by Yvonne Prinz
Our own little town is buzzing as people weigh in on the issue left and right. One thing I’ve noticed about the people around here is that everyone has an opinion. Small groups gather anywhere it’s air-conditioned on Main Street to discuss the biggest thing that’s happened around here since Skeeter “Dumb-ass” drove his pickup into the front window of the post office (the joke around town was that he thought it was a drive-through). Some people are speculating that the insurance company will settle quickly before this becomes the social justice event of the century and they end up looking like the bad guys. Other people are saying that it’ll be a cool day in hell before an illegal wins a lawsuit against a citizen. The bad guy in this story keeps changing, depending on who you ask.
Tomás is fragile. He moves around the farm gingerly. His half-closed eye makes him look unbearably sad and I wish I could hug him and kick my dad in the knee at the same time. It’s been decided that when Tomás is feeling better, he’ll leave the farm and go to Reynaldo’s vineyards to work there for a while until things in this county blow over. My dad is obviously willing to endure a lot of “I told you so” from Reynaldo to keep Tomás safe. Steve is on the fence, but he says that things have come too far to turn back. Miguel is quiet.
That afternoon, shortly after lunch, a gray haze settles over the sky. The sun shines vaguely through the cloud cover. I don’t give it much thought—we never get rain like this—but as I’m gathering up bunches of washed radishes and tying them with twist ties, I feel a big fat drop on my scalp and then several more plop onto my bare arms and my face. I look up at the sky as the rain turns from drops to sheets and becomes a full-on shower, soaking through my Indian cotton dress and turning the dusty yard to mud. Rufus looks up too, confused. Rain like this can only be thought of in biblical terms. Locusts and a drought can’t be far behind. I look around at Steve, Miguel, my dad, Tomás, scattered about the farm. They’re all standing there, looking up. My dad has his arms spread wide. I know him; he’ll consider this a sign. I dash into the house and grab my camera. This is not something I want to forget.
It rains like that for hours, washing everything clean. No one takes shelter. We must look like a farm family in a Kansas dust bowl at the end of a drought season. After days and days of unbearable heat, the rain is such a joyful and unexpected thing that everyone wants to experience it firsthand. I inhale the rich wet-earth scent, hoping to benefit from this miracle somehow. Coffee-colored puddles gather in the tractor tire ruts, and the chickens make a ruckus like they think the sky is falling.
I wish that Forest were here with me. I know that he would feel the same way about the rain as I do. I know that he would see the joy in it. He’d probably laugh as the rain splashed off his upturned face.
In the early evening, the clouds move off in giant, tumbling cotton balls and the blue sky reappears. The air is thick with humidity. It’s Steve’s turn to cook and he makes vegetarian lasagna with our summer squash and tomatoes and eggplant. While Steve cooks, Miguel and my dad load up the truck for tomorrow’s market and restaurant deliveries. Tomás can’t lift anything right now but he still insists on working.
We gather around the dinner table, our strange little family. This is Tomás’s last dinner with us for a while but none of us seems to want to mention it. We speak quietly in Spanish and English, passing salad, bread, wine, and water. Ali Farka Toure plays African blues on the stereo in the living room. Rufus lies on Tomás’s feet as though he knows what’s coming and doesn’t like it at all. He still smells like wet dog.
After dinner I do the dishes, and the kitchen empties out. My dad has a meeting with his sustainable farming group and Steve goes to meet a friend for a guitar jam session. Miguel and Tomás go to the bunkhouse. As soon as I see my dad’s taillights on the driveway I dial Forest’s cell phone. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hi.”
“Did you see the rain?” I ask.
“I saw it. I was at the library and I had to get out there and walk in it.”
“I knew you would.”
“It was crazy, wasn’t it?”
“It was beautiful. I got soaked.”
“Me too. How come you can call?”
“My dad’s at a meeting.”
“For how long?”
“A couple of hours, tops.”
“Can you come out?”
“Maybe. For a little while.”
“Can I come over there? I want to say good-bye to Tomás.”
“He’s coming back, you know.”
“I know.”
“Okay. Come right now.”
Forest arrives twelve minutes later. I send him out to the bunkhouse on his own. He’s been practicing his Spanish for occasions like this.
I watch from the porch swing. He knocks on the bunkhouse door and Miguel opens it. They shake hands and Forest stands there with his hands on his hips, looking awkward. Tomás appears and they do that thing that people do when they don’t speak the same language. They each say a few words and nod a lot. Forest surprises Tomás by hugging him. Tomás hesitates. Mexican men don’t hug each other much. He halfheartedly hugs back.
Forest and I chase each other through the tall, fragrant grass to the cathedral of trees. Inside it feels cool. The sun has already disappeared behind the trees. We sit on the damp ground in our spot in the middle, cross-legged, facing each other, and catch our breath. The damp is seeping through our clothes. He takes my hands in his and I watch his face change to shadows as dusk approaches. In a few moments, when darkness closes in on us, I lean forward and kiss him. His tongue touches my lips and my front teeth. I touch his tongue with mine and taste licorice. He pulls me onto his lap and I drape my arm around his narrow shoulders. He kisses me deeper and longer than he ever has before. I close my eyes and let it happen. When I open my eyes, I watch his white fingers trace the side of my sun-browned thigh up to my hip bone and farther. I marvel at the contrast of our skin colors and a delicious chill runs up my spine. I lose myself in Forest and give up all control over what happens next until I remember where we are. I grab Forest’s wrist from under my T-shirt and look at his watch.
“Oh my God! It’s late. We have to get back.”
“Five more minutes,” he whispers.
“No. We have to go. Your car’s in the driveway.”
“Three minutes . . . please.”
I untangle myself and get up, pulling Forest to his feet. I wish we could stay here all night together. Maybe I could brave this place on the graveyard shift, maybe not. I’m already hearing some strange rustlings in the trees. Besides, if the vampires don’t kill us my dad surely will. Plus, I have to admit that I’m a little bit afraid of where this thing with Forest is heading. I’ve envisioned it and dreamed it and longed for it. Most importantly, I’ve wanted it to happen with Forest. There’s no question about that, but it’s like there’s an invisible line I can’t quite cross over until I feel like it’s really right. Sometimes I wish my mom were around to talk to about these things. She was always very frank and open about sex. We never had cute little names for parts of the body. A vagina was a vagina and a penis was a penis. When I was seven I asked her where babies come from. She sat me right down and told me everything in graphic detail as though I’d asked her to explain how a combustion engine works. I was more prepared for my period than any girl in my grade but I was the last to get it, and when it finally arrived my mom wasn’t around anymore.
Forest and I have a hard time finding the path through the tall grass in the darkness until our eyes adjust. The cool grass whips at our skin as we dash toward the lights of the farm like scared children, all thoughts of romance cast aside for now. Forest kisses me good-bye next to his car and takes off down the road. My dad’s pickup turns into the drive moments later.
The next morning my dad drives into the city for the market. He’ll stop in Berkeley to pick up Jane on the way. She’s going to work the market in Steve’s place. Steve and I will take Tomás the next county over
to Reynaldo’s place. None of us is making a big deal about it because we all want to believe that it’s temporary. I sit in the back of Steve’s lumbering Jeep with Tomás’s small duffel next to me on the seat. Tomás is quiet in the passenger seat as we cross over from farm country to wine country. The red grapes are dusky and heavy on the vine and the green grapes look plump and ripe. The grapes in this valley are too valuable to be machine-picked. They’re all picked by humans, which is why it’s so important that the vineyard workers keep coming back every year. They keep this business alive. There’s a lot of money to be made picking grapes too. The vineyard workers make more than farmworkers. In a two-month grape harvest, on the right crew, grape pickers can clear up to seven thousand dollars. That’s enough to buy a small piece of land in Mexico, and maybe some chickens and a few goats. People who visit the Napa Valley never see these workers. They’re invisible.
We turn off the main highway and travel down a dirt road to one of Reynaldo’s vineyards. As we pull into the yard we see Reynaldo at the controls of a tractor as it lifts a giant plastic container filled with grapes and dumps it into the bed of a huge truck. He’s wearing a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a trucker’s cap. He waves when he sees us and shuts down the tractor. Tomás gets out of the Jeep slowly and we walk over to Reynaldo. The yard is busy with forklifts and workers coming and going. The smell is familiar to me: fermented grapes and oak. Reynaldo kisses my cheek and hugs me with his beefy brown arms and then he shakes hands with Steve and Tomás, speaking Spanish in a serious tone. I can see Tomás relaxing. Reynaldo has a way of putting people at ease. I’m happy that Tomás will at least be here with Reynaldo, where we can check in on him. Whatever Reynaldo thinks of the situation, he’ll put it aside and do the right thing for someone who came from the same place and probably the same conditions as he did.
Steve and I say our good-byes to Tomás, who looks to me like a child being abandoned on the first day of school by his mother. We get back into the Jeep and Reynaldo puts a case of wine in the back. We head back to the main road and stop for cold drinks at an overpriced little boutique grocery store meant for tourists. While Steve gets the drinks, I wander over to the newspaper stand. The headline of the Wine Country Observer catches my eye:
DIABLO COUNTY MIGRANT FARMWORKER SUES DEVELOPMENT RESIDENT FOR WRONGFUL DEATH
Steve comes out the door of the grocery with a soda in each hand. I show him the paper. He sighs.
“Reynaldo already knows about that. He’s giving Tomás a new name while he’s here and a good backstory. Don’t worry, he’ll be okay. No one’s expecting him to be out here.”
I must not look convinced because Steve lifts up my ponytail and puts the cold soda against the back of my neck.
“Hey!”
“That’s the spirit. Now get in the Jeep. You’re driving home.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Steve’s Jeep isn’t exactly a high-performance vehicle. I push in the clutch with my left foot and wiggle the gearshift around, looking for reverse. I move my right foot from the brake to the gas and press down. The Jeep shoots forward and a couple of tourists run for their lives.
“Little farther left. Try again,” says Steve, not the slightest bit alarmed.
I yank the gearshift over and toward me and try the gas again. This time we move backward. I ease out of our parking spot and then start over, looking for first gear now. I find it and we move toward the exit. I’m sweating profusely.
“Good job,” says Steve, popping almonds into his mouth.
I ease onto the road, looking both ways first. The Jeep sounds like a Sherman tank in first so I push in the clutch and find second gear. Now we’re lurching along at about twenty miles an hour. Cars are passing me impatiently.
“Pick up the pace, Grandma, we’ll be late for church.”
“Shut up.”
I find third easily and speed up to about forty-five miles an hour. I start to relax. I look over at Steve and grin.
“How am I doing?”
“Fantastic.”
“I’m driving in wine country!”
“Yup. Okay, now pass this loser. Check your mirror, shoulder check, and then the mirror again. One, two, three, and then signal and make your move.”
I do it just like he says and I pass my first car ever. I’m drunk with power. Steve starts digging around on the floor.
“Steve?” I need him up here with me.
“Relax, you’re cool.” He waves a CD. “Got it, Taj Mahal.” He slides it into the player. Good driving music, very relaxing. I look around at the passing vineyards. The view from the driver’s side is entirely different. You see the world through your own hands on the wheel. I love the way driving makes me feel. It’s like you’re in control but you’re also a little out of control.
Steve puts his feet up on the dash and taps his foot to the music. “Okay, Roar, remember road rule number one?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Drive defensively, and by defensively I mean assume everyone else on the road is an idiot.”
“Good girl.”
The wind pulls at my hair as I steer the Jeep down the road toward home.
Chapter 17
His name’s Marty and he works at Blockbuster,” says Storm, describing her latest boyfriend.
“Do you get free video rentals?”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “Plus all the Milk Duds I can eat.” She stirs her coffee slowly.
“So, why so glum, chum?”
“I sort of miss Doo-wayne.”
“Doo-wayne lives in a trailer park in Stockton with his girlfriend and their baby. Do you really want that for yourself?”
“No, of course not. He had a lot of energy, though; I liked that.”
“What about Marty? Marty sounds nice.”
“Marty just got out of rehab and he’s a little . . . fragile.”
“Like how?”
“Well, like he’s sort of sad all the time and there’s a whole long list of things I’m not allowed to talk about and places we’re not allowed to go, including bars, of course.”
“Storm, you’re sixteen. You’re not supposed to be in bars anyway.”
“I like bars. I like the fancy drinks. Yesterday Marty and I went for Slurpees.”
“Flavor?”
“Cream soda. Then we started making out in the back of his sad Volvo and he started crying.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that you don’t have to date anyone for a while, that you could take a break from guys?”
“No.”
“Well, it might actually do you some good. You could read a book or get a hobby.”
“I have a hobby. It’s men. And who am I supposed to hang out with during this ‘break’”—she uses finger quotes—“you and Forest? That would be great. I could watch the two of you almost have sex over and over again. How fun for me.”
“Okay, never mind. Have your parents met Marty?”
“Yes. He told them all about rehab. That’s another thing. He tells everyone about rehab. It’s some sort of bizarre coming-clean crap that they teach you on the inside. Do you think that the guy at the mini-mart cares that you just got out of rehab?”
“So, did your parents like him?”
Storm rolls her eyes. “My mom asked him if she could include him in her prayers.”
“What’d he say?”
“Yes. And that’s revolting.”
Millie’s not working today but a sweet-looking girl with limp blond hair, who I recognize from our school, takes our order. She seems afraid of Storm. Storm has a not-so-subtle way of letting you know how she feels about you. It’s been known to wither even the toughest of girls.
“I’ll have a burger, and could you tell Juan that it’s for me? He grills it just the way I like it.” She barely looks at the girl.
The girl nods, scribbling on her pad furiously.
I’m extra friendly to try to make u
p for Storm. “I’ll have a grilled cheese with sliced tomatoes.” I smile at her reassuringly. “That’s a cute watch.” I point to her Hello Kitty wristwatch.
“Thanks.” The girl blushes and disappears with our unopened menus.
Storm looks at me, bemused. “‘Cute watch?’ What, are you running for mayor?”
I ignore her.
“So, how are things on the farm? You people have the whole town talking, I’m sure you know that.” She picks up a knife and uses it as a mirror to examine her lips.
“Yes, of course I know that.”
She puts down the knife. “Man, your dad’s really kicked up some crap around here. Did you know that they’re calling him a communist?”
“That’s ridiculous. Who’s calling him that?”
She points out the window, indicating everyone in town. “Them, but they’re idiots. I told them your dad’s a socialist. Anyone can see that.”
“You’re telling people that? What makes you think he’s a socialist?”
She holds up a fist. “You know, power to the people, and all that crap.”
“I think you mean activist.”
“Whatever. By the way, Brody Burk has officially blown a gasket over all this. He organized a meeting.”
“A meeting? With who?”
“I dunno, Klansmen probably.”
“You’re joking, right?”
She shrugs.
“What was the meeting about?”
“I forget what he called it, something about patriotism and the American way and all that bullshit. Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it was just a bunch of good old boys, drinking too much and blowing off steam.”
I don’t even want to think about what Brody does to “blow off steam.”
“Oh, okay, and if I wake up to a burning cross on my lawn, I’ll know who to point a finger at.”
“Well, if I were you I would just put it out with a garden hose. Pointing a finger at Brody never did anyone around here much good.” She looks suddenly bored and moves on. “Hey, did I tell you about the Manolo Blahniks I scored on eBay?”
