SEEDS OF SALTON

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

Eastern Montana, 1974

Sixteen-year-old Grady Kramer gripped the passenger door handle of the ’67 GMC as it barreled north on the section road, the rugged Montana landscape passing by in a blackened blur. He wanted to yank the door open and jump out, but he figured at this speed the crushed lava scoria that covered the gravel road would tear him to smithereens.

“She’s a looker, Grady,” his dad said between drags on his Winston, one hand guiding the steering wheel. “And she’s up for anything I want to try. She likes it fine on top too.” His dark eyes danced as he exhaled with a deep raunchy laugh. “Ya hear what I’m saying?”

Grady grunted a weak “yeah” and nodded to appease his dad. He forced a smile, as though this disgusting news impressed him—that Frank Engel Kramer, husband and father of four, was some kind of ladies man, right up there with the likes of Burt Reynolds or Robert Redford out in Hollywood. Truth be told, his father resembled the rugged Burt Reynolds in Deliverance, a muscular outdoorsman with a dazzling smile, jet black hair and dark eyes—not an ounce of fat on his thirty-eight-year-old frame.

The mere thought twisted Grady’s stomach into knots, like the large den of rattlesnakes he stumbled on out near the rough breaks behind Malone’s wheat field. Much to his mother’s dismay Grady’s fascination for snakes had turned into a hobby. Every Sunday he watched Marlin Perkins and Jim Fowler on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom and studied how they handled snakes. Bull snakes were abundant on the northern prairie and good for practice, but he preferred the challenge of catching the deadly rattlers. He learned if a rattlesnake was going to strike it would draw its body into an S-shaped coil and lunge forward, mouth open, the long hooked fangs ready to deliver the venom into its victim. The trick was to push the head down with a shovel and then grab it in one swift motion. His tactic had paid off ’cause he’d caught dozens of rattlers over the last few summers and had never been bit.

But nothing prepared him for the type of venom spewing from his father’s mouth. Each word, each vile utterance sent a surge of poison through Grady’s mind as his father rattled off detailed descriptions of each sex act. “And if you so much as blab a word of this to your ma, I’ll have your hide, boy. You hear me? I’ll have it good.”

Grady swallowed hard. How could he even face his mother when they got home? How could he look her in the eye, knowing what he knew now? His gut burned with anger but he didn’t dare let it show. He knew firsthand the two distinct versions of his father. Friends and neighbors saw the fun-loving Frank Kramer who thrived on attention and loved showing off. But Grady and the younger kids were privy to a darker side, a raw and angry man who always hovered near a dangerous, vindictive edge.

Grady’s eyes settled on the outline of the rugged buttes starting to take shape as a hint of light softened the lacquered blackness of the early morning sky. Hunting was by far one of Grady’s greatest passions, especially big game hunting in the fall. Whitetail. Mule deer. Antelope. He loved the outdoors more than anything.

“Hey, what about you?” his dad asked in a low voice. “Did you get any last night?” He reached across the cab and slapped Grady’s shoulder.

“Daaad! Knock it off.” He squirmed on the bench seat, an uneasiness pressing through him like a hot summer wind out of the Rockies.

“Well, did ya?” he said. “C’mon tell your ol’ man.” His dad sucked in a long breath on his cigarette and exhaled a blue ring between him and the steering wheel. His profile radiated in a sultry glow from the lighted dashboard.

“Forget it.”

“Lucky for me this little lady lives over in Beach.” His dad cocked a black eyebrow and continued. “Couple blocks behind Roy’s Repairs. Close enough, but not too close.”

Grady used every ounce of raw strength to hold back his exploding emotions. He knew exactly what his dad meant. Beach was seven miles east of Wibaux, less than a mile inside the North Dakota state line. His mom worked in Wibaux and rarely drove to Beach unless Dad or he and the younger kids were with her. How could he do this to his own wife? Carol Teresa Kramer was a beautiful, caring mother who did everything in her power to keep a decent home, raise her kids, and proclaim her weekly devotion to God and family on bended knees at Mass in the sign of the cross, bowing to the Blessed Virgin Mary and Jesus himself. 

Grady had a girl he liked over in Beach too: Naomi Laureen Braden, the prettiest cheerleader on the sidelines for the Beach Buccaneers. He and Naomi could sit for hours in the front seat of his ’61 Bel Air out on Beaver Creek Road, holding hands, talking, sneaking kisses. Sixteen or not, he couldn’t imagine doing such things with Naomi as his father had just described. Yes, he had urges and strong physical feelings for her, but he would never disrespect her in such a way. Never.

“It’s just you and me here. C’mon, tell me.” Frank leaned forward, his face turned toward Grady, waiting. “What’d you get last night?”

“Dad, me and Naomi went to a bonfire in Lorentz’s pasture. There was a whole bunch of kids from Beach and Wibaux hanging out.”

“Boy, that ain’t gonna get you nothing,” he said with a sneer. “Take a lesson from your old man.”

Grady cringed. “I don’t need any lessons,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Listen, if you won’t take my word for it, I picked up a new magazine at that one truck stop outside of Miles City. You think you got enough sense in that brain of yours to follow a picture?”

“Not interested.” Grady turned toward the window, the toxic mixture of hate and anger swelling inside him again. His own reflection stared back at him—squared face with a pointed chin; rounded nose; dark, deep set eyes. Other than the long scar, a younger version of his father.     

“Whoa,” his dad said, braking. He leaned forward, looking for the half-section post marking and stopped at the fence line. “This the right one?”

“Yup.” Grady hopped out to open the pasture gate, thankful for the diversion.

“You better make damn sure you close the gate right or Dale won’t let us hunt back here again,” Frank said as soon as Grady climbed back in. “He’s got a big herd of Angus in the northwest section.”

“I remember.” He glanced up at the stars, flickers of tiny diamonds against a rich and velvety tapestry. Desperate to get his dad’s mind off sex, he blurted, “How much sausage are we smoking this year?”

Frank slapped the steering wheel and licked his lips. “Mmmm! Can’t ya just taste it? Depends on what we come home with. Whitetail, muley, prairie goat. A muley will give us more meat to mix up. That ol’ steer we just butchered had some good meat on him, didn’t he?”

Grady nodded, his stomach relaxing slightly. “I can’t wait for some of them steaks.” He patted his abdomen, toned and rigid from another summer baling hay and digging postholes on Malone’s ranch.

“The butcher hog was pretty decent too. Should make for a good batch of summer and breakfast sausage.”

“Are Grandpa and Grandma Hoffman coming down again?”

“They’d better; we need the help. Hey, did I tell you? Dale Radermacher liked my sausage so much, he asked for some more of it this year. Said it was the best he ever tasted. Pretty fair trade for hunting on his land, don’t ya think?”

“Sure is.”

“Even told the guy who writes in the Glendive paper about it.”

“Really?”

“You bet he did. I hear it all the time down at the Silver Dollar, ‘Frank, you make the best damn sausage round these parts. When you gonna pass s’more of that around?’”

Grady learned long ago to recognize when his dad needed his ego stroked. “That’s good, Dad,” he said, “real good.”

Another mile in Frank turned east onto the next half-section road, downshifting as the pickup bounced along the narrower gravel road. Daylight emerged in less than grand fashion as low-lying clouds nearly touched the ridge on the eastern horizon. In November one could expect anything from a warm rain to a full-blown blizzard that might threaten the lives of man and beast alike.

The worn brakes squeaked as his dad stopped the truck at the top of a draw, a natural gully formed by the runoff of summer rains and melting spring snows. “Just in time,” he said, glancing at the sky. “Let’s get rollin’.” Frank shifted into neutral and pulled another Winston out of his pack, the engine idling.

Grady got out and grabbed his rifle from the gun rack in the back window. “Gimme a sec to load.” His dad had taken him to the army surplus in Glendive last summer and he picked out a World War II 7.57 mm Mauser with the tightest barrel he could find, a pretty good bargain for twenty-one bucks. Course it wasn’t really meant for hunting, but it was all he could afford. He cleaned it up, sanded the wood down and put on a fresh coat of stain that brought out the pretty grain of the beech wood. It had a nice leather sling and he’d be the first to admit it looked pretty darn sharp.

Grady stood next to the open door and flipped up the top of his ammo box on the seat. He’d learned how to make his own bullets using the brass from store-bought shells. Not only were his bullets smaller and faster, but he could make a round for a nickel a piece. One by one, he loaded five rounds into the magazine. He closed the bolt on his rifle, flipped up the safety, and slipped five more rounds into his pocket.

Frank nodded toward Grady’s right hand. “I saw that.” With the engine idling, he leaned against the steering wheel, the sleeves of his quilt-lined coveralls stained with grease.

“Just in case.”

“If you need more’n five bullets boy, you shouldn’t be hunting.” His head fell back and he laughed hard.

Grady shrugged off his father’s words and laid his rifle on the bench seat. He pulled on a blaze orange sweatshirt over his Carhartt overalls. “It might be awhile before I get back to the truck; this is a pretty long draw,” he said, pointing toward a pillow of fog that rested along a deep crevice to the south about a quarter mile. He tugged an orange stocking cap over his long dark hair that touched his shoulders.

“Hmm, maybe not. I got a good feeling,” Frank said, nodding toward the barrel of his Springfield .30-06 rifle in the upper rack. He cracked a smile and pushed back his cap. A few lines creased his forehead, visible indicators of his daily drinking habit. “I’m gonna park the truck in the southeast quarter section on that ridge where we looked last week.”

Grady knew from their years of hunting the deer would be coming back from the fields at dawn toward their bedding spots where they stayed throughout the daylight hours. They’d enjoyed some good outings since they moved to Wibaux, although Grady’s style was a little different than his father’s. Frank—an excellent shot—always aimed for the heart and could hit any size animal dead center at three hundred yards out. Grady preferred to aim for the head and had practiced long hours target shooting behind the machine shed to perfect his shot.

“Hey,” Frank said, taking a long drag, “if we get a couple right off, I’ll have time to run over to Beach and go at it with her one more time.” He puckered his lips and gave a crude laugh.

Grady picked up his Mauser and gripped it tightly, the comment gnawing at him. His eyes narrowed and he glared at his father. “That a fact?” He tried to hide the edge in his voice, but it cut its way through like a blade saw.

“What’s eating you?” he asked, his jaw thrust outward. A rough layer of morning whiskers covered his chin.

Grady bit his lip. “Nothing.” He kicked a dried clump of rusty brown Montana mud from the wheel well and slammed the door.

Frank turned the truck around and rolled down his window. “Okay then, you take the draw down along that ridge and walk back up to the next quarter section.” His eyes narrowed as he scanned the morning haze and he pointed to the contour where the land changed in elevation. “I’ll be waiting just across on the hill facing west. If you flush anything out I’ll get a decent shot no matter which side they head up.”

“See you on the other side,” Grady said, watching the rectangular red taillights disappear over the ridge. He crawled through the double barbed-wire fence, stretched tight between a long row of crooked cedar posts, and headed toward the trees and buffalo berry brush that grew close to the low spots where rain or melted snow collected. He walked the top edge of the rough gully, stepping carefully on the uneven ground, his muzzle in ready position, in the mood to shoot the first thing that moved.

After a quarter mile Grady stopped, listening. A flock of geese in V-formation passed overhead, squawking noisily, heading south in search of warmer weather. In each direction the dingy brown terrain spread for miles until it met up with the gray, gloomy skies overhead. Pockets of sagebrush sprung up randomly, hiding grouse or rabbits, their feathers and coats blending chameleon-like with the background as all of nature prepared for the winter about to descend. Trees were scarce on the open range and on most days the wind blew without interference. By mid-November the tall prairie grasses were headed out and gone to seed, some crushed and flattened by the animals that roamed the vast open territory, much of it looking the same since the days before there were fences and Indians were the ones out in hunting parties.

The frost-coated air cleared Grady’s mind as he eyed the iron-hard land, trying to erase the images of his dad and another woman. The hate swelled inside him, but he knew better than to lose it in front of his ol’ man. Too many times he suffered the consequences of his father’s explosive temper. All four kids—himself, Melinda, Kurt, and Dean—were subject at any given moment to his favorite instrument of pain: the jar of wheat seeds.         

His dad kept a Mason jar of hard, red spring wheat on the shelf next to the milk separator in the porch, and even bragged that the spring wheat was fatter than the winter wheat and would cause more pain. The jar stayed there year-round, poured out in little piles at least once a week. “Go get the jar; get the wheat seeds right now,” he’d say. “Roll up your pants.” Bare kneed, they would kneel for some trivial infraction, like answering in the wrong tone or leaving a gate unlatched. And God forbid if one of them eased off their knees during the half-hour ritual—he’d add more time and a whipping.

Most often he used a double razor strap, the old-fashioned kind with one piece of darkened leather and one made of thick canvas, three inches wide and two feet in length, hooked at the top with a buckle. It hung on a hook by the back door, both instruments of discipline always in plain sight. Other times he grabbed whatever was within reach—the belt around his waist, an electric cord, a fan belt.

More than anything Grady hated watching his younger sister and brothers take their turns with the strap; he’d rather take it himself. It killed him to see his father use every ounce of his adult strength to whip Melinda, Kurt, and sometimes Dean, although he was the youngest and not around for the worst of it. Even worse, it was degrading and humiliating, forced to pull down their pants in front of each other. Melinda especially, the only girl. She was thin—pure skin on bone—and it sickened him to watch the big red welts rise up on her milky white flesh. Kurt’s thighs and buttocks were a little meatier and each strike sent ripples across his backside in waves. Bare skin lost every time. Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Grady tensed: the distinct sound still vivid in his memory.

Movement under a clump of blue grama grass near a rock pile caught Grady’s eye. A white-tailed jackrabbit darted out from underneath a buffalo berry shrub. He recognized it by its long ears and hind legs, the fur already a pale gray in preparation for winter, the tail snowy white. It scampered across an open area then stopped, nibbling on a patch of creeping juniper. He might’a took a shot at it when he was a kid, but now he was willing to wait for big game. Grady wiped the stock with his sleeve, shining the rich beech wood. He looked up as a red-tailed hawk swooped down and snatched the young rabbit in its sharp talons. The hawk carried it to a bare branch on a dead elm about twenty yards away, ready to tear into its prey. “The laws of nature,” Grady said in a whisper, watching the scene unfold in living color. “The hunter and the hunted.”

Grady followed the wide curve of the draw, the ground tilting downward to a rocky, brush-filled bottom. In the distance a light dusting of snow capped the knobs and buttes that stuck up against the otherwise bleak backdrop. A circle of birds congregated over a rough patch of buffalo sod grass, probably on one of the prairie dog “towns” hidden beneath the ground. Black dots strategically covered the farthest hillside looking like toys—Dale’s herd of Angus.

No sign of a whitetail or muley so far. He breathed in the moist, cold air and let it fill his lungs, eyes scanning an S-curve in the Missouri Breaks, the not-so-badlands of Montana. The land was rougher here than a few miles south where it flattened out and ranchers could plant more fields, but not as bad as the official Badlands in North Dakota, thirty miles to the east. The deep ravines and coulees of the Missouri Breaks made it easy to lose cattle if ranchers weren’t careful. Some years they got caught by an early snowstorm and had a devil of a time rounding up their big herds. Most ranches in these parts were measured by sections, 640 acres to a section, each one divided by a gravel road, a red ribbon of scoria gravel that ran north-south, east-west, straight as an arrow, up and down the never-ending slopes. One time, just for the heck of it, Grady had driven all the way to Glendive on section roads, all twenty-seven miles, and he’d had a hoot, raising red dust behind his Bel Air the whole way.

Normally he loved this time outdoors, but this morning he was distracted, upset, sickened by his father’s new secret. He wanted to tell his ol’ man exactly what he thought, but who was he kidding? No one with half a brain would tell Frank Kramer something he didn’t want to hear, not with his quick temper, and especially not when the man was carrying a loaded gun.

When Grady was younger he didn’t understand why his mom never dared come between his dad and the whippings. Not ever. Could he really blame her? A grizzly bear wouldn’t cross paths with his ol’ man when he was bent on setting his kids straight. Growing up Grady believed his dad was just downright mean for all the beatings and whippings, but what he’d heard this morning topped it all.

He reached the end of the draw, surprised he hadn’t flushed anything out. He neared the pickup and waved an arm to signal he was back. A few seconds later his dad’s orange cap crested the hill, indicating he’d seen Grady’s signal and was on his way to meet him at the truck.

Kill him and get it over with.

The thought struck Grady so hard and fast it sucked away his breath.

Kill him. He deserves to die.

Grady watched as his dad came into full view, about a hundred yards to the east on a nice gentle slope. The thought took hold, gaining justification with each pulse of blood and adrenaline that rushed through his veins. It was perfect, a dead-bang shot. He could make it look like one of those tragic accidents that happen every November during deer hunting season. Grady envisioned the headline:  Sixteen-year-old Wibaux boy accidentally kills father while hunting.

Another rush of hate washed over Grady as he contemplated his shot, the cold air biting his cheeks. Yes, he could take a head shot and drop him before he even knew what happened. The man was using up good oxygen and didn’t deserve to live.

He lifted his rifle, pulled the bolt back and ran a shell into the chamber, the sound echoing eerily in his right ear, as if to remind Grady the Mauser was built to kill men, not animals. With newfound boldness, he rested one hand underneath the forestock and positioned the other around the grip, resting his arm on the hood of the truck to guarantee a steady shot. In precision-like movements Grady pushed the safety in and eased his index finger around the cold metal of the trigger.

His emotions roiled inside and he fought to keep his hands steady. He released a breath slowly, calculating his dad’s every move, eyeing him through the iron sights at the end of his muzzle. His father walked with the Springfield pointed up, looking for tracks in the ground. Grady took a deep breath and held it, just as his dad had taught him, the butt tight against his shoulder. He wasn’t about to back down now, not after this day.

Do it Grady. Do it right now.

A surge of satisfaction took hold in knowing his dad had no clue that his own role had suddenly changed. The great and mighty hunter was now the hunted. Maybe this was the answer he’d been looking for all along. No more walking on eggshells day and night.

A raw wind rustled a Russian olive tree nearby. All Grady had to do was squeeze the trigger. Payback for all those times he’d been forced to kneel on those damn seeds. Payback for the whippings. Payback for listening to Mindy cry and hide in her room.

No. Wait. He didn’t want to shoot him in the head. He wanted his dad to see it coming, to know his own son pulled the trigger.

Grady lowered the muzzle ever so slightly and took a bead on his dad’s shirt button showing through the opening of his overalls. This way he would see the flash, hear the report from the rifle. There would be enough time for him to know his own son had taken his life and wonder why.

Grady kept his dad’s chest in his sights and drew slight tension on the trigger. Nervous sweat trickled into his eyes. He blinked and focused again, the rifle poised with deadly accuracy. He watched his dad descend the slanted hillside, on alert for signs of deer. He was headed right toward him, taking long strides across the pasture like a proud banty rooster. Grady had a wide open, clear shot.

Now, Grady! Do it! If he moved his finger a hair more it would be over.

Do it, Grady, you can do it. He deserves to die. He deserves to rot in hell with all the other child beaters and adulterers!

Grady held the rifle steady, fingering the sensitive trigger. You got him, you got him. Now!

His knees buckled out from under him. He released his finger and lowered the rifle. He couldn’t do it. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t go through with it. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind, a voice told him it was wrong.

Hands shaking, Grady’s breaths came in deep heaves. He leaned against the truck for support. Despite the chill in the air, he was sweating under his outer layers. The thought tore at him, how close he had come to killing his own father, retching through him like a jagged bolt of lightning. He spit at the ground and stared into the vast, brutal terrain that stretched out before him.

Like some sorry animal caught in a trap, he was destined to live under his father’s sordid rules. The realization hit him swift and hard, like an angry rodeo bull knocking him into the ground. He wiped his eyes, his heart pounding in erratic, hopeless beats as he watched his father close in. Strong and surefooted with each step, rifle in hand, Frank Kramer carried the appearance that he was rougher and tougher than Montana itself.