“So how exactly do I do this?”
Dave pointed to tubular structures lining the walls. “Those are nesting boxes. That’s where they lay the eggs—for the most part. There are also a couple of other places I’ll show you where you’re likely to find a few. Anyway, you pick up one of these baskets here, get a scoop of feed out of this barrel, throw the feed out, and when the birds go for it, pick up the eggs and put them in the basket. When the basket’s full, bring it over to the house, drop it off, then come back, get another basket and keep on going.
“We store the eggs in a root cellar next to the toolshed on the other side of the house. It’s kind of a natural refrigerator. Before we put them in there, we clean them, inspect them, carton them, then take them down.”
“Then you sell them?”
Dave nodded. “There are standing orders for big customers like the store in town, and they’ll come in throughout the week to pick up their eggs, but a lot of our sales are at the farmer’s market.” He held up his hands in a gesture of completion. “That’s about it.”
He walked with Ross through the filling of the first basket, but the process was pretty simple, the chickens cooperative, and Ross filled the second basket on his own while Dave worked on the roof of the coop. There was something oddly relaxing about egg collection. A Zen thing, he supposed. Presidents and people in power always made a big show about doing manual labor on their time off: clearing brush, chopping wood. He’d always assumed that was for effect, an effort to show the yokels that they weren’t just pointy-headed intellectuals but deep down were simple, honest hard-working folk like themselves. It had always seemed phony to him, contrived. But having been initiated into the rural experience himself now, he understood how simple, repetitive work could help clear the mind, could offer a welcome respite from the overthinking of modern life.
For lunch, Lita made them all a frittata with some of the eggs he’d collected and with vegetables from the garden that she’d canned at the end of last season. It was delicious, and he took a plate of leftovers back to his shack, intending to heat them up in the microwave for dinner.
“I’m glad you came,” Lita said before he left. “I’m glad you’re staying with us.”
Ross thought about his dwindling bank account, the final unemployment checks coming up, and his condo, which, hopefully, the realtor would be able to rent out or sell. “Me, too,” he said.
THREE
Over the next few days, Ross developed a kind of routine. He’d wake early, make himself breakfast, then go out and gather eggs. He was on his own schedule, didn’t need to wait for Dave to invite him or help him, and after one or two hours of collecting, he’d take all the eggs he’d amassed and bring them over to the house, where he’d help Lita clean them, sort them and place them in cartons.
He didn’t love working with chickens, but he got used to it, and it gave him something to do, even though, at odd times throughout the day, he would have flashbacks to his former life, what he thought of as his real life, thinking: I should be in a staff meeting right now or I should be on break, heading to Starbuck’s with Alex or I should be mapping out specs for a new flight control system. It was ridiculous, the 180 his life had undergone, but he did not allow himself to dwell on it for fear of becoming mired in self-pity.
Following the completion of his “chores,” as he jokingly called them, Ross would have lunch, sometimes by himself in the shack, sometimes with Lita and Dave, and in the afternoon, he’d go online, make phone calls, send out resumes and look for work. Evenings were spent watching TV, playing online games or emailing friends, though he took dinner with his hosts, both because he felt obligated and because Lita was a far better cook than he was.
On Thursday, they went to the farmer’s market to sell. He set his alarm for five, but Lita and Dave were already up, Lita gluing labels onto the last jars of honey, Dave carefully packing the egg cartons and honey jars into larger boxes along with protective layers of bubble wrap. The market didn’t open until nine, but they were ready to go by six-thirty, and they ate a leisurely breakfast together before counting out money to put in the change box, loading a table and chairs into the back of the pickup, and heading off to town, three abreast in the truck’s small cab.
After a bumpy uncomfortable ride on obviously shot shocks, they arrived in Magdalena, where the last section of street in front of the church was blocked off with two sawhorses, though that was probably unnecessary since Ross doubted there was much traffic here even on a busy day. Leaning out the window, Dave motioned to a cowboy-hatted septuagenarian standing next to the sawhorse on the right, and the old man pulled it aside to let the pickup through. Dave parked at the far end of the farmer’s market next to a Native American family setting up displays of jewelry and leatherware on a sheet-covered folding table, and the three of them got out of the cab.
Looking up at the adobe church at the end of the street and at the adobe building behind the pickup truck, Ross felt as though he was no longer in Arizona. He’d been born and raised in the state, but unlike California or New Mexico, which both had heavy Spanish influences, Arizona had always seemed to him very anglo, more cowboy-and-Indian than the rest of the Southwest, less Mexican. Magdalena, however, felt like it belonged south of the border. Even its name stood out from those of its more American neighbors: Willcox, Benson, Bisbee, Douglas, Tombstone… Magdalena.
He had never felt farther from home.
Ross helped Dave unload and set up the table and chairs in front of the down tailgate, while Lita carefully unpacked the cartons of eggs and jars of honey and began arranging them for display. Dave pulled out a large wooden sign with the words “L BAR-D RANCH ORGANIC EGGS AND HONEY” written on it, using bricks and two-by-fours to prop it next to the table.
According to Lita and Dave, the farmer’s market accounted for a significant portion of their admittedly small income, but Ross could not see how. Even if every family in town bought from them today, they couldn’t make more than a hundred dollars or so. How could they survive on that?
He helped separate the various types of honey, as well as the brown eggs from the white eggs. Additional sellers had arrived while they were setting up, and Lita said, “There’s still another ten minutes before we officially open. Want to take a look around?”
“Sure.”
Dave stayed at the table while Ross and Lita walked down the street, looking at the various stalls. Before this, if he’d ever bothered to think about this area of the state, he would have assumed it to be barren, godforsaken desert. So it was something of a surprise to see such a large variety of locally grown produce being sold, not to mention baked goods, jerky, tamales and cheese. He actually bought some turkey jerky and a quart of unfiltered apple juice, while Lita stocked up on onions and garlic. Looking back, he saw that several other sellers were buying honey or eggs from Dave.
The last stall they visited—the first stall, really, since it was closest to the sawhorses blocking off the street—resembled a larger version of Lucy’s psychiatric booth in the Peanuts comics. A sign above the booth announced “MUSHROOMS!” in bright rainbow letters. There was a cute little girl in front of the stand who couldn’t have been more than five. Dressed in a long granny skirt and looking like a baby hippie, she was chanting: “Farm fresh mushrooms, Piccadilly pie! Farm fresh mushrooms, Piccadilly pie!”
“What’s Piccadilly pie?” Ross asked the girl.
She giggled, turning away. The woman behind the stall smiled. “She made it up. She just likes the way it sounds. We do have farm-fresh mushrooms, though. All organic.”
Ross was not a big mushroom fan, but the woman and her girl seemed nice, so he looked at the display out of politeness. Lita smiled at the woman. “Hi there, Hattie.”
“Hi yourself, Lita.”
“You have any of those Portobellos?”
“Of course I do. How many do you want?”
“I’ll take three for now.”
“Coming right up.”
Lita paid for the mushrooms, which were placed in a small bag, and the two of them headed back to where Dave was waiting as the little girl chanted behind them. ““Farm fresh mushrooms, Piccadilly pie! Farm fresh mushrooms, Piccadilly pie!”
They arrived back just as a rotund man in a priest’s collar stopped by to examine a carton of eggs.
“Good morning, Father,” Lita said, stepping around the table.
The man smiled kindly. “Good day to you, Lita. And to you, too, David. I trust this is your new guest?”
Word, apparently, had spread.
“My cousin, Ross,” Lita introduced him. “Father Ramos.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” the priest said, extending a hand.
Ross shook. Father Ramos’ grip was dry and surprisingly firm.
“How much are you going to set me back this week?” he asked Dave.
“For you?” Dave grinned. “The same price as everyone else. Three dollars a dozen.”
The priest laughed. “I’ve said it before. You would be an asset to our congregation. May I expect to see you this Sunday?”
“You never give up, do you?”
“It’s part of the job description. So how about it?”
“We’ll take it into consideration,” Lita told him, smiling.
“A man cannot but try.” He looked at Ross. “You are welcome as well. All are welcome.”
Ross nodded his thanks for the invitation without committing himself. He was not a churchgoing person, never had been, but he liked Father Ramos and did not want to hurt the man’s feelings. The priest paid for and picked up his eggs, said “Peace be with you” to all of them, then moved on to the Native American family at the next stall.
Ross looked over at his cousin. “If I remember correctly, you used to go to church every Sunday. In fact, when you stayed with us, we had to go to church, when we should have been out playing. You don’t go anymore?”
“I’m not Catholic.”
“What are you?”
“Nothing. I used to be Methodist, and, you’re right, we did go to church every week. After what happened with my parents, though, I kind of got turned off religion. It’s hard to believe in an all-good, all-powerful God when you see bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people.”
“I’ve always been a heathen,” Dave said helpfully.
Ross laughed. He nodded toward the adobe church at the end of the street. “So is that Father Ramos’ place?”
“Yeah,” Lita said.
“Looks like it’s the only church in town.”
She waggled her hand back and forth in a maybe-yes-maybe-no motion. “Sort of. There’s some sort of wacky hardcore fundamentalist sect that meets in different people’s living rooms, but I think Father Ramos has the only official church in Magdalena.”
“He seems like a good guy,” Ross observed.
Dave smiled. “And a good customer. I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word ‘cholesterol.’”
Ross glanced around at the slowly growing crowd. “So Magdalena really is like one of those little towns where everyone knows everyone else.”
“I guess so,” Dave conceded.
“Is that good or bad?”
“A little bit of both,” Lita said.
Another man was approaching, a tall guy with a thick black beard, wearing a battered straw cowboy hat.
Lita nodded at him. “Here comes Jackass McDaniels, our resident handyman, plumber, roofer, electrician, everything.”
“I think he can hear you,” Ross whispered.
“Oh, that’s his name. At least, that’s what he calls himself and what everyone else calls him. I’m sure his parents didn’t name him that, but—”
The man held out a rough hand. “Jackass McDaniels, jack-of-all-trades. Pleased to meet you…?”
“Ross,” he said. “Ross Lowry.”
Lita put a hand around his shoulder. “My cousin.”
“Well, any cousin a Lita’s is a…friend a mine?” He shook his head. “No, that don’t sound right. It’s somethin’ like that, though. Anyway, you need any work done on your house or your car or you just need an extra hand to help out, give me a holler. Lita and Dave know where to find me.”
“Okay.” Ross nodded.
“Whatcha got here today? Got some of that clover honey? That’s my favorite.”
“Not the right season,” Dave said. “We have some mesquite, though. Sweet and fresh.”
“Gimme a jar.” Taking a wad of cash from his front pocket, the handyman peeled off a five, handing it to Lita before taking the jar of honey Dave passed to him. McDaniels held up the container. “You know, I have a buncha these jars sittin’ around the house. You want ’em back?”
“Of course,” Lita said. “For each one you bring back, you can have a quarter off your next purchase.”
“Why dintcha tell me that before?”
“We thought you knew.”
“Well, now I do.” McDaniels grinned. “I’ll bring ’em next week.” He tipped his head toward Ross. “Nice t’meetcha.”
Ross smiled as he walked away. “Jackass McDaniels, huh? Who’s that behind him, Dickhead O’Malley?”
Laughing, Lita hit his shoulder. “Knock that off!”
A beefy, angry-looking man with a clear sense of entitlement was striding through the sparse crowd toward them, making a beeline for their table. A smaller, Hispanic man followed subserviently in his wake, pulling a wagon.
“Cameron Holt,” Dave said. “He has the big ranch to the north of ours. Hey, Cameron. How’s it going?”
The man ignored him. “I’ll take six dozen white eggs and a dozen brown eggs.”
“That’ll be twenty one dollars.” Dave reached back into the bed of the pickup to meet the order, while Lita collected the money.
Waiting patiently behind the rancher in the closest thing they’d had to a line so far was an elderly woman holding very tightly to the arm of an even older man, obviously her husband. When Holt left abruptly, leaving his underling to pick up the egg cartons and pack them into the wagon, the woman stepped forward, pulling her husband with her.
“Hello, Mrs. Ford,” Lita said with genuine warmth. “And Mr. Ford.”
“How are you today, dearie?”
Ross had never heard anyone outside of an old movie call anyone “dearie” but the affectionate term came effortlessly and naturally to the old woman, and she and Lita chatted unhurriedly for several minutes before Mrs. Ford bought a small jar of honey. Throughout the conversation, her husband had not said a word, had merely looked around blankly. She was still holding tightly to his arm, and after saying goodbye and telling Ross that she was pleased to have met him, she turned her husband around and led him away. “Come on, Del,” she said. “Let’s buy some bread.”
“He has Alzheimer’s,” Lita said sadly after they left.
“He’s had it ever since we moved here,” Dave pointed out.
“I know. I just feel sorry for Ms. Ford. She’s such a nice lady.”
A couple came walking up the street, a middle-aged man and woman who would have looked more at home shopping high-end stores in Scottsdale than trudging down a dirt road way out here in Magdalena.
“Our local royalty,” Lita whispered. “Paul and Heather Coburn. Heather Cox-Coburn,” she corrected herself. “He’s an internet tycoon. She used to be a model. Last year, she was on The Real Housewives of Houston. They just moved here in September…well, not exactly moved here. They bought up a lot of land, built a gigantic house and threw themselves a housewarming party. They flew in celebrities and business bigwigs but didn’t invite anyone local. It was on Extra and in US Weekly. Since then, they come out for a month or so at a time. I think he fancies himself another Ted Turner.
“They never buy anything from us,” she added.
Sure enough, the couple walked past, looked down at the table, then continued on. They didn’t buy anything from anyone, Ross noticed, and for some
reason he was reminded of couples in old movies, who strolled down avenues just to be seen.
The farmer’s market was scheduled to go on until one, but it was clear to Ross after the first hour that his presence was not really needed. There was seldom more than one customer at a time—a pace either Lita or Dave could easily handle alone—and since he was here in town, he decided to walk around and check out the local businesses. Until now, he’d only seen Magdalena from a car window, and briefly at that. So he took advantage of the opportunity to do a little exploring, walking down the dusty street past a dingy laundromat he had not noticed before, and a closed fix-it shop whose narrow window space was piled high with toasters, typewriters, blenders, mixers and various obsolete household items.
The grocery store was open, and Ross walked inside. Walking down the aisles, he understood why Lita and Dave didn’t do much shopping here. Aside from the fact that it was dark and depressing, the store’s shelves were poorly stocked, mostly with things like Spam and Hamburger Helper, and the refrigerated case in the back was nearly empty, although he did see several L Bar-D egg cartons. The balding old man behind the counter seemed hostile and suspicious, and though Ross had originally intended to buy a can of Coke or something, just to help the place out, when he caught the glare the old man was giving him, he decided to leave without buying anything.
Amazingly, he was already halfway through the town. On this side of the street there was a closed post office, a feed and grain store, a combined blacksmith and machine shop… and that was about it. On the opposite side of the street, a bar he had not noticed before was housed in a skinny building shoved between an empty storefront and a consignment shop. As he passed by, he smelled cigarette smoke and heard Mexican music wafting from the bar’s dark interior.
Most of the other businesses on this side of the street were closed—although whether permanently or only for the day it was hard to tell—but around the corner, he remembered, was the beauty salon.
It occurred to him that he could probably use a haircut.
Not that he had any important interviews lined up.
The Influence Page 3