by Ruth Ozeki
She went back to the bar to have a cigarette. Not that she was supposed to be smoking. After the operation she’d more or less quit—she didn’t smoke at home at all anymore, didn’t even keep cigarettes around—but when she’d gotten in the car that morning, she knew she would smoke again for old times’ sake, and as soon as she’d passed the Liberty Falls town-limits sign, she pulled into a 7-Eleven and bought a pack of Old Gold Filters. Will would kill her if he found out, but the thought of seeing Yummy made her crave it again. She smoked with the car window open. Her fingers were like ice on the wheel. If Will asked, she could blame the smell on Yummy.
She ordered another coffee, bypassed the sugar, and dumped in two packets of Nutrasweet. She was trying to be healthy, after all these years.
At four she phoned Will on the cell phone.
At five she had a hot dog and a Coors and another cigarette.
Finally, just after six, she heard the announcement for the Seattle flight. A small crowd had gathered by the gate. They were the same bored people she’d seen waiting all day, but now, one by one, their faces lit up as a long-awaited loved one emerged from the plane. Cassie’s face felt frozen. Not eager. Not lit. She wondered if Yummy would recognize her. She was certain she would have no trouble recognizing Yummy Fuller.
And she didn’t. Yummy hadn’t changed at all. No. She had changed. She was taller, and older, of course. Her skin had relaxed about the eyes and cheeks, but her face was burnished by the sun. The people around her—dull, soft-bodied, and white—seemed to squint when they caught sight of her, she was just that bright. She wore cropped pants and a long, loose coat made out of linen, outrageously tropical among the massing Polyfill parkas that eddied around her like lumpy clouds. She scanned the faces, and when her eyes came to rest on Cass, she frowned and cocked her head, combing the jet-black hair away from her forehead with her fingers.
“Cass?” she mouthed. “Is that you?”
Cass managed a nod, and she watched Yummy part the crowd with the ease of Moses. Then, before she knew it, they were standing face-to-face, and Cass found herself stepping back, the way you sometimes do when you walk out into a strong wind.
“Wow,” Yummy said. “Cassie Unger.”
“Hi,” Cass said. Then she added, “It’s Quinn now.”
Yummy didn’t seem to hear. “You grew.”
“Yes. I guess. So did you.”
“You’re almost as tall as me.”
“Not really.” Cass tried not to slouch. “You’re still taller.”
“You’ve lost your baby fat.” Yummy grinned and stepped back to appraise her. “Skinny, even.”
Cass crossed her arms in front of her chest.
“Hey, no,” Yummy said. “You look great. Just surprised me. Like a different person.”
“Yes,” Cass said. “I am.”
“Hmmm . . .” Yummy said, drawing out the sound, as though unclear as to whether she agreed. “I guess we have changed, after all these years.”
“Yes,” Cass said. “After all these years.”
Three children moved in a loose orbit around Yummy, like insects looking for a place to land. They were obviously attached to her, but they did not look much related.
“Are those your kids?” Cass asked.
“All three of ’em. Feels like a lot more. Do you have any?”
Cass shook her head.
“Well, you can have some of mine.” She gestured impatiently to a skinny Asian boy with a baby on his hip, who ambled over, pushing an empty stroller. Yummy took the baby and gave the boy a shove toward Cass. “This is Phoenix. Phoenix, this is Cassie Unger. Sorry, Quinn. She lives next door to your kupuna.”
It was a week before Christmas, and the boy was wearing a T-shirt and baggy shorts that came down to his knees, and his legs stuck out underneath like thin brown sticks. Scuffy sneakers. No socks. His bushy black hair stood up in bristles. Cass held out her hand to shake, but he drew his away and made a fist, leaving the thumb and pinkie standing. This he waggled at her.
“Howzit,” he said. “You can call me Nix.”
“He’s fourteen,” Yummy explained, setting the squirming baby down on his bottom, on the floor. “He’s in the process of rejecting everything his mother ever gave him. Including his name.”
“Oh, Yummy, that’s such crap,” Phoenix said.
“See what I mean?” Yummy smiled. She lowered her voice and spoke in a stage whisper. “Phoenix, remember what I told you. This is Idaho. Call me Mommy, and stop swearing or the townsfolk will lynch you.” Phoenix rolled his eyes while Yummy grabbed another child, a fair-haired girl with sea blue eyes. “This one’s Ocean. She’s six and a half.”
“Ocean has a nickname, too,” Phoenix offered.
“Shuddup!” yelled Ocean.
“It’s Puddle,” Phoenix said with an evil smile.
“It is NOT!”
“And this is Poo,” Phoenix offered smoothly, ducking Ocean’s fist and capturing the escaping baby by the back of his suspenders. “He’s not doing the walking thing yet.” The baby sat on the floor and looked up at Cass, flapping his arms a little. His skin was the color of milk chocolate. Curls sprang from his head, each a soft and perfect vortex.
“What’s his real name?” Cass asked.
“Just Poo. Mommy was striking out with the names, so she kind of just gave up.” He picked the baby up and offered him to Cass. “Here. Wanna hold him?”
Cass took the baby in her arms. He was heavy and warm.
“That’s not true, Phoenix,” Yummy said. She turned to Cass. “His name is Barnabas, but he has to grow into it. For now Poo suits him just fine.”
“Hello, Poo,” Cass said. His eyes were liquid black. He gurgled and patted her cheek.
They collected their suitcases, and Cass waited while they opened them and dug out warm clothes; then she led them out to the parking lot. She felt like a ringmaster at a carnival parade. Their bags filled the back of the Suburban.
“It’s freezing,” Phoenix said, teeth chattering.
“It’ll warm up once we get going,” Cass told him.
Ocean climbed into the backseat next to her brother. “Yuuuck! This car stinks.”
Yummy turned around. “Ocean, shut up.”
“But it does!”
“Ocean—” There was a warning in Yummy’s voice now.
The little girl subsided. “It smells like cigarettes,” she whispered to Phoenix.
“So what?”
“I bet the lady smokes cigarettes.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
Ocean leaned forward. “Excuse me,” she said, tapping Cass on the shoulder. Cass glanced into the rearview as she put the car into reverse and backed out of the space.
“Do you smoke cigarettes?”
“Sometimes,” she answered the child in the mirror. “Not often.”
Ocean’s face grew severe. “You shouldn’t smoke cigarettes,” she said. “Ever.”
“I know.”
“But do you know why you shouldn’t?”
“Yes. I know.”
“Because cigarettes give you cancer, and then you die.”
“I know.” Cass pulled up to the exit. She unrolled her window and fed the parking ticket into the slot. Felt the machine tug the slip from her fingers. For a split second she always wanted to resist the machine, to see what would happen if she held on tighter, but she never did. She always released, and the candy-striped barrier arm flipped up and let them by.
“So how come you still smoke?” Ocean persisted.
“Because I’m stupid, that’s how come.”
“Oh.” The answer satisfied the child. She sat back next to her brother. “She says she’s stupid.”
“I heard,” Phoenix groaned. “You think I’m deaf? You’re the stupid buggah.”
“I am not!”
“She’s at that age,” Yummy apologized. “Righteous little fascist.”
Interstate 86 ran west from the Pocatello airpo
rt to Liberty Falls, away from the foothills, perfectly straight, perfectly flat, cutting through a landscape that lay covered by new snow. The moon broke reluctantly through receding clouds. It was warm in the car, and after a while the kids got tired of bickering and fell asleep. Yummy stared out the window at the bright, icy expanse.
“There’s nothing out there,” she breathed. “I’d completely forgotten. So big. So empty. Nothing growing.”
“It’s just winter. Things start growing in the spring.”
“I know. It just seems so dead now. But it’s not dead at all. At rest. Deep in the soil. It’s so peaceful. It’s never like this in Hawaii. Everything’s growing all the time—a regular hotbed of vegetative activity. But here . . .”
“It’s quiet, all right. Not much happens in winter. Aside from the storms.”
They drove on a bit, staring at the patch of black highway ahead, and the broken white lines, and the white snow swirling in the headlights. Then Cass started talking again.
“About your mom and dad . . .”
“Did you tell them I was coming?”
“No. I didn’t want to just in case—”
“I didn’t show up. Okay. So what about them?”
“Well, your dad, really.”
“I know. He’s dying.”
“Yes, well, it’s just that he . . . well, since it didn’t look like you were coming home and nobody knew where to find you, he went and sold his acreage.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. A couple of years ago.”
“How many acres were there?”
“Three thousand.”
“Wow. What about the house?”
“There’s a life-estate clause in the sale contract. They can live in it until . . .”
“Until they die.”
“Yes.”
“So who bought it?”
“Well, that’s just it, Yum. It was me and Will.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause. Cass glanced over at Yummy, who was looking out the window again.
“We’d been renting and farming it for years, but I was kind of worried that you might—” She hesitated.
“What?” inquired Yummy. “Be angry? Feel ripped off?”
“Well, yes. That you might have wanted the land after all.”
“Oh.” Again Yummy paused.
“Especially, well, seeing how you ended up in real estate . . .”
Yummy turned and looked at her. “Were you really worried?”
Cass felt her face grow hot. She kept her own eyes on the white line ahead.
“Because if you were really so worried,” Yummy continued, “why didn’t you try to find me? Before you bought it out from under me, you know?”
The close warmth of the car was suffocating. No air. Nowhere to go. No choice but to talk without too much thinking. Cass took a deep breath.
“Because I figured you’d run out on your parents and didn’t deserve anything from them. Because I’d been taking care of them and was the only one who cared. Because me and Will work hard and had some real tough times and deserve better.” Breathing hard, heart racing now, reckless, words tumbling over one another like spuds into a hopper. “Because it’s good farmland, and you don’t know shit about potatoes.”
It was quiet in the car, and then Yummy spoke, softly, staring straight ahead. “Noble Pilgrim, my people and I welcome you to our land. . . .” She shook her head and laughed. “I can’t believe I remembered that.” She turned to Cass. “Listen. You’re right. I don’t know shit about potatoes. At least not anymore. And Lloyd probably wouldn’t have left me the land in the first place. So I’m glad you have it, all right? Does that make you feel better?”
Cass nodded. She’d been clutching the wheel, shoulders risen up around her ears, and now she dropped them. “Thanks, Yummy. It does.”
“Good. We know your journey has been a hard one,” Yummy said solemnly. Cass started to laugh.
“I envied you, you know. I was always the potato.”
“Oh, poor Cassie!”
“Do you know what it was like, lying there, tied up in that darn burlap bag, trying not to sneeze?”
“Yeah, but look at you now! Like a beanpole. Anyway, all you vegetables got to do the Pageant of the Side Dishes, and I had to sit there and watch. There were so many of you it took forever.”
“It was our moment of glory! Yummy, do you know what it’s like to go through life as a side dish?”
“No.”
“I don’t suppose you do.”
yumi
A white index card, meticulously printed in thick black marker, was taped to the refrigerator. It said REFRIGERATOR. Another that said STOVE was taped to the stove. Over the SINK the sign was warped by splashed water. I could stand there all night identifying appliances, and the kids would get up in the morning and find me, still naming.
They had loved it, of course. Ocean in particular. Like it was a neat game made up just for her, and she ran from sign to sign, collecting words like eggs in an Easter basket. “Toaster!” she cried. “Honey! Microwave!”
“Your grandpa made them,” Cass explained. “For your grandma. Sometimes she forgets the names for things.”
She’d helped me round up bedding before she left, and I’d gotten the kids settled. Phoenix had claimed the attic, with its sloping room and chipped iron bed, but Ocean and Poo lay tangled in blankets in a corral of sofa cushions on the floor of my old bedroom, sleeping under my ceiling of faded stars. Now, downstairs, the CLOCK said it was almost midnight. I wanted a whiskey, but I knew there wouldn’t be any, so I heated water for tea instead. A sticky film of amber grease speckled the sides of the kettle. The plywood under the Formica counter by the faucet had swollen, and the laminate was lifting and peeling away. The faucet coughed, spit air, then began to flow, and the plumbing shuddered. As the kettle filled, I looked down and noticed two small patches on the floor where the linoleum had worn through. They were the imprints of Momoko’s feet, unlabeled, of course, the by-product of hours and years she must have spent standing there washing dishes. I aligned my large feet with the marks made by my mother’s small ones, covering them up. My demented mother, who forgot the names of things.
As the kettle boiled, I opened a drawer or two, then shut each one quickly as the contents, duly labeled, threatened to spring out and overwhelm me. More by-product. Certain objects tickled recognition: the plastic corncob holders, the meat thermometer, the metal skewers used for stitching bread crumbs into a turkey. I rubbed my eyes to rub away the images before they unfurled into memories. I poured boiling water over a dusty tea bag from the drawer and walked into the living room.
I remembered exactly where the switches were located. In an unconscious sequence of automatic gestures, my hand reached toward the wall just as my foot crossed the threshold, resulting in a flood of illumination that startled me—the spatial relationships were familiar, but the details of the room confused me with their sudden clarity. For a moment I wondered where I was.
But not for long. For one thing, there was a sign that read LIVING ROOM, stuck to the opposite wall. Then, gradually, like a photograph developing, the room found its resolution and I began to recognize objects: love seat, Lloyd’s desk, couch, Lloyd’s recliner, coffee table, TV. I sat on the couch for a while, then moved to the desk. I shuffled through a stack of papers, old bills mostly, some farm reports, some invoices, and a few old catalogs from Fullers’ Seeds.
Cass had gone through the correspondence and kept up with the bills, but inquiries and orders for seeds were starting to come in, and she had put these all to one side for me to deal with. A pad of ruled paper sat next to the pile, something Lloyd was working on before his heart attack. The spidery handwriting wobbled across the page—slow loops, trembling with the effort of toeing the lines. Was he really so decrepit? So feeble? I took a recent Fullers’ Seeds catalog over to Lloyd’s chair and started to read:
FULLERS’ SEEDS M. and L. J. Fuller—Seedsmen Liberty
Falls, Idaho Vendimus Semina Since 1984
To Our Customers:
This will be the 15th year that Mrs. Fuller and I have been joyfully trafficking in seeds. We are proud to announce that this year there are 17 new listings, including many new European heirloom varieties, as well as exciting additions to Mrs. Fuller’s “Oriental Collection,” such as the Momordica charantia (Chinese Bitter Melon), the showy Bombax malabaricum (Red Silk Cotton Tree) from India, and the venerable “Hindu Datura,” important medicinally and religiously in the Old World.
And while we are on the subject of Exotics, there is a idea in circulation that these so-called “aggressive” non-native plants are harmful, invasive, and will displace “native” species. How ironic to hear these theories propounded by people of European ancestry in America! Just consider this: Not a single one of the food crops that make the U.S. an agricultural power today is native to North America. Our plants are as immigrant as we are!
Mrs. Fuller and I believe, firstly, that anti-exoticism is Anti-Life: “God giveth it a body as it hath pleased him, and to every seed his own body” [1 Corinthians 15:38]. Secondly, we believe anti-exoticism to be explicitly racist, and having fought for Freedom and Democracy against Hitler, I do not intend to promote Third Reich eugenics in our family garden. Finally, we believe anti-exoticism to be propaganda of the very worst kind. I used to farm potatoes, and I have witnessed firsthand the demise of the American family farm. I have seen how large Corporations hold the American Farmer in thrall, prisoners to their chemical tyranny and their buy-outs of politicians and judges. I have come to believe that anti-exotic agendas are being promoted by these same Agribusiness and Chemical Corporations as yet another means of peddling their weed killers.
Mrs. Fuller and I believe the careful introduction of species into new habitats serves to increase biological variety and health. God in His great wisdom has given us this abundance. “O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches” [Psalms 104:24-25].
And one final note: Mrs. Fuller has asked me to remind you to plant her favorite exotic, a living fossil from the Orient, the noble Ginkgo biloba! A relic species, with fossils dating back to 200 million years ago, this hardy tree grows to 120 feet, with handsome fan-shaped leaves that turn a beautiful golden color in the fall. Now, here is a tree that is extinct in the wild and owes its survival to dissemination and cultivation by the hand of man! Mrs. Fuller tells me that the seeds are eaten in Japan and China, and that both seeds and leaves are useful for a variety of conditions associated with aging, in particular memory loss. So don’t forget! Plant one for your retirement now!