New Frontiers

Seattle was at its rainy drabbest, unusually so for August, when my ringing phone added voltage to my hangover one Friday. Determined spatters on my downtown loft’s oversized windows made the place look like it was going through a car wash, and the gray light of an overcast noon matched my mood to a T.

I looked at the caller ID. Instantly, I wished I hadn’t. “Bethany McCormick,” it said. I’d been meaning to change her contact listing to “Your Ex, Don’t Pick Up.” But I hadn’t gotten around to it.

Against my better judgment, I answered. “Something you need, ma’am?”

“Good morning, Ray. How are you?”

I decided I didn’t feel like being nice to her. “That isn’t why you called, Beth. What’s up?”

She didn’t get to business right away. “Did I catch you at a bad time? I’ll bet you’re busy.”

I didn’t want to make small talk, or any talk, with her at all. But I had to say something to get her started. “Had a trial. Ended yesterday. Lotta hours this week. Taking today off. What do you need?”

She took a deep breath, and sighed, and paused. I was ready to chirp off at her when she finally began. “It’s my dad. He needs a lawyer. I don’t know who to call.”

I’d met her father the previous summer, on Beth’s and my “big volcano adventure.” We just went to Mt. Hood, but technically it is a volcano, so that’s what we called our trip. We stayed at his fruit farm, north of the foothills. It’d been her family’s homestead since the late-1800s, and I got to know the area some, between our rock climbing and camping and skittering around on Coalman Glacier.

I started with the obvious. “Parkdale’s in Oregon, Beth. I’m admitted in Washington. He’ll need an Oregon attorney.”

I assumed that wouldn’t settle the matter. It didn’t. She continued. “Come on, Raymond. You always find loopholes.”

Two months after she’d moved out of our loft, or, my loft by then, she still knew me better than I wanted her to. She was right. I relented.

“OK, OK. I probably could do something, assuming his LLC still owns the farm. If Greg wants, I can practice as in-house counsel for his company. Is this a business problem?”

Beth stammered a bit; I could tell she didn’t want to answer directly. “I... Uh... See, Melinda called. She’s worried about him. So am I, now. Anyway, there’s some kind of property-line dispute at the farm. But the new neighbors aren’t... Ah, I mean, they’re people of color. And my dad’s... He’s... You know. He’s been really stubborn these past months, and he’s harder to deal with than ever. We’re afraid he’s going to do something... Dangerous.”

From meeting Greg, and from her stories about their relatively-new estrangement, I understood that he was essentially a bigoted crank who was disavowing his listening skills. By that Friday, as far as I knew, Beth’s sister was the only person still in regular contact with him.

“You talk to him, Beth? Or are you getting this from Melinda, or where? What’s ‘dangerous’ mean?”

The crux of the matter came out of her so fast, I had to replay it in my mind to make sure I had it straight. “Ray, he says he’s going to shoot the neighbors. Next time he sees them. Melinda really believes he’ll do it, or maybe even shoot himself. I need you to stop him. Or help him. Or something.”

When I thought about the call later, I had dozens of excuses for what I said next. I’d just lost a trial the afternoon before. I was hung over. It was raining like hell when it shouldn’t have been, on my day off, and I hadn’t eaten much the previous couple of days, and I still felt angry and betrayed and heartbroken after coming home to a note and an empty loft two months before. And, and, and.

Whatever the excuse, or whatever the reason, a big bundle of ugly came out of my mouth. “Jesus, Bethany! How ‘bout you call your new girlfriend, or boyfriend, or whatever they claim they are today? Have them lurch up off the tattoo table, and drive clear to Oregon, and face down a pissed-off lunatic farmer with a firearms collection, huh? Better yet – how ‘bout you drive down and just leave him one of your famous notes? That’ll fix him, hey?”

She started crying. She cried like I’d wanted to, but couldn’t manage to, for weeks and weeks. I should’ve felt terrible for making her cry like that. Later... Now, I suppose... I did. And I do. But at that moment, honestly, all I felt was jealousy. She’d gotten to bail out on me, on us, when she wanted, and she’d gotten to cry when she wanted, and she’d gotten to call me for a favor when she wanted, and she’d gotten to predict, rightly, that I’d drive four hours and go save her jackass of a dad.

When we broke up, I didn’t get anything like that. All I got was a note I hadn’t thrown away yet, and a pair of shoes she’d forgotten in my car, and enough hurt and disappointment to turn me into a jerk when I didn’t want to be one.

I hung up the phone and tossed it onto the sofa. I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and shot-gunned it. I watched the rain on the windows for a moment, but I didn’t learn a damned thing from it. Then I picked up the phone, and I sent Bethany a text.

“Make sure I have Melinda’s correct phone number. I’ll get into the matter this afternoon.”

So, I did. I pulled up the Hood River County property records on my computer, and I pretty much saw what Greg’s beef was. On paper, anyway. When the house next door changed hands from the Anderson family to the Rodriguez family, the buyer’s survey had revealed an old boundary-line error. Mr. Rodriguez recorded the survey. Then somebody at the county wrote a letter, and hijinks ensued.

I called the buyer’s attorney. She was friendly as pie; we outlined a proposal to settle the whole thing for $1 in about ten minutes.

Then I called Beth’s sister for the lowdown on Greg. It sounded like he was in a bad way, mentally. Bad enough, that I figured I’d better go see him immediately. She agreed to set it up. By 6:00 the next morning, I was chewing up miles on I-5 southbound, and swilling enough caffeine to keep me between the lines for the next four hours.

At the farm, Melinda and I happened to reach the driveway at the same time. When we parked and got out, we saw Greg on a mid-sized tractor about 50 yards from the house, using a power augur attachment to drill post holes for what would soon become a brand-new fence. He shut off the motor and climbed down as we approached. I saw the butt end of a shotgun next to his seat, but I knew it was best to pretend I hadn’t. I was all down-home and aw-shucks when I greeted him.

“Mornin’, Greg! You chasing gophers with that rig?”

He smiled a bit at that, and came to shake my hand. “Naw, Ray. But I am keepin’ out some pests! Melinda’s told you ‘bout them... people... over there, yeah?”

He’d as much spat as said the word ‘people.’ I figured I was going to have to pick my battles with the old guy; that one didn’t make the cut. I half-nodded, half-gestured for Melinda to leave us alone, as she and I had planned on the phone. When she neared the house, I started.

“Yeah, so, Beth called me.”

Greg shook his head when I mentioned her name. “I heard she left you. How’d she do it? With a note? Middle of the night kind of thing?”

I hadn’t expected that question. All I could do was nod. He nodded, too.

“Ray, I was sad to hear it. Her mother did that. One day, just ‘poof,’ and she was gone. Some apples don’t fall too far from the trees, I reckon. Heard she took up with a woman?”

I surely didn’t want to discuss Beth’s new flame. But I knew I’d need him to trust me, some. So I angled for a little bonding.

“Yeah. I gather. Couldn’t really tell, past the lip rings and the nose piercings and whatnot. Looked to me like she fell face-first into a tackle box.”

Greg smiled and kicked at a small rock with one of his boots. “Damn this world today, you know? Used to be, we knew who was who, and who was what. Nowadays? Hell.”

I looked past him to the rows of trees that began about another dozen yards off. “Pears look pretty good, sir. Ready for harvest?”

He nodded and turned to look with me. “We will be, soon as I get this fence up. You see that corner tree? Nearest on the right?”

He pointed to the largest pear tree in the orchard. It was easily 40 feet tall, and much older than the others. The line of new post-holes headed toward it. I could hear the pride in his voice when he continued.

“Ray, that’s a direct descendant of a tree my ancestors brought with them to Oregon. By covered wagon. From Pennsylvania. Can you imagine the hardship? Hell, the danger?”

Greg’s pride shifted to a mix of contempt and anger when he spoke next. “And now, here come those... whatchamacallits, from whatever country, and they think they’re gonna move up here and just take that tree from me? No. Nosir. I told them, I told Melinda, and I’m tellin’ you. I’ll shoot ‘em all dead before I let that happen.”

It was time for some lawyering. I tried to sound as sympathetic as I could. “Naw, Greg. They don’t want that tree. Or, any. It’s an old survey mistake, is all –”

He cut me off cold. “It’s bull, is what it is! Me and Ed Anderson, we knew about the property line. And we had a handshake deal 40 years ago. That tree and the ones near it are mine, regardless. Ain’t that basically squatter’s rights against these –”

I didn’t want to hear whichever slur he had in mind. I interrupted. “That’s the trouble, sir. You and Ed had an agreement. Your possession of that slice of land wasn’t hostile, or what we call ‘adverse.’ It’s not good against the new owners over there.”

Greg stalked straight to his tractor. He grabbed his shotgun and racked a shell. “I’ll bet this is good against ‘em!”

I don’t know how I spoke very quickly and very calmly, but I did. “Whoa, there, sir. Listen. I’ve got it all figured out. We can do another deed, and they’ll just sign that little slice over to you legally. They only want one thing, OK?”

He sneered and spat. “They ain’t gettin’ squat!”

I pressed on. “Well, then, they don’t get squat. But I want one thing. OK? Just your solemn word, that you will not ever point a gun their way, and not ever hurt anybody else... And... Now, this is part of the deal... You’ll not, ever, hurt yourself.”

At that last, his upper lip trembled. His eyes reddened. He looked away quickly; I knew he was fighting not to cry. We were silent for a long moment. His voice cracked a bit when he replied.

“Damn it all, Ray. Damn this world! And these damned people. Why... Why can’t everything just be like it’s supposed to be? Why do these people...?”

I shrugged, and I gestured with my hand for the gun. He brought it to me as I spoke.

“I don’t know, sir. I guess, sometimes, some folks just know they need to leave Pennsylvania.”