Myrta could never imagine Nathan forced through anything.
“Nate made it through the first part, the eye exam with the bright lights. We thought we’d just keep going. I remember Terrence was outside telling Ardelle how much water plum trees needed.”
Celeste seemed completely caught in the past. Her gaze was unfocused, like it had been in the bedroom that night. “The second part of the exam, he sprayed air at Nate’s face. To see if there was an instinctive response. Nathan screamed! I thought that meant he had the trait and I screamed too! But Ephraim, he wasn’t done, he hated the whole thing, but we needed to know. Ephraim yelled for us to hold still. The window was open!”
Myrta saw it, Uncle Ephraim raising his voice at Celeste. Terrence outside with Ardelle.
“Terrence rushed in, thinking Nathan had been hurt or Ephraim was abusing us. He saw us in the office like that, his son fighting with all his little strength. Ephraim struggling with us, trying to finish the exam. Me screaming.”
Myrta had never seen Nathan fighting anything like that, afraid like that, like Celeste was describing.
“The fury on Terrence’s face. He punched Ephraim so hard he knocked him out. And Ardelle came in, and she was pregnant, and she always had trouble carrying to term. The exam, all of it, she put it together, and she started crying out of fear for her own unborn babe.”
Celeste’s eyes had gone wide through the story. Myrta waited, but when it became clear she wasn’t picking up the story again, Myrta said, “What happened?”
Celeste’s words came out in choking bits and pieces. “Terrence and I—we fought. I, I told him what Ephraim had been doing, and that’s how Terrence learned our family . . . has the trait. He felt he’d married a coward, for not telling him, and so, of course . . .” She stopped talking, and her tears streamed freely.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Not telling him was. And not telling him about you—not telling him the reason I went to Collimais to help Ardelle deliver you was because she and I both knew you might have the trait as easily as Odile might, and she was born then too. But how could Terrence not see it? You are so very clearly Ephraim’s daughter, and . . .” Celeste’s voice quavered, as though her strain was more than this, more than the vision trait. Myrta put a hand on her knee and squeezed.
Celeste continued softly, “I’ve told myself all these years that he did know, deep down, he must have known you were not his. That in some way he agreed with our decision. But what kind of husband—father—what kind of farmer—wouldn’t see the stamp of nature in his own child’s features? He didn’t,” she wailed. “He never questioned that you were his.”
For all of the difficult details of living as a de Terr child, that part rang absolutely true. He’d accepted her, in his way, if not encouraged her as he did the boys, and he always trusted Celeste. “Because he loves you, Mama.”
Celeste took a long, shuddering breath. She wiped her eyes, sniffed, and patted Myrta’s hand. “Myrta. Remember something for me. Terrence’s anger was at my decision. He’s not angry with you. Terrence has kept you fed and clothed and safe, and he’s done so your entire life. He loves you, Myrta. In his way.”
Chapter Fourteen
They stood on a strip of beach, and the world held depth and color, a vibrancy like those occasional dreams from his childhood that had broken through to Alphonse’s waking life.
A green clump of stringy ooze washed onto the shore and back.
“Why are we watching slime?”
Even his voice was more resonant. Alphonse inhaled good sea air.
“Four billion years. Ninety percent of Earth history. It took that long for the land to become habitable. The oxygen you made in the ocean—that oxygen created an ozone shield high above us. Now life leaves the sea.”
Alphonse shrank and became an algal cell full of chloroplasts and mitochondria, the organelles that drove the biochemistry of his life. He washed in and out with other algae, to the beach and back.
In the ocean he was buoyant and plump, making sweet sugar from carbon dioxide. But when he washed onto land he shriveled. Limp, stranded, and hot, he cried, “I need water!” and waited for another wave to carry him back.
Stavo laughed. “It’s another challenge to overcome.”
Alphonse was nothing, a speck on the dry shore. “I’m dying!”
The waves swept him out and in again, higher, in a clump with some others. They were so high that the water surely would not reach. Frantic, the algae made a crust out of some of themselves, and the rest huddled underneath, staving off dehydration and collecting what water they could from rain when it fell.
After many generations, some extended themselves into the soil to plumb water from the ground. Others created strong walls to hold upright.
Roots and stems.
“The first land plants are born. Adversity, Alphonse, spurs progress. Remember this.”
* * *
Ephraim jogged down the steps to the yard. “Al. How’s the leg?”
Alphonse stood straight and leaned on the rake with a yawn. He didn’t think about his leg at all anymore, although if he ever tackled Tura again, he’d take a partner. “It’s fine.”
His problem was poor sleep, ever since the visit from Melville di Vaun and Floyd Namoja. Combustion had its fingers everywhere, even here in Collimais, and it ate at him.
“Sometimes those new muscles don’t work quite as we hope.”
Alphonse’s battles with insomnia always came hand-in-hand with tightness in his chest. Like how he’d get after political functions or after his disastrous fall on Tura.
Ephraim pointed at a section of roof tiles. “Ardelle reminded me we have bad shingles. She wants those pulled. Start there on the lower eave and take off the split ones, but let me know if your leg acts up.”
“Where will you be?”
Ephraim frowned. “She also wants the plums picked. Every last one. I’ll be in the orchard.”
Alphonse grabbed a hammer and pulled up to the lower roof section. Some shingles barely hung together at all; they warped outward and fell apart in his hands. Most were intact.
It was a decent job as these things went. It required focus, effort. Given the size of the job, he might get a good night’s sleep tonight.
Overhead, the suns rose higher and the roof began to bake. He took off his shirt, tossed it to the ground, and worked through another row.
It was hot, like the beach back home. No, it wasn’t like a beach at all; he was on a mountainside. Had he dreamt of mountains last night? He’d barely slept.
Another row. Alphonse jerked alert. This hillside was parched. There’d been too little rain. Shaking himself, he focused through another row. Three bad shingles.
He huddled with the others like him, stranded on the beach, waiting for rain.
Alphonse startled alert again and found himself slipping toward the eave. He caught it and lowered down, then grabbed his shirt and went inside.
Ardelle sat at the kitchen table. She looked up from one of the ledgers. “It’s nice to see you, Al. Sometimes I think you forget to eat. Can I make you a sandwich?”
“No, thank you ma’am. I need a little water.”
“Are you sleeping? I wish you were in a proper bed.”
This she said daily. “Yes, thank you.” He finished the water and went back to the roof.
The shingles rattled against each other as he pulled them off, rattled again as they hit the ground. Sweat dripped off his hair and hissed on the roof.
Rattle and hiss. It was too hot on this mountain. He pulled another tile; it slithered away. If the waves reached him, he’d float back to sea. Shingle, rattle, hiss. If he made the river, he’d survive. Alphonse worked toward the valley, back and forth down the switchbacks. He pulled snakes from the ground whether they’d split their skins or not.<
br />
* * *
Ephraim was helping him down, saying something about electrolyte balance. Alphonse’s hair was plastered to his cheek, and patterns of roof shingles decorated his forearm. Ephraim led him to the front room.
He floated in the cool of the room, cold ocean water. He lowered himself onto the sofa and pushed the heel of his hand into his forehead, right between the eyes. Ephraim left for the kitchen, and Odile must have been there because she said something about plums. Ice clinked, and Ephraim said a job started was better than nothing. Then he returned with two tumblers of water and handed one over. “How’s the head?”
Alphonse was exhausted, but his head was all right. “Fine.”
“Any muscle cramps?”
“No.” Condensation rimmed his glass. He held it to his face, closed his eyes, and the heat drained from his skin. Wet, like a river. His head lolled sideways. Cool glass. Beautiful, cool water.
“You look terrible. We’ll put you in a guest room.”
“No. Thank you.” No. He rolled his neck.
Ephraim sat in a cushioned armchair on the other side of the low table. “Son. You passed out on the roof. Something’s going on with you, and it’s more than you needing a bit of solitude. Let’s back off the work and put you in a guest room.”
“No. I’m fine. Working helps.”
“Helps what? You’re unwell.”
Ephraim was waiting for him to say something, but he was simply glad to be back in the sunlit waves.
“At the very least we should get in touch with your family.”
“No.” The word burst from him, and Alphonse shook his head again, this time in apology for the outburst. He drank more water. Every cell in his body sucked the wetness into itself. His thoughts bobbed. He forced them back into the room.
“Al. What’s going on?”
He put the glass on the low table between them, pushed the fingertips of both hands into his forehead, and massaged. Not a word about his past.
After a few moments, Ephraim’s chair creaked. He was leaning back now, watching. “Why did you cross the ranges, son?”
The sudden, forceful expulsion of air from his chest surprised even Alphonse. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought we were past this. I’m here to pay my bill.”
Ephraim crossed his arms and studied him. “Yes, and you’ve been quite guarded about everything else. Frankly, you seem to be running from something, and let’s be clear, whatever it is potentially puts my family at risk. We’ve given you meals, a roof, and a paycheck. You’re collapsing, and we deserve to know why.” Ephraim sat quietly, his eyes fixed on Alphonse. “Have you had enough to drink?”
“I’m fine.”
Standing, Ephraim went to the fireplace. He ran his fingers along the mantel and examined the tips. “You know, sometimes talking helps.”
The words hung in the air. The man simply didn’t need to know.
Ephraim knelt and swept stray ashes from the hearth, then hung the brush. He rearranged the poker from one side of the caddy to the other, then back again. Then he straightened the shovel and checked the mantel for dust again. “I’m waiting.”
“I’m not certain for what. May I leave?”
The man turned. “No, you may not. Your debt’s not clear, and you collapsed on my roof. You’ve avoided conversations about your past. And at the risk of repeating myself, you passed out on our roof. Something is weighing on you. That much is clear. Are you in trouble with the law?”
Alphonse shook his head again and kneaded the back of his neck.
“Then I really can’t imagine why you insist on being so secretive.”
There must be some quick way to satisfy the man. Maybe a small concession would be enough. “I’m not from Masotin.”
Ephraim took a few moments before responding. “You don’t say.” He crossed and sat in the chair again. “Young man. I’ll ask again. Why did you cross the mountains?”
“Look, why would anyone? There’s no mystery. I needed time away.”
Ephraim leaned forward, his gaze chilling Alphonse. “You’ve had time away. But you’re in worse shape now than when you arrived. It feels to me as though something has caught up with you.” He picked up his glass of water and swirled it idly. “Family?”
Alphonse startled. “Why do you say that?”
Leaning back, the man smiled. “You’re a young man. You left home. It’s a good bet your family figures into this.”
Alphonse was at the room’s back door, as though he’d been swept there, without any awareness of standing or walking.
Focus.
Was it exhaustion confusing his thoughts? Alphonse held the jamb, blood surging in his ears, weakness replaced by growing annoyance at this man who pulled at him with aid and then adversity, between a welcome paycheck and a fraught sense of imbalance. Any misstep might reveal his background.
Odile was down the hall, banging on something in the kitchen, like this man’s questions, hammering, hammering. His thoughts wavered again, and he was stranded high on the beach with the others.
Ephraim said calmly, “We can sever the job contract.”
He’d be cleaning bedpans at the hospital. Bedpans! Alphonse turned in a fit to face Ephraim. His aggravation overwhelmed him. He hefted the end table next to the sofa and made to hurl it across the room, but Ephraim was grabbing the other side.
“Settle down!” Ephraim wrestled it out of Alphonse’s grip.
What the fierno’s wrong with me?
Alphonse stared at Ephraim, his rage subsiding like a wave back to sea. He worked back through the conversation, tried to find where he’d lost the thread.
Young men did leave home, all the time. There need be no mystery here, and the more he thought about it, the truer it felt. Ephraim was trying to understand Alphonse, and to be so guarded held too much of Ivette in it and not enough of Stavo. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vonard. I did leave home. Yeah, I wanted some time away, that’s all. I’m not in trouble with the law. You’re right, it’s family. It’s my mother. She comes on strong.”
“That’s unusual for an educator,” Ephraim said quietly.
Alphonse sank to the sofa. If Stavo were here, he’d simply come out with it. “She’s . . . she’s not an educator. She’s a funder.”
Ephraim’s eyes were as sharp as a winter chill. “Politicians?”
He didn’t answer.
Ephraim’s voice grew distant and unthreatening. “Where did you grow up?”
Alphonse heaved a mighty sigh. “Look. Why don’t you tell me your story? I haven’t needled you—not once. Not about your history, not about the guests that come through or the meetings you hold.”
He picked up a book from the low table, another manual from Renico, and flipped to a random page. “Look at this. ‘Infiltrate the refinery.’ Are you out of your mind? Sir? Who the fierno are you to badger me like this?”
Ephraim stood there, frozen and staring. Alphonse didn’t care—this man couldn’t even keep up his wife’s inn without help.
Then Ephraim relaxed. “Oh, dear Autore. You’re right. You’re absolutely right. You’ve been nothing but courteous, despite your secretive way. You’re right, Al. It never occurred to me to tell you about myself, as a sort of, let’s say a transactional arrangement . . .” Ephraim looked straight up to the ceiling and laughed. “I’m getting old.”
His laughter settled, and he picked up his glass, swished it back and forth. Remnants of ice chirped, and he drained the last bit of water. “You could have fallen off the roof today, son. Could’ve been seriously hurt. None of us want that.”
Ephraim rubbed at his palm and said absentmindedly, “A machine can’t ever be killed.” Then to Alphonse, “I believed in combustion when I was young. Because machines can improve lives, and they can’t be killed.”
That was too simplistic. Mechanati
on relied on mining archaic carbon. There was lung rot among the miners, explosions on the gas lines, not to mention the accidents in the factories. There were too many risks. “Combustion isn’t safe either.”
“That’s right, Al. That’s right. Still, when I was young, I thought there was no question. Oil and gas, mechanation. On balance these seemed better.”
The moment between them felt like an open vista spreading out in Alphonse’s mind, fold after fold, peak after peak of life here—everything he’d seen since he’d arrived coming into focus. Odile reading the manual in the orchard. Ephraim’s friendliness toward di Vaun. The books, the internal documents for the industry lining the office shelves.
With complete certainty, Alphonse said, “You worked for Renico.”
Ephraim’s face fell. “It’s no secret. I developed . . . certain protocols.” His voice trailed softer. “I was young. I operated under a framework, a set of ideas, and I trusted that all of us shared those ideas. I trusted we all kept the public’s well-being front and center.”
He walked to the window and faced outward. “Yes. I worked for Renico. I trusted Renico. The first time that trust, that public trust, was broken I made excuses. For my friends, for my mentor. The second and third times I made more excuses.” Ephraim tapped his finger against the glass in a steady tempo. “After a while, I found I had a habit of excusing others while I held to the notion that we worked for something pure and good.”
Pure and good. The industry’s goal had never been that. They made city life possible, but their goal was profit. Even Odile saw it. Ephraim must have known the business end.
“Al, I need this to be quite clear. I wrote protocols to improve public health and safety. I brought these to my superiors and was told . . . was told they’d be considered. But they weren’t. I revised and improved and modified and redrafted the proposals, always to improve public health. To improve the industry. My part in the industry. I spent years—” his voice caught. “Years. I finally gave my supervisor an ultimatum. I said our treatment of people needed to change, or I’d leave. It was the only bargaining chip I had! I was . . .” his voice grew faint, and Alphonse barely heard it under the blood still pulsing in his own ears, “I was very good at my job.”
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