“And Evie? What about Evie?”
Alice chose her words carefully.
“Someone passed this along to me. I didn’t hear it myself,” Alice said.
She told him how a person had overheard Rich saying that some of Evangelina’s employees at the taqueria didn’t have their work permits. He said they could shut her down for that and press charges for unpaid payroll taxes.
Alice knew that Evangelina had worked for years to make the restaurant successful. It was popular with Mexican and white families alike—a rare common space for the two communities in Hood River. It wasn’t just Evangelina this attack would hurt either, Alice knew. Her longtime employees counted on sending money to their families back home in Mexico.
Ron swore and rubbed his hand over his face.
“Rich said he was going to leave a message on the ICE tip line—as a way to get back at me through you guys, of course. I thought about calling Evie myself, but my Spanish is terrible, and I wanted to make sure she understood. I’m really sorry, Ron,” Alice said.
Ron sighed. “It’s not your fault, Alice. Rich Carlson is such a little weasel. And you should know none of that is true. Evie runs a tight ship, especially these days. She’s practically running a free legal aid firm, helping people renew their work permits and apply for permanent residency and citizenship. You’re not the first person to tell me this, by the way. Carlson. The little shit. No surprise he is helping spread that around. Thanks for letting me know.”
Alice felt her shoulders relax. So many people thought immigration was a black-and-white issue—legal or illegal. It was so much more complicated than that. Here in the valley they all lived with the gray. More than 25 percent of the year-round residents of the county were Mexican-American. Many orchard workers were Mexicans who worked seasonally in Oregon and went home in the winter. Status was a tricky question. Her father had taught her that it simply wasn’t anyone’s business.
“These blowhards want to deport every last person who doesn’t have a green card,” Al would fume. “These families have been here for generations. They pay taxes. They have the right to be here, and we should make it easier for them to stay.”
Ron shifted on the bench. His face broke into a smile.
“So, you told old Rich Carlson to take a long walk off a short pier. Good for you, Alice,” he said. “What are you going to do now?”
She said she didn’t know. She said first she had to see this thing through with the Watershed Alliance lawsuit and the plan to protest the spray Friday after next. She unfolded the map and showed Ron the orchards on the route. She told him about Doug Ransom’s list and pulled it out of her pocket, smoothing it with her hand. Seeing Doug’s graceful handwriting made her think of her father again, and she felt a surge of optimism.
Ron held out his hand. “Let me see that list,” he said. “I want to help.”
25
Robbing
Bees are so prone to rob each other, that, unless great precautions are used, the Apiarian will often lose some of his most promising stocks.
—L. L. LANGSTROTH
The day of the protest dawned cold, as if spring were unwilling to let go of the valley even as the blossoming orchards and farms leaned toward summer. The wind, which had blown all night, had diminished to a fluting breeze that found its way into all corners of Alice’s farm. The hives were quiet as the bees waited for the sun’s warming to call them forth.
Alice sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the photographs on her dresser—pictures of her parents, her nephews, and Buddy. The most recent photo of Buddy had been taken just a week or so before he died. He was standing next to the cab of the big long-haul truck he’d been leasing for months, grinning like a teenager.
“I feel like such a man behind the wheel of this thing,” he told Alice that day, laughing.
He stood with his hands on his hips and stuck his chest out. “Go ahead. Ask to see my man card.”
“You are an overgrown boy, Bud Ryan,” she said. “You watch yourself, or you’re going to have every man-child in this valley down here wanting to drive your new toy.”
Bud had taken her for a ride through town before he left for his first job, which took him to Salt Lake City and back as a contract hauler for Home Depot. Alice had to admit that the view from the high seat was fine, and she knew Bud, who loved to drive, would have a good time on the open road. When he returned from that first trip, his contagious enthusiasm made her promise to go with him on his next trip down to the Southwest. She’d take a vacation for once, she said. But she hadn’t gotten around to it. She was busy; he kept driving. And then Bud took that final trip to Las Vegas, and that had been that.
Alice still couldn’t remember the last thing he had said to her or she to him. Surely it was something routine, some kind word. They never fought. She didn’t remember kissing him goodbye, though she must have, or what he’d been wearing. During the first weeks after his death, the compulsion to remember such details kept her awake. She wandered her house at all hours trying to remember. But now she understood that none of that mattered. Bud was gone, and nothing would change that, nor the fact that they had loved each other.
Alice ran a brush through her hair. Bud would approve of what she was doing. The thought braced her. The events of the past two weeks were a blur—meetings with Stan and his partners, visits to orchardists around the valley, and texts back and forth with Ron, who, true to his word, had pitched in and called on some of the valley farmers in person. Alice had recruited Chuck Sauer and the bee group to the effort too. Jake’s young friend Celia had connected them with the Mexican-American Workers Union. The Riverkeeper people were bringing college students out from Portland. Alice tightened her belt. She felt as if she were marching into battle.
With Cheney riding in the truck bed, Alice drove the boys to the county fairgrounds out near the high school, where the march would begin. About a hundred people stood in groups, chatting as they waited for things to start. Harry retrieved Jake’s chair, and Alice told them she would go check them all in at the white tent standing in the middle of the hubub.
As she walked through the crowd, Alice thought the atmosphere felt almost festive—more like a parade than an environmental protest. She waved at some of the guys from the bee club and saw sweet Doug Ransom with his oldest daughter, Victoria.
“Nice work, my dear,” he said, beaming.
Alice saw the young women from Riverkeeper, the fish and wildlife folks, and a guy from state parks. As she listed the names of her group for the young woman running check-in, she was surprised to see Casey, the red-haired intern, sitting behind her. He peered into a laptop while simultaneously typing furiously into his phone. He waved sheepishly when he saw Alice.
“Joining the resistance, kid?”
He stood and crossed his arms, hunching forward. “Well, my internship ends next week, so I thought, Why not? I’m doing social media for Stan. I’ll be live-tweeting the whole event.”
Alice nodded. “I have no idea what that means, but thanks for helping out.”
Casey ducked his head and went back to his screens.
Alice found Stan just outside the tent, frowning over a piece of paper. His face brightened when he saw her.
“Alice! Great day for a mutiny, eh?”
Stan asked her to lead the orchardists and the beekeepers during the march and pointed her toward a table where the Portland students had made signs representing the various groups. Alice found Dennis Yasui, Vic Bello, and a handful of other orchardists, along with members of the bee group. She called them together and handed around signs that proclaimed, “Marching for the Bees!” and “Two-thirds of America’s Crops Pollinated by Honeybees!” and “No Farms = No Food!” Soon, Stan hopped up on a chair in front of the tent, waved a hand, and whistled. The voices died down.
“Thank you, everyone! Thanks so much
for coming out today to support the Hood River Watershed Alliance, PDX Riverkeeper, and the Clean Air Alliance. We are also joined by representatives of the Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs, the Mexican-American Workers Union, La Clínica del Cariño, and the Hood River County Beekeeping Association. And we want to thank the college students from PSU for coming out to help too. I know you’re taking time out from work and school to be here, and I appreciate it. Give yourselves a hand for standing up for the environment!”
The crowd clapped and whooped. Alice looked around at the smiling faces and felt the energy surging through them all. She felt like a part of something good.
Stan outlined the march course. The group would walk down Fir Mountain Road until they reached Randy Osaka’s driveway. They would not trespass, but they would block the road so that the spray truck could not get by. Stan reminded everyone that this was a peaceful protest and that no name-calling or violence would be tolerated. He said they could be arrested for blocking the county road. If anyone was having second thoughts about participating, he said, no one would judge them for bowing out. He looked at Alice. She knew this was true. Ron had talked to the orchardists as a private citizen, but he made it clear he couldn’t help her beyond that. She stood up straighter. She was sure of this thing. It made more sense than anything had all year.
“All right, then. Let’s get going!” Stan yelled.
He jumped off the chair and led the group out of the parking lot. Someone yelled, “Yee-haw!” in the back, and people cheered. Alice heard the beating of a drum. She saw Harry and Jake moving in from the back with Noah. She waited for them to catch up. Cheney, at the end of his leash, reared up and kissed her. People clapped along to the drum, and someone started singing “Give Peace a Chance.” Others joined in. The PSU students walked by swinging Hula-Hoops and waving rainbow flags.
The chill left the air as the May sunshine beamed down on them. They passed the high school, where kids stood in the parking lot waiting for the first bell. Several of them loped toward the lineup and joined in. Alice saw a lone figure—a lanky body and a shock of short hair—push off on a skateboard and coast down the hill. She stopped just short of Jake and hopped off. The kid was wearing his heart on his face.
“Hi, Amri,” he said.
“I thought it might be you,” she said.
“What gave me away?” he asked.
She smiled at him. “The dog, of course.”
“I guess you got my text.”
“Yes, I did,” she said.
“Hey, Alice, this is Amri,” Jake said. “Alice is our den mother.”
Alice snorted and nodded at the girl. She felt a surge of protectiveness for the boy. Don’t break his heart, she thought.
“Nice to meet you, Amri,” she said.
The march streamed down the hill and past the golf course. The Mexican-American Workers Union folks had started chanting “Sí se puede,” and the rest of the group took it up. Passing cars and trucks tooted and waved as the group wound down the county road. Alice saw a Honda pull over, and Pete Malone climbed out. He joined the stream of people, walking backward and snapping photos. A shadow fell across Alice’s face, and she looked up to see a large, long-haired man in board shorts and a hoody slapping palms with Harry and then Jake.
“Hombres! It’s a revolution!”
This must be Yogi, the kite instructor who wasn’t a kite instructor, she thought. His big face split with a grin. He did not try to high-five Alice, but instead shook her hand politely and then fell into step with Harry.
We look like the Bremen Town Musicians, Alice thought.
As they neared Osaka’s farm, the group slowed and bunched together. Stan stood off to one side, directing people to sit. Alice saw Jake pushing toward the front of the group. Cheney whined and strained against the leash. Jake looked over his shoulder.
“I want to be in front,” he said. “Hang on to Cheney for me, okay?”
He passed the leash to Harry and maneuvered the chair so he was front and center. Alice followed, and so did Harry, dragged along by Cheney, as well as Amri and Yogi the gentle giant. Alice saw Pete Malone snap a photo of them and she thought the five of them looked like the ringleaders of the ragtag band of protesters—beekeepers, orchardists, environmental conservationists, farm workers, and students. They held brightly colored signs that read “Hell no, SupraGro!” and “Protect Our Watershed.” Someone waved a clutch of helium balloons. The drums beat, and people sang “America the Beautiful.” Alice laughed as she looked around. It was like a party. That was probably not how it looked to the driver who crested the hill in a bright orange truck and lumbered toward the turnoff to Osaka’s orchard, where he was scheduled to begin spraying at 9:00 a.m.
Over the singing, Alice heard the truck’s jake-brake chugging as the driver slowed. She saw a look of alarm cross his face as he scanned the scene. He threw the truck into idle, stared down at the crowd, and pulled out his phone. A cheer went up, and Stan yelled at everyone to stay seated.
In the confusion that followed, Alice thought fuzzily that the driver had called Fred Paris. That couldn’t have been true. He had probably called his company to find out what he should do since he couldn’t drive his truck through a crowd of peaceful protestors, some of whom were minors.
Alice heard an engine approaching from behind. She turned and saw a line of trucks coming from the other direction. They drove onto the shoulder of the county road and around the protesters, kicking up dust, and parked between the spray truck and people sitting in the road. Doors slammed as men jumped out and stood in a line across the road. Alice saw Fred Paris climb out of his white Ford and stand with his hands on his hips. He glared at the crowd and then stalked over to the truck, motioning the driver down out of the cab.
Oregon had an open-carry law, and Alice saw more than one holstered gun. Several of the men had baseball bats. Some people who were sitting began to stand, and others pulled them back down. Their voices rose in confusion. Stan hadn’t said what to do in this sort of situation, probably because he hadn’t expected a mob of vigilantes. More trucks appeared and drove around the crowd, which sat in the middle of Fir Mountain Road, gamely trying to keep the sit-in going. Alice sat up taller and squared her shoulders. She could hear Stan’s voice admonishing everyone to remain calm, but she couldn’t see him. Someone started singing “Give Peace a Chance” again but trailed off when nobody joined in.
Fred stalked away from the truck driver and back to the line of men.
“Get the hell out of the road!” Fred yelled. “You’re obstructing private property!”
He signaled the line of men forward. They waded into the sitting crowd and began shoving and kicking everyone around them.
Alice heard someone yell that this was a peaceful protest. She saw Yogi jump up and lunge toward the interlopers. Someone shoved Harry, and Cheney reared up, barking. She watched Yogi reach down from his great height and sock Fred Paris in the face. Then she lost track of everyone. People were pushing and shoving to get out of the way. But more of Fred’s guys were coming in from the back. Time seemed to slow down. She fought to stand up, and someone elbowed her in the eye. She heard sirens, saw flashing lights, and then someone kicked her in the jaw as she struggled to keep her feet. She fell in the crush of bodies, grappling against them, trying to catch her breath. In the scrum, she looked out and saw Amri, the young woman with the green eyes and dark hair, swing her skateboard and bring it down on the shoulders of a man twice her size, and Alice laughed crazily.
* * *
• • •
Jake was lying on his side and halfway out of his chair. He tried to pull his head up. He’d lost sight of Amri. Where was Cheney? A large pair of hands reached down, pulled him into his chair, and righted it. Yogi, his long hair stringy with sweat, a bloody gash on his eyebrow, grinned at him.
“Dude! You gotta get outta here. These idio
ts are—”
A fist caught him in the mouth. Yogi’s head bounced, and he growled with joy and clobbered a shorter man. He grabbed Jake’s chair and moved him out of the fray.
“I’ll come back and get you!” he yelled before jumping back into the fight.
Jake looked for Noah, for Alice, for anyone. He couldn’t see them anywhere. People were punching and shoving and yelling. He didn’t recognize anyone he knew.
A hand came down on his shoulder, and he looked up to see a middle-aged man in a sheriff’s uniform scowling down at him.
“Put this guy in the second van!” the sheriff barked before moving on.
Ronnie appeared at the side of his chair, looking embarrassed.
“Sorry, man! I have to. He’s my boss. And my dad,” he said, and pushed Jake in his chair out of the crowd.
* * *
• • •
Right before the sheriff arrived, Harry realized the nasty men were succeeding in clearing a path to Randy Osaka’s driveway. The unfairness of it burned in his gut. The crowd hadn’t been prepared for a fight, but they were about to lose one. He saw Jake just outside the chaos. He saw Yogi swinging his big arms around with glee. He couldn’t see Alice or the dog. Cheney had yanked loose in the scuffle. Sirens blared, and then the sheriff was yelling over the crowd through a megaphone. Harry turned away and looked at the big orange truck, which sat idling in the road.
In the months after his arrest in New York, nobody ever asked Harry why he had agreed to help his friends with the failed heist—why, specifically, he had decided to climb behind the wheel of the truck full of electronics that his friends had decided to steal. His mother had asked him, “What were you thinking?” But that wasn’t the same thing as asking him what his motivation was.
Though he’d never been asked, Harry knew exactly why he had done it. That day at the bar with Marty and Sam, he’d actually started to walk away. He drained his PBR and set the empty can on the counter. Then Marty turned to him and said, “It’s not like you have a better idea, do you, Stokes? You haven’t had an original thought in your entire life. So don’t pretend you’re better than the rest of us.”
The Music of Bees Page 29