Kindred

by Stein, Tammar

  “Especially the part about the ten plagues,” a deep voice rumbles to my right.

  I turn to see Hank coming out, mopping his face with an old, faded bandanna and holding his own glass of dark sun-brewed tea.

  “You’re feeding this girl more hippie dogma than folks at a macramé convention.”

  “Can I quote you on that?” I ask with a laugh.

  He doesn’t mind, but Trudy says no.

  With a poorly suppressed groan, he sits down next to Trudy on the musty, worn velvet settee. The porch furniture is a mishmash of outdoor wicker furniture, only slightly peeling and dusty, and several old-fashioned indoor pieces in odd fabrics like purple velvet. It’s what shabby chic looked like before it was chic.

  We chat for a while, the conversation flowing nicely as Hank and Trudy walk me though a typical farm day. It sounds impossibly difficult, but from their easy banter and lighthearted manner, it’s obvious that they love it. As they talk, it becomes clear they both came to agriculture by accident. Neither was a farm-bred kid. The closest Hank ever got to a farm was a fifth-grade trip to a dairy farm.

  Hank had been a college professor for years at a small liberal arts school in Vermont, teaching philosophy and religion. He still teaches an occasional class at the local community college.

  “You know my students go online to find out the weather? ‘It’s gonna rain,’ they tell me when it’s already raining outside.” He’s trying to be funny, but his voice grows agitated, losing some of its calm cadences. “A big part of the reason we’re in the sorry shape we’re in is because most people are so insulated from what happens to growing things when it rains too much, or not at all.”

  Trudy glances over at him and eventually puts her hand over his. As if that’s his cue, he takes a deep breath, then shrugs ruefully.

  “You’ve found my hot spot,” he says to me.

  “I think you’ve scared her off,” Trudy scolds him. “Come on, beautiful, let’s take a break from all this jabbering and give you a quick tour of the place, all right?”

  The farm is not as large as I imagined. For it to produce the amount of crop sold at the market, I’d pictured rolling hills with rows and rows of seedlings, beans, herbs. But instead, they tell me that the farm is only fifteen acres, of which only ten are actively producing crops. Ten acres would be a very large backyard. But it makes for a rather small farm. Though when they explain how much weeding, watering, fertilizing and harvesting there is to do, the farm begins to loom large again.

  Volunteers who want to learn about organic farming come and go. They stay for a couple of months, sleeping on the porch or in tents, eating their meals with Hank and Trudy. I meet two of them. Nearly androgynous, with the same creamy white skin and thick, grimy dreadlocks, they smile peacefully at me, reminding me of statues of the Buddha, though they are thin to the point of gauntness. I try to coax a few quotes from them, but they don’t say anything that will look good on paper.

  Thinking about how I’m going to put everything I’ve learned into a meaningful article helps push away all the serious things I should be thinking about. But always, that niggling kernel of unease, that line of tension and fear running down my spine, is there. And now that I’ve seen my new mission, I’m pulled in twin directions: hope that my chance for redemption is here; fear that once again I’ll fail.

  Trudy and Hank point out various planting tactics they’ve learned that naturally help protect their crops. Marigolds near lettuce, roses near grapes. On the other hand, you can’t plant garlic or onion near strawberry plants, since the fruit will pick up some of the pungency.

  “We heard that deer hate Irish Clean—you know, the soap. We bought cases of the stuff and strung it up all over the lettuce. Middle of the night, I hear something.” Trudy pauses dramatically. “I creep up in the darkness … and find a deer licking the bar between nibbles of the lettuce.”

  I laugh.

  “We ended up giving away soap with that week’s share,” Trudy says.

  After the half-hour tour, we head back to the house. Trudy and Hank urge me to stay for lunch and I do.

  “You’ve lost some weight since you’ve moved here,” Trudy mentions as she sets plates down on the long farmhouse table. The interns will be joining us.

  I shrug. It’s the one silver lining to this stupid thing I’m going through: my weight is sort of fading, just coming off without any intent on my part. It’s kind of nice. Though even I have to admit dropping weight because my insides are liquefying is probably not healthy.

  “You’ve got to take care of your body,” Trudy scolds over her shoulder as she reaches for a serving bowl. “You young kids don’t realize how precious a strong, healthy body is. Take it from me,” she says, placing the bowl on the table and rubbing her lower back. “You miss it when it’s gone.”

  “Yeah,” I say dryly. “I believe you.”

  After lunch, Trudy has to check on the seedlings the interns planted. She gives me a tight hug and kisses my cheek, surprising me. I’ve thought of a couple more questions, so Hank and I chat in their office. As charming and shabby as the rest of the house, the office consists of a large, messy desk, two chairs, some stunningly beautiful landscape paintings—I recognize the view from the house looking out to the fields—and cheap bookcases, their shelves bent under the weight of books.

  Hank tells me a bit more about his plans for the future of the farm, his theories on organic farming. But after a while, I lose my concentration. My stomach suddenly starts cramping. I feel a cold sweat break out as I struggle to contain the waves of pain rolling through my gut.

  “Deliver us from sickness,” Hank says, his deep voice rumbling prophetically through the small, book-lined office.

  “What?” I ask, jolted.

  “It’s the most common graffiti found at ancient holy sites,” he says, removing his pipe from his mouth and frowning at something in the bowl. “Not requests for riches, not personal glory, not sexual boasting. Just health.” I have no idea why he’s drifted to this topic. But since he’s a teacher, I guess he’s used to lecturing. “We tend to discount the preciousness of health—until we lose it, of course. Since we rarely lose it in this day and age, we don’t think much of it. We rely on science, on medicine, to fix what’s broken. But the fact is, even today, in our great modern civilization, so much sickness is inexplicable. Random.” He makes a vague motion with his pipe, like a conductor with a baton. “Unfixable.”

  I shift uncomfortably.

  “So ill health is divine punishment?” I say hesitantly. I don’t even want to articulate this, but something propels me.

  “Ah,” he says, a pleased professor drawing out discussion in class. “Illness in the ancient world was so common, so mysterious. Even as recently as the nineteenth century, most letters begin with the writer assuring the recipient of his good health and expressing his concern about the health of everyone back home. Men in their prime died after a small cut, after contracting a mild cold. Healthy children died within days of coming down with diarrhea. Who else could be powerful enough? The devil or God, take your pick.”

  I shiver at his words, hugging myself almost unconsciously.

  “Horrible,” Trudy says, walking in the office.

  “Yes, sickness and death were very much a part of everyday life. Many believed sickness came from the devil. How else to explain it?”

  Trudy sits on the arm of Hank’s chair and rubs his neck and shoulders.

  “What about God?” I ask. “Couldn’t illness be punishment? Or inflicted because it suits His purpose?”

  “Certainly. The Judeo-Christian God seems perfectly capable of this. There’s Job and his boils. Then, of course, there’s the flip side of it: Jesus curing the lepers.” He frowns at his pipe, then puts it in his mouth and draws deeply, releasing a strong but pleasant scent along with a small puff of smoke. Then he looks back at me, pale blue eyes sharp and steady. “The devil might cause illness, but ultimately it’s all in God’s control, is
n’t it? To mete out sickness or relieve it, it’s His choice.”

  My thoughts flit back to the morning’s encounter with the coffee scammer.

  “How do you get God to help you instead of hurt you?” I ask.

  “Now, there’s a question.” Hank puffs again on the pipe as he ponders what must seem like a nice rhetorical question. “People have been trying to answer that one for as long as there’s been misfortune. Some would say prayer; some religions believe in offerings or sacrifices. There’s always charity, good deeds.” He pulls on his beard. “But I believe things happen for a reason. And if God wants something, even something bad, to happen, there’s nothing little old you can do to change His mind.”

  I look down at my hands.

  “That’s pretty cold,” I finally say.

  “At our church we pray to a benevolent God,” Trudy says, her tone gentle. “And I believe that He is good and kind. But I also think that we can’t know what He has planned for us. It’s often not what we would wish.”

  I appreciate her attempts to ease the sudden dark atmosphere. This whole area of Tennessee is rather obsessed with church attendance. There are more churches than restaurants here, and on Sundays there are massive traffic jams around the megachurches. It seems so fake to me, more of a social event than a spiritual one, but Trudy and Hank seem so calm and grounded. Since farmwork isn’t nearly as lovely and peaceful as it sounds, I’m curious where they find that inner peace.

  “What church do you go to?” I ask, pulling out my reporter’s notebook.

  “First Baptist. It’s a wonderful place; you should come with us on Sunday.”

  “Oh, thank you. But I’m Jewish.…” Sort of, kind of.

  “Ah,” she says. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Have you found a synagogue to go to?” she asks. I could swear that Hank is trying to kick her under the table.

  “No. I’m not … I haven’t been very observant, so I might look for one, but for now …” I trail off, figuring I should stop blabbing. Trudy looks at me with something close to pity, like I’m a lost little puppy and she wishes she could take me home.

  “Judaism is one of the most cerebral religions,” Hank says. He stops fiddling with his pipe and meets my eyes. “It’s always such a pleasure to read a rabbinical Bible interpretation.”

  “I’ve taken enough of your time,” I say. “I know how busy you are.” I rise and shake their hands. “Thanks for lunch; the article should be out in the next couple of weeks.”

  “Come back anytime,” Trudy says kindly.

  I know Mo would laugh at me. But I feel like maybe Hank and Trudy already know what’s going on.

  I head to the newsroom to start putting together my article on Sweetwater Farm. As I’m transcribing quotes and getting down all my impressions, I’m also keeping an eye out for my young hoodlum, the new intern whose name I don’t know yet. The few people around the newsroom just shrug when I ask them about the high schooler. This guy, this bad-tempered, surly loser, is precious and special or he wouldn’t have been singled out. He’s also my mission, and I can’t lose sight of what’s really important this time. I’m not clear what I’m supposed to protect him from, but there’s no freaking way I’m letting him get hurt.

  Frank is out for the day, so I can’t grill him about the new intern.

  Around four-thirty, I see a slouching, shuffling form slink by. I pop up from my chair and hurry after it.

  “Hi!” I call out. But the intern doesn’t turn around. I call out, a little louder, “Hi! You there, hi!” But he keeps on walking. I suddenly catch a glimpse of telltale white wires and earbuds. He’s listening to his iPod. With a final burst of speed, I grab a handful of his oversized hoodie. He spins around, eyes blazing at the touch.

  I quickly release him and step back.

  “Hi,” I say again.

  He just stands there and stares at me, not removing his earbuds.

  “I’m Miriam,” I say, offering my hand. “I work here?”

  With insulting slowness he gives me a limp hand to hold. I can hear the music spilling out of the earbuds, a tinny beat that must be blasting inside his skull. He probably can’t even hear me, only see my lips moving.

  “I just wanted to introduce myself, see if you had any questions?” I wait for him to turn off, or at least turn down, the music. But he just stands there. So I keep talking. “Anything you were really hoping to get to do while you’re here for your internship?”

  He shrugs. I try for a direct question that needs an answer.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jason,” he says. I’m surprised he can actually hear me.

  “Well, hi, Jason. I’m Miriam—well, I guess I already said that. But anyways …” I’m trying way too hard to break through his complete opaqueness and probably coming across like a spaz. “Nice to meet you, Jason. I hope you like it here as much as I do.”

  After another moment of mutual staring, I turn and head back to my desk, kicking myself for the lame introduction and plotting how to better get to know him. Jason is no Tabitha.

  I feel like I’ve been bumped up to level II of difficulty without ever mastering level I. I don’t have a clear mission or even an easy subject to get to know. Not only do I need to figure out what to save him from, I need to break through to him in order to do that.

  After finishing my notes, I put my story on hold for the rest of the day, focusing only on how to appeal to Jason. I’m so clearly not the kind of person he cares for—not cool enough, not tough. I think of Emmett. Emmett is cool. I haven’t seen him since the night after my birthday. I still have his jacket, folded on a chair in my bedroom. I like looking at it, and I haven’t had the nerve to go back to his shop. Maybe it’s time I found the courage.

  I’m full of plans as I leave for the day.

  I wonder if I can tell Jason that God is watching him. That I was charged with turning his life around, with keeping him safe. But something in me is convinced I’m not supposed to do that. I stifle the impulse to tell him about my dream. It’s not like Jason would believe me anyway.

  That night, I’m sick again: bad cramps, chills and a hot ache in my knees and elbows. Is this my punishment, the whip to spur me on?

  “Please,” I say out loud in my darkened room, huddling in my disheveled bed. If there’s anything there watching me, I can’t feel it. “I’m on the case. I’ve met Jason. I am doing my best.”

  But of course there’s no response. No sign that anyone has heard me, or if they did, nothing to show that anyone cares.

  XII.

  FIRST THING IN THE MORNING, I have my appointment with Dr. Messa, the gastroenterologist who agreed to see me the soonest.

  The waiting room is full of old people half slumped over in their chairs. I’m the only one here under fifty. I have to bite my lip to keep from humming the Sesame Street song: One of these things is not like the others. An hour-long wait and I’m prepared for another blow-off. But after the doctor sees me, he’s very concerned.

  “We need to look at what’s going on.”

  Look? I think.

  “I want to schedule you for a scope as soon as possible. On your way out, talk with Megan and she’ll see what we can do.”

  Scope?

  He notices my expression.

  “We’ll do a colonoscopy. Are you familiar with the term?”

  “Aren’t I too young for that?”

  He smiles. “We recommend a routine colonoscopy for everyone over fifty, but that’s for colon cancer screening. In your case, we need to see what’s causing all this distress. We insert a very small camera that can look at your entire colon to give us a better sense of what’s going on in there.”

  My eyes grow round as I picture what he’s saying.

  “But what do you think it could be?” I ask, my voice so small I can barely recognize it. A camera … up there??

  “Frankly, you’re presenting classic sig
ns of irritable bowel disease—that is, Crohn’s—or ulcerative colitis. I won’t know which until your colonoscopy. Since we’ve ruled out a bacterial infection, unfortunately it’s the most likely scenario, given your age.”

  “What does that mean?” I whisper.

  “There are some helpful pamphlets on your way out that you should read. But we really need to see what the scope reveals before we go borrowing trouble. Have you ever had a colonoscopy before?”

  I shake my head mutely. Miserably.

  He softens a bit at my expression.

  “It’s not nearly as terrible as you might think.” He pats my hand. “The most unpleasant part is the prep.”

  “The prep?” I’m only echoing what he says; none of this is sinking in.

  “You have to clear out your colon before I can see anything with the scope. You’ll need to drink a special solution.… I believe it’s been described as a ‘tidal wave,’ ” he says dryly.

  I swallow with difficulty.

  “But you’ll get through that, and then we’ll see what we’re dealing with, okay?” He rises. “Make sure you speak with Megan on your way out.”

  It takes me a few minutes before I gather myself enough to leave the room. I wanted to ask: Are you sure it isn’t stress? I prefer salmonella; can’t we just stick with that? But deep down, I know that there’s more wrong with me, and so I leave the exam room, pick up a pamphlet and schedule my first-ever colonoscopy for next week, about thirty-one years earlier than usually recommended.

  I call Frank and tell him I won’t be coming in that day. He’s not real happy about it and grumbles about needing to pull my own weight. Normally something like that would upset me no end. But today I just say, “Sure, I’ll try harder next week,” and hang up on him.

  As I head up the staircase to my apartment, I think about the colonoscopy. I also think about Jason and what I could possibly do for him. If I do help him, is there any way this mess would fix itself before next week’s procedure? I’m not paying attention to much except my thoughts, and so I nearly trip over a large duffle bag in the hall almost blocking the way to my apartment.