Ana of California

by Andi Teran

  “Manny, let’s gather all this up and take it to the boys.”

  “No problem,” Manny said, scooping a portion of the picked parsley into his arms. He gave Ana an encouraging smile on his way to the truck.

  “I screwed up big time,” Ana said, but Emmett didn’t answer.

  In truth, his mind was elsewhere, specifically on the thought of Josie, the anniversary of her departure looming. He knew he should have given a better explanation of what to do, going so far as to pick a few weeds himself, but he resisted an apology. He wasn’t keeping Ana for much longer anyway, he reminded himself.

  “Why don’t you grab lunch and head on in with Abbie,” he said.

  Ana watched as he walked away.

  • • •

  “What’s the deal with compost anyway?” Ana asked Abbie on their drive into town.

  “I mean, I get that it’s good for the soil or whatever, but worms?” Ana continued. “However full of protein Manny says they are, they’re disgusting. My abuela sometimes ate grasshoppers, and I won’t even get into what she did to cow’s tongue, but ‘learning from worms’ makes no sense to me.”

  “Emmett’s methods don’t always make sense, but he’s teaching you for a reason.”

  “The reason is punishment.”

  They passed a few modest brick homes and small bungalows before slowing to the curb and coming to a stop at the bottom of a sloping green lawn. Abbie turned the ignition off and they both sat there looking out of the passenger-side window.

  “Monarch Mansion,” Abbie said with a cluck of the tongue. “Pretty nuts, right?”

  If there was any home in all of Hadley that was the antithesis of Garber Farm, it was Monarch Mansion. Though elaborate Victorian mansions were common around Hadley, Monarch Mansion was in a class of its own. There was no mistaking the theme. Painted in alternating shades of warm yellow and burnt orange, it was covered from top to bottom in anything and everything related to butterflies. There were stained glass butterfly scenes in the windows and butterfly carvings in the railings of the stairs leading up to the front porch. Rocking chairs, painted in shades of pale pink and electric blue, flanked the entrance, along with butterfly-shaped pots planted, of course, with flowers to attract the real things. The wooden sign, swinging ever so lightly in the breeze, advertised the property, in looping cursive, as An Award-Winning Bed and Breakfast. In slightly larger letters underneath, it read PROPRIETOR: MINERVA F. SHAW.

  “I think we passed this on my first day,” Ana said, “but I don’t remember its being so . . .”

  “Ridiculous?”

  “I was going to say ‘insane,’ but in sort of a glorious way.”

  “Wait until you see inside.”

  Ana jumped out of the van, smoothed her T-shirt and jeans, and tightened the work shirt around her waist. She pulled her hair out of the ponytail, letting it fall loose around her face. They wound their way up the pebble path, passing an ornate gazebo as they ascended the steps to the front doors of the mansion. Abbie threw open the doors as if she owned the place.

  “Minerva!” she called into an empty entrance room awash in floral wallpaper that enveloped a grand staircase leading up to what Ana imagined were the guest rooms. They peeked into a sitting room, also empty, but filled with antiques. A framed photograph of a balding man wearing a loud bow tie sat atop a piano in the corner. Ana followed Abbie through a larger living room crowded with couches, butterfly paintings, and windows with heavy drapes. There was a connecting formal dining room, its enormous wooden table laden with flowers and candles, and just beyond it a smaller breakfast room just outside the kitchen, where, framed in the doorway, a peacock in heels leaned against the counter smoking the longest cigarette Ana had ever seen.

  “There you are!” Abbie said. “Ana, this is Minerva Shaw. Minerva, I’d like you to meet Ana Cortez.”

  “You caught me at a moment of weakness, girls,” Minerva said, stubbing the cigarette out in the sink and spritzing the room with the overpowering scent of wilting gardenias.

  “Your house, your rules,” Abbie said.

  “Don’t tell the authorities,” Minerva responded with a wink.

  They had an easy banter, Ana thought.

  “Hi,” Ana said, extending her hand. “Your home—I mean, inn? It’s magnificent.”

  “Well, aren’t you polite, Anna,” Minerva said, barely shaking the tips of her fingers.

  “It’s Ana, one n, like ‘fauna’—not Anna like ‘banana.’”

  “I see.”

  “It’s just the way it’s pronounced.”

  “Noted,” Minerva said, scrunching her face into a forced smile. “Abbie, good to see you; expected to see you earlier this morning, but no bother.”

  “I thought it’d be fine seeing as how it’s well past breakfast and check-in isn’t for another several hours,” Abbie said, setting a box on the kitchen counter, which was spotless save for a half-empty tray of muffins and a lipstick-stained coffee mug, its handle a butterfly in repose. “It’s not like guests are wandering about the parlor.”

  “A phone call is always appreciated, my dear. I could have been taking a reservation or meeting with the housekeeping staff . . .”

  “I saw Teresa scrubbing the gazebo outside.”

  “Not all of us are as by the book with our routines, Abigail.”

  “Clearly,” Abbie said. “So! I brought extra flowers for the weekend—your favorites—and blackberry preserves, peach chutney, tomatoes, plums, a bag of arugula, and I’m throwing in a fresh loaf of zucchini walnut bread.”

  “Always more than I asked for, but that’s why we love you,” Minerva said, applying a lacquer of coral lip gloss and popping a peppermint as she glanced at the contents of the box. “So, Anna, you’re the one living with the Garbers, yes? Tell me everything. Is Emmett cracking the whip?”

  “It’s Ana,” Abbie said with a smile, reacting to Ana’s noticeable wince.

  “Let her answer for herself,” Minerva continued. “And from where do you hail?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “How exciting—the land of dreams! When I was your age, I was always being told to head out there myself, sit in a diner on Hollywood Boulevard, that sort of thing. Can’t imagine leaving there for Hadley, though,” Minerva said, wrinkling her tiny nose. “Are you enrolled in FFA at your school?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s Future Farmers of America,” Abbie answered. “And, no, she’s just helping us for the rest of the summer.”

  “Like an intern?”

  “Sort of . . . ,” Ana said.

  “Oh?”

  “I didn’t really have a choice.”

  “She’s on a special program,” Abbie interjected, “and she’s doing a brilliant job. Anyway, we should be going. I have cider in the van for you.”

  “And what did you say your last name was?” Minerva asked.

  “Cortez.”

  “Oh, like the sea. Is that Spanish?”

  “It is, I think, but my grandparents were from Mexico.”

  “How exotic! I went to Acapulco once, with my first husband—not really my thing—kept getting sick from all that food, or maybe it was the water? Never could be sure, but I’m sure you’re used to it.”

  “Yeah, I guess you can say we’re made of heartier stock, able to ingest all of the grease and spice.”

  Abbie cleared her throat.

  “Indeed,” Minerva continued. “Not really a beans-and-cheese kind of gal myself, but to each their own! Well, I’m sure this place pales next to the glitz and glamour you folks are used to down in L.A. Tell me, what do you miss most now that you’re stuck in Hadley?”

  “Mexican Coke.”

  “What’s that?” Minerva said, holding on to the kitchen counter, certain she’d heard incorrectly.

  “Me
xican Coke. It’s hard to find, but it’s the best. You should try it sometime. Or at least have it on offer for your guests. It’s way better than regular Coke.”

  Minerva stared, dumbfounded, at the young woman in front of her. Abbie looked from one of them to the other.

  “Regular Coke just doesn’t compare, taste wise,” Ana continued. “I think they use different ingredients—”

  “Just what is this, Abigail?” Minerva said, crossing her arms. “Do you condone this type of behavior in your house?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean—” Abbie said.

  “Oh, you’re a clever thing, aren’t you?” Minerva continued. “Well, I don’t want any gangbanger business around here. You may be more progressive over there at Garber Farm, you and Alder Kinman and the rest of the landowning hippies, lippies as I like to call them, but not under this roof. Monarch Mansion is a respectable place. It’s an institution!”

  “Listen, Minerva, I’m sure—”

  “What do you mean by ‘gangbanger’?” Ana asked.

  “I do not want a scene in this house,” Minerva said, walking past them, making a wide berth around Ana, and continuing through the dining room and toward the front door. “This Mexican business is not something I even want discussed! I’ll see you both on your way.”

  “Mexican business? What Mexican business?” Ana asked as she followed Minerva to the door.

  “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Abbie said, following close behind. “I think what Ana means is Coca—”

  “‘Misunderstanding’?” Ana began to raise her voice not bothering to control it. “The only misunderstanding is when she said ‘that’ food and ‘dirty’ water and was actually being horrifically racist, never mind that she went on to reduce my heritage to ‘beans and cheese’ in such a way that I have to defend a misguided, ignorant, fast-food assessment of it—well, it’s not something I’m just going to stand here and be silent about. I don’t know what your problem with me is, lady, but if you’re worried about ‘gangbangers’ all up in your fancy inn, then you might want to take a step back. It’s in my blood . . . so to speak.”

  Silence descended on the foyer.

  “Ana’s been up since four thirty,” Abbie said, stepping in between them, touching Ana’s arm, causing her to pull away.

  “Does that excuse her defiant tone?” Minerva said. “It’s as if she’s primed for violence; just look at the way she’s standing there glaring at me—those eyebrows say everything. I am not at all comfortable with this!”

  “Are you serious?” Ana asked, still not looking at Abbie. “Do you have any idea what you’re even saying? Since I’m probably going to be sent back to L.A. anyway, I should tell you that going to Acapulco once is hardly enough time to judge an entire country, not that I’ve been there myself. But not all Mexican food is spicy nor is the water always the culprit. Not all of us are gangbangers or the product of Taco Bell.”

  “You’ve never even been to Mexico?” Minerva asked.

  “No, I was born in L.A. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “But you do have family living down there . . .”

  “I don’t have any family.”

  “None at all?”

  “Correct.”

  “I see,” Minerva said, running her fingernail along her forehead and checking to make sure her hair was still in place. “So, you’re an orphan?”

  “I prefer ‘parentless,’ but yes.”

  “Well, that explains everything.”

  “It’s not exactly like that,” Abbie said as she watched Ana’s hands ball into fists.

  “Is there something wrong with the fact that my parents are dead?” Ana asked defiantly. “It’s not like I have any control over that. I know what I am, and I can tell you that it’s not something most people want to be.”

  “Of course there’s nothing wrong with it, dear, quite the contrary. I now have a better understanding of your predicament and that helps forgive your little outburst—”

  “My ‘predicament’? The only predicament I have is explaining to people what that even means when they have no clue about life outside their own perimeters. You couldn’t possibly imagine it or understand.”

  “I think we adults can imagine that it’s not been easy—”

  “Do you know what it’s like to be locked alone in a dark room for hours, not knowing if anyone’s coming back?”

  “Well, we’ve all had certain—”

  “Have you ever hidden under your bed because you know the popping sounds down the street are bullets and not fireworks? Do you stay awake at night guarding yourself from real monsters and not the imaginary kind? I doubt you have any idea what kind of predicament I live with.”

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t, but knowing what I know of Abigail Garber, the fact that you’ve been allowed to come out to her farm with all that you have going on is an act of utmost charity, in my opinion, and something you might do well to be thankful for, my dear.”

  “Minerva,” Abbie said. “Ana’s fifteen and she’s working very hard to take care of herself. Emmett and I are happy to assist her in that journey . . .”

  “I’m sixteen, not fifteen.”

  “Oh,” Abbie said with surprise.

  “Today’s my birthday. Not that it matters to anyone, not that this isn’t the way it normally goes every year.”

  Ana shifted her weight and lunged for the door, causing Minerva to jump out of the way, thinking she was on the verge of an oncoming attack. Ana walked outside pretending she didn’t hear the voices trailing behind her on the way down the stairs.

  “She’ll cool off,” Minerva said. “It’s perfectly natural for someone like her to get fiery from time to time, especially with all that Mexican Coke . . .”

  • • •

  Ana sat in the front seat of the van taking deep breaths. “That’s it,” she told herself. “If they don’t send you back, today’s the day you can actually leave if you want to.” She watched as a lone bumblebee buzzed around the shrubs lining the front of Monarch Mansion, wondering what was taking Abbie so long, hoping there was a bus station nearby. She glanced at the neighborhood reflected in the side mirror, all of the houses lined up in white picket fences down the street. “It’s not like I belong here anyway.”

  The door to the mansion opened and closed. Ana stared straight ahead as Abbie made her way to the van, jumped inside, and pulled away without saying anything. They both remained silent on the short ride to Main Street. Abbie parked across the street from the corner restaurant, her last delivery of the day. The restaurant looked empty, most of its windows covered in paper. She turned off the ignition and faced Ana.

  “I want to talk about what just happened,” she said.

  “I don’t know what got into me, but I’m fully prepared for the consequences.”

  “You were provoked, for one,” Abbie said with a sigh. “But not in the way you took it.” They both watched a young mother push a stroller across the street, tugging a little girl behind her. Abbie took a moment to gather her thoughts before delivering them, doing what she wished her mother had done with her. “I had no idea it was your birthday. If I’d known, I would have planned something to celebrate.”

  “It’s okay. I never told anyone when it was.”

  “Let me finish, please. Minerva Shaw is a single-minded woman, yes, but she isn’t cruel, or intentionally inhospitable. While I completely agree with you that her comments were way way off, I know she didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But she deserves an apology for the way you acted in there. Beyond that, she deserves the chance for you to perhaps educate her on your differences. She’s spent her whole life in Hadley. Not a lot changes around here.”

  Ana wanted to tell Abbie that she’d encountered dozens of Minerva Shaws in her lifetime, and that the only way to deal with them was to fight back
. She had no intention of apologizing for defending her past, or her heritage—even if she was afraid to admit she rarely gave much thought to it.

  “The same trouble follows me wherever I go,” Ana said, “especially today. My birthday is cursed with bad luck.” She knew if she told Abbie the whole story it would sound like an excuse for her behavior. Besides, Ana didn’t want to go into the details of the day her abuela died.

  “Do you think this trouble seeks you out or do you court it?” Abbie asked with a sincerity Ana found touching.

  “Both probably. I don’t know.”

  “I think it takes a strong person to realize that when there’s a plague of difficulty, it doesn’t define them. That’s something I learned the hard way. You’re lucky to have such a strong connection to your past, Ana, and whether or not you see that as strength is up to you. But I saw it back there. And I can assure you that Minerva feels terrible and never meant to kick up a fuss. She would like to apologize, and I think it would be polite for you to do the same.”

  “Are you sending me back?”

  “Of course not. Do you want to go back?”

  There was a knock on the window. They both jumped.

  “Sorry to startle you.” It was the same man Ana had seen as she and Emmett drove through town on her first day. He scratched his head waiting for a response, both of them taking in the tattoo of a butcher knife carved on his forearm. “Abigail Garber?” he said.

  Abbie rolled down the window.

  “Yes? Are you Will Carson?”

  “I am indeed. Pleasure to meet you,” the man said, thrusting a giant hand through the open window. “We’re doing some painting today, so whenever you’re ready, come on in. I saw you idling out here and wondered if you thought we were closed. Front door’s open.”

  “This is Ana,” Abbie said, flustered. “We’ll be right there.”

  “Right. Apologies for interrupting.”

  Abbie rolled up the window. They watched Will walk back to the entrance of the restaurant.

  “I thought he was going to tear our heads off,” Ana said.