Percival Everett - Damned If I Do

The water where I stood watching flowed around a couple of boulders and then flattened over a bed of rocks. The pool below held a couple of browns that were at least sixteen inches long. I’d watched them for two years now, getting bigger and fatter and growing accustomed to my presence. They would rise to a hatch if I was standing four feet up the bank.

Deputy Jack drove us over to the Chama early. The morning was brisk, but not cold. The water was high and a little muddy and we weren’t sure any fish would find us, but we went at it anyway.

The deputy was in the middle of the river trying to dislodge a fly from a submerged tree, his buddy had wandered downstream, and I was standing at the end of a riffle, bouncing a foam beetle along the bottom.

“That guy find you?” Deputy Jack asked, coming toward me on the bank.

“What guy?”

“That movie fella.”

“So, you’re the one who told him where I live.”

“He asked.”

“Do me a favor and don’t tell anybody else.” I roll-casted to the middle of the riffle and stripped in line. The deputy had his fly and slipped walking back to the bank. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yeah, just a little wetter than I’d planned on getting.”

“I’ve got half a mind to try a parachute dragonfly at the top of that riffle.” I looked hard at the sunlight bouncing off the broken water. “But then it is just half a mind.”

“So, if you hate it so much, why do you write it?” the deputy asked.

“That’s an abrupt change of subject.”

“It’s a trick we cops use. Hardly ever works.”

“I write it because I can and I make enough money so that I can live way the hell out here and be happy.” I looked at the mountains in the distance. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

We were quiet for a while, neither of us fishing. The deputy unwrapped a breakfast bar, offered me one. I declined.

“You gonna sell your truck?” The deputy was closer to me, prowling through his fly box. “Lotta money.”

“You had a long talk with this guy, did you?”

“Naw. The Chicken Lady told me about the truck and how much the guy’s willing to pay. That really shook him up.”

“Yeah?” I reeled in my line to check my fly.

“The Chicken Lady doesn’t understand how there can be that much money in one person’s pocket.” Deputy Jack looked up at a circling hawk.

“Yeah, well, I told the guy to take a hike.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe.”

“You can pass up that kind of money?” Deputy Jack asked. “Maybe you are growing pot up there.”

“I didn’t like that guy. I don’t want to do business with people I don’t like anymore.” Which was a lie, because I pretty much hated my publisher, my editor, and my agent.

“You could take my old pickup. Nobody’s using it.” He folded a stick of gum into his mouth. “It’s one of them newfangled jobs. Starts with a key.”

“Funny man.”

“Just a thought,” he said.

“Thanks anyway.”

We drove home another way, the scenic way Deputy Jack called it. Scenic meant longer and the drive took us into an old town I had always loved, Enrico, through which flowed Enrico Creek. Perhaps sixty people lived in Enrico. The walls of the old buildings were the sides of the road that passed through it. When we reached the other end of the town, I saw an excavated site, a chain-link fence, and a sign announcing the arrival of a Wal-Mart. My heart sank. “What the hell is that?”

The deputy’s friend, whose name I couldn’t remember, but whose job was repairing firearms, shook his head. “They’re blasting open a malachite mine up mountain. Jobs. People. Wal-Mart.”

“McDonald’s, motels, more people,” I said.

No one was working at the construction site, but I caught myself staring at a big yellow grader as if it were a responsible party. I reached down beside me and picked up one of my wading boots. I held it to my nose and inhaled the sour smell of the river water that had soaked the felt sole.

“I’m glad you called,” Leighten Dobbs said as he closed his car door. “To tell you the truth I was a little surprised.”

I was leading my mare and the fat gelding from the barn to a pasture. I was going to worm them and turn them out. “Here, you can help me,” I said.

“How? What?” He looked nervously at the horses.

“Just hold this rope.” I gave him control of the mare. He held the rope away from his body as if it were wet. I pulled the tube of worming medicine from my back pocket, grabbed the gelding’s nose, and pressed it into his mouth.

“I take it you’ve changed your mind,” Dobbs said.

“About your using my place, yes.” I took the mare and had him hold the gelding’s lead rope.

“And your truck?”

“You’ll have to take that up with the owner. It now belongs to the man you tried to buy it from the first time.”

“But it’s right there.”

“Talk to him tomorrow. The truck will be in front of the store. I promise he’ll sell with no problem.” I put the paste into the mare’s mouth and watched her try to spit it out. I put the empty tube in my pocket. “She hates this stuff,” I said. “But we’re done. Thanks.” I took the gelding.

Dobbs was a bit puzzled, but he nodded. “What did we decide on for the use of your place? A hundred thousand?” He followed me to the pasture.

“Three-fifty.” I opened the gate and led the horses in.

“Oh, yes.” He looked around again, at the house, the barn. “Yes, this is it, all right. This is the place I want. It’s done.”

“I’ll need a deposit.” I removed the first halter, then the second, and watched the horses trot off.

His smile was an odd one. “Why?”

“So, I’ll know you’re serious.” I closed the gate. “I might change my mind. You never know. You can bring an agreement here with the check tomorrow and I’ll sign it.”

“Okay,” he said.

“And the truck will be in town.”

Again, he said, “Okay.”

After watching Dobbs head down the mountain, I went inside and called a real estate agent, told him I wanted a list of all the pieces of property for sale in and around Enrico. Tomorrow, I would go to the county clerk’s office and find out who owned what. I would buy all I could, where I could, and get in the way of any development.

Early the following morning, I drove down the mountain to Taos and backed onto the Chicken Lady’s hill. He met me this time without the rooster under his arm.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” he said.

“Complaining?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on, show me the birds.” I followed him through the front gate and into a lath house. Chickens and ducks waddled across the floor, sat on perches, flapped from the rafters.

“Just the plain old birds in here,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong, they’re nice animals and I love them, but they’re common.” He led the way out of the shaded area and into the backyard. There was a hole in the middle, the digging of which had long been abandoned, the pick and shovel covered with dirt. “I was trying to put me a pond in here for the ducks, but I sprained my back. The ducks are going to love it. It’s going to be a sight better than those plastic pools I’ve been using.” He stooped to pick up a black chicken with feathered feet. “This here is a Cochin. She ain’t too special, but she’s a nice one.”

“How many birds do you have?” I asked.

“Don’t know.” He stopped at a coop with a wire top. “These are my fancy babies. There’s a pair of Silver Sussex. That one there is a white Croad Langshan. That breed was almost gone. There’s a black Croad. Indian Game. Silver Dorking. You know, I love chickens.”