar.

“‘
Yeah, I checked. Just no eggs
today,' I found it easier to lie the second time.

“‘
Well, I'll go check myself.' Dad
called my bluff.

“
The only thing I could think to do
was to circle around and check those places before my dad got
there. Sure enough, there were eggs in the horse stall, and I
quickly scooped straw over them to hide my error.

“
Unfortunately, dad walked in right
when I was covering the eggs. He saw what I'd done and lost
control. I felt the sting of his words and of a horse bridle that
hung nearby which was used as a whip. I know I deserved it, but it
hurt. The only thing I could do was try to make it up to dad, and
try hard, try to please him. It was only the two of us, so when he
was mad, it followed me.”

John said gently, “There must have been some good
times. What about them?”

“
I remember going to the Blackfoot
Indian reservation and fishing at the beaver dams. Have you ever
been up there?”

“
No, I hate to admit it, but I'm not
much of a fisherman. I'm too busy with everything else to learn.”
John replied.

The beaver dams Erik talked about were at the foot of
the Rockies. The Cooper's farm, although carrying none of the life
of the Rockies, was only fifty miles from their ridges.
Unfortunately, these ridges also robbed the clouds of all their
moisture before they reached the Cooper's farm. The Rockies were in
sharp contrast to the dreariness of the Plains. The Rockies held
color and coolness and the smell of life. The pines swayed to the
breezes and the sound of their rustling limbs brought a smile to
Erik, as they had to his dad.

“
The beaver dams are great. By
getting away from the dirt, dad and I could even talk next to the
bend in the stream where the biggest brook trout lay. The talk was
never about anything important, but it was great.”

“‘
Hey, first fish of the day doesn't
have to clean the rest,' dad would cry out to me. We wouldn't fish
next to each other, but close enough to still
communicate.

“‘
Fine, the most fish doesn't have
to clean the stove when we're done.' I'd yell back.

“
The rules were always the same, but
we always said them. It was kinda like a secret club's password.
Dad would even take the time to teach me the finer points of bait
fishing.

“‘
Put it right at the top of the
bend and let it float down until it stops in the still water next
to that branch. The trout will be lying right next to that log.
They use it as protection and to hide from the insects they are
going after,' he'd tell me.

“
I knew how to fish, but it was
great to have dad teach me. It seemed like he knew I was there. On
the farm I was just another hired hand, if he even knew I was
there.”

Erik quickly added, “He wasn't a bad man. That is
just you way men become when they live around here.”

John's lived here. He knows what
its like. I'm not sure why I keep making excuses for dad,
Erik reasoned to himself.

“
So it sounds to me like he was a
pretty good dad in a bad situation; trying to raise you by himself
and trying to make his farm work.” John said.

“
No, he wasn't bad. He wasn't in an
easy place. We were only leasing the land so he was stuck with the
seed and equipment bills in the bad years, and in the good years a
good part of the profit went to pay the lease.

“
He did have one problem. Same
problem a lot of people have around here. He was a drunk. Not a
constant drunk. It didn't happen every day, but when it did, it was
bad. I was told he only started drinking when mom left, but that
wasn't the only cause. Dad's only escape was at the B&M Bar,
and the only way he would be comfortable with the other men was to
drink a beer. Actually, it was after several beers.

“
His biggest problem was me. What do
you do with a kid too young to work, but old enough to get into
trouble? Sometimes he'd take me into town if he had to pick up
parts or something. It was an easy ride as I never had to worry
about talking since dad never had anything to say and it was nice
to go to town. The only bad part was when it got later in the day.
I'd watch every clock I could see since I knew after three Dad
would have to stop at the B&M bar ‘cause he'd need his
beer.

“'
I have to talk to George about
buying some more laying hens,' or some other excuse he'd make up.
‘I”'ll just be a second so just hand tight.'

“
I knew he didn't need any chickens
and I'd have a long wait until he came back. In the summer it was
boring, but in the winter it was torture. Dad would take the keys
and my legs were too short to push the clutch and gas anyway. So I
sat in the cold that was so bad I couldn't feel my feet after a
while.

“
Twice I went into the bar to get
Dad, but I quickly learned it didn't do any good. First time he was
sitting by himself on a bar stool at the big oak bar that was
taller than me. All he did was yell at me and call me names and
everyone looked at me like a stray dog. The second time the cold
got to me so bad I didn't think I had a choice. Dad was leaning on
the bar almost falling off his stool. I tapped him on the shoulder,
but he wouldn't even turn and look. The bartender told him I was
there but all Dad said was, ‘I don't have any kid.' I never went
back in after that. I'd curl up in a ball as best as I could and
wait.

“
The drinking finally caught up with
him. One day when I was eleven I came home from school on the bus.
There was a note on the table along with the dirty dishes saying he
had to run some errands in town. He wasn't home when I went to bed,
which wasn't unusual, but it was unusual when uncle Henry showed up
later next to my bed, tapping my shoulder.

“
I remember a lot of things about
dad, but I can't remember the words my uncle told me. I knew what
he was saying, but I can never remember the exact words. Dad had
driven home late at night. His Buick had hit the ditch and flipped
straight into a telephone pole. He had died immediately, they said.
They didn't say anything about him being drunk, but everyone
knew.”