Dad exhaled slowly and ran a napkin over his glossy, sweat-covered forehead. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. As a kid, I had known him to say some pretty harsh things about the unemployed, but he never carried it to such an extreme until now. I kept waiting for him to burst out laughing, or to notice the stunned look on my face and admit that he had been exaggerating. When no admission came, I cleared my throat and tried to find my own words.
I said, “If I understand you correctly, you’re saying that a huge catastrophe like a plague, or the disbandment of an entire country, is actually beneficial because it weeds out the undesirable parts of the population and leaves behind the strong and innovative people. But that can’t really be what you’re saying.”
Dad huffed irritably like a much older man. The meal before him had barely been touched, but still he folded his napkin over and tossed it onto the plate. He stuck his finger in my face and said, “You weren’t there. You don’t know what it was like then.”
“Right. I wonder how many fathers have said that to their sons throughout history.”
“Keep talking, smartass. You only reveal your own ignorance. You’ve been spoiled by the Republic, the same as the rest of your generation. But you’d sing a different tune if you saw what San Francisco was like in the old days, if you could smell the hot stink of open sewer rising up from the gutters of China Town and Hyde Street. All you’ve ever known are clean streets and productive people, computer programmers sipping espressos in wicker chairs on Market Street. But what would you do if suddenly there was a bum on every corner? How would you react if you couldn’t walk home from school without being mobbed by panhandlers, without smelling the piss and diarrhea on their clothes and the stench of their blackened feet? That’s what the city was before disbandment. Bums, addicts, hippies, whores. They practically ran the place before the government changed and the police drove them out. The productive members of society, the business class, they’re the ones who saved the city—and the entire country, too, for that matter—when the US fell apart. You look at the rest of the former American states and see how they’re doing now. The Plains are in chaos. The South has a GDP lower than Uganda. You believe it was lack of faith that brought them to it? I don’t think so. If you can’t see the connection between the success of ambitious men and the success of the whole, then you’re blind, pure and simple. Or perhaps you think we should have done the Christian thing and built the bums an ark.”
“Do you even believe in God, Dad? I’d really like to know.”
“Of course I do. In my own way.” He licked the corners of his mustache and seemed to zone out for a couple seconds. From across the room, I saw Kylee pass through the main dining room and into the kitchen without so much as glancing in our direction. “I believe He’s necessary as a source of hope in most people’s lives. I know I wouldn’t want to live in a socialist country where people look to the government for answers instead.”
“I’ve never heard you talk about Him. Before the divorce, or after, I don’t remember you saying one word about God or religion.”
“Rest assured, I have my own ideas about a higher power. It hasn’t always been a smooth relationship between us, though. When I was a younger man, I faced some difficult times that led me to seek the truth in His word. The Old Testament, especially, provided me with a great deal of clarity about what it means to be a man and to live in this world. But it seemed like every time I came close to getting serious about my faith, He’d send a message that would make me question the whole thing.”
“I don’t know what that means, send a message.”
“Well, for example, when I was twenty-six, maybe a little older, a friend of mine talked me into accompanying him to a late night service at a megachurch up near Folsom. Everyone was worried about the state of the world then, and new congregations were springing up all across California. We get into the church, which is packed corner to corner with something like two thousand people, and the minister gets up and starts sermonizing all about redemption and salvation and so forth. But what really struck me was that he wasn’t the typical kind of minister you would expect to find in that part of the country. He was well-dressed and well-spoken, and he seemed to have had something like a real education, not like some of these hick preachers who have only read the Bible and elementary school readers in the entire course of their lives. And the stuff he talked about, I swear, it sent a chill down my spine. Here was a minister I had never seen before, and it was like he was preaching directly to me. He didn’t just talk about spiritual matters, but about wealth and property as well. He went on for I don’t know how long about how God rewards the faithful with money and success in this life, not just paradise in the other. That was the whole theme of his sermon, more or less, and I got to say it really hit a nerve with me then. There I was, a young man trying to make a name for himself, and it was like the minister knew in advance that I was coming and designed the sermon for me in particular. I tell you, it was an earth-shaking experience for me, to say the least. I didn’t think I’d ever be the same again. In fact, halfway through the service, I turned to my friend and said, from this day on, I’m turning my life around. I even had tears in my eyes if you could believe it.”
“Okay. So what happened?”
I heard an abrasive tone in my voice that Dad must have picked up on as well. He had been in a much better mood since he started reminiscing about the sermon, but now he narrowed his eyes and adopted the same accusatory grimace as before.
He said, “I was feeling lighter than air when I came out of the church into the parking lot. I felt so good, in fact, I wasn’t paying attention to what was in front of me. There was a flat piece of wood, like a broken two-by-four, just lying on the ground in the middle of the lot. It had a long nail sticking out the end of it, and of all the people who were coming outside at that moment, I was the one who just happened to step on it.” Dad reached for his glass again, forgetting that it was empty. He stared longingly into the cold cylinder, then slammed it down hard on the table. “The nail went all the way through my foot and I collapsed on the ground from the shock of the pain. My friend helped me up and drove me to the hospital, but first I just sat there on the asphalt with the nail sticking out the top of my shoe, sensing that this too was a message intended specifically for me. I looked up at the night sky and said, ‘Really? This is what I get? This is all the love you have to show me after I decided to give my life to you?’ My friend tried to get me to go with him to church again after that, but I’d been put off by the whole experience. I know they say God works in mysterious ways, but there’s a fine line between mystery and callousness.”
My mouth opened slowly as I tried to comprehend the logic of Dad’s testimonial. “If you really believe God was out to get you that night, why do you still believe in him? Why bother?”
Dad shrugged. “He’s our Father in heaven. He deserves our respect.”
At last Kylee emerged from the kitchen and came over to see how we were doing. Without a word, Dad and I both held out our glasses to signal for another round.
I booked a room for six nights at the Blossom Road Motel in Tulare. I told the manager I would make it day-to-day if I wound up needing to stay any longer. After the eighth night, he leaned his pockmarked and sallow face over the counter and asked if I wanted him to look into more permanent arrangements in the area. I told him, “Don’t bother. I’m only staying around here as long as I have to. So this will do just fine.” Which isn’t to say the Blossom Road was equal in comfort and amenities to the Caravan or other establishments of that sort. Not even close, really. (The US-era linens were so yellow-brown with wear that a coffee stain would barely stand out against the bed sheets, and the shower, so called, was something better suited for hosing down pigs at a livestock auction than for cleaning a human body.) Still, I wanted to keep a low profile this time through. Klyee could always be trusted to keep her mouth shut when it mattered, and to come straight away when I called. She
didn’t take our professional relationship for granted; there was history there, and besides, any night she was with me she could count on making far more than she ever would from tips alone. She had grown fatter and more morose over the years, but I still paid her a decent rate every time. In general, women could be got and gotten rid of fairly cheaply in the valley, but one you could trust was an investment worth holding on to.
She turned to me once with the morning light streaming through the curtains and said, “How many more nights you gonna want me for? I need to let the shift manager know when I’m coming back to work.” She lay on her side with the blanket stuffed between her thighs, her skin bright and doughy from the heat of the room. She had a large tattoo stretched across the back of her shoulder. Supposedly it meant “hope” in Chinese, but considering the sort of life she led, she would have been better off with any random character copied from a takeout menu.
I said, “My guy’s going to be here soon with the information I’ve been waiting for. You should leave before he gets here. I’ll call later in the week if I’m still around.”
“You gonna be all right on drinks till then?”
“I don’t know. How many jars do we have left?”
She rolled onto her opposite side and peered over the side of the bed, at the small washtub loaded with chilled Mason jars and clouded ice cubes from the machine next door. Trails of sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She raised her head and said, “Three and a half. Maybe three an a quarter.”
“What day is today?”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“Plan on coming back Friday. Same number of jars as last time. I’ll call if there’s a change of plans. In the meantime, pass me the one that’s already open.”
Ice water ran off the sides of the jar and dribbled onto the sheets and blanket. As clear as the liquor was, I could see tiny particles of dirt and vegetation floating on the surface as I raised the jar to my lips. “Christ that’s harsh,” I said, then took another long drink and screwed the lid back on. The potato vodka these farm boys brewed was practically lighter fluid, and still I was going through a jar of the stuff a day. After a bad night I would wake up with spasms in my liver seeing all sorts of colorless fireworks exploding across the fluid of my eyes.
“I didn’t say get dressed.”
Kylee held her wrinkled blouse by the sleeve with half of it still balled up on the floor. “What about breakfast?”
“You can eat afterwards. I’m not finished yet.”
“But I’m hungry. My stomach hurts.”
“Here. Drink some of this.”
“I don’t like the taste.”
“No one does. That’s not why we drink it.”
She sucked a few drops of vodka through her pierced lips and gagged almost instantly.
“That’s a girl. Now one more for the road.”
She dug her knees into the mattress and rested her huge stomach on one of the pillows. When we were done she cleaned herself with a bath towel and reassembled her work outfit from the disheveled pieces strewn across the floor. She looked like a refugee, a victim of a far and unfeeling war.
“You still owe me for two nights. I’d rather get it now if it’s all the same.”
“How much does that come to?”
“Two nights. Same rate as always.”
“Right. And is that more or less than what my old man used to pay?”
She stopped buttoning her blouse and looked back over her shoulder at me. “You always ask about that.”
“Yeah. Because you never want to tell me.”
“Yeah. So stop asking.”
“What if I were to pay extra? Would you let me in on the secret then?”
“I would not.”
“How come?”
“Because. That’d be the last money I’d ever see from you.”
I smiled. “That’s why you’re one of the smart ones.”
One of the smart ones. That was the truth. Not that it ever did her much good, poor fat creature. I paid her the going rate plus cab fare back to Porterville. With any luck she’d be able to placate her pimp and still have money left over to bribe the manager for the shifts she missed. Then again, she was smart, not lucky.
After she left I showered and changed into a clean pair of underwear. I had planned on finishing getting dressed, but first I sat down on the bed and had a few more drinks from the vodka jar. I don’t know when I nodded off, or how long I slept, but when I opened my eyes again Ramirez was standing over me with an amused look on his face.
He said, “Sorry to disturb you. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in.”
I moved the blanket off my chest and looked around the room until my head stopped spinning. I said, “I was expecting you earlier this morning. What happened?”
Ramirez took off his Stetson hat and sat down in the easy chair in the corner of the room. Besides my father, he was the best dressed man I had ever seen in these parts, though he kept to a Southwestern style that Dad would have found unacceptably gauche: corduroy jackets, Stetson hats and boots, sterling silver bolo ties. He crossed one leg over the other and rested a manila folder on the side of his calf.
He said, “Something told me you wouldn’t be ready for me until later in the day.”
I took the vodka jar off the nightstand and choked down a heavy swig. It was almost room temperature by then, and practically cauterized my throat on the way down. “I’ve been ready the past two days. I’m not shacking up in this place for my health.”
“I can see that.”
“Cut the crap. Just tell me what you found.”
He turned over the top page of the folder and leafed through the loose pages inside. “There are five women all together. Claudia, Dawn, Jennifer, Katherine, and Sandra. They have twelve children between them, ages two to nineteen. Jennifer’s parents live with her and Katherine’s family in the second house, although I use the term ‘live’ very loosely in their case. Beyond that, they have the usual crew of foremen and hired laborers, most of whom have only just arrived for the start of the season.”
“Twelve children. Jesus.”
“That’s right. And they’re all your father’s as far as I can tell.”
“As far as you can tell? What does that mean?”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly get a hold of any DNA samples, of course, but the birth records all match up with the dates on the marriage certificates you gave me. So it’s a pretty good guess they’re kin to you.”
“You’ve been through the county records?”
“You asked for thorough, and so thorough is what I gave. County, state, and federal records all the way back through the American era. I even managed to dig up Sandra’s father’s old military records. Fascinating stuff.”
“Great. But aside from the scrapbook material, what else did you find out?”
“You want a particular answer, you’re going to have to be more specific.”
“What do I need to look out for? And more importantly, who?”
Ramirez took a water glass off the end table and spat a stream of runny brown saliva into it. Until that moment I hadn’t noticed the wad of dip packed into the lower recesses of his gums.
I said, “Seriously? You’re going to make me stare at your disgusting tobacco juice for the rest of this conversation?”
He smiled and nodded his head gently. “I could smell the stink of sex in here from the parking lot. So let’s not quibble over who’s making who endure what.”
“Just tell me if there’s anyone I should keep a lookout for. Any boyfriends or close relations. Anyone who could pose a problem.”
“Jennifer has a foreman who came with her from their previous parcel. Seems to be some loyalty there, though she’s still got him living in shared quarters at the state labor camp.”
“I’m not worried about a foreman. I’m talking about people who can’t be bought off. There must be someone you’re overlooking.”
As quick as it came, his s
mile disappeared. Apparently I had offended his pride by questioning his vaunted thoroughness. He said, “Well, Mr. Temple, keep in mind, I was only able to observe the goings-on of the farm for a limited time. But from what I can gather, you don’t have anything to worry about when it comes to unexpected wildcards. These wives of your father, or should I say widows, are about as solitary as any subjects I’ve ever investigated. They receive next to no visitors, they have no relatives for you to worry about, and the children don’t even seem to have any close friends in the community. All told, you’re looking at a flock of sitting ducks ready for an ambush.”
“Five women without a single person looking out for them. How is that possible?”
Ramirez rolled the base of his spit cup back and forth over his kneecap. As with the dip, I think he knew it irked me to hear my carefully laid plans described as an “ambush,” but he kept doing it for the same reason middle school boys will keep teasing a classmate long after it’s ceased to be funny. Behind all his affected manners and speech, there was a child’s heart longing for the chance to mess with somebody, to kick dirt onto their polished shoes, if only to prove they never deserved to be taken seriously. He said, “It would seem your father had a taste for vulnerable young women with no real support system to speak of. It makes sense, really. Without anyone else to look out for their interests, these women were at his mercy to provide for them. That would have made them far more pliant in the long run.”
“It just seems too good to be true. You’d think at least one of them would have a brother or uncle around to complicate things for me.”
“Again, you need to consider the possibility that their rootlessness was one of the qualities that drew Elliot Sr. to them in the first place. You look through these background profiles and a distinct pattern emerges. Tragedy followed by poverty followed by isolation. One of these girls was hookin’ it before your father came along. Another was a borderline junkie. Another was on SSRIs for chronic depression. Of course none of this is terribly uncommon with that generation, the ones who came of age around the time of disbandment. But it is significant that your father, a man who, by your own accounts, was something of an elitist in his own right, should decide to marry these women who he all but took in off the street.”
Lord of California Page 12
