Kind Nepenthe

by Brockmeyer, Matthew V.

  Then they were stepping out of the tangle of chaparral—whitethorn and bay—that marked the perimeter of the compound.

  After it had been a hippie commune, a bunch of bikers had lived here and the place was trashed: beer cans everywhere, cigarette butts, plastic wrappers, broken toys. It was marshy and dank from always being in the shade of the trees. All of the cabins were covered in moss and in a state of disrepair, the cabin closest to the forest in utter ruins: roof collapsed, poison oak and whitethorn growing up out of it. The cabin beside it had been used as a motorcycle repair shop by the bikers. It had no door and the light that filtered in revealed a floor littered in bolts, brake pads, belts, a rusted motorcycle frame laying on its side. The third cabin was where Coyote lived. It had a brand-new, shiny-red Honda 3000 EU generator parked in front of it, a thick extension cord snaking its way in through a hole in the wall.

  Rebecca could never understand why Coyote chose to stay back here, shacked up in this dilapidated back cabin. He claimed it had “ambiance.” He’d sit out here for days, weeks, at a time. Brooding, mumbling to himself, staring at the walls, smoking huge joints, tripping on acid. Sometimes, when Rebecca was trimming for him in the cookhouse, she would have to come and get him, ask him for supplies or more weed to trim.

  It was always weird and kind of scary. The forest loomed over the back cabins, keeping them in perpetual shadows, and as she stepped into the darkness she would hear Coyote’s voice, talking to himself, sometimes laughing, sometimes shouting. He would send her to the store with crazy shopping lists and a wad of cash—crisp, new hundreds. The list would be pages long with obscure items like a magician’s wand, a twelve-string guitar, once even “my true wife and children.” It was funny, but also really creepy. He’d hand her the list and money and smile his sleazy, offhand smile of yellow teeth, his fat belly poking out of a dirty, tie-dye T-shirt. And she’d go to the store for him, buying disgusting things she wouldn’t dream of eating: cheese whiz, marshmallows, candy bars, cans of processed meat, pre-made frozen hamburgers, liters and liters of soda, cases of Coors light, cartons of cigarettes.

  Fucking Coyote, who couldn’t do anything for himself, who paid local rednecks to set up his pot grows, who paid a young, wannabe-hippie kid to haul his trash to the dump, acting like his land, his weed and his money entitled him to think of all the desperate people around him as servants.

  Walking past Coyote’s cabin, she couldn’t help staring into the large, dark window that faced the trail to the cook house and main road. Peering into its darkness, she imagined a face suddenly materializing there. A ghostly, pale face rising up to look back at her and meet her gaze with glowing eyes set in dark, black pits. The face of a drowned little boy—hair dripping swampy water, bloated lips blue and green. Her face flushed and pinpricks broke out on the underside of her arms. She always did this, freaked herself out. Imagining spooky things or dwelling on stupid stuff. This place just crawled under your skin and got to you.

  Once she’d asked Coyote why people called this place Homicide Hill. He just laughed. “They call every hill around here Homicide Hill, and every mountain Murder Mountain. It’s the Wild West, baby. Something or other’s gone down on every piece of land out here.”

  She shrugged off a chill, tossed her long dreadlocks over her shoulder, and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Come on,” she said to Megan, eager to get away from the creepy back cabins. “I’ll race you to the garden.”

  6

  “All righty, let’s give ’er a try.” Diesel limped to the cab of the truck, opening the door and heaving himself inside. DJ sauntered over to the other side and pulled himself up into the shotgun seat. Secreting a Bud between his legs, Diesel cranked the engine over. It roared loudly. He gave a wink to his son, slipped the truck in first. “Here we go.”

  Diesel let out the clutch and gently eased the big truck forward, its tires crunching over the thick layer of gravel he meticulously kept his driveway and yard covered in.

  “Aw, snap,” DJ said, slapping his hands against his thighs, his sullen face finally cracking into a grin. “We did it.”

  “What’d you expect, boy? I’m a certified diesel mechanic.”

  “I know, Pops. I know.”

  They tooled the truck around the yard, then up the driveway, out the gate, and down the dirt road and into the hills. Diesel revved the engine and shifted gears, speeding up on the straightaways so that the motor groaned and the truck lurched, downshifting for turns. Satisfied, he pulled the truck to the side of the road and spun around. Draining the last of his beer down his throat he crushed the can and, stretching his hand out the window, tossed it into the truck bed.

  “Know what? I thought that fucking tranny was going to fall right on your goddamn head. I shit you not.” He laughed. “Woulda’ been a fucking mess, too, I tell you what.”

  “I saw it slipping, yo, and damn near crapped myself.”

  They both chuckled.

  “How you and Katie getting along?”

  “We’re good.”

  “Ready to be a daddy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, Pops.”

  “Laying off that fucking meth?”

  “Yeah, Pops.” DJ looked away, out the window to the fog draped firs looming behind the rolling hills.

  “That shit will drive you fucking crazy, son. I tell you.”

  “Well, you should fucking know.”

  “That’s right. I fucking do. I fucking do.” He grunted, sighed, found himself unconsciously grinding his teeth. “You got any of them Xanax?” he asked, catching his reflection in the overhead rearview: beard untrimmed, disheveled hair sticking up, oil smeared across his forehead. Look like some kind of lunatic Paul Bunyan, he thought.

  “What’s wrong, Pops? Can’t sleep?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “Sure, I got some bars.” DJ pulled an amber prescription bottle from his pocket, unscrewed the top, looked in, and rattled the bottle. “Maybe fifteen of ’em. Here, have ’em.”

  He passed the bottle to Diesel, who tucked it in his front pocket beside his Marlboros. “You need some cash?”

  “Naw, don’t worry about it, Pops.”

  “How’s your mother doing?”

  “She’s fine. Doing fine.”

  “Still up in Eureka with that asshole?”

  “Still up in Eureka with that asshole.”

  Diesel chuckled and clucked his tongue.

  —

  They rolled down the driveway to Diesel’s property, past the wood chipper and four-wheeler, both neatly covered in tarps secured with tie downs, past Diesel’s own truck, a red F350 dually, and pulled up beside the toolshed, its sliding wooden doors open and exposing a neatly hung line of chainsaws, an acetylene and oxygen tank in the shadows, draped with coiled green tubing.

  Diesel eased the truck to a stop beside the old transmission.

  “Righty, boy. Now help me get this old transmission in the back of yer truck.”

  “What am I going to do with it, Pops?”

  “Ain’t my fucking problem, just get it out of here. Shit, I leave that thing here Amber’ll never let me hear the end of it. Calls me a fucking hoarder.”

  They got out of the truck and went to stand on either side of the transmission, Diesel limping and DJ’s lanky body moving with a with a jaunty gait, nodding his head to some hip-hop song only he could hear.

  “On three, boy. You ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kay, one, two, THREE.”

  They heaved up the heavy hunk of metal and slid it into the bed of the truck, its sho
cks groaning under the weight.

  Diesel slapped his hands together. “Now let’s go see the gals.” He threw his arm around his son’s shoulders, gripping his neck and giving him a little shake as they made their way to the porch steps. A rush of pride went through him. He’d built this whole house up from nothing but a shack, with his own goddamn hands.

  He’d inherited the house from his father. It was nothing but a hunting cabin then, passed on from his grandfather. The first thing he’d done was build the large shed for all his tools. Then he replaced the decaying post-and-beam foundation with cinder blocks, ripped off the old, leaky tin roof and put on a new one with the finest composite roofing he could find.

  The next year he covered it in gleaming white aluminum siding and wrapped an elaborate deck around it, installed a beautiful, custom, wood-and-stained-glass front door. After Amber showed up, he added a bathroom: put in a septic and a big whirlpool tub. Then he started building a massive great room on the back side, which was now just an unfinished and elaborate skeleton of two-by-sixes.

  It was a work in progress, but compared to some of the clapboard shanties on the mountain, it was a palace. His palace.

  Pushing the door open, he thought to himself, Ain’t it a good goddamn day?

  7

  Listening to the rhythmic glug-glug of fuel slurping into the rusted tank, Calendula watched Rebecca and Megan race down to the garden, his left eye twitching as he nervously rubbed his thumb in circles against the wart that’d recently grown on his index finger. From where he sat, perched atop the large fuel tank that led to the generator, pumping diesel into it from the tank welded to the back of the old Dodge Ram pickup, he’d been able to see them perfectly when they appeared out of the woods by the back shacks.

  Diesel fumes wafted up and he rubbed at his eyes with his free hand. His head ached. It always did. He didn’t know if it was the roar of the generator or the electrical discharge of the grow lights but this humming had started in his skull that he couldn’t seem to shake.

  He topped off the tank, replaced the cap, and hopped down to the ground, his spiky blonde dreadlocks bouncing to and fro.

  Stepping into the dilapidated generator shack, he set about making sure the lines were secure. The generator—a bright-orange, 125,000 watt MQ WhisperWatt, roughly the size of VW van—coughed and sputtered twice, belching out dark, sulphur-reeking clouds of exhaust. His heart skipped a beat before it loudly began to purr once more. That the generator would stop running was one of his biggest fears. Keeping the fuel tank full had become an obsession. Coyote had warned him that if it ever ran out, it would be hell getting the bastard started again.

  He checked the control panel: water temperature, oil pressure, engine microprocessor, frequency, amps, volts. Everything looked good. He’d changed the oil last week, cleaned the air filter. The lines seemed tight. Satisfied, he stepped out of the roar and stink of the shack and headed towards the wood pile.

  Two ravens fighting over the guts of something dead paused for a moment to caw at him as he made his way across the trash-strewn yard. As he came abreast of them, the big black birds shrieked, beating their wings into a fury before flying off to the safety of an oak branch and staring contemptuously down at him.

  The place was ruled by ravens. They were everywhere. They survived off trash, turning over garbage cans and tearing into the garbage bags, gulping down scraps of food and strewing the trees with bits of shiny refuse: foil, tuna fish cans, bottle tops. There were dead ones all around, too, their black bodies littering the ground like pockets of shadow. It was a weird thing—all the dead birds—something Calendula thought might have to do with the pesticides Coyote used. Several times they had found Megan playing with them. Making little piles. Stretching out their dirty wings so that they appeared in flight. It never failed to freak the hell out of Rebecca.

  Pulling the tarp off the wood pile, Calendula watched Rebecca and Megan working in the garden behind the industrial, six-foot-tall chain-link fence. The fence stood out amid the squalor because it was shiny and new, well maintained. Anything that had something to do with pot growing Coyote kept pristine. That was his way. Everything else he let rot and crumble.

  Seeing Rebecca and Megan shuffle about with their harvest baskets caused a sensation of warmth to flood Calendula’s body. Rebecca, with her long dreadlocks and curvy body, looked unspeakably beautiful, and Megan was so fun and smart and cute. Having a kid around was a real joy, something he hadn’t expected.

  He loved them devotedly, ferociously. Inside himself he burned to shelter and guard them, watch over them, but also to claim them. To own them. Protect them the way a dog might fight off other dogs from a bitch in heat. A selfish love full of pride. He wished his suburban, wannabe-gangsta friends back home could see him now: a hot, dready girlfriend and full responsibility for a major pot grow.

  The grow.

  Sometimes it was all he could see. He’d find himself losing focus, his mind lost in imagining those big fists of lime-green colas, swelling, stinking, dank. Rebecca would snap her fingers at him. “Hello? McFly? Anybody home?” He’d smile, “Yeah, baby, what’s up?” But even though he would be smiling and looking at her, his mind would still be on those long rows of herb stretched out under the grow lights. He would stay in the grow room until his face burned red and his eyes began to ache—pruning leaves, staking branches, checking meters, marveling at it all. O.G Kush, New York Sour Diesel, Girl Scout Cookie, Green Crack. Say what you wanted about Coyote, but the man knew his herb and got only the best, trendiest strains. The ones guaranteed to sell and make your head spin.

  Calendula gathered up an armload of firewood and started down the trail back to the cookhouse. Because his and Rebecca’s bedroom was connected to the grow room it never got cold, but the rest of the house, including the back room where Megan slept, would get freezing if they didn’t keep a fire going in the old top loader: the funny, antique wood stove, which was actually a converted coal burner.

  He made his way past the random junk that lay strewn everywhere: a truck axle, hub caps, a shot-to-shit tube television on a stump, stacks of plastic five-gallon buckets, a couple car batteries, cases and cases of empty beer bottles. The path snaked past a row of mismatched solar panels leaning against a shaky wooden frame Calendula had constructed. When they’d first gotten there the panels were lying on the ground, covered in oak leaves.

  “What’s up with the solar panels?” Calendula had asked Coyote.

  Coyote had taken a sip of his beer, scratched his belly, and puffed on a cigarette. “Nothing’s up with them.”

  “Can I hook them up?”

  “Do what you want with them, just don’t fuck with the roof. That’s why they’re there. Guy I had working for me a while back put ’em on the roof and made the damn thing leak.” He gestured with his can of Coors Light over to where a tarp was draped over the roof. “Right over the grow room, too. What a fucking idiot. The water shorted out the lights and almost burned the place down.”

  “Well, we could build an array on the ground, over there where there’s less shade.”

  “Whatever. We gotta 125,000 watt generator running damn near all the time, so I don’t even see the need.”

  “Every little bit counts, right? Reduce, reuse, recycle. You know, I am a permaculture designer, and alternative energy systems were part of my certification process.”

  Coyote gave him a strange look, as if he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about and didn’t care, then shrugged, grunted, and walked away.

  Calendula made the wooden frame for the panels out of scrap lumber he found lying around, but when he tried to assemble everything he discovered someone had looted parts of the system. There was a breaker box, and four big L16 batteries, but the charge controller
and inverter had been pulled out and were missing, the wires that went into them ripped up and exposed. He thought about trying to rig up some sort of DC system, maybe just a reading light and a radio, but finally came around to Coyote’s thinking: there’s a generator running all the time, what’s the use?

  —

  Slick, muddy patches lay on the trail from where the frost had melted that morning, and as he passed the old chicken shack, its wire-encased pen filled to the brim with raven-pecked bags of garbage, his sneakers slipped in the mud and he fell hard on his ass.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, thinking that as soon as he got paid he was going to buy a pair of heavy-duty lumberjack boots like all the local rednecks wore and scrap the baggy corduroy pants for warm, tough, double-kneed work pants. Maybe even a camouflaged jacket and a wool cap to hide his dreads in, so he could fit in and not be such an eyesore at the Last Chance Market.

  He awkwardly got back up, backside soaked, steadied himself, and hauled the armload of wood past the chicken shack and onto the dilapidated screened-in porch, moss-covered strips of screen hanging off the frame. Pushing the door to the cookhouse open with his shoulder, he stomped through the kitchen and into the tiny living room.

  It was called the cookhouse because it had been the mess hall for the logging operation that ran out of here back in the sixties. The three back rooms down the hall, one Megan’s bedroom, one where Rebecca had set up her herbal business office, and the other a storage room Coyote had padlocked off, had been the cooks’ quarters. The enormous grow room, whose entrance lay in the master bedroom where he and Rebecca slept, had been the dining hall, where rows of tables once fed crews of loggers. There was a tiny living room where the top loader sat, and a large kitchen with two double sinks and a huge range with eight burners.