favorite for a few weeks. “Wench, fetch me a grinding wheel,” he’d
shout, or “Raise the boom, Wench!” Then he’d search my face for a
reaction. He never found one. Next he tried “Wilbur.” Because I ate so
much, he said. “That’s some pig,” he’d shout with a whistle when I bent
over to fit a screw or check a measurement.
Shawn took to lingering outside after the crew had finished for the
day. I suspect he wanted to be near the driveway when Charles drove
up it. He seemed to be forever changing the oil in his truck. The first
night he was out there, I ran out and jumped into the jeep before he
could say a word. The next night he was quicker on the draw. “Isn’t
Tara beautiful?” he shouted to Charles. “Eyes like a fish and she’s
nearly as smart as one.” It was an old taunt, blunted by overuse. He
must have known I wouldn’t react on the site so he’d saved it, hoping
that in front of Charles it might still have sting.
The next night: “You going to dinner? Don’t get between Wilbur and
her food. Won’t be nothin’ left of you but a splat on the pavement.”
Charles never responded. We entered into an unspoken agreement
to begin our evenings the moment the mountain disappeared in the
rearview mirror. In the universe we explored together there were gas
stations and movie theaters; there were cars dotting the highway like
trinkets, full of people laughing or honking, always waving, because
this was a small town and everybody knew Charles; there were dirt
roads dusted white with chalk, canals the color of beef stew, and
endless wheat fields glowing bronze. But there was no Buck’s Peak.
During the day, Buck’s Peak was all there was—that and the site in
Blackfoot. Shawn and I spent the better part of a week making purlins
to finish the barn roof. We used a machine the size of a mobile home to
press them into a Z shape, then we attached wire brushes to grinders
and blasted away the rust so they could be painted. When the paint
was dry we stacked them next to the shop, but within a day or two the
wind from the peak had covered them in black dust, which turned to
grime when it mixed with the oils on the iron. Shawn said they had to
be washed before they could be loaded, so I fetched a rag and a bucket
of water.
It was a hot day, and I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead. My
hairband broke. I didn’t have a spare. The wind swept down the
mountain, blowing strands in my eyes, and I reached across my face
and brushed them away. My hands were black with grease, and each