All the Wind in the World

by Samantha Mabry

  I relax, but just slightly. This is her ruse: play the innocent to get what she wants.

  “Odette, what? Just tell me.”

  “He hasn’t come back yet,” she whispers, fighting back a sob. “He told me he would. Have you heard from him?”

  She’s trying to keep those big, round eyes shining innocently, but her mouth is set in a hard line, like she’s expecting to be betrayed. Her grip is strong; her palm is slick with sweat. It’s uncomfortable.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I haven’t.”

  Odette closes her eyes and lets out a long exhale. “What is it, then? I don’t understand. I mean, James was like your best friend, right?”

  “Right,” I mutter.

  I want her to leave, but instead she just sits there, silent. I can feel her staring at me, waiting for me to tell her what to do. I, however, am not Eva. I don’t predict the future. I don’t need a follower, but I get the sense that Odette won’t leave until I give her something. I refuse to say out loud that James might never return, so instead I say: “He’ll come back. He’s probably just busy working.”

  “Or,” she says quietly, “he’s under a spell.”

  “What?”

  “He’s under a spell,” Odette repeats.

  “Really, Odette. You can’t be serious.”

  “Don’t mock!” Odette glances around nervously. “It happens, Sarah Jac. I’ve seen it. We have no idea what Farrah’s done to him.”

  “Odette, no. I’ve known James Holt for a very, very long time, and one thing I’m sure of is that he cannot be spellbound. It’s not possible.”

  Odette is cringing, obviously not convinced, but eventually she nods her head. After giving her what I intend to be a reassuring squeeze, I withdraw my hand, and again wait for her to leave. Several seconds pass.

  “Tell me a story,” she says. “About James.”

  There are so many, and I don’t want to give her any of them. I think for a moment, then choose one I can change. She’ll believe the story is hers—or ours to share—but it will really still be mine.

  “When we lived in Chicago,” I begin, “James worked on train engines, and I was a waitress. One night, he stopped in after his shift and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of blueberry pie. I looked at him like he’d lost it and told him that not a single blueberry—frozen or fresh—had graced this restaurant with its presence in all the time I’d worked there. Him asking for blueberry pie was like walking into a pet store and asking for a zebra.”

  Odette giggles. A berry of any kind is so rare it’s practically legend. The weather is too extreme for anyone to grow them anymore. James, of course, knew that, too.

  “He’s always been optimistic like that,” I tell her.

  “Yeah.” Odette lets out a sigh. “That’s one of the reasons I love him so much.”

  There is more to the story, of course. I left out how that was the first night I met James. The diner had been empty until he came in, and when he’d rung the little bell on the counter, I’d been in the back, crying. Lane and I had walked out of the girls’ home just a couple weeks earlier and were living on the street as thieves: always hungry, without home or direction. It was the most alone I’d ever felt.

  At first I thought James was just plain dumb. But he wasn’t dumb. He was optimistic. There’s a difference. It was warm that day: the first warm day after a long, cold winter. James wanted blueberry pie so he asked for blueberry pie. He didn’t care if some waitress gave him the side-­eye because of it.

  We had biscuits and little packets of grape jam, but for James, it was either blueberry pie or no pie. He ordered chili. When I set the bowl down in front of him, I pointed to his forehead and told him he had grease on his face. He grinned, leaned across the counter, swiped his dirty finger across my cheek, and called us even.

  “I’m going back to sleep now,” I tell Odette. “I’m sure we’ll see James soon.”

  Still, Odette doesn’t move, and because I once had a sister, I know exactly what she’s doing.

  I let out a long exhale. “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

  I scoot back to the far edge of my narrow bed and pat the empty space on the mattress. Quickly, and without a word, Odette climbs up and nuzzles against me.

  Again, I’m full of regret. We—James and I—shouldn’t have chosen this love-­starved girl. When we met her, that night she spoke of the bleeding maguey, she seemed so easy and innocent, but now she’s morphed into something cagey and desperate, and, at times, scary like an injured animal. Or maybe she’s always been this way. As I lie here, listening to her breathing even out toward sleep, I have to admit that I know very little about her other than the stories I’ve created.

  THE NEXT MORNING, while I’m standing in the coa line, I watch a little boy pick a louse from his sister’s head and then crush it between his fingernails. He finds another and does the same thing again. The next morning—a Sunday—I see three tiny, smashed bodies embedded in the coal soap of the bathhouse. That afternoon, the blankets are stripped from all the cots and put into vats of boiling vinegar. The women and men are separated, put in lines, and taken to our separate bathhouses. We’re told to strip. Everything has to come off and go into a bucket. The girl in front of me must be about thirteen. She’s sobbing as she takes off her clothes while at the same time tries to cover her developing body with her hands. Her modesty is almost touching. Who here is really modest anymore? When she hears the snip of scissors, she grips her long ash-­blond hair in both her hands and starts to wail.

  It’s one woman’s job to hack off as much hair as she can with scissors, and it’s another’s job to wield a razor. Yet another woman has the unfortunate duty of inspecting our pubic hair for nits.

  Once we’re shorn of our hair, we’re told to stand against the wall of the bathhouse and shut our eyes and mouths. We’re hosed down with near-­scalding water. Then we’re told to wait for our clothes, which, when handed to us in a wad, are sopping wet and smell like vinegar. The thirteen-year-­old girl holds her clothes bundle against her chest and shivers in place. Her face is streaked with tears, and she’s gone quiet with humiliation.

  I drag my wet clothes on as quickly as I can and step out into the sun to dry. The members of Eva’s flock stand a few yards out, shoulder to shoulder, waiting silently with smug expressions for others to join them since the prophecy about the pestilence has been proven true.

  “I told you!” Eva calls out. “It’s the work of the witch!” Her eyes lock onto mine, and I wonder, for a moment, if she thinks it’s me, if I’m the one who’s caused all this.

  Beyond Eva and her followers, beyond the ranch house, puffs of dust are rising over a hill. Another storm is coming.

  Let it come.

  Let it all come: the dust, the wind, the bees. I won’t fight them anymore. I’m out of fight. My clothes are wet. I have no coa. I have no friends. I have no hair. I’m too thin. The wind could just pick me up and toss me into the sky, and I’d offer no resistance.

  PART THREE

  The Witch

  TWENTY-ONE

  I wait and listen for the storm, but there’s no hum, no whistle in the wind. Instead, there’s something smoother, and stranger: the purr of a finely tuned motor. Other jimadors, freshly inspected, shorn, and washed, grow quiet and turn toward the sound. Mothers hush their children. We all watch as a long black car crests a hill and drives around the far end of the ranch house and out of sight. What I mistook for a storm is innocent dust kicked up by the car’s tires. The driver announces his arrival with a toot of the horn, causing a woman next to me to gasp. Passenger cars—especially ones as sleek and pristine as this—are extraordinarily rare. Rare like a solitary deer glimpsed from a moving train.

  I hear doors open and shut. Bell shouts out her sister’s name. A diesel truck comes over the hill, followed by another one pulling a horse trailer. Men up there are talking. I pick out the words: maguey, bees, lice, tired, agitación. I trot forward, straining
to pick out James’ voice.

  Odette follows me.

  “He’s back!” She grabs my arm, forcing me to halt. Like the rest of us, she’s sunburned, bald, and pockmarked. Her eyes, however, are as clear and bright as pools people toss pennies into.

  “He’s back,” I echo. I don’t want to be swept up by a storm anymore.

  This is what I hope will happen: James will come loping down the hill any moment now. Even though he’ll see me right away, he’ll greet the others before he greets me. There’ll be handshakes and pats on backs. He’ll hear about the bees and the people we’ve lost. His face will fall because he’s tenderhearted. He’ll let Odette fly into his arms and crush her in an embrace and tell her how much he missed her. After all that, he’ll give me a hug, quick and firm, the type of hug you give your cousin. He may put his hand on the top of my freshly shaved head and laugh. It’ll be unbearable, but I’ve come to expect nothing less.

  This, though, is what actually happens: I wait for James as the sky darkens and the mess crew prepares the fire for supper. I stand in the mess line and stare down at my empty pewter plate, fighting the urge to look up at the house every other second. Warm light shines through the windows, and I wonder what the family is doing.

  I pick at my soggy beans, unable to eat them because I’m so nervous.

  I wait until the fires have died out, shivering against the cold.

  I wait until everyone else has gone to the bunkhouses and the only camp sounds come from the wind and insects and dream-­sighs of the jimadors. I’m awake in my bunk when the disappointment forms as a small burr nestled between my ribs. The deeper I inhale, the deeper that burr digs in.

  I convince myself that James is still gone, and will never return.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I head to the house. I can’t avoid it any longer. Farrah must’ve seen me coming because she comes out to intercept me. The wind is a terror this morning, forcing me to keep hold of my hat and tossing Farrah’s hair around wildly. She stops in front of me, and for a moment we’re two wind-­whipped girls staring at each other.

  “I’m here for Bell,” I say.

  Farrah shakes her head. “She isn’t well.”

  My eyes dart to the house. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing. She’s just in a mood. She’ll get over it. Try back in a couple of days.”

  “I would think she’d be happy to have you back,” I say.

  “One would think that, yes.”

  Even after Farrah’s gone back up the hill, I stay awhile, watching the house, wishing the wind would blow its walls down and reveal what’s within. I want what’s in there.

  AS I LIE in bed that night, the burr in my chest grows larger and sticks deeper. I get up a couple of times and walk around in the dark. I’m making up a conversation in my head with James, one in which I tell him how much I miss him, about how I’m ready right this moment to leave the desert forever and go to our house in the hill in the East. I tell him I’ll be better, you know? Not so angry all the time. I’ll find a book and read it or something. I’ll make a friend.

  The sun oozes red over the mountains the next morning, like blood welling from a long, shallow cut. I know this because I’m sitting cross-­legged in the cold, watching it come up.

  I’ve become a sitter and a waiter, sitting and waiting and willing. I’m no witch. If I am, I’m not a good one. I’ve cast out so many hopes into day and night skies, into fields, and out past mountains. I’ve cast them out like fluttering lures on long, long, nearly invisible fishing lines.

  Witches can create things out of dust and air and intentions. They can cast out hopes and reel in something true. I can do none of this. I wish I could.

  Later that morning, when I see James in the fields, I almost drop my coa on my foot. I’m nearly sick with relief.

  He’s ridden out with Gonzales on a new horse—James’ very own white horse, King’s near twin. He and Gonzales stop in an open space about fifty yards away from me to consult with the overseer and a group of foremen. One of them sweeps out his arm, first in the direction of us jimadors, then out to an adjoining field containing several hectares of unharvested maguey plants.

  That’s when James turns and looks straight at me.

  I lift my hand in greeting. He mirrors my gesture, but shifts his attention quickly away. A couple of moments later, Gonzales and his men start to ride out in the direction of the far fields, but James breaks off and heads toward me at a trot. I want to leap over maguey plants and run to meet him, but instead I slam my coa blade into the dirt to remind myself to stay in place. I bite the inside of my lower lip and try to hide a smile. As James approaches, I can tell he’s doing the same thing. I can tell by the way he’s forcing a frown.

  When he gets close enough, I notice that he’s clean in every way. His hair is cut and combed. His skin is smooth and paler, not like mine, which is tan and leathery from excessive sun. He’s not wearing his sky-­blue shirt but instead a white button-­up and light brown pants so new they still have their creases. Those clothes fit like they were made for him. Not like his old shirt, which he bartered off some guy back in Tulsa.

  He pulls the horse to a stop, dismounts, and then stands in front of me, surveying. I wonder if he disapproves of what he sees: a too-­thin girl, her long dark hair gone. She’s wearing old clothes that smell rank. Her skin is scabbed over and pebbled from bee stings. James’ frown might not be forced after all.

  I wait for him to say something, to tell me what the plan is, when we’ll leave. I’m ready right now. I push the blade of my coa deeper into the earth. It makes me feel strong.

  James smiles, just slightly, but it’s enough. The scar on the side of his mouth tugs up. I resist the urge to reach out and touch it with my grimy finger, to dirty him up and bring him back to me.

  He leans in. A light breeze comes through, carrying his scent to me. It’s piñon pine and lavender. He’s never smelled like this before.

  “Your hair,” he says in a voice that’s just above a whisper.

  A moment passes during which neither of us knows what to say. Actually, that’s not true. There are thousands of things I want to say, but I don’t want to say them here in the middle of this field.

  “Nice horse.” I extend my hand so the animal can get my scent. “What’d you have to do to get him?”

  I’m joking, but James clucks and glances away. The horse, not interested, twitches and shirks from my touch.

  “They’re going to burn those maguey plants,” James says. “The ones on the southern edge of the property.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “The bees. There were the workers that died on the day of the swarm of course, but there are also the ones that left after because they think this place is cursed. There aren’t enough jima­dors left to cut all that maguey before it rots. If we burn it now, we can at least replant for the next year.”

  “The jimadors that are left can work those fields,” I say, corkscrewing my coa deeper into the earth. “We can get up earlier or work an hour later.”

  “Don’t worry about the money, Sarah. I know that’s what you’re doing in your head—counting up all the money you could make off that maguey.”

  That’s not all I’m doing in my head.

  “I’ve got you taken care of, alright? Remember that.” James steps away and gets ready to mount his beautiful white horse. “I have to get back to Gonzales and the others. I’ll find you later.”

  James rides away, but I remain still.

  Odette’s voice soars across the rows of plants.

  “James!” she cries out, and then repeats his name at least three more times. He has to hear her, but he never even shifts in his saddle. Odette comes up and leans hard against me. She grips my hand, and I grip hers back.

  I can’t shake what James said, the way he said it: “We can at least replant for the next year.” Followed by: “I’ve got you taken care of.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Th
ere’s a memorial service tonight. It wasn’t planned, and it’s not really organized. It starts at supper when one of the younger jimadors stands up to say something about his father, who died during the bee storm. Even though I can’t understand all the Spanish he’s speaking, I tear up as his voice breaks into sobs, and a woman—a sister, a wife—goes to him and gently leads him away. His is the first of many more improvised eulogies, all given in a jumble of languages and dialects. Jugs of pulque materialize and get passed around. Drinking triggers more speeches, longer speeches, speeches that detail happy and tragic childhoods spent in far-­flung cities, formative years spent shivering on the streets in the rain or baking in trains, fortunes gloriously won and tragically lost.

  There are lies told, I’m sure, and enhancements added, but all the tales end with this: a life cut short on a maguey field, a good person stuffed to bursting with bee venom or cut down in the ensuing chaos.

  More mesquite logs are thrown onto the campfire. They burn fast and bright. I’m drunk and getting drunker and upset that no one’s mentioned Raoul. I decide to speak on his behalf, even though I’m not really one for speaking. I stumble to my feet and deliver some words about a young man’s honor and pride in his work. I don’t mention how he died in the field, covered in dust, clutching the broken bundle of sticks that once hung around his throat.

  “I watched him run!” I shout. “He ran until his legs gave out.” The jimadors are gazing at me, some are weeping. “He may have fallen, but we were spared! This is a beautiful thing!”

  Eva is silent at the back edge of the crowd, eyeing me uneasily. I decide it’s best that I sit now. I realize, with a jolt, that I wish Leo was here. Or Bruno.

  A couple of hours later, as the speeches taper off, the campfire dies down, and a deep cold settles into the desert, the workers start to retire to the bunkhouses. I’m not tired yet, so I sit next to a woman who lost her young son. It wasn’t the bees that got him. He wasn’t cut down by a blade, either. He’d actually made it to one of the trucks. He’d even helped her climb in behind him. On the way back to camp, the driver—maybe spooked by a bee that had flown into the cab—swerved sharply, causing the boy to fall from the bed of the truck. She tells me she can’t stop hearing her son yelp—so small, she says, like a kitten—followed by the crack of his neck breaking.