Читать книгу Church of the Graveyard Saints - C. Joseph Greaves - Страница 16

7

Addie knew that, try though she might to simply accept his bolstering presence, she was fated to see the day, and her old hometown, and the people who lived there, through Bradley Sommers’ eyes.

The Bradley Sommers, she reminded herself, whose father was a Caltech professor and whose mother had once served on the Pasadena city council. The Bradley whose boyhood home had been a meticulously restored Craftsman bungalow in a leafy enclave of other historic houses whose owners needed something like three city approvals and a special variance before they could replace so much as a front doorknob.

Montezuma County in contrast had virtually no zoning, since it interfered with a man’s God-given right to live as he damn well pleased. It had no building department because it neither licensed contractors nor inspected their work. Instead it had as part of its Comprehensive Land Use Plan a “Code of the West”—commonsense tips for country living—inspired by the writings of pulp novelist Zane Grey. Things like, “Children are exposed to different hazards in a rural setting than they are in an urban area,” or “Be aware that adjacent mining uses can expand and cause negative impacts.”

The result, not surprisingly, was an architectural hodgepodge in which the custom log-and-glass aeries of urban retirees might overlook a warren of singlewide trailers. In which automobile graveyards or mini storage units might sprout, weed-like, in the middle of residential neighborhoods. In which even the pristine beauty of McElmo Canyon had been marred by the odd junkyard or gravel pit or, in the case of one enterprising neighbor, an off-road racing track.

So what was Bradley thinking, riding in front with her grandfather as their procession snaked the twelve wending miles from the Red Rocks Ranch to the faux-stone solemnity of the funeral home in Cortez? The route took them past four pawn shops, and three liquor stores, and two defunct service stations. It traversed rubber-tomahawk tourist emporia and weekly-rate motels. And once onto the state highway that ran like a scar through downtown Cortez, they passed a succession of faded billboards for the likes of Denny’s and Wendy’s, Arby’s and JESUS SAVES.

For her part, seeing it all again, Addie thought how much better off Cortez and the surrounding communities might have been had they been settled a century later, when the area’s centrality to forested peaks and high-desert mesas might have attracted the sorts of seekers and dreamers who’d settled in places like Santa Fe or Taos, Sedona or Moab. She imagined, and not for the first time, a cosmic pulse erasing man’s first muddy footprints and giving the town, the county, the newly pristine landscape the second chance they deserved.

Amid the wood-paneled quiescence of the viewing room, where her grandmother’s rouged propinquity reduced all conversation to murmur, Addie watched as Bradley, standing apart from her family, fielded the tremulous handshakes of curious mourners whom Addie recognized from the Historical Society, or the Cowbelles, or the Episcopal Church. Several with canes, still others bent over walkers, their shuffling parade past the casket left a slipstream of Old Spice and Mineral Ice and the faintish redolence of mothballs.

Addie herself proved an object of no small curiosity. The hands squeezing hers were blue-veined and spotted, their skin like waxed paper. Carole’s girl, she heard herself called. Vivian’s pride and joy. Do you remember? they asked her, but mostly she did not. Mostly she felt numbed by grief and guilt at the realization that she among all those present had probably been longest in seeing her own grandmother alive.

Once the torrent of new arrivals had slowed to a trickle she joined Bradley where he stood by a sideboard display of framed family photographs.

“She was very beautiful,” he said, restoring one to its place. Addie recognized it as her grandmother’s favorite—she and Grandpa Jess on their honeymoon at the Broadmoor on the morning after the night on which, she’d once confided to Addie, they both had lost their virginity.

“You’re a saint for doing this.”

“I feel more like the bearded lady.” He turned to survey the room. “Everyone seems to want a closer look.”

“The rubes lining up to watch, corndogs in hand, while the fat man and the bearded lady watch them right back.”

“That sounds overly judgmental. They seem like decent people.”

“I never meant to suggest otherwise.”

“Your grandmother’s friends, after all.”

She took up the photo in its ornate silver frame. “You would’ve liked her. She was plainspoken, and God knows she could be prickly, but at least you always knew where you stood.”

“I like him.”

She followed his nod to where Grandpa Jess stood in the same place Addie had left him, in the same vested suit and polished brogans he’d worn to her graduation. Like a rock he was, in a stream running cold and warm, swift and slow, season upon season, but that somehow never budges.

“He’s putting on a brave face, but I know he’s devastated. Did he tell you they’d been married sixty-two years?”

“Wow.”

“In all that time I don’t think they spent a single night apart. I’d also bet he never once mopped a floor or made a bed or washed a load of laundry. On the other hand I’ve seen him buck hay and shoe horses and split a cord of hardwood. And that was well into his seventies.”

They watched together as Jess nodded and chatted and even smiled at the occasional anecdote or rib-digging reminiscence shared with his old friends and neighbors. Never, Addie noted, moving more than an arm’s length from the casket.

And that’s when she saw him, standing with her father. He wore a faded brown jacket and blue jeans and brown cowboy boots. His hair was short now, but there was no mistaking the slouching posture or the easy laugh she could read in quarter-profile even as the sound of it was lost in the burble of other voices.

Her father’s glance over Colt Dixon’s shoulder, the judgment in it, pierced her like an arrow.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Come on, let’s look at pictures.”

She steered Bradley to another table on which more photos were arrayed along with some yellowed newspaper clippings.

“I know this isn’t the time,” she said, “but I learned something this morning. Archer-Mason is drilling wells on our grazing allotment. There’s a new pad up on the mesa, plus a road and some sort of pumping station.”

“I know.”

“What do you mean you know?”

“Jess told me all about it. That well you probably saw is part of the drilling unit Archer-Mason wants to down-space. I don’t know about your father, but your grandfather’s against it.” He slipped his phone from his pocket and showed Addie the image. “He thinks the vented gasses are harming his cattle.”

“They’re Daddy’s cattle,” she said, frowning at the photo, “but it’s still Grandpa’s ranch.”

“And Grandpa’s minerals. Did you know he owns the entire estate on a quarter-section of land that sits atop the McElmo Dome?”

“He does?”

“That’s not all. As a mineral rights owner he’s entitled by statute to written notice of any down-spacing application. Under Colorado law, that opens a seven-day window in which to request what’s called a local public forum. They’re almost never held, because nobody bothers to read the regulations. Also because the regs are set up in a way that makes citizen recourse all but impossible. But a hearing like that, right here in Cortez, could be our key to the mint. It’s the perfect vehicle to rally opposition not just to the down-spacing application, but to Archer-Mason’s entire play.”

“Okay …”

“But there’s a catch. Jess can’t request the forum on his own. It has to come from the county commission acting on his behalf. What’s more, they have to do it immediately. Or at least no later than Wednesday.”

“Why?”

“Because like I said, the regs are stacked in favor of industry.”

Addie turned to study the room, her eyes sweeping past her father and Colt Dixon in the way a phonograph needle skips a scratch in the vinyl.

“Montezuma County has three commissioners. You see those two by the door?”

She nodded toward a fleshy man in a Western-style suit and a shorter, jug-eared man beside him. Both were addressing a circle of attentive listeners.

“The big man is Mr. Hawkins. He owns a ranch up near Cahone. He was president of the Cattlemen’s Association when I won their senior class scholarship. The man with the ears is Bud Wallace. He runs an oilfield services company.”

She watched as Bradley took their measure. Hawkins did most of the talking while Wallace, as though heeding some silent alarm, slid his eyes in Bradley’s direction.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him.

“That the oilman’s a tough sale, but the rancher could be an ally. Like your grandfather says, cattle and compressors don’t mix. Who’s the third commissioner?”

“Mr. Holcomb. He owns the movie theater in town.” She scanned the room, which had grown even more crowded. “I don’t see him here, but I went to school with his daughter. Brenda is her name. She actually married my old boyfriend.”

Her glance toward the casket was reflexive. Her father was leaning forward now, listening to an older woman who’d taken hold of his coat sleeve.

Had Colt already left? Was she wrong about why he’d come here in the first place?

“Maybe you could introduce me.”

“What?”

“To Hawkins. I’d like to know where he stands.”

“Okay, but wait a minute.” She moved in front of Bradley. “You said Jess owns some mineral rights. What might those be worth?”

“Hard to know for certain, but at today’s prices I’d say in the range of several million dollars.”

Addie was flabbergasted. Nobody—not her father, not her grandparents—had ever so much as hinted at such a thing.

He asked, “What is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just … you said Jess is opposed to the down-spacing. Are you sure he understands what he’d be giving up?”

“I am, but go ahead and ask him yourself. Meanwhile, what about our Mr. Hawkins?”

“Okay, but look. Even if Jess is on our side, do we really need to be bothering him or his friends on the day he’s burying my grandmother?”

“Of course not.” Bradley placed both his hands on her shoulders. “That was thoughtless of me. But let’s not forget that seven-day window. Today is day three, and tomorrow is Sunday. That leaves Monday and Tuesday to bring at least two of the commissioners on board.”

“I know, but—”

“And the forum doesn’t have to involve Jess. We’d be raising issues on behalf of the entire community. Water quality, air quality, public health and safety. All the cattlemen will be affected, as will the farmers.”

“I understand that, but—”

“Good.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Just think of all the good we can do.”

“Hello, Addie.”

She blenched as from a spark. Colt Dixon’s proximity—his adult face in close-up—sent a bloom of warmth to her face.

“Hey. Hey, you! What a nice surprise.”

They embraced awkwardly, then she stepped back to regard him. There were crows’ feet at his eyes and furrows spanning his brow. His once-long hair, sun-bleached and curly, had darkened to the color of sand. Features that had seemed sculpted of clay by a slippery hand—his cheekbones, his chin—now appeared chiseled and of a piece with his broader shoulders. He looked wind-burned and rugged in that infuriating way young men managed to age, and she wondered reflexively if the years had been as kind to her.

“Colt Dixon,” she said, drawing a breath, “this is my friend Bradley Sommers.”

The men shook hands for what seemed longer than was traditional.

“Bradley is a professor at UCLA,” she heard herself saying. “We’ll be in the area for a month or so doing environmental consulting.”

“That’s what your dad was telling me.”

Bradley said, “We’re hoping to raise awareness of some of the long-term consequences of carbon dioxide mining and other extractive industries on things like air quality and groundwater. Issues that impact not just the ranchers and farmers in the area, but also the sportsmen. The hunters and anglers.”

Colt glanced down at his camouflage shirtfront.

“I don’t know if you appreciate this,” Bradley continued, “but as pressure mounts to open up wild places to the fossil fuel industry, the conservation and outdoor recreation communities are finding common cause. If you have friends or coworkers in the area who hunt or fish, they might want to know what Addie and I are up to.”

“Oh, I guarantee I got coworkers who’d like to know what you’re up to.”

“Great. Where do you work?”

“Pleasant View. For Archer-Mason Industries.”

Bradley’s smile remained in its place. “I see. As a roughneck?”

“Motorman. Going on three years now. A year in Aneth before that.”

“Drilling for oil on the Navajo reservation?”

“That’s right.”

“Well then. Common cause may prove uncommonly difficult.”

“Oh, we got a thing or two in common.” Colt redirected his smile at Addie. “It’s just that bankrupting my hometown ain’t one of ’em.”

“That’s not what Bradley—”

“Don’t think I’m unaware of the short-term stimulus oil and gas provides to rural communities like this,” Bradley said. “I get it. But the resource is finite don’t forget, and fickle, and even a modest drop in oil prices will stop a play like Archer-Mason’s dead in its tracks.”

“Exactly. Carpe diem, that’s my motto.”

“And what are you left with then? Formerly pristine wilderness scarred by roads and well pads. Methane and fracking fluid leaching into your groundwater. Not to mention the public health bill that local taxpayers will be footing long after the Archer-Masons of the world have pulled up stakes.”

“Look at the bright side. If it wasn’t for the likes of me, smart guys like you’d have nothing to consult about. And then Addie here would have no reason to helicopter in and honor us with her presence.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” she told him.

Colt scuffed at the floor with his boot. “You’re right, there was no call for that. I genuinely am sorry. But hey! Maybe Bradley’ll let me make it up to him. I don’t suppose you’re a deer hunter? The reason I ask is we’re already two weeks into rifle season and I ain’t been out but the one time.”

“I’m sure Bradley doesn’t want—”

“I’m sure Bradley can decide for himself what he wants. Ain’t that right, Bradley? You talk about your pristine wilderness, but have you actually seen it? Around here I mean? Heck, I’ll show you some places that’ll make your head explode. So what do you say? Get the lay of the land? Observe the locals in their native habitat?”

“Something to think about, certainly.”

“There you go. Something to think about.”

He clapped the older man’s arm.

“And as for you,” he told Addie as he backed toward the door, “I hope I’ll see you around somewhere. Decker and Dixon! We could get together and consult.”