Chapter Two An Unhappy Breakfast with Brad and Kate

Call stood on the sidewalk. A cold breeze blew off the desert, shredding filmy, gray clouds over the pink sky. The sun was not quite up and it was quiet. Even the wind blew silently lifting only the tips of leaves. Brad honked the horn. Call walked to the truck wondering where June had gone, and if she was planning the funeral.

Upon his own death, Call hoped his woman would mourn for months, maybe even the rest of her life. That she would swear off sex, booze, movies, novels, poetry, chocolate, and champagne at New Years — anything and everything that might bring her joy. By the time he climbed into the truck with Brad, he realized he wanted that self-denial and sacrifice from June while knowing that when she left him she had given up nothing

Brad asked, "What’s the hold up?" He always spoke in short bursts as if the actual words tasted bad and had to be spat from his mouth.

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

"How did you get the commissioners to trade in your Pontiac hardtop to this?" Call looked around at the new vehicle. "This is pretty nice."

"Damn. I need it."

"Really?"

Brad pulled the Tahoe onto Idaho Street, almost hitting a mongrel lab mating with a cocker spaniel. Locked in the tie, the dogs ran off yelping in pain.

"Damn dogs." Brad put on the brakes and unsnapped his gun holster.
Then with his hand on the door handle, he looked over at Call.

Call asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I’m going to shoot them."

Call laughed. Brad’s grandstanding anger, and the absurdity of his temper had long been a running joke between the men. Call said, "Good try."

"No joke. I’m sick of dogs, sick of them. We’ve had more trouble with strays this year. Some kid’s malamute killed eighteen chickens off State Hospital Road. No one wants to get them licensed or keep them fenced in. They don’t get the fact that they aren’t on the farm."

"Call it into animal control."

Brad said, "Had you going, didn’t I?" Then Brad laughed and they drove off. As they came to a stop sign, Brad said, "That Damn June!" Two things had the power to really worked up Brad, June and food prices, especially bread. Brad’s family had been wheat farmers until Carter’s grain embargo and high interest rates bankrupted them in the late seventies and forced Brad into law enforcement.

"What?"

"She killed him in cold blood, and she’ll walk away as if she has done nothing wrong. Like she did us all a service for putting him down."
In all the years he had known Brad, his wife Kate, and June, Calder had never understood Brad’s feelings for June. When asked to explain, all Brad could do was swear, shake his head, and swear again.

In appeasement and because he believed what he was about to say, Call answered. "Brad, I promise you if she did kill him, I’ll find out. We’ll get it taken care of."

Brad put the Tahoe back into gear and yielded on Fort Street and turned up Judicial where most of the houses had been converted to businesses.

A one story ranch was an A.G. Edward’s brokerage office, a two-story stucco home had been recast as a car insurance office, and a stately, but slightly rundown Tudor home now housed Slim’s Mexican cafe. On the corner of Main and Broadway, the Frontier Bar had stopped advertising topless dancers in favor of micro brews and pool. Call noticed the changes with dismay as if they were a personal affront.

The chatter of the dispatcher over the radio called one officer to a domestic dispute that arose when the wife declined to fry bear steaks for breakfast; another call was sent out to a fire that got out of control when an elderly man tried to burn the weeds off the banks of his irrigation ditch; then a call came in about someone who had drowned a pillow case full of kittens.

However, neither man talked until Brad stopped in front of his house on the only street in town that boasted two story homes built at the turn of the century. The white Victorian had new paint, a new roof, a yard full of flowers, and thick green grass.

Brad asked, "What do you think?"

"Looks like Kate’s been doing a lot of work."

"Never could complain on that count."

Brad pointed to the walkway under the grape arbor that separated the back from the front yard. Raised beds of herbs and early spring vegetables divided the lawn at the rear of the house. A young girl weeded the vegetable beds. When she turned to toward the men, the glance contained both innocence and knowledge.

She said, "Dad, what are you doing home?"

"I brought Call over for breakfast. Sarah, do you remember him?"

"Sure, why wouldn’t I? June talks about him all the time. When Call and I did this or when Call and I did that." She had the same odd lilt to her voice as her mother.

Call said, "I wouldn’t think that June would still be talking about me after all these years."

"Mostly it’s about when you were kids." Sarah returned to her work.

Brad said to him, "You should see her play basketball. She has the sweetest inside jumper. She’s on the varsity team with Jennifer."

They entered the back porch, where racks of cookies were cooling. The air was full of the smell of sugar and vanilla.

The door to the kitchen swung open and Kate came out carrying another rack of cookies. Call took the cookie sheets from her. Kate pointed to a table where to he should place them.

"Call, what are you doing here?"

"Brad asked me over for some breakfast."

"Well, he better make it himself. I don’t have time and he knows it."

Then Kate stopped and gave Call a hug and a kiss. The pale prettiness that had distinguished her as a young woman had faltered with the onslaught of middle age. During their embrace, he felt the slight heaviness of her body. Then in a curiously intimate moment their faces brushed.

They pulled away, and looked at each other.

She said, "I’m sorry Call. I just don’t have time to cook for the two of you today. Let’s set up a time for dinner." She returned to the kitchen and the men followed her.

Brad immediately sat and asked for a cup of coffee, which Kate brought. As she turned, Brad said, "Kate, you spend all day cooking for other people. You can take five minutes and make me and Call some food." Call still waited by the door.

Kate stood in the middle of the kitchen. She scrutinized her husband with loathing as Calder looked on. Unaware, Brad glanced at her and finally

Kate said, "Sure."

The men sat at the table and Kate stood at the stove making an omelet for each man. Call wished they had gone to a truck stop in town instead of putting her out.

Call asked when she placed a cup of coffee in front of him, "Kate, what are you doing anyway? Do you have a business of some kind?"

She smiled and said, "I do some catering and I have a cookie business."

She reached into a basket on the table and pulled out a cookie cutter in shape of a buffalo and a pamphlet. "Cowgirl Cookies, Inc. It’s been a pretty good business. June helped me get started. She thought I needed more to keep me busy, and the money has been good so far."

He handed back the pamphlet, but she shook her head. "Keep it. You never know when you’ll need a dozen cookies."

"So you like the work?" Call asked.

"It’s okay. Paid off most of the house and bought me that extra lot in the back for my garden. But don’t get me wrong, it’s hard work getting up at 4:00 every morning."

Brad said, "Well, don’t you have it rough?"

The phone rang. Kate picked it up and walked to the porch to talk in private while they finished their breakfast.

Home skills came easily to Kate and it was this absolute submission to her domestic role that Call found alluring, but forbidden. Kate had taken home education in high school and belonged to FHA, Future Homemakers of America. June had taken shop, learned how to fix tractors and belonged to FFA, Future Farmers of America. Yet, they had remained steadfast friends since first grade and neither saw the flaws of the other.

Kate came back into the kitchen and said, "That was June. Why didn’t you tell me her husband died?"

Brad said, "I thought maybe she had already discussed her plans to kill him."

"That is a terrible thing to say, Brad. You are such an ass."

Brad lifted himself off the seat of the chair and Kate took a step toward him. Then he relaxed and slouched down in the chair and asked, "Hey, baby can you get me more coffee?"

"Sure," Kate answered. After pouring the coffee, Kate sat. The three of them talked about what had been happening in town: who was getting divorced, who was getting remarried, who was pregnant, and whose parents had died.

Brad said, "Like I said, your ex-is married. Some guy she met at school and she’s expecting, again. She moved back East to do a fellowship or something like that."

Call laughed and said, "She always considered herself arty."

However, he found he didn’t care and didn’t ask for anymore information.

Kate added, "Jennifer stayed to finish her senior year. She is living with Stewart and Marlene."

He had nothing to say to that either and after a moment of silence they returned to generic gossip until Kate announced she really did have to get back to work.

Call said, "We shouldn’t have been holding you up and I have to get to the place. Need to see how my house has stood up."

Brad said, "From the road it looks okay. Damn, Call it was never much to begin with. Smallest damn house, I’ve ever seen."

"It serves it purposes."

"I suppose, but I’ve seen dog kennels bigger."

Call picked up his plate and utensils and took them to the sink where he said goodbye to Kate, who touched his arm once or twice too often during the leave taking.

Brad yelled for him to hurry from the porch. When Brad pushed open the backdoor, a cat ran outside. The cat leapt, and caught a butterfly with its front paw. Sarah had put on earphones and didn’t look up from her work when they walked past her. Call glanced over the measured tidiness of the yard and gardens, the brightness of the flowers in the morning light.
Brad drove him back to his truck. Neither man spoke during the trip. All that needed to be said had been. Before he shut the truck’s door, Brad cleared his throat.

"Well, Call I’m sorry about your folks, but I guess if that’s what it took to get you home, that’s what it took. I’ll be out later in the day to talk to you."

"I’ll be at the house."

Call sat in his truck, inserted the key, and listened. The motor rolled over with a hum he connected with the grace of God. Since he was ten, he understood that men who made money in the harvest bought new trucks from Heaven’s bounty. June’s father had made it big in feeder calves and potatoes and bought a new Chevy pickup every year and a gold-colored

Cadillac every other year.

Gerald, his father, had bought only one new car, a Buick Bonneville, the year Call turned fourteen. The night Gerald drove the Bonneville off the lot, four of their heifers came into heat and jumped the electric-fence after a wind storm knocked out a generator. An eighteen-wheeler hauling dead horses to the glue factory hit the cattle. The loss of the cattle made the car an unbearable luxury. That night Call sat in the car until three in the morning rubbing his hand over the velvet texture of the car seat. The blue Bonneville with the plush interior and an AM/FM radio had gone back to the dealer the next day.

Call’s love of new vehicles, which originated that night, remained unchanged even though the world that produced it was gone.

Absently he had turned on Riverton Road, forgetting it didn’t connect with the road he needed.

Unless it was an emergency he never turned around, because of that habit he had seen some fascinating sights. However, it didn’t endear him to those uninitiated to the whims of deserted roads. He drove on the outskirts of town.

To his left was a small triangle of a park with a few thick willows, a couple of poplars, one swing set, faded grass, and a crumbling monument of rock and plaster erected by the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers. General knowledge gained from his college courses blended with information gleamed from the markers to produce a serendipitous understanding of the region.

The monument commemorated the Central Ferry which had been established December 10, 1878 to provide mail service to the area, but the ferry station had also served rot gut whiskey.

The shrines that honored the sacrifices of early settlers had been the idea of the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers. His grandmother had belonged to the organization.

Members of the DUP had held bake sales to raise money to build the memorials throughout the area. Gold moons and silver shooting stars decorated the blue plaster obelisks that sat on river rock bases.

Many of the events the shrines honored were now discredited; the growth of the West was a source of shame for displacing native people. However, he believed the wrongheadedness of some men and women, who came west, didn’t matter as much as the desperation or faith or greed or boredom that drove them into a wilderness they could not cultivate into anything that resembled the cities, villages, farms, countries they came from. It was that ingrained admiration that he offered to the Daughters of the Utah Pioneers, knowing they based their stories on what their fathers and grandfathers had told them — not facts.

Next to the park was a church. The trim was freshly painted white. Shiny bronze lettering announced it was the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Already a few family vans were in the parking lot. Call checked the little calendar attached to the dashboard and noted it was the first Sunday of the month. It was testimony meeting. It was a day set aside for fasting and prayer and sanctified for the bearing of testimonies.
Any member of the ward, moved by the spirit, could go to the pulpit and bear testimony of the gospel as the one and only true church, or whatever else was on their mind. He had seen men go on about the government, women about signs and devils, and children repeat the set speech told to them by Sunday School teachers. All that was years ago. Call no longer worried about Mormon notions of sin, hardened in his belief that God viewed the world quite differently than what most people imagined.
A bright green Geo Tracker convertible honked and startled him as it passed. Music blared out of cheap speakers, the bass turned up. A young girl was behind the steering wheel and another girl sat in the passenger seat. Call glimpsed the wind lifting their hair in blond flickers before the driver jerked the car back into the lane and slowed. The passenger stood up, morning light danced through her shirt and hair. The girl swayed to the music in baggy shorts and a long baggy T-shirt. Not thinking, he tipped his hat, and waved. He was still waving when the girl pulled up her T-shirt and exposed her breasts. The driver reached up and pulled the passenger down with one arm.

The girls honked, one, two, three times, and waved. It almost seemed he could hear their laughter drifting along the ribbon of road. Then in a burst of speed the car and its passengers were gone. He looked down at his speed, thirty-five miles an hour.

He pressed the gas pedal, sped up to forty miles an hour, and looked out the window to where the Snake River ran parallel to the road. Along the river, willows grew and ospreys made nests. Close to the bank in deep pools, he knew trout swam lazily. Cottonwoods spread their thick branches, grass grew tall and green, and a lone Angus bull lay under a tree sleeping in the shade.

It was beautiful.

It had been more beautiful in his youth. Too many big homes now. The old weathered houses, barns, and corrals had been swept away to make room for nice new models of farmhouses.

However, the area was prone to decay. Mending and fixing was an art few inhabitants practiced. The west experienced booms and busts. So it went. He was old enough to have seen the cycles and he liked the bad times better. It was the land that mattered to him, not the people with their half-baked ideas on how to turn a fast buck. Finally, he hit Ferry Butte Road and turned west.

Ferry Butte rose in the desert like a burial mound covered with brittle sage, a landmark of the Oregon Trail, something for settlers to walk toward, a charm, and a reminder that Fort Hall and supplies were near. Men and women traveling to the Willamette Valley had gazed across the vastness of the blue-gray sage, and dropped beds, dining tables, china, anything and everything to make it across.

They followed the course of a boiling river that twisted its way through the desert without spreading more than a few yards of green on either side. Then the Snake dropped hundreds of feet below the desert floor to cut through black gorges of lava as it flowed toward the Columbia River. Yet here, coaxing next to Ferry Butte, the Snake River widened and rolled easy over the flat landscape and water seeped into the fertile bottom lands; it was peaceful, cool, and green. Sometimes, in August the river ran so low that it could be crossed, without getting wet, by stepping on smooth river rocks.

A Dwight Yoakam song was playing on the CD player. The words of lyrics reminded him of a woman who could only make love while listening to Dwight and how each orgasm was a grim battle for a small pleasure. It hadn’t lasted long. The woman had been happier in the dark with the music, masturbating, unencumbered by him. While living in Montana his past mistakes with women and sex and drink felt insignificant, but being home forced him to contemplate them with bemused horror.
It took another half hour to make up for the mistake on Riverton Road and get to his parent’s place. Call looked at the road that took him to his old home.

Before he could protect himself from the past, a memory of walking home with June as a boy hit him.