Big Green Country

by Frances Rivetti

  It was now or never. I knew it. I’d waited for this moment long enough, endured way more than enough for any one person. Still, I was nervous as all hell. Go for it, Mia, I told myself, don’t stop to think, girl. You’ve got him right where you want him. I knew I may have gotten myself badly hurt in the process, killed even, but I took this calculated risk.

  I forced a seductive glance, biggest come-on of my life, almost theatrical — batting my eyelashes and widening my eyes, all the essential bullshit that it would take to slay the stupid fucker for once and for all. Oh yes, a super confusing sensation came over him, I could see it, a blatant invitation, a first, from me to him and not the other way around and on the open road, of all places.

  “Qué pasa?” Jefe Hombre, oh, how he smiled, the glint of the gold teeth at the back of his mouth reflecting on the windshield. He was falling for it, hook, line and sinker, I was sure of it. Steering with his left hand he draped his right arm over my shoulders. The dumb fool completely forgot himself. He was off to town with a pocketful of cash and for once, his teenage sex slave who was fully coming on to him.

  Excited by his prospects, Jefe Hombre turned up the music right at the crucial point where we were fast approaching the river, a tricky, winding part of the route, thick with the scent of damp redwood trees and fallen branches. He opened his and my side windows half way, letting in air, inhaling, greedily and as he leaned back in his seat, he pulled me closer to him.

  I took my chance and slid my left hand up and over his as he rested his disgusting fingers on my right shoulder. Still, I inched his fingers down toward my chest. He cupped my breast as I caressed the back of his hand, digging my nails in tantalizingly. He let out a gasp followed by a low moan and I watched as his eyes widened in wonderment of his sheer dumb fucking luck.

  Slowly, I slid my left hand onto his thigh. Each move I made was slight, precise, given that, if I failed, I was done for. Who the hell was this? I listened to his breathing growing slower and heavier.

  Bingo. He shot me a heavy-lidded, lust-filled, sideways leer as he attempted to maintain a half focus in navigating the slick road. It was the look I’d been waiting for, he was so close to pleading, if not begging for more.

  I knew I had him exactly where I needed him. Don’t ask me how I came to be this good in as deadly a manipulating move as this. It was all his doing, months of forcing me into the hideous role I was now more than ready to play to the full.

  This was survival.

  I took my time unbuckling his thick leather belt, slipping my hand down the front of his jeans to ready him for what he was after. He groaned with pleasure as I unzipped his fly, leaning back in his seat, slowing the speed of the truck until he was only barely in control. I released my seatbelt, twisted my torso toward him and lowered my head.

  All I’m gonna say is that he thought that he was getting what he wanted, one last time. Oh yes, he was beside himself and having as good a time as he’d ever had until I bit down on him, hard, so fucking hard my teeth broke skin. He bolted up from his seat in reaction to the sudden, sharp piercing of flesh, the shock and unexpected horror of it, a potent cocktail of pain that threw him instantly off course.

  My head shot up hard into the steering wheel. What happened next was a violent blur of several distorted seconds as I somehow managed to lift myself upright in my seat. He was lashing out, throwing his arms around, flailing, letting go of the steering wheel, wild, desperate to do something, anything to ease his throbbing pain. I can’t shake the image of the veins of his neck thickening in the mayhem as he lost control of the truck.

  Looking back, it’s a wonder we never rolled or hit a tree head on. The hulking vehicle careened through a clearing in the trees and down to the riverbank in a manic zigzagging motion through mud and brush. A life-passing-before-your-eyes, slow-motion next move dropped us directly into the fast flowing river below.

  Instinctively, I held on tight to the grab handle, or the ‘Oh Shit Handle’ as I’ve heard my mom refer to it more than a few times. The truck floated for about 30 seconds, before taking a nose-down position into the water and abruptly tipping driver side down as my brain frantically figured what the hell to do to get out.

  Frigid brown water gushed in through the partially open windows. I hadn’t planned for anything near as frightening and grotesque as this. A strange calm came over me and I waited for sufficient water to fill the vehicle. Electronics were disabled so a brief attempt to fully open my window failed. I wasn’t strong enough to force open the door. I had zero choice but to hold my breath and head first, I managed, by some miracle to slither my way through the half open window and into the river as the truck began to turn turtle onto its back. One thing my mom taught me in rainy season was that if I was ever in a situation like this, I’d have about a minute to get out. I never thought it would happen to me.

  Jefe Hombre — well, he was not so fortunate.

  My last sight of him and one I will never forget for the rest of my life was his veins popping on his forehead, his mean, cold eyes — wide open, bulging, utterly panicked as he tried, desperately and failed to keep a hold of the leg of my soaked jeans.

  It was sheer self-preservation strength at that point, not just for me, for the kid I’m carrying around inside of me.

  I pushed on up to the surface, gasping for air as I splashed through the cold, murky, swirling water that had encapsulated the truck. My head dunked under again and again as I struggled. I kept my mouth shut so as not to suck in a shitload of dirty river water. I thrashed about and raised my head above the waterline. Fixing my eyes on the sky, rain fell like steel poles pounding through the surface of the river. Thick mist rolled through the trees beyond. I’d gotten this far, there was no way my adrenaline would allow me to succumb to the roiling water, to fucking drown. The river was surprisingly deep. I slid across a sand bank to rest up as I caught my breath. It was bitter cold in the water and out. I was shaking like crazy by the time I plunged forward and threw myself on to the riverbank.

  I dared not stop. All I could think of was if Jefe Hombre had somehow made it out of the submerged truck, he’d have grabbed my legs and dragged me down surely into the dark, brown, muddy depths of hell that lay beneath the flow.

  I wasted no time when I reached shore, clawing at reeds, bushes, anything I could get my hands on to haul myself out. I stumbled up the riverbank to the side of the road, ripping off the one torn and sodden sock that made it out of the water. I threw it to the side of the bank and climbed up through the undergrowth barefoot and soaked to the skin.

  There was nothing to do but push on along the deserted river road, shivering, sobbing, running off and on as I caught my breath, terrified my captor might emerge at any moment, chase after me and pounce like a creature from the swamp. Somewhere in the distance, I heard music.

  My feet were ice cold, cut up and bloody when I came across a man and a woman sitting outside a camper van that was parked in a clearing in the redwoods. Folk music played from a portable speaker. It was weird how the familiar sound of home made for a feeling of safety and refuge. I’d spent so much time talking shit about my mom’s taste in music. Suddenly it was the best thing I’d ever heard.

  Smoke came from a camp stove sheltered under a pullout canopy off the side of the van. The distinctive smell of sausages hit me in the gut and I stopped short of collapsing at their feet.

  “My goodness,” the woman gasped, springing to her feet and immediately wrapping me up in a knitted blanket she shook from her lap. “Where on earth did you come from out of the blue, honey? Heavens, you’re soaking wet and freezing, let’s get you warm and dry and off those poor feet,” she said.

  “River — accident,” I spit out, between sobs. It was the same level of utter shock and horror I’d experienced after the violent branding that had seared the flesh on the back of my neck. This time, I was chilled to the bone, drenched, shaking uncontrollably. It all happened so frickin’ fast I could barely process my escape. And I was st
ill too terrified to feel much sense of relief.

  “I’m Marybeth,” she said, taking me by the arm and gently bundling me into the van. She shut the door softly as her husband, Malcolm, stepped aside to give us some privacy. Marybeth rummaged around inside for dry clothes. I shivered wildly as she peeled off my wet layers and dried me briskly with a towel.

  “This will do,” Marybeth said as she dressed me, hurriedly in several layers of random clothing including warm sweats and a pair of her husband’s socks that had been drying from a clothesline hung across the narrow width of the van. It was surreal. I had no choice other than to surrender myself to their mercy, whoever the heck they were.

  Malcolm passed a sausage sandwich through an open window. I devoured it despite my stomach lurching at the first bite. Marybeth poured warm tea down my throat, urging me to “eat slowly.” Soon after, the retching started. My tummy, like my brain, was unable to process the shock and the shaking just wouldn’t stop.

  Malcolm sensed my fear and he made himself scarce for a bit. “Are you alone, honey? Is there someone else who needs our help?” Marybeth asked, after Malcolm eventually figured it was okay to knock on the door and step in. He took his phone from his pocket. I thrust my hand out on instinct to grab it from him. He looked startled.

  “No. Don’t . . . ” I screamed. They both froze. “I’m sorry,” I sputtered, holding on tight to his phone. Marybeth looked at her husband, then at me. “We’re not about to do anything to hurt you, sweetie,” she said. “You tell us what we need to know in order for us to help you.”

  I pulled myself together enough to give them the basics, leaving out the part about the monster I’d left to drown in the river. I told them I’d escaped from the compound in a truck that I’d accidentally crashed into the water: “I’m in a lot of trouble,” I confessed, blabbing on about the trimming and my being on the run from the cartel.

  Marybeth assured me in her soft toned way of talking that I was safe with them and that whatever had happened was behind me. “We won’t abandon you,” she promised. “We’re on our way from our place over the Oregon border to visit Malcolm’s folks in Southern California — in fact, we met here in Humboldt when we were trimmers, ourselves, back in the day.”

  The couple had a lot of old friends in the area, they claimed. “Things were way less dangerous back then,” Malcolm remarked. “We’re going to take you to the safest place we know.”

  He packed up and drove the camper van as Marybeth sat with me in back, her arm around my shoulders to steady my constant shaking. After a fairly short drive, we pulled up outside of a small cabin somewhere to the south. I’d seen no other signs of habitation on the side road they took and I wondered who the heck would want to live in such a place, all alone?

  “Julia grows the real deal,” Marybeth said. “Some of the best weed on the market.” She explained to me, in short, how she and Malcolm had trimmed for the now retired social worker on her farm for several harvest seasons back when they were students at Humboldt State. “We’ve stayed in touch,” Marybeth said. “Julia’s the salt of the earth and she’s sure to have all the right contacts to get you where you need to be for now.”

  Julia was pretty old and super heavily wrinkled and she had the knowing eyes of a wise woman. She took me in without question and after she sent Marybeth and Malcolm into the kitchen to make us all some tea, she drew me a warm, oil-scented bath. Though at first the water stung the cuts on the soles of my torn-up feet, the sheer sight of a bathtub was a comfort, the first actual tub I’d seen since I’d left the ranch.

  The wood paneled bathroom looked more like a family room with its potted ferns and a funny looking collection of paintings of fairies and wood sprites scattered about the walls in heavy, gilt frames. I’ve never seen a bathroom decked out like this. It’s strange how when you’re in a wigged-out frame of mind you take more notice of your surrounds than you normally would. I remember every small, funky detail of Julia’s peculiar but at the same time way cool bathroom.

  The thought of putting my head in the water freaked me out all over again. I panicked and clutched the sides of the bath ‘til my knuckles turned white. “Here,” Julia said, padding into the room softly in an old pair of sheepskin slipper boots like the ones I’d left at the ranch. It was as if she had known full well I would need her help. “Lean back into my arm, honey and let me wash your hair.”

  I concentrated on a small, scented candle in a flowery china saucer on a shelf on the other side of the room. Its small flame was flickering in the drafty cabin, but still it burned. The warm light it gave off, along with the hushed tone of the old woman’s voice helped me to breathe easier.

  Saying nothing, she ran one forefinger gently over the sign of the cross that will be forever there on the back of my neck. Afterwards, she helped me out of the bath and wrapped me in a warm towel, a second, she tied in a turban around my head and sat me on the toilet seat. She sat on a stool to treat the soles of my feet with a soothing, natural balm and cotton bandages. By the look in her eyes, though she never said anything, I knew she’d figured the shape I was in from my protruding belly. Marybeth had seen it too. Naked, there was no way to hide it. I like to think of Julia as kind of an awesome white witch of the forest when I remember that first night of freedom. I was sure for the first time in months that I’m gonna get through this. She sat me by the fireplace and fed me buttered toast and mushroom soup from a small bowl, served on a wooden tray, inlaid with abalone shells and set with a mug of warm milk and a vase containing three eagle feathers.

  Chapter 25

  Maggie

  It started with my offer to help Walter with a little in-home organization. Who knew how long we were to be holed up in Garberville waiting for me to be given the green light to see Mia. Might as well do something helpful, productive, I decided, as I rolled up my sleeves to hunt out the empty boxes stashed in Walter’s bottomless pit of a garage.

  “My Connie would have a conniption if she walked in right now and saw the state of the place,” Walter said in response to my asking, as delicately as I could, if he would be okay with me doing some tidying up.

  “You don’t have to dump any of it,” I said. “We’ll simply box it up, make more room for you to move around and breathe come summer. It’ll feel good, I promise.”

  For two days, I poured my nervous energy into sorting through years of Walter’s mounting detritus, old newspapers, seed catalogs, plastic food containers from take-outs he claimed he intended to re use some day as propagating vessels. I cleaned out kitchen cabinets, tossing mugs with broken handles, emptying aging condiment shelves and washing the bins in the boxy, old, mustard-colored refrigerator. It was invigorating and it took my mind off everything, Mia, Bobby, Bridget . . . and, not least, whatever it was that Marcus and me were doing with each other.

  Walter followed me around like a puppy for the first couple of hours, shaking or nodding his head when I held up items I retrieved from under the bed, behind doors, crammed into the spare room closet. After the first half a day of it, he and Marcus left me to it, the pair of them instead worked together to clear the veggie beds of the last of the previous year’s withered tomato plants.

  We’d all approved the idea of Walter defrosting a pack of wild boar stewing meat from the freezer in the garage. “Ooh, man, I’m partial to the flavor,” Marcus said, patting his stomach. “Wild boar, slowly braised — as good as it gets.”

  “I have a couple vacuum packs of dried porcini mushrooms in my pantry,” Walter replied. “Reconstitute the beauties and throw in some garlic, onion, olive oil, fresh sage and rosemary from the yard, tomato paste, salt and pepper and we’re good to go. First things first,” he said, “after the meat’s done thawing, I’ll braise it in a bottle of my best reserve.”

  Walter’s wine cellar was a small cupboard in the garage. “Most of what you see here has sat in the dark since Connie passed,” he said, pulling out a couple of dusty old bottles that had been stored on their sides.
“She was the wine gal, I prefer a beer. My Connie, bless her soul, she sure liked to get her hands on a good Cab.”

  He handed me two identical bottles of Parducci Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon. “Oldest winery in Mendocino County,” he said. “Her favorite. One for the marinade, one for the table.”

  “This is a tad extravagant for a marinade, don’t you think?” I asked. I was thinking I would way rather savor each last drop from a wine glass than watch it swirl down the sink as a meat tenderizer. “Don’t you have something less special for the meat?”

  “Life’s too short for bad wine,” Walter laughed. “And anyway, aren’t we celebrating in our own way? Your girl getting the hell out of these damn woods.”

  “A tad too soon to throw caution to the wind,” I said. “Still, we’ve gotta eat and I for one am working up one hell of an appetite with all this spring cleaning.”

  “That’s a girl,” Walter said.

  It was the following evening, just before the big boar supper and during a walkthrough inspection of my completed work when my phone rang. I was to see Mia the next day, at noon.

  “Good thing we planned on a substantial supper this evening,” Marcus said. “You’re gonna have a big day tomorrow, Maggie.”

  The stew was every bit as delicious as promised. Walter had concocted a tasty base of minced pancetta, onion and carrots, mustard seed, cloves, a cinnamon stick, paprika and juniper berries with the fresh ingredients he’d sent Marcus to pick up at the grocery store. I’d sorted through his cache of dried herbs and spices in my whirlwind cleanup of the kitchen, clearing out a bunch of near empty containers. “Gotta love a guy with such an astute sense of seasoning, Walter,” I quipped, flattering his ego. The wild boar was soft and subtly infused by the wine, the fresh rosemary and sage. We mopped our bowls with fresh chunks of a hearty fresh baked rosemary loaf and butter that Marcus had brought back from the store.