The Thing About Luck

by Cynthia Kadohata

  My grandmother ate the pear—seeds, stem, and all—and then she began emitting that low growl: “Errrrr.”

  After a few minutes of this, Jaz asked, “Are we pulling over?”

  “No can,” Obaachan said.

  “They’ll understand,” I said.

  “They no hire us again. Errrrrrrrr. Errrrrrrrrr.”

  We had brought seven bottles of painkillers with us. “Do you want some painkillers?” I asked.

  “Six,” she replied.

  I pulled out a bottle and read the label. “It says take one, and if that doesn’t work, you’re allowed to take another.” Plus, I had read in a magazine at the dentist’s office that taking too much over-the-counter medicine was bad for your liver.

  “Give me six.”

  “Obaachan, that’s dangerous.”

  “I sixty-seven—you young, so you don’t understand yet. Pain more important than death.”

  I thought that over. I remembered that when I had malaria, the pain in my joints had made me wish I were dead. Up until then, I’d thought that pain was something that came from the outside, but malaria had taught me to fear pain that came from within. I knew my grandmother’s pain came from within. So I handed her the six pills.

  She chuckled. “Easy to get my way with you.”

  I gave her a bottle of water. We had filled plastic bottles with tap water because my grandparents couldn’t understand why anyone would pay for something that you could get from your own faucet. Personally, I loved bottled water. It made me feel extravagant and grown-up. When I grew up, I would keep bottles of water in my house at all times. I would have three dogs. My husband would love bottled water and dogs and me. Or maybe I would never be able to afford bottled water, maybe I wouldn’t have any dogs, maybe I would never feel extravagant and grown-up, and maybe I would never get married.

  “Errrr.”

  I thought of what Obaachan had said about not stopping the convoy for her. Timing was the essence of harvesting. If we held up the progress of the harvesting team, she was right—We would not get hired again, even if the Parkers liked us as people. When the wheat was ready to harvest, it was ready to harvest now, and my grandfather would be working fourteen- or even sixteen-hour days.

  Obaachan was squeezing the steering wheel so hard, I thought her beautiful hands might snap.

  “Will you be all right?” I asked her.

  “It no matter,” she replied simply.

  And, unfortunately, I knew that was true. I started to think about the next few months. The last time we’d worked for the Parkers, Mrs. Parker had compiled a binder of every meal with every recipe we were to make. For six days a week at breakfast, the drivers ate just milk and cereal. But on Sundays we made a full-on breakfast—pancakes or French toast or omelettes. We made about 250 meals that year. I swear we followed every recipe exactly, but once in a while Mrs. Parker would wrinkle her forehead and say something like, “Maybe you skimped on the sugar?”

  “Hey,” I said suddenly. “How come Jaz doesn’t have a job?”

  My grandmother glanced into the rearview mirror. “Summer, you make one more trouble, my head explode and you guilty of murder.”

  I started to say that heads don’t explode, but the radio came to life just then, and Mrs. Parker’s voice reported, “It’s already eighty-two degrees in Hargrove.”

  That was nothing. One year in Texas the temperature was 110 when we arrived.

  Actually, I was kind of relieved that it was going to be a hot day in Hargrove. The things you feared most during harvest were rain and hail and letting the wheat set too long past its prime. But heat was nothing. Once the wheat was ready to harvest, the weather was the boss. After that came the farmer, and close behind were the custom harvesters. The drivers were below them. The cooks were probably even below that, because the drivers could live without us if they had to. Basically, if either the farmer or the Parkers told one of us to do something, we would do it. And me, I was probably at the very bottom of the heap. So even though the Parkers were nice, we weren’t all equals. The Parkers liked to say we were all a family, but that simply wasn’t true.

  I took out my mosquito notebook and began to leaf through my drawings, even though it was hard to concentrate in the bumpy truck. I was much better at drawing now than I was at the beginning, but I still wasn’t very good. My secret goal was to make mosquitoes out of real gold and sell them for jewelry. I had made some big mosquitoes out of clay, but the large size didn’t capture their delicacy. It was hard to get the clay thin enough. It always chunked up, and the mosquitoes always looked more like bumblebees. I would have to work on that.

  I thought again about how when something almost killed you, you were bonded to it for life. But even during the worst parts of my illness, I knew in my mind that the mosquito hadn’t been trying to kill me. That hadn’t been its goal. It was just trying to get blood so it could lay eggs—only female mosquitoes bite you.

  I stopped at one of my favorite drawings, of a mosquito feeding on nectar amid beautiful flowers. I had started that picture seventeen times before I finally got it right. Almost dying makes you think a lot about death. I remember thinking of my family going on without me, of Jaz growing up and being some kind of rocket scientist with exactly two friends, of my mom crying and crying that I was gone. And now I had this second chance at life. My friends all felt like life would go on forever, but I realized it was something happening now. And yet I didn’t know what to make of it. “It’s because your personality hasn’t settled yet,” my mother liked to say, as if my personality was dust floating in water.

  I went through every page of my mosquito book. When I looked up, Jaz was sifting through some papers the Parkers had given us. In the mirror, I could see that Obaachan’s face was pale and worried. She was in a lot of pain.

  “We’ve got twenty-two jobs,” Jaz said, holding up one of the papers. The Parkers had given everyone a list of the jobs we’d been assigned. “First one’s seven thousand acres.”

  “I have to pee,” I said.

  “Look in blue bag,” Obaachan replied.

  I rummaged through the same bag that held all of Obaachan’s painkillers and spotted a glass jar.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said.

  “No kidding. Don’t spill.”

  Mrs. Parker had pulled us all over a couple of hours earlier at a truck stop, but I didn’t have to go then. I had to go now. Jaz turned to me, probably to see if I was really going to use the jar. “Mind your own business,” I said. “I decided I don’t have to go that bad.”

  The windows were open, the hot air blowing into our faces. I thought about Robbie and made a mental note to rebraid my hair before we stopped again. It was windy out, the wheat field rippling as we passed. It looked less yellow than usual, more like the color of coffee with a whole lot of milk in it. Jiichan had once told me that he knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew a woman who could tell your fortune by looking at the way the wind blew the wheat around you. I would be interested in meeting that woman.

  A layer of clouds seemed to be pressing down toward us, more like a ceiling than the sky. Despite those clouds, Texas had mostly been dry this year. When the weather was dry while the wheat was growing, the fields would yield fewer bushels per acre. One harvest in Texas, when there had been a lot of rain, the average yield in the state had been nearly sixty bushels an acre, which was quite a lot. This year it would certainly be less—maybe not even thirty.

  “Almost there,” Mrs. Parker finally announced over the radio.

  I closed the back windows and redid my braids, then sat with sweat dripping down my face. I held up a paper towel to my forehead. “Look what Summer’s doing,” Jaz said.

  “I saw,” Obaachan said. “She make saru out of herself for boy.” Saru meant “monkey.” I could not wait to be out of that truck.

  The convoy turned down a dirt road where a makeshift sign that read PARKERS TURN HERE was stuck on a tree. When we rea
ched the farm, a man was already standing outside motioning us to park. I got out and saw there were water and electrical hookups. That meant we would be staying on the farm in the campers instead of going to an RV park. It was a lot easier when you stayed on the farm, but I missed the RV parks because there were always other harvester kids there.

  As soon as the Parkers’ camper was hooked up, I was going to use the bathroom in there.

  Mr. and Mrs. Parker shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Laskey? I’m Lonny Parker. This is my wife, Jenna.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mr. Laskey said. Mr. Laskey was a tall, balding man, and he looked concerned. “I hope you’re ready to hit the ground running. There’s rain forecast for next week.”

  “Absolutely. We brought enough machinery this first trip to start right now.”

  “Great, great. I want this to be a quick job.” He said that with the slightest hint of warning in his voice, like if it wasn’t a quick job, he would be irate.

  “We’ll get your wheat in before then, don’t you worry.” Mr. Parker studied the fields around him and the low clouds. “Those don’t look like rain clouds. Yep, not to worry.”

  Mr. Laskey nodded. He stood with his arms crossed in front of him, and he looked impatient. I’d discovered that some farmers were very tense people because nearly their whole earnings for the year depended on how their wheat crop turned out during these few days of harvest. All year they prayed for rain, until harvest came and they prayed for no rain. Some of them were real nice, but others were just plain grumps.

  But I got it. The wheat couldn’t be much more than 13.5 percent moist or the grain elevators wouldn’t accept it. Wheat that was too moist could cause fungus. The combines had instruments to measure the wheat’s moisture content, and there were handheld gadgets to measure with as well. The Parkers used a moisture meter that looked like a thermos cup. You would fill it with wheat, and it would tell you what the moisture level was.

  Grain elevators checked for moisture, weeds, and protein content. Wheat that was too dry would weigh less and thus be worth less. Plus, if you let the wheat ripen too long, the protein content could fall. So timing was everything. Another thing that frightened the farmers was hail. Hail could break the wheat or smash it to the ground. I had actually seen a farmer—a big, burly man—cry during a hailstorm. So farmers just wanted to get the harvest over as soon as possible. As I said, I got it.

  Mr. and Mrs. Parker drove the combines down off the trailers they were hauled on. I squinted into the distance and didn’t see the end of the wheat field. The house, over to the left, was big. I wondered how many kids the Laskeys had and whether we would meet them.

  Jiichan steered the tractor and grain cart off the trailer. Then the Parkers had to attach the headers to the front of the combines. The headers, as I mentioned, were the rotating parts of the combines that actually cut the wheat.

  John Deere support trucks always followed the harvest because different custom harvesting companies would all be in about the same part of the country at the same time. The support trucks were full of combine parts and manned with John Deere mechanics who could come and help you with your combine if there was a problem. Usually, you didn’t need an expert because most harvest crews had a good mechanic on hand. In our case, the best mechanic was Mr. Parker. But if something electrical broke down, you needed a John Deere guy.

  I watched Mr. Dark and Mr. McCoy get into two semis and Mr. Parker into a pickup. They roared off back to Kansas to get the rest of the machinery. Poor guys—they’d be driving practically eighteen hours by the time they were done. Then two of the combines and the grain cart headed for the field. It all sounded like an airplane taking off.

  When the noise subsided, Mrs. Parker, looking worried, approached us. “You should probably find a grocery store right away, so you can make the crew sandwiches.” She handed a stack of binders to Obaachan. “I’ve planned out the meals for the entire season, complete with recipes, like always. It took me a long time, so please follow the meal plans to a T.” She started to walk away, then turned around again. “Why don’t you make them tuna sandwiches for lunch? Just remember that my husband isn’t fond of too much mayonnaise. He likes mayonnaise, but not too much of it.” She gave a little laugh. “Of course, he won’t be having lunch today since he left, but I’m reminding you for the future.”

  She stood for a moment, frowning some more. “On second thought, why don’t you make chicken salad sandwiches? I have tuna casserole on the menu for next week, so we don’t want to bombard everyone with tuna, and I have tuna again for sandwiches on day twelve.” She still couldn’t bring herself to turn around and leave. “Always use wheat bread. I don’t know why they still manufacture white bread. . . .” Her voice trailed off. She bit at a thumbnail. “And get ice for the cooler, since the refrigerators are in the other camper. You can put any extra food in the cooler—it’s a big one. Get enough to make sandwiches for dinner, too.” She handed just two twenties to Obaachan.

  “She has a photographic memory,” said a voice behind me. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with Robbie. OMG. He was talking not to Obaachan but to me. “She has the menus for the entire season in her head. I think we should save her brain when she dies to compare it to Einstein’s.”

  “Wow,” I said. That wasn’t the most brilliant thing to say, so I added, “That’s amazing.” That still didn’t seem very brilliant, so I came up with, “I mean, it’s really cool. Einstein.” That was the best I could do for now.

  “Robbie doesn’t like it because I never forget a thing,” Mrs. Parker said with a laugh. “Isn’t that true, hon?” She looked at him with what could only be called overwhelming love.

  “It makes you hard to argue with,” he said. But he smiled, and she smiled. I could probably count on two hands the times Obaachan and I had smiled at each other, and those times only happened when we were watching her favorite TV show, America’s Funniest Home Videos. I think watching people fall down and barrel into trees was her most favorite thing to do in the world.

  Mrs. Parker and Robbie walked off together to the combine she was driving. Mr. Laskey headed toward his house. There was nobody left to tell us where a grocery store might be.

  CHAPTER SIX

  After I went to the bathroom and Obaachan’s aspirin kicked in, she, Jaz, Thunder, and I got back into the pickup. Obaachan made a slow, wide U-turn, and once again we were bumping along the dirt road. “Which way should we head?” I asked. “I didn’t see a store on the highway.”

  “Errrr.”

  If I’d been with my parents, I knew I wouldn’t have to participate in finding a store. They would take care of it. But with Obaachan, who could say what would happen? Then out of nowhere the thought popped into my head: I should have used the word “impressive,” as in “It’s really impressive that your mother has a photographic memory.” I made a mental note to say that to Robbie some other time.

  “Is there map in glove compartment?” Obaachan asked. Jaz began going through the glove compartment. He turned over each slip of paper and read it for a moment, as if that were the only way to determine if it was a map.

  “Just a map of the whole country,” he finally said.

  Obaachan drove to the highway and kept going until we got to a gas station. Then she pulled up and turned to me. “Go ask where grocery store is, Miss Talk So Good.”

  I got out and walked into the station. There were a few candy bars and drinks for sale, but there was no mini-mart like in many gas stations. The attendant was sitting on a stool behind the counter. “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello, young lady.”

  “Can you tell me where the closest grocery store is?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  I paused. “A grocery store,” I repeated.

  “I mean, what do you need to buy?”

  “Bread, canned chicken, lettuce, tomatoes, and mayonnaise.”

  “Sounds like you want to make a sandwich.” He lazily spun
his stool around until he was facing me again.

  “Yes, sandwiches.”

  The man asked, “Do you need any drinks to go with those sandwiches?”

  “Yes, drinks.”

  He gestured grandly to where the drinks were in a small refrigerator.

  I hesitated before turning and walking out and up to the driver’s-seat window. “He wants to know if I need to buy any drinks. They have Coke and stuff.”

  “He tell you where grocery store is?” Obaachan asked.

  “No, I think he wants me to buy drinks.”

  “How much drinks cost in there?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  Obaachan looked worried. “What if drinks here too expensive and we no have enough money for food? Get in seat.” She restarted the engine as I got in.

  We drove to a small restaurant, but it was closed, maybe forever. It wasn’t boarded up, but it just had that aura of something that was closed forever. Farther down the highway, more glass windows in what used to be stores were boarded up. I remembered learning in school that some small towns in the Great Plains were closing up as children grew older and moved to the cities.

  We drove all the way to the grain elevator about ten miles away.

  “I go this time,” Obaachan said. She got out and was gone for what seemed like hours. I started timing her after a while. Thirty minutes passed. The sweat dripped down my forehead, getting DEET into my eyes. They instantly started tearing up, the sting was so bad.

  “I think you should go in,” Jaz finally said.

  “No, here she comes.”

  Obaachan got into the truck with a paper in her hand.

  “What took you so long?” I asked.

  “We talk about wheat and Japanese woman his second cousin marry.” She started the engine.

  “What does she have to do with wheat?”

  “Nothing. He want to talk about it after he see me. I talk to him because he give good direction.” She pulled onto the highway again. “Big store in next town, but smaller one nearby. Keep eye open for Carver Avenue.”