by Cari Noga
“Maybe things look better in Leelanau,” I start, lamely. He knows it. Growers pessimistic.
“Even if they do, it’s not even the first of April. Here I am, the April fool,” he says bitterly.
“There’s nothing you could have done.”
“Not about the weather. But I could have been smarter. What’s that you say, save for a rainy day?”
I nod.
“But here I was so confident. I could give Ana Maria her quinceañera. First it was just family. Then Mama asked me, can we invite a few friends? Sure, I said. Then it was that the church basement was too small. We needed to move it outside, rent tents, hire caterers. OK, Miguel? Sure, I said. Then it was that abuela and abuelo want to come, but they can’t afford it. Can you buy them tickets, Miguel?”
El dinero se nos va de las manos.
“‘Yes, Mama,’ I told her. But no more, OK? Nada más.” He laughs. “When we get there, Jane? One hundred guests. A band. A banquet. Mama kept apologizing. ‘I couldn’t say no. I got carried away. My only daughter.’ I used up all I had. If only I’d put my foot down.”
If only. “Don’t say that.”
He continues like he didn’t hear me. “The bills are still coming. Now this.” He looks at me for the first time. “And the others. Juan and Esperanza, they are expecting a baby.”
Niña or niño, I wonder automatically. So that’s why they didn’t leave after the season. Bad timing catching up to them, too.
“Raquel at Osorio’s, they just had four or five relatives move up. They were going to open another location.”
“They still could, couldn’t they?” Work that’s not dependent on the farms seems like the answer, actually.
He shrugs. “Mexicans are customers, too.” Swallowing the last of his coffee, he scrapes his chair back wearily. “I have to go.”
Next morning dawns frosty and cold, the thermometer again below thirty-two. Both the radio and the paper have long stories on the frost damage. The paper’s got a close-up photo of a cherry bud covered with the deathly white crystals. There’re quotes from farmers on both Old Mission and Leelanau rendering the same sentence: the 2012 cherry season is over before it started. Hope hasn’t been completely abandoned for apples, but it will be touch-and-go for a while. Now I’m thankful for the USDA bureaucracy and the skeptical banker who denied me the loan for new trees. Anything newly planted would have been even more vulnerable.
Rebecca’s number pops up on my caller ID.
“I saw the story in the paper.” Her tone is serious. “It scares me, what we’re doing to this planet.”
I’m not surprised that Rebecca brings it up, but the bigger picture feels a lot less urgent when I recall Miguel’s face yesterday.
“You just feel so helpless, as an individual, to do anything,” she says. “I felt like joining Plain Jane’s was one thing, especially the working share. Are you at risk, too?”
“Not the way the fruit growers and the migrants are. I’ve got time.”
“The migrants?”
“They’re the first ripple effect. No cherries or apples to pick, no work. It will keep a lot away. It’s a pretty scary situation for those who stay, though.”
“Can’t they get other jobs?”
“Maybe some. But their skills don’t exactly line up with what you see in the classifieds. Plus the language barrier, and the whole legal morass.”
“Oh dear.” Rebecca’s quiet for a moment. “I just saw Esperanza. She’s pregnant.”
“I heard. Where did you see her?”
“At her house. Trailer, really. Paul got me a necklace and earrings for Christmas. I’ve been getting so many compliments I visited her to pick out some gifts. She’s due in July. She was so excited.”
That accident of birth north of a particular river changes everything. But July is almost four months away. How much can she sell a necklace for? A pair of earrings?
“I hope you bought a lot,” I tell Rebecca.
Chapter 65
LUCY
Since we got back, I’ve been researching the narcos online, reading stories in Mexican newspapers, Wikipedia entries on gangs. Uncle Nando’s gang is bad, really bad. I think it was his own gang that set up the car crash, not enemies. I’ll bet Daddy knew everything, after all. He was going to get them out of Mexico. Then they would testify in a trial. The narcos would go to jail. Aunt Bonita and Uncle Enrique and Graciela could stay. Everybody would be safe. But if Daddy wasn’t there to get them out of Mexico, well, then . . .
I’m telling Miguel on the bus today. He’ll know what to do, how to start an investigation and stuff. And maybe then we could get Aunt Bonita and Graciela into the United States, after all! And Uncle Enrique.
But when I do, it seems like he’s not paying attention.
“Nando’s gang didn’t set up the car accident, Lucy.”
“How do you know?”
“Too risky, coming into the United States.”
“Maybe it wasn’t supposed to kill them. Just an accident. A warning.”
“Plenty of ways to warn people in Mexico.” He shakes his head. “You’d know it was them, too. Narcos rule by fear. They wouldn’t leave you wondering.”
“But—”
He’s slowing down. “Look, the roads are icy. I need to pay attention to driving. Forget about it, OK?”
He sounds like every other grown-up. He’s never talked to me like that before. I shrink down into my seat as he opens the door for the next bunch of kids, the cold blasting through the doorway and inside me, too. Maybe he was just in a bad mood? But I can’t ask him again after school because I’m going to Jared’s to work on a report for our Career Explorations class.
And the worst part is, if the narcos didn’t cause the accident, then I still could have. Step on the grass, make her car crash.
“So what are your top three?” Jared asks.
We’re in his room, at his computer. We’re supposed to pick three jobs that interest us, and research the pros and cons of each.
“TV journalist, veterinarian, and FBI agent.”
“FBI agent? Why do you want to be that?”
“So I can investigate people. It’s kind of like a journalist, if you think about it. You just get to bring them to justice afterward.” I can picture the headline: “Fernando Ortiz, convicted on hundreds of counts of drug trafficking, murder for hire, sentenced to life in prison.”
“I think you have to go to a special school,” Jared says. “Not just college.”
“That’s what I’ll research for the report,” I say. “What have you got?”
He looks at his screen. “Video-game designer.”
“Is that really a job?”
“Somebody does it.”
True. “OK. What else?”
“Pilot.”
“That’d be cool. What’s your third?”
He hesitates. “Don’t laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“OK. Well . . . farmer.”
“Farmer?” I blink. “Like Aunt Jane?”
“Yeah.”
“But . . . but you always complained about working there! Weeding, being hot, bored . . .”
“I know. It started out like that.” He looks at his hands. “After a while I started to like it more. Being outside, and running the stand . . . I just changed my mind, I guess.”
Huh. I stare at him.
“I thought we could do the stand again this summer. My mom signed us up for the work share and said maybe I can come out another day, too.”
Just Jared coming out?
“People will remember us from last summer, so I bet we get even more customers this year,” he says. “I thought we could make a Facebook page for Plain Jane’s, you know, for advertising. And—”
“Wait a second.” A Facebook page? Twice a week?
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just . . .” When did Jared make all these plans? He was the one helping me get to Mexico! Did
he think I would fail?
The thing is, it does sound kind of fun. We could sell Esperanza’s jewelry, like I thought of last summer. We could make maps to the lighthouse and wineries, and sell those, too. If we did it for a whole summer, we’d earn a lot from all the change people told us to keep. It feels really weird to be planning something at Aunt Jane’s. I’ve wanted to get away for so long. What about Aunt Bonita and Graciela, still stuck in Mexico? What about the grass? The stepping stump path will still be there, but . . . it’s so confusing.
“Lucy?” Jared waves his hand in front of my face. “Earth to Lucy?”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say to escape.
The Livingstons have a big mirror that lets me see myself from the waist up. As I wash my hands, I turn to the side, trying to see if I’m growing at all. Maybe a little? Finally? I turn the other way. I didn’t quite close the door, and shutting off the water, I hear Mrs. Livingston. She sounds really excited.
“. . . been reading about it online.”
“What makes you think a microloan could work?” Mr. Livingston’s voice. He’s not excited.
“Well, Ginny just loved the pieces I sent her, and everywhere I wear mine, I get compliments.”
“You and your sister equal two customers. You didn’t promise Esperanza anything, did you?”
Esperanza? I open the door a bit wider.
“Of course not. I wanted to talk to you first. But think of the possibilities we could open up for them, with a baby on the way.”
Esperanza’s having a baby?
“We? You want us to fund this personally? And just how micro are you talking?”
It was supposed to be a house first, then a baby. Casa, then niño.
“I’m not exactly sure yet, but—”
“How much, Rebecca?”
“A couple thousand. Five, if they were to develop an online store.” Her voice is slower now.
“Five thousand dollars for beads and bracelets and earrings?”
“It’s a loan, Paul. A loan. We loan Esperanza and her sister the money to buy the supplies. They make the jewelry and pay us back as they sell it.”
“I’m familiar with how a loan works.” He sighs. “What’s the collateral?”
“They don’t have any collateral.” Mrs. Livingston sounds impatient now. “They’re living in a migrant trailer, for heaven’s sake.”
“No collateral. No business experience. Uncertain market potential. If you were one of my clients, I’d tell you the risk ratio is about triple what’s acceptable.”
“I’m not your client, I’m your wife. We make these kinds of decisions together.”
“What’s taking so long? We still have to do the report, remember?” Jared’s face appears in the gap of the door.
“Be right out.” I shut the bathroom door and turn on the faucet again.
The house is empty when I get home. I go up to my room, to put on my birthday bracelets that Esperanza made. They are really pretty. I know people would buy them at the farm stand this summer. Could they sell more, enough to fill a whole store? Mr. Livingston doesn’t want to help. And we don’t have any money. If Jared and I ran the stand more, we could earn more.
Where is everybody? Lexie and Sarge are out mousing around somewhere. Aunt Jane’s usually in the kitchen. I go back downstairs and look out the kitchen window. All the snow melted while Miguel and I were gone, so the stepping stumps are exposed again. I follow them out to the shed. She’s busy with her shovels and rakes and stuff. Just like I thought.
“Hi.”
“Lucy! I didn’t know you were back.” She puts a hand on her chest. “Did you finish your report?”
I nod.
“Just trying to get organized out here. This crazy weather, need to be getting ready soon. I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Crazy weather?”
She looks surprised. “I guess this is your first spring here, isn’t it? And you were away for most of the heat wave. Well, it’s crazy, all right. Usually we still have knee-high snowbanks in March, and two months to go before we could hope to see eighty degrees.”
I liked the snow, too, covering up all the grass. Aunt Jane goes on. “It’s terrible for the fruit farmers. The whole cherry crop’s already wiped out. Apples could be next.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll show you.” She steps around her table, leading me out the door. But instead of turning down the stepping stump path to the house, she goes the other way, up the little hill behind it.
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head when she turns around.
“Huh?”
I point to the ground.
She looks down at the stepping stump. “Oh.” Her shoulders sag just for a second. “But it was OK all winter.”
All winter it was covered with snow.
“Can you just give it a try?”
Graciela and Aunt Bonita are still in Mexico, trying to hide from Uncle Nando’s gang. Now I have them to worry about. I shake my head.
She sighs. “All right. Let’s just go back to the house, then.”
She gets there first since I have to pick my way. The bark is rotting on the edges of most of the steps. One or two cracked right in half over the winter. In another spot there’s a big gap where one is just gone, and I have to jump. Aunt Jane sticks her head back out the door.
“Could you get the mail? Martha was late today.”
I nod. The path goes all the way to the mailbox. I pass the empty farm stand. If the weather has wiped out the cherry crop, maybe apples, too, what about the rest of the things Aunt Jane grows? Will we have anything to sell? I wish I could have followed her, to get the explanation.
The mailbox doesn’t have much, some ads, a couple of envelopes. One is hand addressed and looks like a subscription. Aunt Jane will be happy. The other one is typed and upside down. I turn it over. It’s addressed to me! Well, Estate of Lucy Ortiz, care of Jane McArdle. The return address says, “Law Offices of William E. Langley.” What could he be writing about? I tear it open.
“Dear Ms. McArdle . . . in the matter of Hershey and Ortiz vs. NBC Telemundo, LAX Limousine, and Ronald James Prentiss, California DOT license no . . . in view of blood alcohol tests administered 4/13/11, deemed admissible by the court . . . to compensate for loss of affection and alienation on the part of minor child . . . settlement, less attorneys’ fees . . .”
It goes on, but all I see are two things: April 13, 2011. The day of the car crash. And loss of affection. All of a sudden, I see Mom and Daddy more clearly than in months. Smiling. Laughing. Riding on Daddy’s shoulders. Mom squeezing me in the mirror. Daddy singing, “Abrázame muy fuerte,” “Lucy in the Sky.” Mom’s face lighting up when we brought leftovers to her office on the weekend. Spinning in her anchor chair. Gone, all of it, forever. And the weight of it inside is like a hundred stomach elevators, pushing me down to my knees on the cold, damp stepping stump, where I crumple up the letter and sob until Aunt Jane comes running out, lifting me up, walking me to the house with her arm around me, asking what’s wrong, over and over, what’s wrong, what happened, and I can’t answer, and we’re finally in the house, bright against the darkening night, and I drop the balled-up letter and collapse on the couch.
I must have dozed off. There’s a blanket over my legs, and Lexie curled up behind my knees. Aunt Jane is sitting at the computer. My throat is super dry, and I cough as I sit up. Aunt Jane swivels her head instantly. “You’re awake.”
She brings me a glass of water and sits down. Lexie meows and bounds away. After a few swallows my coughing stops. She smiles slightly.
“Well. Wrong day to send you for the mail.” I see the letter, smoothed out but still wrinkly, next to the computer.
“What was that? What does it mean?”
“That you have money coming to you. A settlement for your parents’ deaths.”
A wave of despair rises up. “You mean somebody can just pay a fine, and—”
“
Not just a fine. The driver of the limo is going to prison. He was drunk.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure, but at least a year. I was doing some research about minimum sentences online.” Aunt Jane waves at the computer.
A year. It’s been almost a year since the accident. It feels both like forever and practically yesterday. I want prison to feel like forever to that driver.
“But the court believes you’re due compensation, too,” Aunt Jane says. “The settlement is from the limo service and the network.”
“Huh?” It doesn’t make sense.
“Because they hired a bad driver. This wasn’t his first offense, turns out.” She looks at me. “Time out for now. You need something to eat.”
She heats up some beans and rice while I think. A drunk driver killed Mom and Daddy. I try to picture him, in prison. Someone who did it before. What happened the other time? If he had gone to prison then, maybe he wouldn’t have been driving Mom and Daddy that day. Anger swells, but then something else dawns. If it was a drunk driver, it wasn’t Uncle Nando and his gang. Miguel was right. Aunt Jane sets the bowl of beans and rice down. As I stir it, another idea occurs.
“It wasn’t me, either.” I don’t realize I’ve spoken the words out loud until I hear Aunt Jane’s voice, louder than usual, as she sits down next to me at the table.
“Lucy. Lucy. What do you mean, it wasn’t you?”
“On the field trip.” I can see myself back at the nature center, chasing Joel, tripping, the sickly sweet smell of the grass stains, the sticky green gunk under my fingernails. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.”
Aunt Jane’s forehead looks like the letter, all wrinkled. “Field trip where? Step on a crack? What—”
“Step on the grass.” I swallow hard. “Make her car crash.”
“Make her car crash?” Aunt Jane says it like a question, then repeats it again like an order. Like how I always heard it in my head. “Make her car crash.” She reaches for my hand. “You thought it was your fault? Oh my God—all this time—that’s why—oh my God.”
I look at our hands together. If she wasn’t holding it, I feel like I might float away, I’m so drained inside. Maybe Aunt Jane realizes that, because she leans even closer and puts her other arm around me, squeezing my shoulders. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”