The Fence My Father Built by Linda S. Clare

Author:Linda S. Clare
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Abingdon Press
Published: 2010-04-09T04:00:00+00:00

The sign on his door said he was out on a call. I tore off a scrap from a blank page of Dad's journal and penned a short note asking Rubin to get in touch. As I wedged the note into the corner of the screen, the inner door suddenly opened. Startled, I dropped the box and then knelt down to pick up the papers before they blew away.

“May I help you?” A willowy woman stood there. She was maybe thirty, with reddish hair cut boy-short and big lips, the plumped-up kind people pay for. I thought I’d met every single person in Murkee, but I was wrong.

“I was leaving a note for Rub—I mean the doctor,” I said, suddenly much too warm. “Will you see that he gets this?” The faint sound of a computer printer hummed in the background.

“Of course,” she said, smiling without showing her teeth. “He’ll be a while. An emergency came up. Ed Johnson's mare got into trouble early this morning.”

“I thought I’d met everybody around here,” I said, hoping I sounded casual. “I’m Muri. I live next door.”

She ran her hand through her hair the way my daughter would. In fact, on closer inspection, this woman couldn’t be much older than Nova. “I’m Kristin. I come up here from Prineville once a month to make some sense out of Rubin's books. He's way disorganized, you know?”

“Will you let him know I’m down at the creek? He’ll know where I’m talking about.” This time I smiled.

Kristin shrugged. “If he gets back any time soon, I’ll let him know.” The screen door creaked closed, and she disappeared into a back room. I was relieved that she was from Prineville and told myself that pouty, collagen lips weren’t that attractive.

The stream would be a good place to study the journal and photos in Dad's box, as well as check out the land better. After all, when Rubin and I slogged over there I’d been more interested in the ecosystem and watching out for stray cattle. This time I tramped through the grasses and sagebrush, eager to explore.

I climbed back onto the dirt mound near a cottonwood, close as I could to the bank without getting soaked. The trickling water soothed me. I could see where Rubin had planted native vegetation. The barbwire fence separating his land from Linc's drooped in spots and leaned inward in others. It definitely was not as sturdy as oven doors. The muddied, trampled grass proved livestock had forged paths down to the water from Linc's place.

At a sandy spot on the bank I kicked off my shoes and then dipped my toes in the clear, cold shallows, running the bottoms of my feet over smooth stones. Shy fingerlings darted into crevices as I disturbed the silt. Just like in songs and old corny poems, the stream spoke and sang, and I closed my eyes to hear what it was saying.

The power is in the water. I’d heard this once in a documentary about the Colorado River.

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