C Box: Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

During a commercial for curing erectile dysfunction, I asked, “Garrett, is there anything you want to talk with me about?”

He looked at me sincerely, said, “Yes, there is.”

I nodded, urging him on.

“I’d like a cold drink. Another one of those Cokes would be just fine. I’d bet my friends could use a cold drink, too.”

“I’d like a beer, man,” Luis said, grinning, showing gold teeth.

“Me too,” Stevie said with a slight-and false-Mexican accent intonation.

I shook my head. Unbelievable.

“Maybe some snacks,” Garrett said. “Chips and dip? Nachos? Don’t you have snacks during a game?”

“We always have snacks,” Luis said. “We like snacks during a game.” Mocking me.

I cursed under my breath and went out to get soft drinks. No beer for Luis or Stevie, though, and no damned snacks. Back in the living room, I could hear them chuckling. I had to close my eyes and take deep breaths to keep a handle on my anger.

DURING THE THIRD QUARTER, I asked Garrett if he’d thought about signing the papers.

“I haven’t thought about it,” Garrett said dismissively. “You need to talk to my father about that.”

I detected an intransigent smirk on Luis’s face when Garrett spoke.

“Does he always speak for you?”

“On this he does.”

“Why?”

He locked eyes with me, and I felt a chill that made the hair on my arms rise.

“We have an agreement,” he said.

Before I could ask what it was, Melissa came out of the kitchen to go upstairs to go to bed and Garrett’s eyes and attention went with her.

Harry, our old Labrador, padded in from the kitchen. Garrett recoiled and sat back in the couch.

“He’s harmless,” I said, smiling. “Harry loves everybody.”

“Can you please get him away?” Garrett asked me, his voice leaden.

“Sure,” I said, puzzled. I am always surprised when someone doesn’t like dogs. I put Harry out into the backyard. When I returned, the boys hadn’t moved, although Garrett had a lingering look of what I can only describe as disgust on his face.

“Somebody allergic?” I asked.

“No,” Garrett said in a way that signaled he no longer wanted to discuss the matter.

“He don’t like dogs,” Luis said. “Me, I got four. Fighting dogs, man. Nobody gives my dogs any shit.”

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” Garrett asked.

“It’s upstairs and to the left,” I said, wondering if his plan was to sneak a peek at Melissa in Angelina’s bedroom. But he was in and out quickly. As he came down the stairs, Luis said, “I’m next, man.”

With Luis upstairs, I turned to Garrett. I ignored Stevie. “What do you want from us?” I asked. “Why did you bring your friends here?” I knew I was gripping the arms of the chair too hard.

“What, you don’t like Mexicans?” Garrett asked innocently. “Does Luis make you nervous?”

“It’s not that.”

“Seemed like it to me. What do you think, Stevie?”

Stevie said, “Seemed like it to me, too.”

Garrett smiled to me, “You remind me of my stepmom. She doesn’t like Luis either.”

“Your stepmom?”

“Yeah. My real mother died. Kellie’s my stepmom.”

“She’s fine, too,” Stevie said.

“We both know you gotta be nice to me,” Garrett said, “or there’s no way I sign the papers. You gotta be real nice. I know it’s killing you, but hey.”

“What kind of game are you playing?” I asked.

“No game,” he said.

“Do you have any intention of signing?”

He shrugged. “I’m still thinking about it. It depends how nice you are to me and my friends. If you insult me or them, well, you won’t get what you want.”

I wanted to throw myself across the room and slam my fist into his mouth, but instead I gripped the arms of the chair tighter.

He looked up as Luis finally came down the stairs, his face oddly flushed.

“All through?” Garrett asked him.

“Yeah,” he said. Then, to me, “There’s something wrong with your toilet, man. You need to get that fixed.”

“There’s nothing wrong with…”

“We need to go,” Garrett said, smiling at me. “I’ve got school tomorrow, you know?” To his friend, he said, “Ready, Luis?”

“Catch you later,” Garrett said to me under his breath. They let themselves out. I heard the Hummer fire up. The three of them sat there for a few minutes in the dark with the motor running and a tricked-out muffler pounding out a deep beat. I shut the lights off inside to signal to them to leave and so I could watch them. I couldn’t see them well, but it appeared by the way their heads bobbed that they were talking and laughing, which enraged me. Finally, the car backed out of the driveway and slowly, slowly, went down the street.

As their car rumbled away, Melissa cried out from upstairs, “Jack!”

Stained brown water pulsed out of the toilet bowl, flooding the carpet. The smell was horrific. A floating mass of feces bobbed in the water, breaking apart, pieces of it cascading over the rim.

“I’ll call a plumber,” I said.

“Call Cody,” Melissa said, gagging. “Call Brian, too.”

I GREW UP ON a series of ranches in Montana. I remember each one clearly. What I mean is I remember the layout of each place, where the buildings were, the corrals, the hiding places. The ranches were near Ekalaka in eastern Montana, Billings, Great Falls, Townsend, Helena. My father was a ranch foreman, and he moved us around with his jobs. I wish I could say he moved up, but he didn’t. Some ranches were better than others, but all seemed to have owners my dad couldn’t get along with. He had his own ideas about cows, horses, and range management, and if the owner didn’t completely agree with everything he wanted to do, my father would tell my mother that he and the owner “didn’t see eye to eye” and my mother would sigh and they’d start asking around until he found another job. Once the new job was in the bag, he would angrily quit the old one, pack all of our possessions in the pickup and stock trailer, and we’d go off to the next ranch. My only constant was my parents, and as I grew older I became ashamed of them.

I’ve since reconsidered in part, and I feel guilty for being ashamed. They were simple people from another era and mind-set. They were the Joads. They worked hard and didn’t even look up as the world passed them by. They rarely read books, and their conversation was about land, food, and weather. My dad didn’t buy a color television set until he no longer had a choice. But in many ways they gave me gifts I just didn’t recognize or appreciate at the time. They gave me perspective. I am the only person I know who grew up outside. I know hard work and suffering because that’s what my family specialized in. When my coworkers complain about long hours or the amount of paper on their desks, I contrast it with calving time during a spring blizzard where if you don’t get the newborn to the barn within minutes, it will freeze to death in midbawl.

I simply wasn’t hardwired for ranch work. I fixed fence, branded, docked, vaccinated, fed hay out of wagons and pickups to starving cattle in the winter. But it just didn’t take. I was never surly or disrespectful toward my dad and his occupation, just disinterested. He gave up on me early on as a future ranch foreman or competent hand. My mother withheld affection except for unexpected and oddly inappropriate moments. I remember once when I was walking down the dirt road to the school bus stop, and I realized she was running after me. I stopped and ducked, covering my head with my arms, expecting a beating and wondering what I’d done wrong. Instead, she smothered me in her arms, kissed the top of my head, said with tears in her eyes, Oh, you’re my world, you’re my everything my wonderful, wonderful boy. She was still kissing and hugging me when the bus pulled up filled with hooting rural kids hanging out of the windows. When I got home that night I asked her what had come over her, and she went pale and looked back at me with wide-eyed horror for bringing it up in front of my father. Only now do I understand the depth of parental love she revealed to me. I feel it myself when I look at Angelina and know that no matter what happens, I’ll love her.