Kind Nepenthe

by Brockmeyer, Matthew V.

  —

  After Rebecca had convinced him to leave, taken him by the hand and led him to the Subaru, forced him to put the key in the ignition and drive them away, it had taken forever to find a hotel that would take cash. Driving up and down the 101 in Eureka going from one seedy place to the next while desperately calling Coyote over and over again, leaving messages and texts, letting him know they had an emergency on their hands.

  Of course Coyote didn’t answer the phone and Calendula, panicked and desperate, left him message after message. “Bro, there’s been a problem, we gotta talk. Call me.”

  He texted him: “911- call me- 911.”

  Finally, after how many excruciating hours, Coyote called back.

  “What the fuck—”

  “The generator ran out of diesel.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “It won’t start back up.”

  “Try the choke?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, is anyone dead?”

  “Uh, no. No.”

  “Are the cops there?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s not a real fucking emergency, is it? Look, kid, relax. You sound like you’re going to fucking cry. You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  “No, I’m not going to cry.” He looked to Rebecca, who flashed a strange look back at him.

  “Good, I hate that shit. All right, first thing first: Weed just about done?”

  “Two more weeks.”

  “Well, we can harvest early if we have to. Tell you what, I’m on my way back right now. I’ll meet you there tomorrow. We’ll assess the situation. I know some tricks with a diesel generator. Okay? We’ll figure it out. Don’t have a fucking aneurism, kid.”

  And he believed that. That everything would be all right. He really did believe it.

  2

  Coyote was in a great mood before being inundated with all the goddamn phone calls. He was halfway back from L.A. and ecstatic. He had a new buyer and a duffel bag full of cash. He knew Don—his Oregon buyer—had been full of shit, telling him that supply had eclipsed demand, that the price had dropped to nothing.

  That low-balling, player-hating, lying sack of shit.

  Coyote had gotten the lead on a guy who owned a whole conglomerate of medical dispensaries in L.A. Young kid, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, with an army of players at his command. They weren’t potheads as much as cannabis enthusiasts who embraced the marijuana world as part of their uber-hip lives, weed-chic. Fucking surfers who only took off their sunglasses and brand-new baseball caps when they got in the ocean. They dragged him along to strip clubs and weird parties in warehouses with bass-heavy music that sounded like noise and girls who looked impossibly young. They were all about the dabbing, smoking this concentrated honey oil shit with fancy machinery, torches and glass pipes. More complicated looking than freebasing cocaine. It wasn’t really his scene at all. He felt old and very uncool. But the guy loved the weed. Bought it all for twenty-two a pound.

  So now Coyote had over two-hundred grand in cash, packed into a duffel bag in the back of his Navigator. Enough to pay off Diesel, even kick some interest his way, cause—hey—fair’s fair. Maybe even do some repairs to the old homestead and still have plenty to stow away.

  He was so happy he didn’t even want any crack or whores. Maybe he’d go up to Oregon and visit Helen and the girls, bring a whole mess of presents. Fuck his wife for a change instead of the skanky hookers he paid to suck his dick all night. He wanted to see her, could finally admit how much he missed her cute face and tough little stance, the good strong Irish woman in her. He felt like he was turning over a new leaf. He was going to get healthy. Shit, maybe he’d go all hippie again, do some yoga, eat right.

  Some tantric sex definitely sounded good.

  Then the phone calls from that dimwit Calendula started.

  Panicked voicemails full of distraught whining. That stupid fuck. Now the high of a deal gone good—the rush of money in hand—gone. Suddenly two-hundred thousand bucks didn’t seem like that much, especially now that the next crop could be ruined, and Coyote was back to his usual, inescapable, miserable self.

  3

  “I just can’t go back there, you know that, Calendula.”

  Rebecca took a gulp of wine and flicked the filter of her Camel with her thumb nail. She lifted the cigarette to her lips, squinting against the smoke, and took a deep drag. She held it in a moment, and then sighed deeply, the blue smoke escaping her as she ran a hand through her short crop of hair.

  “Not going back, I’m not,” she said, tapping her foot.

  They were outside the door to their hotel room in Eureka, the slightly rotten smell of the bay heavy in the air. A semi rushed by. A car horn honked. Somewhere in the distance two men were arguing, their shouts audible but the words just an angry jumble of noise. Megan was inside watching television and eating McDonald’s french fries—by the time they’d checked into a room it was late and the only places still open were the fast food joints.

  Calendula watched her take another gulp of wine from the plastic motel cup she’d filled with the box of Merlot she had insisted he pull over to buy as soon as they saw a liquor store. She leaned back against the cinderblock wall of the hotel, crossed her arms, and tapped her cigarette. The ash fell slowly to the ground.

  “Not going back.”

  She was freshly showered, her short hair still wet and slicked back on her head, and Calendula could smell the cheap hotel shampoo she’d used, so different from the organic herbal products he was used to smelling on her. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and though her face was pallid and her lips colorless, she still looked smoking hot to Calendula, with her fierce eyebrows framing those almond eyes. Like a model in some edgy French fashion magazine.

  He rubbed the flat of his thumb against his wart, feeling an eye twitch coming on, looking for some kind of in. Some way to make her come back with him.

  “What’s up with all the nicotine consumption? I thought big tobacco was—”

  “Don’t fuck with me.”

  “I’m not, I’m just pointing out, that, uh, you know, we all make compromises.”

  “Look, don’t try to change this around. This isn’t about me. It’s about Megan. And whether she’s going back to that place. You go. Meet up with Coyote, do your little dog act. Lick his ass, follow him around, be his bitch and follow his orders. When you’re all done, come back and get us. We’ll be waiting.”

  “Waiting? Where? Under a bridge? In an alley?”

  “No. Here at the hotel.”

  “We can’t stay here for another night. I didn’t bring enough cash.”

  “I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t go anywhere without that money. I know you.”

  “I’m telling you I left it. I didn’t want to risk bringing it. Figured it was safer. Hidden there.”

  Of course he was lying. He had the money, that slim bundle of hundred-dollar bills. He resisted the urge to touch the lump in his pocket, but instead kept up a circular pattern on the wart, his eye twitching softly. He flashed her wide smile and raised his eyebrows, hoping the gesture didn’t come off as asinine and clown-like as it felt.

  “Fine. I’ll just call my mother. She already told me that Brett would come get us.”

  “Brett? You’d leave with Brett?”

  “It’s looking like my only option.”

  “If that’s what you want. Go ahead.” He knew she’d never do it, admit defeat like that.

  Her eyes grew thin and she puffed on her cigarette, began tapping her foot again as two streams of smoke jetted out her
nose.

  “You know, you’re looking more and more like a Manson girl every day. It’s kinda sexy.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  An ambulance drove by on the highway with its sirens on, cars pulling over to let it pass. For a moment her face was bathed in spiraling red and blue light. He stepped toward her, touched her chin. She looked away.

  “Seriously, baby. I just wanna let you know I like your haircut. It was a bit extreme at first, but now that I’ve gotten used to it, you look really hot.”

  “Seriously? You think that will fucking work?”

  “I’m being honest here. Give me a break.”

  “If we go back how long do we have to stay?”

  “We’ll just square up with Coyote,” he said. “Figure out a plan, grab our cash, and then we can go.”

  “We don’t have to stay and harvest and trim?”

  “Hell, no. Square up. That’s it.”

  She took another drag off her cigarette. “There are things happening there. Weird shit. We can’t go back. It’s not good. Not good.”

  “Honey. We’ve got no choice.”

  She kept her head averted from him, her eyes focused on something far, far away.

  4

  Diesel’s huge, ape-like frame was sprawled across the big white sofa. He was in his underwear, staring blankly at the TV and smoking speed from a glass pipe. Wheel of Fortune was on, an old woman clapping while eagerly watching the wheel spin round, but all Diesel could see was the time-worn image of his grandfather holding court before the general store, telling the locals that this was a great place to raise sheep. That the rolling hills of green prairie that remained after the redwoods were harvested were perfect for sheep, as long as they were locked up at night so that the mountain lions couldn’t get to them when they crept down into the valleys from the hills of manzanita and tan oak.

  Diesel had never raised any sheep. He’d always wanted to. But unlike his grandfather and his cousins he didn’t have the patience to keep any livestock. Too much work keeping those fuckers alive. Responsibility.

  Yet like his father he was a good hunter. He’d always wanted to take his son hunting with him, but after the boy’s mother ran off to Eureka with him he never had the chance.

  Now DJ showed no interest in hunting at all, barely gave him a “thank you” when he gave him the 30.06. Maybe it would be different with his grandson. No. It would be different. He was sure of it.

  He took another hit of the pipe. It was growing hot.

  What was it his grandfather always used to say?

  When you get too old to cut the mustard you gotta lick the jar.

  Diesel never understood what that meant but he loved it nonetheless. Somehow it seemed to make sense to him now, though, and he let the words spill out of his lips.

  Gotta lick the jar.

  The pipe grew too hot to hold and he placed it on the filthy end table beside a pile of crushed oxytocin and his trusty .22. He ran his fingers through his thick orange-and-gray beard and sighed.

  Amber was gone and the place was a mess.

  They’d gotten into an argument, over something stupid. High for days, at least a week, things got out of hand and he smacked her, something he swore he would never do.

  To make matters worse, in a moment of blind rage he smashed all of her beloved Christmas figurines.

  So, she stormed out of the house, jumped in his old Trans Am and tore off to town. Ended up running off with some biker she met at the Branding Iron. Kind of ironic, as that’s where he’d met her.

  Part of him ached with a gnawing, empty loneliness.

  Another part of him said, Fuck it. Good riddance.

  But most of him just wanted to get high out of his mind and forget it all. Forget that she’d even been here. He swallowed the last of his Budweiser. It was warm and flat. He tossed the empty can to the ground.

  Without Amber around to keep the place neat with an iron fist the place was filthy. Dirty plates with unfinished TV dinners, cigarette butts stubbed out into them, lay on the armrests of the sofa.

  Black scorch marks from hot speed pipes everywhere.

  Muddy boot prints on the white shag carpeting Amber’d always been so adamant about keeping clean.

  In the middle of the room the carburetor of his Harley lay disassembled atop a few sheets of newspaper. The stink of gasoline and ditch grit.

  Piles of baby clothes and toys were everywhere from customers who’d brought them to trade for speed, knowing Diesel was so excited about becoming a grandfather.

  His cellphone started chirping.

  He picked it up, tiny in his massive hand, and looked at the screen, slipping his other hand into his underwear to scratch his balls. He didn’t recognize the number and almost didn’t answer, but that little voice inside his mind, telling him to hustle, rustle and bustle, caused his thumb to tap on Answer.

  “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “You have a collect call from”—hysterical sobbing—“Katie, it’s Katie, Pops”—beep—“Do you accept? Say yes or no.”

  “Yes. Yes, I accept. Katie, you there, girl?”

  Unintelligible weeping followed by—“There was no one else to call, and…and…nowhere to go.”

  Diesel swung his feet down off the sofa and sat up straight, clutching the phone tight and pressing it hard against his ear.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s not his fault. It’s not. It’s me. It’s always me.” More weeping.

  “Okay, okay. Just calm down. Where are you? Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.”

  “I’m at the Last Chance Market, Pops. At the Last Chance Market.”

  “You hang tight, Katie. I’ll be right there. Kay, honey?”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  5

  Calendula and Rebecca drove back to the compound in silence while Megan slept. They’d let her stay up late watching the Disney Channel, and now she was in fathomless slumber.

  They said nothing that long drive down the 101 from Eureka, then east on the 36, following the Mad River before turning up Alder Point road. Then Zenia Bluff road and eventually into the one-lane maze of potholed asphalt that twisted like a black snake through the hills and mountains, up towards the Trinity Alps.

  Finally, bouncing along dirt roads that had no name, deep into the back hills, the wind whipped the little Subaru, swaying it, while above them a new storm blew in: black clouds of the El Niño, the child, blown up from the tropical heat of Mexico.

  He knew something was wrong the moment he saw the gate hanging open.

  “We shut the gate. I’m positive of it.”

  “It’s Coyote. Probably just too lazy to shut it behind him.”

  “Coyote always keeps the gate closed. Always.”

  He began to drive wildly down the driveway and into the compound, slamming into potholes, the Subaru bouncing and its underside grinding.

  “That gate was fucking closed when we left. Coyote better be here.”

  “Slow down,” Rebecca yelled at him. Megan began whimpering from the back seat.

  He came skidding to a stop in front of the chef house and threw his door open, leaping out. Through the moldering, moss-covered screen of the front porch he could see that the front door was open, hanging by its top hinge, the frame busted to shit.

  “No.”

  He raced across the yard and leapt onto the porch.

  “No, no, no.”

  His gut filled with something sharp and cold, like jagged chucks of ice. He
sprinted into the bedroom, everything in slow motion, the edges of his vision blurred like a dream.

  “No, no, no.”

  The hum in his ears was deafening and his head pounded so hard flashes of light and darkness strobed behind his eyes.

  The grow-room door hung open and inside was darkness, only a bit of gray daylight seeping in from the bedroom windows, but even in all that blackness he could tell the plants were gone. That familiar canopy of foliage no more. He could see that lights were missing, too, the silhouettes of barren chains hanging limp from the ceiling.

  He stepped inside. The hydroponic buckets were all lying on their sides, the floor flooded and littered with lava rock. As his eyes adjusted he saw that many of the controllers—the timers, pH meters, and thermostats—were ripped from the wall.

  “No,” he said again, whispering the word. “No.”

  Something inside him gave and fluttered away. He staggered out of the room. Rebecca was there, in the bedroom, clutching Megan to her chest.

  “We have to leave, Calendula,” she said.

  Calendula groaned. “That’s all I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth from the moment we got here and I’m so sick of hearing it.”

  “What if whoever did this comes back? What if they’re still here somewhere?”

  “They’re gone, Rebecca. No one is here.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  Calendula turned, and sent his fist into the ancient fake-wood paneling of the wall.

  “Calendula, please?”

  “Please what? Run away? That’s always your answer. What about Coyote? We’re supposed to meet Coyote here. Did you forget that?”

  “We can meet him at the end of the dirt road. I…I don’t feel safe here.”