Chapter 6

Monday, July 3, 2006

Scott sat at Mr. Piotrowski's breakfast table nibbling on a piece of toast. The place seemed empty without all the hustle and bustle of the yard sale. Mr. Piotrowski was on the phone having a very terse conversation with "Billy" about some work he wanted done at the house. He hung the phone up and sat down. Mr. Piotrowski did not look happy.

"I pulled a few things out of the cabinets yesterday that I'd like to get listed online. Can you take photos of everything left in the storage building?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"We should have enough room on the memory card." Scott said. "It might take a while to get it all photographed and labeled. Will you write the descriptions again?"

Mr. Piotrowski waved his hand in acknowledgement, "You don't want to write them for me?"

"I only know what some of that stuff is because you told me."

"Alright, get started and I'll catch up to you in a couple of minutes."

Scott opened the storage building. His steps were muffled in the still air. It was early morning and the building was already swelteringly hot. The morning farm report said that it might hit 105F by mid-afternoon. There was better light outside. Scott put a blanket down on the gravel driveway to use as a background for the photos. It looked like they had enough boxes to ship everything, if it sold.

While Scott sorted and photographed the remaining inventory, Mr. Piotrowski went back and forth between the storage building and the kitchen jotting down notes and descriptions of each item. Scott looked up when Mr. Piotrowski walked past him holding a box that he hadn't seen before.

"When you're finished come and look at what I have here," Mr. Piotrowski called over his shoulder as he went to the kitchen door.

Scott stretched and stood up. He entered the kitchen and sat down at the table. Mr. Piotrowski had the contents of the box carefully spread out on a soft towel.

"Go ahead, pick one up."

Scott picked one of the objects up in his hand and examined it. "What are they?" he asked, running his finger over the smooth surface and intricate carvings.

"They're called 'netsuke'," Mr. Piotrowski pronounced the strange word, "nets-keh." He pointed to a grouping of funny little animals and figures with fat bellies, "The buttery colored ones are carved from ivory. This one is made from a hardwood of some kind." He held up a tiny frog carving the size of a half dollar coin. "I'm not sure what this one is made of. I guess it could be lacquer that gives it this reddish color."

Scott carefully picked up and examined more of the strange little objects. There were bizarre heads, various animals, dragons, and little carvings of two or three connected characters with laughing faces. Almost all the objects all had a couple of worn holes in them.

"Is this supposed to be Buddha?" he asked Mr. Piotrowski, showing him one of the netsuke.

"Probably. I brought this back from Japan. After Korea, our unit spent more than two months there waiting to be shipped home. In old Japan they used netsuke to hold knots tight on external pockets worn over their clothing. You would think they could have sown pockets into their robes, but they didn't."

Scott tried to picture it.

Mr. Piotrowski picked up an old article from a magazine and smoothed it out on the table. The article was about netsuke and even had some photographs. The pictures showed the same types of objects as those that were spread out across the kitchen table, and in similar styles.

"Verna hated them, said I'd wasted good money. I don't know, but I've always liked them. Do you think I should try and sell them on the internet?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

Scott was reading the article, "They're really old, right?"

"Supposed to be."

"Maybe we should contact a museum. Talk to somebody who knows about this kind of thing."

"That sounds like a good idea, but how would you go about doing it?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"I suppose we could take some photos and send them in an email. I can look around the internet for museums with Asian collections," Scott said thinking it through.

Mr. Piotrowski retrieved the digital camera while Scott organized the netsuke. He'd counted twenty eight of the little carvings.

Scott took the camera from Mr. Piotrowski and started to take a photo.

Mr. Piotrowski interrupted him, "You need something for scale." He set a quarter down in the middle of the grouping. "There, everybody knows how big a quarter is. Finish up here and we'll go down to Meritt's for lunch. Then you can hop onto that internet of yours and do some magic."

"Maybe we can get the cute waitress to help us," Scott commented dryly.

"I am a recently widowed man," Mr. Piotrowski snapped.

"Sorry Mr. Piotrowski, I didn't mean anything by it."

"That's okay. I didn't mean to jump on you. I have to keep on living. I might even start 'going visiting.' You wouldn't believe what some of those auxiliary women suggested to me," Mr. Piotrowski had an odd look on his face. Closing his eyes briefly he continued, "but Verna was sick for a long time."

"You must miss her an awful lot."

"Oh, I do. This house ... well it's damned empty without her. We had a lot of good years together. There were some bad times, but we always got through them."

They sat quietly each thinking about the past. "Now that's enough wool gathering. Let's get down to Meritt's."

Scott and Mr. Piotrowski were seated at the counter. Scott liked the red stools because you could spin around on them. The waitress asked him what he wanted to drink.

"Do you have root beer?"

"Sorry, honey. No root beer." She stood there and tossed her hair. She had a pencil tucked over one ear. The woman had to be in her forties.

Scott glanced at Mr. Piotrowski. Was this supposed to be the cute one he had mentioned? "I'll take a limeade then."

Mr. Piotrowski spoke up, "I haven't had limeade in ages. Put me down for one too."

"Sure thing, sugar. I can have a couple of patty melts up in a few minutes," she hinted.

Mr. Piotrowski looked at Scott and said, "Sounds good to us."

The waitress made a note on their ticket and flounced off to take care of another customer.

Mr. Piotrowski exchanged greetings with some other senior citizens. Scott was staring out the window when the glass doors banged open and one of the guys from Mendoza's engine center walked into the diner. He spotted Scott and momentarily froze. He gave him a nervous smile and spun around and left.

"Friend of yours?" asked Mr. Piotrowski.

"He works over at Mendoza's, but I don't know what that was all about," Scott replied.

The waitress set their fountain drinks down. They each got a tall glass with a lot of crushed ice and a straw. Scott took a sip. It was ice cold and had just the right balance of sweet and sour touched off by the carbonation. It was the perfect summertime refreshment.

Mr. Piotrowski ended up having to pay for an extra hour on the computer. It was a lot of work, but they finally had all of their auctions entered. They spent the last twenty minutes tweaking the descriptions.

"Scott, look up those museums you were thinking about. I'm going to walk over and visit with somebody and I'll be back. Oh, and find out what the best internet service is that I can get out at the house will you?" Mr. Piotrowski stood up and collected his notebook.

"Should I include your phone number if one of the museums wants to contact you?" Scott asked.

"I don't suppose it could hurt," Mr. Piotrowski replied as he walked away.

Scott browsed the internet for a long time. There were so many interesting museums and he found himself easily distracted. He finally decided to email a museum in Dallas. There were few long shots that he also sent messages to. He attached pictures of the netsuke with each email.

"You ready?" Mr. Piotrowski called to him.

"I'm done here," Scott replied.

"Hurry up, you can tell me about it in the car. We need to get back to the house to meet some folks."

Scott explained the internet options available in this part of the county.

"The satellite rig doesn't interest me. Should I choose the dial-up or the DSL?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"I think it depends on how much you see yourself using the internet. The dial-up is slow, but if you don't use the internet much it might be the best value. The only down side is that it will use up the phone line while you're on it. That's unless you get a second line put in?"

Mr. Piotrowski said no, he didn't want a second line put in.

Scott said, "Well, in that case, the DSL is fast, but not nearly as fast as the cable service you could get if you lived in town. The phone company has to come out and do the installation, but at least it would be all on the same bill. It's not my money Mr. Piotrowski, but I suppose I'd go with the DSL. You still need a computer though."

"I may have lined up a good deal on a laptop computer. What do you think about that?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"Is it from the same place as the camera?"

"It is."

"A laptop sounds like a good idea to me."

Scott was on the phone with the phone company trying to arrange a date for the installation of DSL service when a truck pulled up into the driveway.

"Your company's here," he shouted to Mr. Piotrowski.

Mr. Piotrowski came down the stairs, "This particular company isn't here for a social call. You're about to meet my new contractor." He went to answer the back door.

"Billy," Mr. Piotrowski said to the man standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Piotrowski," the man replied stiffly.

"You better come in and take a look at what I had in mind," Mr. Piotrowski stood aside and let the man in. He was followed by two more people. The two men followed Mr. Piotrowski into the house. The third person stood in the kitchen looking at Scott.

Scott hung up the phone, "What are you doing here?"

"I'd ask you the same thing I guess," Bo Mason said. "That's my dad, we're going to be doing some work on this house. Do you live here?"

"What? No. I work for Mr. Piotrowski," Scott replied. He hadn't seen Bo since the end of school.

"I thought you worked at Mendoza's?"

"I do, this is my other job."

"Two jobs? Man, I'm jealous. Hey can I get some water?" Bo asked.

"Sure." Scott took down two glasses and got some ice from the freezer. He filled a glass and handed it to Bo. "So, do you like working for your dad?"

"It's hard work, and I'm not getting paid this summer."

"Why not?"

"Dad paid for two weeks of football camp in San Antonio. It's a camp run by some old pro. It was good. Hot, but good. I think I'd rather have worked all summer and made some money instead. Contractors can make real dough when there's work."

"I'm not sure what you're going to be doing here," Scott said.

"I can tell you that," Bo replied. "It's a remodel of the bathrooms. Pulling out the old tub is the hardest part. We'll replace it with a walk-in shower and tub combo made just for this kind of job. We did the same thing at our house when my grandparents moved in. I guess old people can trip and fall trying to step into and out of a regular tub. The replacement unit has a waterproof door that you open and you step right in over a small riser. It also had these safety hand holds that we bolt into the wall studs. Hey, are you going to help?"

"All Mr. Piotrowski told me is that I was going to be painting. I don't know about anything else."

"I hadn't heard about any painting on this job," Bo sat down and drank his water.

"So, why are your dad and Mr. Piotrowski so mad at each other?" Scott asked.

Bo looked around to see if the adults were nearby, "You don't know?"

"I don't know anything."

"Come on, help me get some stuff from my dad's truck and I'll tell you."

Scott followed Bo outside.

Bo took a big book from the truck. "This has color samples and trim details Mr. Piotrowski can pick from," he explained. "You really don't know what this is about?"

"I asked Jorge Delgado if he knew any contractors that might be good for Mr. Piotrowski. Jorge told me to tell Mr. Piotrowski to, 'Call Billy.' That's all I know."

"Mr. Delgado recommended him? My dad wondered about that. You know about Mr. Piotrowski's son?"

"Yeah?"

"Well ... my dad and his son were friends in high school along with this other guy. They got into a lot of trouble over a fire they'd set. Mr. Piotrowski's son ran away, and the other guy disappeared. My dad got the tar whipped out of him by my granddad. He said it was the worst beating he ever took. You can bet I've never set any fires."

"Oh," was all Scott could think to say.

"My dad was real surprised to hear from him. Shocked I mean. Said he hadn't talked to Mr. Piotrowski in twenty-five years. My brothers and I all got the 'don't be an idiot and go around setting fires' speech growing up."

"You boys out here?" a voice echoed out of the house.

"We're here, Dad," Bo replied.

"Bo, grab my book and bring it in."

Mr. Mason was pointing out some options to Mr. Piotrowski in the big book.

"Bill, if that's the way you think I should go then that's fine by me," Mr. Piotrowski said. "Now I've got another thing that might interest you. My assistant over there is going to be doing some painting. What would you charge me to put up some scaffolding and paint the exterior of this house, using some of my labor there?"

"Good worker?" asked Mr. Mason.

"Bill, he's been a real fine worker."

"I think we can find some work for both of the boys while we tackle the bathrooms. It won't take much to convert that one bedroom to an office, maybe a little paint and some trim. Most of what makes an office is how you fit it out, furniture wise," Mr. Mason offered.

"When could you get started?" asked Mr. Piotrowski.

"How does Wednesday sound? We've got everything in stock so there's no reason to wait. Interior, we could have done next Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest. Painting, might take another week and a half."

Mr. Piotrowski liked what he was hearing, "Let's go talk numbers."

The Masons had left and Scott was helping Mr. Piotrowski put a new American flag on the pole bolted to the front porch. Scott listened as Mr. Piotrowski explained the dos and don'ts of handling the flag. "You don't leave it up outside unless there are lights illuminating the flag, and nothing makes me angrier than seeing somebody who's let their flag get tattered and torn. It's disrespectful." He went on about the proper way to display the flag and how it should be treated.

"Do you have a flag?" Mr. Piotrowski asked him.

"No, sir, I don't."

"Follow me," Mr. Piotrowski went inside and took another package from a drawer and handed it to him. "Put this in your backpack. You can put it up in your room. Remember, the blue field with the stars, what we call the 'union' is always top left. It doesn't matter if you hang the flag vertically or horizontally. They used to teach flag etiquette in school."

Scott thanked him and put the flag in his backpack. He'd never felt the urge to decorate any of his bunkhouse rooms before. The flag would make a nice change.

"Now, what are you doing for the Fourth?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"I thought I'd come work sir."

"On the Fourth of July? No, that won't do. You don't do anything in town?"

"Well, the ranch usually takes the boys into town for the day. This year, with the burn ban in place, the town's not even going to set off fireworks," Scott explained.

Mr. Piotrowski had a thoughtful look, "Want to go shooting?"

"Could we?"

"We sure could. It would be fitting for the day I think. Do I need to get permission from anybody at the ranch for you to shoot?"

Scott suppressed a laugh, "No, sir. Not from the ranch, but you know ... you might want to call Judge Upcott and clear it with him."

"Elijah Upcott? The county judge?"

"Yes, sir. He's sort of my guardian," Scott explained.

"Sort of your guardian?" Mr. Piotrowski repeated.

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Piotrowski was staring at him, "Scott, are you related to the judge?"

"No, sir. It's just a state thing for paperwork and stuff. There's not much to it, really. We meet once a quarter and he signs things if I need it. He helped me open my bank account."

"You meet once a quarter with the judge?"

"We have lunch. We've done it ever since I came to Broken Creek."

Mr. Piotrowski's eyebrow was threatening to climb off of his head and go into orbit, "You've had lunch with the county judge, four times a year, for ... ten years?"

"I guess it will be nine years this January."

"Scott, why don't you go outside and check the siding and trim, see what we might need to replace when it's time to paint. I'll call the judge."

After ten minutes of Scott pretending to be busy, Mr. Piotrowski came outside. "We're not going shooting tomorrow. It will have to be next week, or later. On the other hand, we have been invited to a barbecue at the judge's place."

"I've never been there," replied Scott.

"That will make two of us then. Why don't you take off, and I'll see you back here tomorrow around eleven a.m."

Scott had a bad night. It started out okay. The flag looked really great. He hung it on the wall right above the head of his bed. It brightened up what was otherwise a very dull room. Normally he dropped right off to sleep and awoke when he wanted. It was a skill that he'd had for as long as he could remember. He tried to fall asleep, but tossed and turned. The judge was the most important person in his life. His future depended on a good relationship with him. When he finally did fall asleep he had the old nightmare. In it he was trapped, buried alive ... and then the aliens came.

4th of July

The ride to the judge's house was quiet. Mr. Piotrowski could tell that Scott was nervous.

"Scott, you've known the judge a long time right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you know the most important person at this party. You're there as his invited guest. I'm just along for the ride, so really, I should be the one that's nervous."

"I don't think anything can make you nervous, Mr. Piotrowski," Scott said.

"Ha!" Mr. Piotrowski laughed. "Let me tell you. I was nervous as ... well I don't know what when I met Verna, and I think I was nervous every day in Korea. I've been nervous a lot in my life. The only advantage I have on you is about sixty years. Take this barbeque party. You've known the judge for nearly nine years and have had lunch with him four times a year, that's thirty-six meals. I doubt that few people besides his family could claim anything like that. Focus on that and forget the rest."

"Yes, sir," Scott replied. He was trying to see things the way Mr. Piotrowski did.

"Remember how you told me that you barely spoke in school? Is that some of the same thing do you think? You're nervous?"

Scott mumbled, "I suppose."

"What I guess is hard for any young person to understand is that everybody feels the way you do at some point. We're isolated inside of our own heads and don't know it."

"Yes, sir." I don't think other people's heads work anything like mine, he thought.

"Scott, you're the most well spoken and intelligent young man I might have ever known. I think it's that damn Broken Creek ranch that's not helped you any."

That startled Scott. He'd never heard any adults discuss the ranch before, "You don't like the ranch?"

"Verna and I had been living out there for about ten years when those Rewcastle people bought the old Broken Creek Ranch. When they started calling it a 'Boys Ranch, ' well, we all thought it was going to be like one of the big outfits. There are some real impressive live-in ranches over in San Angelo and up in Lubbock that have dormitories and schools, the works."

Mr. Piotrowski was getting worked up, "What do the Rewcastles do instead? Nobody really seems to know. I sure as hell don't understand it. What do they offer you kids; three little bunkhouses and all the chores you can do? They don't school you, or offer any sort of activities. They depend on the Fort Stockton school system for that."

Scott wasn't sure if he should stand up and cheer or bury his head. If Broken Creek was closed down he would be sent someplace where he wouldn't have near the freedoms he had now.

Mr. Piotrowski took a deep breath, "And I'm going to tell you something that I probably shouldn't. Jorge and Luisa tried to adopt you and were told it wasn't possible. Hector and Connie Mendoza had tried to also and were told the same thing. I plan to ask that judge of yours why in the hell not."

Scott wasn't sure he could breathe. He knew that the Mendozas had tried to arrange it so he could live with them years earlier. Eddie had told him that once. Jorge and Mrs. Delgado tried too? Adoption? He had never even considered it as a possibility.

What should he say? "Mr. Piotrowski, I know it sounds kind of bad, but the ranch ... well it serves a purpose. Most of the boys aren't there for very long, way less than a year in most cases. Some of the boys are there because the court wants an alternative to juvy. Chores are good for the ranchers. Don't forget the horses. Taking care of horses teaches you all about responsibility. And well, you can learn a lot about ranch life there. Mrs. Delgado always takes good care of the little ones. Jorge keeps everybody's spirits up."

"Scott, do you realize two things that you didn't mention? You didn't once mention the Rewcastles and you never mentioned yourself," Mr. Piotrowski said. "I'll tell you something else. I've never heard you refer to that place as home. You always say ranch. Most other people go home, but you go to 'the ranch.' The day you leave that place? That will probably be Luisa Delgado's last day at Broken Creek. I'm pretty sure you're the only reason she stays."

Scott had no response for that so he changed the subject.

"Mr. Piotrowski I don't want you to get angry with the judge. He's a good man and he's done a lot to help me. Besides, the Rewcastles and I have an understanding," Scott tried to explain.

"And how exactly did you manage that?" asked Mr. Piotrowski.

Scott thought about how he should reply, "Well, I do have lunch with the judge on a regular basis."

Mr. Piotrowski and Scott shared a weak smile.

"I'm not going to get angry, but I do want to have a word with the judge. Is that okay with you?"

"Do you know Judge Upcott?" asked Scott.

"I wouldn't call us friends exactly, but we've known each other on and off for nearly thirty years I'd say."

Scott's head was spinning by the time they pulled up to the judge's house. It was a nice place and had a southwest ranch feel to it. Mr. Piotrowski got a bottle out of the trunk that Scott hadn't seen before.

"This is a little peace offering for the judge. If we crack it open you may have to drive us home," he explained.

It looked like Mr. Piotrowski had thought this out more than Scott had given him credit for. As they went up the walkway to the front door Mr. Piotrowski asked him if he had ever met the judge's wife.

"No, sir, I never have."

"Beatrice Upcott, Bea to her friends. I think you'll like her," Mr. Piotrowski said as he rang the doorbell.

The door opened.

"Alex Piotrowski, it's been too many years," exclaimed the woman.

"Bea, it's good to see you," Mr. Piotrowski said as he held up the bottle. "Gift for Elijah."

"Come in, come in. Don't you go and get Elijah drunk. Now you must be Scotty, am I right?" the woman gushed. She had that kind of breathy voice that tickled Scott's spine.

Scott stammered, "Yes, ma'am."

Bea Upcott was a tall, elegant woman of a certain age. What had temporarily locked up Scott's brain was that she was wearing an impossibly tight shirt over some of the largest breasts that he had ever seen. As she turned to lead them into the house, Mr. Piotrowski winked at Scott.

Out on the patio was a gathering of a dozen people or so. Bea swept outside and called, "Elijah, look who's here."

Mr. Piotrowski shook hands with the judge.

"Maker's Mark, leave to it Alex to bring us some fine sipping whisky. Thank you for coming," the judge said as he examined the bottle. "Now you know a lot of these people Alex. From what I hear half the county was out at your place this last weekend. Go say hello and let me speak with my young friend here."

The judge indicated that Scott should sit down. "Now how have you been? It looks like you landed in the roses as far as summertime employment goes."

"I've been good."

"Now don't go getting shy on me," the judge insisted.

Were they ganging up on him? "It's been a great summer so far. I really like working for Mr. Piotrowski, and things are really hopping out at the engine center, but you're probably heard about that."

"I did hear that Hector got a big contract. That's good news for the entire county. We need every job that we can get. Speaking of, have you learned anything interesting from your summer job?"

"I have," Scott said. "I've learned a lot about buying and selling, and it doesn't always have to involve money."

"I expect that's some of Alex's famous dickering at work am I right?"

"Yes, sir."

The judge leaned in, "I hear you have some news for me too?"

"I found a motorcycle!"

"So, it's true. Tell me all about it."

The rumor mill must have been working overtime for the judge to have dug that nugget up.

"It's an old 1976 Yamaha with only 200cc, and it's perfect. I mean it will be. Right now it's in several hundred pieces. I hope to have it running by January," Scott was getting excited just thinking about it.

"That sounds like quite the project," the judge had an odd twinkle in his eye. "Now come on. You actually know somebody else at this party."

Scott followed the judge over to a small group of men who were chatting with Mr. Piotrowski.

"Walt, take a look at who we have here," the judge said.

"My god, is that you, Scott?" the man said.

Scott realized who it was, "Sheriff King?"

"See!" the judge was practically crowing. "Even the boy knows what your title should be."

Walter King had quit the sheriff's office a little over four years ago to, "Go make some money," as he put it. He had gone to work for one of the gas exploration companies that populated the West Texas region.

"Walt's going to run for sheriff again in November," announced the judge.

There was laughter and clapping. Walter King was a shoo-in for Sheriff.

"Good grief, what have they been feeding you? You've sprung up on me," Walter King ruffled Scott's hair affectionately. "Elijah we better get some food into this one or who knows what might happen."

There were appreciative noises as plates were passed out and the serious eating commenced under the sun shades on the large patio. Scott enjoyed listening to the adults laughing and exchanging stories. This was a group of people who clearly felt comfortable with each other. Mr. Piotrowski fit right in. The conversation ranged from the extraordinarily dry weather to county politics. After about a half hour of eating, the women and men drifted into two different camps.

Judge Upcott got Walter King's attention, "Walt, I wonder if you could help out Alex and young Scott here. Alex wants to take the boy shooting and I thought that you might be able to get them in over at that nice range we built you folks not so many years ago."

"Elijah, I'm not currently with the department and they might object."

"Walt, you know that's just pure bunk. They'll be so damn happy to see you again, and by then you can be sure the word will be out, I'll bet they hand you the keys."

Walter King shook his head.

Mr. Piotrowski tried to object as well, "I thought we'd go to the public range, or if that was too crowded we'd try some land I know."

Walter King grinned, "Alex, you know Elijah. He's not going to let this go. What day were you thinking about?"

"I was going today until the judge made me a better offer. How about the Sunday after next?" Mr. Piotrowski asked.

"Give me a call the Saturday before and I'll make sure we're good to go," agreed Walter. "Now what were you thinking of shooting?"

Mr. Piotrowski sat back and rubbed his chin, "Good question. I thought I'd start him out on my .22 bolt action. You can't go wrong with a single shot .22 to learn on. Then I thought I might let him shoot a little .38 for some up close target practice."

"Sounds like a solid plan," said the once and future sheriff. "Are you going to bring anything really fun out?"

"What do you mean, Walt?" Mr. Piotrowski asked with a knowing look.

"I seem to recall that you had a real fine match grade M14 at one time."