Delta Girls

by Gayle Brandeis

  I SUPPOSE IT WAS INEVITABLE. AS SOON AS THE NEWS hit the wires, people began to arrive, wanting to see the whales. People in wheelchairs, young families with strollers, older couples, college kids. People wanting to invade our space.

  The Vieiras didn’t let anyone onto the property unless they paid twenty dollars and picked a bag of pears for the orchard, and then they only let them in for a couple of hours each afternoon, so we didn’t have too big a crowd on the island, but Roberts only charged five dollars a day and, for ten dollars more, let people set up camp in the dead part of the orchard. They could easily look across the slough and see us in our houseboat. I warned Quinn to keep the blinds down, especially when our lights were on at night.

  “I think we need to think about taking off,” I told Quinn. “Too many people.” And not any time with Sam. She had stopped giving us updates, stopped hanging out on our deck. Every once in a while, she lifted her chin and smiled in my direction, but it seemed a formality, an empty gesture. How ridiculous of me to think she might want me for a friend. I could feel my heart shrink quickly back down to hold just me and Quinn, our tight little circle.

  “We can’t leave now,” said Quinn. “We need to make sure the whales are okay.”

  “The whales don’t need us,” I said. “We better pack before this becomes even more of a circus.”

  Quinn threw herself on the bed and glared at me. “I’m not going,” she said. “You can leave, but I’m staying right here.”

  “I know you don’t want to go, sweetheart,” I said, “but we have to.”

  “Why?” Her face was a red mask of grief. It pained me to see the creases between her eyebrows, the violent downward crank of her mouth.

  “There’s too many people.”

  “So?” Her voice was strangled.

  “So …” I searched for an explanation. “Something could happen.”

  “Something could happen even if no one’s there,” she said.

  “It’s different,” I told her.

  “How?”

  “People are unpredictable.”

  “So are whales.” She spit out the words. “So are pears.”

  “Pears are pretty predictable,” I said.

  “So are bees,” she said, and I instinctively reached for the EpiPen.

  “Just start packing.” I grabbed her blue suitcase from the closet, set it on the bed. She turned away from me, so I opened the drawers and started to pull out the shirts and shorts she had folded herself—she was better at folding than me. She curled herself into a ball next to the suitcase and sobbed. I took her books off the shelves, set them on top of her clothes. I got her toothbrush, her bathing suit, from the bathroom. Our life felt so spacious when we were sitting on our deck, looking out at the Delta sky, but it could be easily compressed into a few small containers.

  I packed my own suitcase, packed our food, our toiletries, into paper grocery bags.

  “We better head out,” I said, walking to the door. Quinn didn’t move.

  “I’m not going,” she said. “I’m a Delta girl now.”

  I felt a little chill. “They won’t let you stay here without me,” I said. “You’ll end up in foster care.” Just saying the words made my stomach clench.

  She unfolded herself, glared at me again, and followed me, head down, to the car.

  “Can we at least say good-bye?” she asked after she strapped herself into her seat belt.

  “Bye, Abcde’s tent,” I said as we drove past. Quinn looked out the window, arms crossed over her chest. “Bye, pear trees. Bye, more pear trees. Bye, sheep. Bye, stable.” My voice felt too cheery, like a picture book narrator, like I was talking to a two-year-old, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Bye, Vieiras’ house. Bye, Mrs. Vieira. Bye, Ben.”

  Ben?

  I stepped on the brakes. The car bounced, kicking up dust. Ben was with his mother in the garden, picking tomatoes. His UC Davis T-shirt had a few holes at the collar. He was barefoot, dusty. Beautiful. I felt something loosen in my chest.

  “I thought we were leaving,” Quinn said through her teeth as the car settled into the dirt.

  “We are,” I said. “But you’re right. We should take the time to say a real good-bye.”

  BEN’S FACE BROKE into a grin as Quinn and I got out of the car. He had shaved off his soul patch; it made his face look younger, even more touchable.

  “Hey, you,” he said.

  “Hey, you.” I could feel the smile on my own face. Such a silly girl.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the whales before I left?” He set down the basket of tomatoes and walked toward us.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the girlfriend?” I tried to keep my voice light, joking, but my throat closed in on itself and I had to cough.

  He flinched a bit, but the smile didn’t leave his face. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “They’re both big,” I said.

  “She’s quite petite, actually,” he said.

  “You know what I mean.” I rolled my eyes and tried not to picture him lifting someone petite and perfect into the air, her wrapping her beautiful legs around him, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “You sound jealous.” He playfully cocked an eyebrow.

  “Maybe I am.” Again, I attempted to sound like I was kidding around. Again, it didn’t work so well.

  “I’m jealous, too.” Thankfully, he didn’t seem to take me too seriously. “You got the whales all to yourself. I have to share them with everyone now.”

  “If you hadn’t run off so fast, I would have shared them with you,” I said.

  “Too bad I ran off so fast, then.” He took a step closer to me.

  “Yeah, too bad.” When I breathed him in, he smelled like tomato leaves and sunshine.

  AFTER WE GOT back in the car, I found myself driving into the island, toward the houseboat, instead of away from it. Muscle memory, I suppose. Or some other part of my anatomy asserting itself.

  “Are we staying?” I could tell Quinn wasn’t daring to let hope into her voice.

  “I guess we are,” I said, even though it hadn’t been my plan. My whole body felt oozy from seeing Ben, the same loose floppy feeling I would get when I climbed out of a pool after swimming for a long time. “We just have to be extra careful with these extra people, okay? Just don’t talk to anyone you don’t know. And make sure you stay close to me; I want to be able to see you at all times.”

  Quinn started to cry again, but this time her eyes were bright and happy. I knew how she felt; I couldn’t keep the smile from bubbling up inside of me, either. If Sam never spoke to me again, it wouldn’t matter. Ben was back.

  AFTER THEIR VISIT WITH HIS FATHER, NATHAN STOPPED disappearing at night. He stopped flirting with women at the rink. He didn’t slip innuendos into every other sentence. He held doors open for Karen and Deena, helped with the vacuuming, didn’t argue with the new choreography or complain about the new short-program costumes—unitard tuxes—even though the slick black outfits looked more like wetsuits than skating gear. Karen found the sea change sweet, if a little spooky. Definitely preferable to swearing and striking out at inanimate objects. Sometimes, though, she found herself missing the sassy comments, the probing eyes, found herself waiting for them like an expected cymbal crash that never comes in a song, leaving some part of her unsatisfied.

  “You’re doing good,” she told him when she could feel how hard he was trying, how hard he was holding himself back, and he would look at her with such gratitude, it made her want to weep. And she got those looks often. She was with Nathan just about every second of the day. Breakfast. Driving the now snowy roads to the rink. An hour of figures to work on their edges. An hour of freestyle before the rink opened to the public. High-protein snacks. Another two hours with the rest of the skating club, where they were given preferential treatment. If Deena wanted the sound guy to play their program twice in a row, no one complained, at least not to their faces; they were the only club members to be g
oing on to Nationals, after all. Then there was Pilates. Ballet. Weight training. Lunch. Another hour or two on the ice. More high-protein snacks. Visualization exercises. Cardio. Dinner. Physical therapy, as needed. The occasional water-training session. Homework, when Karen could fit it in. An early bedtime, both of them falling asleep to their Walkmans, their short and free-skate program music set on an endless loop.

  Karen loved knowing they were listening to the same thing as they lay in bed across the hall from each other; she liked to think they even dreamed in sync. They felt more like a team than ever. She knew each groove of his hands. His hands knew just where to hold on to her body for maximum lift, maximum speed. Their eyes would lock and they would know things they didn’t have to say out loud. It was like having a twin. A twin you just happened to want to kiss.

  FOR CHRISTMAS, NATHAN designed a necklace for her, had it made by a local jeweler—a flat, oval opal set in silver, with little silver circles and stripes to represent all the markings on an ice rink, a small silver heart at the center of the iridescent stone. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She felt silly handing over the Old Spice cologne and shaving mug she had begged her mother to pick up at Woolworth’s—it was the only “male” present she could think of, and he ended up getting matching sets from three other people at the rink, but he seemed touched. At least she had made her own card:

  Without you, I am single, not jolly like Kris Kringle.

  Together we’re a pair and you throw me in the air!

  I wish I could lift you, but instead I will gift you.

  So thanks for the spins—now on to the wins!

  I hope that Nationals won’t be too irrational!

  Love from Karen, your rarin’ pairin’

  “Sorry it’s so cheesy,” she said, sure he was going to make fun of her and her silly rhymes, rhymes she had slaved over much longer than she’d ever admit.

  “It’s perfect.” He wrapped her in a big hug and whispered a breathy “I’m rarin’, too,” in her ear. A warm shiver traveled down her body.

  “Sorry.” He sprang away from her. “That’s the old Nathan.”

  Bring the old Nathan back, she wanted to say, but she let him maintain his decorum. “You’re doing good,” she said, and his smile sent more warmth through her limbs.

  ON NEW YEAR’S Eve, Deena brought a portable TV into the garage dance/Pilates studio, along with a space heater, so they could watch the countdown to 1997. They didn’t normally work out that late into the night—Karen was usually sound asleep for a few hours by midnight—but the rink was closed on the first, and Deena thought they should ring in the New Year training.

  “It will set our intention for the year,” she said. “Let the skating gods know we mean business.”

  Karen could barely keep her eyes open as she did her exercises on the Reformer, slipping her feet into the straps and moving her legs in big circles as her body slid back and forth on the castered table. She knew Nathan tried not to look over at her when her legs were at their widest open. She watched him steal glimpses of her in the studio mirrors and wondered what the old Nathan would have said when he saw her in that spread-eagled position.

  Deena had a bottle of champagne and a bottle of sparkling cider ready in an ice bucket, a glittery paper hat on her head.

  “One minute to go,” she said. “Better grab your glasses.” She had been sipping from hers all evening as she led them through their workout.

  She handed them each a glass and a noisemaker as seriously as if she were handing them a parking ticket.

  “May 1997 be the year you hit the big time.” Deena took a swig even though the countdown hadn’t started.

  Karen hadn’t been too excited about New Year’s, but when Dick Clark said “Ten” and the ball started its descent in Times Square and Nathan grabbed her hand, she started to feel giddy. The three of them counted down together, Karen and Nathan smiling into each other’s eyes. After “One,” they all cried out “Happy New Year!” Just as Nathan leaned toward Karen, Deena swooped in and kissed him right on the mouth. Karen knew she should be upset, but Nathan kept his eyes locked on hers the whole time, and she felt as if he were kissing her, too, as if he were kissing only her, as if her mom’s lips just happened to get in the way.

  WE USUALLY FINISHED PICKING BY THE TIME THE SUN was at its most punishing, but some days the heat was fairly intense. The shadows cast by the pear trees offered a measure of relief, and the Vieiras would put up a couple of portable shades so we’d have a place to rest out of the sun, plus they’d always set out a couple of plastic jugs full of ice water. Sometimes, though, one of us would get a little woozy, a little dehydrated. The other pickers knew the drill; if there were any signs of heat illness, they’d make sure their fellow worker lay down in the shade; they’d tear strips of cloth from their shirts, drench them in ice water, lay them on foreheads and backs of necks and across inner wrists. They had seen too many co-workers fall in the more exposed fields—grapes and melons and peppers; they even knew of foremen who had succumbed to heatstroke after driving tractors all day in the sun.

  It was worse with the new people, the spectators. First of all, they didn’t know how to pick. Even though Mr. Vieira gave them a tutorial, showed them how to lift the fruit from the tree, they thought they knew better. They looked for shortcuts. Yanking pears, causing the stem to separate, leaving the top of the fruit an open wound. Throwing the ladders into the trees to knock fruit down, scarring the bark. Climbing up into the trees, scratching themselves from head to toe, letting the fruit fall with a splat. They often tripped on the shaggy, uneven grass between the rows of trees. They weren’t used to this kind of work. Their faces turned beet red; their clothes clung to their bodies, soaked with sweat.

  “You need to be careful, Dad,” Ben said to Mr. Vieira. “These people aren’t covered by workmen’s comp. You could get your ass sued so easy.” I felt embarrassed that hearing Ben say the word “ass” made my heart skip, especially given the context. He and I had both been so busy since I decided to stay; we hadn’t had much time to talk. But I was always happy to see him in the orchard, always happy when our eyes briefly met.

  “We need the pickers.” Mr. Vieira’s mouth was set; a shimmer of fear crossed his face.

  “You could lose a lot more than the crop if one of them gets hurt,” said Ben before he drove off in the tractor.

  I watched an elderly woman lose her balance as she reached for a pear. Her husband caught her by the elbow. His face was flushed and wet beneath his fisherman’s cap.

  “You might want to take a rest,” I told them. They looked both startled and grateful as I led them to the shade and got them each a cold cup of water.

  “Do we know you?” the woman asked. “You look so familiar.”

  “I doubt it.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “I don’t know too many people.”

  “You’re not Carol’s granddaughter?” the man said. “From Des Moines?”

  I let myself breathe again. “Sorry.” I smiled, adrenaline still prickling my nerve endings. “I’m afraid you have the wrong girl.”

  ———

  THE HOUSEBOAT FELT exposed, even with all the blinds closed, even with all the campers across the slough set back from the edge of the levee. The Coast Guard cutter often hovered not too far outside, depending upon the location of the whales. And the whales kept circling back to our little island, to the nice big turn-around spot by the pier.

  Sam showed up in her boat just as Quinn and I were finishing our dinner on the deck—it had been a long time since we had spoken. She had become a stranger.

  “Hey,” she said as she tied up her boat. “I have to talk to Ben—is he around?”

  My cheese sandwich got stuck in my throat. “He’s working on the tractors,” I said, coughing. Why did she need to talk to him? I felt a surge of panic. She would pull him right into her orbit, if she hadn’t already; they were obviously on a first-name basis. I wanted to grill her, to
tell her to stay away from him, but instead I just asked, “What’s going on? Is it safe for us to be here?”

  “As long as you don’t turn on your propellers, the whales should be fine,” she said; I guess she had forgotten she had told me this before. Probably the only thing she remembered about me was that I was a lowly picker.

  The mother whale made a brief appearance; when her back arced up, I could see the festering cut on her side. Other boats weren’t allowed to come within five hundred yards of the whales now.

  “What about us?” I asked. “Are we safe here?”

  “The whales won’t do anything to you,” she said, giving me a smile that felt like pity. “But I can’t speak for anybody else.”

  A NEWS HELICOPTER buzzed overhead, crimping the water into fine pleats. I ducked into the buffeted houseboat before the camera could find me. More and more reporters had been showing up lately to cover the story; they wanted to talk to me, to Quinn, since we were the first in Comice to see the whales, but I begged them off with a “No comment” and the harshest, most unphotogenic glare I could muster. Quinn was furious with me—she wanted to be on TV, to have her picture taken for the paper—but I didn’t back down. We watched Abcde get interviewed again and again, watched Mr. Vieira, Ben, Sam, others on the rescue team, some of the spectators, wax rhapsodic about the whales into one microphone after another. Reporters came from as far as Hong Kong, but Mr. Vieira thankfully only let a couple of them in at a time. They usually weren’t too keen about picking a bag of pears to get their story.

  “I want to be famous, like Abcde,” Quinn said, pouting.

  “No you don’t,” I said. “Fame screws with your life.”

  “You screw with my life,” said Quinn.

  “You wouldn’t have a life if it weren’t for me,” I reminded her, a bit more sternly than I had intended. She let out the loudest sigh in the world and turned back to her book, but not before fixing me with a withering stare.