X-Ray Vision Ch. 11: Family

"He's over by the third pier now, waiting for that grackle to get careless."

"How big?"

He held his arms out, wide as he could. Jeeze. Remind me never to get too close to the bank, I could lose a toe!

Time to take our drive.

...

Billie

Something didn't feel right, from the first moment at the door.

Vicky answered, Aaron's wife, didn't say a word, just stood blocking my way, pointed to the barn. Redheaded school-age kid peeking from behind, skinny, curious. Dressed in too-small shirt, scuffed shoes, through-the-knee blue jeans. Fashion? Kids these days.

I thanked Vicky anyway though she reeked disapproval. Picked my way through the weedy farmyard to the Monitor-style barn, big center barn-part with two wings for livestock.

Aaron was in there, once I found the people-door he was easy enough to find, all one open space in the center, ten stories tall. Tools on one side, parts rack on the other. Big car-sized empty space in the middle.

He was just sitting on a stool, leg jiggling, waiting, anxious.

"Billie?! Oh, I'm so glad you're here! I came in yesterday, after a parts run, and it was just gone!"

I could see the unopened boxes on a bench, shiny, steel, clean as a professional garage, polished.

In fact, the whole place was spotless, not an oily rag or stray washer anywhere. Not like any barn I'd ever been in. And that was a lot of barns.

I asked for my fee; got a check. Don't want to do any more freebies, got to make this job pay. Fish or cut bait, as my old man used to say.

"You don't lock the door?" There hadn't even been a latch on the big slidey door. Just a rope handle.

Shook his head. "No reason! Nobody comes out here; nobody that would do this! Nobody knows what I got in here. What I had..."

He looked ready to cry. I got business-like; not gonna play therapist to a soft-hearted motorhead.

"What time did you leave? Get back?" I clicked my pen, started making notes all sleuthy and professional.

He told me; he'd been gone most of the afternoon! Fall, wasn't he running a farm? The animals, the fields need tending this time of year, most farmers are busy as shit.

"Anybody here? Could have seen something?"

"Kid in school; Vicky was over at my brother's. He's got a new kid..."

Again, farm wife was a busy life, no time to go visiting, not in the fall. Garden produce to put up; mending to do on school clothes; parent-teacher meetings; house to convert to cold-weather; winter clothes to swap for summer, wash and mend.

At least, back in Idaho. Things were different here? So much was different. I'd have to learn fast.

"So, what was it? How big? How old?" I was fishing for any detail that would explain a stranger making their way to a lonely barn-shop, hoping to find a legendary treasure?

"A '77 Dodge Dart! Was my dad's, I drove it all through High School! My baby!"

That set me back; not a treasure, just a family heirloom, valuable only to somebody who remembered it fondly.

No way was a Dodge Dart worth stealing, not for parts, not as a classic car. Just a junker getting rebuilt. Essentially worthless.

I was ready to throw it in, say Too Bad, So Sad, go get another one, have to be one in the junkyard just as good. But Be Professional Billie!

"Did it run?"

He shook his head. "That's the thing! I had the tranny out, was a tooth chip in first gear. Hadda go get bushings, special order, a ring and..."

I nodded, half-listening to his motor-talk, making polite noises at the right places, doodling on my pad.

So why take a worthless project car from a remote barn. When the owner was away...how did they even know? Stakeout, waiting for hours in the bushes, he leaves and Now's my Chance!

Unlikely; also, you could see for miles out here, no place to hide.

That left, car-buddies pulling a prank, winding him up over some grudge or on a bet.

Or family. Resentful family. Hm.

I decided.

"Aaron? The ground is too hard to leave traces, even a trailer hauling a car wouldn't leave tracks on a gravel road, not so's you can tell.

"I'm gonna case the area, brought my bike so I can go places a car can't." Clever me, explaining by bike as an investigation tool.

"I'm thinking it's still local, still in the area. In another barn, behind a farmhouse, waiting for the heat to cool off.

"If it is, I'll find it."

He looked relieved, completely buying in to my Dick Tracy doubletalk. Still imagining his DD was worth something to international car thieves, some big conspiracy afoot.

I left him unboxing his parts, some confidence returned. He'd wanted to come with me, but I convinced him he was too well-known, would alert the thieves.

And he probably would. If it was who I thought it was.

I stopped in the house before I left, one last try with Vicky. She answered immediately, probably looking out the window, waiting for me.

"So, he's all broken up over his precious junker?"

I smiled a crooked smile, half-sympathetic, half patient investigator.

"Guys can be extra-attached to their cars."

She looked ready to respond to that; caught herself.

"Did you happen to see anything, coming or going yesterday? Anybody hanging around? A car parked on the road where it shouldn't be?"

Strong Negative!

"See anybody on the road, walking or on a bike?" I knew the answer, was just baiting her, waiting for her to spill something.

"I don't see shit out here. Nobody ever comes out but his car-buddies. They ignore me, Katie. They make a beeline for the barn, spend hours in there, drink a brick of Coors, leave drunk.

"I hardly even see Aaron! Hardly know what he looks like anymore. And he sure doesn't know what Katie is up to, what she's doing. Doesn't care."

This was one bitter wife. Could I blame her? I didn't try to reassure here. She was probably right, married to a car guy and all.

Not my problem. I was here to find that car.

"You were over at his brother's? How far is that?"

She looked sharply at me; decided to answer anyway.

"Georgie has his own place. Six miles, out on Old Reformatory Road. Takes ten minutes each way. No, I didn't see anybody on the way or the way back."

Confirmed what I was thinking.

"Thank you, Ma'am! I think I'll be out of your hair today, have this issue closed."

She seemed to bristle at that. "And charge an arm and a leg! For nothing! More money down the drain."

I couldn't blame her, that barn-shop looked like it cost plenty.

Katie's ragged clothes, two sizes too small looked different to me now. Not fashion; not hardly. Poor kid.

I fetched my bike, headed down the drive. Turned back toward town, Reformatory Road was a turnoff we passed on the way here.

Found it in fifteen minutes; cruised down the blacktop checking mailboxes every mile or so. When I got to six miles, I found one that could be it - same last name on the mailbox, G for Georgie maybe.

I went slowly down the lane, shorter than Aaron and Vicky's, maybe a quarter mile. Casing the joint!

House and six buildings, three too small for my purposes. That left a cattle shed, a pig farrowing house, a hay barn.

Only one with a door big enough was the hay barn. I rode up to it, on its own dirt lane apart from the rest.

On a hillside, drive-in ramp on top, deliver hay. Open; nothing in there but hay.

But down below, stone foundation, a stable once upon a time, accessed from the pasture side. I ditched the bike, walked down the slope, scoped it out.

Double door, big enough. A people door too; I tried that. Locked. Why?

I put my hands to my face, shielded from the morning sun, peeped in the big-door crack.

Took a while for my eyes to adjust, really black in there, underground on three sides and just a dirty half-window for light on the front. But in a minute, I confirmed my guess.

An eighteen-foot trailer, four-wheeler, gooseneck hitch. And on that, a derelict car. No hood; lots of putty on the chassis. A Dodge Dart.

On the way back I planned how to address this. Did Vicky know? Was it her idea, or his brother's? Was the brother just a reluctant recruit to the crime?

It had to be the both of them. Vicky had to see what was going on; his brother did the deed under her nose.

It was a crime, but nobody was going to go to jail. All in the family; no Sheriff would touch this with a ten-foot pole. They'd let them fight it out.

In the end I figured Aaron was my client, I had to come clean with him.

He wasn't in the barn. As I tooled up to Vicky and Aaron's I could hear loud voices from the house.

The door stood open, I waited for an opening in the conversation.

"You love that car better than your family!"

"I love you!" accompanied by a hurt look. Like you can fix somebody else's feelings by telling them they're wrong. Guys.

"Prove it! Spend time with us! Stop leaking money like water!

"Get your head in the farm business! There are crops to bring in. The combine needs parts too!"

"I just got that part! Yesterday! I'll get to it. I was prioritizing." Stubborn.

She wasn't having any of it. "Katie needs shoes, clothes. Everything! Where does that come in your priorities? Dead last."

That one stung; I could see him back off like he was slapped. The truth is pretty heavy sometimes, hits hard.

She could have gone in for the kill. To her credit she changed her tone.

"I need you here Aaron, with me, working together. Not hiding in the barn. Not drinking with your buddies. Not gabbing in the auto parts store.

"We may not be as fun or interesting as all that. But we're real, we're here for you, we want to be a family and not just... roommates."

Time for me to make my entrance, before they noticed I'd been listening.

"Knock knock! I'm back! Here for my check. You pay me, I'll be on my way."

Aaron looked dumbfounded. Cruel to hit him while he was down, but hey that's business.

"But...but....what about my car?"

I looked at Vicky; she turned her head, stubborn, not gonna say.

Aaron looked at me, at her, me again, mouth hanging open, the only one in the room not getting it.

Then wham! he figured it out. Face clouded up, looking incredulous and maybe mad at Vicky. Pulled my check from his pocket, handed it over without looking at me, still staring at Vicky.

Should I? This was a clusterfuck from the start. I took his check, handed it to Vicky. A little salute! and I'm out the door.

Vicky's last look was victorious, scoring one on her dumbass husband. Not gonna hold out much hope for those two, not unless they start laying their cards on the table.

Getting on my bike I heard the last from them.

"Strangers are paying for your kid's school clothes now? Is that how a good Dad does it?"

"You caused this! I could have bought a whole exhaust assembly with that money!"

"We could have bought shoes for your little girl!"

And I was out of range, thank God.

Made me think, as I pedaled back toward the shore. My folks said money troubles are at the heart of marriage problems. I think it's more than that; it's care and attention. Spend the time and effort, you got a chance.

This one didn't hit me like some of the others. Sad, family not working very well. But all theirs to play for, win or lose, ball's in their court.

I still had the advance in my pocket. That was something, half a fee. I guess I've given away my cut again. More than my cut; part of that was for overhead, we're partners now.

Greg would try to... well, he would just accept my decision! Share in the loss.

Not sure I was gonna let him. My partner can be too soft sometimes.

...

Jillian

After the crowded river walk, it was relaxing to leave the city behind, strike out into the hills. On a Saturday morning, the only car on the road, everybody else in town shopping or at a ball game or whatnot.

Truck dash still not delivering much air - Greg says a fountain pen fell in the vent, jamming up the flapper thingy, stuck between Recirculate and Fresh Air. Gonna take a mechanic to get the dashboard out, unhitch the vent pipes and retrieve the dang ball-point.

Anyway, once you're cruising outside town it's time to roll down the windows, rest an elbow and let your hair down. I learned that years ago, driving a pickup on gravel, doing errands for the dog kennel. Something about sunshine and fresh air, birds and cattle in the fields and grass on every hill!

Greg was just watching me, missing the view, like a lovesick puppy. What's got into him? Been extra-sappy lately. Not that I mind; sappy Greg is all soft and funny and loving, lets me put my feet in his lap and get a foot-rub any time I want. I could get used to sappy-Greg pretty easy.

"What do you see?" My standard opening line, gets him talking.

He scanned the hillsides, the creeks, the tree line. Not carefully, more like he'd been here before, was reacquainting himself.

"Things growing! Not just above-ground but below too.

"That old building, broken parking lot? Was a gas station, closed and never removed the gas tanks, still down there, rusted and leaking.

"Don't worry! the fungi are having a ball, feasting on hydrocarbon chains, digesting it slowly and renewing the soil."

"Doesn't it get into the groundwater?" I'd heard there could be rivers of water underground, and it was important not to let stuff get into it, poison it.

"The hills slope gradually to the sea. Rainwater sinks in the top, goes deep, clear and clean and feeding the land from below. Pushing contaminants gradually over, down, a long plume, diluting, nurturing bacteria and fungus, encapsulating or digesting. Not much gets past Mother Earth, if you give her time."

There it was, Greg getting sappy again. He saw me smiling my fond smile, tilted his head, raised an eyebrow. I didn't have to say anything, just leaned in, pecked him on the cheek.

"So, there's a whole 'nother ecosystem down there?" I imagined a subterranean world operating completely separate from what we saw on top.

"Kind of. The trees grow deep, their ancient root systems are part of all that. They're communicating through their roots, through the air! No, I can't see that, I read it in High School.

"Those Black Gum over there? They grow in groves, there's more underneath than above! A single grove is like one big organism, all tangled and interconnected. Goes down deep, thins out until I can't tell where it ends."

He indicated a turn ahead, just a field drive, a dirt track across a pasture. The truck was up to it, I just shifted down, started the climb up the ridge.

We topped the rise and the world opened out; we could see for miles! Ranks of hills marching across, down to the city, the sea. So much sky!

"Wow! You weren't kidding! This is amazing!"

We parked in the shade under a Cottonwood tree, a giant from the old settler days, several stories tall, squarish frame and big, broad trunk. Some scars from old branch breaks, some wild storm in the past tearing at it, ripping branches off. A survivor!

I got the picnic basket slash shoebox, Greg rummaged, found the thermos, a blanket, a bottle. Led me to a spot he seemed to know was there, grass thick and bent, like a lumpy carpet, soft under our feet.

Laid out the blanket, I set out the basket - he'd added some weird cheese, some crackers with all sorts of bits baked in. Also, some simple townhouse, for me, if I couldn't handle his fancy stuff.

Croissants, chicken salad sandwiches from the deli, a tub of coleslaw, some pickles. A feast!

We unpacked, unwrapped, shared it out. Dug in, all our attention on the food; our morning walk had left us hungry.

I sipped his wine from a paper cup, nibbled at one of those gnarly crackers - garlic and dill? Not bad. My awareness returned to our surroundings as my blood sugar recovered.

"You knew this place? Been here before?"

He nodded, sipped, arranged his thoughts.

"Cheap entertainment! A day away from the brake factory, the flower shop.

"We came here a lot, before Mom got sick. Just one time after that, Dad tried to make a special day, but Mom just wasn't up to it, and we left early.

"I didn't come back for years. Remembering that last time, Mom hurting, her insides bruised and leaking from the... It was awful; the worst part."

I scooted over, got behind him, wrapped my arms around him, let him lean into me. He let me support him, so he could say the next part.

"But recently I started to remember it more, from before, when everything was good. Dreamt about it! Running in the grass, rolling down the slope. Mom and Dad laying up here, laughing and taking naps in the shade.

"Sitting in Mom's lap, falling asleep and waking up in the back of the car, on the road headed home."

"I'm glad you brought me here. It's beautiful! Let's make some more beautiful memories."

He sighed, nodded. Turned his head so I could reach his face, hold his cheek, kiss him.

"That's a good start."

"Is it good for you out here? Not too much to see?"

"There's plenty to see! Remember, it's not distance, it's the stuff adding up, the complexity that sets my limits. Good stuff, though. Peaceful."

"So, you can see all the way to the city?" That would be impressive.

He shook his head. "The land has it's details, structure. This Cottonwood? Its roots go half a mile in several directions, like water pipes, out and down deep, to the water table. Why Cottonwoods can get so big, live so long, survive so much. Drought, heat, flood."

That was a little disturbing; this tree had roots under us? Down to that creek, under the road, like a net. Dig a hole deep enough, find a Cottonwood root!

"No human marks out here? Just nature?"

"Plenty of marks! Settlements used to dot the countryside, a farm of forty acres was considered average. Nowadays it's all corporations, whole sections with maybe one house left.

"But from here, I can see traces of old farmsteads, half a dozen easy. They're everywhere. Rows of fenceposts, rotted off but the stumps still in the ground. Stone foundations, the house long gone, burned out but the stone remains. Some flowers growing where flowers shouldn't grow, the remains of an old farm garden, wild now.

"Old wells, dug down to water. Sometimes the only water for miles, that close to the surface, some clay or rock formation that brought the groundwater up.

"All the time I've come out here, I only ever saw a few dry holes."

"Why is that do you think? Did they have an intuition for well-digging? Maybe something about the plants growing above..."

He shook his head. "Back then, you wanted a well, you hired a dowser. A guy with a willow stick, he'd wander around, pretend to follow the stick, stop and say Dig here!"

That didn't make sense. Was he pulling my leg?

"They can't have just been lucky! To be right so often."

"It was more than chance; I'm sure of it. I think..."

I waited; he was about to admit something important.

He cleared his throat, began again, like he was afraid I'd laugh. I would never laugh; he is my Greg and I would never laugh.

"I think maybe, some of those old dowsers were like me."

Bombshell! I scooted around, looked him in the face, eyes wide. It could be true! It had to be true!

"Yes! That makes sense! But how did they learn it? They didn't have your mother, to get them through the hard part, the night terrors. They had to do it on their own?"

He relaxed, more confident.

"There was not much to see out here, back then. Just stuff underground, or the weather. Maybe they didn't get... scared when it happened, when it started. Just like a dream, they'd start to see more, just critters and tree roots and rocks.

"No cars to terrify them! No city! No airplanes, only a few people. It makes sense!"

He was getting into it now.

"The old Almanacs, pamphlets talking about the weather and good places to plant, to dig, to hunt, they were relied upon, believed. Maybe because... because they were right, written by people who could see, who knew for sure.