Getting Rid of the Macons

Getting Rid of the Macons

a novel written by

Christopher T Banks

Smashwords Edition

copyright 2015 Christopher T Banks

Chapter 1: The Outsiders

It was like driving into 1860's America, the Oregon Territory, and turning off the engine. There was this eerie sensation that the house had endured in this fog, this cold impersonal silence with no regard to what had been going on in the rest of the world. The smoke rising quietly from the chimney might just as well have been that of the original dweller, over one hundred years earlier. It was a two story tinderbox of bare wood. At least, that was my first impression. Our new home.

We had coasted down the steep drive, Ellie leading the way with the old VW bus packed to the pootz with boxes; the dog and I following in the pick-up, load piled high, our banner of shredded canvas tarp trailing out behind. We rolled through a forest of bare limbed trees and came to a halt at the bottom, near a side entrance. The drive started to circle back at that point and straight ahead of us was a big pile of logs - not a stack, mind you, but a pile thrown there, waiting to be split and taken in.

We got out and stood between the vehicles, thinking that someone might come and greet us but no one came. I couldn’t blame them. They were the squatters, after all, and they most likely knew that we had come to claim what was ours. We were exhausted and tense and, after fifteen hundred miles and two nights of sleeping on frozen ground in deserted campgrounds, I was anxious to have it out and have done with it.

We had come so close to making it all the way without a hitch, soo close. I had figured that if there were going to be a hitch it would have been engine trouble. Traveling from Albuquerque to just north of Pendleton, Oregon in two old vehicles, one tends to anticipate a breakdown at any moment. But it was Ellie’s Aunt Hazel who had delivered the clunker.

We had made it to the small town of Salings, about twenty miles north of Pendleton, with about an hour's light left in the day. All we had wanted from Hazel were the keys; visiting could come some other time, just the keys. Then we’d be on our way.

About two miles to where Marie's Creek enters the Walla Walla River, Ellie had said before going up to the door, then another four up Marie's and we're home!

The dog and I had watched from the truck as Ellie rang the doorbell and looked back, smiling, excited, tall and lean and elegant in her jeans and over-sized sweater; road worn and road weary as she was, somehow elegant. We watched as the older woman appeared behind the glass of a storm door, white haired, frail and a face so pale that her make-up stood out, clown-like.

I had expected that, at any moment, the motioning would come for me to join them and we would all have gone inside for a friendly chit-chat, one that would take up all the light left in the day. But it hadn’t exactly happened that way. There were no hugs, no laughter, no smiles. The aunt had said something that took her quite awhile to say and whatever it was had made Ellie put her hands up to her face.

Something was seriously wrong. Had the old farm house burned down? From what I had seen in photos and heard from Ellie's father, Horace, that was definitely a possibility. It was a two story cedar sided shingle roofed firebox, built on beams and a frame that had been hewn by hand.

Ellie’s father had also had a few things to say about his sister-in-law, the now widowed Hazel. She was a cantankerous woman, and not hesitant to let her mean streak show. She had already vetoed Horace's proposal that Ellie and I get involved with the day to day operations of the farm, a thousand acres of hilly dry land farming and two thousand acres of mountain timber. That would have included our moving to the main family residence. Instead, we would have to get our start in the old dilapidated tinderbox. We accepted that. Neither of us had any practical farming experience and my forestry experience was limited to three summers with the U.S. Forest Service. Hazel had her point.

Then, at the last minute, after our quitting our jobs and readying for the life-changing move to Oregon, she had tried unsuccessfully to stop our moving here at all. Her reasons had remained unclear but, as I sat in the truck watching her and Ellie on the porch, it appeared as if she were making them clear at that moment.

When Ellie strode back with the news, she had held up two clenched fists to show anger, but her eyes, those lovely green eyes, showed determination.

The Macons, they’re not out of the house. They're still out there!

What?!

She says she washed her hands of this whole business long ago, though she didn’t bother to tell anybody. What a bitch!

Not her business? I thought she got paid to be the family agent up here?

Of course she is, said Ellie. But no one’s ever crossed her before. She acts as if we just called from the corner phone booth with our plans.

From somewhere came the hoo hoo of an owl but the only sign of human life remained the smoke coming out of the chimney. The only sign of modern civilization was a late-model Ford pick-up parked just off of the loop. Everything that wasn’t covered by a smattering of snow was coated by a thick, sparkling frost and I figured that if we stood out in this stuff long enough, we'd get covered too.

This had been what Ellie had known as her grandmother's house, the acquisition in the 1930’s of an adjoining piece of property with a house where the grandmother, Lila, had taken herself and the two youngest of three children. Divorce being less common in those days, it had become evident that she and her much older husband were better off living under separate roofs. Lila, dead now for some fifteen years, had found herself evolving into a naturalist, an herbalist, and a vegetarian for starters; which didn't exactly mesh with raising livestock and the beginnings of better farming through chemistry. She was known to be outspoken and an early voice for women's rights. After the kids were grown and gone she continued to live there alone, growing more eccentric with each passing year. She let the entire house disappear under a mass of vines, slept on the screened porch even through the winter months, and was famous for her herbal concoctions. She lived to be ninety-seven and died one frozen night in her bed on the porch.

The Mad Woman of Marie's Creek, they called her, Ellie had said. And, I'm told that I take after her. Okay, I had been warned.

Somewhere off behind the house we could hear the creek, the constant rush of water through rock. There was another sound that seemed closer, the sound of escaping steam. Spisshh! Beyond the woodpile and just short of the pasture was a huge tree stump. There, a small figure's sudden movement startled us and made the dog bark from the truck. A little girl, heretofore invisible, sped around the stump with her arms held out while emitting jets of speesh spisshh.

Hello, Ellie called. Is your mom or dad home?

We received our reply in more jets of steam. She was about nine years old, I thought, quick like a little wild thing scuttling from one hiding place to another. And, though we waited a time, we had seen all we would see.

One of those shy country girls, said Ellie.

I hope YOU don't get that way, I said.

And then, as if on cue, we heard some rather eerie sounds further off, shrill, piercing, coming out of the fog from somewhere back along the creek.

What do you make of that? I asked.

Maybe an owl - they have a lot of different sounds. But it’s more likely to be more kids. There’s a hillside there, just beyond the creek. They may be up on that.

The idea of kids out there playing games and maybe trying to mess with our minds made me even more determined to get this over with quick; find the adults and get them on their way.

I'll just go knock on the door, I said, I get the feeling that we're being ignored. Don't you?

Maybe they're busy packing, she grinned.

The side entrance seemed to be the main entrance. It had a sheltered overhang and a wooden plank walkway leading up to the door. It made me think of something out of an old western movie - the Wild West - and then I had to laugh at myself because this had probably been built around that era - not a replica of that era. The door had some missing panes of glass, covered over by cardboard. I knocked softly until I was sure that what was left of the glass would stay in place and then I gave it a pretty good rap. Beyond the door was a short, dark hallway, sort of a place to take off your muddy boots and hang your coat. At the end of the hall was another glass paned door with sheer curtains on it and, beyond that there were lights. I could see someone moving in there, talking to someone else! The bastards were either stone deaf or completely ignoring me. I looked back at Ellie. She stood beside the bus with her hands sunk deep inside the pockets of her warmest coat. But she pulled them out, long enough for me to see that she had her fingers crossed. And so I opened the first door and approached the second, cautiously.

There were two people, old, a woman sitting and a man standing. I knocked again. The man turned, startled.

Come on in, he hollered, and then, rather than coming toward the door, he retreated to a chair and sat down.

The room was small, hot, and thick with cigarette smoke. One end of the room rippled with heat waves from a little wood stove. I closed the door behind me and turned to face them. It was such a change from the air outside - the smoke, the heat, a sickly sweet odor, it all combined to give me an immediate feeling of nausea.

The woman, very thin and colorless, sat on a love seat pulled right up to the side of the stove. A tall oxygen bottle stood on wheels behind her and there were clear plastic tubes running into each nostril.

The man continued to sit. He had an ashtray set on the arm of his chair and he picked a cigarette up out of it and gave it a puff.

Well, howdy, he puffed.

I looked around and, from what I could see, no one was aiming to move out that afternoon.

You must be the ones coming from California, he said.

I gave him a long, hard look before answering.

Albuquerque, I said. We come from New Mexico.

Albuquerque you say. He looked pleased. We've been through Albuquerque haven’t we, Mother.

I don't think that the woman had taken her eyes off of me from the instant that I had entered. And she had eyes that I couldn't look into for more than a couple of seconds - dark, sunken, black, deep. They were eyes that clung and you could feel them even when not looking into them. She was deathly thin and the idea that there was something very wrong with her made me nervous. While the man talked I kept glancing over at her and wondering if she was mentally okay.

I don't suppose that it looks the same as it used to, though, he continued. "Hell, we haven't been back that way for, what, sixty years or so?

Old Harold, he went on, He used to work right there in Gallup during the war. Southern Pacific Railroad.

Harold's his cousin, the woman explained. It was a normal voice, but whispery. One of his cousins.

I put up the stop sign. Hold it, I said. They waited. I hesitated. I looked from one to the other, trying to get an angle on the situation.

My wife's out in the car, I said.

Well she should come in, the man said.

It’s cold out there, the woman said.

Back out at the bus, Ellie was sorting through things in preparation for moving in.

It doesn't even look like they're thinking of moving, I said.

Her eyes narrowed. Well, what did you tell them?

Well, let's see, so far I've told them that we're from New Mexico and not California. And, I've told them that you were out here in the car. That's about it.

Joe! she groaned.

Hey, listen, it’s real clear out here what has to be done, I said. But you get in there and you find out that things aren't going to be so easy.

Okay, we'll just go in and see about that, she said. And so declaring, she led the march back to the house.

Ellie's not one to beat around the bush but she is polite. This would be interesting. From our perspective we had every right to be outraged. Their position was totally indefensible. Where we come from, if you're supposed to be out of a rental on a certain date, you get it clean and get the hell out, period. The problem here, and what Ellie was about to discover, was that the minute you walk into that room you realize that this ain't where we come from. We are the outsiders.

I just wonder how much Hazel pressed the point with these people, I said, just before we opened the final door. I mean, from what I've seen so far, I don't think they know what the hell's going on.

Ellie turned back and glared, as if I needed a good reminder but more to work herself up into the proper frame of outrage. All I know is that today is February first and the lease expired for these people on January first. Everyone had plenty of notice that we would be here, by today at the latest.

And then we headed in for the showdown that we knew was inevitable. And I supposed that the old couple knew that too.

They were both sitting when we came in but this time the old man got to his feet.

I'm Willard Macon, he said. And this here's my wife, Iona.

Hello. I'm Ellinore Lawrence. And I guess you've met my husband, Joe.

The old man, Willard, had a very friendly, leathery grin. I could tell right away that he was going to be a hard one to get tough with. He looked like one of the good guys in an old cowboy movie.

You must be cold sitting out in that car. Stand by the fire here for awhile, said the old woman, Iona, in a quavering voice. How about some coffee for these folks, Willard? Why don't you get us all some coffee? She smiled at Ellie, showing a missing tooth or two. That fog chills me right down to the bones.

I wanted to say, Oh no coffee, thanks. You folks have to be going, but I held off. First we’d see what Ellie could do, she being my opposite in a lot of ways and much more easy with people. I'm shy and quiet, but I can get worked up and, once I do, well, I'll just say that I don't do well. So, it only made sense to me to let her straighten things out.

We were here, among other reasons, because Horace and his sister, Delia, had urged us to come. They had been the two who had moved into this house with their mother so many years ago. Delia now lived in western Oregon. When their older brother had died, a few years ago, and the widowed Hazel had moved into town, it marked the end of a farming era spanning well over one hundred years for the O'Neil’s. Archie and Hazel had been childless and it seemed Horace hoped we would be the bridge to future generations.

Once it’s gone, he had said, You can never get something like this back. So why not try to keep it?

Willard made his way into the kitchen to make coffee. I say made his way because he didn't just walk into the kitchen. He didn't crawl into the kitchen either, but it was something almost in between. It was a bad limp and he grimaced with each slide of the left leg.

The woman saw me watching and explained, Willard has terrible arthritis in his hip. It’s hard for him to get around.

I suppose this damp weather makes it worse, said Ellie.

He's never been one to sit still, Iona continued. This has been real hard on him.

I wondered what she meant by this. This what? Weather? Arthritis? Or, having to move out? I think Ellie wondered the same thing because she gave me a quick glance over her shoulder.

Willard hollered from the kitchen, How do you take your coffee?

It was the raised voice of a person hard of hearing. We could all see him in the kitchen standing at the electric range. He was so close that I could have underhanded a dish rag and hit him with it. I could also not help but notice that nothing in the kitchen had been packed.

One black, one with milk, I said.

The parlor was obviously the center of activity in the winter. The wood stove could easily be their primary source of heat. At the other end of the room was a large dining table and chairs. The decor was old and cheap, faded vinyl and plastics, synthetic stuff, practical and easy to clean. Porcelain and plastic knickknacks, the kind that might have been won at a carnival dime throw, dotted the shelves and window sills.

Ellie and I were still standing. No one had asked us to take off our coats and sit down but the room was starting to feel mighty warm. Neither of us were ready to make what might be deemed a friendly or compromising gesture at this point. Even as small a gesture as taking off our coats and sitting down. And so it was an uneasy silence between us all as we waited for our coffee. You had to figure that they didn't know how to get through this thing anymore than we did. We weren't going to make it easy for them and it didn't appear that they were going to make it easy for us.

At this point it was the wood stove, which was practically blistering the walls, which wasn’t making it easy for me. I wondered if the old man had purposely stoked it when he saw me coming. Any possibility of a chill in my bones was long gone. I had quickly moved through the pleasantly toasted range and was well into the sweaty and roasted when I gave in and took off the coat.

Well we finally had some snow last week, the woman said. She had a tiny, nasal voice and, unlike her husband, you had to listen hard to pick up what she said. We haven't had much snow this year; just a lot of cold.

Take off your coat, Ellie, I said. I couldn't stand seeing her wear it any longer and so I went over and helped her out of it.

The old man brought in two steaming cups of coffee and gave them to the women. He was breathing heavy and with his mouth open. Up to that point, Ellie had been relatively mute for one supposedly leading the charge. The old man sidling up to her, huffing and puffing, seemed to bring her around.

She drug a pink flamingo colored fiberglass chair up near the woman and sat down. She took a sip of the coffee and waited until I had mine and the old man had sat down again, then smiled at each of them in turn. She was about to get down to business. The method was all too familiar to me. She gets things set straight in her own mind and then lays them neatly out, precisely and, like a gifted chess player, thinking much further ahead than the opponent.

I've never been up here when there's snow on the ground, she said. I've been up here many different summers, visiting Granny with my Dad and, later working in the cannery for the summer. This is my first trip in winter.

Well I hope you two kids brought lots of warm clothes, Iona Macon said.

Ellie turned toward Iona and focused in. She liked to get eye contact when she was pressing a point and I knew from recent experience that this wouldn't be a problem with old Iona.

I was sorry that I couldn't come up here this past summer, with my father. He came by and visited you. Do you remember? Ellie smiled her sparkling clear eyed smile.

Oh yes, Mr. O’Neil. We met him, Iona said.

Nice fella, added Willard.

That may have been when you first learned that we were moving up here. Aunt Hazel was to have told you earlier, but my father told you about the lease not being renewed because we were moving up come January.

I watched the woman's eyes as she listened. It was very quick and hardly perceptible but you could measure the instant that she figured out where Ellie was going because her eyes started to wander.

Not many folks around here move in the winter, Iona said.

Willard pinched his lower lip out and then smiled at me friendly, as if to say, Hey, what can you do?

We looked. Boy we looked, he said.

Ellie then turned and focused in on him and the old boy started to fidget. He went for his cigarettes and made long work of pulling one out and getting a light for it.

But then we wrote Aunt Hazel and told her that we wouldn’t be here until February 1st. That gave you an extra month to move your things. We even sent her a check to cover January, assuming that you had probably already made arrangements elsewhere.

She hesitated, just in case they wanted to interject anything such as, yes, they had made arrangements elsewhere. But the suddenness of her assault had taken us all by surprise.

Ellie turned back to the woman and said, Y'know, that was yesterday, January 31st. We're here just when we said we would be. And well, we're really, really surprised to find you folks still here.

So much for idle chit chat and pleasantries. The best that they could hope for now would be to sit back in their stuffed furniture, ignore her, and hope she'd go away.

And it appeared that they were about to do exactly that when they were, temporarily, saved by a commotion from the entryway. The kids blasted their way into the room as kids do, as if Iona had pushed a button on the arm of her avocado colored love seat.

In came two boys and the girl, full of nervous giggles and pushing each other to see who would have to stumble forward first. But they all came in, acting self conscious and clumsy.

Hey you, Junior, what have I told you now? Willard said, singling out the oldest boy. Then he turned to me and gave me a leathery grin that said, Grandkids! What can you do?

These folks are going to think that we got a bunch of wild animals runnin in here, Iona said. The kids just giggled. Behave yourselves. This is Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, come up here all the way from New Mexico.

The little girl moved behind her grandmother's chair and clutched the old woman by the arm.

None of the kids seemed to be dressed warm enough for the weather and yet, as far as we could tell, they'd been out in it for quite some time. Only the girl had mittens, but her coat was thin and her jeans were worn through at the knees. Both boys were skinny, gangly, with baseball caps pulled down tight on their heads. Their pant legs rode so high that you could see the tops of their socks and their wrists stuck out well beyond the sleeve of their coats. They had probably anticipated trouble and stayed out as long as they could stand it. The oldest boy, Junior, looked to be about fourteen, the middle one twelve, and the girl seven or eight.

Junior said, That's a nice dog you got. Will he bite?

Only if I tell him to, I said.

Can we let him out and play with him? the younger boy asked.

Let's wait awhile, Ellie said, wanting to get back to the business at hand. We should be there when he’s let out.

We had a dog here for the kids, Willard said, kind of quiet for him but loud enough for everyone to hear, but it got into it with a badger down the road one day. Came home, belly slashed open, insides dragging. Old Butch. He was one of those Australian sheep dogs. Good dogs, too. Carl won him, and he gave him to the boys. Oh, I'll tell you, those badgers are a mean animal. He died right there in the back of my pick-up.

Then Iona spoke up, Billie, it’s getting dark, honey. Is that pig fed? She was talking to the little girl.

No'm, the little girl said, not yet.

Well then why don't you all go out and take care of that sow while there's still some light?

Junior, you put down some fresh straw, said the old man.

We got a sow out there about ready to pig, the youngest boy told me.

Great, I said. Just terrific! My voice cracked as I said it and I caught Ellie's smirk. Yes, it was comical. We were losing ground so fast it WAS comical!

Chapter 2: Lawn Furniture

Now where were we? I hadn't the slightest idea. I don't think Ellie did either. The Macons had succeeded in deftly parrying our initial thrust whether they knew it or not.

Oh, they're good kids, Willard said, after they had left. The youngest there, Billie, she's Carl's daughter.

Carl's our son, Iona explained.

Junior and Ray, they're Betsy's oldest, but she won't take care of 'em, continued Willard.

That's Carl's ex. She lives down in California, Iona explained.

So Carl brought them up here with Billie, Willard went on. But they're good kids. They've been a godsend for us, haven't they Mother?

Behind the woman’s head, in the far corner of the room, was a tall Victorian window. It was practically dark outside and here we were chatting the last of the light away. It had to stop. That's all there was to it. It had to stop. I thought about our options. This definitely wasn't camping weather for us. Going back to Hazel's for even a night would be intolerable. She was the one who should have made sure that something like this wouldn't happen. And trying to find a motel for the night; one that would take a dog? Forget it! No, they had to be the ones to leave and that's all there was to it. Obviously they couldn't get all of their stuff out, but they could go. I was just about to get involved in the conversation again when Ellie set her coffee cup down and commenced.

So, Mrs. Macon, she said. You weren't surprised to see us today, were you? I mean, you did get the letter didn't you? You did have notice?

The question hung there in the air right in front of Iona Macon, but she waited patiently for it to go away. She looked as if she'd already spent her allotment of energy for the day and the question would remain dangling, unanswered.

I believe we did see a letter, she said, wearily, but I don't know where it got to now.

Mrs. Macon, do you remember what the letter said? Ellie asked. There was a touch of urgency in her voice now. She too was aware that there wasn't much daylight left.

Iona reached behind and adjusted the valve on the oxygen bottle. Then she fastened a strap around her neck that held the tubes up into her nostrils.

The letter said that you were coming, yes. But I don't recall it saying exactly when, she whispered.

Willard got up and headed for the kitchen with his cup.

Ellie looked at me with raised brow, as if to say, What do we do now?

Willard, Iona called, why don't you get out the cookies and put them on a plate.

She looked out the window, away from Ellie, toward the pasture and beyond to the creek and the cliff face just the other side of the creek.

This place sure has been fun for the kids. Willard bought a horse for them to ride and Ray's started 4-H with his goats.

The oxygen seemed to be putting some strength back into her, it seemed to get the old blood flowing and the brain going again.

We exchanged glances at the mention of goats. Goats - pigs - horses - they were dug in here! If we were going to get them out it looked as if we were going to have to blast them out.

We've been looking through the papers a month now for a place. We spent two whole days with our daughter, driving around doing nothing but look - look - look.

You mean that you haven't found anything yet? Ellie asked, incredulous.

I'm afraid not, dear, she sighed.

So now we knew. That's how it was. The old woman sat there, apologetic but unmoving. I could see the old man in the kitchen, measuring out for a new pot of coffee. I didn't want any more damned coffee. If anything, I wanted something a lot stronger. They just were not going to face the facts. They were either so simple, so god damned dense that they couldn't comprehend the situation; or it was a ploy to make us go away. That thought started to grow. Maybe old Witch Hazel had more to do with this than just negligence. She had struggled with the reality of us coming up here, especially as the time for it to happen had grown close. And now, obviously, trusting her to handle the arrangements had proven to be a huge mistake.

So, what to do? The Macons weren't going anywhere without a strong push and no one was going to do the pushing for us. It was nearly dark outside and here Ellie and I were having a little tea party like a couple of neighbors who had dropped in on these good folk, and would soon be expected to stand up and stretch and say, Well, we'd best go on down the road and let these people have their supper. Piss on that! We had a truck to unload. We had a Volkswagen bus to unload. We had a dog in the cab of the truck who was probably crossing his legs right now. If I decided to go ahead and unload, where would I put it? Would it be any different tomorrow? And were we not the ones paying rent on this place?

I got up and went into the kitchen.

Mr. Macon, I said, friendly but firmly, Can I get you to come out to my truck for a minute, sir. It's important or I wouldn't ask.

Macon gave me a questioning look. What about the coffee?

This won’t take long. The coffee can wait, I said.

Getting inspired enough to say what had to be said was not going to be a problem. We were being taken advantage of and these people were guilty and that's all there was to it. The juices were flowing, blood pressure was up, and all systems were go.

The old man came out into the cold, frosty evening in his cowboy shirt and I led him over near my truck. He had taken me at my word that, whatever it was, it wouldn't take long. I could hear the kids hollering at each other somewhere off in the frozen fog, tending to the pig. I hoped that they would stay out of our earshot for just a few minutes longer, in case things got a little heated.

Do you mind if I let my dog out, Mr. Macon. He's been cooped up in there for hours now.

Willard dug into his shirt pocket for another smoke, having left the old one smoldering in the ash tray.

No, go on ahead, he said. No one's stopping you. He had a frown on when he said it and he was keeping a wary eye on me now.

I opened up the door and Dusty jumped out. He's never been around livestock, but I don't think he'll bother them, I said.

I reached under the seat for the bag that had the Canadian whiskey that I'd purchased that afternoon. It's my cocktail time, Mr. Macon, I said, breaking the seal. Would you like a drink?

Thank you, no, he said, and his frown deepened.

I got a glass out of the glove compartment and poured out a drink. I'm not normally a whiskey drinker but it had somehow seemed appropriate to our arrival in the great northwest; and now I was awfully glad. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees since our arrival. There was frost on our breath and the patches of snow had turned to twilight blue. Willard lit his cigarette while I waited for the heat of the first swallow to settle down.

Mr. Macon, I want to make sure that you understand the situation. We left Albuquerque three days ago. We sold our house down there. We quit our jobs. We're not going back, okay? Do you follow me so far? I took another good size swallow and, when he didn't choose to reply, I continued. We've got our truck and our bus here packed to the gills with stuff and we've got a moving van full of furniture due within a week. We gave plenty of notice that we were coming, and we never received a goddamned thing back to us indicating that there was any problem or that we should delay our coming.

He just stood there with his brow furrowed, a leathery old cowpoke, smoking down his cigarette, sometimes looking at me and sometimes looking off in the distance. There was really no way of telling where his mind was. He may have been worried about the kids, but I thought that the kids probably had a better grasp of the situation than he or his wife. I took a small swallow of the whiskey and then followed by finishing off the glass. My hand was trembling just a bit. I was getting myself worked up which, as I said before, isn't a good idea.

You understand what I'm saying? Someone should have called us or written if there was a problem. But no one did. Right? He started to say something but I cut him off. So what it boils down to is this - your lease here is up, finished. And our lease has begun, started. We are moving in because we have no other choice and you are moving out because you have no other choice. Now. Tonight.

He looked at me as if I had just demanded the impossible.

Where are we going to go? he asked.

You're asking me? C'mon, you've had time. You should know.

You can't find nothing this time of year. I told you

That's your doing, Macon. Not ours.

How do you expect us to move when there's nowhere to move to?

I'm sorry, but I don't buy it. Like I say, you've had plenty of time, and I don't like you making us out to be unreasonable. You're the ones who've been unreasonable, I said, my voice beginning to rise.

I poured myself another drink and set the glass on the fender. Words weren't getting anywhere and so I started loosening the ropes on the canvas tarp at the back of the truck. Maybe a little action on my part would promote