Back to the Garden

by Clara Hume

  Thing is, we'd seen more like that kid. Not a lot, but enough. I remembered reading The Grapes of Wrath like every other high school kid, and that's how I saw this current time period. Only this time felt worse, with more finality across the world, not just in one region. I wondered if there was anyone out there who still lived in a house with a swimming pool—but I doubted it. The degree of suffering and desperation was seen clearly on the road. I thought of street corners, like the kind when I visited San Francisco once long ago, where down-and-out hobos begged for a little coin, and the rest of us would walk briskly along.

  Now we were all hobos.

  Jimmy thought it was his fault for taking us on a tour of California to try to find his old friend, and making us drive through Death Valley in such heat. But if we hadn't come this way, we wouldn't have hooked up with Joe and Maisie, and I told Jimmy to look at it positively for they were good folks. Besides, Jimmy had told Leo we should drive a northerly route and not through the desert after seeing the Redwoods, but Leo said "Naw, let's get to Beaufort as directly as we can."

  The fan had helped some, but in the end, we drove only at night and slept during the hottest part of the day. I was so delirious I would often dream of fairies and a home I never knew. Somewhere across the waters and the wild. Fresh water, that is. Free, without the chains of heat and hunger and thirst. We had fashioned turbans around our heads, had stripped down to little clothing, and had someone pumping the fan in the back of the wagon most of the time.

  When we finally got to the Arizona border, it was morning time. The heat was impenetrable, but for the first time we saw a few clouds. The river itself had lost gumption in the last few years, but it was still alive, curling through the canyons, heading toward the Sonora-Baja border. The river might have been more vigorous if part of its headwaters up near the La Poudre Pass had not been diverted from the Never Summer Mountains to irrigate eastern farmlands long ago. Other in-flows had been moved too, and the water had not been managed properly. Today, the river was but a stream compared to how I'd seen it before, in photos in books.

  The water was cool, and we tested it for bacteria and found it clean enough to bathe in and drink out of. We felt like we'd driven to heaven. I hugged Leo, pressed up to him in the cool water, and felt his hardness grow against my flat stomach. I envisioned us as the Anasazi, a culture I'd always been enamored with, which had built adobe dwellings in the patina-patterned sandstone cliffs of the Chaco Canyon. Some say the ancient people had vanished, but most figured they had left to areas that were more hospitable, with better watersheds.

  Every day I felt the growing realization that we would vanish too, whether or not we stayed put or went elsewhere. And what would we leave behind? Would our homes crumble in the dying forests? We were ephemeral, we were. Vague specks here and there. What mattered is what we did when we were alive, not how we would be remembered or forgotten after we died.

  Leo and I snuck up the river alone, and made love away from the others. The sun had tanned us deeply. We were children of the new land. I felt warm in his strong embrace, and we spent the morning alternately baking on the steaming beaches and wading in the warm waters.

  We had been up all night, taking turns driving and conversing to keep each other up. Today we were dizzy and tired and knew we had to get back to the others and get a nap in.

  When we arrived back at the wagon, we found our troupe to be in conversation with a group of bikers who were traveling across the country in the other direction. They also had made use of biodiesel and agreed to have a quick lunch with us on the beach before heading out. I had emerged out of the water naked and wrapped only a towel about my body on the walk back—and felt self-conscious because of the stares. I went back to the miserable wagon for my tunic and shorts.

  On the beach, we all did what we could to coordinate food. We still had dried apples from our mountain, and plenty of chicken stock, which we boiled in water over a campfire. I dropped in some carrots, dried onions, and thyme. There was bread and beef jerky. The bikers, having been in Phoenix, had stocked up with a few canned and dried goods found in stores. They had dried mangos, powdered milk, canned ham spread, and sardines. In the end, we had a feast.

  Their leader, or maybe he was more like their mascot—his name was Buddha—had a story to tell of his mother's ancestry, which was Haisla, from up in British Columbia.

  He spoke in a tone I remembered seeing in old comedies. He said, "Dude, this is totally like a potlatch. It's where people, you know, like come together to share food and stuff. In some cultures they even set up marriages at these shindigs. It was totally a way to be kind to your neighbors. Can you believe this custom was banned once? I think it sucks."

  Buddha wasn't that old. Maybe in his early 30s. His face was pockmarked, and his body big and tattooed. "Promise me this, friends," he said, with a hand held up to toast a beer. We had our booze out too. "Promise me in this world we don't ban being kind, dudes. Okay? I mean, that's just lame."

  We lifted our mismatched mugs high in a toast.

  The river flowed on easily, and Jimmy started telling stories of his old days. "I had me a woman up near Sandpoint," he told Buddha. "She was a petite thing, like Fran here, and had emerald eyes and sandy hair. Hell, we screwed like rabbits but never did have any kids. I guess she was sterile. Or maybe I was, but that would be tough to believe. These kids, they are my kids." He pointed to us, including Caine, Maisie, and Joe, as if he'd known them forever.

  "You all got a cool family," said Buddha. "I am glad we ran across ya. Well," Buddha said, as he seemed to have a hard time saying what he meant to say, "I think that the country will see more of this potlatch thing. We roadies gotta stick together, you know?"

  "Hell, yes," said Jimmy.

  Buddha said, "Where ya'll headed anyway?"

  "Over to the eastern shore. Beaufort, South Carolina," said Jimmy. "I s'pect we'll head back next spring, but be sure to take the northern route."

  "And go back to Idaho?"

  "I believe that's our plan, mister. We got our homes there. It's got a good water supply and everything we need, and still cold up there in the winter," Jimmy added.

  "Hey, maybe I'll look you all up then. Some other time. Me, I got this family, but half of us died last year. On the road too. It was like...gross and stuff. Now? We are going to the Pacific."

  "What's it like there?" Elena asked. Elena had a thing about the sea. Her favorite book was Moby-Dick, which she'd brought with her and read here and there, and it was my opinion that if she could put her feet in the ocean, it might start helping her get over the loss of Cameron more. But Caine had already told her his story of the Pacific. Elena didn't want to buy the fact the ocean was that polluted.

  "The ocean is terrible, dude." Buddha said. "You got dead fish, rubble, broken glass, and shit. The water rose up over houses and industrial plants. Not a pretty sight. We only go there to see if anyone needs help. Our home is at Lake Elsinore. Gotta big biker camp there, but these dudes I ride with are my brothers. Back home, we're trying to clean the lake and put fish back in it. But the sea? No, ma'am. You do not want to go in there, dude."

  Elena's eyes wandered to the West, mistily. I touched her hand.

  At that point we heard the loud blasts of distant gunfire. We couldn't tell where it had come from, but it was too far away for us to investigate.

  "What in the frigging hell?" said Jimmy.

  We all stared around toward the distance and to the sky. There were a few more blasts as we stood over the remnants of our potluck, and then finally nothing.

  "I've heard that before," said one of the bigger bikers. "At night especially. I can't ever figure out if my mind is playing tricks on me. Like, it's a haunted reenactment of distant firing squads."

  Buddha looked sad that his potlatch had ended right as someone may have gotten shot somewhere, and he numbly said, "We should get going."

  "Bikers ain't never gonna stop movin' along," Jimmy said. "Me, this is gonna
be my last trek."

  The party was ending, and Buddha gave me a hug good bye even though we hadn't spoken too much. He nearly crushed me he was so big, and it made me smile a little. The bikers roared away, hooting and hollering, and we were happy with full bellies.

  It was still hot, not quite as much as the desert, not here by the river, so we slept on the beach under a few trees, with the river flowing by, offering a tiny bit of breeze and moisture.

  Our plan was to take turns driving and sleeping. The only ones not driving were Jimmy, on account of being so old, and Elena, because she still had to breastfeed to make sure her little one was getting enough nutrition. We didn't want to wear her out.

  Tonight I would be splitting the drive again with Leo. Starting at dusk, we'd head east, and both of us would have to stay up. If one of us was driving, the other would keep them awake and have a shotgun at hand in case we ran into trouble.

  After our long naps, we'd just started out from Parker, with a half moon swinging in the starlit sky—as if nothing had ever changed—when we heard a bike motor in the distance. We looked down the road to see Buddha. Leo was driving the wagon and said, "Ho there! Why're you back this way again?"

  The moon's shadows puddled the desert with silver streams, and Buddha stopped his bike and looked frightened. "They're all dead. All dead!"

  I could see now he was in a panic. Sweat and tears slid down his porky cheeks. Leo hopped down from the wagon seat and said, "Wait, what?"

  Buddha got off his bike and just sat on the highway. Not like you saw much other traffic. He was so desperately sad. "We got halfway into southern California when outlaws came up to us and started demanding stuff. I don't know. Like supplies and stuff."

  Poor Buddha was out of breath. "We hardly had anything. We had some water and some dried food. We had some looted stuff in a sidecar. They took it all. Then they started shooting, kinda...randomly at first. Then they shot all my friends. They shot at me too, but I just fell down and moaned and didn't move. They took off fast. They probably thought I was dead."

  "Where'd you get hit?" I asked.

  "I didn't," he admitted. "There was a bullet that ricocheted on the ground next to me and I fell and acted like I had been hit."

  I had to think back; there'd been at least a dozen bikers. "Are you sure they all died?" I asked.

  Buddha nodded. He said he'd checked them all. I shuddered.

  Leo said, "Well, shit, Buddha. I'm sorry about your friends. Look, come with us if you want. I guess we're going to have to stock up on some ammo if we can find more. We've got some, but...didn't you all have any?"

  "Well, yeah," explained Buddha. His dark face and black eyes were childlike but wounded, with innocence that had been claimed. His hair was wild and down to his shoulders. He looked so sad. "It's just that we didn't expect that. We were caught by surprise."

  By now, Jimmy was awake and so were some others. Jimmy came out of the wagon and said, "What the hell is goin' on here?"

  Leo explained and then said, "Buddha, you can come with us. We'll make room. You want to head east with us?"

  Buddha stood up laboriously and kicked a pebble. "I guess all my family and friends are dead. But I can't fit in that wagon of yours. Look, I got my bike. They took my extra fuel, but..."

  Leo placed his hand on Buddha's big shoulder. "We can deal with the fuel. You can tag along beside us on your bike or let go of it and come with us in the wagon. Either way."

  Buddha said he'd probably tag with us on his bike but have to drive real slowly. However, for now he was plum tired and depressed after seeing his friends get shot.

  I noticed Caine coming down from the back of the wagon, and he said, "It's okay, mate. You go get some shut-eye. I can drive a bike. I'll chug along behind the wagon."

  Buddha said okay and grabbed Caine's offered hand in a shake, but then said he needed a quick break before starting the journey with us. He slumped down the road a bit, just over behind a tree, and he cried and cried. I could see his big body shaking, and ran over to hold him.

  "It's okay, Buddha. You've got some new friends, and we'll go along with you."

  His tears were like fat raindrops soaking my tunic. He shook and cried. Then slowly he stopped and said "Thank you, dude," real humble like.

  I helped Buddha into the back. The rest woke up for just a little while, including Kristy, who said, "You are fat" to Buddha.

  He said, "I know," but patted the little girl's head.

  Elena said, "Kristy, that's not nice."

  Before long, we got everyone settled in. Leo said to stay with Buddha a bit before driving, so I did. I sat in the wagon and let him rest his head in my lap.

  Thing about our wagon was, there was hardly any suspension and all of us were sore by now. The night road was bumpy and the desert winds hot. Moonlight streamed in through the open flaps. I could hear the low motor of the sidecar bike as Caine drove it along slowly.

  I stayed with Buddha until he fell asleep, wondering about outlaws and what could lead people to be so cruel. Then I remembered how the world was getting before all the disease and heat came about. How corruption ruled. Some might say it always had, but that there were more golden times of goodness during the ages of humankind. Or were there? Maybe it was all an illusion, like the watery mirages we'd see day in and day out. I wondered where we were headed, but more than ever felt protective of my new friends and family. When I moved back up front to help Leo, I grabbed a rifle and set it next to me. I had left my bow and arrow at home. I felt strange with guns, always had. But now the rifle was comforting after I had heard Buddha's story.

  Joe—Chapter 14

  One line that always stood out to me in great fiction was Gabriel Garcia Márquez's "The scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love."

  For so long I had wished for a scent to romanticize my love for Maisie, but I never found it. I didn't fall in love with her out of the womb; the love came later, but the adoration started soon enough. I don't remember when I first laid eyes on her, but I do recall very early memories of when I had a little red wagon and Mother let me take it when we would visit the Segals, who had just moved into the area. I remember little Maisie learning to walk, and the way her golden-auburn curls bounced in the wind as I toted her along in the wagon. I remember the look she gave me, at age 10, when she admired my riding skill on a mustang I had to break: her eyes filled with wonder and amazement, and though I didn't know love yet, it felt good that someone, especially a girl, had a high opinion of my skill.

  It wasn't until she was sixteen that I fell in love with her, and I remember the night perfectly. It was a decade and a half ago on a June evening when the Segals had a party for all the nearby ranchers, where Maisie's mom Katherine had made hurricanes and mint juleps, and all kinds of southern food, along with the special acorn bread my mother had taught her.

  Maisie was glowing that night and wore a simple cream-colored cotton dress. Her hair glimmered beneath the moon; her eyes were lavender and shining, like a starlet of old. She had been slinking about the party, stealing champagne and leftover drinks, and later I caught her on the back deck involved in one of her paintings; by that time, I'd had a few beers, being 18 and a man.

  I said in the best husky voice I could muster, "Evening, Maisie."

  She turned around quickly, her dress twirling behind her, and said, "Shit, Joe! You scared the hell out of me." She was so annoyed, I sunk inside of myself.

  I came back down to Earth and said, "Sorry."

  There was no scent that stood out that night or any other time I caught myself falling for her. Every time I tried to love her, she pushed me away.

  Things have changed. The last several years of strife and hardship have taken away our parents and had caused us to wither. I still cared about her, but now thought, "Fuck it." Especially now when I saw the way she and Caine looked at each other. Those long days and nights on the road, I realized how much of my time had been wasted in lovi
ng her. There never had been a special scent anyway, just an illusion on my part.

  I thought back on how my life would have been if I had given half an eye to a few ladies who had appealed to me, and shook my head. They were either dead or gone. Gone, who knew where. Fact was, nothing much lasted these days and unreciprocated love had come to be a friend instead of a stranger. At least it was real. That was something.

  But now it was no good. It had rotted like a once fresh peach left too long in the sun.

  I told myself to never become a creep, and grew cold at Maisie's obvious feelings for Caine. My love may not have succumbed totally, but I psyched myself up for letdown and forgot her. There was enough else to deal with, and I found myself caught up in the rest of it.

  First, Buddha had come to us at night with barely anything but a sidecar bike and the clothes on his back, after watching his best friends in the world get shot dead.

  Like we could get back to sleep that night.

  I lay there thinking of it all, and cursed the world and its minions for being so downright evil to rob another in open daylight. I watched the sky through the wagon flaps as it blurred by that night. Saw the stars promise death and light. Heard Fran and Leo share quiet thoughts up front.

  My back hurt from all the bumping around, and I sat up in the wagon. I had brought my old transistor radio, which I'd converted into a solar-powered one years ago as a teenager. I played around with it now and then, trying to pull in people who had survived across the world and had found ways to power their radios too. During lonely nights, this old toy had kept me company. I took it with me as I finally hopped out of the wagon and joined Caine on the bike, riding in the sidecar.

  "Hola, mate," he called. I think he was glad to have some company.