A Good Southern White Man

Chapter 1

Ziva

The crisp touch of the Texas dawn mists against my bare espresso skin. I roll over, and steal a peek at my alarm clock. 10 am? Shit. I should already be in the barn by now. The hay’s not going to bale itself.

I throw on a ratty pair of jeans, a yellow tee shirt, and hustle down the stairs. Nana is giving Jeremiah his breakfast at the long dining room table.

“Well look who decided to get out of bed,” Nana chimes. “Good morning, Sunshine.” Her tone is pleasant, but there’s a fair amount of side-eye to go with it. “There’s a plate with your name on it in the kitchen”.

“Thanks Nan!” I lean over and kiss her on the cheek, then jog into the kitchen. On the

table, just like she promised, is a floral blue plate. In the center are two of Nana’s homemade apple fritter flapjacks with her champagne blueberry sauce. They’re already cooling, so I scarf them down and go over the to-do list for the day.

“So what are you two troublemakers going to get up to?” Nana asks with a teasing smile.

“It looks like we have a lot on the agenda. The horses need to be groomed, and I

ought to take Jeremiah down to the store to get some notebooks for school.” He’s been anxious over starting in a few weeks, and the little jerk has proven very adept at wriggling out of all the prep work.

“Jeremiah,” I call out to him, “go to the stables and I will be there in a second.” He grunts

out his dissatisfaction, and I hear the screen door bang shut behind him. Licking the last bit of sauce off my thumb, I put my plate in the sink and turn to thank Nana for doing the dishes. When I meet her eyes. She’s got on her scolding face.

“You know, he needs time to be a kid.” Here we go again.

“Nan, I know. But he’s also becoming a teenager. He needs to learn some responsibility.”

She shoots me her “don’t give me that” look. I’ve been dodging it since I was a kid.

“You know your grandfather would be proud of you, right?” She takes my hand, and an

odd lump lodges in my throat. She never talks about PopPop these days. There’s a second where she looks like she’s going to say more, but opts for, “Well I’m going to get my shower in.” 

It’s been almost a year since PopPop died. Nana always says that the sun doesn’t shine as

bright as when he was alive. It seems just as hot to me, but I know what she means. Some folks might call him the heart and soul of this farm, but he was really more like the spine. It’s been a hard scramble to keep the place in shape.

As I step out onto the porch, I see Jeremiah tugging open the barn door. The last year has

been a big one for him, too. He’s changed from a little boy with a lot of spunk to a quiet and relatively respectful young man. Every day I’m grateful to see that he’s not turning out like his bastard of a father.

When I first met Jeremiah’s father, he was a wild, unpredictable shit kicker with a

reputation for fighting. Silly girl that I was, that kind of thing seemed exciting. Unfortunately, I came to know better, and I still go through times where I worry that Jeremiah might succumb to his father’s rebellious genes. Or worse – turn into a rambler.

Our son was only two years old when I came home to an empty apartment. The only

thing left was a small kitchen table with a note on it that read: “I’m tired of pretending. I’m sorry but I love her not you.” If that’s not a kick in the stomach, I don’t know what is. Maybe if he’d had the baby with her, he’d still be with me. 

For the last 10 years I have grown to resent myself. I’ve let myself believe that he was the

victim of a wife who tried a little too hard to be perfect. I had been so busy trying to fill the cracks that I couldn’t see that I was stopping up all the air.

But, since PopPop went down, I’ve come to grips with the fact that it wasn’t just me. My

husband was a son of a bitch, and I let him walk all over me. It’s funny how your perspective can shift overnight, but I’m not buying into the old narrative anymore. There’s too much other stuff to do, and I don’t have the energy to dwell on the past.

With that in mind, I step off the porch and launch myself into the day. The trouble with

getting started after 10 is that the heat of the day is already settling in. And this one looks like it’s gonna be a scorcher. Oh well – that’s the price to be paid for another couple hours of glorious sleep. Some things are worth it.

When I trot up to the gate, Jeremiah’s there to meet me with a wheelbarrow in his

hands. He’s already worked up a sweat, and I can’t help but smile at the man my son is growing up to be. The kid knows the value of hard work. That, or he wants something and is trying to impress me.

While he busies himself mucking out the stalls, I clean the main aisle between the stables. As I pass each cross tie, I give it a looking over to ensure nothing is frayed or loose. Once that’s done, I give the saddles and reins a good dusting. They’ll need a bit of oiling, but that’ll have to wait for another time.

“Can we go riding today?” Jeremiah tosses over his shoulder. I look around at the work we’ve managed to knock out so far, and give him a nod.

“Yeah, but let's go back to the house first.” It’s funny how working makes the day just slip by. “I’ll bet you Nana has a lunch laid out for us.” If we had been at the far end of the property, it would have taken nearly 45 minutes to walk back. That’s not lost on me as we make our easy stroll over from the barn. Kicking off our boots, I see the table already set.

“Nana?”

I walk into the kitchen to see her leaning against the counter with her head down. She’s bracing her arms on the edge of the sink and shaking slightly. Without even getting close to her, I can see that she’s crying. 

“Nana what’s…”

“Hey, Ziva.” The voice shoots up my backbone and all the hair on my arms stands up. Coming fully into the kitchen, I see Alan Landson leaning against the door frame. 

“What do you want?” I snap. He puts his hands up and peels out a shitty grin.

“Is that any way to talk to company?” Too bad for him, I’m in no mood to be polite. If it wasn’t for my son coming up behind me, I would walk over there and slap smug smile right off his face.

“Just tell me what the hell you want and get out.”

“The way I see it, you got two options. Either you can marry me, or I’ll come back with the title company and take everything on this farm.” He’s smiling, but his eyes glimmer with hostility. “Then I’ll really show that boy of yours what it means to work his ass off.”

“My son is none of your damn business”, I hiss. “I’ve told you no before, and I guess you’re either deaf, or too dumb to take the hint. Let me spell it out for you. N. O. Now get the hell out of my house.”

He shrugs and steps back out through the kitchen door. As he struts back over to his pickup, Alan looks over his shoulder at me.

“Ziva, you’re gonna find out just how much your life is my business. The kid, the farm, the whole damn thing.” 

I slam the door behind him, then scoop Nana into my arms as we hear him fire up the engine. 

“Nana, it’s alright. It’s all just talk. He can’t take anything from us.”

“That’s not true”, she whispers, barely audible.

She holds up a piece of paper balled up in her fist. I take it, and take a good look. 

“What does it say, mom?” Jeremiah hovers at the door to the dining room, looking entirely stuck in the limbo between boy and man.

“RISK OF FORECLOSURE. PLEASE PAY $250,000 TO THE TOWN HALL BY OCTOBER 31,2018”. Further down the page, I see Alan’s signature with a place for the mayor’s signature and a spot for mine.

“We’ll figure it out, Nana,” I say rubbing her back. Calm as I’m trying to stay, my mind is racing.

“Baby, I wish it was that simple. We don’t have money. I’d be lucky to scrape together ten percent of that. The money from your PopPop’s insurance policy is all gone. We don’t have any other option. This is it.”

“I’ll be damned if I let that prick end up with this place,” I say. “And I’ll be double damned if I’ll marry him.”

The day grinds on, and I go through the motions of keeping the place running. My body is moving, but my mind is stuck on the bigger problem. After the house is quiet that night, I pull up the survey records from our property online. At the far end is an acre or two of empty plot land that belongs to us. That has to be worth something.

One thing is clear. Saving this place is going to take more than just Jeremiah and I. Money may be tight, but putting a little out could bring a whole lot more back in. With that in mind, I head out in the farm truck with a painted sign to hang out by the road. It may not look like much, but with any luck it’ll pull someone in.

I stand back and look at my handiwork in the glow of my headlights.

“Help Wanted.”

Ain’t that the goddamn truth?