Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

“We going somewhere?”

“Not far.”

“Do I need anything?”

Owen shook his head and left. Joe maneuvered himself into a pair of jeans and hobbled out of the room. Owen led him to an old pickup that Botree called the ranch rig. It bore no license plate, and the dashboard was covered with paper and tools. The cab needed hosing out as much as the bed.

Owen drove the dirt road past the old bunkhouse to a barn. The scent of sage drifted along the fence. Several vehicles that Joe did not recognize were parked on the barren earth. Owen left the truck and motioned Joe inside the bam. Two pairs of ancient chaps hung on the wall, one as stiff-legged as tin pipes, the other a rotted set of woolies. He was enjoying the smell of hay and manure until he saw a man with a military rifle in the shadows.

Owen led him into an old tack room that still smelled of leather. Several men were inside, including Coop and Frank. The men were dark from sun and carried pistols on their hips. Their faces were serious, their eyes hard. Several wore Bills hats.

Frank gave a curt nod and gestured to a stool. Joe sat, his leg stretched in front of him. He propped the cane across his lap like a rifle.

“How’s your wheel?” Frank said.

“My what?”

“Your leg.”

“Coming along,” Joe said. “Stiff in the morning.”

Coop spat through a gap in the boards. “I used to wake up that way in my younger days,” he said.

The men ducked their heads and a couple chuckled. Light glowed from a dusty window with tape that covered cracks in the glass.

“Boys,” Frank said. “This is Joe Tiller in the flesh. He had the bad luck to lean against a bullet going past.” He spoke now to Joe. “These gentlemen have some concerns, and we’re hoping you might clear the air.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Joe said. “But I don’t know what it is you want.”

“What were you doing on that mountain?”

“Burying a possum.”

“Why?”

“It Just came on me to do it.”

“Why there?”

“No reason,” Joe said. “Highest point that was close to my cabin mainly.”

A man wearing military trousers spoke.

“It’s not that close,” he said. “You had to travel a ways.”

“It was easier to get up in the mountains there than right beside the cabin. Plus there was a road.”

The man lifted his hat to rub his head. A white scar ran across his scalp and ended at his ear, the top half of which was missing. Joe wondered why he didn’t grow his hair long to cover it. The man’s voice was low and slow.

“You ever in the service?”

“No,” Joe said. “Were you?”

The man’s face hardened like wet clay in the sun. Instead of answering, he looked at Owen, who spoke.

“It’s what you wrote on the shovel blade is why he wants to know.”

“I don’t get it,” Joe said.

“V.C.,” Owen said. “That’s short for Viet Cong.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Joe said.

“Then what was it?”

There was a rustling overhead and Joe watched a swallow leave a mud nest built against a rafter. Joe spoke calmly, without rancor or challenge.

“I can’t tell you,” he said.

“Why not?” Owen said.

“It don’t have a thing to do with anybody here.”

“Then tell us.”

“Sorry.” Joe shook his head. “It’s personal.”

“We have to get personal,” Frank said.

“What are you going to do?” Joe said. “Shoot me if I don’t talk?”

He tried a quick grin that faded when none of the men showed any response. He could have been talking to the land itself. The faint scent of straw and oats threaded the air. Owen’s voice was gentle, as if speaking to family.

“Where you from?”

“West Virginia,” Joe said.

“Why’d you come this way?”

“Just took a notion.”

“You on the dodge from the law?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“We need to know who you are. You just sort of leaked out of the landscape on us.”

“I’m Joe Tiller,” he said. “What else is there to know?”

Frank looked at each man in the barn before returning to Joe. His face held a sad expression, nearly apologetic, but his voice was firm. He reminded Joe of Rundell reluctantly preparing the crew to work.

“There’s eighteen people named Joe Tiller in the United States,” Frank said.

He unfolded a piece of paper and glanced at it.

“Two are women. Four are black. One’s a priest, two are in prison, and one’s a state representative. Two are in old folks’ homes. Three are dead. That leaves three more unaccounted for.”

Joe tried to keep the fear from spreading across his face. His fingers hurt from squeezing the cane.

“One of those three is you,” Frank said. His voice softened. “The problem is, you don’t seem to exist.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Joe said, “I’m as real as any of you boys here.”

“You don’t have any credit cards,” Frank said.

“I’m a cash man.”

“You’ve never been married.”

“Came awful close once,”

Joe had the feeling that he was being judged, but he didn’t know how. He couldn’t defend himself until he learned in what manner he’d offended these men.

“You’ve never had health or life insurance,” Frank continued. “You never served in any branch of the military. You never held a government job. You don’t vote. You don’t have a passport. You don’t have any kids. You never owned a hunting license, a fishing license, or a boat license. You’re not a pilot, doctor, or lawyer. You never got a driving ticket or had a wreck. You’ve never been arrested. You didn’t go to college. You never won big on the lottery.”

His voice was low and steady in the tiny room, a continuous pressure. The rest of the men were staring at Joe.

“You don’t own land,” Frank said. “Or a house or a business. You don’t have a bank account. You never borrowed any money. No state has ever held money in escrow for you. You never filed for bankruptcy. You don’t own any stocks. You’ve never been sued and you never received a summons. You’ve never been to court, jail, or prison. You don’t belong to a union. You haven’t received food stamps, welfare, or workers’ comp. You never inherited any money or land. You never even had a phone.”

Frank stopped talking. No one spoke for a long time, Joe was scared to hear what else they knew, but needed to know.

“Is that it?” he said.

Frank regarded him for a moment.

“You don’t pay federal taxes,” he said.

Another man spoke. He was short and stubby with a gut that tipped his oval belt buckle to aim at his boots.

“Don’t get us wrong. We respect these things.”

A few of the men nodded.

“It’s the way the country was meant to be,” said a man, “according to the Bill of Rights.”

“There’s two reasons for you not to have any trail,” Frank said. “You’re a government spy or you’re a fugitive.”

Joe waited, To deny either was to acknowledge the other, and he couldn’t think of a third option.

“Nothing makes you look spooky,” Owen said. “The question is who you are and what you’re running from.”

“Way I see it,” Joe said, “the real question is who you think you are.”

“This isn’t the best time to go on the prod,” the short man said.

“I’m lamed up from a bullet and you threaten me,” Joe said. “You got me outnumbered in a barn. You got a piece of paper telling who I ain’t and what I never done. That don’t mean nothing. If some-body’ll give me a lift, I’ll head right back to Rock Creek.”

“We can’t do that,” the short man said.

“Why the hell not?”