The Fortunes of Indigo Skye

by Deb Caletti

  “Where are we headed?” I ask.

  “I live over by the hatchery. Just a few blocks from Carerra’s.”

  I shift into first, no problem, but punch a fistful of foam going into second and fourth.

  “See that house? The little white one? Red trim?”

  “It’s so cute, Leroy.” It’s a tiny house sitting by itself, set on a large plot of land at the end of a curved street. Tucked way back in a group of dark, shady trees. There’s a crate on his porch, recently delivered.

  “Home sweet home,” Leroy says.

  “Man, what’s in the backyard?” The yard is taken up, it seems, with some enormous box of plastic. “It looks like a greenhouse,” I say. But, a greenhouse?

  “Thanks for the ride, Indigo. Man, I sure appreciate it. That little shit at work…”

  “Leroy, what’s that for? What are you growing back there?”

  “I hear the accusation in your voice. Get me out of here, I’m wedged in.”

  I sigh. I cut the engine and come around to his side. I offer my wrists, and he holds them tight as I pull him upright. “I’m not accusing. I’m just trying to understand, is all.”

  “You think it’s pot. Well, it’s not exactly hidden, is it?”

  “I’m guessing if that was full of pot, you wouldn’t need a second job,” I say.

  “No one knows about this at Carrera’s, or anywhere else. Even my mailman’s not sure what’s in there. I’ve seen him snooping around.”

  “Why the big secret?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I guess I think people might make fun. And it’s not a joke to me.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Don’t laugh, okay? I’ll show you, but you gotta promise not to laugh. It’s something I care a great deal about. This is where my extra money goes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stay put. Let me change a sec. I’d invite you in, but the place is a mess.”

  “No problem.”

  Leroy waddles to his front porch, fishes around a hanging flower basket for a key that must be hidden there.

  “Can I help you get that?” The burrito looks tippy as Leroy’s arm reaches up.

  “No, I got it.”

  He disappears inside, and is out in a moment, wearing shorts and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, tattoos freed once again. “God, it’s good to be out of that thing. Follow me. So, you’re maybe the second or third person I’ve ever shown this to.”

  “I’m honored,” I say, though I don’t really know if that’s true yet. I have no idea what to expect. I follow Leroy through the greenhouse door. I suck in my breath. I realize it’s true—I am honored. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “Leroy. Wow.”

  The greenhouse is full of bonsai. Bonsai—rows and rows of all different and perfectly shaped trees. Little trees, little mossy patches of green lawn and miniature houses and itty-bitty fishermen. Bigger trees, in huge, ancient pots. Groomed and formed into serene shapes, peaceful, quiet forms.

  “It’s a hospital. They’re sick. Some of them are hundreds of years old. I’ve got a little reputation on the Web, you know, for being able to cure them. So people send them…”

  “This is amazing.” And I mean it. It is amazing. There are so many of them. Each and every one is different. I walk down one aisle. They are little worlds unto themselves. A tiny tree growing on a rock, a larger one in a garden of pebbles.

  “It costs a fortune. The climate controls, the shipping. See that one there? The bits of yellow leaves? It’s a juniper bonsai. Maybe eighty-five years old. I’m guessing it was exposed to a poison in the air, maybe a weed killer. That azalea?” He points to a medium-size tree with tiny oval leaves. “It’s recovering from chlorosis, it’s a mineral deficiency. I keep any plants infected with vine weevils or other insects isolated. The vine weevil will kill the root system. You have to repot, remove the devils by hand.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “The problem comes if I get them too late. Their system gets too fucked up and the damage is beyond repair. Mostly, people mess it up. Too much water. Not enough water. But I can save them, usually. When the plant is a hundred years old, you know, you do what you can.”

  “Leroy. This is a whole other world here.”

  “I know.” He looks out over the land of tiny trees and smiles. “It’s a hell of a lot of work. People think I’m out partying, and I’m here, clipping the mold off leaves.”

  “Can’t you charge the people who send them?”

  “Oh, I do. But still, some just leave them. They get forgotten, like some kid in an orphanage. I want to start a business, selling them. I save plants, get them to good homes. Let the cycle take care of itself. But you’ve got all these fucking start-up costs…”

  “But Leroy, why are you embarrassed? Why doesn’t anyone know this about you?”

  “I get so much shit for my tattoos. I don’t have an endless capacity for that, you know? People wouldn’t get why I take a second job to take care of these guys. I deal enough with people’s expectations. It’s not what anyone expects of me. You don’t follow convention, you know the shit you take? And this is my passion, corny as it sounds. My art, like my tattoos are my art. And the trees—what do they care if I have tattoos? Can I treat them right? That’s what they care about.”

  I leave Leroy to his miniature real worlds, peaceful worlds, temporarily out of balance. I call Dad when I get into the car. “Several minor alterations to Plan A,” I tell him.

  On the fifth ring Trevor picks up.

  “Indigo, please stop calling me,” he says.

  “But Trev—”

  And then he is gone.

  I go home and fetch Ron the Buddha. I put Ron in the passenger seat, buckle her/him in. I rub his/her tall, bumpy cone hat for good luck.

  I drive over to Trevor’s house. No one is home, so I sit on the porch with Ron beside me, and I wait.

  I wait, and I wait. My phone rings, but it’s only Mom. Cars pass, but not Trevor’s car. When you are waiting and wanting to be with someone again it is not one disappointment you feel, but thousands of disappointments. I hear a car, but it is only Mrs. Jaynes’s son, come over to water her plants for her. It is getting dark, and then it gets seriously dark. I’m getting so hungry, my stomach growls long and low. “You didn’t hear that,” I say to Ron.

  I’m not sure what to do. Maybe he isn’t coming home. Maybe his mom has taken one of her occasional trips to see her sister in Vancouver. Maybe he’s met someone new and is spending the night.

  Oh, man. God, have I messed up. Maybe I’ve tipped things too far, like Leroy’s bonsais. Maybe I’ve killed something beautiful. I look over at Ron, who just stares serenely ahead. I try to decide what to do, but no great plan comes to mind.

  And then, suddenly, there are the two circular headlights of Bob Weaver coming down the street. Two perfect round circles in the now black night.

  Trevor doesn’t see me. He parks the car in the driveway, slams the door shut. Walks with his head down up the path. I say something like, “Boo,” or “Hey!” because Trevor shrieks. “Holy shit!” he says. And then “Christ, you scared me!” He holds his hand to his chest. “Indigo, I told you. I don’t want to see you.” His eyes shine in the streetlight. God, it’s so good to see him.

  “Trevor, you can’t just throw away—”

  “Don’t even start with that. Don’t even go there. You were happy to throw away…What’s that?”

  “What?”

  “Beside you.”

  I’d forgotten all about Ron. “It’s Ron. Our Ron. Our love child.”

  Trevor sighs.

  “He came to plead my case. She came to plead my case. He’s still a little gender confused. But he’s not confused about the fact that I love you, that I’m asking your forgiveness for being an ass. For letting money get to my head. I don’t care about it. Trevor, I want you to have some, for your business—”

  “No, In. No. I’m not going to start my business now. Not right
away, anyway. I’ve been doing some thinking. I’ve decided I’m going to go to business school first. If I’m going to do it, I need to do it right.”

  “Trevor, that’s great! That’s so great!”

  “So, you know…I don’t need it.”

  “Trevor, Ron…He can’t stand the idea of being from a broken home. I mean, listen, Trevor, he’d have to have joint custody. He’d have to be on my lawn every week, and then on yours on the weekend and for two weeks of summer, and it’s not right, because family belongs together, and anyway, he needs stability to keep his…sereneness. Serenity. Whatever.”

  “Oh, In.” Trevor sighs again. He runs his hand through his hair.

  “I missed your hair,” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “I missed your head,” I say.

  “Goddamnit, In, I missed every part of you.”

  I start to cry. From relief. From joy. From upset and anger at my own stupidity. “Trev—I’m so sorry.”

  He puts his arms around me. Like everyone else did. Because that’s what people do who love you. They put their arms around you and love you when you’re not so lovable. My throat is full and tight with tears. There are probably a hundred types of crying. Fatigue crying and despair crying and loss crying and relieved crying and narrow-escape crying. This is crying that’s the sudden knowledge of love and its fullness. And right then I learn something very simple and fundamental about love. That it is there or it is not there. That some of our biggest troubles probably come when we try to convince ourselves it is there when it isn’t, or that it isn’t there when it is.

  I can’t speak. “Trev—,” I say.

  “I know,” he says.

  “The trees turned yellow,” I squeak. “Tonight, before it got dark.”

  “I know,” he says again. “I saw.”

  I get home very late at night. Mom has left the porch light on for me. I could go inside and sit at the kitchen table, or on my bed in my own room. But I stay here in the car. It is a plan that got made in a car, and will be altered here, in another car. I take the pink slip of paper from my pocket. I read it again, because reading it pleases me so much.

  1. Mom. A house of her own. Don’t take no for an answer.

  2. Severin and Bex. College fund.

  3. Car, Severin.

  4. Charity fund in Bex’s name. Overseen by Dad.

  5. Bomba. Tickets to visit us, as often as she can.

  “Or, as often as she can stand,” Dad joked. I remember this and smile. I go back to my list.

  6. Invest in Nunderwear.

  I cross this off. Trevor, maybe his ideas weren’t so bad after all. I write:

  6. Invest in Trevor. Business school.

  7. Jane—a vacation.

  I draw a black line through these words, too. I fit in new ones:

  7. Invest in Carrera’s.

  8. Buy Nick a ticket out of Nine Mile Falls.

  9. Trina—get her car back.

  Strike that.

  9. Trina—restore her car to its former glory.

  10. Joe: A trip to visit his new grandchild.

  11. Laptop for Funny.

  12. Leroy—?

  I click my pen again, smooth the slip of paper out on my leg. I cross off the question mark by Leroy and write Bonsai Enterprises. And then, finally, I add number thirteen. Because I know what I love. I’ve known all along. I don’t have to Be some big word other people think I should be. I don’t want to be a doctor or lawyer. I love being a waitress. I love feeding people. And maybe a person’s world can grow bigger in all the right ways, not too wide that it becomes shallow, just large enough to preserve its depth.

  13. Invest in Indigo—College. Restaurant Management.

  I am running out of room; the words are merging into the part of the pink slip that says, If you wish to contest this ticket… But I write one more thing. I squeeze it in. It’s too important to forget.

  Insist on yourself.

  18

  “I’d like to call this meeting to order,” I say. I like the sound of this. I have brought everyone to the living room; Severin and Bex and Trevor sit on the couch, Mom in her rocker, me sitting with folded legs on the floor. Freud is lying on the “Homes and Lifestyles” section of the Sunday paper.

  “I see presents,” Mom says. “I thought we agreed on no more stuff.”

  “They’re wrapped in Christmas paper,” Bex says.

  “It was all I could find,” I say.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” Trevor says. “Me-rry Christmas, boys and girls.”

  “I hope I got a pony,” Severin says.

  “And a Betsy Wetsy doll,” Trevor says.

  “People, please,” I say. Maybe I need a gavel. “I’d like to officially welcome you to Plan A.” They finally shut up. Bex even folds her hands. “I know I said no more shopping, but these are thoughtful and necessary items. From here on out, it’s all about balance.”

  Trevor holds out his arms and wavers them around like a doomed tightrope walker, but I shoot him a look and he stops.

  I read my plan. Everyone is silent. They sit there, quiet. Even Mom. “I expect you to protest,” I say to her. “And I’m ready to take you on.”

  “I’m not going to protest,” she says. “I can see you know what you’re doing.”

  “And there’s one more thing and I don’t want to hear any shit about it,” I say. “No jokes, because this is serious. We’re all going to drive cars that don’t fuck up our planet. The others get traded in. Any questions?”

  “The Porsche?” Severin asks.

  “Sayonara.”

  Mom. “The yellow Datsun?”

  “Adios, muchacha,” Bex says.

  Trevor. “Bob Weaver?” He looks stricken.

  “Bob Weaver isn’t a car, it’s a Mustang.”

  “Thank God,” Trevor says.

  Now that they’ve indulged my display of crazed power and dictatorship, it’s time for presents. “These are for everyone. I took my time, this time.”

  I let Mom unwrap. First an iron. Then a vacuum. Then a microwave oven.

  “Oh, honey,” she says. “We really need these things.” She’s a little choked up. Her voice is high and tight. She blinks back tears. There is one present left.

  “I know what it is! I know what it is!” Bex sings. She’s so loud that Freud flees under the coffee table, scrunching the newspaper in his panic.

  Mom pretends to shake the large, flat box. “Hmmm, an umbrella?” she says. She unwraps. Holds the gift in her lap a moment before she raises it in the air for us all to admire. There is a small round of applause.

  It is not gold. It is not padded. But the toilet seat is perfect just the same.

  This is not just a simple story of Money can’t buy happiness. Or maybe that’s just what it is. And if it is, why shouldn’t it be? Because if this is something we are already supposed to know, then why don’t we know it? Why do we chase and scrabble and fight for things to flaunt, why? Why do we reach for power over other people, and through the thin superiority of our possessions, believe we have it? Why do we let money make people bigger, and allow those without it to be made smaller? How did we lose the truth in the frantic, tribal drumbeat of more, more, more?

  We’re supposed to know this. We should know better.

  It took me nearly two months to get all the pieces of my plan in place. We bought the Elberts’ house, across the street, when Mr. Elbert got transferred to Philadelphia. It has a bigger, sunnier backyard, a flourishing flower garden in the back, a bedroom for each of us. Freud didn’t have to get to know a new neighborhood. We got Bomba a blow-up pool with leaping dolphins on it for her first visit.

  Jane accepted my investment, and my offer of any advice I’d learn in school to help her run the business better, and Leroy came out of the greenhouse closet, so to speak, after he, too, accepted my business proposal. Trina was back in boots again, her car at the curb. Roger had returned from Rio and tried to get her back. She told him to g
o fuck himself, but she was still taking his calls. Joe left for Saint Louis, wearing a suit and tie on the way to the airport, a hat on his head. Funny came in every day with her laptop case strung from her shoulder. But not everything went according to my plan. Nick said he couldn’t accept a ticket out of Nine Mile Falls, although his eyes got watery when I gave him his gift. Sometimes he wanted to leave he said, but all the things that made him him were here. His memories of his wife were here. And we were here. I understood this.

  My guitar playing, too, underwent a change. I played for a little while when I got back, and then I stopped for good. I put my guitar in my closet. It seemed to belong to another time of my life. Some things, I understood, were temporary pieces, passing phases. Other things, the real passions, stayed for good.

  When we leave to visit Dad—me, Trevor, Severin, and Bex—Mom stays behind, in spite of her invitation. Dad hoped she’d come too, but Mom said she wasn’t sure about that. She is having fun with Officer Brian, even if she isn’t the Mariners fan that he is, even if she doesn’t like camping. There’s a lot of water under the bridge, she says. But her eyes look sad, I can see that, when we leave her at the airport.

  Dad says he’ll ask again, even if it’s silly. As we sit on the beach and try to snap on our flippers, I can almost picture her, standing there trying to wipe off all the sand that suddenly clings to her sunscreen. Maybe when her hormones calm down, she’ll come for a visit with us.

  “Would you guys hurry up!” Severin says from the water. “It’s amazing down here. Wait till you see these fish!”

  Trevor holds out his arms like a monster, his mask over his eyes, walking stiff-zombie-legged and flipper-footed toward Bex, who screams. “AAAAH,” Trevor-zombie says, and zombie-lurches forward.

  Bex splashes out away from him, and a moment later, you can see her flowered bikini bottom snorkeling along in the sea.

  Dad lies on his towel. He leans back on his elbows, smiles.

  “Are you coming?” I ask.

  “Nah, I think I’ll just watch awhile.”

  I pick my way carefully to the water’s edge. Bex pops her head up.