“No major issues with any of the monitored aspects, although we should make some tweaks to the storm sewer design parameters. They worked well this time, but I’d like to see more excess capacity,” Patricia replied. “All other systems functioned as planned, with room to spare, and it was our most severe test yet.”
“You have the ammunition you need for the next mayor’s conference.” Jerome rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“Maybe this time we’ll get more traction,” she replied, her voice bitter.
“It’s a fine balance, isn’t it?” Jerome, usually the optimistic one, frowned as he looked out the window. “As we come up with better ways to mitigate the impact of the storms, people become more blasé about the phenomenon that’s driving their severity.”
“It’s almost as if our work, if successful, helps to blunt the message about the impact of climate change,” Patricia said, nodding. “And yet, we have to do something.”
“I agree,” Jerome said, forcing a smile. “If for no other reason than to contribute to a safer world for the girls.”
“Speaking of the girls, let’s go and see how they made out, shall we?”
“After you,” Jerome said, allowing himself one last glance around the command centre before he followed his wife toward the door.
Noon, Sunday, September 27, 2048: Long Point
Martin Rotheby felt his wife, Veronica, tighten her grip on his arm as they approached the tree. He grimaced, bracing himself for what they might see. Please, he thought, let them be okay. Let some of them be okay.
“Oh.” That single word conveyed a depth of sadness as Veronica leaned down to examine the orange forms lying at the base of the tree. “So many,” she whispered, turning to face Martin.
“But look,” he replied, pointing upward. Veronica’s gaze followed, and she gasped as she noted the clusters of monarch butterflies that remained in the tree. Only now, with the emergence of the sun and the abating of the howling wind, were they starting to stir.
Spellbound, heedless of the passage of time, Veronica and Martin stood and watched as the butterflies began to launch themselves off their perches, flapping bravely and soaring southward.
“There’s hope then, for them, still,” Martin said, raising an eyebrow as he saw Veronica’s fists clenching at her sides.
“It’s not their fault,” she said, her voice grating. “Nothing they do in their daily lives impacts climate change, yet they, like the other insects and animals, must suffer the impact.”
“And yet, they survive,” Martin replied, his voice calm.
“For now.”
“For now,” he agreed. And as he watched the butterflies soar away, he couldn’t help shivering, as though struck by a cold wind.
Lisa Timpf is a retired human resources and communications professional who resides in Simcoe, Ontario. Her writing has appeared in a variety of venues, including Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Very Good, Very Bad Dog, The Martian Wave, Third Flatiron, and New Myths. When not writing, Lisa enjoys playing with her border collie, Emma, as well as cycling, bird-watching, and reading. She has self-published a collection of creative nonfiction and poetry titled A Trail That Twines: Reflections on Life and Nature.
Air
Midwives
by
Tiffani Angus
Marisol cycled along the edge of the dirt road, swerving around her Hacienda Roja co-workers as a mini-bus chugged by. Nueva Flora was emblazoned on its side in bright yellow and orange letters. The workers inside rode high above Marisol with no reason to look down, the buzz of their morning gossip as clear as birdsong through the bus’s open windows. Marisol closed her mouth and turned her head away to avoid the debris the bus’s wheels churned up. When it was dry she choked on dust. When it was wet her shoes were caked with mud and gummed up the pedals. After nearly twenty years in the greenhouses, she’d never been able to decide which was worse. She was just lucky, she knew, to have a bicycle. Even a broken-down and rusted one.
The ride to work wasn’t a long one, but the change in the land from Medellin suburbs to flower farms made Marisol feel as if she were crossing the border to a different world. In her neighbourhood, householders took advantage of every windowsill and ledge to grow potted flowers and herbs and even vegetables. But here at the edge of the city, acres and acres of low buildings made of plastic stretched over wood and metal skeletons that protected the investors’ livelihoods. She had once seen a photograph of the farms taken from an airplane and thought it a shame that the production of something so beautiful should be so ugly.
The final reminder of her world before she arrived at the farm was the madreselva—honeysuckle vine—that grew over the wall that surrounded Hacienda Roja. There was no breeze, but the vine’s leaves and flowers vibrated with the industry of a hundred bees. Its scent always reminded her of the stories she had been told about La Madremonte, the woman who protected the forest and its animals. Not that Marisol—or her family—had been out of the city in years. A holiday in the mountains was as impossible as one in a hotel suite in the middle of the city, even though both were within viewing distance. But she had grown up hearing the tales from her mother and abuela, about how La Madre would wipe away paths and change the shape of the land to confuse those who tried to cut down trees or steal iguanas, parrots, and monkeys to sell to the northerners, who would only put them in dirty cages and tanks. Her abuela believed that La Madre, who punished wicked men especially, was kinder to women. “A mother protects her daughters,” she would say as she brushed Marisol’s hair. “When women destroy nature, it’s because a man is behind them. La Madre, with her big eyes that glow in the dark, knows this.”
Marisol reached out to touch the blooms as she pedaled past. Her extended arm appeared blurry, as did the ground and sky beyond it. She blinked and shook her head, sure that the chemicals had finally got to her. The usual heady scent of the madreselva faded and then rushed back, as solid as the wall it grew on. As the world shrunk back to clarity, Marisol found herself off the road and on her knees, the vine cascading over her shoulders. Below the drone of the bees she heard her niece’s voice.
“Tía! What happened? Are you all right?” Gabriela, on foot, dropped her bag and pulled Marisol away from the wall. “With the vine for your hair, you looked like a duende.”
Marisol shrugged the girl off and picked up her bike. She had no recollection of having fallen off, just of the world shifting. “No, girl, you were the duende, saving me from the vine. I’m just tired, of course. Always tired,” she said and pushed her bike along the road.
“You’re confused. Mama used to warn me that the duende were going to come in the night and bite my feet if I was bad.” Gabriela hoisted her aunt’s bag on one shoulder and her own on the other. “They don’t save people.”
“Ah, sobrina, that all depends. The forest sprits have their own way of doing things. Some are good, some are bad.” Marisol laughed through her nose. “Like people.”
At the entrance to the Hacienda Roja farm, Marisol and Gabriela greeted their workmates as they filed into the long greenhouses. The scent of roses was overwhelming, underlain by the sting of antifungal solution from the vat in one corner and the always-present reek of the outhouses. To one side was a small room where the women stored their bags. Marisol kicked off her sandals and changed into a pair of heavy boots a few sizes too big that her son had outgrown. They were uncomfortable and gave her blisters even though she packed them with newspaper, but they would protect her feet. Flower work was a wet business.
The day before, she had ripped a hole in the thumb of one glove, so she rummaged through a pile of cast-offs in the corner to find a replacement. Some women had heavy-duty rubber gloves, thick enough to protect their hands against the thorns, but they were so thick that Marisol couldn’t feel anything when she wore them. She believed she risked fewer punctures wearing thinner gloves that allowed her to move her fingers more freely.
As Marisol tried on a green g
love from the pile, Gabriela shoved her ungloved hands beneath her aunt’s chin. “Look. Look at my hands.” The skin on her fingers had peeled off in patches, exposing a layer of raw new skin, red and angry. In spite of gloves and long sleeves, chemicals seeped everywhere. “Mama said to try lotion, but it just burns. And now my hands are beginning to look like hers.”
Marisol took Gabriela’s hands in her own calloused, rough hands and felt a tiny surge of power from the connection. She wanted to shrug and turn away. Or tell the girl about her first weeks in the greenhouses and how her hands had blistered so badly that they bled and kept her awake at night. Wanted to tell her that this was the way of things and to get used to it—to the skin rashes and sore throat if you were lucky, worse illnesses if you weren’t. But Gabriela had only just had her quinceñeara the month before. To go from being treated like a princess one day to stooping over roses in the greenhouses almost the very next was a shock to a girl. She would learn.
“Tía, Mama is still angry that I have come to work here. She would rather I go to Nueva Flora and eat their free lunches than be here with her—and you.”
Marisol shook her head. “She isn’t angry, sobrina. Just worried.” The girl was young and didn’t know yet what it meant to take on the troubles of the world. She looked round to be sure that Hector, the encargado, wasn’t skulking nearby. Yesterday he had docked Laura’s pay for taking too many bathroom breaks. “Come to my house tonight. Bring your mama.”
Gabriela’s brows drew together. “You know that Mama goes to mass tonight.”
“Tell her that I am going to give you the secret to my buñuelos. That will change her mind.”
The recipe for the cheesy rolls had been the subject of more arguments than Marisol wanted to count. But she was the oldest, so her own mama had passed it down to her. Marisol kept her face still. Better for her niece to learn to lure in chickens with the best crumbs rather than chase them round the yard. And wouldn’t her sister be upset to think she was the chicken in that scenario.
“Now, put on your gloves, little girl, and get to work, or Hector—that little mierda—will make trouble.”
Gabriela’s eyes widened at her aunt’s language but did as she was told.
As she joined Gabriela and the others to find their spots along the line, Marisol spied Laura arriving late. She waved in greeting, but Laura, her eyes deep-set, her skin sallow, and one hand on her belly, barely acknowledged her. Six months gone this time, so maybe she would make it. It was the way of mothers and aunties to cluck over the younger ones as they grew their first babies, but in the greenhouses the workers were only supposed to be midwives for the roses. Some said it was bad luck to think of baby names or knit booties before the baby came, just in case. Inside the greenhouses that was an unspoken law.
Long hours of standing over the conveyor belt, stripping thorns and leaves, measuring stems, dipping them in the solution, wrapping the bundles in plastic, and storing them for the trip north took Marisol’s mind off of her niece and sister and Laura and the others. After work she peeled off her heavy sweatshirt—necessary when working in refrigerated conditions—and boots and dropped them in her bag before unlocking her bike for the ride home. For a while she just pushed her bike along the road, too tired to pedal. Just like that morning, the Nueva Flora bus roared past, the workers inside the same, only facing the other direction. And just like that morning, she passed the honeysuckle vine and said hello again, as if it were an aunty, a force to be reckoned with. It wasn’t until she was past the wall that the feeling of the vine, heavy in her hair, left her.
The women began arriving before eight o’clock. Including her sister and niece, the number at the meeting would be near thirty: only about a third of the work force at Hacienda Roja, but a good start, and a worker from Nueva Flora was there to give advice. Marisol had hoped for Lucinda and Gabriela to arrive early enough for her to talk to her sister alone, but when they arrived the front room in the small apartment was already full with four women squeezed onto the couch, four others on the kitchen chairs, four more on chairs the neighbour brought, and the rest standing against the wall or sitting on what floor space was available.
“Buñuelo?” Marisol offered a plate of buns to her sister.
Lucinda’s lips tightened. “Marisol, why would you do this again? The owner will lock us out. He will bring in other workers.”
“What workers?” Laura asked from the couch. “We are the only ones in the neighbourhood who still work at Roja. The others won’t give up their bus rides and free lunches to come back.”
The room filled with the women’s voices, all adding their own take on the situation. “No one who lives any farther away will come to Roja.” “Roja is the last farm in this area that still uses the chemicals.” “The government won’t listen.” “The government doesn’t care.” “They let the farms regulate themselves.” “It’s us against the owner, and there’s only one of him.”
Marisol handed the plate to Gabriela and held out her hands for quiet.
Lucinda grabbed the plate from her daughter’s hand without looking and set it on the closest flat surface. “No, Marisol. I won’t be part of this again. Come, Gabi.” She turned, but Gabriela didn’t follow. “Gabriela, come home I said.”
Marisol recognized the internal struggle behind her niece’s eyes.
“No, Mama. I work there now, too.”
“You are just excited by the idea of being one of the women. You’re too young to remember your Uncle Oscar.” Lucinda stared daggers at her sister as she said her late brother-in-law’s name. “The rest of you—” She scanned the room before continuing. “You want your children on the street, digging through the garbage for food?”
“You mean this child?” Laura asked and pointed at her belly. “This child who may be healthy … but maybe not? He might be fine. But he might have asthma, or cancer.”
Lucinda opened her mouth but then shut it again with a snap.
Laura continued. “We are asking for Roja to treat us as Nuevo—and many of the other farms—treat their workers. Decent gloves, a room to change in, toilets that are clean, to start with. Sick and dying workers can’t bundle flowers.”
“They also cannot take care of their families if they don’t have jobs. I’m leaving.” With one last glance at her daughter, who avoided her gaze, Lucinda walked out the door, leaving it open behind her. Marisol wanted to call her sister back but the room shifted and the lights in the neighbourhood beyond the open door blurred and shook. Gabriela grabbed her hand and asked what was the matter. One woman stood, and hands guided her to the open chair. The heavy-sweet scent of honeysuckle filled her head and she heard the buzz of the insects.
Gabriela pushed a mug into Marisol’s hand. “Drink, Tía.” Two sips of water and the scent retreated, the sounds died away, and the lights came back into focus.
“We should go,” one of the women said.
Marisol shook her head. “No. Stay. We must plan.”
“But you’re ill,” Gabriela said as she took the mug.
Marisol shrugged. “Perhaps. But that’s exactly why we must fight.”
Marisol finished washing the mugs, and when Gabriela offered to dry them she shook her head and instead set them upside-down on a towel to dry. “What has your mother told you about your uncle?”
Gabriela’s gaze darted to the door to her cousin’s tiny bedroom. Marisol slept on the couch, insisting that Luis take the bedroom in hopes of keeping him home. But young men of nineteen didn’t want to live with their mothers forever, though it would be many more years until he’d be able to take care of her.
“That Uncle Oscar fought the policía in the street.”
“Yes, he fought in the street, threw rocks, and was beaten down. But did she tell you that the police were protecting bad men—men who own big companies and own the politicians?” Marisol leaned back against the kitchen sink. “It’s a long story, very complicated. But Oscar fought for himself, for his friends, for me
, and for his son. For our future.”
“Mama says he was foolish, to leave you and Luis with no one to protect you.”
“That’s because she cannot—does not—want to imagine what life would be like without your father.”
Gabriela crossed her arms. “Papa won’t leave.”
“That may be so, but that doesn’t mean that if he did you wouldn’t have anyone to protect you. Now,” she said as she hung a shawl around her shoulders, “I will walk you home.”
Down on the street, Marisol held her flashlight in one hand and hooked her other arm through her niece’s elbow.
“I can walk home by myself,” Gabriela said, her voice defiant.
“In the daytime, yes. But you know better than to be outside alone at night.”
“But it’s only two blocks, Tía.”
“And you are only fifteen, niece.”
“Good evening, Marisol.” A man’s voice came out of the dark. Marisol clicked on the flashlight, and Hector raised his hands to deflect the light.
“What are you doing here?” Marisol knew he didn’t live nearby and so didn’t try to lessen the accusation in her voice. Let him read of it what he would. If he had followed other workers to her apartment, she decided not to care. He didn’t make much more pay than the rest of them; perhaps he could be drawn to their side.
“Visiting my cousin,” he said and pointed in the opposite direction. “And you?”
“Walking Gabriela home. See you at work tomorrow.” She pulled her niece around the corner.
He followed. “Wait, Marisol. Please.”
Gabriela jogged to keep up. “Tía, slow down.”
Hector drew even and stopped in front of them, only a few feet from the entrance to Gabriela’s apartment building.
“What do you want?” Marisol asked. “You can’t report me to the boss for being out after dark.”
He put his hands up, palms out. “I was going to offer to walk with you.”
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