Page 42 of Knox
The four two-years-olds were asleep in the pens in the back of the barn, their red bodies rising and falling with slumber.
The Marshall Triple M would be just fine. He’d purchase Calamity Jane, breed her with Gordo, and hopefully produce another monster in the ring.
They’d land back on their feet, no problem.
He wasn’t going to drop anything. Or anyone.
Knox fed the cattle, both in the barn and the calves and cows in the nearby breeding pen, and by the time he returned inside, the sun bit into the cool morning air, burning off the chill, leaving glistening teardrops on the grassy pastures around the house.
Three generations ago, Great-Grandfather Marshall had headed West, built the Triple M for his three sons, including the homestead cabin still tucked below the ridge, which was protection against the elements.
Two left, one for Texas, the other for Minnesota.
One stayed. The two-story log home was built by Knox’s grandfather, Joseph, in the fifties, and his own father, Orrin, had inherited it when Joseph died too young at the age of forty-six. Knox loved this house, this land, ripe with the husk of earth, cattle, prairie grasses. He loved sitting on the front porch, watching the sunset burn through the land, and in the winter, playing a mean game of Sorry! with his family in front of the hand-hewn rock fireplace that soared two stories in the family room. Even loved their annual re-chinking, where they filled in gaps in the hand-cut logs, inside and out. The second story bordered the family room area with a balcony edge, the bedrooms off the walkway. He remembered sneaking out of his bedroom as a child to dangle his feet between the spindles, watchingMagnum, P.I.on the television below through the slats.
He still slept in the bedroom he’d shared with Reuben, although he’d replaced the twin beds with a king.
And, now, just like for as long as he remembered, the smell of bacon and eggs greeted him as he came in from chores in the morning. That and the sight of his mother, her hair pulled back, wearing her blue-checked apron, cooking bacon as savory smoke rose from her cast iron pan on her gas stove.
As usual a plate of buttered, homemade wheat bread sat on the counter.
She looked up and smiled at him as he came in. “There’s coffee left.”
He came over to her, put his arm around her, and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Ma.”
She swallowed, nodded, and he hated that he’d hurt her.
“Listen,” he said as he slid onto a stool. “I know what I’m going to get you for your sixtieth birthday.”
She put a plate of bacon, soaking into paper towels, on the counter. He stole a piece.
“A new set of paints?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really, do you need—”
“No! You’ve given me that every year for the past four years.”
Oh. He didn’t realize he was so boring. Add that to Old. And Safe.
She ladled eggs onto a plate. Set it in front of him. “Which is fine. But…what?”
He added bacon to the plate. “I’m going to make sure every one of my siblings is here.”
She stilled. Looked at him. “You…how? Even Ford?”
“I’m going to give it my best shot.”
She sat on the stool next to him. “You are a good son.”
He let the words heal the wound between them.
She turned on the news and they watched it in silence, eating their eggs.
A report of the bombing came up, a wrap of the events as investigators closed the case. He said nothing. But a tiny hum lingered in the back of his head.Cowboy, don’t lie—Take me away and make me fly.
“Good,” his mother said as the report ended. “It’s over. You can put it behind you.”
He nodded, finished eating, and washed his plate. “I’m going to shower.”