Resurgence

by M. M. Mayle

  Sprawled on the hood of the El Camino, working upside down and mostly by feel, he manages to remove the front license plate. Doing it this way, the hard way, instead of backing the truck up a foot or two to provide working space, is a point of honor and could be the first step toward earning a lucky break. The back plate naturally comes off quicker and leaves him with no reason to hang around unless he wants to be seen as a loiterer.

  He shoves both plates into the backpack, locks the passenger compartment and the covered bed of the truck without saying an official goodbye to Audrey. Or to the El Camino, for that matter. He just wants to leave, to get the worst part over, and get settled with the decision.

  Unnerving as the maiden bike ride is along Route 22, Hoop feels at peace with his reduced means. This peace holds through a stop at the usual sandwich shop for the usual Blimpie and Coke, and lasts all the way back to the motel, where humble goes with the territory.

  The rundown ground floor room they gave him when he went from being a guest to being an employee, can now be seen as a benefit for not requiring him to lug the bike up that flight of openwork metal stairs that make him dizzy even when he’s not drunked-up.

  He applies the chain lock to the bike after he brings it inside the room and dips into the backpack for the padlock removed from the abandoned tool case. If need be, this lock can be rigged to the main compartment of the backpack, enough to discourage most snoops and some thieves.

  When he unwraps it, the sandwich holds the same appeal as roadkill, and the Coke, when tasted, might as well be sump water. He leaves both on the desk and flops down on the bed to reckon how long it may take for his luck to change.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Late afternoon, May 23, 1987

  “I still don’t understand why Nate was in such a hurry to get back to New York,” Laurel says. “Did he forget this is Memorial Day weekend and the markets will be closed Monday?”

  “The markets may not be the reason he left sooner than expected,” Amanda says.

  “He didn’t say why he had to go?” Laurel slows their progress on the path leading to the oast houses.

  Amanda hesitates before answering, “Not in so many words.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that. Isn’t that a little strange given your newfound relationship? No, wait. I shouldn’t be asking you that. That’s none of my business.”

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind. You have to be as skeptical as everyone else about Nate and I being together—if together’s the right word.”

  “I’m not at all skeptical. I saw potential for you two as long ago as when you bested him at that lunch he set up for the sole purpose of pumping you dry. And at the time you were lecturing me about my apprehensions—laughable, now.”

  “I remember. I had the nerve to tell you that if I could have lunch with one of the wealthiest, most eligible guys in New York without peeing my pants, you could certainly grill a rock star about his personal life.”

  “So you did, and so I did, after a fashion, and look where we are now.” Laurel does just that, stops to survey an already appealing landscape made lovelier in the late afternoon light.

  “Look where you are.” Amanda makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses more than landscape. “I don’t yet know where I am.”

  Whatever that means, Amanda doesn’t say and Laurel can’t guess. They walk on in weighted silence; several minutes pass before Amanda speaks again.

  “I didn’t know he was going to do that.”

  “Who? Do what?” Laurel stops in her tracks.

  “Nate.” Amanda stops and turns to face her. “When he came backstage at the concert and surprised me and everyone else by . . . by being demonstrative.”

  “That’s what’s keeping you from knowing where you fit into the picture?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “That morning, the morning of the concert, Nate warned me that we couldn’t be seen together or Colin would think we were in cahoots and react by taking a hike. I didn’t argue because who knows better than Nate how Colin’s apt to behave, but I did offer my opinion that you wouldn’t let Colin get away with any crap and that was that, or so I thought, until Nate surprised me right before the concert and then I was confused because I couldn’t be sure if Nate was flaunting his relationship with me or just thumbing his nose at Colin and daring to do it because he could count on you to keep Colin in check.”

  Laurel marvels—as she always does—at Amanda’s ability to say so much in one breath, then gently chides her for her groundless fears. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you don’t have enough on your mind. You shouldn’t be worrying about something as insignificant as that.”

  “But—”

  “Nate unquestionably seized the chance to both show off his relationship with you and cock a snoot at Colin. I applaud him for taking that chance, and so should you. I think that speaks extremely well for the way Nate views you.”

  Amanda frowns. “Cock a snoot?”

  “That’s what Anthony calls thumbing his nose. And speaking of Anthony, where is he anyway? I told him not to run too far ahead. That’s what I get for admiring the scenery—some apprentice mother I am.”

  They hurry to the top of a rise overlooking the wild ungroomed stretch of land between them and the oast buildings, and catch sight of Anthony and his little dog, Toby, dodging through a thicket of coppiced sweet chestnut trees.

  Amanda resumes her frown when they reach level ground again. “There was another time I felt doubtful,” she says. “Nate didn’t immediately correct the assumption I was his cutesy convenient little live-in secretary during the emergency meeting we had with the freelance journalist early Thursday morning when I was barely awake and a little slow on the uptake so I let it go at first and I suppose I should let it go now and I would if—”

  “Amanda, hold on a second.” Laurel cups her hands to her mouth. “Anthony!” she shouts to the boy who’s about to clamber over the remains of an ancient drystone wall where stinging nettles are known to grow. “Wait right there! Do not go further without me!” She redirects at Amanda, “You were saying?”

  “Nothing. Forget it. I need to just let it go”

  “Yes, you do and you would if . . . that’s what you were saying when I had to interrupt.”

  “At least I didn’t have to order coffee and serve it,” Amanda says.

  “Nice try, but I still want to hear what’s keeping you from dismissing these ridiculous doubts.”

  “It’s too good to be true!”

  “Is that all?” Laurel releases the laughter she’s been holding back.

  “Why is that so funny?”

  “Because I had similar thoughts not long ago. Not that long ago I was spending every spare moment listening to Colin’s recordings and watching old concert videos. This had an effect that impacted on me the day he suggested our wedding date. I had some sort of delayed reaction. I finally saw him as others see him—the way you must have seen him—the way I refused to see him when he first came into our lives. All of a sudden I was staggered at thought of the Colin Elliot wanting me, of all people, and it’s a wonder I didn’t pee my pants. And it’s a wonder I didn’t fall off the roof when we went up there that day as a treat for Anthony and I surveyed the domain, so to speak—I fully comprehended that this mind-bogglingly beautiful place is my home. Does that describe what you’re going through?”

  “Yes, exactly, minus a wedding date to stagger me, and a look at his real estate to bring me to my knees.”

  “So you’re nitpicking his behavior to make things seem less perfect—less than too good to be true.”

  “Exactomundo! Only I didn’t realize it until right now. Thank you!”

  “Don’t thank me, but you can tell me more about this meeting when Nate passed you off as his sleep-in office help.”

  “Oh that’s all there was to it—just me nitpicking.”

  “But didn’t you say it was an emergency? An e
arly-morning meeting with a journalist? That does raise a few flags, you know.”

  “Forget I even mentioned it. Nothing to it . . . really.” Amanda’s cheeks color with emphasis before she ducks her head to avoid backlash from the sweet chestnut canes they’re passing through.

  “Very well.” Laurel detours around another clump of sprouted stumps. “As you wish. Anything else need airing before we subject ourselves to Anthony’s lecture on the cultivation of hops?”

  “Not that I can think of. What’s up with this lecture thing? I’ve never seen a kid so excited about—what should I call it, agriculture?”

  “Call it an extra credit project for his social studies class. The seed was planted—pun intended—the day Colin and I came up to London to hear your proposals.” Laurel continues with a condensed version of Anthony’s misbehavior that day, and goes on to describe why the oast houses hold such appeal as a venue for fantasy play and daredeviltry.

  “You’re really into this, aren’t you? The mothering and teaching, I mean.”

  “Well yes. Does that surprise you?”

  “Maybe a little. Keep in mind I always had you locked in as a hardass ADA . . . no offense.”

  “No offense taken. By the same token, I had you locked in as an extraordinarily able assistant and I couldn’t be happier about being wrong.”

  “Are you saying I wasn’t an able assistant?” Amanda pretends insult.

  “Are you saying I wasn’t a hardass ADA?” Laurel matches her tone. They’re both laughing when they catch up with Anthony and tramp on toward the three oast houses and attached barn.

  “Wow, I see what you mean,” Amanda says when they at last enter the barn and move through a congestion of antiquated farm implements and machinery seemingly assembled to fire young imaginations. “Wow again,” she says as they go into the oast chosen as setting for Anthony’s oral report.

  No one, of any age, could fail to see why an eight-year-old boy would risk punishment for the chance to play here. A conversion project abandoned by the previous owner, this oast has windows and contains a partially installed spiral staircase that holds even more swashbuckle potential than the scaffolding servicing the unfinished loft space above.

  “Really cool place to hang out, but I can sure see why it has to be offlimits,” Amanda says, earning a fierce scowl from Anthony.

  Laurel steers Anthony to the center of the enclosure, where the furnace once stood. “Think of it as theatre-in-the-round.” She gives him a reassuring pat on his hard little ass. “In your own words, darling, and don’t be nervous. We’re not here to grade you, we’re here to learn,” she says and withdraws with Amanda to the skeletal shelter of the scaffolding.

  Anthony rolls his eyes in the manner of all young boys prodded to perform, then plucks at each shirt sleeve in turn, a gesture that’s his alone.

  “Hops-growing at Terra Firma . . . the way it used to be.” He grins at his echo before going on to explain that hops are the girl part of a plant that climbs by means of shoots growing around a support. “This is called a bine, different from a vine that hangs on with suckers. Hops are used to make beer last longer and taste better and the vines—I mean bines—are taught to grow on wire frameworks so tall that the hops growers have to wear stilts to take care of them.

  “The picking usually takes place in late August. In the old days the hops were picked by hand and this called for so many hands they had to bring people from London, who lived in tents or huts when they got here. Their job was called ‘hopping,’ and for most of the pickers, it was their only holiday.”

  Anthony pauses for reaction and receives the encouraging smiles and nods he’s looking for.

  “Anyway,” he continues, “the fresh-picked hops were brought from the hops gardens in big bags called pokes. The pokes were hoisted onto the gantry—a kind of shelf that stuck out from the upper floor of the stowage—and carried to the drying floors of the oasts, where they were spread out to dry. The drying took eight to ten hours at a temperature of a hundred and sixty degrees, Celsius, and took a special bloke called an oastie to keep the fire going just right.”

  He pauses again, slaps himself on the forehead. “Bugger! I forgot to say that oasts are kilns, and that the dictionary says kilns are furnaces made for drying stuff.”

  “That’s okay, darling, you’ve told us now, but we could have done without the swearword,” Laurel says.

  “Sorry,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Anyway,” he resumes, “when the hops were dry, they were spread out on the cooling floor of the stowage to cool down before being pressed by a hand-cranked hop press into six foot high bags called pockets. These pockets were sewn shut and letter-stenciled with the name of the farm where they were grown and the date they were picked. From there, the pockets went to the brewery to give flavor and aroma to beer . . . “Shite! I forgot to say that the drying floors were . . . were . . . and now I can’t remember the bloody word,” he moans.

  “Porous,” Laurel says, ignoring the additional expletives. “They were latticework covered with horsehair cloth, and the wind vane atop the roundel kept the heated air moving,” she fills in.

  “Yeh! That’s it! That’s what I meant to say,” he says.

  “And that’s what you will say when you present the report at school. You’ll do just fine, Anthony. I know you will. I’m already so proud of you I can hardly wait for your next report,” Laurel says.

  “What will the next one be about?” Amanda says.

  “Wheelmaking. Because we live on Wheelwright Road,” Anthony says.

  “I didn’t realize the road had a name,” Amanda says.

  “Nor did I,” Laurel says. “Because the mailing address is a PO Box number and courier deliveries usually just say ‘Terra Firma,’ I never gave it any thought. And when I first noticed there were no signs at either end, I took for granted it was a private road. I thought if it was called anything, it would be named after the estate—that it would be ‘Terra Firma Lane’ or ‘Terra Firma Passage’ or something like that. But when Anthony questioned the estate manager about the history of the oast houses, the subject came up. Sam said when the estate was established, hops-growing in this region was secondary to the making of wheels or we’d be living on ‘Beer Flavor Road.’”

  “Good one!” Amanda laughs. “You don’t see that on a map everyday. Probably don’t see ‘Wheelwright Road,’ either.”

  “I’ve never looked into that, not that it really matters. Colin’s the only resident, and anyone authorized to visit receives specific directions that don’t necessarily rely on maps or road signs. Or so I’m led to believe—Anthony! Get down from there!”

  The boy has taken advantage of her inattention to swing from the rail of the prefabricated spiral staircase that’s unanchored at the top. He leaps off just as Toby, the terrier, short legs pumping hard, streaks by in hot pursuit of a rat. Right on cue, Amanda screams and leaps for the lower rungs of the scaffolding, and Anthony busts a gut laughing when the rooster, Cyril, stalks in like the ringmaster of this circus.

  “I don’t think that was part of the deal,” Laurel says, struggling not to laugh.

  “What deal?” Amanda says, leery of coming down off her perch.

  “Anthony was allowed to come here today—under supervision, of course—in exchange for researching and composing his report, but there wasn’t supposed to be any funny business.”

  “I promise you, I didn’t bring the rat. I swear! And I can’t help it if Cyril followed us. He likes it here too. The bugs he’s dead keen on are bigger and better than the ones at home. Juicier, actually. And sometimes there are snakes for him to—”

  “That’s it! I’m out of here!” Amanda jumps down from the scaffolding just as Toby returns, the rat caught and still twitching in his jaws. He finishes it off with vicious shakes of his head that spray dog spit and rat gore in a wide arc.

  Laurel is helpless not to laugh and Amanda is frozen in place until Anthony coaxes
the dog outside and disposes of the rat.

  When Amanda does move, she streaks through the barn as fast as the clutter will allow. “I’ll wait out here,” she calls from well beyond the door.

  Although Laurel doesn’t want to keep Amanda waiting long, she nevertheless gives Anthony adequate time to sit on the tractor and graze among the more dangerous-looking antiquated farm implements, thereby holding up her end of the deal.

  He moans and groans when she separates him from a cracked and stiffened horse collar. “That’s enough for today,” she says, intentionally giving him reason to believe there’ll be another day.

  On the trek back to the manor house, they’re approaching the sweet chestnut thickets before Laurel attempts to smooth things over with Amanda. She hasn’t gotten far with her apology when Toby streaks after another quarry—a hedgehog this time—and, as they top the rise above the thickets with the manor house in sight, Anthony runs up ahead, madly gesticulating and proclaiming he can see Snow White’s giant coffin from here.

  “I don’t doubt it, not one bit,” Amanda says without looking up to see what the boy is pointing at. “And if he indicates her wicked stepmother’s right behind me, I’m not gonna argue,” she says, breaking into a jog.

  THIRTY

  Afternoon, May 23, 1987

  First of all, these are not the best of sources, Nate reminds himself as he gears up for yet another review of statements made by his four corroborating witnesses—a Venice Beach stoner, a professionally vague assistant hotel manager in Beverly Hills, a glib West Village bartender, and a chronically confused old woman in New Jersey.