Things You Would Know If You Grew Up Around Here

by Nancy Wayson Dinan

  So she resolved to get whatever sleep she could, making sure she was ready for the morning, for the search for the river and the push toward Isaac. She could not sense him but felt that she must not be distant—she had traveled so far already. She still had the other sandwich for breakfast, and she would eat it while she walked. She was not in the wilderness here; though the Hill Country was rural, it was still fairly densely populated. If she headed much farther in this direction, she would run into the peach orchards and vineyards of Gillespie County.

  She laid her pack on the ground as a pillow, settling her shoulders into the carpet of crabgrass. Then she closed her eyes against the night, remembering the bean tendrils around her wrists. When the hand gripped her shoulder again, in her dream she thought it was her garden, again making its claim. When she struggled to open her eyes—even as the man said “Miss?” again—she thought, who was to say that it wasn’t?

  Things You Would Know If You Grew Up Around Here

  The Will-o’-the-Wisp Is Not Common Here, There Being No Bogs or Marshes

  The will-o’-the-wisp does not often come to central Texas, belonging, as it does, to marsh and bog. You normally hear about them in Europe, leading travelers away from the safe paths.

  But we do have stories of them in this part of America, too, in places not so far from here. West Texas has the Marfa ghost lights, and at night the highways fill up with sightseers trying to catch a glimpse of this phenomenon. Mexico has brujas, witches who turned into the lights. In Louisiana, where bayou takes the place of bog, they have the feu-follet, the succubus, a soul who comes back to seek vengeance, and who sucks the blood of children.

  What is interesting about the Louisiana story is that some people believe the will-o’-the-wisp is the soul of an unbaptized child. This idea matches many versions of the European story. In Sweden, for example, people believe that the child is leading the traveler to water so that the traveler will finally baptize him.

  We have all of these stories, but we don’t know what happens to the wanderer. What does the wanderer do, having been lured into the marsh? Where does she go, when she steps out of this world and into another?

  11:15 P.M.

  Isaac tried to sleep, even though he’d reached the top limb in the pecan tree that would support him, even as spiders roamed over his closed eyelids.

  He could not sleep like this, worried that he would roll off the branch and into the water, his skin literally crawling. He guessed that the tree was seventy feet tall, maybe six stories, and the water was half that distance below him.

  The water had calmed a bit, no longer being funneled from rocky higher ground. It had receded; even in the dark, he thought that it seemed farther away, that the reflected, refracted moon was smaller and dimmer in the water’s surface. In the morning, he hoped to see that the water was low enough and calm enough that he could climb down the tree.

  In the morning, at the first good light, he might climb down this tree, swim across to dry higher land, try to walk down to Allen Potivar’s house and find his dad. These arroyos funneled water when there was too much at once, but when the rain stopped, they were quick to dry up. Gravity pulled the floodwaters to a low area; these gullies were ramps, not ditches. He felt sure his adventure in the tree was in its final hours.

  What a story this would be. He couldn’t wait to tell Boyd about the raccoon family who huddled, blinking, across from him, or the garter snake that had slithered between his back and the trunk. A nine-banded armadillo was a foot below him, claws clicking, trying to burrow into one of the pecan tree’s minor branches. And squirrels, so many of them: gray squirrels and fox squirrels and squirrels Isaac did not know the name of, darting suddenly from branch to branch, their movements jerky, chafing at their now-limited range. He thought they were like younger siblings at a sleepover, staying up long after the older kids went to bed.

  Isaac, who had a horror of dirty things, who camped every summer by the lake but who did so as a driven man, a person who wanted to go to med school both to have money and to diagnose and understand the body, found himself unable to sustain a repugnance for this wildlife for the many hours between when this tree had started to fill with the refugees and now. His feet dangled on either side of the branch now, unconcerned with the beetles that explored the legs of his jeans. He would have thought trapped animals would be more dangerous, but so far, the inhabitants of the tree seemed wary at most. The red-eyed rabbit watched the rat snake, nose twitching, but did nothing except sit back on its haunches. There was, to Isaac, a sense of the lion lying down with the lamb.

  In the tree, he thought of a moment in seventh grade, the last year Boyd had been in school. They had just become friends; it was only a couple of weeks after Boyd had grabbed that girl in the cafeteria and started screaming, and Isaac had taken her out of the cafeteria. That day was cloudy to him, but he had remembered how she had helped that old man at H-E-B, and somehow he had needed to help Boyd. On this day, not long after the incident in the cafeteria, Ruben King had led them in a discussion of “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” a story by Ursula K. Le Guin. The whole class had been into the story, which had involved a society that was perfect, but only because a child had taken all of its pain and dirtiness. At the end of the discussion, his father had led them in a vote: Who would stay and be part of such a society? Who would leave because they could not live with this thought, even knowing that their departure would not help the child? Everybody said they would leave. Then Ruben King had asked them, though the story hadn’t suggested this as a possibility, Who would volunteer to take the child’s place? Nobody had answered, not even Boyd, though Isaac thought that he knew what Boyd would say. Had Isaac himself said anything? He didn’t remember now.

  In the morning, he thought, he would climb down. But now, he closed his eyes again to try to sleep. His palms rolled open, resting on his thighs. After a minute, a field mouse climbed in the bowl of his right palm, and Isaac, who was for this night a different Isaac from what he’d been before, let him. The mouse rested near the mound of his thumb, chewing on his stitches, and when he fell asleep, he dreamed of Carla knitting the wound closed. The night wore on.

  Things You Would Know If You Grew Up Around Here

  We Cannot Stop What Is Already Here

  In May 2019, the Mauna Loa Observatory in Hawaii will measure the atmospheric carbon dioxide at 415 parts per million, a level not seen in eight hundred thousand years, not seen in the entire history of human beings. By the end of the decade, the planet in uncharted territory for humanity, for much of the life now existent.

  11:15 P.M.

  The shingled cottage belonged to Annie and Bess, though later Carla would find out that the people here didn’t think anything belonged to any one of them more than anyone else. But Annie and Bess, queenly women with queenly names, lived in this house where the cozy dinner had been held. They each occupied one of the two bedrooms, warm rooms in warm lamplight that Carla saw before they took her to the main house. In Annie’s bedroom, a full-size iron bed with a white down comforter and a stack of books on a nightstand. In Bess’s, a twin bed with a knitted throw laid across, a Turkish carpet on the floor, and a basket with a yoga mat and block in the corner. In between the two bedrooms, a bathroom, the only one in the house, with a strong smell of lavender and rosemary.

  After Carla ate, Kim took her to the long house in the middle of the compound. This house was open, virtually wall-less, and on the ground floor, three long wooden tables were surrounded by mismatched chairs and benches. On the back wall was a large fireplace with a brick hearth, couches and chairs arrayed around it, though there was no fire at the moment. A woman of about sixty, long hair dyed red with henna, wiped the long tables with a dishrag.

  To the far right of the room was a kitchen with two double ovens on the wall and a stovetop with eight industrial burners. The refrigerator, too, was industrial. In front of all of this was a long island with a countertop and sink. The countertop was
full of dishes, the sink was full of soapy water, and a woman and a boy of late middle school or early high school age was washing the stack of plates, the woman wiping them clean in a basin of bubbles, the boy rinsing in a basin of water. Next to them, a woman dried the dishes and stacked them at the end of the counter, clean and ready to put away.

  Carla understood that there had been a dinner here, too, and she saw by the stack of dishes that this dinner had fed quite a few people. Only a few people were in the room now—the woman wiping the tables, the mother and son. At the sink, the woman drying—but Carla got the impression that perhaps two or three times that number had dined.

  Kim introduced Carla to everyone: Caroline wiped the tables, Lisa and Scott washed dishes, Sara dried and stacked. They all looked up at her, expressions curious and friendly, Caroline’s gaze lingering on Carla’s forehead, looking at the ashes she kept forgetting she wore. Carla waved back, suddenly shy. This house felt industrious, not quite as cozy as the shingled cottage. It didn’t, she realized, even feel much like a house, but instead like a community meeting hall.

  Kim led her upstairs to another open room, though this floor was more partitioned. At least a couple of bedrooms were closed off, and one huge dormitory-style bathroom, with stalls for toilets and stalls for showers and a row of sinks underneath a long mirror. The countertop here was empty—no toothpaste or hairbrushes, no toiletries whatsoever. Just a counter wiped clean.

  In the main room, the landing was lined with full bookcases, and beyond this was a communal bedroom with twin and full and bunk beds scattered around, chests of drawers and trunks at their feet and by their sides. Curtains and sheets hung from the low ceiling around some of the beds, a measure of privacy, and around at least two of them was a triptych screen. Carla estimated that a dozen or so beds total were in the large room, and on many of these, a person stretched out, reading or writing or listening to music.

  Again, Carla was shy. She almost regretted taking Kim up on the offer of a bed for the night. She dealt with few people in her life at the lake and interacted regularly only with Lucy Maud and Boyd. This room was more like what she’d left behind in Austin: cubicle land, only for sleeping instead of working.

  Kim took her to a bed behind one of the screens, a full bed with a wooden frame and a cover that looked hand quilted. A nightstand on either side, each with a lamp on top and two drawers underneath. A beautiful antique steamer trunk at the foot.

  “Do you think this will be okay for one night?” Kim sat on the end of the bed, her hand resting on the footboard. “I want you to be comfortable.”

  Carla felt as if she should set luggage down, but she didn’t have any. Kim noticed the way Carla looked down at the trunk and said, “But of course! You need things! What do you need? A toothbrush and toothpaste? A T-shirt or a nightgown, maybe?”

  Carla shrugged, unwilling to say anything. There was something off about the whole situation, something she could not quite articulate. How had she wandered upon a place that was so prepared to give her everything she needed?

  “I’ll get you toothpaste and a toothbrush and some clothes to sleep in. Don’t even worry about it.” Kim got off the bed and motioned for Carla to take her spot. “I’ll bring you some books, too.” Kim watched her for a minute, nodded, then slipped away behind the screen.

  Carla looked around once Kim was gone, then sat down on the bed. She poked at one of the two pillows and picked it up and fluffed it. It seemed like a nice pillow, and the green-and-white gingham pillowcase was soft from good use. Around her, she heard voices, people discussing the day, people settling in, and those voices had a kind timbre, though Carla could not pick out an actual conversation.

  She opened the top drawer of the nightstand nearest her, looking for a Bible. Nothing, so she opened the bottom drawer. When she didn’t find one there, she rolled across the bed and searched the two drawers of the other nightstand. No Bible. Somehow, she’d known that. She was not yet sure what the organizing principle of this commune was, but she no longer thought it was religious. She slipped off her yoga slings and lay back on the bed, her body tired from the walking she’d done. Her feet were filthy from the mud she’d walked through, now dried to her ankles and calves. She stared at her toes. They would need a wash before she got beneath the covers.

  Kim returned, a full canvas sack slung over one shoulder. “I gathered some things from the closet.” She set the bag on the bed next to Carla and started pulling things out. “A toothbrush. Don’t worry—it’s brand-new. We stock a bunch of them. A T-shirt-slash-nightgown that somebody left. A couple of books to read”—an Agatha Christie novel and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle—“and a towel if you want to take a shower.” Kim looked at her now, and Carla got the sense Kim wanted her to be pleased.

  Carla picked up the T-shirt, white but gone to gray, with an American flag across the chest. It would reach her knees when she put it on. “Whose was this? Where did they go?”

  Kim blinked. “Um, I think that shirt belonged to a woman named Liz. She—well, she left after her husband died.”

  Carla tilted her head, surprised.

  “He had a heart attack.” Kim thought for a bit, deciding whether to say more. “We’re far from a hospital out here, you know.”

  Carla was quiet.

  After a minute, Kim went on, “His name was Aaron, and he was very young to die. Midforties. But when they came to us, they were so unhealthy, Liz and Aaron.” Kim pointed at the T-shirt Carla still held. “Liz must have been three hundred pounds. They were one of the few who didn’t walk here, didn’t just show up on our doorstep.”

  At this, Carla’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth with one hand. She could not imagine that other people had found this place on foot, and yet, yesterday, she would never have believed it of herself.

  “Aaron was a vet tech. Really good with the animals. We took his loss hard. Then Liz left for the funeral in Kingsland and never came back.” Kim’s stare was unfocused, and she nodded to herself, remembering. Carla watched her, thinking she’d cut her short hair herself, watched the way Kim’s taut skin moved over her cheekbones. She was a tight, compact woman. “Liz was an excellent cook.” Whatever Kim was remembering had her. At last, she caught herself and reached in the bag, pulling out a bar of soap. She handed it to Carla. “In case you wanted to take a shower.”

  “Thanks.”

  Now Kim watched her. “You know, if you like this bed, you can sleep in it for as long as you want.”

  “I have to find my friend.” It was more defensive than anything else—Carla wasn’t even sure she was still following Boyd or why she’d done so in the first place.

  “Of course. Maybe we’ll help you.”

  What would Carla tell them about her search? How crazy would she sound? “Maybe.”

  “Anyway, you don’t have to decide tonight. You can shower or whatever and get some sleep. Read a book or something. If you don’t like these, there are more on the bookshelves.” Kim pointed behind her, in the direction of the stairs.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” Kim rose. “You need anything, tell any one of us. We were all new once, too.”

  When Kim left, Carla took the soap, T-shirt, and towel to the dormitory-style bathroom. Inside the shower stall was a bench for her clothes, but the bench was long enough for her to sit on and to be in the water, too. She sat in the warm shower, thinking that here she was, wet again, after all that time in the mud and the rain. But this was a different wet, a warming one, and she turned her face up and felt the water on her forehead, washing away the serpentine coil of ashes. She shifted on the bench, her feet at the dry end, her face in the water, her eyes closed and her hair falling all around her. Her hands fell to her side and her feet turned out in a kind of shower Savasana. Corpse pose. She felt splayed open—physically exhausted and emotionally vivisected—unsure of where she’d landed. This place, with Kim and Annie and Bess and Imogene and Caroline and all of the other people she’d met, f
elt too beautiful to be trusted, like a siren’s song, and she, eternally skeptical, was looking for evidence of rocks. What would a single sailor do in that case? She could not tie and untie herself to and from her own mast. So far, she had sailed her ship well around the dangers. But what that meant was that she had sailed her ship around everything: around every possibility of siren, around every possibility of safe haven. After being dashed against the rocks in her earlier life, Carla had sought a calm ocean, a boat on a mirrored surface, alone with the sea and the sky.

  11:45 P.M.

  Lucy Maud was glad that Kevin had left the car door open: the dome light revealed that he had not yet disappeared into the fuzzy night. She saw he was on his phone, but he wasn’t necessarily texting, she told herself.

  She stopped watching him because the going was treacherous: the front yard was full of container gardens, and she came close to tripping and falling face-first into white limestone gravel. They weren’t neat and tidy container gardens, either. Most had been repurposed from a jumble of old and defunct things: a fiberglass canoe; a set of kitchen cabinets turned on their backs, doors removed; a claw-foot bathtub, enamel flaked away. She turned the flashlight on these shapes one by one, even though a bright sodium lamp lit the whole place, just to verify each thing’s identity. When she moved the light away, she imagined that each thing morphed, that it became something monstrous just out of her line of vision, hulking to three times its normal size. Her steps quickened and she reached the front porch, climbing the stairs quickly, feeling the way she had as a child swimming in the dark lake, the sense when she emerged that she had pulled her feet out just in time, that something was just under the surface, a millisecond—a millimeter—from striking.