by Amy Briant
She looked away. “I know,” she said, her voice low and distant.
I could see Buffalo and her kitchen crew approaching. Our time was almost up. I stepped forward and grabbed both of East’s arms, up on my toes so I could whisper directly into her ear. “Do you know where our stuff is?”
The crew was almost upon us.
East stared down at me, her eyes wide in her pale face. She shook her head just a fraction, a movement so small I doubt the other women saw it. I wasn’t sure if I believed her.
“Everything all right, Elinor?” Beefy/Buffalo called. “You coming?”
Without another word, East leaned in, planted a soft kiss on my temple, then hurried off to join her coworkers.
It was a long, lonely walk back to the tent.
The next day dawned clear and cold. I was glad for my leather jacket as Nancy, Marta and I rode out to a distant ridgeline to inspect and fix a fence. Horseback riding was a new skill for me, but the docile and sweet-natured gray mare Nancy chose was tolerant of my inexperience. Her horse was a muscular piebald gelding called Buster. When I asked, Marta told me her horse’s name was Caballo. I think she was joking. It was a beautiful morning with brilliant blue skies and the earthy aroma of the freshly harvested fields filling my senses.
And then I caught myself. I hated those moments when I realized I was enjoying my time at Tres Hermanas. What the hell was I doing enjoying myself? Every minute I was there was time I wasn’t using to find Segundo and my sister. No matter how much I liked Nancy and Marta and Alma—no matter how safe or warm or well-fed I was—I had to get out of there. With or without East.
Our destination that day was far from the central rings. After the first hour of riding, the only other women we saw were a couple of kitchen workers on horseback leading a solitary cow back toward town. I recognized the black and white markings—my old pal Bovine Nancy. Her bell sounded pure and sweet in the clear morning air.
Nancy and Marta were both capable of long, comfortable stretches of silence, so it was not unusual for us to not have much conversation on our way to work. That morning, however, I became aware there was some tension between them. I had never heard them argue before, so that was awkward. I didn’t catch more than a word or two in their terse, but quiet, exchanges in Spanish—too quick for me—but it was clear they weren’t in perfect agreement. Something about la fuga, which was not a word I knew. And Simone. I was straining to hear them while pretending not to pay attention. From their tones, Marta sounded worried with Nancy trying to placate her. Whatever it was, I figured they would work it out.
After a long ride which ended with a steep climb, the horses were content to graze while the humans worked. All morning long, we righted saggy fence posts and restrung barbed wire.
We were on the summit of one of the hills overlooking Tres Hermanas’s pretty little valley. We could see for miles from up there, even to San Francisco Bay sparkling in the distance to the west and south of us. Of course, I couldn’t see all the way to San Tomas, but I shaded my eyes with my hand and tried to discern any landmark or reminder of the only home I’d ever known—not knowing if there was anything or anyone left to see.
We broke for lunch midday, sitting in the shade of a venerable oak and admiring the remarkable view. The big tree reminded me of Gran’s favorite spot in the dim coolness of the woods behind our cabin. I’d buried her there. I would likely never see that spot again, but Gran was with me in everything I did—my thoughts, my words, my attitudes. She was the blood that moved through my veins.
“See the bay, Kell?” Nancy said, pointing south to the shimmering water. I took a long swig from my Tres Hermanas-issued water bottle, then wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“I see it,” I said.
As always, I was alert for any hints, verbal or visual, as to where the highway might be. That and my missing gear were the two things I needed before I took off. Without that information, Plan B was to simply head back the way we had come, backtracking many days and miles in the hope I could relocate the freeway. Plan B sucked. I scanned the scenic vista again, but saw no identifiable highways. The problem was, so much of it was so torn up and overgrown, a former road looked just like the rest of the landscape unless you were standing on it.
Nancy continued, “Okay, follow the coastline on the left down to where the greenery stops. And then see those few thin plumes of smoke at about ten o’clock?”
I followed her pointing hand. There. I nodded.
“That’s Oakland,” she told me.
“Right.” I remembered me and East sitting by the side of the road there, right before I’d gotten sick.
“I grew up there. Marta and Alma came from further south, a place called Holmesville.”
Oh, shit. Were we doing show and tell now? Well, I had nothing to show and less to tell. From the corner of my eye, I could see they were both looking at me, waiting for my response. Time to change the subject.
“Do you think there are any towns left out there, Nancy? Or other places like Tres Hermanas?”
To my surprise, she answered with certainty.
“Of course! There are a handful of small villages, I guess you’d call them, that we know of here in the Bay Area. We barter our wine and dried fruit with some of them. And swap information, more importantly. One of them has been willing to take in our mothers with boy children when they reach ten years old.”
As so often seemed to happen, what started out as me asking her a question somehow turned into Nancy asking me questions.
“Isn’t your sister at a place like that? She’s with a group, right?”
I had never mentioned my sister to Nancy or Marta or anyone at Tres Hermanas. Damn you, Elinor Eastman. Heaven only knew what expression was on my face as I stared back at Nancy, but Marta did one of her small snorts.
“You think like a soldier, Kell,” Nancy said approvingly. “But you are too young to be a soldier, so someone must have trained you well, eh?”
I nodded slowly, thinking of Gran and Gabriel. And how much I missed them. I blinked away the tears that sometimes sprang upon me without warning, pretending I had dust in my eyes.
Nancy was saying, “Your friend, however, is not as strategically minded as you are.”
“Which is a nice way of saying she has a big mouth,” I said sourly. I knew it was only a matter of time before East cracked like an egg and shared all our secrets with these strangers. Strangers who were beginning to feel like friends.
“She has a big heart as well,” Nancy said. “A trusting heart. She is already very popular here.”
Marta snorted again.
“So you kids are from San Tomas?”
The cat was out of the bag.
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
“I used to go to the beach there in the summer with my girlfriend,” Nancy said.
“Que bonita playa,” Marta threw in. Holmesville was only about twenty miles south of San Tomas. Or had been. We were practically neighbors.
We were quiet for a while then, each staring off into the distance, into the past. The horses’ bits clinked as they cropped at the grass. Nancy’s voice brought me back to the present.
“Kell.”
I looked at her. Marta chose that moment to get up, announce very uncharacteristically that she was going for a walk, and stomped off toward the horizon.
Nancy glanced after her with a look I couldn’t read, then turned her attention back to me.
“Do you want to know where the freeway is?” she asked me without emotion.
We locked gazes. I did want to know. In fact, I had to know. If I admitted that to her, would I be giving up too much information? Would she use it against me? Would she lie? I came to three conclusions. First, that I did trust Nancy. Well, pretty much. As much as I trusted anybody. Second, that this was an exercise in trust for both of us. Third, that I had nothing to lose.
“Yes.”
She pointed again to the plumes of smoke marking her hometown. I told her
I knew the 80 ran north and south at that point—that was the way East and I had come.
“Right. Now if we move up the coastline, that’s north. See how it curves and kind of bumps out there? That’s Richmond. Or…where Richmond was. The freeway split there, with the 580 heading west and the 80 continuing more or less north.”
I suddenly remembered East and I had been there too. I recalled a hill that stood out from the otherwise flat landscape. And standing on the freeway in my feverish daze, seeing a few hundred feet up the road where the freeway split to form a V—one route curving west around the shoreline of the bay, the other continuing north. It all snapped into perspective for me now. I could see the big hill too, now that I knew what I was looking for.
Nancy looked where I was so intently staring and seemed to understand.
“That hill was by a town called Albany,” she told me. “Not that it matters anymore. That’s where 80 starts bending northeast, more and more. In the old days, by the time it got to the California/Nevada border, it was headed practically straight east.”
“And now?” I asked, perhaps too eagerly.
“I don’t know. Last year, a few of us rode up the 80 to the bridge over the Carquinez Strait. That’s about thirty miles from here. Needless to say, the bridge is out. We camped there overnight, then turned around and rode home.”
Carquinez—that rang a faint bell. Maybe Gabriel had mentioned it to me.
“So…” I squinted, trying to see the map in my mind. “From Tres Hermanas, the best place to intersect the freeway is…”
“Just on the other side of that hill,” she told me. “About a three-hour walk.” She pointed this time at the northeastern side of the valley. The tent where we slept was at the foot of “that hill,” which was the middle of three nearly identical peaks. The middle one was a little bit taller than its sisters.
“For real?” I said, dumbfounded to hear that the freeway I’d been so concerned about was just on the other side of the hill next to my tent. Duh.
“For real,” she said solemnly, then gave me one of her first-class smiles. She held out her fist and I bumped it with my own, like I’d seen Marta do.
“But I want you to know something,” she continued.
“What?” I said warily.
“Just that both you and your friend are welcome here, Kell. We see how valuable you two are in your different ways. You both bring skills and traits that we respect, and frankly, that we need here at Tres Hermanas. You may have noticed many of our sisters are older. Your youth and strength would make you much appreciated additions to our community.”
She spoke persuasively but also from the heart. I believed her. If Simone had made me the same speech, I would have dismissed it without a second thought. There was something about Ole Fluffy Hair that I just didn’t trust. I’d overheard a few mutterings here and there among the women that implied I wasn’t the only one with misgivings.
But I liked Nancy, so I chose my words carefully.
“That’s nice to hear, especially coming from you, Nancy. And both East and I are grateful for the welcome we’ve received at Tres Hermanas.”
“Then stay with us, Kell,” Nancy said passionately. “You two could have a life here, a really good life with friends and purpose. You fit in here, Kell—you’re one of us. You have a chance for happiness with us you may never find anywhere else in this fouled-up world.”
There was a lump in my throat. Tears stung my eyes again as I felt the truth of her words. I fought for control so I could answer her. Even if I knew where Segundo was and survived the journey, I’d still be a freak when I got there. An outsider once again, just like at the Settlement. And Gabriel wouldn’t want to come to Tres Hermanas. She was looking for her own soul mate and he sure as hell wasn’t at a lesbian feminist commune.
It was all such a mess. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. I had to find my sister. There was no other choice for me. First, find Gabriel, my heart told me. Then…we’ll see.
I shook my head slowly and then more firmly, finally regaining my composure. I looked Nancy in the eye. She looked so sad it almost made me want to cry again.
“I have to go, Nancy. I have to find my sister.”
“I know,” she said, after a moment. “I guess I’d do the same in your shoes.”
I took a chance and asked the question that had been in my mind since our arrival. “Will Simone let us go?”
She shot me a troubled look and said, “Only Simone can answer that.”
Not exactly the reassurance I was hoping for.
Nancy took a deep breath and let it out, then nodded as if she had reached a decision. “I hope you’ll change your mind, kiddo,” she said seriously. “But it’s your choice and nobody else’s.”
“Thank you, Nancy. I mean…thanks. Really.” Words failed me, but she understood. That was the great thing about her—she got me. A rare friend, indeed.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Secreto
On Saturdays, we worked half a day and then had the afternoon off to do as we pleased. Well, in theory we did. Somehow, there was always a reason for me to not see East or otherwise wander off on my own. Part of it was our conflicting work schedules—mine was regular Monday through Friday with the half day on Saturday, while the kitchen crew had three shifts working nearly ’round the clock, seven days a week. On the previous weekends, either Nancy or Marta had found some innocuous, yet effective, way to keep an eye on me.
Cleaning our tent from stem to stern was the Sunday ritual. One Saturday afternoon, there was a trip to the library with Nancy when I let it slip I was a reader. And I had to admit, all those books would have been a powerful incentive for me to stay, if the pull of family was not even stronger. Another afternoon was a picnic for the four of us by the creek that ran through the vineyards with Alma delightedly splashing her feet in the water.
This Saturday was different, though. For the first time ever, when I got up, Nancy was still in the lower bunk, face turned to the wall. I stood there uncertainly, wondering if I should awaken her. Marta stuck her head through the tent flap, however, and put a cautionary stubby brown finger to her lips. Further semaphoring made it clear I was to get dressed in a hurry and join her outside.
“Is Nancy okay?” I asked in a low tone as we started down the trail toward the dining area. I could see Alma ahead of us with her gaunt-faced friend, who I now knew to be part of the laundry crew.
“Enferma,” Marta muttered. Sick.
“How bad—” I started, but she cut me off.
“Enferma,” she repeated in a tone that brooked no further discussion.
The heart of Tres Hermanas was jumping with more than the usual hustle and bustle that particular Saturday. That night was the much-anticipated start of their harvest festival. After a quick breakfast, our job was to help anywhere and everywhere with festival preparations. The celebration would begin at sunset in the amphitheater. We assisted the willowy Euterpe with setting up her deejay platform in the meadow where much of the serious partying would take place. This bit of information I heard from others passing by—not from Marta, who labored in her usual stoic silence. I supposed it was restful. All my attempts to get a little more intel out of her regarding Nancy were unsuccessful beyond grunts and under-the-breath bilingual imprecations.
After rolling wine barrels, stacking hay bales, stringing garlands of flowers through the trees lining the main avenue and digging some new latrine trenches (a job at which I now excelled), it was time to knock off for lunch. Clambering out of our brand new and outstanding trench, I turned to extend a hand to Marta to haul her up. Before she could grab it, however, her foot slipped on a rock and she went down hard on one knee, crying out in pain.
“Marta!” I jumped down in the ditch beside her. She was clutching her knee and grimacing.
“Is it—? Are you—?” I searched my inner lexicon in vain for the Spanish word for sprain.
She reached for me and I helped her slowly t
o her feet. Gingerly, she tried taking a step but it was clearly painful. With her leaning heavily upon me, we limped back to town (as I now thought of it) at a snail’s pace. I deposited her at the clinic, where she was greeted by the doctor with warm Gallic sympathy and cool medical efficiency. With nothing further to contribute, I started backing out the door, visions of a free afternoon dancing in my head.
“Kell,” Marta said sharply, her eyes dark, her face lined with pain as the doctor gently examined her leg. “You find Alma, sí?”
“You want me to bring her here?”
“No, no…You are with Alma, okay?”
All day? All night? This was not what I had in mind for my Saturday.
“Please, Kell—you are with Alma.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m with Alma. I got it, Marta.”
“Gracias, Kellito.”
As I trudged off in search of Alma, I mused on the fact that Marta trusted me to take care of her sister. On the other hand, on such a busy day, who else could babysit on such short notice?
Lunch hour was more than half over. I found Alma easily enough at one of the long wooden tables under a shady tree, seated with the laundry crew. She was delighted, as always, to see me, although her enthusiasm dimmed when she heard the words “Marta” and “doctor.” I did my best to assure her the injury appeared minor, but tears were imminent. The laundry crew’s chief, a kind-faced woman everyone called Maytag, said she would take her to the clinic for a quick visit while I got some lunch. Alma, cheerful again, was back at my side before I’d started dessert. Her smile and attention were equally divided between me and my pudding.
A peaceful silence had descended upon the dining area as I ate. The tables around us were all but empty. It looked like everybody was either busy getting ready for the festival or perhaps indulging in a pre-fiesta siesta. I’d kept an eye out for East, but she was nowhere to be seen. I knew the kitchen crew was working on a special feast which was to be held under the stars in the meadow. She was probably deep into peeling and dicing somewhere.
I’d been waiting for this opportunity.