The True Father (3 page)

  
   The day was sunny and bright, but a gale from the west had Grandpa cursing and struggling to keep the Winnebago on the highway. I sat in the passenger seat while Grandma sat far to the back and read a romance novel. I imagined that she sought out a spot that was not only comfortable, but as far away from Grandpa as she could get. He enjoyed retelling stories of his cattleman days, the rich land along highway 71 where his ranching operation once thrived, with an occasional interjection of “…damn that wind…” or “…that gust was a son of a bitch!” He was in his usual form, jumpsuit included, only today he wore one made of denim. I was amazed to learn those things came in a variety of colors and fabrics.

   The drive south had lasted two hours before we stopped at Judy's Cafe, a truck stop in a little town called Jasper, Missouri. It was only ten in the morning and my sausage and egg McMuffin hadn't even digested yet. But Grandpa insisted that we couldn't go by Jasper without stopping at Judy's famous truck stop. Hungry or not, I had to admit I'd never had a better piece of apple pie in my life. It was fresh and homemade, and I learned firsthand what made Judy's famous. Nevertheless, I also had never eaten so much food before noon and it made me feel sluggish. Back in the Winnebago I reclined the seat, and while listening to another ranching story, I drifted off to sleep.

   Next I knew I was sitting in an office cubical, punching numbers into a ten-key calculator. I was wearing my favorite suit, the glen plaid, and next to the calculator stood a picture of Mom and I at the graduation. Suddenly someone entered my cubical and tossed a piece of paper into an in-basket on my desk. I expected to see a copy of a spreadsheet, with more numbers for me to manage, but I picked up the glossy paper, turned it over to find a photo of a cowboy riding a bull in a rodeo arena. Frightened, I turned quickly to look behind me but saw no one. I looked again at the picture then someone else entered my office and threw another photo into my in-basket. I turned to find a clown smiling down at me. He wasn't an ordinary clown, like one at a circus. He had the painted face and the red nose, but he wore a ball-cap, cut-off bib overalls, black and white striped socks, and Nike athletic shoes.

   He left the cubical, then another clown entered, this one wearing a cowboy hat, a yellow T-shirt, wide rainbow-colored suspenders, and torn and ragged oversized denim shorts. Rather than put a photo in my basket, he handed me a trophy. It had a long wooden base, and on top a golden statuette of a man riding a bull. I grabbed the other photo in my basket. It was of me with a man in a cowboy hat who stood with his arm around me. We were both smiling, but I didn't know the man.

   I stood from my chair and walked out of the cubicle. I came to an abrupt halt as a crowd of people started cheering and clapping at me. There were the two clowns, and several men in cowboy hats and jeans. Then I saw Jeremiah, my grandpa, Amber, Ernie, and my mom, who wasn't applauding, but standing with her arms crossed. I tried to walk toward them but I couldn't move, and suddenly I felt a sharp punch on my arm. I turned to find Walter smiling at me. “Hey, Champ,” he said. “Did you finish those reports I asked for?”

   I didn't answer him, so he hit me in the arm again, harder this time. 

   I rose quickly from the seat of the Winnebago to find Grandpa slapping my arm. “Mother Mary, Trev! Wake up and look at that view!”

   I rubbed my eyes and gazed out at a scene of rolling mountains, covered with green, plush looking trees.

   “Where are we?” I asked.

   “Arkansas. The Boston Mountains. Pretty, huh?”

   The view was breathtaking and having just woken from a very weird dream, I wondered if I wasn't in some sort of a freak paradise.

   I grabbed a plastic bottle of spring water I had bought at Judy's Truck Stop and squeezed several streams into my mouth. The water wasn't very cold, but it was wet and soothed my dry, cottony mouth.

   We continued to wind down the interstate through the mountains until we came to a spacious river valley. Eventually the mountains faded behind us and we turned right and headed west, crossed the Arkansas River, drove through the town of Fort Smith, Arkansas, and on across the border to Oklahoma. The scenery was much like what we had left in Missouri; flat farmland with cattle and horses, but with a distinct difference in the color of the soil—a red-orange rather than black. And to the south, a hazy image of a lone mountain peaked up on the horizon.

Within minutes we came to a bridge that stretched over a small lake. Just before the bridge stood a sign that read “SPIRO BEACH,” and next to the beach, a campground.

   “That's where we'll park the RV,” Grandpa said. “But first I'll drive you through my old stomping grounds.”

   The tiny town lay just on the other side of the bridge. A sports complex with several baseball fields and a rodeo arena marked the burgh's entrance.

   “Right there's where it all started,” Grandpa said.

   “What started?”

   “Rodeo—and the life of the Hodge boys.”

   The arena was nothing spectacular to look at. Similar to a high school football stadium, it had a section of bleachers on one side and a press box for the announcer. The press box was a small, wooden structure with weathered white siding, shaped similar to an old outhouse Grandpa had pointed out on a farm back in Missouri. A fence made of metal pipe, painted white and rusty in places, stretched completely around the oval arena. And on one end were several gates with fenced areas behind them—that Grandpa called chutes.

   Grandpa continued. “First it was calf roping and bulldogging. Then they started bronc riding; both saddle and bare back. Then it was bulls. Nothing but bulls.”

   “Why bulls?”

   Grandpa laughed at this question. “At first I thought it was peer pressure. Boys around the rodeo like making dares. But I soon learned that it was a natural thirst for competition that drove the Hodge boys. Man against beast. Your pa and Jeremiah both thrived on drawing the toughest bulls.”

   “Is there good money in rodeo, or bull riding?”

   This also made Grandpa chuckle. “Only if you're real good. Most people these days work a day job during the week and run the circuit on weekends. Only the best make a living at it.”

   “But I understand that Dad—Jettie—made a living at it.”

   “Yes, but barely.”

   “Why barely? Was he good?”

   “Trev, your pa had the talent to be one of the best.”

   “Then why wasn't he?”

   “I doubt anyone knows that answer. I'm sure your pa didn't even know. It just seemed that he couldn't put it all together.”

   “What about Jeremiah? Was he good, too?”

   “Not as good as Jettie. Jeremiah was Jettie's biggest fan. But he got frustrated over the years. Got tired of waiting for Jettie to make that big break.”

   “So what does Jeremiah do?” “Stock contractor. Provides animals for the rodeos. Around here, nobody knows rodeo or rodeo stock better than Jeremiah.”

   We turned off of the highway onto Main Street. It was a typical scene of a once thriving little town, now shut down by large discount outlets and convenience stores, and replaced by local ma and pa craft shops, hair and tanning salons, or buildings torn down into vacant lots. It resembled a scene in a documentary I once saw called The Death of Main Street, and what one of my college professors called “ … part of the evolution of free enterprise”. I had never taken the time to draw my own opinion, but my first impression was that Main Street in Spiro struggled for signs of life.

   Main Street ended at a railroad track and came to a T. A train approached and sounded its horn. I was amazed to see that the large gray engines were labeled “KCS” which I knew stood for Kansas City Southern, a railroad company based in Kansas City, and their office was in the same building downtown where I was to start my new job. How small of a world could it be, I thought.

Grandpa swung the Winnebago wide and turned right at the T. Though the business district of Spiro seemed run down and dying, the residential areas seemed alive and peaceful. Most of the houses were small, one-story structures, with either brick or wood siding. A few yards were mowed and tidy, where others were decorated with old rusty cars or broken down appliances and tall weeds growing up around them. At one of the homes an elderly man sat on his front porch in a lawn chair. He wore a red cap and striped bib overalls, and his eyeglasses had thick lenses making his eyes seem large and blurry. He held a fly swatter in one hand, and what looked like a glass of iced tea in the other. Grandpa waved at him, but rather than wave back, the old man swung the flyswatter at something on the porch rail.

   “Interesting town,” I said.

   “Yeah, they're a dying breed,” Grandpa said.

   We continued on, passing a large school with a parking lot full of big yellow school buses, then on out into the countryside, where pastures covered with spring grass spread flat as far as my eyes could see. A short ways out of town, a white metal fence, similar to that at the rodeo arena only whiter, lined each side of the blacktop road. We eventually came to a driveway on the left side of the road and Grandpa swung the big motor home into the lane. At the end of the drive was a long one-story brick house, and out in the pasture grazed several horses and cattle.

   “Whose house is this?” I asked.

   “This ranch belongs to your Uncle Jeremiah.”

  
   As we pulled into a circle drive in front of the house, the front door opened and out walked Jeremiah. Except for the absence of the bolo tie, he looked like he hadn't changed clothes since I'd seen him at the commencement. He even wore the same friendly smile. And not far behind him was a woman who appeared to be a few years younger, with short brown hair and wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans.

   After the three of us climbed out of the RV, Jeremiah introduced us to his wife, Jodie, whom I learned from Grandma was only four years younger than Jeremiah. Anyone who didn't know would never believe it. Grandma said that along with smoking and drinking, Jeremiah's many days in the Oklahoma sun had aged him to where he looked over sixty. And she was right; standing next to Grandpa, who pushed seventy, Jeremiah could easily pass as his brother. In contrast, Jodie could almost pass for thirty. She looked fabulous, wearing skintight Wrangler jeans, lace-up cowboy boots, and a T-shirt advertising the 2000 National Finals Rodeo. In actuality she was the same age as my mother, forty-five, but I'd never seen my mom in such apparel, which possibly helped with the youthful image.

   They invited us to their back patio, which was a large wooden deck made of treated lumber and coated with a water seal that made it shiny. A propane barbecue grill stood next to the patio door, and along the outside rails were several pots with an assortment of pink and white flowers. We gathered around a table shaded by an umbrella, and Jodie brought out a tray that held several glasses of ice and a clear glass pitcher of lemonade with pulp and lemons floating at the top.

   “I'm sure glad you came down, Trevor,” Jeremiah said. “For so many years I've wanted to get in touch with you. I'm just sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”

   “Me, too.”

   I could tell that there was a lot on Jeremiah's mind, more than just me coming to pay my last respects to my father. Something made him edgy and I had absolutely no idea what it could be, or what possibly I could do now to help.

   Grandpa smacked his lips after taking a drink of lemonade. “I showed Trevor the old arena. A lot of old memories there.”

   “Yeah,” Jeremiah said, “Jettie and I both ate our share of dirt in that old oval.”

   They continued to share ancient memories along with a few laughs—stories that I found fascinating to say the least. It was as if Jeremiah lived in a different world, with so much freedom and depth.   Growing up in Kansas City I grew used to the sounds of automobiles on concrete and the smell of their exhaust. Everything that occurred in our lives took place in and around our little mansion, which set on less than a half-acre. Our social life centered on events with whom-ever Mom was dating that week, with all the promises of a family lifestyle somewhere down the road. I never realized it until now, but we seemed to be boxed into our own little world stricken with limitations. While here, one could listen to birds sing without the background noise of motor vehicles. All the land that surrounded us Jeremiah owned. And the stories of the past centered on events shared with their family. I tried to think of something to share about my past, but I couldn't. I had never experienced anything compared to the adventurous lives these people lived.

   “So, I hear you're gonna be one of them big city accountants,” Jeremiah said.

   “Guess so,” I said, wondering how my planned career measured up to anything he had done.

   Grandpa decided to brag a little for me. “Yeah, Trev was one of the best in his class. Gonna be sitting for the CPA exam this fall.”

   “Sounds like you've got a good plan,” Jeremiah said.

   “I hope so.”

   Grandpa chuckled. “Jeremiah, you know what CPA stands for, don't you?”

   Oh no, I thought. Not this joke again.

   “Sure,” Jeremiah answered. “Certified Public Accountant.”

   “No,” Grandpa said, already laughing. “Certified Public Asshole!”

   I think Jeremiah already knew the punch line but, if so, he played along and laughed anyway.

   Finally Grandpa suggested it was time he take the RV down to the campground and get it set up, then Jeremiah insisted he hook it up next to his machine shop behind the house. They didn't argue long before Grandpa agreed to his accommodations. And Jodie suggested I stay in one of their spare rooms rather than in the RV, and after thinking of a night with Grandpa snoring, I gladly accepted.

   While Grandpa and Grandma set up the RV Jeremiah invited me on a tour of the ranch. I followed him inside the machine shop and to his pickup truck, a white GMC with a black flatbed and dual tires on the back. From out of nowhere a short-legged, silvery blue spotted dog with pointed ears ran into the machine shop and jumped up onto the flatbed. Also on top of the flatbed was a tire mounted on a silver wheel and two bales of hay, and a guard made of square steel tubing covered the back window. The dog laid down next to the tire and rested its chin between its front paws. The bottoms of the pickup doors and rocker panels were splattered with a dark green substance that I managed to get on one of the cuffs of my jeans. At first I thought it was grass, like from the bottom of a lawn mower, but the closer I looked, I realized it was cow shit. Jeremiah grinned and told me I could give my jeans to Jodie and she'd wash them for me. I looked down at his jean cuffs and noticed they were free of manure stains. He assured me that the next time I climbed into a ranch truck I'd know better.

   As we drove off through a gate and into a pasture behind the machine shed, Jeremiah pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. They were Marlboros in a red and white package. He knocked one out of the package, stuck it between his lips and lit it with a plastic butane lighter.

   He took me to all four corners of his land, showed me the boundaries, the land he hayed, his horse and cattle herds, and the bulls that he contracted for the rodeo. Not far from the bulls was a small pond shaped like a triangle with rounded corners. Two tan-colored birds with long white tails screeched and hopped in the grass near the pond. And as the bulls grazed their tails swatted back and forth to their flanks, and flies swarmed around their eyes and the sun-dried manure on their rumps.

   Jeremiah stopped the truck and killed the engine. He pushed the cigarette butt into an ashtray, which was already nearly full with older butts, then lit another.

   He shook a second cigarette halfway out of the package and held it in front of me. “You smoke?”

   “No, thank you.”

   “Good for you.”

   He dropped the cigarettes back in his shirt pocket, opened the door and stepped outside. I looked out at the bulls, that now stared at us, and wondered how quickly the mammoth looking beasts would charge me once I stepped out of the truck.

   “They won't hurt you,” Jeremiah said.

   Regardless of his assurance, and my trust in him, I opened the door cautiously.

   Jeremiah leaned the seat forward, grabbed something wrapped in a small brown paper bag, then closed the door and came around to my side. He set the brown-bagged object on the back of the flatbed then lifted himself up and sat with his legs hanging. He patted his hand beside him inviting me up. I inspected the side of the bed carefully for more manure, then lifted myself up between him and the dog. I reached over and scratched the dog behind the ears. It closed its eyes and seemed to enjoy the affection.

   “What's his name?” I asked.

   “Her name is Jezebel.”

   “Interesting name.”

   “Yeah, a cattle buddy up by Tahlequah gave her to me, said her name was Lady. I got her home and within a week she had screwed every dog in the neighborhood. She had a litter of pups, half Redbone coonhound. Ugliest damn things you ever saw. So I had her fixed thinking that would help. Stopped the pups but it didn't stop her from whoring around. So I said the hell with it and changed her name to Jezebel. It's a name I can live with.”

   “What kind of dog is she?”

   “Blue Healer.”

   I kept scratching behind Jezebel's ears, feeling somewhat sorry for her having such a label. “Are all Blue Healers so promiscuous?”

   “Hell if I know. They're mostly known for their ability to work stock, and she does that well, too.”

   “I suppose if she does her job, then she's entitled to a little recreation afterwards.”

   Jeremiah chuckled a bit and folded down the top of the paper bag. He unscrewed a cap from a bottle, removed the cigarette from his lips then tipped the bottle up to his mouth. He took two swallows then handed the bottle to me. “Snort?”

    I was hesitant, but I'd already turned down one of his generous offers, and besides, I liked a shot of whiskey every now and then. So I accepted the bottle, tipped it up, and like Jeremiah took two swallows. The fiery sensation afterwards took my breath, caused me to choke and wheeze, and I suddenly wondered if I was going to die right there on the back of the truck.

   Jezebel apparently drew a concern for me and raised her head and barked. But Jeremiah told her to hush and, dutifully, she returned her head back to its resting position.

   “You all right?” Jeremiah asked, almost laughing.

   I nodded and continued to wheeze.

   “I guess it's just one of those things you have to get used to,” he said.

   “What is that stuff?”

   “Oh, just a little potion a fella down near Talihina makes for me.”

   “Potion?”

   “Yeah, I don't care much for that watered down stuff they sell at the liquor stores. I like my booze to have a little kick to it.”

   “Kick? I think it took the skin off my tongue.”

   He laughed a little. “It'll grow back.”

   Still feeling the pain, I couldn't find any humor in his joke. 

   “You know,” he said, “Jettie and I had our first taste of corn whiskey together. I reckon I was about fourteen. Your pa would have been ten or so. We were fishing the Arkansas River one night and before we left we found our pa's bottle and brought it with us.”

   “Well I hope you about choked to death like I did.”

   “We didn't take as big a swallow as you did.”

   “You could have warned me.”

   “I suppose I could have. But I will say we sure were sick puppies the next day. Drank the whole bottle. And pa whooped us good.”

   He handed the bottle back to me. “Best to keep going if you're ever going to get use to it.”

   “No thanks. I think I've had enough internal tissue loss for one day.”

   He put the cap back on the bottle and took a large drag off his cigarette. Then he retrieved something else from his pocket and handed it to me. “I want you to have this.”

   It was the letter he showed my mom and I at the graduation. I accepted it but didn't quite know what to say.

   “That's not the only one,” he said. “There's more down at his house.”

   I read the postmark. It was dated January 18, 1978. Back then I would have been a year old.

   “More were returned?”

   “Yeah, there's a dozen or so in a shoebox down at Jettie's place. After he died, I went down there to see if I could find a way to get in touch with you. That's all I could find.”

   Other than the sound of Jeremiah unscrewing the bottle cap, we sat for a moment in near silence. I studied the letter again. The address was the same as where we lived now—our home for the last twenty-two years.

   Jeremiah continued. “Tomorrow afternoon, after the funeral, I'll need you to come with me to the lawyer's office.”

   “Why?”

   “For the reading of Jettie's will. From what I understand, he left you some things.”

   “He did? Like what?”

   “I have no idea. But we'll find out tomorrow.”

   Now my head felt as if it was spinning. Along with two gulps of homemade whiskey burning my throat and boiling in my stomach, I had this new knowledge to absorb. My father, who I never new, included me in his will, and left behind a shoebox with several more returned letters. But the one in my hand was at the peak of my interest. For some unknown reason, I couldn't find the courage to open it, as if when I tore through the paper something horrifying would jump out at me. With those thoughts in mind, I folded it along the age-old creases and put it in a back pocket of my jeans. When I looked back at Jeremiah, he tipped the bottle again and took another healthy swallow. Suddenly I realized that he hadn't just offered me a drink, but probably thought I could use a little valor as well.