Chapter 17.
"Things move too slow for me around here," said Jacob to the cows, sitting on the transported pile of chopped wood, drinking a second beer that he had obtained from Joke via flattery. "I have to get out of here." The cows stood close together, water beading on their hides, still wet after the rain had stopped. A wetness in Jacob's sweatshirt made him shiver. To stay warm he started to swing the ax against one of the standing trees, thinking he could fell it without much effort, and quickly found the trunk denser than his hubris. While he swung the axe, he wondered how the pioneers did it, if they had been stronger than him. No, most certainly not, he decided. Most certainly weaker, but without an option. What misery life must have been without pickup trucks and chainsaws.
His swings continued against the tree. Lack of sleep, bruises from the football game, cold skin and damp shoes – but still he felt strong. Strong and confident in his body, having never suffered an illness or injury.
A small chunk finally fell from the tree trunk. He swung again, saying to the cattle, "I don't know about you but I have a feeling," swinging once more and then stopping, "that I am going to do something great one day." He let the axe head fall to the ground and leaned upon the handle. "Something amazing. I'm going to set the world on fire. Do you ever feel like that?" Deep and blank eyes stared back at him, dazed. "First thing I'm going to do is join the infantry," he said, and chopped, "but I missed the Gulf war. Hope there's another war." He chopped again and then stopped to lean on the axe. "Then maybe I'll find work in the fishing or shipping business, out east, or in Alaska – ride the oceans and see the world, get drunk on every continent, spend a night with every kind of woman on earth – Chinese, Japanese, French, Brazilian. I'd like to see some sandy bottoms on beaches, no more sweatered Minnesota girls. If I stay here I won't see much more than you, cow. God knows we've walked this pasture one too many times already. After that I'm going to be a boxer and then…oh shit, here comes Dad."
The faint sound of an whining engine came from a distance, followed by the sight of the 4-wheeler appearing on the downslope of the pasture, coming toward Jacob. "Here comes psycho-Dad. I better work up a sweat."
A few stumps remained on the ground and Jacob lifted his axe overhead and pounded the wood wildly, trying to run out of breath so that his father might see his fine work and praise him.
Ray returned to the deep end of the pasture expecting to see the same stumps unbroken. But the piles of chopped wood tickled Ray as much as they enraged him, because it meant Jacob had cheated again. Those nifty stacks allowed for the kind of day that Ray often wished for. A day of education. In the absence of hard times, they can be conjured.
A bird hopped on the wood pile, picking at bugs that turned up from the soggy bottoms. Scores of grubs had come along for the ride from the neighboring pasture. The sound of the 4-wheeler approaching scared the bird away. Next to the pile, Ray set the brake handle and killed the engine. Without getting off, he inspected the wood as if considering a purchase.
"Boy, you must have really had to hack at those stumps. That was some thick wood."
Jacob wiped his brow, "Wasn't like choppin' no thistles, that's for sure."
"I bet not. I tried chopping a few of those. I couldn't budge a seam to stick a wedge."
"I just kept on one spot," said Jacob, "until she gave – then I put a shim in there and kept chopping."
"What a day's work," said Ray, with a gentleness in his face, a kindness that Jacob did not recognize. Ray continued in his happy tone. "Why don't you hop on, kiddo. We'll go get something to eat. And you know what? I think you learned your lesson. You can have your truck keys. What's done is done."
"My keys?" he said, beginning to see the muscles tensing in his father's neck.
"Sure, you can go out tonight. You done a heck of a job here." Ray stood up from the 4-wheeler and pulled his bad leg over the seat and sat facing Jacob.
"Can I go to town then?" asked Jacob.
"Sure. Sure. Hell, I'll spot you a hundred and buy you a case of beer."
Jacob started to laugh. "For real?"
"Why not? Here's let me just take a look at that wood first."
Jacob stepped aside. "Be my guest."
Ray peered at the wood, picked up a rotten chunk and broke it in half in his hard hands. "One thing I sure as heck can't help but wonder," said Ray, "if everything under the sun is a God damn joke to you?"
Using his good foot, Ray tapped his steel-toe boot against the axe that remained stuck in a stump, marking Jacob's final swing.
"No, it ain't like that," said Jacob, his humor fading. He could see the mania in his father's smile, now that the curtain of humor was drawn away. The same odd face that he saw in Ray when the head-gasket blew out on the skidsteer in 1990.
"If everything's not funny, then why are you laughing, Jacob?"
The question didn't make sense because it didn't need to. Jacob knew the answer to give. "Not everything's a joke," said Jacob, "but everything ain't life and death either."
"The rules just don't apply to you, do they."
Jacob sought a subject, something that could distract his father's emotionless face and allow him to maintain his pride. The steers. "Did you check and see if those steers quit bleeding like stuck hogs yet?"
"Fuck the steers."
"No thanks," said Jacob. "They're your steers. You can do what you want with them. I won't say nothin'. I just won't join you."
Ray stepped off the ATV and moved forward to put his hand on Jacob's sweatshirt collar. At dinner time, when they sat to eat, Jacob felt as big as his father, but face to face in the open air, with no one else near, a sense of puniness and inadequacy shrunk him. The width and the lines of his father's serious face made plain who was boss. A jerk on the collar brought Jacob's head downward. Ray said, "There are different kinds of cowards I've met and you're the worst kind."
"Does that mean I'm at the top of the coward chain, or at the bottom?" said Jacob, smiling in defiance, but growing angry at the particular insult. "Is that the good kind or the bad kind?"
"The kind that quits before the job is done because he's thinking about the meal. The kind that stops running hard in the fourth quarter because he's got tail and beer on his mind." Another tug on Jacob's neck. "Am I getting warm?"
"I don't know. Did you piss yourself?" His gibes faded in boldness after the next yank, which threw Jacob to the ground. He grew hot in the face and neck.
"Redass now, aren't you. Those stumps," said Ray, "can't be split, that's why I brought you out here. Yet you split 'em. By God's will then. Sent a lightning bolt from the sky, did He?"
Jacob got to his feet. The scowl thickened.
"This is what you wanted," said Ray, chuckling. "So get mad, tough guy. Been waiting to take a shot at me for two summers, you think I'm deaf but I got ears in town that heard you talking about the day you'd knock me down. Today's your day to try. Let's see you back up your mouth now. You can run your mouth elsewhere. But not today, not out here. Maybe it's a good thing you got a mouth to run, because you got no fight in you. You never did. You been crying wolf for eighteen years, think you got the world figured, but I got you figured." The long scar on Ray's face glistened as specks of rain landed in the valley of the laceration.
"I'm not playing your game," said Jacob.
"Game?" said Ray. "Go talk to your mother if you want games."
Jacob jumped to his feet and shook loose of his father, spinning out of grip like a wildcat.
"Tough guy," said Ray, glad to see Jacob finally suffering. It was important to suffer. Ray's father taught him the same lesson.
"The only punishment that works on you," Ray said, "is the truth. I could tell last night, even listening to the radio, that you stopped trying in the fourth quarter. And everyone listening said, 'There's a quitter.' But then somehow, the quitter comes out and sp
lits unsplittable stumps."
"I didn't quit. Say what you want, old man, because once I leave here," Jacob said, wincing at the accusation, "you won't see me again."
"Oh, sure, I've heard that, Jacob," Ray said, laughing. Even when Ray smiled, the scar on his face flexed. "That's why the farm will go to Ethan. So when you drive out the yard crying come spring, you won't have to look back."
"What?"
"What?" said Ray, echoing. "What interest do you have in it?"
"He's not even your son," said Jacob, "he's a Werther and you know it."
"You're a Werther," said Ray. "He's not a liar or a quitter. He knows how to work and he wants to work, not jerkoff like you. He only knows how to work, and you – "
"And you're such a hero. You haven't done shit except for bully me, my whole life!"
"You've had it so rough. Make something up, something sad, so you can allow yourself to shirk through life. You'll find a sad audience of sympathetic women and drunks to listen to you while you cry in your beer."
"I'm going to knock that stupid fucking dead tooth out of your face."
"Now you're talking," Ray said, limping forward on his sprained ankle. "Come take it from me. You're eighteen now. We can have it out legally. Go for it, kid."
Jacob stood in a sideways stance as his father neared, readying his fists, mustering the will to strike his father. To not swing would be worse. But the flat barge of a chest and the sunbeaten, weathercut face of Ray made him fearful. The cows watched, grazed as droll spectators, chewing cud like popcorn.
Old enough to become a man, whether he liked it or not. A family tradition, of sorts. Ray had a fight with his father, Virgil, long ago. He goaded Jacob, "Big talker, let's see what you got."
Jacob adjusted his sweatshirt collar and glared at his father. Under his shirt, it felt like frogs and snakes had slithered onto his back – a different feeling than the fights he'd been in after school with his peers. An unnatural sensation livened a wickedness in his heart. His desire to fight his father drained quickly, but the condescending invitation became too great to resist. If he could just get the ogre stunned, pop his nose, get his eyes watering, then he could knock out that dead tooth.
Ray stepped forward. Jacob's fist lifted to shoulder level. The speed of his limping father surprised him, for in the instant Jacob moved, Ray loomed near and blocked Jacob's swing with his forearm, and then Jacob felt his thigh cave inward.
To the wet earth Jacob fell with a charlie-horse in his leg. A rain of expletives for all manner of races and sexual preference came from Jacob as he rubbed his muscles.
"I'm glad you tried, Jacob," said Ray. "It was overdue. I've caught you with that look one too many times at the dinner table, one too many times you thought you outgrew me. A time comes to test a boy that thinks he's a man, but you've only outgrown your britches."
Jacob muttered his disdain.
"What's that, filthy mouth?" asked Ray. "Oh, your leg hurts. Guy from Ohio taught me that in the Army. Simple move, but you have to be real close to make it work. He got me good. But I forgave him, in my own way. Knee to the thigh works swell if the other guy is full of air, like you are. A puffed-up fool never thinks to look down, forgets all about his legs. Most guys are all fight in the arms."
Jacob got to his feet and came back toward his father, punching him in the stomach. Without as much as a gasp, Ray absorbed the fist and seized Jacob's arms, reeled him in, bear hugged his son and squeezed the air out of the lungs like an accordion. "Another thing," said Ray, "is that you shouldn't throw yourself at the other fella if he's bigger, otherwise they can grab you like a sack of feed." Ray hit his forehead against Jacob's nose. A gentle headbutt, Ray thought. Hard enough to make the nose run red. "Also a good way to get your beak broke. And the guy with the most blood on his shirt is always the loser in the girls' eyes."
"Jesus," said Jacob, stumbling backward, catching drops of blood.
"That's right," said Ray. "He's the one to help you. Learn His name. Save yourself a lot of time finding Him later, if you find Him now instead."
Jacob tripped over his stack of wood and landed on his back. His eyes watered, blurring his vision. A blob approached, the shape of Ray coming again and Jacob attempted a double-leg takedown, but was simply shucked aside.
"Are we done now?" Ray asked, still taunting. "Done already? That's about right. Two tries and you fold like a shirt. Unless you want to get the axe and try again. I know how you like to cheat, bend the rules." A youthfulness in his father's voice made Jacob nervous. "If you like," said Ray, "it's right there. Grab it." He whispered, "Take a swing, like you wanted to earlier." He said aloud, "Thought I didn't see it then, didn't you? I know your face, Jacob. Been seeing that scowl since you were knee-high to a grasshopper."
With tears in his eyes, Jacob extended his middle finger in reply. Without changing tone, Ray twisted the finger and muttered in Jacob's ear, returning to his humorless ways. "Get straight. Or I will square you away. As long as you live here you follow rules. You'll show respect to your mother. This isn't some hotel where you come and go as you please. When your mother makes dinner you better be in the seat on time and eat two helpings, swallow it down even when she makes those Lima beans she's so fond of feeding us. On your graduation day, you can escape from here, but not until then. Understand?"
No answer.
"I'll break this finger right now and you can forget football…understand?"
"Yes!"
"Next summer you can find what the real world has for you. A liar like you might end up a rich man. And you'll come back here and act like you know something that we don't know here – but we'll know, I'll know. I'll know that you never saw anything through and cut corners to get wherever you end up." Ray said it again, to make it echo, so that it would always echo in Jacob's decisions, so that quitting and running would shame him.
"Bullshit," said Jacob.
"Then you better show me you can be honest, starting right now until I kick the bucket. From now on, when I say be home by midnight, I mean ten o'clock. Now get up." Ray laughed again. "By God, if you didn't take that swing at me, I really might have left you out of the will!" A large hand fell on Jacob's shoulder, heavy as one hundred and sixty acres and a hundred head of cattle.
"You better not leave me out of it."
"You want to farm? Good. In a few years you can come back and kick my ass, maybe when I'm crippled. Let's go eat lunch. Nothing to be ashamed of. My Dad mopped me up in the kitchen more than once. Wipe your face. Christ – are you crying?"
"Didn't hurt. It's my nose," said Jacob, clearing his eyes and following his father to the 4-wheeler, getting on behind Ray. The bumps and mudpies in the pasture forced him to wrap his hands around his father's waist again to hang on. He stared at the table-sized back in front of him. This time, Jacob leaned his forehead onto his father and held tightly, sapped of energy. He bowed his head toward his father to rest his head, in defeat.
An instinct in Jacob reviled the loss. He wiped his eyes on his father and thought clearly for a moment. Losing irritated him. And all things were games. This, too, a game. Part of a longer game. The great game - with games within games. He would not be broken by a gimp dead-toothed old-man. Jacob picked his head up from his father's back and shouted loudly.
"Stop," he shouted over the motor. "I dropped my wallet."
"Huh?" said Ray, braking.
When the ATV halted, Jacob, with his arms still around his father's waist, grabbed his other wrist and lifted, hammer-throwing his father over the side, off the 4-wheeler.
The giant tumbled on the pasture ground.
Jacob leapt off the seat and pinned his knee against his father's chest. He punched the dead tooth with his fist, once, hard enough that the skin broke on Jacob's knuckle and made the nerves in his hand rollback into his arm with pain. He raised his other arm
to swing and ensure that the ridiculous tooth lost its root, but the leg of his father rose up and swept Jacob to the side, to the ground again, into a cow pie. No frogs or snakes creeping on his back this time, Jacob flailed until he found his feet. How had he forgot that it was all a game, even for a second? Jacob escaped a swipe of Ray's arm and ran at Ray again, acting like he wanted to strike the dead tooth. When Ray's guard came up, Jacob jabbed him in the ribs and then danced around and punched his father in the back of the head, then stepped on his bad ankle and made Ray grunt in pain.
"You like that?" said Jacob, taunting Ray, from a distance.
Using his fingers, Ray wiggled the bicuspid in his mouth. He pulled on it and lifted his lips into a snarl, wincing and pulling. "Still tight, my dead tooth. You didn't even budge it."
"I can fix that for you," said Jacob, approaching and retreating, "I can beat your face until the shit in your head runs out of your ears." He neared and barely escaped another swipe from the large hand of Ray. The strings of Jacob's sweatshirt, loose and swinging, a hazard. In a swift move, Jacob pulled his sweatshirt off, along with his t-shirt. To be shirtless in a fight seemed appropriate, since as a boy he once saw Judd Blanks remove his shirt and scrap at the summer dance in Immaculate. Jacob idolized Judd after that night.
The tongue came alive in Jacob. Going back and forth, around his father, he danced and connived for a chance to take him down again. A lifetime of unsaids, with most of his insults relating to shit. That his old man wasn't shit, that he had never done shit, and would never do shit.
The bounce in Jacob made Ray laugh.
"Laugh it up, laugh," said Jacob.
"Much better," said Ray.
Jacob kept stalking but had to ask. "What is?"
Ray didn't say anything and started to get on the 4-wheeler again, his face full of pride.
Jacob stopped dancing when he saw that his father had abandoned the fight. Something had changed. Jacob stopped storming. He rubbed his nose and Ray rubbed his tooth.
"I'm hungry," said Ray.
Jacob nodded and looked at his shirt on the ground, in the mud.
"Are you hungry?" Ray asked.
"Yeah."
"Let's go in. I'm proud of you. Now put your shirt on, you'll get pneumonia. Good job, son."