by Todd Borg
“How much of that is reality, and how much is your fear of the notion?” Street asked.
“I don’t know. What would I do with a kid? For many years I’ve been thoughtful about not having kids because I didn’t want that responsibility. Is it fear? Certainly. Is it sensible? That, too. I do have one of the world’s worst jobs if one wanted to be a parent. Maybe it’s mostly simple preference. I like my quiet life, coming home to drink a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale while I walk Spot, visiting you when you’re available, paging through my art books in front of the fire, gazing out at the world’s most beautiful view without the distractions of kid-stuff.” I touched Street’s cheek. “Making love in front of the woodstove at any time of the day without planning it in advance is nice, too.”
“Especially that,” Street said.
“Okay. Especially that. But remember also that I’ve never had the desire to be a parent, whether that desire is fueled by the infatuation of a new baby, or the sense of guiding the growth and maturation of another human, or the joy of watching a new generation produce grandkids. All good stuff. All not for me.”
Street had her hands on my forearms. She squeezed.
“I understand. More than any woman I know, I understand.”
THIRTY-SIX
Diamond picked up Paco and Spot and me in his patrol unit. I again handed Paco the groceries and directed him to sit in the front seat with Diamond so that he could see all the cop gear up close.
I sat in back behind the safety screen with Spot. Spot did the bounce thing on the seat, excited because he’d never ridden in the back seat with me. I had to repeatedly push him off my lap.
“Seat belt?” Diamond said, looking at Paco.
“He doesn’t believe in them,” I said.
While Diamond gives his opinion freely, he’s not the kind of guy to press his opinions on others even if it is the simple activity of an adult trying to teach a child. Especially when the child is under severe duress. Diamond started the SUV and drove off.
“We’re getting a free ride in a vehicle paid for by taxpayers,” I said.
Diamond pointed at the dashboard clock. “My shift’s over. Anyway, I gotta get these wheels back down to the valley. If anyone asks, I’m helping to keep the riff-raff off the roads of our beautiful county.”
We drove up and over Kingsbury Grade. Another weather front was pushing through the basin, and variegated autumn clouds swirled around the trees near the top of the grade, light gray tendrils snaking through dark gray masses. Drizzle coated the windshield. The micro drops were so small that you couldn’t actually see them strike the glass, and the slowest intermittent wiper speed was too fast. But the windshield gradually shifted from transparent to translucent, and the world became an impressionist mix of blurred colors until Diamond ran the wipers and brought everything back to a wet clarity.
At the top of the grade, the cold, clammy, pale ghosts wrapped the Douglas County SUV as if to pull us away into the coming winter. In a short rise of highway, we drove into the cloud blanket, a fog that was so thick that Diamond had to slow to a crawl.
“Hey sergeant, maybe you could roll down this locked window. Make Spot happy.”
“It’s raining.”
“Spot loves the rain.”
Diamond hit the button.
Although the damp, high-altitude air was chilling, Spot stuck his head far out the rear window, his huge panting tongue flopping and looking very pink in the gray fog.
We crested Daggett Pass, pitched down toward Carson Valley, and popped back out of the clouds. Our view expanded from 20 feet in front of us to the mist-muted far side of the valley 15 miles away. The irrigated pasture land of the valley floor 3000 feet below us still showed green late into fall.
Carson Valley is a desert according to rainfall definition. But it stays relatively green because it sits below mountains that poke almost 11,000 feet up into the regular winter storms that charge off the Pacific. The heavy annual snowfall melts all year long creating a stable water source for people who are glad they don’t have to shovel the way Tahoe’s residents do.
Paco ignored the patrol computer and radio and other gear, and stared out the window, his face impassive and unchanging. His right elbow was on the door’s armrest, and his chin sat in his palm, the side of his forehead touching the side window. The sudden change from no vision in the clouds to the long view below them didn’t appear to register to him. He was so stoppered down that he probably wouldn’t react if he saw mermaids swimming through the foggy sky. Sometimes he seemed more like a statue of a kid than a real kid.
I watched him from the back seat. Paco had skin the color of teak and thick black hair that showed his Mestizo ancestry, but he apparently had no knowledge of his country of birth. I’d watched him study Diamond the night at my cabin. Paco had noticed Diamond’s gun, his uniform, his radio, and his shoes. But I also saw Paco making surreptitious glances at Diamond’s face, and later, Agent Ramos’s face, no doubt because he saw in them the skin color they shared with him.
I wondered if Paco realized that because Diamond had two languages, he had two countries, while Paco had just one language and, by some of the measures we care about, no country. Did Paco know that people were born into widely diverging circumstances? If Paco remembered Diamond in future years, would he realize the huge advantages given to Diamond by having had a continuous and attentive mother over the course of his childhood? Would Paco understand the folly of self-aggrandizing people who claim credit for all of their bootstrap success even though that success almost always arises from an environment that included at least one caring parent on board? Diamond had worked very hard to find success in a new country and with a new language, and he deserved credit for making what he did out of what he had. But Diamond, like me, might have floundered if his family roots were as shallow as Paco’s.
I also wondered if Paco was beginning to notice the dichotomy between people with an education versus those without. Diamond and Ramos looked like Paco, and they may have even been born in the same place as Paco, but they had good careers and good paychecks, and they owned their own houses, and they controlled their own futures. By contrast, the field workers in Paco’s community were trapped by circumstance. But some of them, and more of their children, would climb up and out of the fields and into Diamond’s and Ramos’s world. And the single, universal climbing technique was a focus on education.
Paco couldn’t read.
But he knew organic farming. He knew tomatoes and peppers. He knew many of the most important components of running a small business.
If there were some way to get him to understand that his knowledge was a significant type of education itself, perhaps that would give him the confidence to open up, be more outgoing, and segue into a more formal educational environment.
We were silent as we wound down the east side of the grade. As we got lower, the sensation was very much like bringing a small plane in on a glide path to a landing. One of the straight valley roads below even stretched out in front of us like a runway.
At the valley floor we headed east and crossed 88 with its steady stream of ranching pickups mixed with the all-wheel-drive cars and SUVs of the local residents. Despite the fall weather, many of the fields were lush and dewy green. Regal, grazing horses mixed with chunky grazing cattle, all looking like they belonged in ads for Marlboro country.
Spot never pulled his head inside, always willing to put up with cold wet ears in return for the plethora of intriguing ranch smells.
We took the back roads across the valley toward Minden and Gardnerville, two adjacent and charming little ranching towns that were gradually gentrifying as the population shifted from ranch workers to young families employed in service industries and retirees enjoying the high-desert climate with spectacular views.
Diamond’s house sits just off the Minden town square. It’s a restored bungalow that stretches back on a narrow lot with a skinny drive that squeezes between the house and the fenc
e and ends in a back yard with a big cottonwood tree. The tree drapes over a single garage just big enough for Diamond’s Green Flame, the Karmann Ghia a woman bought to replace his Orange Flame when it was destroyed in an explosion.
Diamond parked the SUV on the street out front. I let Spot out and grabbed the 12-pack of beer. Once again, Paco stayed sitting inside.
I opened his door. “C’mon, Paco. This is Diamond’s home. We’re staying here tonight.”
He stared at me, his eyes showing a touch of alarm.
“For your safety,” I said. “So Salt and Pepper don’t know where to find you.”
“I don’t like staying in strange places.”
“It’s not strange. You’ve already met Diamond. So you’re just staying at a friend’s house.”
Paco looked at me.
Diamond had come around the vehicle and called out to Paco from behind me, “Hola, mi amigo. You got some sustenance for me, por favor?”
“He’s asking you to hand him the groceries,” I said.
Paco lifted one bag up and handed it to Diamond. Diamond took it and walked over to unlock his front door.
Spot came running across the lawn and did a quick stop in front of Diamond’s front step. Bits of turf flew from his claws. Spot spun around and stuck his nose into Diamond’s abdomen. Diamond pet him without enthusiasm, holding the grocery bag in his other hand.
“Your hound just tore a bunch of holes in my lawn,” Diamond said.
“Aeration service at no charge,” I said.
Diamond unlocked the door. We walked into the house. I put the 12-pack in the fridge. Diamond set down his bag, then turned back toward the open front door to see Paco standing there with the other grocery bag.
Diamond reached out, took Paco’s grocery bag in one hand, put his other hand around the boy’s shoulders, and walked him into the house.
“Mi casa, su casa,” Diamond said to Paco as they came down the short hallway.
“I’ll go change,” Diamond said.
I started laying out the food we’d purchased.
Diamond came back wearing jeans and a sweat shirt.
Paco looked at him. It seemed that his permanent frown deepened as he studied Diamond’s clothes.
“Hey, I could use some help,” he said to Paco. “Paco, you know how to cook?”
Paco shook his head, looked at the floor.
“Can you use a knife without cutting off your fingertips?” Diamond asked.
Paco nodded without looking up.
“Okay,” Diamond said. He pulled out a large knife that I wouldn’t even have in the same room with a ten-year-old. He set out a cutting board, hung a vegetable wash basket over the sink, and pushed the tomatoes and peppers toward Paco. “You can wash these vegetables and slice them up,” he said.
“They’re fruit, not vegetables,” Paco said.
“Tomatoes and peppers?” Diamond said.
“Fruit,” Paco said again.
“Mr. O over there said you grow them.”
Paco nodded.
“Okay, you’re the expert. Do these tomato fruits, dude. Por favor.”
“Those aren’t real tomatoes,” Paco said.
Diamond picked up a tomato and turned it around. “Looks like a tomato.”
Paco shook his head. “Store bought. Stores don’t sell real tomatoes.”
Diamond nodded. “Good to know.” He set the tomato down. “Tell you what. I’m gonna switch us over to the recipe that calls for pretend tomatoes. So maybe you could slice them into wedges just like you would if they were real. Let’s use just one pepper, and cut it into little pieces.”
Paco went to work. I almost couldn’t watch. Diamond had no more experience with kids than I did, and his request to Paco to wield the giant knife seemed as inappropriate as asking him to load his gun.
But Paco was surprisingly coordinated with the knife. And he was careful and deliberate, good qualities for preserving fingers.
Diamond got out a fry pan, put it on the stovetop to warm up.
When Paco was done chopping, Diamond said, “Lemme show you some cooking tricks. Take this olive oil, pour some in the pan.”
Paco looked at him, skepticism on his face.
Diamond thrust the olive oil toward him.
Paco took it, looked at Diamond again to see if he was serious, then poured some in the pan.
“Perfect,” Diamond said. “Now, we cut up some garlic and some chicken.” This time Diamond did the cutting. He moved fast. In a few moments, he’d minced three cloves of garlic and turned two chicken breasts into small pieces.
I was sitting at the kitchen table watching. Spot was sitting on the floor next to me, his head above the table. Also watching.
“We saute it like this.” Diamond put the chicken and the garlic in the pan. It sizzled. “Take this spoon.” He handed a wooden spoon to Paco. “Move it around. Good. Maybe we need more heat. Keep moving.”
In a couple of minutes, Diamond said, “Okay, take this salsa and pour some into the pan.”
Paco did it carefully.
Diamond handed him another bottle. “Put in a few drops of hot sauce.”
Paco started shaking the bottle.
“Whoa! Dude!” Diamond said, grabbing the bottle.
Paco looked worried.
“Don’t worry, kid,” Diamond said. “You did the perfect amount.”
In another two minutes, Diamond said, “You can turn down the heat under the pan to low.”
Paco looked at the knobs, figured out which one to turn.
“Now put in the pepper.”
While Paco brushed the pepper off the cutting board into the fry pan, Diamond opened a can of black beans and rinsed them.
He handed it to Paco. “Time to add these, then stir this stuff around.”
Paco did so with care and precision. Only one bean flopped out of the pan.
“Let’s set the oven for three-fifty.”
Paco looked at him, a question on his face.
“Yeah, you. You’re head chef.”
Paco looked at the oven controls. Diamond pointed to the knob. Paco set it.
Diamond set a bowl on the counter and handed the bag of shredded cheddar to Paco. “You can open the cheese and dump it into the bowl.”
When Paco was done, Diamond said, “Now it’s time to put the taco shells in the oven.” He handed Paco the box. Paco got it open without breaking any shells, a trick I rarely manage. He opened the oven door.
“You can drape the shells over the wires on the rack,” Diamond said, “but don’t touch anything in the oven, or you’ll burn your patooties off.”
“Patooties?” I said.
“A funny word I’ve heard Norteamericanos say,” Diamond said. “Thought I’d try that one, see how it sounds.”
“I’m pretty sure that patootie refers to another part of the body.”
Diamond pointed at Paco, who was carefully reaching the shells into the oven. Paco got all twelve shells over the wires and shut the oven door.
“Looks like Paco knew what I meant,” Diamond said. “Owen, why am I even helping cook? Kid’s a pro chef. Like he grew up in the back of a Mexican restaurant. You and I could just park, drink a brew, and let the chef do it all.”
I watched Paco. Not even the smallest of grins.
Diamond said to Paco. “Let’s set the table.” Diamond pulled out some plates, napkins, and silverware and handed them to Paco. Paco carefully rolled the forks up into the napkins and put them out on the table.
“There’s four plates and three sets of silverware,” Paco said.
Diamond pointed at Spot. “His largeness don’t use silverware,” Diamond said.
Diamond continued to work with Paco, and a few minutes later they served up four plates of tacos piled high with chicken and salsa and pepper and black beans and shredded cheese and fresh tomato and lettuce.
Spot, from much experience, knew to hang back and be miserably envious while we ate. He sat there, h
is butt down, his head above the table. Without making any perceptible movements, he nevertheless slowly inched forward, moving like a glacier. Periodically, I held the back of my hand to his nose and eased his head back.
Spot kept licking his chops and swallowing. After some time studying us, he stopped looking at Diamond and me, having decided that Paco held the most opportunity for dropped food. He watched as Paco finished first, and Diamond and I tied for second.
“You must like pretend tomatoes,” Diamond said to Paco when he was done.
Paco didn’t respond.
After we were finished, we took the fourth plate outside and fed it to Spot, who ate it like he was on fast-forward. Paco watched Spot’s instant vacuum technique, but didn’t react.
Diamond opened two more beers and pushed one across the table toward me.
Paco looked at the beer, looked at Diamond, looked back at the beer.
“Why the concerned face?” Diamond said. “You expecting me to offer you one?”
Paco didn’t respond, so I answered for him. “Paco’s landlord smacks people around when he drinks. Paco’s witnessed it. Makes for a poor association with brew.”
Diamond turned to Paco. “Always remember that drink doesn’t cause good, non-violent people to become violent. But drink makes it easier for not-so-good, insecure people with violent tendencies to lash out. You want, like, a post-prandial tea or something?”
Paco stared at the table.
“I shoulda got hot chocolate or ice cream,” Diamond said.
“My fault,” I said.
Paco didn’t answer.
“Wait,” Diamond said. “I’ve got some chocolate I take hiking. We could use it to make a chocolate soda.”
Paco looked at him. Interested.
“Isn’t that semi-sweet?” I said. Paco looked at me.
“Good point,” Diamond said. “Better yet, I’ve got chocolate Joe Joe cookies from Trader Joe’s.”
With Paco’s help, he put chocolate cookies and milk and ice cubes in the blender, and ran them into a froth. He poured it into a tall glass, then added club soda.