by Ruth Ozeki
“If you say so.”
“Okay, I’ll eat the rest of that for you.” He took the cookie and popped the whole thing in his mouth and started chewing. Ocean was loudly counting all the cookies and calculating their profits at a dollar per.
“Eleven dollars, twelve dollars . . .”
I watched Geek chew for a while. “So I got you some more press coverage,” I told him. He raised his eyebrows, still unable to speak, so I continued. “Elliot Rhodes. From Washington. Remember?”
He seemed to be having a difficult time with the cookie.
“I called and told him what you all were doing. He’s here. He came for the action. He’s going to try to write something about it.”
Geek made a choking sound.
“You want a glass of milk?”
He shook his head. Finally he swallowed and could speak again. “That’s great, Yumi. Thanks.” But he sounded distracted, like he was already thinking about something else.
I didn’t pursue it. It was enough that I had done something to help, and it was nice to be a part of things again. With the smell of baking and all the bustle of craft activity, it felt like Christmas Eve in the house, the way the holiday ought to feel but never had in our small, quiet family when I was growing up. I’d always wanted to belong to a big, happy family that felt like this, and maybe the sudden coziness led me to overlook my apprehensions. I went into the living room. Momoko, Lloyd, and Frankie were sitting around a folding bridge table, funneling poppy seeds into little packages.
“Can I help?” I asked, sitting down next to Momoko.
Lloyd looked up. “Why, thank you, Yumi,” he said, and when our eyes met, he seemed as startled as I was. As I scooped up the tiny seeds in a spoon and let them roll into the mouth of the envelope, I was aware that my heart still thumped like a bunny with the pleasure of pleasing Daddy.
liberty rises
On the second of July people started showing up. Lloyd was sitting on the porch in his rocking chair when the first vehicle arrived. He’d seen it coming from a ways off, lumbering slowly along the dirt road, kicking up dust. He felt a bit of a shock when it slowed, then pulled into his driveway. He didn’t know what to make of it.
It was an old school bus, the top half of which had been replaced with wooden walls and a roof made of hand-split cedar shingles. A narrow deck with driftwood railings ran around the sides and back, and the entire exterior of the structure was covered with a web of hooks and nets and rigging into which were woven pots and pans, brooms and buckets, a winch and a come-along, some bicycles with miscellaneous spokes and wheels, and the day’s laundry, hung out to dry. The vehicle had Oregon license plates. It pulled right up to the porch and cut its engine. The driver stepped down and threw his arms around Melvin, who was there to greet him. Lloyd could see the man’s eyes gleaming under thick, shaggy brows. A dark beard covered the rest of his face. He wore a crocheted cap in rainbow colors and brown corduroy trousers that were sizes too big, held up by a pair of suspenders. He didn’t have a shirt on.
The man’s name was Cedar. His companion was a woman named Aloe, and they had a little boy named Bean. Where do they get these names? Lloyd wondered when Melvin brought them to the porch to introduce them.
A Volkswagen bus was the next to arrive, followed by a ratty parade of small, fuel-efficient cars from Japan. Battered and splotchy with rust. Patched with putty, and painted. Covered with bumper stickers. SAVE THE WHALES. HUG A TREE. LOVE OUR MOTHER. NO JOBS ON A DEAD PLANET. DON’T PANIC, EAT ORGANIC.
As he watched the vehicles congregate in his yard, a feeling of dread grew in Lloyd’s heart. He pictured them driving through the center of Liberty Falls, maybe even stopping for gas at Mr. Petrol’s Pantry. This was not the event he’d imagined. It wasn’t his reputation in town that concerned him—he’d pretty much given up on that—but he simply couldn’t countenance the way these kids were dressed. Undressed, more like it. The afternoon was hot, and the boys were all shirtless, their hair tied up in bandannas. The girls had on long skirts, which they gathered around their waists, baring their thighs. On top they wore skimpy scraps of fabric attached with straps, no thicker than baling twine and not half so sturdy. Most of them weren’t wearing anything else underneath. It made Lloyd very nervous every time one of them raised her arms to hug a friend or ran too quickly across the yard.
He looked around for Yumi, realizing he hadn’t seen her all day. Her kids were over with Melvin and Lilith, helping to set up chairs. He started rocking harder. Never thought he’d see the day when he’d look to Yumi for propriety. At least you could count on her to keep most of her clothes on in public.
The first rust-free vehicle to arrive was an Airstream Land Yacht motor home with Nebraska plates. Lloyd eased himself down the steps and into the yard to intercept it. The occupants made no attempt to exit. They sat behind the large tinted windshield with the engine running, staring around at the milling crowd. Lloyd slowly crossed the yard with his walker, then stopped in front of the bus and gave a wave. They raised their hands and waved back, and from where he stood, looking up at the windshield, their arms looked like the wipers, moving in unison. Then the man stood and opened the door.
“Didn’t know if we had the right place,” he shouted from the top of the steps. He wore plaid shorts and a pink golf shirt. “Things sure have changed a bit around here.”
“Still the same,” said Lloyd. “Still the same. Wife’s in the garden. She’ll be glad to see you.”
Lloyd peered up at the woman, who hadn’t moved from her seat. Outside the Land Yacht, a group of young men with bold tattooed designs on their naked torsos had formed a loose circle and were kicking a small crocheted ball up in the air with their bare feet. Sweat put a sheen on their golden skin.
“Howdy, Martha,” Lloyd called up. “How’s the garden?”
“Hard time to leave, Lloyd,” she said, not taking her eyes off the circle. “Right during bean season.”
“Appreciate you coming,” said Lloyd. “We’re expecting a few more of our customers. You won’t be the only ones.”
“Glad to hear it, Lloyd,” she said.
They watched the tattooed men leap and twist, chasing the little ball. They wore kerchiefs on their heads. They wore necklaces with leather pouches.
“Hey,” one of them shouted at the Land Yacht. “Turn off the engine! You’re wasting fossil fuels.”
“Don’t mind them kids,” Lloyd said. “They seem odder than they are.”
“It’s an interesting look,” the man offered, making no move toward the ignition.
“We’ve got a bunch of ’em helping out. They’re pretty good gardeners. We’re having a productive season, in spite of my heart.” Lloyd cleared his throat and spat.
“We were real sorry to hear about that,” the man said.
“Guess it’s just that time of life. Time to downsize, you know?”
“Early retirement, eh?”
“Can’t keep on going forever. Let me call the wife.”
Lloyd hobbled his walker around so that it pointed at the garden. He scanned the rows, then spotted Momoko bent over in a bed of melons. He raised his arm and tried to shout to her, but he started coughing and had to lean over to catch his balance. Martha honked the Land Yacht’s horn, then turned off the engine as an afterthought. Momoko looked up. She waved and started walking toward them. Lloyd shuffled back.
“Hard to tell how much she’s following these days,” he said. “Appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention downsizing to her. She’s real worried about her seeds.”
“Not a problem, Lloyd.”
Momoko made her way through the circle of half-naked ballplayers. A tattoo caught her eye, and she stopped to inspect it—a bold black Japanese character in the small of a young man’s back. She tapped him on the arm and looked up at his face as he turned, shielding her eyes against the sun with her hand.
“You know what means that one?” she asked, pointing to the large tattoo.
The young man twisted around and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s the Japanese word for happiness.”
“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “It is not mean happiness. It mean stupid.”
“No way!” the kid protested, twisting and peeking over his shoulder, as though the tattoo might have changed shape when he wasn’t looking.
“So sorry,” she said and started to walk away, but then she stopped. “Hey,” she called back to him. “You a happy guy?”
“Yeah,” the kid said, looking a lot less happy than he had before.
“But stupid, too. Stupid to put such big happiness in back of you.” She turned and walked up to the Land Yacht.
“Hello, Mr. Jack!” she said. “Howdy Mrs. Martha! How is your bush bean growing?”
The rally officially started on the morning of Saturday, the third. By ten o’clock there were approximately 120 registered participants, which would grow to twice that number by the end of the day. By the following afternoon, the Fourth of July, just over 400 people had stopped by. This number included customers of the Fullers, comrades of the Seeds, and citizens and supporters from neighboring cities and towns. It included poets from Pocatello, students from the university, and Shoshone representatives from the local tribes, as well as journalists from all the local papers, a couple of freelance photographers, and a camera crew from the network affiliate. The figure also included unregistered participants: a few fertilizer salesmen and other representatives from the agrochemical industry; locals who stopped by to gawk; a busload of interfaith, antipornography activists; and the police, who arrived on the second day to arrest the Seeds and shut the party down.
But that was day two.
On day one Cass got there just before ten. Frankie was testing the PA system, tapping the mike and causing an electronic squeal to rip through the mounting heat of the morning. People winced and laughed and clapped. Stragglers moved closer. The great painted banner that hung above the stage proclaimed WELCOME TO THE IDAHO POTATO PARTY! Pictures of smiling potato heads beamed down upon the crowd.
Cass found Yummy and Poo at the edge of the crowd of hippies who were gathering in front of the stage. They looked so colorful with all their exotic clothes and beads and hair done up in strange ways.
“It’s like a rock concert or something,” Cass said to Yummy, holding her arms out for the baby. She had come over as soon as she could, after Will had left for the fields. To keep an eye on things, she told him. But she liked the excitement that was filling the air. She stood on her tiptoes to see the stage. She lifted Poo up to her shoulders so he could see, too. He clung onto her hair with his fingers, then started to drum on her head.
“I’ll take him if he gets too much,” Yummy said.
Cass rotated her body in a way that meant no, but that also felt a bit like dancing. She loved the bouncy weight of the baby on her shoulders and the warmth of his ankle in her hand, sturdy and plump. She kissed his bare foot. She held on tight.
She could see Lloyd and Momoko sitting in the very front row. Lloyd looked anxious, but Momoko sat perfectly still, hands folded, waiting. Their seed customers and friends sat in a tight cluster around them, balancing coffees and napkins and doughnuts on their knees. They seemed nervously aware of the young people who eddied about them, as though they were afraid of being swallowed up, and for good reason, because the young people were like a great massing body of bare flesh and flashing colors and bells and musty smells of incense and sweat.
Yummy was scanning the crowd looking for someone, and then Cass caught sight of Elliot Rhodes. He raised his arm and waved, and Yummy waved back.
“Oh, Yummy,” Cass said. “You didn’t invite him, did you?”
Yummy had the grace to look embarrassed. “I wanted to help,” she said. “The Seeds were trying to get more press to come. He’s going to write an article.”
Cass bounced Poo a little more. “They’re not really going to damage Will’s crop, are they? He’s still real upset about that. Threatened to call the sheriff again this morning, but I made him hold off.”
“They better not. I warned them.”
Frank had come back out onstage with Melvin. They each were carrying a long pole, connected by a swath of dark brown fabric, which they laid on the ground, then raised and lowered, making waves that rippled across the cloth as though the earth itself were moving. A gentle drumming sound grew, low and insistent, as people filled in the back of the stage, carrying bongos and bells and gourds with beads. Then the drumming stopped and the cloth settled, revealing a small bump in the middle of the fabric. A clear, high bell sounded, and a little boy with matted blond hair came out on the stage, carrying an enormous watering can. He was wearing tattered overalls and a big straw hat, chewing on a long piece of grass. He stood next to Frankie on the edge of the brown fabric, shading his eyes as though surveying a vast acreage.
“He’s adorable!” whispered Cass.
“His name is Bean,” Yummy said. “Makes my kids’ names sound almost normal.”
Lilith stepped onto the stage holding a mike. “It starts with the earth,” she intoned.
The drumming resumed, and Frankie gave Bean a shove. The little boy stumbled forward, then walked over the bump and held the can above it.
“For thousands of years farmers have been cultivating this earth and nurturing their seed.”
Bean leaned down and gave the bump a hard swat on the behind. Frankie and Melvin slowly pulled the slithery fabric back to reveal the bump in a burlap sack.
“Now, imagine you are that seed, tucked deep within the earth. Slowly the sun warms you, tickles you awake—”
The bump started to writhe like a sackful of cats.
“Oh, so tentatively you send out a threadlike root—”
The bump stuck one leg out of the sack, and then another.
“While overhead, your pale shoot slowly pushes up—”
The bump got to its feet and waved an arm overhead, wiggling its fingers.
“Nudging your tendril toward the warmth of the sunny sun sun.”
The drum rhythms started to build. The bump doubled over as though seized by a stomach cramp, then, at the crash of a cymbal, it straightened, and out of the burlap burst Ocean.
She was dressed as a sunflower in a green leotard, a little tutu of leaves, and a big yellow ruff of petals around her neck. Her cheeks and forehead were painted with brown spots. She glided over to Bean, who sat dumbstruck on the edge of the stage, hauled him to his feet, and started swinging his arms up and down and dragging him in a circle.
“We are here this weekend to affirm this sacred dance of life that has sustained us for millennia in harmony with our planet.”
The drums gave a final flourish. Ocean and Bean abruptly stopped circling and stood in the middle of the stage panting and holding hands. After it was all done, Ocean came running over.
“You were great!” Yummy said, giving her a hug. “Such a pretty little bump.”
“I wasn’t a bump. I was a seed.”
“Of course you were,” said Cass. “A seed that turned into a beautiful flower.”
“Yeah?” Ocean’s little flower face was smeared with brown, and her petals were wilting. “They wanted to make me a potato at first, but I said I couldn’t make up as good a dance as a potato.”
“Really?” said Cass.
“I mean, a potato just rolls around on the floor, right? That’s not a sacred dance of life.”
“No,” said Cass. “There’s a limit to potatoes.”
“Yeah,” said Ocean. “They’re okay. But sunflowers are prettier.”
“I don’t know,” Yummy interrupted. “I’m sure you could do very creative and beautiful things with a potato.”
“Mom,” Ocean said, rolling her eyes, “you have no idea.”
“That’s right,” said Cass. “She has no idea.”
By noon the rally was in full swing. There were information tables set up all around the perimeter of the farmyard
where you could learn about worm composting and gene splicing, the secret to effective protest letters and the ethics of patenting life, the latest in biotech research and European boycotts of American GMOs.
There were workshops, too. “A New Niche Market—Unprecedented Profits in Organic Potatoes” had attracted a few of the local farmers’ wives. Others were taking garden tours with Momoko and Lloyd and learning their seed-saving techniques. Charmey was offering “The Art of the Sprout,” a cooking workshop using sprouted seeds. At three there would be a performance of The Tragedy of Cynaco the Evil Cyclops: A Morality Play in Three Acts. In the meantime the painted backdrop of the Cyclops had been turned into a pitching concession—a hardball in his eye won you a tofu crème pie.
Frankie was making seed bombs at the “Guerrilla Gardening” workshop when Geek caught up with him. They were planning to bomb the chemical fertilizer plant just outside of Pocatello at the protest march the next day. Geek watched as Frankie spooned some Showy Larkspur seeds in the middle of his large mud pie.
“He’s here,” Geek said. “Erodes.”
“Who?” Frankie asked, adding some Yellow Monkey-flower seeds. He looked up at Geek’s glum face. “Oh, you mean Yummy’s boyfriend?”
Geek nodded. “I need you to keep an eye on him. I want to know why he’s here.”
“That’s obvious,” Frankie said. “Yummy invited him.”
“She thinks he’s a reporter,” Geek said. “She was just trying to be helpful.”
“Dude,” Frankie said, “she just wants to get laid.”
“Whatever. Just keep an eye out for him. And anybody else acting weird.”
“Can I make one more of these first?” Frankie asked, eyeing the mud bucket and a jar of Rosy Everlasting.
“Sure.” Geek sighed. “Glad to see you’re enjoying gardening.”
Duncan had been right, Elliot thought. He needn’t have come. An event like this did not require his personal attention, and there was no way they were going to get any significant media coverage. But as the morning wore on, he began to reconsider. It was an interesting mix. At first glance all you noticed were the kids, the usual collection of activists and hippies who showed up at any protest, but there were others here, too, a few farmers by the looks of it, local businesspeople, and a large number of just plain folks. Where did they come from? Elliot wondered. Just plain folks didn’t usually attend events like this. It was worth a look around. He had spotted Yummy during the opening performance. He caught her eye over the heads of the crowd and waved, then, remembering that her father might be watching, wished he hadn’t. He smiled. The thought of hiding from someone’s father made him feel ridiculously young, and after all, the chances of the old man’s recognizing him after twenty-five years were pretty slim.
