“It’s our generation’s humanitarian crisis, happening right in front of our eyes. These children are running from death. It’s exponential each year. They’re trying to escape from the most dangerous places in the world. There are twenty murders a day, just in Honduras. Parents are sending their kids here by themselves, knowing they may never see them again. It’s like the kindertransport all over again, except this time no one wants them. They’re being put into detention centers.”
“I’ve heard about it,” I said, with a crackle in my throat.
“And most of the children are actually sent back. They’re actually sent back to the gangs that want to kill them. It’s happening every day. And people are letting it happen. No one even wants to know about it.”
I didn’t answer. One of my legs had fallen asleep and was numb. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that it’s horrible, what you’re telling me.”
“But you said you already knew about it.”
I nodded and said nothing.
“I’m going to bring it to light, make people see the disgrace of what’s happening. I’m going to highlight the stories of these kids, really humanize the problem, make it impossible to turn away. That’s the only way things will change. People need to be confronted, they need to be outraged. It won’t be easy, though. I’ve been visiting children’s shelters, trying to get permission to talk to the kids, but I’m getting a lot of pushback. If they’re skittish about just talking, how are they going to let me shoot film?”
The question lingered in the air. I looked out over the terrain, the gnarled and stubby growth, all the dry trees bending back into themselves. “I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s brave, what you’re doing.”
He didn’t answer, and the silence grew between us. I drew my legs up and brought myself slowly to standing. He rose to his feet, too, and we took in the panorama.
I didn’t know what I was going to say until I’d said it. “I’m not brave,” I began. “I don’t do anything that’s helpful to anyone. All I know how to do is draw. I have these dreams that are like movies, and I draw them.”
Paul was quiet for a moment, then said, “So, you want to make movies, too.”
“Yes, but I don’t know how.”
Paul exhaled sharply through his nose.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that you aren’t born knowing how to make films. You have to learn, just like everyone else learns. Like I learned. The best way is to work on one.”
“But I’d need to know someone.”
“Maybe you do know someone,” he said.
As we descended the trail, Paul told me that this was a city of serendipity, that people found each other when the time was right. He told the story of how he’d alighted in Los Angeles with no job and only one connection, an Amish cousin working fruit orchards in the Valley. For the first few weeks, Paul stayed with his cousin, eating ramen noodles and watching movies. He’d gone methodically down a list of the best films of all time: The Godfather, Annie Hall, Taxi Driver. He must have seen more movies in those few weeks than some people do in a lifetime, he said. He had no regular civilian clothes yet, so when he finally went out, he wore his barn-door pants and galluses and wandered around in awe. He thought of all the trees and earth that must have been ground up to make room for the city. He’d always pictured Los Angeles as something softer and greener, more arcadian: palm trees and surfboards and gardens. He’d never expected so much pavement, so many cars.
One day he’d sat at an outdoor café in Santa Monica and ordered a beer for himself. It was the first alcoholic drink he’d ever had, and he found it bitter, like machine oil. The couple at the adjacent table glanced over at him. He’d given himself a haircut, remedying the Amish bowl style to the best of his ability, but knew his clothing advertised him as alien. The couple glanced again and smiled, and the man asked where he was from. Paul told them the truth. The girl had a messy bun on the top of her head, a novel variation on the Amish girls’ buns, and a dress that was smaller and thinner than a bathroom towel. The man wore thick black eyeglasses. He invited Paul to join their table.
The man, as it happened, was a camera operator. They talked for a long time, and Paul’s second beer wasn’t as bitter. He was struck by how often and loudly his companions laughed at even the smallest thing. They asked him questions, fascinated by his upbringing and defection. “I’m so glad we met you,” the woman gushed. “We can help you get settled here.” Paul confessed that he had no work or prospects. He asked about the film industry. The man offered to recommend him for a job on a movie set, driving the camera truck.
“We usually work in teams, so it’s nice to recruit new guys we like.”
“A job would be good,” Paul said. “So I can buy some normal clothes.”
“No! Your clothes are awesome,” the woman said. “It’s such a different style. Amish chic.” She and her companion laughed.
“Anyway, that’s how I got started,” Paul told me. “I wore my old clothes until I got my first paycheck, which meant I wore them on the film set. I think they helped, actually, in getting people to accept me. I was unthreatening to the other camera guys. I was like a mascot. So they were nice to me.”
“Are they your friends now?”
Paul shrugged. “I get along with them, and we go out sometimes after shoots, but there’s still a kind of barrier. Some have families; the others never sleep. There’s a lot of drinking and drugs. I’m not like that. I need a solid schedule. Thirty years of waking at dawn is a hard habit to break.”
Back in the car, Paul sat for a moment with the key in the ignition. In this enclosed space I could smell the iron of his sweat. Finally he turned the ignition and looked at me. His hair was damp at the temples, and his eyelashes were wet, too, dark and defined. The eyes themselves were a warm uniform brown without variegation. “Do you want to see where I live?”
I waited a moment, then said, “Yes.”
When we were deep into the hills, he pulled into a hidden driveway that led to a sprawling Craftsman-style house. I turned to him, my mouth open. “Yeah, I wish,” he said preemptively. “No, my place is in the back. I rent the guesthouse.”
We drove until we came upon a small cabin tucked among the trees. The door was low for an adult. Paul opened the lock with a skeleton key, stepped aside to let me in first, then bent to enter behind me. The cabin consisted of a single room with a refrigerator and stove, a card table covered with oilcloth, and two folding chairs. A futon mattress lay on the floor. Draped over the walls were overlapping panels of colorful fabric. It took a moment to recognize that they were kites, dozens of them, of different shapes and patterns. I approached the wall, ran a finger over an arrow-shaped panel.
“I make them myself,” Paul said. “Kites are popular back home, and I’ve always loved them.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“That one’s a delta,” he said. “And this is a sled.” He pointed to other shapes: diamonds, boxes, dragons.
“Where do you fly them?”
“Anywhere there’s space and wind.”
“I’ve never done it,” I admitted.
“Really? Next time, let’s do it.”
Paul pulled out one of the folding chairs for me, then put the tea kettle on and sat in the other one. The red-checkered oilcloth was sticky on the surface.
“It’s nice here,” I offered.
“I really like it. Living a little bit away from the city keeps me sane. Most people who leave Amish places end up staying close by, whether they mean to or not. But I’m so far away now that I have to make a little nest for myself.”
The kettle began to wheeze and rattle on the stove, and Paul rose from his chair.
“How long did it take to get used to electricity?” I asked.
“Not long. But I still give myself some restrictions, just to stay grounded. I don’t use more electricity than I absolutely need.” He gesture
d toward the overhead light, a ceiling fan with low-wattage candle bulbs. “And no internet.”
“Not even on your phone?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flip phone, similar to my own. “I’ve gotten a little protective of my privacy, actually, since coming here. It’s funny. When I left the farm, it was like I morphed into a different animal. Like I changed from a chicken to a wolf or something.” Standing in front of me, he took a sip of tea. “Maybe it doesn’t make sense,” he said, putting the mug down. “But I don’t know how else to describe it. I don’t feel like a domestic animal who escaped its pen. I feel like a whole other creature who uses its instincts to find shelter and get fed. It’s hard. But I don’t ever want to change back. I want to be a wolf forever.”
He was imposing in the small cabin. I studied the dark crash of hair. His neck seemed to be in a perpetual bend, as if he were trying to see beneath something. It was easy to think of him as a wolf. In his presence, I felt a mix of fear and envy. He was stronger than the elements, directed by his own compass, utterly free. I liked to think we were similar in this way, but it was only a wish.
IX.
ONE NIGHT, when you were free of Rafael, we shared a bottle of wine on the patio. You finished it quickly, as expected, and opened another. I was loose and more loquacious than usual. “I’m so grateful to you for bringing me to the Rhizome,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough.”
“Oh, Abby, you’re so sweet.” You were aglow from the fairy lights on the trellis above us. “I was happy to share it with you.”
I was stunned anew by my fortune, to be here alone with you, where so many strangers would want to be. I reflected on the hours I’d spent in my musty bedroom in Michigan gazing at your image in the pages of magazines as if I were a stranger myself. As absurd as that separation now seemed, I knew that it had been correct to be apart all that time. We’d both needed those years to seek out our respective purposes—yours in the spotlight, mine in the dark. Now, we were ready to join together again with unbreakable unity. Connected, we’d form an elegant, symbiotic mechanism of invention and distribution.
“Maybe someday I’ll join the Rhizome,” I blurted. “Wouldn’t it be funny if I did, and my guide recommended me to Perren?”
You gave me a questioning look, as if waiting for me to finish the joke.
“I mean for art direction or something. Not acting, of course.”
“Oh, yeah, that would be incredible,” you said distractedly.
“I have so many new ideas now, stories and drawings. And I was thinking,” I said, blood flushing my skin, “What if we did a movie together? Me and you? I could write it and do the art direction, and you could star in it. Maybe you could find a director and producer. Who knows, maybe Perren would want to get involved.”
You lifted your wineglass to your mouth, and I saw the edges of your lips crook in pleasure, or amusement. You took a long drink. When you put the glass down, you smiled blandly and said, “Yeah, it would be cool to do that someday.”
I felt as if you’d shoved me. I’d expected you to see it right away, the way I did: the natural partnership we could reclaim. The Eden we’d inhabited as children was now spread before us again. You loved my art—or said you did—and now you could set foot in it.
“Did I tell you about Raf’s next project?” you said, lighting a cigarette. “It’s a comedy. How do you like that? He never ceases to amaze me.”
I didn’t respond. You poured yourself more wine, although your glass was still half-full. When you tried to set the bottle back on the table, it slipped and toppled to the ground.
You wouldn’t take me to the Rhizome again. I knew that now. If I wanted any chance of advancing my art, of putting myself in front of Perren, I’d have to do it alone. Not everyone was led by the hand the way Paul had been. It hurt to think that those strangers had done more for him than you were willing to do for me. Your admiration of my work may have been genuine, but it was superficial. I could see now that you’d become one of those people who effuse promiscuously and promise breathlessly, then continue on their way.
Paying the Rhizome’s extortionate membership fee was out of the question, but I remembered what my tour guide had said about her work-study program. While you were busy on the set one morning, I took the Tesla into the mountains and picked up the application. I returned the same afternoon to drop it off along with my portfolio, a rolled cylinder of a dozen drawings. I’d been prepared to wait, but the phone call came the next day, offering me a working membership. “Congratulations,” the director said. “I spoke to Tello, who gave you a strong recommendation. Welcome to the Rhizome.”
A strange terror came over me as I listened to the director itemize the work positions that were available. I could help in the restaurant kitchen or the spa. I could do maintenance work or help the counselors in the children’s camp. I stared at the Perren photograph on the wall, and the woman with the shredded face stared back. “What about daycare?” I asked quietly, even though you weren’t in the house.
“Yes, of course, that’s a possibility too. Do you have experience with small children?”
I searched for a moment, then said, “Not yet.”
“Well, that’s all right. If that’s where you’d like to be, you can sign on as a helper there. When would you like to begin?”
“Isn’t there an interview or something?”
“No, not for helpers. We have a rigorous vetting process for the full-timers, of course, and you’d be under their direct supervision. But we want to offer a wide range of opportunities for our ambitious work-study members, like you. It’s part of what everybody loves about this place. It’s accessible to anyone with talent, regardless of financial means or background.”
The phone vibrated in my hand. When I glanced at the screen and saw your name, I felt a stab of adrenaline. I declined the call and put the phone back to my ear.
“I’d like to start today,” I said.
I’d never changed a diaper before or bathed a baby. There were fourteen infants in the Rhizome nursery and ten daycare providers, but still the pace was frantic. When I walked in, I immediately recognized Tasha, the young woman who’d given me the tour.
“Welcome,” she sang, smiling broadly and bouncing a swaddled child. The other women in white uniforms circulated around the rows of cribs, attending to mewling bundles.
“Most of them belong to industry people,” a soft-faced woman named Marlene told me. “Some are big celebrities, but we try not to focus on which ones are which. We try our best to provide equal, unbiased attention.”
A walk-in storage closet contained stacks of diapers in every size, a refrigerator, a dishwasher, and dressers full of organic cotton clothing. Tasha and the others were always at the ready with formula and burp pads. They told me what to retrieve and when, and sometimes gave me a baby to hold. When the time came to put it down, I returned it to its proper place, searching for its nameplate on the spindled crib, and rested it on the mattress where it curled up like a pill bug.
After my first shift in the nursery, I met with Tello again. Everything came more naturally this time: taking my place in the wooden chair, closing my eyes, letting the ocean soundtrack wash over me. I felt a spur of defiance as the shapes weaved and merged behind my eyelids. I belonged here now. I’d earned my scholarship on merit alone; I was more deserving than you or any other paying member. When my session was finished, I floated back down the grand staircase, which seemed warmer now, the grandeur of the building more uplifting than forbidding. Soon it would become ordinary. Soon my footsteps would become familiar to these floors.
I was allowed one session for each working shift at the Rhizome, twice a week. It was easy to go while you were filming all day. As I drove your car into the mountains without your knowledge, I jittered with nervous invigoration. I did a four-hour shift at the daycare, then went to see Tello. In the nursery, I came to know all of the babies well, their innate personali
ties and habits. Some were born to howl and others to mildly accept their lot. It was difficult, as the others had suggested, to sand down my awareness of which child belonged to whom, which infants were of divine stock, descended from the heights of Olympus. It was difficult not to remember, not to read entitlement in their eyes.
But in the evenings it was the same as before. Sometimes you wanted me—we ate dinner together, shared a bottle of wine—sometimes you didn’t. I tried to maintain my bland composure in your presence, tamping down the little detonations that occurred inside me in the wake of each Rhizome visit, the pinballing sensations of exaltation and fear. I can’t imagine I was entirely successful, but you must not have been paying attention because you never seemed to suspect a thing, never once smelled it on me. I was careful with the logistics, of course. I avoided the Rhizome on Wednesdays, when I knew you had your own sessions. Only once did I find the temerity to break this rule, coming in to work a shift on a Wednesday afternoon, and leaving my post at the daycare.
Only once did I take the risk of being discovered as I hovered near the door to your guide’s room and listened. I could just make out your voice on the other side, presumably talking about a dream you’d had. I heard you say something about sinking and drowning. I heard the deep sound of your guide’s voice, responding, and then I heard you sobbing. It was difficult not to open the door and go to you. It was difficult to pull away and stop listening.
After I began at the Rhizome, my dreams bloomed in saturated colors, as if they’d been dropped into a chemical bath. Alternating with the wondrous dreams were the troubling ones. Screaming fistfights with my sister. My father snarling, You’re a forgery. That’s the academic truth, the academic truth. A demon took a burning log from a fire and thrust it at me. I was visited by Rafael, too, holding a whip atop a frothy, pregnant mare. In the dream, he invited me to mount the mare along with him, to ride bareback pressed in front of him, and I woke in a sweat of arousal. In another dream, he brought me to a slaughterhouse and opened the door to show me the piles of dead horses.
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