Sweet Return (8 page)

“I don’t believe that,” Lanita said. “Mason Jergens is uglier than a frog and he was back then, too. Dalton didn’t look anything like him.”

“Lane
is
Earl’s kid,” Mom went on as if Lanita hadn’t spoken, “but Earl was mean to him, too. I ’member onc’t when Earl went to the high school drunker’n a dog and dragged Lane out of a classroom, kickin’ him and beatin’ on him all the way to his truck. The principal called the sheriff, but nothin’ ever come of it. Earl wasn’t afraid o’ no sheriff.”

“Dalton had a chance at football scholarships,” Lanita said, “but when the scouts tried to talk to his mama and daddy, they practically slammed the door in their faces.”

Of all the tales Joanna routinely heard, she hadn’t heard this one. “So Dalton did what?”

“Why, he joined the army. Well, it was the marines, really. I guess there’s a difference. He left the day after graduation. I suppose nobody knows much of what’s gone on with him since.” Lanita shook her head. “It’s a shame. Earl and Clova ought to be ashamed.”

“Let’s change the subject,” Joanna said.

Lanita and their mother went on to yakking and bickering over other topics. As the afternoon waned, Lanita declared she had to get back to Lubbock and cook supper, putting heavy emphasis on the word “cook.” To Joanna’s amusement, if their mother noticed the dig, she didn’t acknowledge it.

After Lanita left, Joanna, too, said her good-byes and started back to the Parker ranch for the evening’s egg gathering, her thoughts heavy with the notion of her friend Clova Cherry abusing her children.

Chapter 5

At the Parker ranch, Joanna met Clova just as she was sliding out of her dusty pickup in front of the garage. Joanna parked her own pickup behind Clova’s and climbed out, eager to hear a report on Lane’s condition. “Hi. How’s everything in Lubbock?”

Clova shook her head. “It don’t look good, hon. Lane’s in real bad shape. They still got him in that ICU place. I don’t know what to think o’ that leg. They got it screwed together with nuts and bolts. I just wonder if he’s gonna end up crippled.” She closed her pickup door quietly, a woman resigned to accept what fate had handed her.

“Don’t believe the worst. It takes a few days before they can tell what’s what.”

Clova looked off in a distant stare. “If he lives through this, I ’magine they’re gonna charge him with drunk drivin’.”

Joanna couldn’t guess what memories that possibility aroused, given the talk in Hatlow about Clova’s deceased husband. “Really?”

Clova nodded. “This ain’t his first time, you know. I got to get him a lawyer. Can’t afford to have him in jail. If it was our sheriff that was handlin’ it, I wouldn’t be so worried, but it’s the DPS. Them state cops ain’t gonna look the other way.”

“I know,” Joanna said, trying to appear sympathetic. But in truth, in her opinion, if Lane really had been drunk enough to hit a power pole and roll his pickup into the ditch, he had no business behind the wheel. Only blind luck had kept him from colliding with another vehicle. “Look, are you up to walking with me to gather the eggs?”

“I’ll walk a little piece with you.”

Joanna ambled toward the egg-washing room with Clova close behind, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her jeans.

“Up to the hospital,” Clova said, “I had to meet with a woman in the bookkeepin’ department. When I told her Lane didn’t have no insurance, she got testy with me about payin’ the bill, and I said, ‘What’re you gonna do, kick him out on the sidewalk?’” Clova gave a humorless chuckle. “You’d think bill collectors would take Sunday off.”

“How did you resolve it?” Joanna asked, knowing the last thing the Lazy P could afford was an expensive hospital bill.

“I told her I’d pay ’em when we sell the yearlin’s.”

Joanna’s brow arched and she blinked. Depending on how much Lane’s bill was, that could leave Clova without funds to get through the winter.

The older woman went into a coughing spasm but soon regained her voice. “Hon, I ain’t got nothin’ cooked today.”

Joanna smiled at her. “I didn’t come to eat, Clova. I came to gather the eggs, do my chores and see how things are. If there’s Sunday dinner when I come out, it’s a bonus.”

“They told me they’d take my credit card.” Clova laughed. This time, she did find something genuinely humorous in the statement. “Can you believe that?”

Sometimes talking to Clova wrenched at Joanna’s heart. The woman wasn’t so old in years, but she was a throwback to another time. In Clova’s world, if you needed to borrow money, you went to the local bank and did business with someone you knew and who knew you. You didn’t charge a debt owed on an account with an obscure financier, the whereabouts of which you didn’t know. Joanna found a laugh, too, though the circumstances weren’t funny. “We live in a credit card world,” she said, opening the door to her egg-washing room.

Clova remained outside. With the space used by the three-tub stainless-steel sink, the egg-washing equipment, the large commercial refrigerator and the utility shelving, the area left was barely large enough for two people.

“Well, I ain’t got a credit card,” Clova said defiantly. “And I ain’t never had one. And I don’t want one. Lane used to have some. The bastards charged him twenty-five percent interest. Lord God. I liked to never got ’em all paid for. Now he don’t have none. And I say that’s just fine. Whoever heard of a bank chargin’ poor people twenty-five percent interest?”

Joanna zipped up the coveralls she had lifted from the tiny closet beside the refrigerator. “I know it’s an outrageous fee, but no one forced Lane to run up his credit card bills, Clova. He did that on his own. Why would you pay his debts like that?”

“’Cause I pay all the bills that come to this ranch. Lane lives here, and he’s part o’ the operation. He don’t get much in the way o’ wages. Besides that, I’ve always felt a little bit sorry for him ’cause he ain’t got no judgment about him. He ain’t like Dalton always was. Dalton knew the right thing even when he was a boy.”

Pulling on a pair of clean cotton gloves, Joanna stepped outside. “Ready?”

Side by side, they sauntered toward the chicken yard, with Clova continuing to talk. “Lane’s more like his daddy. He gets to drinkin’ and thinkin’ he’s a big shot, and the next thing you know, he’s spent money he ain’t got. When I found out about them cards, I cut ’em up. If I hadn’t o’ stopped him, he could o’ got the ranch in trouble. His credit’s so bad now, he couldn’t get a card if he wanted to. It’s a relief.”

Hearing of Clova’s proactive approach to Lane’s irresponsible spending was a surprise. Joanna had rarely seen her oppose her youngest son. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “When I get these eggs gathered up and washed, why don’t we go to town and eat at Sylvia’s? I’ll buy you supper.”

Clova chuckled, bringing deep creases to the corners of her eyes. “Hon, you don’t have to buy me supper. I ain’t that broke yet.”

Joanna smiled. “I know. But look at all the times I’ve eaten Sunday dinner out here. If I tried to pay you back by cooking you a meal, you might not survive it. But I can buy you a steak.”

“I guess we could do that. I still got on my good clothes and all.”

They walked across the gravel driveway to the chicken yard. At the gate, they stepped over the two electric fence wires that surrounded the chicken yard and headed toward the first nest. Clova had let Joanna stretch the electrified wires around the area where the chickens lived. The wire didn’t carry a strong current, but it was strong enough to keep the chickens in and most small, four-legged predators out. Touching it would give a human an unforgettable zap. Unfortunately, the damn bobcats had figured how to avoid the charged fence, and electric wires near the ground did nothing to prevent an eagle or a hawk from having dinner on Joanna.

“I’ve been thinkin’, Joanna,” Clova said. She began to help pick eggs from the nests. “You know this part here where you’ve got your chickens? It’s part of a section o’ land we’ve always called the peanut farm.”

Joanna did know that. Peanuts had never grown here in her lifetime, but sometime in the past, they must have. It was a square section of land, with a mile of highway frontage and very few mesquite trees. The small pasture where her hens presently lived used a tiny corner of it. “Uh-huh.”

“I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout going in to town to see Clyde and havin’ him draw up a deed to that section. I was thinkin’ ’bout just givin’ it to you, Joanna.”

Joanna’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t stop a nervous twitter. “You can’t do that, Clova. You need the grazing. And your boys would die. It’s their inheritance. And I wouldn’t take it, anyway. It’s one of the best spots on your place. Why, it’s got a windmill on it.”

Clova stopped, put her hand on Joanna’s forearm and looked up, her dark eyes soft with sincerity. “I’m serious. This last sick spell I had started me to thinkin’. I’m gettin’ old. I could catch somethin’ and pass away.”

Her mind reeling, Joanna picked three eggs from a nest and frowned at seeing that one was cracked. “Clova, listen to me. In the first place, you’re not old. And in the second, I won’t take land from you for free. It’s more than enough you’re letting me use it without paying. Why would you want to give it to me when you have two sons to leave it to?”

“Them boys ain’t never done for me what you have. Dalton don’t even come around ’cept ever’ two or three years. And I can’t depend on Lane for nothin’. He’s got his daddy’s weakness. Whatever he inherits, he’s gonna drink up. I don’t know what’ll happen to the place after I’m gone, but my grandpa and my daddy would stand at the Pearly Gates and shut me out if they saw I didn’t do my best to take care of the land and keep this place all together. My great-granddaddy had a hard time gettin’ to own it, bein’ Indian and all. And he had a even harder time a-keepin’ it. It meant ever’thin’ to him.”

She looked across her shoulder at Joanna and smiled, the light of affection in her eyes. “But I don’t guess the elders would get upset at me givin’ a little piece of it to somebody that’s been good to me.”

A fullness rising in her chest, Joanna focused her gaze on her egg basket. She might break into tears if she kept looking Clova in the face. “I haven’t been especially good to you, Clova. I haven’t done any more for you than I would have for anyone I call a friend.”

Indeed, it wasn’t in Joanna to expect a gift in return for favors done for a friend, but a selfish part of her dared to acknowledge that six hundred forty acres would be enough land for expanding her egg business and even keeping a cow or two. “Tell you what. Maybe you could figure out what it’s worth and I could buy it. Or I could buy just a few acres from you. I don’t need all six hundred and forty acres. You could let me pay it out over time.”

“That ain’t what I wanna do. I feel like it’s my fault you got all these worthless chickens and the struggle to sell these damn eggs. If I hadn’t o’ talked you into it, you wouldn’t be doin’ it. I feel bad that now you got that mortgage on your house and all. If somethin’ happened to me, I know them boys wouldn’t let you keep these chickens or these donkeys here. They’d prob’ly run you clear off.”

“Look, Clova. I’m not your responsibility, okay? I made a conscious decision to take out the mortgage on the house, and I was stone-cold sober when I did it. Let’s both think about it some more.”

“I’m done thinkin’. I thought all the way home from Lubbock. Practic’ly gave m’self a headache. This last little trick of Lane’s has did it for me.”

“Clova, listen. Before you do anything hasty, I want you to know I called Dalton. He wasn’t at home, but I left a message on his voice mail. I asked him to come for a visit. He hasn’t called back yet, but I’m hoping he will. If he decides to come home for a few days to help out, maybe we can talk to him about it. Sort of see how he’d feel about your giving away land he expects to inherit.”

“Inheritin’ ain’t a automatic right, Joanna. Just ’cause him and Lane are next in line don’t mean they get it. Both of ’em need to show respect for it and do somethin’ to earn it. Like I did.”

Joanna’s heart would hardly hold the emotion that swelled. Her dad had never earned much; he had driven a bread delivery truck for a Lubbock bakery until the day he became too ill to continue. He had left Mom a home and a small amount of insurance money, but she still held a job to make ends meet. Love and affection were all he’d had to leave his daughters. Everything Joanna owned she had earned from hard work. No one had ever given her so fine a gift as acres of land.

“I still think we should both think about it some more,” she told Clova.

Together they completed the egg-washing and storing process, then Joanna drove them into Hatlow to Sylvia’s Café. Sylvia herself was cooking, so they feasted on her special recipe of pot roast with fresh carrots, potatoes and onions and her homemade sourdough bread. Years back, Sylvia’s husband had worked as a chuckwagon cook at a legendary West Texas ranch, and he had brought his recipes to Sylvia’s Café. He had passed on, but his wife continued to cook in his style.

They avoided discussing why Clova showed no enthusiasm for the possibility of her oldest son returning for a visit after so long. They didn’t discuss where he had been or why. Nor did they speculate on the consequences if Lane came out of his latest escapade crippled. Though Joanna was still burdened by the comments about Clova and Dalton from the day’s earlier conversation with her own mother and sister, tonight, with Clova, she talked about the food and music. They laughed about TV programs as if neither of them had a thing to worry about.

Later, Joanna lay in her bed in the darkness watching the turn of the ceiling fan’s dimly visible blades. Joanna Faye Walsh, landowner. She could hardly believe it.
Wow
, was all she could think.

Owning land opened doors to all kinds of opportunities. Why, she could sell her house. Then she could buy a mobile home and put it on the land and maybe have a free-and-clear roof over her head again. That way, she could be near the hens and wouldn’t have to make two trips a day to take care of them. She could even think about going into the broiler business. Didn’t someone tell her just last week that a meal of free-range chicken sold for forty dollars in the fancy restaurants in Dallas?