Have I described the valley yet? It is in the shape of a cupped hand, and filled with trees. Down in the crease of the palm is the river winding to the sea, and the fields of corn and barley and potatoes. The heel of the hand is Basilone Hill, and up there is the Costas’ place, and Addison’s tower, and Rafael’s rambling house and workshop. Across from that, the spiny forested fingers of Tom’s ridge. All of the oldest houses were eccentric, I noticed; I had never thought of it that way before, but it was so. Rafael kept adding rooms to store machinery and things, and they followed the contour of the hillside, so that in time, if you were to try and draw a plan of it, it would look like an X written on top of a W. Doc Costa had made his house of oil drums, as I’ve said, to hold in the heat in the winter and the cool in the summer. Probably he hadn’t counted on the house whistling like a banshee in the least little breeze; he said it didn’t bother him any, but I thought it might be the reason Mando scared so easily. The Nicolins had their big old time house on the beach cliff, and the Eggloffs had their home burrowed back into the hillside where thumb and finger would meet, if you were still thinking of the valley as a cupped hand; they lived like weasels in there, and by the graveyard too, but they claimed to have Doc all beat as far as warmth in the winter and cool in the summer were concerned. And then there was Tom, up on his ridge where he was bound to get frozen by storms and baked by the sun, but did he care? Not him—he wanted to see. So did Addison Shanks, apparently, set up on Basilone Hill in a house built around an old electric tower; but maybe he was there because it was nice and close to San Clemente, where he could conduct his dealings with no one the wiser. The newer houses, now, were all down in the valley next to the fields, convenient to the river, and everybody had helped build them, so that they looked pretty much the same: square boxes, steel struts at the corners, old wood for walls, wood or sheet metal, maybe tiles, for a roof. The same design twice as long and you had the bathhouse.
When I got to the river I sat gingerly. It all looked so familiar and yet so strange. Before my trip south Onofre was just home, a natural place, and the houses, the bridge and the paths, the fields and the latrines, they were all just as much a part of it as the cliffs and the river and the trees. But now I saw it all in a new way. The path. A broad swath of dusty dirt cutting through the weeds, curving here to get around the corner of the Simpsons’ garden, narrowing there where rocks cramped it on both sides.… It went where it did because there had been agreement, when folks first moved to the valley, that this was the best way to the river from the meadows to the south. People’s thinking made that path. I looked at the bridge—rough planks on steel struts, spanning the gap between the stone bases on each bank. People I knew had thought that bridge, and built it. And the same was true of every structure in the valley. I tried to look at the bridge in the old way, as part of things as they were, but it didn’t work. When you’ve changed you can’t go back. Nothing looks the same ever again.
Walking back from the river, arms aching with the weight of the full buckets, I was grabbed roughly from behind.
“Ow!”
“You’re back!” It was Nicolin, teeth bared in a grin. “Where you been hiding?”
“I just got back last night,” I protested.
He took one of my buckets. “Well, tell me about it.”
We walked up the path. “Man, you’re all dinged up!” Steve said. “You’re hobbling!” I nodded and told him about the train ride south, and the Mayor’s dinner. Nicolin squinted as he imagined the Mayor’s island house, but I thought, he’s not getting it right. There was nothing I could do about it by talking, either. When I told him about the trip home, my swim and all, he put his bucket down in Pa’s garden and took me by the shoulders to shake me, laughing at the clouds. “Jumped overboard! And in a storm! Good work, Henry. Good work.”
“Hard work,” I said, rubbing my arm as he danced around the bucket. But I was pleased.
He stopped dancing and pursed his lips. “So these Japanese are landing in Orange County?”
I nodded.
“And the Mayor of San Diego wants us to help put a stop to it?”
“Right again. But Tom doesn’t seem real fond of the idea.”
There were snails on the cabbage, and I stooped to kill them off. Down close I could see the damage pests had done to every head. Miserable cabbage it was, and I sighed, thinking of the salads at the Mayor’s dinner.
“I knew those scavengers were up to no good,” Nicolin said. “But helping the Japanese, that’s despicable. We’ll make them pay for it. And we’ll be the American resistance!” He swung a fist at the sky.
“Part of it, anyway.”
The idea took him into regions of his own, and he wandered the garden insensible to me. I yanked some weeds and inspected the rest of the cabbages. Gave it up as a bad job.
The next morning Steve dropped by to walk with me down to the rivermouth. The men there stopped launching the boats long enough to greet me and ask some questions. When John walked by we all shut up and looked busy until he passed. Eventually we got the boats off, and getting them outside the swell took all our attention. The men were impressed that I’d managed to swim in through such a swell at night, and to tell the truth so was I. In fact I was scared all over again. Far to the south the long curving lines of the swell swept toward the land, crashed over, tumbled whitely to shore. For a display of raw power there was nothing to match it. I was lucky to be alive, damned lucky!
Rafael wanted to hear everything about the Japanese, so all the time we were getting the nets out I talked, and he questioned me, and I had a good time. John rowed by and ordered Steve to get out and do the rod fishing—told me to stay with the nets. Steve got in the dinghy and rowed off south, with a resentful glance over his shoulder at us.
And then it was fishing again. The boats tossed hard in the swell, the spray gleamed in the sun, the green hills bounced. We cast the nets (my arms complaining with every pull or throw), and rowed them into circles and drew them up again heavy with fish. I rowed, pulled on nets, whacked fish, caught my balance on the gunwale, talked, kneaded my arms, and, looking up once at the familiar sight of the valley from the sea, I figured my adventure had ended. Despite all I was sorry about that.
When the fishing was done and the boats on the flat, Steve and I found the whole gang waiting for us on the top of the cliff. Kathryn hugged me and Del and Gabby and Mando slapped my sore back, and oohed and aahed over my cuts and bruises. Kristen and Rebel joined us from the bread ovens, and they all demanded that I tell my story to them. So I sat and began to tell it.
Now this was the third time I’d told the tale in two days, and I had latched on to certain turns of phrase that seemed to tell it best. But it was also the third time that Nicolin had heard it, and I could tell by the tightness in the corner of his mouth, and the way he looked off into the trees, that he was getting tired of it. He recognized all my phrases, and it slowed me down. I found new ways to describe what had happened, but that didn’t make much difference. I found myself passing over events as fast as I could, and Gab and Del jumped in to pepper me with questions about the details. I answered the questions, and I could see that Nicolin was listening, but he kept looking into the trees. Even though I was just telling the facts I began to feel like I was bragging. Kathryn braided her disobedient hair and encouraged me with an exclamation here and there; she saw what was going on, and I caught her giving Steve a hard look. We got back on the subject of San Diego, and I told them about La Jolla, thinking that Nicolin hadn’t yet heard about that part of the trip. I described the ruined school, and the place where they printed books, and sure enough Nicolin’s mouth relaxed and he looked at me.
“… And then after he’d shown us the whole place he gave Tom a couple of books, a blank one to write in, and another one they just printed, called”—I hesitated for effect—“An American Around the World.”
“What’s this?” Steve said. “A book?”
“An American aro
und the world,” Mando said, savoring the words, his eyes fish-round.
I told them what I knew. “This guy sailed to Catalina, and from there he went all the way around the world, back to San Diego.”
“How?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know. That’s what the book tells, and I haven’t read it. We didn’t have time.”
Said Steve, “Why didn’t you tell me about this book before?”
I shrugged.
“Do you think Tom is done reading it yet?” Mando asked.
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He reads fast.”
Nicolin stood up. “Henry, you know I’ve already heard about your swim, so you’ll excuse me if I go pry that book out of the old man’s hands for us.”
“Stephen,” Kathryn said impatiently, but I cut her off, saying, “Sure.”
“I got to read that book. If I get hold of it we can read it together in the morning.”
“By that time you’ll be done with it,” Gabby said.
“Steve,” Kathryn said again, but he was already on his way and he waved her off without looking back.
We all sat there and watched him hurry up to the freeway. I went on with my story, but even though Steve had been putting a crimp in my style, it wasn’t as much fun.
It was near sunset when I finished. Gabby and Del took off. Mando and Kristen followed; at the freeway Mando sidled up to Kristen and took her hand. I raised my eyebrows, and seeing it Kathryn laughed.
“Yeah, something’s going on there.”
“Must have happened while I was gone.”
“Earlier, I think, but they’re bolder now.”
“Anything else happen?”
She shook her head.
“What was Steve like?”
“Oh … not so good. It bothered him, you and Tom being off. Things were tight between him and John. Those two…”
“I know.”
“I was hoping he would calm down when you got back.”
“Maybe he will.”
She shook her head, and I guessed she was right. “Those San Diegans will be coming this way again, right? And that book. I don’t know what will happen when he reads that.” She looked afraid, and it surprised me. I couldn’t remember ever seeing Kathryn look afraid.
“Just a book,” I said weakly.
She shook her head and gave me a sharp look. “He’ll end up wanting to go around the damn world, I know it.”
“I don’t think he could.”
“Wanting is enough as far as I’m concerned.” She sounded so bitter and low that I wanted to ask her what was going on between her and Steve. Surely it was more than the book. But I hesitated. It was none of my business, no matter how well I knew them and no matter how curious I was. “We’d best be home,” she said. Sun slipping under the hills. I followed her to the river path, watching her back and her wild hair. Across the bridge she put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze that hurt me. “I’m glad you didn’t drown out there.”
“Me too.”
She laughed and took off. Once again I wondered what went on between her and Steve—what their talk was like, and all. It was like anything else: I was most curious about the things I couldn’t know. Even if one of them were willing to tell me about it, they couldn’t—there wasn’t the time for it, nor the honesty.
That night Nicolin came by fuming. “He wouldn’t give me the book! Can you believe it? He says come back tomorrow.”
“At least he’s going to let us read it.”
“Well of course! He sure better! I’d punch him if he didn’t and take it away from him! I can’t wait to read it, can you?”
“I want to bad,” I admitted.
“Do you suppose the author went to England? That would tell us more about the east coast; I hope he did.” And we discussed possible routes and travel problems, without a fact to base our speculation on, until Pa kicked us out of the house, saying it was his bedtime. Under the big eucalyptus tree we agreed to go up to Tom’s next day after fishing, and beat the book out of him if we had to; we were fiercely determined to dent our ignorance of the world, and this book seemed likely to do it.
* * *
By the time we got up to Tom’s place the following day, Mando and Kristen and Rebel were already there. “Give it over,” Nicolin said as we burst in the door.
“Ho ho,” Tom said, tilting his head and staring at Steve. “I was thinking I might give it to someone else first.”
“If you do I’ll just have to take it away from them.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Tom drawled, looking around the room. “By rights Hank here should get first crack at it. He saw it first, you know.”
This was touching a sore spot; Nicolin scowled. He was dead serious, but Tom met his black gaze blinking like a lamb.
“Ha,” Tom said. “Well, listen here, Steve Nicolin. I got to go and work the hives for a while. I’ll lend you the book, but since these others want to read it too, you read a chapter or three aloud before you go. In fact, read until I get back, and we’ll talk about our lending agreement then.”
“Deal,” Nicolin said. “Give it over.”
Tom went into his bedroom and reappeared with the book in hand. Nicolin pounced on him and they yelled and pounded each others’ shoulders until Nicolin had it. Tom gathered his beekeeping gear, saying, “You be careful of those pages now,” and “Don’t bend the back too hard,” and the like.
When he was gone Steve sat by the window. “Okay, I’m gonna read. Sit down and be quiet.”
We sat, and he read.
AN AMERICAN AROUND THE WORLD
Being an Account of a Circumnavigation of the Globe in the Years 2030 to 2039, by GLEN BAUM.
I was born in La Jolla, the son of a ruined country, and I grew up in ignorance of the world and its ways; but I knew it was out there, and that I was being kept from it. On the night of my twenty-third birthday I stood on the peak of Mount Soledad and looked out at the ocean’s wide waste. On the horizon to the west faint lights blinked like red stars, clustered together constellationlike on the black lump in the blackness that was San Clemente Island. Under those red pricks of light strode the never seen foreigners whose job it was to guard me from the world, as if my country were a prison. Suddenly I found the situation intolerable, and I resolved then and there, kicking the rocks of the summit into a cairn as a seal of my pledge, that I would escape the constraints put upon me, and wander the globe to see what I would. I would discover what the world was really like; see what changes had occurred since the great devastation of my country; return, and tell my countrymen what I had seen.
After some weeks of thought and preparation I stood on the stub of Scripps pier with my tearful mother and a few friends. The little sloop that had been my father’s bobbed impatiently over the waves. I kissed my mother good-bye, promising to return within four years if it was within my power, and climbed down the pier’s ladder into my craft. It was just after sunset. With some trepidation I cast off and sailed away into the night.
It was a clear night, the Santa Ana wind blowing mildly from my starboard rear quarter, and I made good time northwest. My plan was to sail to Catalina rather than San Clemente Island, for Catalina was rumored to have ten times as many foreigners as San Clemente, and it also had the major airport. In my boat I carried a good thick coat, and a pack filled with bread and my mother’s cheese; nothing else I could obtain in La Jolla would have been any use to me, I reckoned. I crossed the channel in ten hours, on the same reach the entire way.
To the east blues were leaking into blacks by the time I approached the steep side of Catalina Island. Its black hills, ribbed by lighter black ridges, were starred by lights red and white and yellow and blue. I sailed around the southern end of the island, planning to land on a likely looking beach and walk to Avalon. Unfortunately for my plan, the west side of Catalina appeared to be very sheer, beachless rock cliffs, unlike any similar stretch of the San Diego coast; and it was now that time of th
e dawn when everything is distinguishable but the colors of things. Through that gray world I coasted (in the island’s lee the wind was slack) when to my surprise a sail was hauled up on a mast I hadn’t seen before, against the cliff. Immediately I tried to veer back out to sea, but the boat tacked slowly out ahead of me and intercepted my course. I was contemplating steering into the cliff and taking my chances there, when I saw that the only person aboard the other boat was a blackhaired girl. She put her boat on a parallel course after crossing ahead of me, and brought her boat next to mine, staring all the while at me.
“Who are you?” she called.
“A fisherman from Avalon.”
She shook her head. “Who are you?”
After a moment’s indecision I chose boldness and cried, “I come from the mainland, travelling to Avalon and the world!”
She gestured for me to pull down my sail; I did, she did likewise, and our boats came together. Though her skin was white, her features were Oriental. I asked her if there was a beach I could land on. She said there was, but that they were patrolled, like all the island’s shore, by guards who either saw your papers or took you to jail.
I had not foreseen this difficulty, and was at a loss. I watched the water lap between our boats, and then said to the girl, “Will you help me?”
“Yes,” she replied, “And my father will get you papers. Here, get in my boat; we must leave yours behind.”
Reluctantly I clambered over the gunwales, pack in hand. My father’s boat bucked emptily. Before we cast off from it, I took a hatchet from the bottom of the girl’s boat, reached over and knocked a hole in the bottom of mine. Surreptitiously I wiped a tear from my eye as I watched it founder.
When we rounded the southern point and approached Avalon the girl—her name was Hadaka—instructed me to get under the fish in the bottom of her boat. She had been night fishing, and had a collection on her keel that I was unhappy to associate with—eels, squid, sand sharks, rockfish, octopus, all thrown together. But I did as she said. I lay smothering, still as the dead fish over me, as she stopped to be questioned in Japanese at the entrance to Avalon harbor; and I sailed into Avalon with an octopus on my face.
The Wild Shore: Three Californias (Wild Shore Triptych) Page 18
