“She wasn’t feeling well. Took the day off. She’ll be calling me later to check in, so if you need anything I can pass it on.”
“Could you just tell her that I’m going up to Ernie’s farm tonight and I can get some of her chiles for the board dinner myself?” I say. “Save her the trip.”
Jonah nods and goes back to work, but I don’t leave because standing there, a new thought occurs to me. “You’re still here,” he says without looking up. “And I can’t work with you standing there.”
“You said she has bad choices in guys.”
He sighs, pushes back from his desk and this time looks all the way up at me. “I shouldn’t have said anything about that. Forget it. That’s personal stuff. I don’t know why you’re so interested.”
“Was Cruz Sampson one of those guys?”
Jonah’s mouth opens and closes again as he studies me. “How do you know about that?”
I didn’t, I think, you just told me. I don’t say this though. Instead, I shrug and vaguely say, “I just had a feeling.” My real feelings, though, are far more complex, like why did Esha tell me she hardly knew Cruz? “When were they together?”
“A while ago,” Jonah says. “Before she went to Peru, a little bit after.”
“And how bad was it?” I know I’m pushing my luck, but now I’m wondering if they hooked up again. Maybe the other day when her text said, “It’s over” it was Cruz she was texting. Maybe he had given her the necklace and she gave it back to him as a breakup move.
“He was into drugs,” Jonah finally says. “It was a bad scene. Now look, that’s all I’m going to—”
“What kind of drugs?”
“Faith.” The way he says my name should make me shut up, but of course I don’t.
“Liquid gold?”
The look on his face tells me this is the answer.
***
I spend the rest of the day comparing performances of short read algorithms and looking at alignments for the cabbage genome, which I’ve been studying in my continuing bioinformatics education. I manage to lose myself in the data, and soon I’ve forgotten my other worries and concerns. As I work, I think about how we’re all united by these four chemical letters. There’s no black or white or brown A, T, C, or G. No gay or straight or bi A, T, C, or G. No Muslim or Christian or Jewish or Hindu A, T, C or G. No snow leopard or mountain gorilla or humpback whale A, T, C, or G. It’s all the same four letters, and when we kill each other or die, all those letters decompose into exactly the same thing.
Strings of letters, sheets of data, and soon it’s five o’clock. As promised, Amelia’s waiting out front to take us up to Ernie’s farm. We take off, or at least we try to. Amelia’s truck is threatening the last of its vehicular existence. After ten minutes of turning the key and checking the oil and turning the key some more, the faithful dinosaur kicks into action. The good news is that we manage to sputter along all the way to Ernie’s. The bad news is the truck dies at the top of his driveway.
“Well, it was bound to happen sometime,” I say, getting out of the truck. “How many miles does that thing have?”
“Three hundred thousand,” she responds. “But that has nothing to do with why we ran out of gas.”
The same happy mutt that followed Ernie and me through the fields the other day greets us as we walk toward his house. The dog wags his tail ferociously and does a terrible job of being a guard. Immediately Amelia’s slapping her knees, talking baby talk to the dog. “Come here, puppy wuppy. Cutie-kins. Oh, you’re so cute. You’re such a good dog. Yes. You’re a good dog, aren’t you? Good dog. Yes. What’s your name? Huh? Come on. Tell me. What’s your name?”
I stare at Amelia as if she’s lost her mind, but when she keeps up the baby talk, insisting the dog tells her its name, I bend down and join the love fest. We’re crouched over the dog, united in unadulterated canine bliss, so it’s no surprise that neither of us notice the burly guy towering above us until he says, “Take your hands off the dog and tell me what you’re doing here and who you are.”
The dog, confused by the change of tone, whimpers and his tail goes down. I leap up. Amelia, on the other hand, too smitten with the dog to notice the guy, continues stroking her new friend.
I clear my throat and tap her shoulder. She looks up, noticing for the first time that in fact a none-too-friendly man is standing there, and, in fact, now is not the time for dog baby talk. She releases her hold on the dog and backs up behind me. The dog follows.
“Sorry,” I say, forcing myself to convey every bit of confidence I can muster. It’s then I realize I recognize him. “Tom, right?” I blurt. “I met you when I was here a few days ago with Dr. Richmond. My name’s Faith. Ernie was giving me a tour of the farm? He said if I needed anything I could come back. I was hoping to see him again.” I wait anxiously for his response.
Tom doesn’t move. He stands in front of us with a bone-crushing expression. I see the cogs of his memory working, and I can only hope he has good facial recognition, and if not, that Amelia’s right and there is a God.
Finally, he relaxes. “I remember. Lemonade Girl, right?”
“Right,” I say, nearly collapsing with relief. “Lemonade Girl.”
Amelia lets out a breath and starts petting the dog again.
“That there’s Buck,” Tom says, pointing at the dog. “Ernie found him wandering down Cerrillos Road about three years ago. Half starved, poor fellow. Ernie rescued him and now he’s the friendliest dog around.”
Tom’s whole demeanor changes as he speaks about Buck. He seems a lot less like a thunderstorm and more like a sun shower. The dog brings out a sparkle in his eye, a smile to his voice. Funny how even the toughest people can go soft in the face of an animal. I go off on a mental vacation, fantasizing about how we should drop dogs and cats and bunnies and guinea pigs into war zones. Hamsters for Iraq! Pets for peace!
“… and that’s his story. Anyway, I’m sorry for the unfriendly greeting,” Tom finishes. I realize I hadn’t been listening and quickly snap back into the conversation. “We’re being extra careful around here. We’ve had more threats about those chiles. It’s gotten bad. Come on, I’ll tell Ernie you’re here.”
Tom leads the way down the driveway, followed by Amelia and her new best friend, Buck. Ernie steps out onto the porch as we approach and calls out hello. I look up and wave, surprised to see how bad he looks, like he hasn’t slept since I saw him three days ago. Also like he hasn’t changed his clothes. And possibly hasn’t bathed.
“Wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” he says, his bowlegged limp leading him across the porch.
“If it’s a bad time we can come back,” I say, gently urging Buck up the porch steps ahead of me.
Ernie sinks into a rocking chair and reaches for Buck who curls up at his feet. “Now’s as a good a time as any.”
I introduce Amelia, but before she can ask about Rudy, I speak. “Tom said you had more threats?”
Ernie picks at his teeth with a toothpick. He gazes out across his fields and doesn’t respond.
“What happened?” I ask, gently pushing.
“I have something to give to Dr. Richmond,” he says, instead of answering. “I wanted to give it to her in person, but I need to stay here with Tom and help him watch the place.”
I glance at Amelia to see if she’s following. She just shakes her head and shrugs.
“You’ll see her tomorrow?” he asks. I assure him I will, and he says, “Then could you please bring something to her? I already told the police.” He nods to Tom, who goes into the house and comes back a minute later carrying a slip of paper.
Ernie opens the paper, slides a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, and begins to read the letter to us. “Ernie. We are not playing around anymore. The GMO chile is a serious compromise to the safety of our traditional crop, to our ecosystem,
and to our heritage. We will not stand for it. Consider yourself warned. If you do not pull the GMO chile from your field immediately, we will take action. We are not afraid of playing with fire.”
“Can I see it?” I ask when he’s done reading. He sighs and hands me the paper. I scan it and see the UpsideDown! logo printed at the top of the letter. “What did the police say when you told them?”
He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “They said they talked to Holly, but she says she didn’t write it.”
“Yeah, well, the logo would be a clue that she did,” I say, handing back the note.
A yellow butterfly the size of my hand wafts past my shoulder. As I watch its effortless flight, my mind drifts to Holly and her little visit to SCPG last Wednesday, the day she barged in and said she had a meeting. Was this the threat Dr. Richmond was talking about?
We listen as the cottonwood leaves rustle in a faint breeze. Ernie reaches down to Buck—snoring now, paws twitching—and strokes his head. I gaze out toward the near field, where a small falcon, a kestrel probably (a name I learned from my junkie-naturalist mom, go figure), hovers.
As I watch the bird, I remember the time in fifth grade when my teacher packed up the class and bussed us out of north Philly to a nature preserve, a tiny dot of undeveloped wetlands. Although we were just outside the city, we might as well have been transported to Mars, our closest experience with nature having been flushing spiders down the toilet and stomping on cockroaches.
A guide led us through the preserve, pointing out various plants and animal tracks. At the end of the field trip, she gathered the rambunctious group of ten- and eleven-year-olds into a circle, pulled a journal from her backpack, and read the words: “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.”
I was too young to take in the quote and understand what she was trying to tell us, but the words stuck. Sitting here now on Ernie’s farm, watching the graceful hunter, the quote comes back to me, and I understand. Our actions matter. Kill that kestrel (spider-cockroach-mouse-snake-species of choice) and set off a chain of events, events we humans with our narrow vision might never understand. Then, an even more startling thought jumps into my head: Food. Not because I’m hungry and want some munchies (although there is that), but because suddenly I get what Holly and Esha and Dr. Richmond and Ernie have all been saying in their own way: What we eat has everything to do with how we take care of this little round planet orbiting the sun, this little cosmic speck we call home. GMOs. Pesticides. Overpopulation. Fast food. Organic. Local. Sustainable. Plastic bag munchies. Environmental degradation. DQ-TacoBell-MickeyDs…. Shit. The gastronomic choices make my head hurt. And all I want is a snack. Are we really what we eat? Am I really one big French fry?
Buck barks at something known only to him, startling me off my contemplation, and I remember my reason for being here. “I came up to get a few of Esha’s chiles for a special event we’re planning,” I say to Ernie.
“Sure,” he says. “But first come inside. I’ve been rude. You’re my guests. My wife, Edith, is rolling over in her grave right now. Come in and I’ll get you something to drink.”
I trail Ernie, Amelia, and Buck into the house and down a narrow hall with a scuffed wood floor, low beamed ceilings, and walls crammed with black-and-white photographs of brides and grooms, babies, and children. We duck into a small, homey kitchen and gather around a large wooden table that takes up most of the space. Ernie’s just set down three glasses when there’s a loud shattering noise in the next room.
Buck bolts on the kind of mental barking mission that makes you think the world’s come to an end. The three of us clamber after him into a dusky room, the blinds closed against the evening sun, where a clay pot lies shattered on the tiled floor. A figure wrapped in a colorful Mexican blanket kneels beside the pot, picking up the pieces.
The figure looks up and freezes when we come in.
Amelia screams, then races across the floor and socks Rudy in the nose.
Twenty-nine
“Where’d you learn to punch like that?” Rudy asks once Ernie has him settled in a chair back in the kitchen, an ice pack covering half his face.
“From Faith,” she says, tossing a nod in my direction. “You’re lucky I didn’t break it. Now start talking. And this had better be good.”
“I’m sorry,” he begins. “I—”
“Sorry, my ass!” Amelia cuts in.
Rudy tries again, the ice pack and swollen nose giving his speech a pinched, nasally quality. “It started after the party that night—”
“When you disappeared?” she interrupts again.
I turn to Amelia. With her spiky hair, cut-off jeans, and piercings, she’s a warrior badass not to be messed with, but if she doesn’t shut up we’ll never get Rudy’s story. “Maybe you should let him explain,” I whisper.
She crosses her arms. “Fine. Go ahead.” He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get out a single word, she says, “I can’t wait to hear this.”
Rudy sighs and slumps into his chair. I notice for the first time that he looks like crap. His clothes—rumpled would be a nice way of putting it. Hair—dirty would be generous. Eyes—stoned or sleepless, take your pick.
“That Saturday night after the party Holly came by my house and made all sorts of threats against me and Ernie,” he says, taking the ice pack from his nose and setting it on the table. “She said she wasn’t afraid of taking radical action to stop the GMO chiles. She said she’d do what it took. I was scared she’d hurt Ernie, so I drove up to his place to warn him. I’ve been hiding here since then. Just now when I heard voices I came downstairs to see who was here. It was dark. I bumped into the pot, and that’s when you all came in.”
“Are you serious?” Amelia says with a sharp laugh. “There are enough holes in that story to sink the Titanic. Start telling me the truth or you’re looking at a broken nose for real.”
I stroll casually to Rudy’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “So, about that whole ‘breaking your nose’ thing.” I jut my chin at Xena, Warrior Princess, across the table. “I think she’s serious. If I were you, I’d start talking.”
Rudy picks up the ice pack and places it back on his nose with a dramatic sigh, as if to remind us of his terrible agony.
“Now,” I say.
“Fine. You want the story? Here it is. That day when Cruz came to the Farmers’ Market to pick up those expensive chiles he buys from Esha I started thinking about the whole deal. Looks like he’s paying a pretty fee for them, which means he must be selling them for a butt load, so I borrowed a few to see what the big deal was.”
“Borrowed?” Amelia scoffs. “You mean stole.”
“Okay, so you were delivering the extra-hot chiles. Fine,” I say, trying to move us forward and actually learn something from Rudy. “You steal a few from Bulldog—I mean Cruz, and then what?”
“Then he shows up at the party and starts getting all in my face about these chiles I owe him. What’s the big deal? They’re freaking chiles, man. Not diamonds! But pinche gringo doesn’t see it that way. He goes all sicko and starts threatening me and shit.”
He stops talking and gives Amelia a pleading look. She narrows her eyes. “Then what?”
“I took off from the party and drove around a while so I could be sure he wasn’t following me, then I went home.” He keeps his gaze on Amelia as if he can get her to forgive him with the desperation in his eyes. “I was about to call you, Babe, but Holly showed up. I already told you how that went. I started getting nervous about Ernie, so, like I said; I drove up here to warn him that Holly was on the warpath. He said not to worry because of the guard. He said Doctor Richmond wouldn’t let anything happen to the fields, but I thought, yeah, she’ll protect her fields, but what about protecting us? So I decided to hide out here. I went upstairs and that’s when it ha
ppened.”
“When what happened?” I ask, in no mood for his dramatic flair.
“I smoked a little weed to relax, you know? Then I tasted the chile, just to see how hot it was. And man, I can’t remember anything after that. That chile, it did something to me. That’s why I didn’t call. I wasn’t right, man. All week. Like the chile drugged me, and this week, I’ve been laying low, getting better.”
“Gee. That’s logical,” Amelia snorts. “It was the chile that drugged you, not the shwagg. Nobody ever laces pot with anything, like say PCP, but they go around lacing chiles all the time.”
“It wasn’t the pot! I’d smoked the same batch before. It was the chiles!” Rudy insists.
Ernie, who I hadn’t realized was standing behind me, kicks a chair. I jerk around and see his pinched, angry mouth. “That’s what he keeps saying! ‘The chile made me sick! The chile made me sick!’” He throws up his hands. “But how could a chile make you that sick? I’ve seen it before.”
“Seen what?” I ask, gently.
“The heroin.”
“The heroin?” I repeat, not because I didn’t hear, but because I’m so surprised it’s the only thing that comes out.
“You know how many kids around here screw up their lives with that junk? How many make the deal with the devil? I’ve seen those kids on heroin before. Same as Rudy was. The confusion. The hard time breathing. The blue around his mouth. I knew that boy did pot, but I never thought he’d do heroin, especially not here.” Ernie’s eyes flash. “I don’t have money to take him to the hospital. Insurance. Doctors. And I was scared, too. And mad! Someone does heroin in my house? And I think to myself, Ernie, don’t you take that boy to the hospital. Let him get over this on his own. Teach him a lesson. See if he ever does heroin again! That’s why I didn’t want anybody knowing he was here. I didn’t want anyone knowing about the drugs.”
“It wasn’t heroin!” Rudy shouts. He jumps up from his chair and for a minute I think he’s going to take a swing at Ernie, but he just stands there looking lost and then slumps back down. “I think Cruz put drugs in the chiles. I was hallucinating and out of it and half dead.” He pauses, then says, “I think it was liquid gold.”
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