Land Run. Mark Graham

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      Marty realized suddenly that Ruth was calling to him from inside the back screen porch. He lumbered up his six-feet-five-inch, old frame and walked back into the house. Once inside, he knew something was not quite right, but he couldn’t place the feeling. But the smell of breakfast broke his momentary daze, and he sat down to eat.

      “You didn’t put your tools up.” Ruth put his plate and coffee down.

      “That’s it.”

      “That’s what?” Ruth asked.

      “Nothin’.” Marty buttered his bread.

      “Pastor Jake will be here any minute. I don’t guess you’re going to change.”

      “Nope. We’re going to take the truck. You gonna need anything today?”

      “No,” she answered and made her way slowly out of the kitchen and into the front room.

      Marty liked his new pastor. The last one never went with him to visit the shut-ins. Marty never thought much of that until Jake asked to go with him a few times. He couldn’t say that he appreciated the company, but he wasn’t against it either. Marty always believed that God put people together for a reason. In these later years, he got comfortable with just trusting God and letting him do more of the reasoning.

      “Pastor is here,” Ruth called from the living room.

      Marty heard the front screen door spring creaking and snatched his truck keys from the kitchen wall on his way out. “Sorry ’bout the truck. I need to keep Ruth’s car clean. Okay? I might need to drive her to some female thing this evening.”

      “That’s no problem, Marty. What’s the meeting about, garden club?” Jake asked as he piled into the pickup.

      “I don’t know. Don’t never know,” Marty replied and noticed Jake looking a little worried.

      “Okay. You getting your radio fixed?” Jake asked.

      “What? I don’t have a radio. Pastor, that’s a hole in the dashboard. You know, where a radio would be.” Marty gave Jake a look that questioned his pastor’s intelligence.

      “Right. Makes sense. So how have you been?”

      “Fine.”

      “Know where they live?” Jake asked.

      “Yep.”

      “I heard we’re supposed to visit a member with a bad foot. You know he’s been shut up in that trailer for two months?”

      “Yep. He don’t leave that trailer much anyhow.”

      Unlike Jake, Marty found the arid landscape along their way interesting. It was going to be a long, quiet ride. It was June now, and already the official color of town was brown—brown buildings and brown grass. This was only slightly offset by the rust-brown leaves that colored the scrub-oak trees. The land was flat, and Marty was taller than half the trees about. Yet, there was something about this land, these people, and its history that Marty loved. It was hard, self-reliant. And in summer, with the heat, people melted—not a lot, but enough. He never did know how the town got its name. No one ever saw a willow tree and only the ditch down Hays-Barton Road could double for a spring. And even then it had to rain pretty hard to not have it dry up by the end of the next day.

      Willow Springs kicked it in high gear at the start of summer. They passed by armies of little league teams engaged in battle, and each war lasted until it got dark. But Marty had traveled enough to know his town wasn’t like the typical small towns around the country. Willow Springs just kind of sprawled out with houses popping up here and there. There was no town square and courthouse, no monuments or cannons. Aside from the occasional remaining house, no structures tied this community to a staunch past. Though the town was older than the state, it was a young state. Oklahoma became a state in 1907. That fact had not greatly impacted the culture past thirty miles from Oklahoma City. Willow Springs had all dirt streets until 1960, and they got their first and only streetlight in 1987. Some of Marty’s older friends could still be seen shopping at Barrow’s Grocery Store packing pistols in leather holsters on their sides. And people still smoked anywhere they darn well pleased. That was the character of Willow Springs. The folks did what they wanted, and they never wanted much.

      Marty and Jake rode the rest of the trip in silence. Finally, they were a mere cloud of rusty dust blowing through a clearcut off Brumley Road. They pulled up to the cattle guard gate. But the man didn’t have cattle or family. He was alone there with his recently messed-up right foot. He never told anyone how he got hurt, so Marty had to choose from three different stories he heard of the accident. He liked the one about his having a bowling ball fall on his foot. It was impossible, of course, because bowling implies leisure. This man was single and self-reliant his whole seventy-two years. As they carefully climbed the three steps of the front porch, Marty wondered at what he might see, at just how bad his foot was going to look.

      “Who is it?” A voice boomed from inside.

      “Pastor and me, Marty.”

      “Come on.”

      Both men winced at each other once they entered the room. The smell inside was incredible and like nothing Marty had ever experienced. The man enveloped by his recliner, looking like just a small head at the end of a runway of legs. Marty could tell that Jake wanted to throw up, needed to throw up. And he was real glad his pastor was a talker like this man was. It seemed to him that Jake was conversing almost manic-like as a way to keep from puking. Like the opposite of holding his breath but with the same goal. But maybe, he thought, after the long quiet truck ride, he was just bustin’ at the seams to chat.

      “We’re real sorry about your foot. Is there something we could do for you?” Jake asked.

      But Marty was already at it, picking garbage off the floor. The man’s dog had destroyed the kitchen. The trashcan was on its side, and the contents were strewn all over the kitchen and into the living room. Every part of the trailer had piles of poop lying about indiscriminately. The carpet was visibly damp with urine and some other liquids, probably from the kitchen. The stench was unbearable. The man had either built up a tolerance, Marty thought, or lost his senses.

      “Don’t worry none ’bout that, Marty. I can’t let Sam out as often as I use to. Not his fault.” He found energy enough just then to lean down to pet his dog.

      “No problem,” Marty replied.

      “You got food, pastor?” the man asked.

      “Uh…” Jake squirmed a little in the torn, green, vinyl chair. He was careful to avoid rubbing against the duct tape.

      “Ruth would have brought chili, Marty. Ruth gonna visit sometime?”

      The men talked longer than Marty liked, but he could not think of a way to leave gracefully. Finally, he just stood by the front door until they noticed him. They never did, but eventually they were asked to leave because the man said that Sam needed to get some rest.

      Marty hoped the trip back would be as quiet as their coming but could tell that Jake was uncomfortable. He looked over to see Jake start to say something and stopping himself several times.

      “Here’s the thing. That was just awful, Marty.”

СКАЧАТЬ