Some miles farther, a group of farmworkers were picking weeds out of a leafy field west of the road. To Christopher’s poorly tutored eye, nothing signaled whether they labored over sprayed or clean acres, whether the crop was heirloom, hybrid, or mutant. You’d be hard-pressed to make a documentary, he thought. Let alone a single, dramatically compelling photo. Nora’s time to find a banner image was just about up, and so far she had nothing to show. Not that he was surprised. There was no easy agribusiness corollary to dolphins getting caught in tuna nets, or poultry processing, or cookie cutter meals being assembled by lumpen proles. Away to the left, green down fuzzed the earth. A wheel-line irrigator stretched across the broad, furrowed expanse.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Brendan turned the stereo’s volume down a few notches.
“The fields look idyllic.” Christopher raised his arms in a stretch, touching elbows to the cab’s roof. “But you can’t tell by looking what’s been sprayed and plowed into the soil, or whether the crops come from laboratories.”
“Most of these farms are clean, I’d say.”
“I know that. But only because I follow food politics. There’s not a visual, it’s almost impossible to make genetic engineering tangible. No clear-cut, Michael Moore moments.”
A biplane flew low to the ground on the far side of the highway. “There’s the opening shot to your infomercial,” Brendan said. “Crop dusters. How would Michael Moore frame it? Like the opening to Apocalypse Now?”
Christopher laughed. “Sure. A quote and a slow fade. From napalm wasting Vietnamese jungle to crop dusters over California farmland.”
“Maybe a Poison soundtrack. ‘Life Loves a Tragedy.’”
The light trickled away as the miles rolled behind them. “So what’s with you and Allison?” Christopher asked after a long silence.
Brendan didn’t respond.
“Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“No, Chris,” Brendan said. “It’s fair to ask. “
He was glad for the dusk. What Christopher really wondered was what would change for him if Brendan and Allison got back together after all this time, not that Brendan showed any signs of actually settling down. There were days Christopher welcomed the thought of an excuse to set aside his still-smoldering interest. There was something unseemly about holding a torch for as long as he had, however dim and well concealed.
“The funny thing is you spend months in prison starved for women,” Brendan said, as if reading Christopher’s thoughts. “For women’s company, for relief from bluffing machismo. For sex too, but that’s only part of it. So here I am, free as a soup kitchen. But love? Relationships? Not on my front burner. I’ve got months of suppressed rage clambering for attention before I can step into the present.” He glanced over to the passenger seat. “I’m a goddamned basket case.”
They let Kazem carry them along for a couple of exits.
“I met somebody a few weeks back,” Christopher said in a lull between tracks. He regretted the words almost before he’d spoken them.
“Who? Where? Why haven’t I heard about this?”
Christopher shook his head. “Because nothing actually happened. She’s a med student at UCSF. We met by chance a couple times in a café.”
“Has she got a name?”
“Suvali. Anglo-Indian. She grew up in Brighton and came here for school.”
“So what’s the story?”
“Don’t say anything, Brendan.”
“To the rest of the gang? My lips are sealed.”
“We’re supposed to see a movie later this week.”
He nodded judiciously. “British accent?”
“Yup.”
“I’m a sucker for that.”
They were coming up on the far edge of the Bay Area. Christopher leaned over to check the dashboard. “Gas up in Healdsburg?” he asked.
“Yeah, let’s,” Brendan said. “I could use a coffee too.”
SIXTEEN
Marshall had a hell of a time parking in his brother’s neighborhood. He orbited Christopher’s block twice, turned his silver roadster down Sanchez, circled up Noe to its dead end, then crawled along the narrow streets surrounding the Triangle, ready to pounce at the first flash of brake lights.
Germania and Hermann.
Belcher, Walter, Laussat.
Nothing.
Maybe Christopher could be coaxed to have a drink someplace else. Marshall had planned to show up unannounced, for dramatic impact. Shock and awe writ small. So it goes, he thought, digging in a pocket for his cell phone, but just as Marshall flipped open to call, a green Expedition switched on its headlights. He tapped the gas, whipping into position.
Then he waited.
The lumbering vehicle sawed back and forth. And again. And a third time, forward and reverse.
Drumming impatiently on the M Coupe’s steering wheel, Marshall considered the miracle that human beings, equipped with opposed thumbs and the biggest share of cerebral cortex on the planet, nonetheless drive SUVs into congested city centers. At last the chunky Ford swung into the street. His BMW slipped easily into the space.
Cutting the ignition, Marshall sat for a moment, making up his mind one last time. No one would ever know if he bailed. “Can’t,” he muttered aloud. Then, popping open the door, he nearly took out a brightly flex-laminated bicyclist.
“Asshole!” she shouted over her shoulder.
Marshall lurched out of his car, reflexively setting the vehicle’s alarm. As if anyone would care if it were triggered. He wouldn’t dare park the roadster in Christopher’s neighborhood overnight.
Where transit lines converged half a block down Church Street, people scurried in packs. Burberry suits mixed with polyester fishnet and torn denim. Swish, grunge, goth. Preppy, matron, mod. Marshall approached the human stew uneasily. He rounded the corner and nearly ran down a wild-haired old man, who got right up in his face to sputter a rotten-toothed demand for spare change. Marshall reared back, holding his breath. Hugging an apartment building’s brick façade, he edged past a crowd waiting shoulder to shoulder for the N-Judah train.
How in hell, he wondered, can people stand to live like this?
—
No one answered the bell. Marshall peered through the metal gate. There were two glass-paneled doors on the other side of the building’s shallow front stoop, and a blank space of exterior wall where a third used to be. Odd, he thought, turning to look up and down Duboce Avenue, trying to see the neighborhood as his brother might. He rang the bell a second time. Christopher lived with a hive of others. How could no one be home on Tuesday night?
A Muni train screeched by, then a tumble of sneakered feet came clattering down the building’s stairs. An angular man’s shadow sharpened through the right-side door’s glass panel. He appeared, backlit, and emerged onto the stoop. Cropped red hair, boot-cut jeans, a faded Palestinian flag printed on his t-shirt. Marshall suppressed an instant aversion. “Is Christopher in?” he asked.
The man on the other side of the gate stared quizzically. “You’re Chris’s brother,” he said.
“Uh—yeah.” That wasn’t in the game plan either. Why would Christopher’s people know him? “I’m sorry, I—”
“Brendan James,” he said, and unlatched the gate. “I lived on Carleton Street when your brother was in school.”
“Right. Right, I didn’t recognize you. I’m Marshall.”
“No reason you’d remember. Come on in, Chris just called. He’s on his way from work.”
“I—no, really. I could come back later.”
“Please.” Brendan held the gate wide. “Come up and have a beer. He’s getting a couple things from the store—he’ll be home in minutes.”
Marshall followed reluctantly. He accepted a bottle after Brendan coaxed him past a ceremonial refusal. Russian River Stout. The label was well done, depicting the estuary at Jenner. Fruity nose, the color of brazil nuts, a burnt-cork finish. “That’s excellent brew,” he said.
&nb
sp; “Sonoma County’s best.” Brendan retrieved his own bottle from the kitchen counter. “Pull up a chair.”
“Have you lived with Christopher all this time?” Marshall saw that the refrigerator had to be forty years old. The stove was an unrestored Wedgewood that no one had bothered to move for ages; the linoleum underneath was greasy and black past a sponge mop’s easy reach.
“Not even close,” Brendan was saying. “I wander in and out. A glorified houseguest, in a repeat offender sort of way.”
“Ah. So where’s home?”
“Santa Cruz most recently, not sure what’s next. How about you? Are you local?”
“I live in the house Christopher and I grew up in.”
“Keeping the good professor company?”
“I suppose,” Marshall said. “Something like that.”
The two sipped at their beers.
“So nobody else is home?” Marshall asked.
“Work, meetings, classes … everybody scatters.”
“I had the idea Christopher lived in a constant frenzy.”
“There’ve been periods like that, not so much anymore,” Brendan said. “Some of the crowd moved on. Everybody left is older and more responsible. ’Cept for me, maybe. I’m just older.”
“The one trend you can count on. But tell me, what made you decide to go your own way while Christopher and the others are still … here?”
“You’re not the first to ask that question.”
“I suppose I’ve never understood it. What Christopher gets from the arrangement.”
Brendan looked surprised. “People are social animals. The people who are part of the Triangle are social and political animals. I don’t think it’s much more complicated than that.”
“I see.”
Brendan took a swig from his bottle. “So you were part of the dot-com boom, do I remember right?”
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“Programmer?”
“Closer to product development. The business was mostly vaporware. Some good ideas, but nothing went to market.”
“I hear there was a lot of that. And nowadays?” Just then the front door shut with a rattle, and someone started up the stairs. “Your bro,” Brendan said.
Marshall stood.
“Hey Chris!” Brendan called. “Surprise in the kitchen.”
“I hate surprises.” Christopher rounded the corner, biting back whatever he’d been planning to say next.
“Hey,” Marshall said into the sudden vacuum. Raising the stout, he saluted with what he hoped would pass for mild irony.
Apprehension flashed across Christopher’s face. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“I just—nothing’s wrong.”
“Let me put those away.” Brendan reached for Christopher’s grocery bags. “Nobody’s upstairs. You guys can hang out in the front room.”
—
Marshall took in the worn furniture, the Che icon in its crappy frame, speaker wire running along the moldings from pocket doors opposite the windows. “What’s with the technology?” he asked. “Is the room bugged?”
“Hardly.” Christopher wedged himself into a corner of one broken sofa and gestured toward the other.
“But those are speakers on the windows, am I right?”
“They scramble attempts to monitor meetings. Some groups that use this room have been surveilled by the police.”
Marshall guffawed at the explanation, unable to help himself. “That’s a little paranoid, don’t you think?”
“No, based on documentary evidence, I don’t. There was a lawsuit in the nineties, discovery unearthed some damning police dossiers. But is that the reason you dropped in? To throw darts?”
“Sorry. It’s just the opposite, actually. I came because I think we need to call a truce.”
“Are we at war?”
Marshall sat, sinking deep into the slack cushions. He sipped from his bottle. “I’d offer you one, but it’s not my house.” His attempt at an icebreaker ran aground. “I don’t know, Christopher. Seems that way to Dad.”
His brother sighed. “I see. I’m not holding up my end of the pretense.”
“What pretense?”
“That we’re one big, happy family.”
“You’re not the only villain. I provoked you the other night. Not for the first time, either.”
“And not for any discernible reason. So Dad’s upset.”
“He won’t stop harping on how you stormed off.” This was the most intrusive downside to living at home, Marshall recognized. To living with anyone else, for that matter. The scrutiny. “And he’s not going to let up until I tell him we worked something out.”
Two people, speaking in low voices, were climbing the stairs. Marshall looked back to the hall but his brother paid no mind. More housemates, he supposed.
“So what would a truce look like?” Christopher asked. “Different, I mean, from business as usual. Staying on our respective sides of the bay?”
Marshall grimaced. “Look, I don’t know exactly. Maybe you could call Dad more often? Maybe you and I need to be in touch. Superficially … whatever. Enough that I can say to him, ‘Oh, I got an e-mail from Christopher.’ Nothing elaborate.”
Christopher stood and stepped over to the window. “Did you drive in?”
“Yeah. Hell of a neighborhood for parking.”
“What makes this flare-up special?” Christopher asked. “All the time I’ve lived here you never came by. Why the sudden crisis?”
Marshall joined his brother. Together, they looked down into the street. “He’s not getting any younger, you know.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“Okay, maybe I’m not getting any younger either. We haven’t been best pals for a long time, Christopher, but Dad doesn’t have to carry that.”
“Why have things gone that way?”
“What way?”
“Why do we antagonize each other?”
“I don’t know,” Marshall said, aware that this would be the exact wrong moment to advance his theories. “We take different approaches, I suppose.”
“Different approaches to what?”
“Life, work, politics.” Marshall shrugged. “You name it.”
“I’m damned if I can imagine what we’d e-mail about.”
“The substance doesn’t matter. Need stock advice?”
“Yeah, right. Wanna read meeting minutes from Direct Action to Stop the War?”
Marshall stared out the window, acutely conscious of the gulf estranging him from Christopher. Was there any chance of having a real conversation? “Tell me about this protest that got Dad so worked up,” he said.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“You plan all these … things in big groups, right?” With a fingernail Marshall tapped one of the speakers glued to the windowpane. “With labor unions? Churches?”
“Big groups, small groups. Sometimes with unions, sometimes with progressive churches. It depends.”
“How do you know there aren’t police infiltrators?”
“You get a sense. Most of what we do isn’t important enough for the cops to bother, as you often remind me.”
Marshall sighed. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
Christopher scratched his head. Marshall looked around for a place to set his empty bottle. They returned to their respective sofas, but neither one sat.
“So,” Christopher said.
“So what should I tell Dad?”
“I’m not sure I know.”
“Christopher, I’m sorry I pissed you off over dinner.”
“I’ll call next week.”
“That’d help. And I’ll send hot tips on penny stocks?”
“Don’t expect me to buy any.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Marshall supposed that would have to do. His brother was too well defended. They had too much history between them. “Look, I’m sorry to burst in.”
“Not a problem.�
��
“I just want to keep things at a lower temperature.”
“Okay. I’m in,” Christopher said. “Walk you to your car?”
Marshall shook his head. “No need, I’m just around the corner.”
SEVENTEEN
Zac and Allison strolled through a slowly falling mist, but neither seemed to notice the chill. “There are so many bodhisattvas,” Zac explained. “And within those, so many variants of Avalokiteśvara. Every tradition, every sect meditates around its own.”
“Do they all have four hands?”
“In some sects you see eight arms. In most of Asia the bodhisattva of compassion takes female form. Guan Yin has eleven heads and a thousand arms so she can hear all the suffering beings and attend to them. In our Vajrayāna tradition, though, his four arms hold a jewel, a lotus representing freedom from obstacles to enlightenment, and a mala—”
“The prayer beads,” Allison interjected. “What does the mala mean?”
“Devotion to rescuing all sentient beings from suffering.”
“How do you keep all that in your head, Zac?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Early fascination with Catholic ritual filtered through a queer-pagan-multicultural prism? Or maybe obsessive-compulsive disorder?”
“Must be the Catholic upbringing. We Lutherans miss out on that riot of saints and symbols.”
Zac stopped in his tracks.
“What is it?”
He put a hand to his mouth. Half a block ahead, Brendan was leaning into a pay phone. Allison covered her ears as Zac blew a piercing wolf whistle, but Brendan didn’t look up.
“That is him, isn’t it?”
“Looks like,” she said.
“What’s he doing, calling his NSA handler?”
Allison gave Zac a look and they continued up the block. Brendan turned when they were almost upon him. Eyes widening, he stepped backward and mashed against the phone. “Damn!” he exclaimed sheepishly, fumbling to put the receiver back on the hook. “You guys startled me.”
“Didn’t mean to,” Allison said. “Aren’t we emanating pure peace and tranquility? Zac and I just finished meditating at the Padmasambhava Temple. My first time, and I can already pronounce it, see?”
Consequence Page 14