Kind Nepenthe

by Brockmeyer, Matthew V.

  “Well, I call when I can. It’s a long drive to get service and by the time you’re off work it’s usually late, so—”

  A blast of gunfire echoed out from the hills. The shots were clearer up here, parked atop the ridge. Megan, oblivious, stared stone faced at her bunny stuffy, holding it stretched out by either arm and making it do a little dance. Christ if it didn’t remind Rebecca of her playing with dead birds. A shudder went through her. Why hadn’t she brought a glass of wine with her? She should have known she’d need one to talk to her mother.

  She gazed out the dirty windshield. From this high vantage point, the snow-capped Trinity alps could be seen, slinking along above the tree line, hazy and distant.

  “It’s just so nice to hear your voice,” her mother was saying. “You know, I’m all alone here. It can be terribly lonely during the holidays. At least when you were in San Diego you were close enough to visit on Christmas, so I could see Megan—”

  “Next year, Mom. We’ll be there next year for Christmas. Promise.”

  “Now I’m lucky to even hear a voice on the phone.”

  Rebecca watched as a turkey vulture floated by, hanging languid in the air, it’s wings stretched wide and stiff, caught on a thermal and slowly drifting down into the valley below.

  “I’m glad you called, Becky, because there are some things we need to discuss.”

  God how she hated it when her mother called her Becky. “What is it?”

  “I want you to come home.”

  “Mom, we’ve been through this a million times.”

  “Come back to Bakersfield. This living in the woods with no phone thing is crazy.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “Listen to me, Becky. Megan needs a good school. And she needs to see her father.”

  “Her father?”

  “I saw him the other day.”

  “You what?”

  “Just bumped into him. Completely random.”

  “I can’t. I can’t have this conversation now.”

  “Why, Becky? Why? He wants to see you. Wants to see his daughter. What did he ever do that was so bad? Did he beat you? Hurt Megan?”

  Something cold inside her clicked. She clenched her eyes shut. Unbelievable. What did he ever do that was so bad? No, he hadn’t beaten her. He hadn’t done anything. Nothing. Except tell her he didn’t want kids. Try and get her to have an abortion. He wasn’t there for her during the pregnancy, or the birth. Never gave her one dime for child support. Not that she’d asked. He didn’t have one to give anyway. He was everything she hated: a jock in high school and a redneck drunk as a man. All her ideals and values, the things that meant something to her, that had guided her life, that she had sacrificed for, meant nothing to him. He made fun of the fact that she was a vegetarian, that she wanted to grow her own food. And after Megan was born he was a non-entity. Not there for a single birthday, holiday, never called. Nothing. When she had moved to San Diego he hadn’t said a word. To hell with him.

  “He’s changed,” her mother said. “He wants to see Megan. He wants to see you. He’s got a better job now and says he is ready to make child support payments.”

  “He’s not changing oil at the Quick Lube anymore?”

  “Well, he is. But he’s the manager now and the pay increase was, apparently, significant.”

  “Christ. Give me a break.”

  “Look, Becky, you could have a life down here. A family.”

  She pressed her thumb and finger into her eyes. Back in high school her mother had always hated Brett. What was she talking about now?

  “I have a life and family here.”

  “He said he’d come get you. Take you home with him.”

  “What makes you think I’d ever go with him?”

  “He’s Megan’s father—”

  “I can’t talk about this, Mom. Please. It’s not the time or place.”

  “Well, just think about what I said at least.”

  “Here, Megan wants to talk to you.” Rebecca handed the phone to Megan who grabbed it excitedly, eyes going wide and a huge smile blooming across her face.

  “Merry Christmas, Nona!”

  —

  The kitchen table was piled high with weed. Around it sat the trimmers—Tatum, preacher hat and leather vest—scissors clacking away. She could smell them. Even over the scent of all that weed. A greasy, musky scent. Like the meat of an exotic animal.

  They glanced up at her as she walked in, then looked back down at their trays.

  “Go brush your teeth and put your jammies on,” Rebecca said to Megan. “We’re going to bed early tonight.”

  “But, Mommy, it’s Christmas.”

  “Megan, do as I say. Go on.”

  “But, Mommy.”

  “Megan.”

  With a pout Megan stomped away. Rebecca immediately went and opened a bottle of wine, taking a big swig off it before pouring a few fingers’ worth into a mason jar. Then she remembered the unopened pack of cigarettes in her purse. Suddenly the urge to smoke was overwhelming and she grabbed her purse and headed out, off the porch, and sat down on an old tire on the front lawn.

  The days were crazy short and the sun was nearly down. Slapping the cigarettes against her palm she thought about her mother. How could she? How could her mother be in touch with that man that had done nothing for them? Nothing for her, nothing for Megan, for all these years?

  She ripped the cellophane off, and pulled a cigarette out, her hands shaking slightly. She thought about how her mother said that Brett would come get her. Take her back to Bakersfield. Was that an option? If things just got too crazy? No. No, it wasn’t. She’d never go back like that. Defeated. She’d sooner go back to San Diego and beg one of her old friends to let Megan and her crash on their couch while she got her shit together. Sadie, Leslie. They’d do it. Let her and Megan stay with them until she could find her own place.

  But she was being rash. Things would work out. They’d get their own land. That’s all that mattered. Getting their own land. Having a farm. A homestead. A place of her own where she could dig her hands into the dirt, work the soil.

  She lit the cigarette and took a long pull on it. Her mind went light and dizzy. Her first cigarette in nearly six years. Since she’d discovered she was pregnant with Megan. She took a gulp of wine.

  —

  A voice called out from the dusk. “Rebecca? Rebecca?” It was Calendula, poking his head out the screen door to the porch. She didn’t answer but knew he had noticed her there, dreads hanging down in her face, pulling on the smoke so that the ember burned brightly.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, sidling up to her, hands on his hips. “Are you smoking?”

  “Look, don’t give me any shit. All right? If I want to hear what a failure I am, I’ll just call my mother back.” And she found herself laughing, though she didn’t know why.

  “I’m not here to judge you, baby,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Do what you gotta do.”

  She took a sip of her wine, then held the jar out for him. “Want some?”

  “Yeah. I’d love some actually. So, I take it the conversation didn’t go too well.”

  “You could say that.” She blew out a jet of smoke. “Look, I don’t want to even get into it now. Okay?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  They sat in silence for a while, passing the wine back and forth as the air grew cold, the last of the daylight slinking back behind the trees.

  “What about those trimmers?” he asked. “What a bunch, huh?”

  “They seem n
ice.”

  “You really think so?”

  “No.”

  Calendula laughed. “How do they get into those tight jeans?”

  “Maybe they sew them onto themselves.”

  “I’m going with the lube theory. They oil them up and force their legs in. That’s why they’re so greasy. I know they don’t take them off once they’re on. I can smell it.”

  Rebecca laughed, snubbed out her cigarette and wrapped an arm around his waist, sank her head into his shoulder.

  The sound of distant gunshots drifted from the trees and an unkindness of ravens beat their black wings and took to the air.

  2

  The trimmers kept to themselves. They slept, cooked and ate in their van, went to the van to smoke and talk, went there to listen to music. Sometimes Rebecca could hear their voices out there as she cooked dinner, above the screech of their metal music, talking amonst themselves.

  A routine developed.

  At night, after Megan was safely tucked into bed, Rebecca would trim with them. They were a sullen and quiet crew, but, driven by the tedious boredom, they’d get to talking. Preacher hat’s name was Boris. Leather vest was Theo. They were brothers, their parents German immigrants who’d moved to California when Boris and Theo were boys. They still had mild accents, a slightly stilted way of speaking. They’d gather up big balls of hash by scraping all the resin off their scissors and fingers, then smoke it in a corncob pipe.

  Passing the pipe back and forth they’d get to giggling hysterically, then recount how, when they met Tatum at Fortuna High, she’d been trying to fight the entire cheerleading squad at once.

  “They might have gotten the better of you, Tatum, but at least you gave Shelly Holverstein a bloody nose.”

  “Bloody?” Theo said. “She crushed that thing. Had to get plastic surgery. Didn’t her parents try and sue you?”

  Tatum made an exasperated face at Rebecca, then said over her shoulder, “Why don’t you guys shut the fuck up?” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Jeeze. You always got to be talking?” Which caused another eruption of laughter from the brothers.

  It had been a quiet night. The rain was back, slashing down against the windows and peppering the roof. Rebecca sat at the table with the trimmers, manicuring, manicuring, manicuring, till she was nearly in a trance, seeing tiny leaves and calyxes when she blinked or shut her eyes.

  Then Coyote threw the whole scene into chaos by crashing into the kitchen with a couple of hippie girls he’d picked up at the bar, one on each arm.

  “Rebecca,” he said, his voice a slurred, boisterous bark. “Get my friends here some trays and scissors. They wanna work. Right girls? You ready to make some money?”

  “Damnit, Coyote, keep it down,” Rebecca said. “Megan’s sleeping.”

  She stared at the rain-drenched trio swaying in the doorway, wasted and drunkenly holding each other up. The girls looked pretty sleazy, in that nasty hippie way Coyote always seemed to attract. The blonde was wearing a tie-dyed halter top with a Grateful Dead steal-your-face skull printed on it. It was nothing but strings and a tiny, wet piece of fabric that clung to her small breasts. The other, a brunette with dark eyes, was barefoot with a strand of tiny bells wrapped around her right ankle, a miniscule denim skirt, sewn together from jean scraps.

  “Right, right,” Coyote said, his voice now a harsh whisper. “My bad.”

  “Hey, sister,” the blonde said, extending a slinky arm in some sort of drunken greeting. “Blessed be.”

  “Yeah,” Rebecca said. “Hi.”

  “Wow, you’re beautiful.” The brunette, stepping forward, tried to try wrap her arms around Rebecca, the bells on her ankle jangling.

  Rebecca made a disgusted face and stepped away from her. “Coyote, maybe you ought to come back in the morning. It’s late.”

  “Hey, these girls are here to work. You wanna get this shit finished or what?”

  Rebecca stewed inside. She didn’t need to deal with this. Where was Calendula?

  She stormed down the hall to get them their trays. When she got back the two girls were slumped at the kitchen table, completely passed out. Tatum had stopped trimming and was staring at them, her sharp eyes and tiny mouth clenched in contempt. Coyote was rummaging through the refrigerator, cramming a hunk of leftover tofu into his mouth.

  Tatum pushed herself away from the table, stood up, and slammed the refrigerator shut.

  “Hey, I wasn’t done in there.”

  “What the fuck?” Tatum said. “You said we’d be the only trimmers.”

  “Figured you might want a little company.”

  Tatum gestured at the two girls, one face down on the table, the other with her head thrown back and her mouth hanging open, already beginning to snore. “You call this company?”

  “Come on, Tatum. Ivy’s just here for the night. And you’ll love Sunbeam.”

  “Really? She seems utterly useless. Look at her.”

  “You’ll be surprised. She cleans up nice. You might even get to really like her. She’s got a thing for girls.”

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means.”

  “Fuck you, Coyote. We had a deal.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m just not getting what the problem is.”

  “For one there’s no room for them. It’s already crowded as it is.”

  “We’ll make room.”

  “For another, the job is supposed to be ours.”

  “Don’t be that way. There’s plenty to go around.”

  “No. This is bullshit. You broke the deal.”

  “What are you going to do? Leave? You got somewhere else to go?”

  “How about I just slit their fucking throats right now? Let you clean up the mess.”

  Theo and Boris looked at each other and smiled.

  “Oh, you are a nasty little girl. I’ve always liked that about you.”

  Rebecca had had enough. She threw the trays down on the table and stormed off down the hall and to bed.

  —

  Morning. When Rebecca came into the kitchen, Megan shuffling along beside her, Sunbeam and Ivy were sitting at the kitchen table, scissors clacking furiously. From the window, Rebecca could see Tatum out in the yard, milling around her van, Theo making coffee on a portable camp stove. Boris smoking, his face hidden in the shadows of his black-felt hat.

  Sunbeam smiled at Rebecca. “Sorry about last night. Ivy and I really tied one on.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Rebecca said, filling a kettle for tea.

  “We had some catching up to do,” Ivy said. She laughed and winked at Rebecca. “You know how it is when you see old girlfriends. This your little girl?”

  Megan creeped around to the side of Rebecca and hid behind her legs.

  “Don’t be shy, little one,” Sunbeam said with a smile and a wave.

  “You want some pancakes, sweetie?” Rebecca asked, stroking Megan’s dark curls.

  Megan nodded, clutching her skirt and peering around her legs at Sunbeam who continued to wave at her, now bent over so that she was eyelevel with the little girl.

  “Okay, go wait in the living room. I’ll bring them to you there.”

  Megan darted away, her bare feet pattering against the floor in quick thumps.

  As Rebecca mixed the batter and poured it into a hot skillet, Calendula came strolling in, looking disorientated and lost, scratching at his dreadlocks.

  Sunbeam smiled up at him, “So, you must be the new partner Coyote was telling us about
.”

  “Uh, yeah. That’s me.” He pulled out a chair and dropped down into it. Ran a hand down his face.

  “Heard you got a real green thumb.”

  “Sure. Plants really dig me.” He laughed. “Actually, I’m a permaculture designer. I’m thinking of making a couple positive changes around here. Develop a few more symbiotic relationships.”

  “Cool. I’ve always been fascinated with permaculture. Where’d you get your certification?”

  “Occidental.”

  “Nice. I hear that’s a really enlightened place.”

  “Enlightened, yeah. Magical too.”

  Rebecca flipped the pancake and glanced over her shoulder. Calendula, with a pathetic, lopsided smile, was blatantly eyeing Sunbeam’s skimpy halter. And Sunbeam was encouraging it. Tossing her hair as she talked, moving her bare shoulders with a shimmying twist.

  Taking a plate from the dishrack, Rebecca slammed it down on the counter, then caught a whiff of smoke on the air. The damn pancake was starting to burn. She quickly scooped it up with the spatula and lay it on the plate.

  “Everything all right?” Calendula asked.

  “Great. Everything’s just great.” Rebecca turned her back to him and strode into the living room.

  Megan was in the corner, sitting cross-legged on the dirty green shag carpet, mumbling to herself and playing some kind of game.

  “What you doing, kiddo?”

  The little girl jumped, startled, her eyes wide. “Nothing.”

  “Come sit down and eat your pancake.”

  Megan unfolded her legs and got up slowly, glancing back at the corner once before sitting down on the sofa.

  Rebecca sat the plate on Megan’s lap, then sunk down into the couch beside her and closed her eyes. She could hear them talking in the kitchen, Ivy getting ready to go and asking Sunbeam if she was sure she wanted to stay, if she was going to be all right. Calendula assuring them that Sunbeam would be fine.

  Hearing Calendula talk to her like that, protective and compassionate, sent a shiver of jealousy through her, immediately followed by a sense of foolishness. Calendula was just being Calendula. He hadn’t done anything to be angry about.