by Sandra Smith
“I could,” said her brother.
She turned her head, narrowing her eyes at him.
“What?” he protested. “I think I could have imagined pink trees.”
Her frown disappeared, and their mingled laughter joined the contented buzz of the bees.
CHAPTER 37
Clare and Dante
“Was that Professor Cassidy?” Clare asked.
“Yeah, it was.”
She looked around the empty Monitor room.
“What were you doing?”
Jason stared at her for a moment without speaking. The harsh look that made him look older than his seventeen years.
“He was showing me how to do something.”
“Like what?” she asked. “Something about compost?”
“No, Clare. Not about compost.”
She wasn’t sure if there was a hint of condescension in his voice or not. Perhaps resignation?
“Then, what?”
“Professor Cassidy is more than just a soil guru. He’s also a genius with the Monitor.”
She could tell he wanted to say more, the way he looked so hard at her, enunciating each word. Some secret he kept wrapped up like a fragile keepsake.
“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know that.”
“Clare? Clare? Where are you? Oh—there you are. Who you talkin’ to?”
Dante ran down the hall toward where she stood in the doorway. He peeked inside. “Oh, hi, Jason.”
“Hi ya, Sprout.”
He smiled at the nickname.
“Guess I’d better go,” Clare said.
“Sure, Clare,” Jason answered quietly. “Whatever.”
When Marissa had first asked Clare and Dante if they would like to get new chicks and help raise them, they weren’t even sure what she was talking about.
“You know, chicks,” she said. “Baby chickens?”
“You mean we can get some of our own?”
“Yes, Clare, that’s what I’m asking; would you like to? We haven’t gotten any in a few years, but I thought you kids might enjoy it. You would be responsible for taking care of them, and then when they are laying, find customers for the eggs. We already have plenty for John and me and the kids. The money would be yours to keep, of course.”
“Oh, yes!” Clare answered. “It’s more than I ever dreamed of.”
Dante, meanwhile, had started hopping in a circle, doing some kind of happy dance he had recently latched on to.
“How many?” he asked when he finished dancing.
“Oh, I think six would be fine,” Marissa said.
They had intended to get six, but like many things in life, you go about one thing and end up with another.
Before the trip to the nearest farm supply store, Clare had checked out every library book on raising chickens and spent time on the Monitor, as well. She kept Dante up-to-date with her research, and they decided to get six of the same variety, although Dante’s inclination was to get as many different kinds as possible. Clare convinced him, however, that the chickens might get along better if they were the same breed, and together they agreed on Rhode Island Red.
“They’re supposed to be great layers, friendly, and do well in colder weather,” Clare held the book out to Dante, “and look at how pretty they are.”
“What color are the eggs?” he asked.
“Brown.”
“Okay,” he said. “Sounds good.”
Now, however, seven, not six, little peepers hopped around in a large box in the garage: five Rhode Island Reds, one Barred Rock, and one Golden Sex Link. The chicks, of course, looked nothing like the grown chickens Clare and Dante had previewed in the books and Monitor; they were tiny and fuzzy, almost round, and weighed hardly anything. Clare and Dante played with them nonstop until Marissa called them in for supper.
“Now, tell me how you ended up with seven chicks and different breeds,” Marissa asked as they ate the evening meal.
John smiled as he chewed his food. He had taken the kids into town to pick up the chicks.
“Battlestar—”
“—Star—”
“—was just too cute,” Dante said. “He—”
“—she—”
“—was all black with this little white star on its forehead.”
“She really was so adorable,” Clare added. “And so friendly. It was like her little peeps were saying, ‘Choose me, choose me!’”
“And the Sex Link?”
Clare felt embarrassed that a chicken was called Sex Link. It didn’t help that Dante thought it was funny.
“I’m naming her Sexy,” he said.
“No, you aren’t, Dante. She was a mistake,” Clare said to Marissa.
“Oh?”
“What I mean is, we got her by accident because she was in with the Rhode Island Reds. She was a little lighter colored, so we thought maybe she was a Golden Sex Link, but then we decided to keep her at the checkout. And we’re not naming her Sexy,” she said with a tight jaw, glaring at Dante.
Marissa and John smiled at each other as the siblings continued bickering about names throughout the meal.
CHAPTER 38
Lily
Early on I realized we would spend the night at Aubrey’s. Aside from not liking him much, it was a great place to stay. I wouldn’t be exaggerating to describe it as a mansion.
Aubrey’s father had patiently listened to my story, and like the others, extracted from me various details I forgot or held back until he was satisfied. In return, I received what I had been searching for—information about my dad.
“I didn’t know your father before … during the time of his role in the Movement. I only met him after he came here. He is a good man, a man of integrity.”
“Does, does he know about me?” I had asked, bravely looking Chief Morningstar in the eyes.
The pause was long, but in our short time together I had realized this was his speaking style, so I was unafraid of the silence. Besides, Arturo often took extra time answering because of the language issue.
“Does he know what about you, Lily-flower?”
I smiled at this new nickname. “I don’t know,” I murmured. “Anything. I mean, I know he knows I exist, but does he know anything else?”
“Very little,” he said. “But he has thought about you every day of his life.”
I squeezed back a tear.
“He has told me this often. There has been no word to him that you are traveling, if that is what you mean. After your friends caused the stir by running away and safely entering Canada, the Network is taking no chances. Only one called JALIL communicates freely.”
I had heard mention of JALIL, but right then I didn’t care; I only wanted to talk about my father. I sat on the brink of meeting my dad after all these years. All I wanted to do was talk about him, hear about him, though I felt afraid to actually be with him.
“How did he get here?”
“He escaped via boat and came inland.”
“But how did he get out of jail?”
The big man smiled. “It’s actually a funny story. Cuba is a pretty place. But these days it’s used mostly for two purposes: prisons and agriculture—and a little tourism—though very guided.” He paused and I waited, trying not to show my impatience. The Chief had a way of making everything into a long story.
“They, the government, use Cuba for growing fruit—oranges, bananas, grapefruit—because it’s easy to conceal there. If you grew something like that on the mainland, many large walls would be needed to hide it from the public.”
“I’ve seen those!”
He nodded. “And the prisoners are a good source of free labor. Anything that can’t be done by machine, they use prison labor.”
He smiled. I wasn’t sure what the joke was.
“Your father, jailed for wanting to grow and eat good food, was sent to a place where he got to grow and eat good food.” His face shone with the humor he found in this irony.
“Ah,
that’s cool,” I said.
“After several years, your father managed to talk the warden into letting him teach interested prisoners about growing other, smaller crops from seed, inside the prison grounds. Soon he had developed a program where they grew salad greens and herbs for their meals. The group gave themselves a clever name.” He stopped, again beaming.
“What was it?”
“Lettuce Grow.”
“I don’t get it.”
He grabbed a piece of paper from the desk. “Let us grow,” he wrote, and then, “Lettuce Grow.”
“Ohh. Yes, very clever,” I agreed.
“Only your father told me this name did not last long. The prisoners started referring to their program as ‘Let us go!’ The local guards and warden didn’t mind. Most of the inmates were political prisoners and nice folks, so they were fond of them. But word of the dubious program and its nickname got out and almost ended the whole endeavor. The cafeteria crew and the health staff came to the rescue, citing how much healthier and better able the prisoners were to work and not get sick. So the program continued but under a new, sanitized name: The Meal Supplement Program.”
I sat silently, thinking of my father, feeling good that even in prison he had found a way to continue doing what he loved, and knowing he’d had friends. “But … so, how did he escape?”
“He had help. Lily, enough stories for now. Ask him yourself? Tomorrow I will take you and Arturo to him.”
We awoke early. I was too excited to sleep in, even if I had wanted to, and Arturo was a habitual early riser. We had a sumptuous breakfast of eggs and meat, which by now I had learned the source of, and while feeling guilty for eating an animal, I could not deny how good it tasted and how completely it filled me. The Chief had said we needed a “hearty breakfast” for the day ahead.
Aubrey had asked if he could come along but Mr. Morningstar told him, no, not this time. The three of us made it down the hill quickly, Arturo apologizing again about losing the bike. The Chief told him not to worry, he would locate it soon, and until then we would get along without it. We hopped into the truck and were off.
The road was windy, but good. Mr. Morningstar drove on silently. Even though I didn’t like him much, I wished Aubrey were along. I had faced enough silence on the journey here. Now I wanted conversation to fill this void between me and my dad.
“So, how long ‘til we get there?” I finally asked, gathering the nerve to shatter the stillness.
The Chief’s lengthy pauses were beginning to annoy me.
“Not long,” he said at last.
I let out a heavy sigh, the discontent as audible as the sigh itself. Eventually we turned onto a dirt road, barely as wide as the vehicle, and began climbing higher. The road was full of switchbacks and potholes; had I been driving, I’d have turned back, but the Chief took them at an unimaginable speed or so it seemed to me—clearly familiar ground for him. The dogs in the back were also used to it, sliding from side to side without complaint. Arturo seemed unafraid and even to enjoy it when my body slammed into his as we sped around the curves.
Suddenly, we stopped. The Chief climbed out. I looked around, confused. The trees weren’t thick here, but I saw no houses. We were far out in the wilderness. Is this a bathroom break, I wondered? Arturo sat still beside me.
“Well, the Chief said, “What are you waiting for, Christmas?”
Arturo opened the door and climbed out, me right behind him. The Chief was letting the dogs out and hoisting our bags to the ground. “I’ll get the mules,” he said, walking away.
Gazing at his departing back, I spotted in the distance an old gray shed.
“Mules?”
CHAPTER 39
Lily
I hadn’t noticed, before, the supplies in the back of the Chief’s truck. I had wondered why we had taken such a large vehicle up the tiny road. Now I stood watching as Arturo helped him load up two mules with packs of supplies. I was confused but decided to ask Arturo privately what he thought, at the first opportunity.
“Not far now,” the Chief said, pointing at a narrow trail that led from the meadow into the scant trees. He grabbed the rope. “Go on ahead,” he told us.
We scampered ahead of him and the mules. “What’s going on?” I asked when we were out of the Chief’s sight.
“Look like we find the end of the road.”
“I think we hit the end of the road a long time ago,” I mumbled.
He shrugged. “I think is good place for your papa.”
“I guess,” I admitted. “And those animals?”
“The mules?” He laughed. “They carry so much! Your papa take good care. You want to carry more?” I could tell he was giving me a hard time, even if he struggled to get all of the words fit together just right.
As we walked, I began to calm down. The rough road had wound me up stressed and tight, and now I was starting to relax, uncoil. Breathing in the fresh mountain air, listening to the tree sounds and bird noises, noticing small things like the large blue butterflies drifting carelessly by, holes left by snails in the leaves of wildflowers, the scent of the forest. These things were medicine for my soul.
From behind, floating through the air and catching up with us, came a whistle unlike any I’d ever heard. It wasn’t like the whistles the teachers blew in P.E., nor the thin, limited whistles I sometimes attempted.
“Did you hear that?” I asked Arturo, as people often do when they know full well everyone else has heard. We stopped and listened. A bird? An animal? Nothing.
We started walking again, and then came another, same as before, yet different. Arturo’s face was thoughtful but unsure, and then it changed—that breakthrough look—the light coming on.
“The Chief!”
Before I could disagree, I heard the Chief’s voice, “Lily-flower, Arturo, stop and wait for us.” The voice came from below and behind. We sat on a log and waited. The dogs, which had gone on before us, noticed we had fallen behind and came back. Soon the Chief and the mules sauntered into view. Arturo and I made small talk about the weather and scenery while we continued waiting. At last the Chief stood before us.
“Walk along with me,” he said. “We are almost to the village.”
“Village?” Arturo asked in surprise and delight.
Astonishment redrew the lines of the normally dispassionate face of the Chief. “You thought all of this was for one person? Good Lord, young man.”
Even as he finished his sentence, voices could be heard ahead. Moments later, just around the next curve, the trail dipped down and leveled off into a wide open area where a cluster of small dwellings stood. A rabbit hopped casually across the trail, and birds swooped back and forth between the trees, but I saw no one. The voices seemed to be children’s voices. I looked in their direction. In a small meadow, a group of kids played under the watch of a long, black-haired woman dressed in bright and flowered clothing.
“School,” said the Chief.
“Up here?” I asked in disbelief.
“They are Islanders. They needed a new home after their islands were swallowed up in the Pacific Ocean. They are refugees.”
I had heard a little about climate refugees in school, but not much. Never had I heard of any living secluded in the mountains. Arturo, for his part, seemed equally shocked, tossing out several exclamations in Spanish.
“But no time for that now. Lily, your father is here.”
The dogs had been given permission to run amok, and an old wrinkled man came to lead away the packmules. The Chief stood with Arturo and me.
“Are you ready to meet your father, Lily-flower?”
I sucked in my lips. Arturo took my hand and squeezed it. I looked the Chief directly in the eye and nodded.
“Then let’s go see him.”
We took one of the many trails that ran through the mountain community, passing tiny homes along the way. Homes adorned with names or numbers that were carved on plaques, painted artistically, or simply scrawle
d in chalk across the doorway. At last the Chief stopped outside one that said Keeper—why did that sound familiar? It was no more than a cabin, but purple flowers had been planted around it, and it appeared neat and well-maintained.
“Here we are,” the Chief said. “Would you like me to go with you?”
“Of course! All of us. He doesn’t know we’re coming, right?”
“That’s right,” said the Chief. “I could have told him; our lines of communication here are safe. But it’s better this way.”
Suddenly I wondered if he was right. All the self-doubt I’d ever had in my life (or not had!) piled up on me like a giant gray whale, nearly squishing the life out of me. I didn’t want to see a look on my father’s face that said anything but love and happiness. I’d heard too many reunion stories that ended badly.
We walked to the door together, the Chief in front, Arturo and me behind, side-by-side, still holding hands.
The Chief knocked three sharp knocks and then called out, “Yo, James!”
“Come on in, Chief.”
My father’s voice? It was; I knew it was. And he called Mr. Morningstar, Chief, too!
The three of us entered. And there he stood, my father. His back was to us slightly—sort of a side view—and he was lifting a teapot off of the stove. I’d imagined him taller. I had seen a few old photos, and well, I guess I hadn’t taken into account how truly tiny my mom was. But no matter, there he was, my dad! I felt like running to him yet stayed frozen on the spot like a granite monument. I checked to make sure I was still breathing. Arturo squeezed my hand, reminding me of the time on the bike when he thought I might fall off in my sleep. Perhaps he, too, was afraid I had stopped breathing.
“James, I hope you don’t mind. I have brought friends with me today,” the Chief announced in a booming voice.
A small look of caution entered my dad’s face, a slight rise in the thick eyebrows as he turned to face us. It’s not personal, I told myself. He doesn’t know it’s me. He must always be careful around strangers.
