Mother Nature

by Sarah Andrews

  “Seventy-…”

  “Three. Easy to remember. It was the summer we all lined up to buy gas, and Sonja had a job at the burger stand next door to the filling station. In the time you’d wait for a pump, she’d take your order, grill one up, serve it to you, and take away the trash. Always was an enterprising girl.”

  This didn’t sound like a drug addict to me. No, I’d file her under F for Future CEOs of America. “So she disappeared, and…”

  “Mm-hmm, girl disappears, Ma’s cuckoo over the boy, and Pa drowns his sorrows with Miz Redhead.”

  “His secretary.”

  “Like they thought nobody’d ever notice.”

  “About when did Mr. K move in with her?”

  Lips pursed in concentration. “Oh, he quit going home at night right after the girl went missing. When he started his dalliance is another matter. I’d say years earlier.”

  So far this jibed well with what Jaki had told me. “Do you know Suzanne Cousins?”

  “Little Suzy?” she said wryly. “You mean Martha Cousins’ girl.”

  “Ah, sure. Did she know Sonja?”

  “Close as two sardines in a can.”

  My mouth sagged open. Of course, Suzanne must have known Sonja. She was the right age, and she had grown up in the right town. “How did Suzanne feel when Sonja went missing?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Strange girl. All those drums and such.”

  “Suzanne go over to the Karshes’ much?”

  Granny looked at me like I was a fool. “No one goes over to the Karshes’ much.”

  “What about Val Reeves? Isn’t he paying court?”

  “Val Reeves? Dierdre Karsh? What have you been smoking? Val Reeves sticks by his wife like glue. He’s a good churchly kind of fellow, always trying to make things better for everyone. Why’s everyone got to bad-mouth him, just because he’s a developer? Getting on him for trying to give us good homes and good water. It’s jealousy, I tell you, bald-faced, lily-livered jealousy. They got a problem with him making a decent living? He could build for the country club crowd, but no, he builds low-income projects, so the old folks like me on fixed incomes can have a place to live. Pah!”

  I made a quick appraisal of Granny’s town house. The siding was of composition board with battens nailed every eighteen inches or so to keep it from buckling with the weather.

  Following my gaze, Granny said, “Yes, your Mr. Reeves built this place, and a good job he did, too. He could have cut corners, but he didn’t. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, smarty!”

  “I quite agree,” I said quickly, trying to mollify her.

  “You’re one of them county folks working against the community water project, ain’t ya? I shoulda known!”

  “The what?”

  “Damn gummint tryin’ ta tell us how to live! Get off my porch! You’re letting the cold air in! You think heat is free? I’m on a fixed income, damn it. Get off with you!”

  As I wandered back to the little blue truck, my mind buzzed with a theme that spells trouble to any westerner who’s ever tried to live off the land: Granny Swege had mentioned Val Reeves and water in the same breath.

  * * *

  DOWN IN THE center of Miwok Mills, the rain was again stopping and cars and trucks were beginning to gather near the fire station. I parked the little blue notice-me truck a hundred feet or more down a side street in a vain attempt to disassociate myself from it and wandered back toward the fire station and its coming Spaghetti Feed. The Feed was my one chance to corner Mrs. Karsh in a public place—a place where, hopefully, Matthew Karsh would not be found.

  I was just admiring a bumper sticker on a Chevy four-by-four that read FIREMEN ARE ALWAYS IN HEAT when one of the roll-up doors on the fire station opened and a big red pumper loomed out into the street. Jim Erikson was at the wheel. He parked the pumper at an angle, blocking traffic, hopped out, sloped back into the fire station, and repeated the process with the emergency vehicle that was parked in the second bay. And the fire engine from the third. It had a large rowboat mounted upside down on top. “Preparing for the next great flood?” I asked as I strolled up, real casual like.

  Jim Erikson blushed right up to the roots of his sandy hair. He shoved his strong fingers into his jeans pockets. “Sure. Have to be ready.” He smiled uncertainly, twisting his long, lithe body around in an effort to look shorter. Then he noticed the bandage on my hand. Taking hold of my wrist to get a look at the dressing, he asked, “What happened?”

  I jerked my hand away. “Oh, nothing,” I answered, confused and embarrassed by the tenderness of his touch.

  The breeze shifted, and the intense aroma of spaghetti sauce assaulted my nostrils, reminding me that all I’d had for lunch was beef jerky and Suzanne’s draft of witch’s brew. “Smells like a flood of spaghetti to me,” I crooned, glad to have something else to talk about.

  Jim continued to smile but stared at his feet. “Ah, yeah. We’re just getting ready for tonight’s big Feed. It’s our annual fund-raiser.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Help?” he echoed.

  “It’s a volunteer force, isn’t it? I could help set up chairs or something.”

  Jim scratched his head and smiled. “Follow me.”

  We marched into the fire station through bay number three, stopping to lower the roll-up door. Inside, a passel of young bucks wearing flame-red long-sleeved T-shirts with “Miwok Mills Volunteer Fire Department Keep Back 300 Feet” stenciled across the back were bashing about, setting up folding tables and chairs for the event. Loud rock music from an oldies station boomed from the back of the room. The young bucks rocked and howled with the beat, slapping out time on the backs of the chairs as they popped them open in lines down the sides of the tables. Canned Heat gave way to Pink Floyd’s The Wall, with appreciative bopping and heavy grunts at the “hey!”s.

  “Looks like they got them all but set up,” Jim said.

  “Oh, there’s Mrs. Karsh,” I chirped. “I could help her at the stove.”

  “Sure,” Jim said doubtfully. He led me inward through the fracas to the kitchen area, which was a big portable steel range with a couple of thirty-gallon pots simmering on it, behind which stood Mrs. Karsh. Her eyes were focused on the contents of the pot to the right, which she stirred as if nothing beyond it existed.

  Jim Erikson said, “Hi, ah, Mrs. Karsh, this is Em Hansen.”

  Mrs. Karsh looked up and jerked her head back as if dodging a fly. Collecting herself, she arranged her face into a blank mask, her eyes pointed straight toward me, but focused several feet short of my face.

  Jim concluded, “Em would like to help.”

  “Help?” said Mrs. Karsh, as if she’d never heard the word before.

  “Yeah, I could slice bread or whatever else you need done.”

  “Ah, thanks, Jim, but things are pretty much under control.”

  “Em wants to sing for her supper.”

  Mrs. Karsh’s face expression shifted to a submissive demi-smile. “Oh … well, okay, Jim. Tell her she can take the bread over to that table and cut it. The bread’s in those boxes, and the knife is on that table,” she said, pointing to one that was safely twenty feet from her. “And the cutting board…” She left off stirring, searching for the board. I found it in another box and got to work, somewhat clumsily bracing the handle of the knife too high in my hand to avoid pressing against the gauze bandage on my palm.

  If I thought I was going to get Mrs. Karsh to talk to me, I was wrong. She kept her back to me, her attention trained firmly on the sauce pots, and her gaze turned tightly inward. All attempts at conversation were deflected with vague hmms, um-hums, and excuse-mes. By and by I gave up and turned my attention to the rest of the room.

  A community event is like a patient’s pulse, affording a quick reading of the patient’s state of health. Or lack thereof.

  The fact that Miwok Mills could support a volunteer fire department was a point on the healthy side of the ledger. The firemen se
emed to have good enough morale, sopped as they were in the usual esteem-building good time men have when they engage in organized heroism: puffed-out chests, raised chins, raucous singing. Once, a call came in for the rescue vehicle, and with ungainly athleticism, the men hurled themselves at the switch that interrupted the siren before the roar could shatter everyone’s eardrums, then drew straws over who was going to drive the truck to answer the call. As the hour grew later, wives appeared with kids in tow. Lots of little kids in a community also argue health, as it suggests an adequate local source of employment for their parents, who are too young to draw from Social Security. The kids ran around among the chairs and tried on their dads’ hats and turnout coats. At five o’clock we all sat down and ate a quick plate of spaghetti (which the younger kids threw at each other, much to their mothers’ dismay), and after cleaning up, we opened the doors to the public.

  I faded to the back of the room and surreptitiously wolfed down a second plate of Mrs. Karsh’s excellent spaghetti sauce dished up on overcooked pasta and positioned myself to eavesdrop on conversations held by people waiting in line. I needn’t have worried that they’d hush up around me; the diners were far too busy glad-handing and gossiping with one another to take notice of one stray female in red boots.

  Jaki came through the line early on in a phalanx of nearly identical-looking siblings (she was cool, didn’t even wink), and Jamie Martinez queued up with his brood. There were nods all around, but I quickly got the impression that, small town or no, not everyone in this place knew each other. Mixed in with the ancients and the Jakis and others who had clearly lived in the neighborhood since God was a small child were a population of younger couples whose big-city version of casual attire stood out a lot more than my boots did. These citizens found themselves drawn into conversations with the old guard that ran something like this:

  Old coot (in polyster slacks and Fire Department jacket): “You’re the Smiths, aren’t you. You bought the old Jones place.”

  Young coot (in predistressed denims and one hundred percent cotton sweater in this year’s fashion color, flashing expensive orthodontia in an overly earnest yet somehow impersonal smile): “Yes, and we just love it here in Miwok Mills. I tell you, getting out of L.A. was the smartest thing we ever did.”

  “I hear you’re opening up a café hereabouts, fixing up one of the older buildings.”

  Young coot, putting hands on wife’s shoulders: “Yes, my wife is the little entrepreneur in the family. Going to serve biscotti and lattes, live the good life here in the country. I telecommute to my job in the city myself.”

  Old coot, removing sweat-stained cap to scratch head: “How things change. I grew up right here in the Mills, farmed all my life. Retired now. My boy’s trying to keep the orchard going, but prices aren’t much these days, and the cost of farm equipment and chemicals being what they are…”

  Young coot: “Quit using that poison and go organic! My wife’s café’s going to be all organic. Will you excuse us? I see our friends the Thompsons.…”

  In between half-heard mutterings about the community water project, I heard riffles and snippets of other political chat, such as development versus keeping to the land, industry versus the carriage trade, community face-lifting versus keep it homely and maybe the slick assholes will leave. Talk seemed split between several camps, including the Who Are These Young Upstarts? mutterers, the Keep Miwok Mills Messy curmudgeons, and the La Dolce California Move Over I Got Mine interlopers. I heard one tradesman with rough hands and a Go Niners ball cap admit shamefully to a burgeoning addiction to decaf cappuccinos. His compatriot looked both ways and asked if he’d tried the ones at a bakery in Sebastopol where, “the foam’s extra good and they let you shake your own chocolate powder.”

  I hung close behind Mrs. Karsh. It seemed to make her pretty nervous to have me standing there, so I moved up even closer. Sure enough, her spine grew stiffer. I wondered just what she was thinking.

  I got part of my answer at about six, when I saw a familiar mane of rich, wavy white hair looming above the throng. Valentine Reeves was in line, moving toward us, walking next to a man so impeccably groomed and smiley that I figured he had to be a politician. I watched Mrs. Karsh, waiting for her to notice Reeves. Yes, the instant she saw him, she glanced furtively my way and back at him. Reeves was definitely part of the equation, but to what did these numbers add up?

  When Reeves was ten feet away, a young man with rough hands shouldered his way into line next to him. “Say, Val, anything more on the new project? I could really use some work this winter.”

  Valentine Reeves flashed his splendid teeth and clapped the man on the shoulder. “As soon as I hear, I’ll be in touch, Herb. I can always use a hard worker like you.”

  “Yeah, well, Jim Erikson had me on his crew the last time, you’ll remember, but he and I are—”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Herb.” He clapped the man’s shoulder again and moved closer to us.

  Mrs. Karsh nodded hello to Reeves and his well-dressed companion. “Val. Harold.”

  I stepped forward and stuck out my hand. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Reeves.” I turned to his companion and grinned like a Junior Leaguer at a barbecue. “Hi, I’m Em Hansen, I’m new here,” I said winningly.

  Reeves looked doubtful, but the man grinned back and enclosed my hand in his before Reeves could open his mouth. “Harold Grimes,” he said sweetly. “County Supervisor for this district. Welcome to our community.”

  A shrill voice stabbed into the conversation: “Harold Grimes, you’re bringing me dowwwwwn!” I glanced around to see the raw-faced Liza, the bug-eyed woman who had experienced a “shitty” meditation in Janet’s room, lunging through the crowd. “Over my dead body you’ll poison our children’s water! You still think you can squash our project, don’t you? And, Val Reeves, what are you doing talking to this man? These government bloodsuckers are all—”

  Another woman grabbed her arm and pulled her back. She was big and muscular, but still had to tug hard. Liza roared, “Let me go, Trudy!” but lost her balance and started to pedal backward with the bigger woman’s motion. I was just calculating how to get around the table and talk to them when Trudy zipped Liza out the door and they were gone.

  Harold Grimes turned to give an elderly lady a flirtatious squeeze, his attention already miles beyond me. Valentine Reeves pulled himself up tall and continued his conversation with his would-be employee as if he had been interrupted only to swat a fly. “Don’t worry about a thing, Herb. Jim’s a good man. I’m sure he’ll draw his help from local talent. You have a good Christmas, and say hi to your wife for me.”

  So Jim Erikson was in construction? Yes, he’d said he was an electrician who worked for himself. That’s why he’d been available to take the call the morning Janet’s body was reported. I glanced over toward where Jim stood recharging the coffee urn.

  Reeves finished his conversation with Herb the laborer and took a very long look at me. He inhaled slowly, expanding his broad chest and laying his leonine head back in an elaborate neck stretch that showed me all the most impressive angles of his face. He was not smiling.

  Mrs. Karsh grabbed a cloth to wipe up an imaginary spill. “Emily’s helping,” she said, sliding into that same rich, unctuous tone she had used when she had spoken to her damaged son from her kitchen steps. My breath caught in my throat. I had to remind myself that I was not on her back porch, that there were hundreds of people looking on, that I was safe. Reeves spread his lips in a smile that showed me every last intimidatingly perfect white tooth but did not warm his cool blue eyes. “How very nice of you, Emily. Our community needs all the support it can get.”

  I stared defiantly back into the lion’s eyes. “I hear you have lots of projects here in town,” I said. “How nice. I’ll bet this place will become a regular magnet for the bicycle crowd.”

  Reeves’ eyes narrowed, intensifying the threat latent in his chilling smile. “Just what kind of mischief are yo
u up to, my dear?” he purred.

  “I’m just interested in understanding what you have going on here,” I said quietly, serving bread to the people who were beginning to move around the obstruction Reeves was forming. “I want to know what’s out by the Laguna that has young women dying. And I won’t stop until I find out.”

  Mrs. Karsh’s eyes widened. “I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered.

  Reeves’ gaze lingered on me like the smoke that hangs in the air after the explosion of a cannon. When he was content that I had gotten his unspoken message, he moved down the serving line toward the tables, set down his plate, and motioned sharply to Jim Erikson, who hastened over to see what he wanted. I could not hear what they were saying, but Jim glanced over toward me and blushed.

  Mrs. Karsh appeared at my elbow. Very urgently she whispered, “We’re running low on bread. Get some more, please!”

  “Where?”

  “There’s another box out in the trunk of my car. Here, take my keys.” She fished them out of her apron. “Go through that back door and turn right. It’s the blue Dodge at the foot of the parking lot, near the willows by the creek.”

  I didn’t think the bread supply was that low, but I headed out through the door into the chill darkness beyond, still trying to assess what I had just witnessed between Liza and the County Supervisor, and just exactly what Valentine Reeves’ unspoken message to me had been. My feet crunched on the wet gravel as I wove my way back among the cars toward her ancient Dodge. I fingered the keys, flipping past the square one to the round one that would unlock the trunk. Bending, I slipped it into the lock.

  Matthew Karsh rushed out of the dense shadows beneath the trees, moving his bulk toward me at frightening speed.

  I jumped backward, jerking the key free of the lock. Dropped it on the ground. Slipped on the gravel, fell backward—

  Matthew kept coming, hands rising, thick fingers tense with intent.

  “Hey!” I shouted as I crashed backward into another car. I regained my footing and dodged backward through the pack of cars, but the pocket of Janet’s jacket caught on a side mirror, throwing me off balance. I slipped again, banged against the door of the car. “Your mother sent me for the bread! Calm down!” I screamed, desperately shielding myself with the only weapon I could muster: the illogic of family obligations.