Land Run. Mark Graham
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It was Jake’s turn to clean the kitchen. The room looked like a kind of Moose Lodge for roosters. His wife, Amy Lynn, loved roosters. There were small and large ceramic roosters strewn about the counters. The wallpaper was populated with them. And a serious-looking army of roosters lined up around the room on the wall border running along the ceiling. But Jake was most comfortable in there. They gave his home balance. He had four daughters.
Amy Lynn was giving the little ones a bath while the oldest helped her dad out in the kitchen.
“Dad, you know I’m a ‘tween? That’s when you’re in the double digits but not a teenager yet.”
“I had never heard of that, kind of like being a Webelos Scout, not quite a full Boy Scout?”
“What?” she asked and moved to dry a glass.
“Nothing. That’s neat. How was your piano lesson today?” Jake asked.
“Cool, I guess. You know why I can play a song from memory after I play it once?”
“Cause you’re as smart as your dad?” Jake answered.
“No. Miss Franklin said I play without the work of other kids because I hear the music, I play by ear.”
“Sweet!”
He walked to the pantry and felt her eyes on him connected to a sudden awkward silence. Jake turned to see what the matter was.
“What?” he asked.
“Dad, you are way too old to say, ‘Sweet.’”
The girls were in their respective rooms and bunk beds by nine thirty. The popcorn and drinks would be made by nine forty-five. Since they started budgeting for cable, it would be the History Channel or the Food Network. It really depended on who was the most tired that night. Amy Lynn had changed quickly and was curled up next to Jake on the couch. Tonight, he could tell it would be she who would give in. She never imagined she would live this life and love it. Jake was watching her and remembered how Amy Lynn was hotly pursuing a career as a businesswoman when they first met. Amy Lynn had just graduated college among the top of her class. She was in seven honor organizations, three in which she was an officer. They were so different that Jake never thought he had a chance with her. He now marveled at her radical change in goals. She homeschooled their children, sometimes giving oral instruction while grinding her own wheat to bake fresh bread. She made sure that her milk and eggs came straight from a small farm that pasture-fed their animals. She liked that this supported the humane treatment of animals and provided food untouched by corporate shortcuts. He found her to be just as driven as she ever was and still so very different.
“Some folks were going on about your sermon this morning,” Amy Lynn said, grabbing another handful of popcorn.
“Good stuff?”
“You didn’t tell me how the visits went. Someone new to town?” she asked.
“We never actually made it to that visit. Our first call was like a hundred miles away. It took too long to get there and back.”
He pressed the mute on the remote, staring off at a place across the room.
“Oh. Was that the man with the hurt foot? I really should take him a meal.”
“Of course you should.” He laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. He is fine, I guess. Well, not really. I think his foot is healing though, and that’s good.”
“Good. You ever notice that all you ever see on that channel of yours is something about Hitler or the Nazis? I will never understand your fascination with that stuff. Good night, honey.”
Amy Lynn stopped and turned back to Jake.
“Please don’t stay up too late. I need your help while I run to the library in the morning.”
“Yeah. I learned something out there today, something about grace. God loves his puppies.”
Amy Lynn looked at him curiously. Jake saw she was about to ask him what he meant but then thought better of it. Jake didn’t think he could bait her into deeper waters of theology but thought it worth trying.
“That’s nice. Can you tell me more about that tomorrow?” she quietly demanded.
“We’ll see, depending on how this war turns out,” he replied. Jake smiled and turned back to the TV.
Before shutting her door, she trailed off with, “We win.”
“Not fair!”
Chapter Three
Councilman Ted Levin was speeding down Hays-Barton Road well past midnight. He was on his way to meet Rusty Watson at the south border of the Montgomery place and knew better than to be too late. Ted could never think on Rusty without playing over in his imagination what had happened to the man. He thought back to that day some months before, a regular day, when Rusty was grilling chicken in his backyard. It was the last time Ted was at Rusty’s home. Rusty was known as a community man then, a civic man. He had a life that could be envied by the less adventurous. His acclaim as a Desert Storm veteran and fairly good football player at Oklahoma State made him a kind of hometown hero. He was once very gregarious, even affable. But he watched how his friend had his own idol to worship. Everyone knew that Rusty counted all his acclaim as nothing compared to anything done by his three-year-old, three-foot-tall little man. The boy was everything to him. While Rusty grilled in his backyard on that one Saturday afternoon, his everything left him. Rusty had just told the boy not to play near the pool before going inside to get buns and more sauce. His son could not yet swim, and he just didn’t make it no matter how much his father prayed, no matter how much his mother screamed and wailed, no matter that sirens sounded, no matter the presence of diligent people with uniforms whose job it was to bring him back. His boy’s passing didn’t just leave a hole in the heart of the great man; it turned it hard and charcoal black. Ted was certain that Rusty was on a mission. And his mission was revenge on the unseen. Rusty knew who gave this life and was even grateful. Ted suspected his friend felt responsible for the boy, for what happened. But his days now were spent groping blindly through everything in front of him to get at this thing that stole his son from him, ripped him away. And because he was Rusty Watson, Ted knew he was intent on having his day.
Ted pulled his cherry red Miata convertible off to the side of the road. As he walked across the gully, he saw Rusty’s tall, square frame silhouetted between barbed-wire fence posts and the moonlit field. The air was hot but still and silent.
“Rusty, it’s very late.”
Rusty didn’t look back to him. “A lot riding on this, Ted.”
“When do you sleep, exactly? I’ll tell you straight. I don’t think this thing with the ITC is going to happen,” Ted said, noticing that Rusty still had not turned to look at him. He could have just phoned the bitter mess of a man.
“I don’t СКАЧАТЬ