Ross was not in that bad a shape.
Yet.
He informed everyone of his decision several weeks prior to implementing it, hoping it would spur his parents and his siblings to help out somehow. But they only congratulated him, as though moving into a shack out in the middle of nowhere was the equivalent of finding a great new job. He shouldn’t have expected anything different, and it was his own fault for thinking his family might actually give a damn, but the reaction still left him feeling angry and disappointed.
As it happened, he didn’t have as many personal possessions as he thought he had. Friends helped him move the furniture to a storage unit, along with a couple of boxes of books, games and CDs, another couple of boxes filled with pots, pans, plates and kitchen utensils, and several garbage sacks filled with various odds and ends. In his car, coming with him, were most of his clothes, a few books, his laptop, a small microwave, his toolbox, a lamp and some necessities that he knew Lita’s guest house didn’t have. After dropping a condo key off at the realtor’s, he met his friends at Roundtable Pizza, where he bought them what was either a late lunch or an early dinner—“Linner,” Trent dubbed it—and unlimited pitchers of beer to thank them for their help.
“When’re you coming back?” Patrick asked.
Ross shrugged. “When I get a job, I guess.”
“So…never?” Alex said.
They all laughed, but underlying the humor was a depressing truth, and a sense of melancholy pervaded the proceedings after that, no matter how hard they tried to ignore it. Eventually, everyone left, and Ross drove out to Chandler to spend the night at his parents’ house before hitting the road in the morning. They’d made up the couch for him but had not gone to any extra effort to make his final night a special one. It was Saturday, so his mom baked meat loaf, the way she always did, and it was as bad as he remembered. He ended up eating mostly side dishes, white bread and creamed corn, just as he had as a kid. Neither his sister’s family nor his brother’s had been invited over to say goodbye, and after dinner he sat in his parents’ living room while his mom and dad watched Jeopardy and then a CSI rerun and then went to bed.
He left early, not bothering to wake his parents, not bothering to say goodbye, hitting McDonald’s for a quick junk food breakfast before heading out on the highway. He felt a little down as he headed into the pre-dawn darkness and the last lights of Phoenix disappeared behind the low desert hills in his rearview mirror. But the sun came up soon after, rising quickly, clear and bright, and a weird feeling of liberation overcame him as he passed Picacho Peak, heading south.
By the time he reached the outskirts of Tucson, he was filled with a renewed sense of optimism. He raced past a freight train, chugging slowly on tracks that paralleled the highway. He wasn’t merely leaving behind his old life; he was starting a new one. This wasn’t a retreat. It was a beginning. And if it so happened that he never found a job making as much money as he had at Air Research, if he ended up eking out a living doing manual labor or working the land, well, that was okay. He would survive. He might even thrive.
He didn’t know what the future would hold.
And for the first time, that prospect was not frightening to him but exciting.
He’d told Lita he was coming today, but he’d also told her that he’d arrive mid-afternoon and not to save lunch for him, he’d grab something on the way. In Tucson, he found a Target, where he looked for something he could bring to his hosts as a thank you present. Nothing struck his fancy, but he stopped off at a nearby Bookman’s, where he browsed for an hour or so before picking out a Southwest cookbook and a boxed set of Beatles CDs that he thought Lita and Dave would like. For lunch, he ate at a Subway in Benson that was adjacent to the gas station where he filled up, and it was shortly after two when he finally drove down the dirt road into Magdalena.
As before, the directions to Lita’s ranch were on a piece of paper on the seat next to him, but this time he didn’t need them. He remembered the way and turned down the second dirt road, passed the beauty salon and houses, went into open country and turned in at the mailbox, going up the narrow drive until he reached the L Bar-D. He pulled up in front of the main house rather than the guest house, figuring he’d better check in first, but before he could even get out of the car, Lita was on the porch and waving him forward. “Park by the shack!” she called.
Ross nodded, started the car again and drove around the house and several yards down, stopping on the side of the small building.
Dave emerged from the guest house, where he’d been installing a new water-saver showerhead, just as Lita ran up. It was clear almost instantly that the two of them had been fighting—
about him?
—but they were both friendly and welcoming, individually if not together, and Dave helped him unload the heavier items while Lita brought over supplies such as paper towels and bottled water from the main house. The living room/sleeping area was larger than he remembered, which was good, because he’d brought quite a few things. He told Lita and Dave to just pile everything in the middle of the floor and on the counter, and he’d find a place for it. From the Bookman’s bag that he’d taken from the front seat, he withdrew the cookbook and Beatles CDs that he’d bought in Tucson. “Here,” he said, clumsily handing them over. “A little thank you present for letting me stay here.”
“You didn’t have to—” Lita began.
“All right!” Dave said. “The Beatles!”
She shot him a look of disapproval.
“And I want to pay rent,” Ross said. “Each month, I’m going to—”
“No,” Lita and Dave said together. They looked at each other, and something like a smile passed between them. “You’re our guest,” Lita told him, “not our tenant. We invited you here. We’re not taking money from you.”
“But—”
“No buts, Rossie. Discussion over.”
He recognized that voice from when they were young and knew it was futile to argue with her. “Thanks,” he said sincerely.
“We’ll leave you alone, let you get settled. I’ll give you a shout out when dinner’s ready. You can eat with us or take it back here to the shack, whatever you want.”
Already he felt awkward, an intruder in their lives. “Do you need some help?” he asked. “I’m not a great cook, but if you want someone to—”
“I can handle it.” She smiled. “Just get yourself settled in. We’ll sort out the details tomorrow. And thank you for the cookbook. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble, but it was very thoughtful of you.”
“The CDs, too!” Dave called as they headed out the door. “The Beatles,” Ross heard him say as they walked back to the house. “A boxed set!”
He spent the rest of the afternoon putting things away, checking his email every other minute and walking around, pacing. He felt restless, unsure of what to do with himself, and thought he had probably made a huge mistake in coming here. He was not a rural/country/wilderness kind of guy; this wasn’t the place for someone like him. He wasn’t going to sit in his room and write a novel, wasn’t going to set up an easel and paint a picture of the surrounding scenery. He was an engineer, for God’s sake. He worked on projects, with other people, in a crowded office, and even his leisure activities involved city life. But out here he couldn’t go to movies or clubs or concerts, couldn’t hang with his friends at a pizza joint or do any of the things he usually did.
At least he had his computer.
He played Plants vs. Zombies and Angry Birds until Lita stepped into the yard and announced that it was time to eat. Glancing through the window, he was surprised to see that the day was gone and it was dark already. Walking between the two buildings, he could see the lights of town in the distance, slightly downslope, though the road to the ranch had seemed flat. Above, an amazing array of stars filled the sky, so thick in spots that they appeared to be clouds. He hadn’t noticed such details when he’d come up last month for the weekend, and it hit him tha
t he was no longer a tourist. He lived here. For now, at least, this was his home.
He had never felt more alone.
Unsure of the etiquette involved, he knocked on the kitchen door and waited for Lita to open it before going inside. “Don’t be so formal,” she admonished him.
“I wasn’t sure—”
“If there’s something you’re not supposed to see,” she said, “the door will be locked. Otherwise, just come in. Our house is yours.”
Sitting at the kitchen table, Dave reddened.
“Well, uh, thanks,” Ross managed to get out.
“Welcome to my world,” Dave said wryly.
Lita smiled. “He loves it.”
Neither of them were quite sure to what she was referring, so they did not respond as Ross sat down awkwardly at the table across from Dave.
Lita had made chicken enchiladas, from a recipe in the cookbook he’d given her. “But it’s not exact,” she warned. “I had to change a few things because we didn’t have all the ingredients. As you might have noticed, out here we can’t just run down to the local supermarket if we need something.”
“Now that you mention it, where do you get your groceries?” Ross wondered.
“We make a monthly run over to Willcox for the things that’ll keep,” Dave said, motioning toward the open larder to the right of the refrigerator. “Beans, rice, detergent, what have you. There’s a small grocery store in town for some of the day-to-day stuff, but a lot of things we barter or buy from neighbors.”
“Or pick up at the farmer’s market,” Lita offered, bringing over a plate of enchiladas.
“Or pick up at the farmer’s market,” Dave agreed. “We sell there, too.”
“There might not be as many choices as there are in a big city,” Lita conceded. “But we eat a lot healthier now than I did when I was growing up. A lot more fresh food and homemade items.” She touched her husband’s shoulder, their earlier fight—whatever it was about—obviously over. “It suits us.”
Ross nodded and bit into the food she’d put in front of him. “Delicious,” he proclaimed, and meant it.
“Thank you. And thanks for the cookbook.”
They ate. And talked. About things in general, about nothing in particular. It was nice, pleasant, and time flew by, but eventually they finished eating, and Ross looked through the window at the shack across the yard. The lights were on in the small building, but around it, all was black. It made him feel depressed to realize that this was where he lived now, in what was basically a studio apartment surrounded by a lot of nothing.
The feeling must have shown on his face, because Lita put her hand on his. “What are you thinking?”
“To be honest,” Ross said, “I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to take this. I’ve been here for, what, four hours? And already I’m lost. I don’t know what to do with myself.”
“Culture shock,” she told him. “I felt the same way when I first came here. But you’ll get acclimatized pretty quickly. And once you get used to it, you’ll wonder how you ever ran in the rat race.”
“Maybe. But right now, I’m looking at a lot of free time.”
“You can go online, look for work.”
“That’s a whole hour out of the day.” He leaned forward. “Dave. I was wondering if you have some jobs I could do around this place, something I can help you with. Not for payment,” he added quickly. “But to, you know, pull my weight.”
“Not really.”
“Come on. There must be something I can do, some sort of busywork you could give me.”
“We-l-l-l,” Dave said slowly, “We will be selling at the farmer’s market on Thursday. I’m a little behind on fixing a section of roof on the coop, so you could help out by collecting eggs for me. That’d definitely save me some time.”
“Done.” Ross paused. “How exactly do you collect eggs?”
Dave laughed. “I’ll show you tomorrow morning.”
“Okay.” Another pause. “You ranchers get up at, like, four, don’t you?”
“Not us. We get up when we get up. I usually eat breakfast, catch up on the news and maybe get out there around eight. ”
“That’s more my style.”
“In summer it’s earlier because it gets so hot, but right now…” He shrugged.
“Perfect.”
Ross wasn’t a big dessert guy, but Lita had made some sort of lemonade pie in honor of his arrival, so he felt obligated to have a piece. It was delicious, and he told her so, and she explained that the lemons came from one of the trees behind their house. It turned out that, in addition to an extensive garden, she and Dave had several fruit trees on the property: lemons, oranges, apples, persimmons.
Dinner had stretched to well over an hour, and Ross excused himself, pushing his chair back from the table, not wanting to overstay his welcome. Lita seemed disappointed and asked him to stay, so they could continue to catch up on old times, but he told her that there would be plenty of time for that. Besides, Dave wasn’t asking him to stay, and the last thing Ross wanted was to be a point of contention between them, particularly if he had been the source of the argument they’d had before he arrived. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he said.
“Goodnight,” Lita told him. “You want me to call you for breakfast?”
“No, I’ll just make myself some cereal. I can’t be coming over here for every meal.”
“It’s—” she began.
“I’m not much for breakfast, anyway.” He nodded toward Dave. “I’ll be up by seven and ready by eight. Should I just come over here or…” He trailed off.
“I’ll stop by and get you.”
Ross nodded. “Sounds good. “ He took his leave and waved as he stepped out through the kitchen door, the way he’d come in.
He’d left a light on in the guest house, but surrounding the structure was nothing but darkness, an inky emptiness that engulfed the world beyond for as far as his perceptions stretched. It made him feel small and uneasy, and that feeling did not abate as he entered the guest house and closed the door behind him, sealing himself in. He thought about watching TV, but there was nothing on, so he IMed a couple of friends and spent the next hour chatting online, describing his first day of exile, before going to bed early, feeling sad and lonely as he fell asleep listening to the clucking of chickens in front of the overwhelming silence of the desert.
****
Ross awoke in the morning feeling better. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had something to do today or because he was already starting to get used to this place, but he was almost cheery as he poured some milk and Raisin Bran into a bowl, and made himself coffee. The television helped, too. Watching the Today show, the way he usually did, seeing crowds of people begging for the attention of the weatherman as he walked outside the studio, made Ross feel more connected to the larger world, although when he heard that the next segment was an interview with the Muppets, he shut off the TV. There was nothing more embarrassing than seeing a well-respected reporter who ordinarily questioned heads of state about important world events pretend to interview a puppet, and force himself to laugh at the stock replies issuing from the unseen man working Miss Piggy or Kermit the Frog.
He brushed his teeth, then opened the drapes. Dave was already carrying a toolbox and ladder toward the chicken coop. Ross opened the door and hurried after him. “I thought you were going to come and get me.”
“I was. After I took my supplies out, I was going to see if you were up.”
Ross wasn’t sure he bought that. He had the distinct impression that Dave did not want him along, but there was no overt opposition as he quickly put on his shoes then followed his host over to the coop.
Dave had already leaned the ladder against the side of the building, had climbed up and was near the top, placing his toolbox on the barely sloping roof. An oversized plastic pail filled with patching materials lay at the foot of the ladder. “Could you hand that up to me?” he called down.
Ross picked up the pail by its metal handle—it was heavier than it looked—and used both hands to push it to shoulder level, where Dave took it from him. “Thanks.”
Dave placed the pail on the roof next to the toolbox, then climbed down. “Follow me,” he said.
The chicken coop was much bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and the adjoining yard, behind the building, was as big as a baseball diamond. Both were filled with pacing, clucking hens far too numerous to count.
“How many chickens do you have?” Ross asked.
“A hundred.”
“Wow.”
“It’s not as much as it sounds. We could really do with a hundred more, but we just can’t afford it. The guy I bought the animals from, he has a free-range farm out past Willcox, and he has over five thousand layers. We’d be making a very comfortable income if we had that many birds. I’d probably have to hire a man or two to help me out.” He shrugged. “But of course, we don’t.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Ross asked.
“Collect eggs.”
“Okay.”
“If they were caged, it would be a lot easier,” Dave admitted. “You’d just walk down the aisles and pick the eggs up from the grates. But we don’t believe in that. It’s cruel. Chickens raised that way have no life at all. They can’t even turn around. They’re stuck in the same position for their entire adult life. They’re just egg machines. But as you can see, our chickens have litter to scratch around in, and in the yard here they can get down in the dirt to fluff up dust around their feathers, which, believe it or not, helps control parasites. We also don’t cut off their beaks, although a lot of places do, even so-called ‘organic farms,’ because chickens like to fight. But, so far, we haven’t had any trouble.”
The Influence Page 2