The Old Oak

The Old Oak

By Jonah Klever

Our family parable holds that it was my grandfather who planted the tree. Our ranch didn’t have many trees, it was cattle country after all. Maybe it was the lack of competition, or the fertile, untouched land, whatever it was, this tree towered over our homestead. From it’s hillock, for three generations, it watched over us, our oaken guardian.

My grandmother insisted the Beckett line was firmly rooted in English soil, but most of us were content with a plain American label. The Beckett clan was one of the first to arrive in Eumasaw Territory. I guess it figures we would also be one of the last to leave. The railroad pulled people west like a tide. And for a while Brushwood was a boomtown. But just as sure as it had arrived, the frontline of progress marched west. Brushwood withered, as quickly as it had bloomed, and soon only the stubborn remained; our family, proudly among them.

It didn’t take long for the town gossip to turn resentful. Even those who we had shared parting drinks with, who’d received “safe travels” from us, were now belittled for lacking commitment or falling into an opportunistic streak. If the slander did any lick of good, it brought those who remained together, through a common sentiment of “better off without them.” But when the harvests came in, I could tell by the food on the table and the look in my father’s eye that the town was hurting.

My daddy was offish to say the least. I heard Pete joke that he had raised seven sons because they were cheaper than mules, and twice as hardworking. He was in the field before the sun was in the sky, and when he was finally dragged inside by the dinner bill, it was easy to tell his mind was figuring yields and next spring’s planting schedule. Whether it was mom’s tale of the gossip she overheard in town, or little Ben’s account of what he learned from the school master, it was rare to cultivate more than a “uh-huh” from him. And the unpleasantness of late did little to improve his temperament.

I was the eldest, and probably the only child who picked up on the newly weighed burden resting upon my father’s shoulders. I did what little I could: I shared my portions of supp with Ben and the others, and woke with the dawn, helping tend to the herd. But I never felt like it was enough.

A few times, on those cold winter nights, after my mother had gone to bed with the youngsters. He would take out his bottle of whiskey from where it was stashed beside the mantle. In all the years that I knew him- not was reared by him, but really knew him- he never even finished one bottle. But he kept it for nights like those, when we could pour a glass, and sit by the dying fire and reminisce about when Brushwood was a true town.

One night he told me, “my older brother went to be a doctor. Figured himself too good for sod-busting I suppose. Never really sat right with me. We spoke little to none for years. Until my prized bull broke a fence post and managed to find a gully to tumble down. This bull was the biggest, meanest thing I’d ever seen in all my years of ranching. I still don’t know how we managed to get him across town to the Doc’s. But he had something to calm him down before one of the ranch hands took a horn to the gut. Treated the leg so good too, I didn’t have to put him down, nothing short of a miracle worker laying’ on hands. I insisted I buy him a drink after that, and a few rounds later we couldn’t believe we had let something so petty stand between us all this time. I was always more cut out for this life anyway” he’d said with a smile, “the place would have gone to the weeds before he finished one of those books of his.” Uncle Doc was buried under the oak tree when I was eight. I was seventeen when my daddy joined him.

My father’s final year was not an easy one. Infirmity is a terrible curse for the restless. I’m sure he would have prefered to work himself to death, but ma wouldn’t let him. By that time I was a more than capable rancher myself, and the leanness of the times had shrunk our operations to something I could handle with only the help of my brothers. It had been nearly a decade since we could afford to pay hands.

While out in the fields, far from earshot, Ben would call him “the old bull.” And he was two horns short of a true transformation. Quick to anger and twice as stubborn. Over dinner every night he demanded a detailed report of what I had “done to his ranch.” as if expecting the place to burn down in his absence. I am ashamed to admit a part of me looked forward to the day when I could run things without his dogging oversight, or even sell the acreage and invest in a vocation of my calling.

***

It was late autumn day when the first suit came to our door. The Beckett Ranch had long been a southern landmark, used by wanderers and lost cow-pokes alike. But it had been many years since Brushwood had hosted enough travelers for anyone to need directions. The man said he was here on behalf of Alexander Crawson, and my daddy said he didn’t talk to anybody who didn’t have the time to come themselves. My ma was at least able to convince him to get out of bed, which was no easy task, and have the manners to learn the man’s business.

“I know times have been hard of late here in Brushwood-” the man started.

“How would you know?” The Old Bull interrupted. “I can tell from the cut of that suit of yours you aint from anywhere in three territories of here.”

The man’s smile was unphased. “Alexander Crawson is extending an offer to all the land owners in the area. A way to recoup some of your losses.”

“Oh so what? We’re some charity case for-” his retort devolved into a coughing fit.

“Not charity sir. A mutually beneficial transaction. Mr. Crawson is willing to extend a generous offer for your ranch.”

The Old Bull moved forward unassisted and leaned against the doorframe. “You can go scutting back to Mr. Crawson, and tell him to stuff his Old States money right back up h-” coughing cut him off again, and probably for the best.

The suit implored him to reconsider, as the offer would not last forever. He hadn’t realized, as we all had, that you had better chances of arguing a barn door open. Things escalated when he told my father to “consider what you are leaving to these fine sons of yours.” And he hurriedly left the porch to nothing short of a shotgun farewell. After the man was gone, my daddy took me by the arm. His hand was trembling, something terrible from the strain of standing and shouting.

“You gotta promise me something son.”

“What is it pa?” I asked, although I knew what request was coming.

“You can’t sell this place! Not even for all of Solomon’s jewels. It’s our family’s legacy. Too many Becketts have toiled here. Too many Becketts rest here. You can’t give all that away to some yankee, no matter how slick he is.”

I told him I wouldn’t. I swore on the old oak.

Although I secretly hoped Mr. Crawson’s agents would return, they never did.

***

It was that winter when we committed our father to the ground beneath the old oak. The freeze was so deep we had to burn straw and brush for six hours over the plot to dig a grave. But Ben and I laid him to rest with Uncle Doc and three generations of Becketts before him.

I waited as long as I could, out of respect or some other silly notion. But after a week I couldn’t wait any longer. As I saddled up my father’s old nag, I shuddered to imagine how the collective Beckett clan would twist in their grave, tilling the ground around that old tree. But I had to think about the next generations, not the ones that had come before me. I rode into town to call on Mr. Crawson.

A lot had changed since the last time I had been to Brushwood. It was only a few living souls away from a ghost town. Pete had passed a few years back, when the tuberculosis had finally caught up to him. An optimistic yankee named Normon had purchased the card-house from him believing that he had the skills and capital required to transform that old rum-trap into a boisterous saloon. So far though, business had been a mile shy from booming. But Normon’s positivity was not something easily shaken. He took the lack of traffic as an opportunity to dote on each person who pushed through his saloon doors as if they were a long lost friend returning from war.

“Welcome! Make yourself at home.” Norman came around the bar, and slid out a chair for me as I entered.

“Sorry Norman, I still haven't acquired a taste for the old orchard. I am just lookin’ for somebody.”

An ephemeral cloud of disappointment passed over Normon’s face before his relentless smile shone back through. “Don’t mention it, friend. If it’s information you need, you’ve come to the right place. I have a finger on the pulse of the comings-and-goings like no one else.”

I resisted the urge to ask him if he knew how long ago Brushwood’s heart had stopped beating. “I’m looking for a proper businessman type. Yankee fellow in a real sharp suit. You couldn’t have missed him if he came through.”

“Oh yes, I saw them. A whole gaggle of ‘em, rented out half my rooms. Unfortunately, they checked out a few days ago.”

I couldn’t believe I had missed them. “Didn’t leave no telegraph or nothing?”

“No, sorry kid. Just said they were going back to Chicago.”

***

Ma didn’t have to ask where I had been. She was waiting for me on the porch when I rode up.

“Henry. Don’t tell me...”

“I couldn’t sell it, they had already packed up shop and moved on, just like everyone else!”

“But you tried! The grass hasn’t even reclaimed your daddy’s plot and you’re already turning a back to his last wish?”

I knew what she was saying was fair, but the taste of shame was too bitter in my mouth. Anger was an easier poison to swallow.

“You hate it here just as much as me! He’s dead ma, you don’t have to lie anymore. How will our suffering appease them?” I pointed up the hill to where the tree stood, a silent, unrelenting judge. “They’re dead ma! We may as well forget ‘em.”

I stormed inside. Ben and the youngsters were huddled in the kitchen. I’m sure they had overheard every word. I hated that I didn’t know what to say to them. So I just brushed past them. I felt like the Old Bull and hated that most of all.

***

It didn’t take me long to pack my things, I didn’t have much. I packed a bag of my clothes, then grabbed my daddy’s suit from where it had hung for the years since his brother’s funeral. It was dusty and more than a little moth-eaten but it was the best I could get my hands on, and if I was hoping to get a face-to-face with Mr. Crawson, I better look the part. I snatched my daddy’s pocket watch from the dresser, then wrapped his old Navy-Model in a handkerchief, burying it at the bottom of my suitcase. I had never fired the thing, but if half the stories I had heard about Chicago were true I would be better off with an iron, just in case.

I said goodbye to each of the boys and told Ben to look after the place while I was gone. I told ma I was sorry, one last time, then set out on foot. The ranch only had one horse, and she would be more help around here than where I was going.

***

I sold the pocket watch to Mr. Teller who ran the last general store in town. He wasn’t in the business of pawning, but I told him why I needed the money and he had always been fond of me. He gave me twenty-three dollars for it which I reckoned was more than fair. The train station was the next stop. We lived in a marvelous age. The transcontinental express could get you from New York to San Francisco in less than four days. I would be in Chicago the day after tomorrow. The train wouldn’t depart until morning so I decided to wait out the interregnum in the company of Norman.

Norman greeted me with a “Welcome Back!” His saloon had seen a marked increase in guests since this morning when I had visited. But the lonesome cowpokes at the bar, and the solitary gambler shuffling a deck on the faded felt did little to alleviate the desolate atmosphere that hung over the card-house.

I saddled up to a bar stool. “I think it’ll be my last night in town for a while, Norman.” It felt good to say those words out loud.

“Oh really? Following the herd westward? Greener pastures and all that.”

“Of course not.” I didn’t want Normon to lump me in with the rest of those defectors. “I just need to have a word with Mr. Crawson in Chicago.”

“Well if it really is to be your last night, let’s make it one you won’t remember.” He took a bottle from a high shelf behind him and uncorked it with a flourish. I was about to protest, but caught myself.

“If I’m going to be consorting with company men from Chicago, I’ll stick out something fierce with a dry tongue. What the hell!”

He poured me a shot of something brown that burned like hell.

“What was that?” I asked when I had recovered.

“Whiskey. Top shelf neck-oil. You know that Mr. Crawson you’re so eager to meet, while he was staying there, he came down to the bar and asked me if I had any cognac! Can you believe that? Cognac is Brushwood, that’ll be the day.”

I laughed like I knew what cognac was. Normon either believed me or was too kind to make his doubt known. I just sat there and listened to the gambler shuffling cards as the whiskey began to warm my toes.

“Where do you think you’ll go when you put Brushwood behind you?” Normon asked.

“I don’t know, maybe east, maybe west, maybe all the way Mexico, I just know it won’t be here.”

Normon chuckled. “I guess that’s always how it is when it’s the only place you’ve ever known. I know this probably won’t make much sense to you now. But I grew up in New York, a big city, bigger than you can imagine. And believe it or not, I chose Brushwood, precisely because it wasn’t like where I was from. It might feel bleak and barren to you now that the rush has passed it by, but that’s what gives it its charm.”

I thought on what Normon said, as he kept pouring me drinks. I thought of ma, and the youngins at the ranch and I fell asleep right there at the bar.

***

The train whistle split my head like an axe. I had never heard something as loud or infernal as that damn horn. I stood on the platform with my suitcase in one hand, ticket in the other, still shaking loose from the liquor’s hold. “I would never drink again” I told myself as I settled into the wooden train bench. I nursed my headache halfway to Chicago.

***

Chicago was a land alien. Cobbled streets, three times the width of Brushwood’s main gulch, with stone buildings of four or five stories on each side. It took me two days to find someone who had even heard the name Alexander Crawson and by then my father’s pocket watch money was nearly depleted. I wasn’t sure if such rumors could be trusted, but I had heard that he operated out of 167 Sherman Street. It was in a district deemed Finical Place by the locals with as much disdain as jealousy. His building dominated the street with a presidential grandeur. I didn’t understand what a man who had all of this would want with my family’s ramshackle ranch, but then again there were alot of things I didn’t understand about this place. I tried to straighten out of the wrinkles in my suit and entered.

The receptionist gave me a look like I might be lost then asked if I had an appointment with Mr. Crawson.

“No...” I admitted. “Not yet.”

“His next availability is a week from Thursday. Does that work for you?”

“No.” I barely had enough money for one more night in this city, let alone a week. Unless I was to sleep on the street the meeting would have to be sooner. “I came all the way from Brushwood to speak with Mr. Crawson.”

“From where?” She asked.

“It’s very pressing.”

“Mr. Crawson has many pressing matters.” The receptionist replied coldly.

I was starting to think that this whole idea had been a blunder. I would have to sell this suit or my daddy’s revolver just to afford fare back home, and return empty handed. I couldn’t.

“Just tell him, please ma’am. Just tell him it’s about the Beckett Ranch, and have him decide for himself.”

I couldn’t discern if she felt pity for me, or just assumed this would be the fastest way to get me to leave, but she relented. She rapped on the double doors behind her. As she waited for a response she cast one more glance in my direction as if she expected me to pilfer her writing pens as soon as she left.

She returned a few minutes late wearing a mask of disbelief.

“Mr. Crawson will see you now.” I tried not to relish too long in the vindication as I stood and walked past her. Alexander Crawson’s office was an intimidating space, with walls of leather bound books. He sat behind a grand walnut desk, and was not exactly how I imagined him. He was rather young for starters, still a solid decade older than myself but far from the wizened tycoon that his moniker seemed to invoke. He was dressed well, and had a round face squeezed into a tight collar. His eyes had a distinct weariness to them and he hadn’t shaved for a few days.

“Come in, please, take a seat.” He gestured to one of the armchairs across from him. I settled into the lavish upholstery feeling more out of place by the second. He offered a portly hand, “Mr. Beckett I presume?”

“Henry is just fine, Mr. Beckett was my father.”

“Was?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, he passed... I’m the man of the house now.”

“I am so sorry for your loss.” His face distorted into a caricature of remorse. “But I assumed as much by your being here. Mr. Fletcher reported your father was rather fixed on not selling. One of the few ranchers who held such a disposition.”

“He never paid much mind to what dispositions others held.” I said.

“A virtue, undoubtedly. But it can blind one to the opportunities of change.”

“Are you still interested in the property?” I asked, doing a poor job of concealing my desperation.

“The offer Mr. Fletcher extended is no longer in the best interest of my venture, unfortunately.” He let the rejection hang in the air for a second. “But coming here on your own showed a lot of initiative- gumption even. I would hate to send you on your way empty handed, but the best I could do, is say, seven dollars an acre.” It was a notable reduction, but after I concluded some mental arithmetic I determined it would set us well on our way.

“You have yourself a deal,” I said with a firm nod.

“Excellent! There is of course the dry matter of paperwork.” He slid open a drawer and produced a contract, prewritten. “Look it over, and sign when ready.” He placed a pen on the desk in front of me. “There is no matter too dry to be relieved by a drink.” He uncapped a decanter and let a splash fall into two crystal glasses. He slid one across the desk.

“Thank you,” I said. I concluded the document was fair the best I could, and wrote my name. My signature looked pitifully primitive next to the elegant script.

“Cheers!” He said, raising his drink. Glass clinked, the vapors stung my nose, but the fire was smoother this time.

“Oh, there’s one more thing.” My pride was harder to swallow than the whiskey. “Do you think I could get some of this upfront? I need a ticket back home.”

“Of course, my boy.” He smiled and took a money clip from his trousers. He handed me a crisp fifty dollar note. “You have a week to vacate before my work crews get there.”

***

My mother didn’t speak to me much as we packed our things. Ben helped me stack our wagon as high as we could. We tied down the chairs and furnishings we could afford to take. Ronald, the youngest kept asking me why we were leaving, but I didn’t have an answer that he would understand. As we hitched up the horse, I could feel them looking down at me from their hill. The eyes of dead Beckettss bored holes into my back and I left the property for the last time.

I never returned to that place but I heard what became of it. When Mr. Crawson got there, the ranch house was the first to go. They built a camp for the labor crews on the foundation. They cut down that old oak tree, and replaced it with an oil derrick. And they say Mr. Crawson made his money back in the first week.