by A. J. Carton
“I’ll have to stop you there, Curt,” Maria Hidalgo-Muller interrupted him.
Emma particularly noted her use of the man’s first name, immediately establishing them on equal footing. No more “Mr. Randall” from now on.
“If you think I need anything,” Maria continued, “that I and my family have ever wanted anything from you, then you are mistaken. And I warn you,” she emphasized this by pointing her index finger directly at the old man, “if you offer me anything of any kind by way of trying to ‘change the past,’ all you will do is grossly offend me. So watch what you say!”
As she spoke, Curt gazed at the woman impassively. When she’d finished speaking he continued, undeterred by her warning. As though she’d said nothing at all.
“I’m an old man and I know I can’t change the past,” he repeated. “Or buy my way into heaven. But perhaps I can change the present and make it a little better for the people who…”
“Hold on, Mr. Randall.” This time it was Steve who interrupted him. “I can’t speak to what this has to do with Professor Hildalgo,” he glanced quickly at Maria.
“Hidalgo-Muller,” she cut in.
“Sorry, what this has to do with Professor Hidalgo-Muller,” Steve corrected himself. “But I, too, want to make something crystal clear before you begin.” He glanced at Piers. “As I have already told your attorney, nothing you do or say today is going to make me drop the lawsuit I intend to file. A lawsuit on behalf of employees whose basic rights you have denied.” He pointed at the inlaid box. “You can’t just throw money at us and make us go away. The issues are bigger than that. They’re not about money. They’re about shining a spotlight on inhumane practices going on right now at Randall Enterprises. A spotlight that will be visible all the way to Sacramento. To Washington. A spotlight that will change policies towards seasonal workers.”
Emma watched her son-in-law while Steve spoke. His eyes shot sideways to look at Curt. He opened his mouth once to cut in, but seemed to think better of that and closed it. Finally, when Steve finished, he began to speak. “Steve, you’re really out of….”
Curt Randall didn’t let Piers finish. He didn’t exactly interrupt him, Emma noted. He just talked over him, as though Piers wasn’t there. Like a bull unconsciously flicking a flea off his ear while standing his ground.
“I can make the present a little bit better for those who work for me,” he repeated as though no one had said a word. He stared down at the inlaid box sitting in front of him on the desk. The elk horn handled knife lay next to it. He picked it up and stared at it instead.
“First, before I forget. Here.” He extended the knife across the desk towards Maria. “This is yours. Take it. Cory wanted you to have it, so you’re not taking anything from me when I return this to you.”
Maria rose from her chair. She leaned forward, reached towards Curt, took the knife and sat back down.
Next, Curt stared at the box. He stared at it for a long time and his eyes began to swim with tears. Emma wondered if the man would be able to continue. The room was quiet. Finally he stood up and, with some difficulty, walked to the tea service in the corner of the room. He poured himself a cup and slowly returned to his seat, the teacup jiggling in the saucer held tightly in his shaking hand. Finally, he sat down and took a few sips of the tea which seemed to compose him.
“For a long time,” he began, “all I could see was the farm as it used to be. As it was when my father worked there. When I worked there. Sure. It was hard work. The living conditions were primitive. But we loved it. There was a romance to it. A kind of glory, if you will. And it was ours. When the summer was over, we came back north to Sonoma. To school and our comfortable lives…”
“I can’t listen to this.” Steve rose abruptly from his chair.
“Sit down, young man,” Curt ordered with a thrust of his forefinger. “You can listen and you will!”
Steve sat back down and blushed.
“I don’t say this to justify anything. I say it to explain. Yes. I was a horse with blinders on. Those were Cory’s words when we argued about how I was running the farms. ‘History,’ I told him. ‘This is the history of a family you are attacking. The history of our way of life.’ ‘Your version of history,’ I remember him shouting back. ‘Sometimes history blinds you, Dad. Don’t you see what’s happened? You should be ashamed of how your workers live!’” Curt closed his eyes. As though seeing it all again in his memory. “My own son said that to me. I still blame it on that danged university. A bunch of lefties like Chavez.”
Curt glanced at Maria again. “Well, you know what happened. We argued about the farm. We argued about you. In my mind they were one and the same.” Curt nodded sadly. “He tried to explain. But I wouldn’t listen. So he left.”
Curt tapped the inlaid box. “I never talked to him again. But his mother did. And he wrote to us. She read the letters and put them away, here. At first I didn’t because I was mad. And stubborn. Later, after Cory died, I couldn’t read them. All these years they’ve sat in this box in his mother’s closet where Amelia left them.”
Curt seemed to run out of breath. He stopped talking and opened the box.
The room had grown very quiet again. Emma studied her companions. Steve’s right leg was crossed over his left knee, his right foot jiggling, agitated and impatient. Maria sat with her arms folded across her chest, belligerent. Beside her, her daughter Paz glanced worriedly at her mother. Piers had closed his eyes; his jaw clenched like he was biting his tongue. Even Emma grew annoyed at the old man’s self-indulgence. What, she wondered, do Cory’s old letters to his mother have to do with us?
“So what’s your point?” Steve finally said.
His words seemed to wake Curt out of a reverie.
“My point is,” Curt resumed. Again it was as if Steve had not spoken. “My point is this. Something you said, Professor, something you said about love finally gave me the courage to read my son’s letters. Thanks to you I realized it wasn’t too late…”
The old man broke off speaking and started to weep. Then he collected himself. “I realized it wasn’t too late to admit how much I loved him. I came back home from our visit and I read all of the letters. Every word. And it turns out, what he’d written to me and his mother was a blueprint. A fine, intelligent, honorable, loving blueprint of how to improve the farm. The farm he loved. The farm that, one day, he hoped to run. With you,” he nodded at Maria.
“Of course, that could never happen,” the old man continued. “But I realized that the blueprint, my son’s legacy – the legacy I’d mourned for most of my life – was right here.” He tapped the stack of letters. Then the old man nodded at Piers and smiled. “I showed them all to my lawyer over there. And he helped me figure out what to do. That is why you are all here.”
Emma looked at Maria. The annoyance in her eyes had dissolved into sorrow.
Steve’s expression, too, had shifted. From impatience to mistrust. He opened his mouth to speak but Piers waved him silent with a stroke of his forefinger across his neck.
“With Piers’ help and the Monroes,” Curt explained, “I’ve just concluded the sale of the plum ranch. To a nonprofit that will preserve old Luther Burbank’s plums. Under the terms of the sale, I will continue to live here, in the house, for the remainder of my life. As far as I understand these things,” he nodded again to Piers, “the proceeds will fund some kind of credit union offering low cost loans to all the employees working at Randall Enterprises.”
Curt Randall stopped talking. Emma looked around the room. The agitation was gone. The old man now had everyone’s complete attention.
“That’s not really my point, though. The point is that, thanks to Piers, Randall Enterprises, itself, has been put into a trust. I no longer have anything to do with it. Again, Piers can give you the details. But it is my wish that the Coachella farms be run according to the ideas that my son, Cory, explained here in his letters. As I understand it, the farm will be turned into a
cooperative owned and managed by my employees in a way that specifically addresses the needs of all the workers it employs.”
Curt continued, nodding at Steve, “I want Randall Enterprises – or whatever the trust is named – to serve as a model of how a farm could be run cooperatively to make a fair profit and to treat its owner/employees fairly. Steve, I want you at the Free Legal Services Clinic to act as legal counsel for the trust. You’ve been a doggoned pain in my neck all these years, and I respect that. Sometimes you remind me a little bit of myself. Of course, the trust will pay your organization very well for your services, if you choose to take on this job.”
The old man sat back in his chair and seemed to gasp for breath. For a few moments he couldn’t speak. Maria finally broke the silence.
“Curt,” she said. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”
The old man raised his hand and nodded. “I’m getting to that, Maria,” he said. He took another few gulps of breath. “In fact, it has nothing to do with you. But I’d like your daughter, and your son…” Curt added, “I know he refused to come here today. But I’d like both of them to serve as advisors to the trust. I will have nothing to do with it, be assured. Paz as a social worker and Xavier as a doctor can help Steve and Piers make sure that the new Randall Enterprises, or whatever it’s named, does everything it can to promote its workers’ health and safety, and to provide them with educational opportunities.”
For a moment the announcement seemed to have taken everyone’s breath away. No one spoke. Then Curt stood up. “Unless anyone wishes to comment further, this meeting is adjourned. Paz and Steve, please get back to Piers regarding your decisions.”
The old man had already turned his back on the group and had started to walk towards the door. Then he turned and added, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a nap.”
Chapter 29: Friday – Plum Done
After Curt’s announcement, the first thing Emma did was call Jack. Much to Emma’s surprise he suggested they meet so he could hear first hand everything that had happened since their disastrous dinner the week before. Over lunch at the Trough, Jack devoured every detail about Cheng Bo’s capture. He even sounded excited about the trust Curt established. And answered all her questions about co-ops.
“The idea of a cooperative is that everyone participates in the ownership, management and profits,” he explained. “Look, it’s not my business model,” he added, “but it can work. Particularly in agriculture. The Netherlands has successful agricultural cooperatives. Spain has one of the largest worker cooperatives in the world. If a cooperative is well managed and successful, it can help a lot of people.”
Is Jack really that interested in cooperatives? Emma asked herself the next morning, pulling a blue and white flowered Marimekko print tunic over her head and applying a little makeup to her pale blue eyes.
Later, however, sitting in the car on her way to lunch, Emma tried to banish all thoughts of Jack from her mind. To focus on her reunion with Dan instead. A reunion she’d rehearsed a thousand times in her head. For twenty years. Ever since she let him break her heart.
Of course I understand, Dan, she remembered saying the night he announced that Kim was coming back. We always agreed our children come first. I won’t let you break up your family over me.
She realized she might as well have said, It’s OK, Dan. I’ll be the one to get hurt.
And Dan let her get hurt. Dumped her like a pizza crust once all the good topping was gone. He never even contacted her. Except for a few calls to complain about Denver and the new life he and his wife were forging there. Emma’s sacrifice had seemed so noble then. But what kind of a heroine talks like that? she wondered now. How many Oscars for best supporting actress do I need?
Before she knew it she’d parked her car in the Sutter/Stockton garage and was headed down Bush Street to Sam’s. Just like old times.
Except it wasn’t old times. Something was different. In the old days she knew she’d have flown down Bush Street, giddy with anticipation. Today her feet felt like they were made of lead. She found herself wishing that, overnight, Sam’s had burned to the ground. Or been closed for remodeling.
What am I afraid of? she asked herself. That things have changed? That things haven’t changed? Neither answer was right.
She stopped on the sidewalk, took a deep breath, and slowly counted to ten. Be quiet, she told her racing brain. Be quiet, for once, and listen to your heart.
Then she swung open Sam’s old saloon style door, strode past the polished oak bar and into the dining room. The maître d’ who greeted her was new.
“You’re the first to arrive,” he smiled perfunctorily. “You can wait here at the bar, or I can show you to your booth.”
“I’ll wait in the booth,” Emma replied.
She’d just hung her coat on a large brass hook attached to the wall of the cozy cubicle and settled herself in a Thonet chair when someone pulled aside the green velvet curtain separating the tiny booth from the outside world.
Emma involuntarily braced herself. She’d seen Dan’s photograph on Facebook. She knew he looked much the same. So why was she steeling herself? Bracing herself the way she would against an unpleasant smell.
Then the next thing she knew, he stood there in front of her. After twenty years. Dan Worthington. Like a famous actor taking center stage.
“I can’t believe I did this,” he announced, “but I said I’d be here if you gave the word. And here I am.”
Emma stood up and reached out her arms to him, trying to stop her pounding heart. Till suddenly she realized it wasn’t pounding after all.
Dan leaned forward to gather her into his arms. Emma’s arms fell limp to her sides.
“I can’t believe it either,” she answered. She almost added, “What on earth are you doing here?”
Dan hugged her, then placing a hand on each of her shoulders, he inspected her, his keen blue eyes taking in every detail. Her hair, her eyes, her makeup, her clothes, even her shoes. Just like an architect, she thought.
“You haven’t changed, Emma,” he said.
Emma glanced at the man. His perfectly cut grey hair, his riveting blue eyes, his trim six foot figure, the sharp creases in his khakis, the starched collar of his dark blue dress shirt sticking out of his Denver green fleece. “Neither have you,” she said and she meant it.
They pecked each other on each cheek and sat down at the table.
“Listen,” he began. “I was hoping we could meet in Blissburg. See, what with the divorce and all. Well, I’d been thinking of retiring anyway. And somehow, Blissburg seems like the perfect place. You’re there. There’s lots of new construction in Santa Rosa if I ever get the hankering to return to the field.”
Something in the look on Emma’s face made him stop. “Of course, I’m glad to see you here. Anywhere Emma. Anywhere we can catch up. I can fly up on weekends until I’m ready to make a move. You can come to Denver. You’d love it there. Hiking. Golf.”
“You golf?” Emma cut in. That was new.
“Yeah. Kim and I took it up. As part of the reconciliation.” He laughed. “Obviously that didn’t work. But I, at least, ended up loving it. I’m sure you will too. But maybe you play already. I don’t remember.”
Emma shook her head. “No. I’ve never played golf.” She wanted to add, “And I never will.”
“Anyway, you’ll love Denver. You might even decide to move there, now that you’re not tied to an office anymore. I see on Facebook that you’re some kind of food writer. That sounds portable.”
“So you checked out my cookbook?” Emma asked.
Dan shook his head. “Yeah. I mean, no. I haven’t. What was it called again?”
Emma shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” Her stomach had started to grumble. “Shall we order?”
Dan grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “What was it we always ordered? The cracked Dungeness crab, right?”
“The sand dabs,” Emma cor
rected him. “It’s May. Crab’s not really in season.”
“Sand dabs it is,” Dan answered as the waiter poked his head into the room. He ordered the fish and a glass of house white for each of them.
Over lunch, they caught up on twenty years of each others’ lives. Dan told Emma all about his two kids and his grandchildren. She quickly described Julie. Then Dan provided an overview of his career - the office buildings he’d designed all over the Midwest and recently all over China.
They’d each ordered sorbet when Dan leaned back in his chair and sighed. “See, Emma. It all turned out for the best. Right? Our children turned out great. We’re both where we want to be.”
Both where we want to be? Emma wondered. How would he know? In an hour and a half, the man hadn’t asked her a thing about herself.
“I don’t mean to rush you,” he continued, “But I think we’ve always agreed that we were meant to be together. Better late than never, right?”
He’d grabbed her hand again and pressed it to his lips.
“Look,” he whispered. Then he laughed. “I know these walls are thin. You’re retired, right? The afternoon, at least my afternoon, is wide open. We can go to the new museum and then stop off back at my friend’s place. Where I’m staying on Telegraph Hill. He’s away for the weekend. It’s a great little spot.”
Emma did a double take. Like she hadn’t properly heard. “What?”
Dan’s shoulders relaxed and he dropped his head to his breast, his blue eyes staring up at her from under the long black lashes that had once captivated her so. “You know,” he smiled. “Like the old times. I’ve never lost those feelings for you, Emma.”
But it wasn’t like old times. And suddenly Emma knew what was different. She had no feelings for this man. None. None at all. It wasn’t that he was a stranger. In fact, to the contrary, she knew him very well. It was more like he was a once treasured, beautifully bound storybook. But the story inside the book didn’t interest her anymore.
