Gravel to the End

by Travis Stephens

Eugene Braden liked to watch the quail scurry across the yard. He had no idea why they were in such a hurry. Cats, maybe. But why walk like Charlie Chaplin when you could fly? A covey of them, three, four, five darted single file from the shadow of a front end loader to the edge of the gravel quarry.   Early on the Broadens had quit farming to cut into a hillside for gravel. Now that hillside was a deep, crumble-walled hole. He was fairly certain the gravel ran deep and past his border. Maybe forever.

He was a slump shouldered man sliding past fifty with a Chevy pickup he had long paid off. Problem was, it was in need of tires. His son, Donnie, had come home to borrow a chainsaw and when he walked past the truck he paused to thump a tire. It sounded like a melon.

“Man,” Donnie said, “that’s a bald tire.”

“It’s a front tire,” Eugene said. “Don’t matter.”

Donnie ran his hand over the tire like he was stroking the newly shaved leg of Joanie Point. The famous Joanie Point, local girl now the weekend anchor on Channel Seven.  Man could dream. “I can’t even feel tread,” he said.

“Back tires are good,” Eugene answered. “Long as I got traction I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Donnie said. He shook the Stihl. “You got any two cycle oil?”

“What I got is in the lawn mower.”

Donnie saw mullein stalks and bull thistles surrounded by wan carpets of crab grass. Near the leaky garden hose a small mat of timothy approximated the shape of Kentucky.

“Have to get some,” he said. Donnie had learned to operate heavy equipment as a boy, working the wheel and levers of loaders and ‘dozers here on the family business. His father didn’t pay him, though, and the construction outfits did. Donnie was recognized as being a talent with a backhoe, able to cut a straight, knife edged trench in any of Napa County’s diverse soil types. He had just completed a week at the new winery on Dutch Henry road and the crazy pattern of the footing he cut was etched into his brain. He was borrowing the saw to trim some pin oak branches that reached from the neighbor’s into his girlfriend’s tiny Yountville yard. He looked at the front end loader and its cab windows covered in dust.

“You got any orders?” he asked his father. The loader hadn’t moved in a week, maybe two.

“Waiting on permits,” Eugene answered. 

“Uh-huh.”

“You might want to buy a new chainsaw blade,” Eugene said. “That one’s kinda dull.”

Donnie saw through that. “It’s okay, Pop. I got a file.” He dropped the gate on his 4Runner and put the saw inside.  From the rear seat a bright-eyed head emerged from a window. The border collie’s tongue lolled bright pink against its black coat.

“You ain’t going to let Cash out?”

“Nah. He gets to chasing something in the quarry I can’t get him out.” Cash had no interest in tennis balls or Frisbees but would chase a squirrel into the basement of hell. Donnie climbed into the 4Runner and drove away.

Eugene rose from the Adirondack chair on the porch. As he did flakes of paint rained from it like sea green dandruff. It was the best part of these old houses, the wide porches that held the shade. This had been his father’s house when this was still a dairy. As a boy Eugene had escaped the milking barn to ride his pony through prune orchards and walnut groves. Nobody fenced much then and the grapes were grown by Italians up from San Francisco.

Now he hardly recognized his valley. Vines snaked over ornate metal trellises in the careful ranks of a conquering army.  Corporate interests built chateaus and airy bottling sheds. An old classmate made a good living making wine caves.

Eugene almost made coffee. The stove was still the one his ex-wife had purchased, but the coffeemaker was the third since she left. He snatched his cowboy hat off the table and went to his truck.

Red-headed Larry Wilske was at his usual table. He had the Wall Street Journal folded next to his plate but was busy talking to Ron Silver, from the bank. Ron was not seated and stood near an adjoining table in khaki pants and a red polo shirt. Eugene hardly recognized him without his suit on. Oh, Saturday.

“There he is,” Wilske said and pulled a chair back. “Have a seat.” Eugene nodded to Silver, who nodded back. The banker walked away as Eugene looked around.

“Hey, Rusty. Where is Trudy?” he asked.

“She’s off today.” Trudy delivered a cup of coffee as soon as Eugene came through the door. She had been at the Milkweed Café for years.  Wilske grinned. “Razor busted?”

Eugene rubbed at his face. “Nah.” He put his cowboy hat on an empty chair. “Where is everybody?”

“Jack is playing golf. Robert got shanghaied into going to Palisade Garden Center with Janice. It’s just us bachelors, buddy.”

“Garden Center? That poor sonuvabitch.” Janice had gone through a string of gardeners. She had an infinity pool she was trying to fit into the décor of her Colonial. Eugene waved the waitress over. Maria or Lupe or Connie, he didn’t knoe which.

“Café,” he said, “por favor.”

Lupe nodded. “You want the usual? Eggs and extra bacon?”

“Hell yes.”

Wilske’s eyes lingered on Lupe’s butt as she walked away. The fabric of her uniform skirt was taut. He sighed.  “I miss the days when women wore dresses,” he said.

“Sure,” Eugene said. Wilske had bought orchards early on and leased them to wineries. He charged them twelve thousand an acre to plant grapes and during the first five years the vines were too young to produce. But the wineries liked to put their names on signs and he was fine with being the invisible owner of fifteen percent of the valley. Through his wife’s family he controlled another five percent. She had become a grandmother after so much waiting and was ensconced with the babies in New York.

“Say, Rusty,” Eugene said. “You got any projects coming up?”

“Maybe. You been selling any aggregate? Any of your ‘locally sourced materials’?”

Eugene had used such language to land a few contracts. It was part of the state bid process. “Not much. Yard here and there.”

Wilske furrowed his brow. “You should go talk to Broom.”

“Wally? What’s he got going on?”

“Not Wally. His son,  John.”

“Johnny? Geez, I remember when he was riding that dirt bike.  I caught him riding in the quarry and about had to kick his ass.” Lupe delivered a mug of coffee. Eugene drank deeply.

“He goes by John. He has taken over running the operation for Wally.”

“No kidding. I thought Johnny was living in Aspen or Vail. Being a ski bum.”

“Yeah. Seeing more and more of that. Kids go away and live in a city. Then they realize, you know, life was pretty good in Napa Valley. Making wine.  They come back to take over the family business.”

“Huh.”

Wilske looked at his watch. “Geez,” he said, “I got to go.” He climbed to his feet and left a few bills on the table. “I’m meeting with some investors looking at Spring Mountain.” He grinned. “Frenchies.”

“Oooh la-la.”

“Yep. Catch you later.”

Eugene watched him leave. He picked up the newspaper and then set it back down. He slid one of the bills Wilske had left under it and palmed the other. Slid it across the table and into his lap. He waved Lupe over to refill his mug. 

“You got any cinnamon rolls?” he asked.

“Yes. I’ll bring one over.” She took Wilske’s mug . Eugene watched her lift the newspaper and take the bill. “You want the paper?” she asked.

“Nah. You can have it.”

Eugene asked Lupe to box up the cinnamon roll. He carried it out the door, where he paused to pluck a few toothpicks from the hostess stand. “Got any matches?” he asked the woman there.

She stooped and Eugene looked down her blouse. Nice, he thought. She gave him two books. “Thanks,” he said. Eugene pushed the door open and into a man who was reaching for it.

“Hey, Harry,” he said. Harry Miller from Wild Lake.

“Gene,” Harry Miller said. He was a thin, bald man who blinked with both eyes every few seconds. A step behind him was his wife, June. To Eugene June was like furniture, there but not noticed.

“How are you, Harry?”

“I’d be better,” Harry said, “if my gravel didn’t keep washing away.” Miller said washing with an r in it, the way he had learned in Eastern Oregon. “You sent me a load of sand and dirt.”

“Now, Harry. You spread anything on that slope of yours it’s gonna wash away. I sent you five yards of good  gravel.”

“Ruts,” Harry blinked, “Now I got these deep ruts on my road that like to bounce you out of your seat. You need to send me another load.”

“Sure, Harry, just let me know when. “

Harry paused to bend over. “Look at that tire,” he said. “It’s bald as an egg.”

“It’s fine,” Eugene said. “It’s a front tire.” 

Harry looked at Eugene. “You got to be crazy to keep driving on that.” He looked to June. She shrugged

“It’s a front tire,” Eugene repeated.

“Your funeral.” Harry stood and went to the café door. “Come on, June.” They went inside.

Eugene shifted the cinnamon roll box from right to left. Slapped at his pockets.  Stopped himself. He had quit smoking years ago but the muscle memories remained. He spat ineffectively toward his tire and climbed into the truck. A passenger van went by him with a trailing dust cloud. It had WINERY TOURS stenciled on it and Eugene followed it only as long as the next cross road. The Highway was going to be one line of tourist cars after another. He went east to the Silverado Trail. Avoid most of them that way.

Eugene was doing sixty miles an hour, his windows down , one arm out and casually regarding the goats somebody had let into a meadow when the tire went. He would have expected a loud blowout.  Instead the front driver’s side tire just lost its shape like a dropped egg. The truck wrenched the wheel out of his hands and veered for the centerline. Eugene spent his attention trying to steer instead of stepping on the brakes. So he crossed the line, crossed the lane and nosed into the opposite ditch like the truck were headfirst sliding into second.

It was an old truck, but it had seat belts. It did not have an airbag. When the truck found a small live oak it stopped. Eugene was thrown against the shoulder strap, which kept him from being impaled on the wheel.  It knocked the breath out of him, knocked him out.

When Eugene Braden came to it was among goats. The sun was in his face and he felt stones and grass beneath him. He smelt animals, heard one tearing grass. He felt a tap through the ground as the goats grazed around him. He saw a young man looking at him.

“You okay?” he asked. The young man looked Mexican to Eugene.

“I don’t know.”

“I got you outta the truck. In case, you know, it caught fire.” He grinned.

“Huh. You speak really good English.”

The young man’s smile went hard. “I’m from here. My folks are from here. I don’t even know Spanish.”

“Hey, don’t get upset.”

“I called the ambulance,” the young man said. “And yeah, you’re welcome.” He walked away. Eugene could hear the goats and when he turned his head he saw a black and white one licking the crumpled front of his truck. Another one had found the cinnamon roll.

He recalled a conversation he had with Larry Wilske at the Milkweed Café years ago.  

“I got me some goats,” Wilske had said.

“What for?” Eugene had said. “Dairy goats?”

“No, not dairy goats. Just goats. Nubians, I think.”

“What the hell for?”

“This developer from Danville told me about it. You put some goats out on a patch of ground you want to build on. Before you apply for permits.”

“For what? They knock the weeds down?”

Wilske had smiled. “They do that. But better yet, they make sure that there are no three-toed salamanders, no endangered peepers, no meadow fucking vole to be found. None of the endangered species list. The biologists come for their environmental site inspection and it’s clean. Yup, goats are an EPA cleaning machine.”

Eugene  lay on his back and let the goats tiptoe around him. EPA machines. That one licking antifreeze is sure doing his part. He lay back and figured this day is done. He closed his eyes. Put a fright into the EMTs from Oakville. They rushed the stretcher from roadside, through the ditch and scattered the goats, thinking they had a dead man. One who sat up without a scratch on him. 

“Some has luck,” the Fire Chief said later at the station, working the steaks on the grill. He nodded at the EMT’s story. “Never any rhyme or reason to it. Just lucky.”

“He’s that guy with the gravel quarry,” the EMT said.

“Like I said,” the chief frowned as the steak fat flared. “Some are just lucky.”

Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. An alumni of University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, recent credits include: 2River, Sheila-Na-Gig, Hole in the Head Review, GRIFFEL, and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature.