Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

Johnny uncapped a fresh bottle and gave it to Joe.

“Don’t pay them, any mind,” Johnny said. “They been that way all their lives,”

“What are they,” Joe said. “Kin?”

“Brothers.”

Joe passed the bottle back to Johnny, who capped it. Sunlight flared off the truck’s chrome bumper. Joe squinted. He felt great. The river glowed, in the western light.

“Johnny,” he said, “You’re lucky to have these boys for friends.”

Johnny ducked his head and stared at the dirt.

“Give me that damn bottle,” Z-man said, “before he gets blubbery and starts kissing.”

Johnny tossed him the half-pint. After finishing it, they went downslope. Joe walked carefully so no one would know he was a little drunk.

“Hey,” he said to Johnny. “Maybe we can take Botree and the kids to town, one day.”

“Botree doesn’t go to town, Joe.”

“Why not?”

“Said she got enough of it down in Texas.”

“Enough of town? I don’t get it.”

“There’s people in Missoula she don’t want to ran into.”

“Who?”

“Hell, I don’t know. She was pretty wild for a while.”

“What do you mean, wild?”

“You know what I mean,” Johnny said. “The kind of wild a woman can get.”

Joe circled the group to Botree standing near the river. The mountains were violet in the afternoon sun. Botree sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling.

“Your breath would crack a mirror,” she said. “You found Johnny’s bottle, didn’t you?”

“Well,” Joe said. “I got a little primed.”

“For what?”

“Ever what comes down the pike.”

“We better get you some food before you chase the wrong calico.”

“Not me. I’m in good shape right where I’m at.”

Botree smiled, her eyes soft. Joe brushed her lips with his. A golden light suffused the air. The smell of barbecued chicken blended with wildflowers.

“We used to meet like this every weekend,” Botree said. “We’d talk in the day and sing at night.”

“You sound like you miss it.”

“I do.”

“But not now.”

“Things changed,” Botree said. “There used to be more of us. We met for holidays, birthdays, people’s anniversaries. We played softball and went swimming. But when Frank stopped organizing it, everybody just quit. Yes, I miss it. We all do. I wish it could be like before.”

“I know that feeling,” Joe said.

“Sometimes I get afraid of what we’re turning into.”

“What do you mean?”

“We used to be really part of each other. Now, I don’t know. I don’t see anybody but other people in the Bills. We always talk about the same things.”

“What’s that?”

“How bad things are.”

“Well, things are pretty bad, aren’t they?”

“We used to talk about how we were going to make things better. For the country and for ourselves. I don’t hear that anymore.”

“You can always leave.”

“I did, Joe. I went down to Texas and it was like another world. I didn’t fit in. This is what I came back to.”

“It sure is pretty country.”

“We don’t see it the same as an outsider,” Botree said. “Everything you think is pretty is a piece of bad history to us. The beautiful cut-bank is where a cowboy went over and broke his leg. That stand of cottonwood is where we found a whole string of cows dead from lightning. Ranchers spend more time looking at the sky than the land, worrying about weather,”

“You ain’t a rancher,”

“No, but we used to be. Coop leases range land. He had to sell off a piece to pay the bank a few years ago.”

“That’s tough.”

“It about broke him. You wouldn’t believe what this land is worth, Joe. He gets calls every month. There’s one guy in California wants to move here and raise llamas.”

“For what, the far?”

“Who knows? We’re all that’s left of a ranch family, and Owen’s give out on the work. It’s all Johnny can do to mend fence. We’d have to sell land to buy cattle, then rent our own grazing back.”

“That’s no good.”

“Not much to raise my boys into.”

The sound of ringing metal carried across the meadow. An older man stood beside the table of food. He dangled a horseshoe on a string and beat it rapidly with another horseshoe. He stopped, and as the sound echoed along the valley, he shouted:

Beans in the pan

Coffee in the pot

Come on and get some

Eat it while its hot.

Across the meadow, people began moving toward the food. Two women headed for the trees to bring the children.

“Is beans the main dish?” Joe said.

“No,” Botree said, “that’s what he always hollers. He was a cowboy in the Depression. Him and Coop lived on son-of-a-bitch stew one winter, and beans the rest of the year. It was the hardest time of their lives, but to hear them tell it, the happiest.”

Joe thought of Morgan’s claim to have eaten owl during the Depression. His mother had never spoken of that time, which meant she preferred not to remember it. He knew people at home had lived on wild greens that grew in their yards.

They joined the line of people moving toward the food. Botree fixed plates for the boys and led them to a quilt with other children. Frank walked slowly to the tables, shaking hands and chatting on his way. He stopped opposite Joe, who was spooning salad onto a paper plate. Behind Frank and to his left stood a man wearing fatigues with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Joe recognized him as the man with the damaged ear.

“Hello, Joe,” Frank said. “Good to see you on your hind legs again.”

“Thanks,” Joe said. “How you been getting on?”

“Fine, just fine. The battle never stops, does it?”

“I guess not.”

“People are impressed by you, Joe. Nothing but good to say, nothing but good. When I first met you, I thought, here’s a man who knows his own way. Could have been better circumstances, huh?”

He focused his entire being on Joe, prepared to smile or become serious. Joe had seen a preacher act the same way toward a man whose soul he was bent on saving.

Joe smiled at Botree. “There’s harder ways to meet folks.”

“But you just can’t think of them right now,” Frank said.

He laughed, joined immediately by several others. The man with the rifle remained impassive, as if mirth was beneath him. Frank spread his arms in a gesture that included the meadow, the river, and all the people.

“Isn’t this grand,” he said. “The Fourth of July. It makes me feel like I’m not alone in this world to see so many good people together, bound to each other for a common good.”

“And what is that?” Joe said.

The crowd became very quiet.

“What?” Frank said.

“The common good,” Joe said. He could feel the whisky in him. “What exactly is it?”

“Why, Joe,” Frank said. His voice held the fluid tone of a man who was running for office. “We’re all here for the same reason — to protect freedom. You’re the first in a long line of patriots who are coming to join us.”

He swiveled his head to the crowd, spreading his arms to take in the entire meadow.

“All across the country, people are getting fed up with crime, drugs, and poor schools. They’re fed up with a court that lets murderers go. They’re fed up with a government that passes useless mandates. They know what America should be, and who it is for.

“I love Independence Day, Joe. Democracy is a wonderful invention. And like all good things, it’s got to be taken out and oiled once in a while. Eight now, our country is an old machine that’s showing wear, and our government is a lousy mechanic. It cannot simultaneously drive the car and keep the engine running. That’s why ‘We the people’ are the first three words of the Constitution. And we the people must band together to make sure it protects us. I love America. I want to keep this country what it was meant to be — free.”