Caretaker
by Brendan McNally Landry
He was nearly out of nails and he could smell a storm rolling in, feel it breathing down the open neckline of his coat. His hand had begun to freeze around the worn out handle of his hammer; it was time to head back, he thought. He figured he’d done over a half mile of fence line today. Not enough to keep anything in, but he’d earned a beer or two. He double checked that all his tools were back in their place, slung heavily from his belt, and turned back towards his truck. The sky was the color of wet rock, he noticed, and he could just see the far end of the property in the distance. A bare hill rose up in pale comparison against the jagged and snow covered mountain peaks behind it. Between here and there, sat the ramshackle house he was living in and he knew that with him gone all day, it would be bitter cold by the time he got back there.
By the loose count he kept in his head, Caleb had been out here now about a hundred days, but he still stared in awe at the surrounding mountains as he made his way back to his truck. The wind hit his face hard, and he was hungry. With his tired mind, he tried to remember what he had left to cook. A few potatoes, likely. Maybe some meat, if he could get it thawed without much effort, enough beer to get him to sleep. Either way, he knew he’d be heading to town tomorrow or the next day. Fifty miles both ways. If he was lucky, Lucy’d be working and he’d be able to convince her to let him stay in town. Burn some cash, sleep against something soft and warm. He could use a few hours away from the fence line, away from his own head.
The sun was hung up just between two uneven peaks as he rounded the bend, expecting to see his truck sitting idle next to the thin, winding two-lane highway that eventually kicked you out the other side of the state. Are those headlights?, he thought, but couldn’t recall seeing another car this far out since he watched Mr. Moore, the ranch owner who’d hired him as caretaker, drive away in a dust cloud a few months earlier. He stopped for a moment, making sure it wasn’t an illusion, a side effect of not seeing another human in over 2 weeks. But it was, he was certain and he picked up his pace, aiming for the shoulder of the road, hoping to cut them off should they drive away. The lights quickly cut off, and he wondered if he’d spooked them. He stopped in his tracks, the scrape of loose gravel under his boots carrying more than its fair share of sound in the open space, the quiet of falling night. He could see it was an older model car. Some sort of Chevy. It was turquoise and dented and the hinges squeaked as the driver swung the door open and leapt from the car. Caleb watched as what he presumed to be a man circled Caleb’s truck, brimming his hands over his eyes and pressing his face against the windows. Nothing in there, junior—he said to himself—nuthin but wood scraps and empty beer cans. It wasn’t until the man went for the door handles that Caleb remembered the keys hanging in the ignition. Better there than lost in some half-dead prairie shrub he’d told himself early that day. Hey—he called out—almost hearing his voice change directions in the strengthening wind. HEY—he yelled again, starting to walk faster along the gravel shoulder. The faster he ran, the harder his tools slapped against his waist and he wished he hadn’t worked so hard.
Out of breath, Caleb reached the car, taking the man by surprise. What the fuck you doin?—he screamed, rapping his cold hands hard against the hood of his own pale red S-10. The man threw his hands up in the air, and slid across the seat toward the passenger side. Whoa—he said—Whoa, as Caleb rounded the front of the truck and approached the open door. What the fuck do you think yer doin?—he said, filling the gaping doorway, one hand grasping the frame of the truck, the other lingering behind his back, hoping to create the illusion of a holstered firearm. He saw the glove box hanging open, neatly folded papers hanging over the edge, a few fallen to the floorboard, now caught under the man’s foot. The man’s face was frozen. He looked forward through the cracked windshield, his jaw dropped, mouth open. He was cautious and non-expressive. I saw the truck, man—he said, trying to calm the situation. I saw the truck and I thought it was abandoned, that’s it. He continued to stare straight through the windshield. Caleb could see his chest moving up and down with each heavy breath. What are you lookin for?—Caleb finally said, calmly and in a deeper voice than he might usually use. The man finally turned to face him. His shoulders dropped and Caleb saw he was young. His best guess was 17, maybe 18. He was scared, shaking, probably lost. The thought crossed Caleb’s mind that he should’ve checked the other car for more people, but he didn’t want to take his eyes off this stranger in his truck. You alone?—he asked the boy. The boy raised his knee to his chest, his hand slipped down toward the door handle. Slip out thataway, ain’t nowhere to go—Caleb said, nodding his head toward the expanse of rolling, brush covered hills beyond the truck, beyond the expertly rebuilt fence posts that were becoming sure traps in the ever-darkening night. What are you lookin for?—Caleb asked again, leaning into the cab.
When Caleb finally got the kid to talk, the sun had gone. It was cold enough sitting in the cab of the truck that he could see his breath with each syllable he emitted, and he began to feel bad for the kid, who still sat hunched against the passenger door, limbs pulled into a tight ball on top of the seat, rubbing against each other for warmth. The kid wore only a too-small black t-shirt and jeans that had holes in each knee, and one huge tear inches below the left pocket. He had messy brown hair and a thin face that carried a look like he was constantly apologizing. Other than that, Caleb thought he was non-descript enough that he didn’t need to come way the hell out here to hide from anyone, no matter what he’d done. The kid said he was looking for money. Almost whispered it with a slight stutter and Caleb was unsure as to whether that was a speech impediment or a nervous thing. Money?—Caleb said, dropping his shoulders and breathing out a short laugh—You think yer gonna find money in a pick-up on the side a the road….out here? What the hell you doin out here anyways, kid?
He said his name was Tony, and he had just come from Utah. Didn’t say whether that was where he always was. He was trying to get somewhere, somewhere far away, never saying exactly where. He didn’t have much cash. He was hungry. You know where yer at?—Caleb asked as Tony readjusted on the seat, glared out the passenger side window at the hills that now blended together in the darkness, only spots of snow that remained from the last storm glowing in the dusk light. No clue—Tony said, sniffling. Well—Caleb said—yer at least 50 miles from everywhere.
This yer land?—Tony muttered, pulling at his lip. Caleb thought briefly about lying to him, telling him that yes, this was his land. Every bit of it. Every scrap of tree, every rock or blade of browned grass. It was all his. But the fact was, he didn’t own anything. Didn’t know this land any better than he knew the sands of Hawaii. He felt he could start walking now and go until his nose was pressed right up against the cold, steep incline of those distant mountains, and he wouldn’t understand this place any better. No—he finally said, his own voice sounding unfamiliar to him—this ain’t my land. I’m just a guest here. Finally, Tony turned to look him in the face. He looked tired, or stoned. Caleb wasn’t sure which. This is my truck, though—he said, running his fingers quickly under the sun visor just above his head, releasing a short puff of dust and dirt. He let the truck fill up with silence then rolled his head lazily toward Tony, sending his gray ball cap cockeyed against the headrest. He wondered what this kid was running from. Wondered how a kid who looked so harmless, like a leaf floating on top of a pond, could find himself out here all alone. Well—Caleb said—like I said, town’s bout 50 miles that way. Outside a that, yer hours from anywhere impressive. The mere thought of town gave Caleb a sudden urge to hit the road. The trip would be fast with Tony in the passenger seat, although he had not yet proven himself to be a real talker. But he needed food anyway, and Lucy had been on his mind for a week. That slight band of skin between her jeans and the bottom of her shirt. Her breath still holding on to that last shot of whiskey. The way she bit his ear, and guided his rough hands down to the points of her naked hips. Jesus—he said aloud, shaking his head slowly back and forth, his forefinger flicking the mass of keys that dangled from the ignition. He gave the kid a once over, exhaled heavily through his nose, and turned the key. Tony sat up quickly in the passenger seat, extending one hand out to brace himself against the scarred dashboard, trying for the first time to puff his chest out a bit. What are you gonna do to me, mister?—Tony asked, his voice nearly drowning in the low rumble of the truck’s engine. Caleb snickered, gripping the gearshift with his right hand. Hell—he said—don’t know, guess I could call the cops. But I’ll likely get you fed first. He turned the headlights on and the twin beams cut through the blackness, exposing only the speckled gravel of the road’s shoulder and a row of prairie brush dancing rigidly in the night wind. He slammed down on the gas, jerked the wheel to the left, and had the truck headed back toward the house in seconds. Caleb stared heavily at the strange kid who showed up out of nowhere. This strange, hungry kid. A thief caught in the act, trapped now against the door of his dusty truck, gripping the handle like it was his sole possession, not yet certain he was out of danger.
The house that Caleb kept was half finished, barely livable, but it had heat, a tv, and running water, which was all the complexity he needed at this point. Tony sat silently in the living as Caleb hunched over his nightly chore of starting the fire. The presence of another living, breathing soul made him too aware of his every movement and he silently cursed himself, as he fumbled awkwardly while stacking the wood, snapping two matches as he struck them against the stone mantel before finally producing a lit flame. It felt strange for Caleb to have anyone in the house, and he said so to Tony as he handed over the first beer. Usually it’s just me and the tv—he said, pointing at the news show that flickered on the large, wood framed television that went almost unnoticed in the corner of the small living room. Though he had said very little, Tony’s mere presence on the couch made Caleb feel like a guest again. His one hundred plus days were out the window, blown away in the cold, and he was once again left to grow accustomed to the small confines, the musty smell, the curved cracks in the corners of the windows. He made note again of the obvious bend in the floor, the stained carpet, and the way the refrigerator awkwardly filled its space in the entryway. He felt the need to apologize, but choked it back with a swallow of beer, asked if the kid liked meat.
Tony licked his plate clean, and by the time he set it down on the table in front of him, both men were drunk and it was late. Normally, Caleb would be fast asleep by now, dreaming of the fence line or Lucy’s thighs, but he kept at it, fetching beer after beer from the fridge and shoving them into Tony’s hand and down his own throat. He told Tony about Mr. Moore and the list of jobs he had been left with, and the grueling work of the fence repair. I guess the old bastard wants to sell the place—he said, settling back into the couch from a trip to the fridge—but he needs a young buck like me to do the work. Tony laughed at this, sipped his beer and said—So how’d he choose you? Tony cracked a wry smile and they both broke out in laughter, the loudest sound in that living room for more than one hundred days.
Before heading to bed, Caleb set Tony up with a sweatshirt and a couple of blankets on the couch and did what he could to dampen the fire. I don’t know what it is yer runnin from—Caleb said, slapping stray ashes from his hands and shirt—and I ain’t askin you to tell me. But it won’t find you at my place. I know—he continued—cause I can’t barely find it. Finally, Caleb shut the last light off and in the darkness from under the doorframe of his bedroom, he said—and if it’s just money you need, I got that, Tony. But you’ll have to earn it. Hope you can haul some wood.
It wasn’t that long ago that Caleb was that age, and he thought about it once again as he lay on his back trying to make out the edges of the water-stained ceiling tiles above him. He couldn’t remember the exact date, or even what season it was. But he left in a hurry, headed for Denver and some job he was promised and never got. She would be seven or eight by now, a full grown, walking talking girl. He hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out what they named her. He wrote once and sent money when he was working construction outside of Denver, but never heard back. It would have been easy for him to go back four or five years ago, he knew, but now it was too late. He now knew, laying in this bed with one breathing sole within 50 miles of him, that the very moment, 8 or so years ago, when he decided to turn that truck north and step on the gas was the moment he’d be paying for for the rest of his life.
In the morning, Caleb awoke with a shot. Fuck—he said, sitting straight up in bed, partially clothed, head throbbing. He took his head in his hands, imagining the empty couch, the house a mess, his hard earned money crammed in the back pocket of some young punk’s jeans. FUCK—he said again, leaping from bed. This is what you get—he thought—for bringing goddamn hoodlums in here. This is what you get.
He flung the bedroom door open to indeed find the couch empty, blankets neatly folded on the edge, the coals in the fireplace glowing low and even like a tiny sunset. The beer cans had been cleaned up, but Tony was nowhere in the house. Caleb stormed to the front door, which was not fully closed, and was surprised to be hit with fat snowflakes on his bare chest. He could see out to the road from the front door, could make out the turquoise of Tony’s car standing in stark contrast against the gray and dim brown of the hillsides. Tony walked up behind the car and opened the trunk. Caleb watched as the top half of his body disappeared into the trunk, his left leg lifted up for balance. He emerged after a few seconds with something in his arms, a khaki jacket that he shook out in front of him like a mother cleaning off a bathmat. He put the jacket on and turned toward the front of the car, opening the driver side door. Fuck—Caleb said, thinking the worst—that little bastard. He slammed the front door and turned quickly toward the stout refrigerator, heaving the weight of his shoulder and forearm into it, grunting loudly and gritting his teeth. He yanked the freezer door open, thrusting the full length of his bare arm to the very back. It was tucked behind a neat stack of butchered meat, and his heart fluttered when he couldn’t find it right away. He knew the exact amount that was in the envelope, he’d counted it just a few days ago. He could tell from the thickness in his hand that it wasn’t all gone, but he wanted to know for sure. He flipped open the shallow flap, licked the tips of his thumb and forefinger, and started counting one bill at a time. Just then, he heard the unmistakable sound of tires crushing gravel, the squeal of brakes, and in seconds Tony was standing in the doorway. I’m ready to work—he said, his face bent in an earnest expression. Caleb stood in his boxer shorts, the freezer door standing wide open, feeling only the thin cold of the envelope against his pale lower back.
They hugged the fence line for as long as they could stand it that day. The snow never quit, seeming to change directions, constantly beating them in the face. Caleb fought the snow, an aching back from eight straight days of fence work, and the lingering thought that the kid could’ve let him sleep that morning while he loaded everything he owned into his turquoise beater. Despite that, they worked efficiently, Caleb yelling directives down the line, Tony silently following orders. He was a good worker, Caleb thought, and by almost three o’clock, he figured they’d done more than twice what he’d done the day before. When Caleb finally decided they were done, he gave a whistle and waved Tony in, two arms flailing above his head. He watched as Tony neatly stacked the remaining planks against the built fence, preparing for tomorrow’s work. Caleb decided he’d pay him $500. He’d pay him that, and he’d take him to town tonight. It was time that both of them went.
They left the ranch headed for town just as the sun was dipping behind the mountain range. It had stopped snowing, but not before a few inches had piled up on the road. Caleb hunched down over the steering wheel, craning his neck to get a better look at the sun fading away. Have a look at that—he said to Tony—we’re the only two people seeing that right now, guarantee. He clasped the wheel with both hands, leaned back and let out a sigh. Let me ask you something—he said, focusing back on the snowy road ahead. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tony shift in his seat uncomfortably. Why didn’t you leave this morning?—he asked—I mean, you coulda walked out and driven away with whatever you wanted. Why stay? He turned to face Tony briefly, his brow wrinkled and tense. Tony shrugged, pushed a sharp breath from his nostrils. I told you I’d work for the money—he said—that’s it. The two men fell silent, staring out at the sprawling landscape as the truck droned on the winding highway, cutting tracks in the fresh snow. They passed sparse trees separated by outcroppings of exposed rock, rough soil spitting up half dried plant life, riverbeds that sit dry nine months out of the year. Surrounded by the kingly mountain range, you can’t help but wonder how you ended up here. This place is Mars—Caleb thought—no wonder Mr. Moore is bailing.
The lights of the town approached on the near horizon like a large jet plane hitting its landing and Caleb felt for the folded stack of hundreds in his back pocket. He slipped his fingers into the tight pocket, leaning his weight toward the driver side door, and pulled the bills out. They were crisp, brand new bills that Mr. Moore had probably pulled from a big bank over in Denver. He held the bills loosely between the first two fingers of his right hand and extended it out toward Tony. Whaddya know—he said—you can find money in a pick-up truck. Nice work today, kid. Tony took the money slowly, unfolded it and spread it out like a poker hand in front of him. That’s too much—he said—way too much. Caleb shook his head, refusing to even talk about the decision he had made. They pulled on to Main Street, and Caleb began to drum feverishly on the top of the steering wheel. Main Street consisted of maybe 20-25 storefronts on either side, but there was a surprising amount of people milling about the street. The hillsides that surrounded the town twinkled with lights from houses and condos, people that sat up in the hills alone, staring down at what was going on on Main Street. Caleb knew that most of these people on the street would be retreating back to the twinkling lights in the next couple of hours, but it was nice to be surrounded by movement and conversation for the time being.
As Caleb pulled the truck into a slanted parking spot, Tony slipped his thin stack of bills into the front pocket of his jacket. Hey Caleb—he said, as the gear box groaned and the truck settled into the spot—You know that whatever I did…back in Utah. It ain’t that bad. His hands were tied in knots in his lap and his mouth hung barely open, as if he had more to say. Caleb zipped up his jacket and held his large hand out in front of him. I ain’t askin ya, kid—he said—now come on. He slammed the door shut and turned toward the Hangman.
The Hangman was Lucy’s bar and usually Caleb’s last stop each time he came to town. It was usually the same hunched-back old men sitting at the bar, swilling whiskeys and cheap cans of beer; some of the younger locals playing cards in the darker corners, a few adventurous tourists from time to time. The music was a mix of classic rock and oldies and usually played loud enough to drown out any meaningful conversation. Normally, he’d wander in for one drink, which he hoped would turn into several, which would turn into him sleeping above the bar with Lucy. His success rate was less than fifty percent, and his stomach rolled a bit thinking about the reception he would get tonight. It would help having Tony here—he thought.
They bellied up at the very end of the bar as Lucy was pouring a round for the geezers. He usually sat as far away as possible from the rest of the crowd, so that Lucy would have to come over just for him. Caleb waved down the bar at her and was met with a concise raise of the head. He watched intently as she expertly poured the drinks without looking, without leaving the conversation she was having with the old men. She was all smiles and she made the old men laugh. She tapped the counter in front of them as she turned toward the end of the bar, and Caleb watched the old men follow her with their eyes. She wore jeans and a thin green t-shirt, an outfit that Caleb thought would be less than noteworthy on any other person. But on Lucy, it was striking. Her hair was pinned up to the back of her head, and Caleb was reminded of that night, now over 3 weeks ago. How his hand swept her brown curls up to the back of her head, exposing her small ear, the curve of her neck. He had kissed her ear and she liked it, asked for more. He had laughed silently as the nicks in his rough hands caught on her skin. They had fucked before, fueled certainly by whiskey and lust. Lust that could be attached to anyone, amounting to two people performing a shameful, private act in each other’s company, and he always knew he’d be up and gone before the sun was fully up, never having to look her in the face. But there was something different that night. The way she moved her body purposefully on top of his, shifting her weight and the angle of her hips, as if her movements might unlock some sort of safe. How he had broken the relative silence with a surprising groan, guided her in the darkness with firm hands grasping the small of her back, her neck, and the backs of her thighs. How his head flooded with what to say to her when they were through, laying side by side, naked and slicked in sweat. But nothing was right; and what he should have done was say nothing at all, and he knew it even before his lips had left her ear, before the last word formed on the end of his tongue. That’s not what this is about—she said—you know that. He felt her slide across the bed, pressing her backside into him. She smelled of smoke and sweat. Now—she said—make me forget you just said that. Caleb felt his grip tighten on the smooth skin just above her hip.
Shaking that thought from his head, Caleb glanced down at his lap and took in a deep breath as Lucy threw her rag down on the bar in front them. Well look who it is—she said, leaning back and planting a balled up fist firmly on her hip. Sight for sore eyes if I’ve ever seen one—she said. Caleb introduced Tony as his friend from Utah and ordered beers and shots for both of them.
There was no intention of having only one drink tonight, and they began to pile up quickly. Tony sang along to the few songs he knew, and told jokes about living in Utah. Caleb rambled on about the ranch, how stupid Mr. Moore was. He tossed out the idea of buying it up, how maybe he and Tony could run it, buy some cattle and be real ranchers. They both laughed, spilling beer in their laps and on the floor below them. They did toast after toast to fence builders and truck thieves. They carried on like brothers, oblivious to everyone else in the bar but Lucy. Each time she took their order, it seemed she leaned further over the bar, and Caleb began to think of the right thing to say, the thing to get him back in that warm apartment. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t what he said it was. That it was simply a night away from the ranch and the cold, sleeping against something soft and warm.
When Tony finally went to use the bathroom, Caleb felt a lump form in his throat. He called her over, forcing himself to take advantage of their sudden solitude. She leaned over, resting on her forearms and he felt her breath pass over his face. Look—he said—the other day. Lucy’s face fell flat and she shook her head, reeled back from the bar. No—he said—let me finish. Caleb glanced quickly over his shoulder at the bathroom door. What?—she said—ya gonna throw another fit, Caleb? Is that it? She tossed her towel on the bar and stood straight up, head cocked forward, challenging Caleb for an answer. Forget it—he managed, dropping his head in his hands as she walked toward the other end of the bar, to the beckoning of cranky old men with empty glasses. He breathed deeply, stared at the pool of spilled beer below him, the shining nickel that sat at its center. Fuck it—he thought. He had Tony to take care of tonight anyway.
Just then, Tony slid back on top of his stool and slapped Caleb on the shoulder. What’s happenin’, brother?—he said, rubbing his palms together in excitement. Shots?—he asked. Caleb lifted his head, nodded in agreement to the shots. Tony was drunk and eager, full of himself as he waved Lucy over. Called her ‘darlin’, with a crooked smile stretched across his face. A smile Caleb would not have thought possible a day ago as the boy cowered silently in his truck.
It was snowing again as Caleb dragged Tony out of the Hangman by his collar. He had taken his turn in the bathroom and returned to find Lucy leaning in toward Tony’s face. Though it was drowned out by the noise from the jukebox, he could see they were both laughing. Just as plainly as he saw the laughter fall quickly from their faces as he approached. What is this?—he said, staring each of them in the face. Lucy cleared her throat, said nothing as Caleb let his glass slip from his hand. As the glass and beer shattered at his feet, he yanked Tony up from his stool, leaving Lucy bent over the other side of the bar, her mouth frozen open in surprise, and dragged him outside. He threw Tony down hard into the snow bank that had formed just to the right of the entrance. I shoulda done this the moment I saw you—he said, bending down to grab the front of Tony’s shirt—I shoulda beat the shit outta you and strung you to one a those goddamn fence posts. Caleb straightened him out and hauled off three good punches to his cheekbone. He was surprised how badly it hurt his fists and took a second to survey the damage. There was a cut just below Tony’s eye and Caleb was compelled to make it worse. He fired off two more solid punches and felt the warm blood across his knuckles. Tony moaned something and hung limp in Caleb’s clutched hand. Lucy emerged then from the Hangman and screamed at Caleb. What are you doing?—she said—STOP! It was nothing. Caleb dropped the kid on the snow bank and made a move toward Lucy, pointing at her with gritted teeth. You—he said in a low growl. She stepped back, bringing her arms up under chin for protection. He took a breath, his pointed finger shaking in front him. This time he said nothing. She looked horrible standing under the awning light, her face contorted in fear. He was disgusted. He turned back to Tony who was writhing and bleeding in the snow. Caleb bent down, wiped the blood from his hand on Tony’s khaki jacket before ripping the stack of bills from the front pocket. He balled up one of the bills and threw it to where Lucy was shivering in the light and crammed the rest in his back pocket and returned to his truck.
The snow kept falling, cutting through the beams of his headlights like swarms of bugs. He gripped the steering wheel with his throbbing hand and did his best to stay on the right side of the road, but he was again making new tracks in fresh snow. The odds were in his favor, he knew, as the likelihood of encountering another car on this road at this hour was slim and none. Nothing but darkness and piling snow. He’d make it the 50 miles and be alright. He repeated this in his head several times. He’d make it back to the ranch. The house will be cold. He’d need to make a fire. He would get at the fence early in the morning. Make up for lost time. He knew he could go at least a week with the little bit of food he had left. Mr. Moore would be coming out at the end of the month and the fence would need to be done by then. No distractions now—he thought.
