The Optimistic Decade

by Heather Abel

  He told them that he’d chosen them, this particular group, to be the ones to make a new Llamalo, to do a new Llamalo. “The preservation of the world,” he said once more. “See, the world needs our help now. We can’t wait until next summer.”

  He explained that, by finishing their work on Aemon’s Mesa, they’d moved beyond a summer camp. Llamalo was meant to be performed year-round. The next place they moved to would not just be protected, it would be a training ground for protectors. He would be leaving for this new place, walking to it as soon as Donnie was all settled in. He said, “So answer me this. Why’s it called Llamalo?”

  “Llamalo!” Jeremy again.

  Caleb lowered his voice in counterpoint to Jeremy’s bellow, making them lean in to hear him. “I want to hear from everyone. Why’s it called Llamalo?”

  “Llamalo!”

  “So will you come with me? Will you create the new Llamalo?”

  The answer was by now inevitable. Hands in the air. “Llamalo!”

  Then, a rumble, an earth rustle, a vibration.

  Noise travels on the mesa strangely, the wind bringing distant sounds you shouldn’t be able to hear, so he kept talking. He told them that Donnie had asked for a chance to thank them for the years they’d spent protecting this land, but the noise was growing—a motorized whirr, a chain saw, a helicopter. He couldn’t deny the noise, and nobody was listening to him; they were all turned toward the glare of the setting sun, shielding their eyes with their hands in order to see the two guys on ATVs coming across Aemon’s Mesa, coming across Llamalo.

  Only two? Donnie shoved off Caleb’s arm, squinted down the road for the others. All he could see were Craig and Travis. Of course. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Glen? Kevin? Logan? They never meant it when they said they’d come. They were placating him like a baby. They were Caleb’s pussies, just like Don.

  The men cut their motors a few yards behind the counselors. There was quiet again, or near quiet: Rebecca could hear Caleb’s voice. “What’s going on?”

  She turned back to look at him and found Donnie’s face animated, unlike the stoical mask he’d worn while Caleb had been talking about him. “Simple,” he said, walking backward, away from Caleb. “You got my ranch for free. Now I get it back the same way. It’s moving day. Me and Craig and Travis are moving into the house. Other friends are coming, too. We’ll stay all night. Shit, we’ll stay all month. As long as it takes.”

  Caleb’s arms flung out. “You brought them here to scare us?” He took a step forward, a step back. “No. This is not what we agreed on.” Rebecca had never heard him so unhinged.

  Donnie smiled, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re scared? Wow. Sorry.” He squinted in Rebecca’s direction. “Tell them what you told me.” Unsure if he was addressing her, she twisted around to his friends. “No, you. Yeah, you, princess. Tell them how Caleb wasn’t a journalist. How he lied from the very start. How every word he said today was a lie.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Donnie,” Caleb said impatiently. “We are not dragging this up again.” He turned to the counselors. “Alright then, let’s head to the Gathering. Give them some time to clear out.”

  He began walking toward the bridge. The counselors followed like ducklings.

  “No!” The noise came without premeditation—or even permission—as if the scream had, on its own volition, forced its way from Rebecca’s throat.

  Caleb whipped around.

  Everyone was looking at her. Mikala and Scott, holding hands. Jeremy, with fingers pressed against each temple. Kai, in a muddy dress. Donnie. Behind her, the men on their ATVs were probably looking, too.

  For once, she couldn’t think of what to say. She was Rebecca, but no longer Ira’s daughter; that meant nothing anymore. She’d lost her inheritance of outraged certainty. When at last she spoke, her voice sounded high and unfamiliar. “I think you should let him talk.”

  She saw Caleb close his eyes, heard him breathe out heavily. Then he opened his eyes, gave a little pained smile. “There’s nothing more he needs to say. He’s ready to take the land back, like he said. That’s the entire story.” Caleb added, in the reassuring tone with which he might speak to a young camper, “It’s all fine, Rebecca. Come on now.”

  She would have liked to follow, to forget that Caleb had indeed lied about his reasons for leaving Llamalo, with no mention of David’s fall or Joe’s retaliation. Because so much of what he’d said had been beautiful. The preservation of the world? What could be more beautiful? What more did she want than to be a protector? She, too, felt the homesickness of home. She wanted to do the mitzvahs. Who wouldn’t want to wash dishes a certain way and have it mean something glorious? She wanted it all to be true.

  But it wasn’t.

  “How do I know that?” she said.

  “How do you know what?” Caleb said sharply, his hands held out like he was balancing a platter.

  “That it’s the entire story. If you never let him talk. If you tell him he’s not allowed to talk to me.”

  He began shaking his hands, the platter tipping, falling. “Fucking hell, Donnie! We had an agreement.”

  “Fucking hell, Donnie. We had an agreement,” Donnie mimicked in falsetto, and his friends laughed loudly.

  She hated all of them—not just Caleb, but Donnie, too, and both his friends—hated them all, but still, she wanted to understand. “You told him you were a journalist?”

  “I can’t believe we’re talking about this right now. I can’t fucking believe it.”

  “Then explain why he’s so mad at you. Just tell me.” She realized she was standing just like Georgia did when she fought with Ira, arms crossed in front of her chest, head pushed forward.

  “Really, Rebecca? You want to do some muckraking at this moment? This is how you help me?” He began pacing in the center of the large triangle made by Donnie in front of the ditch, by Rebecca and the friends on ATVs on the Overlook, and by the counselors on the edge of the Meadow.

  “Okay, fine. I’m a journalist. You’re a journalist.” He pointed wildly. “Saskia, Kai, Jamal—they’re journalists. Who isn’t a journalist? You don’t need a degree. It’s not like being a doctor. Years and years ago, when I first arrived in this town, Donnie threatened me. I can barely remember the situation. I know I was scared. I needed to give a reason for someone like me being here. Yes. Technically, it was a lie. But the sort of white lie we all say all the time. What could it possibly matter now, a decade later? How is it at all relevant?”

  “But I don’t get it. Did Donnie say the stuff you said he did? How he wanted you to protect the land? How thrilled he was? Is that true?”

  She heard one of Donnie’s friends erupt with a high-pitched, sarcastic “Yeah rii-iight,” but she didn’t take her eyes off Caleb.

  “Or did you make all of it up? And why? To make them love you?”

  “That’s what people do, Rebecca! That’s how we get things done. What’s the alternative? You want the whole truth? Fine.” He took a few steps toward Donnie, pointing. “Donnie here is delusional. He believes there’s a conspiracy of evil liberals.” He pivoted and stepped toward her, his finger still jutted out, prodding the air to punctuate every sentence. “You want to know more? He believes the newspapers are in on it. The whole federal government. You’re in on it. All the Jews are in on it! We all joined together to shut down Exxon, the wealthiest company in the fucking world. And why? To screw him. To strip people like Donnie of their deserved fortune. It’s pure propaganda by mining and oil companies to fool idiots like him. My god, Rebecca, do you get it now? How else am I supposed to deal with this idiocy? You’re defending someone without a firm grasp on reality. A dupe!” He was screaming. “Are you a dupe, too?”

  “Hey now,” Jeremy said.

  Silence. The sun slipped away, taking with it its golden light. In response, the night birds appeared, streaking above them toward the river, one after another.

  Caleb turned his gaze behind Rebecca. “Craig?
Travis? How’s your mom? She still cooking at the Motherlode, making the eggplant parm I love? You’re really planning to sleep in my house? Because I think I get it now. He can’t afford it, can he? Donnie invited you here, because he doesn’t have the money.”

  Rebecca saw Donnie stretch his arms above his head, perform an exaggerated yawn. “I think it’s time to settle in, boys. Hope these kikes left us some beer. Hope the girls cleaned the place nice and neat for us. Logan’ll be here soon. And Glen Lebs. And Kevin Kinney. Hope there’s beds for all of us rednecks. Don’t want to sleep in a Jew bed, though.”

  “Do you hear him?” Caleb shouted. “Now do you understand? This is the man you want to defend? How stupid are you?”

  Rebecca couldn’t think of the right response. Quite stupid? Not at all stupid? On a scale of one to ten, moderately stupid? She found herself, in a strangely calm voice, a voice of authority and decisiveness, addressing the counselors. She told them that she was leaving, that something was really wrong here and they should come with her. It was time to go. “I’ll give you ten minutes to pack your stuff. Meet me in the parking lot in ten minutes.”

  Nobody moved. If they didn’t come, how would she leave? She had no car. After an endless second, she added in a rush, “David’s in the hospital with a broken pelvis. He fell from the cliff, stayed there all night. It’s his dad who’s shutting Llamalo down. Donnie has nothing to do with it. Now will you come?”

  “Wait . . .” Mikala said, crossing her arms.

  Rebecca shook her head. “There’s no time. Just get your stuff.”

  Jeremy took off, crossing the bridge and heading toward his platform. Mikala said, “I have to find my guitar, don’t leave.” Jamal said he’d be right there and followed Jeremy. Saskia, Nat, Kai—they all asked Rebecca to wait for them.

  Without glancing at Caleb, Rebecca ran to the parking lot. She climbed into Scott’s bus, closing the door behind as if someone were chasing her. She was wearing her Rumspringa skirt. She’d leave everything else here. The stained shirts, the shorts with denim turned the gray of Aemon’s Mesa, the sleeping bag Ira bought for her summer in nature camp. She had no money, no credit cards. She’d leave her backpack with the hair ties and will you be ready when the military draft returns? and Things Fall Apart and the final issue of Our Side Now.

  From the open window, she could hear Caleb screaming, “You’re fucked, Donnie. You fucked yourself.”

  “Really, Caleb? I did? I’m fucked?”

  A door slammed. From inside the car, she watched the moon rise above Escadom Mountain like a balloon released from a toddler’s hand.

  Don Talc knew that he was in a bed, but he was not sure where. A man with a stethoscope necklace sat down beside him. “Can you tell us your name?” The doctor held open Don’s eyelid and drowned the iris with light. Don thought it wise to keep quiet.

  “Who’s your next of kin?” The doctor pulled open the lid of the other eye. “Who do we call?”

  Don tried to say “Denise,” but nothing came out. The doctor sighed as if Don were intentionally failing to cooperate, and told the nurse to look for some identification.

  Don’s brown wallet was outstretched in the nurse’s hand, but Don couldn’t reach for it.

  eighteen

  Arise, Ye Wretched of the Earth

  Well, this wasn’t what the Pizza Hut delivery guy had expected. With an order of four large pies on a Friday night—or, actually, Saturday morning, 1 a.m.—at the Antler Lodge, the lowest budget skank motel in Glenwood Springs, he’d expected a party, a glimpse of hookers, or at the very least, kids from Glenwood High with something for him to smoke.

  But instead, these dour hippies were on the floor looking up at him. Faces like roadkill and muddy tracks everywhere from their boots. They paid with smoothed-out singles and coins they piled into his palm. No lights on, like they were having a séance. And when he asked to turn one on to check the cash, a little hobbit-like dude with beaded necklaces said no, please, they didn’t use lights.

  The energy was really fucked-up in there.

  Donnie was still wearing the cowboy outfit when he stood at the nurses’ station at Delta County Memorial, asking for more blankets. He’d slept the night in a chair in Don’s room after Craig’s dad had found him drunk in the kitchen of the ranch house. “Where’s Kayla?” is what Donnie’d said when he heard. Kayla was with Charlene; she was fine. Donnie drove alone to the hospital.

  “Blankets for Mr. Talc?” the nurse asked while typing with the tips of her curved nails. “Unfortunately, he won’t be needing any.” She explained that she’d spoken with the representative at Blue Cross, who’d said Donald Talc hadn’t been a client since 1982. “Your dad,” she said, “will be discharged in a few hours.”

  “But how? He can’t feed himself. He can’t take a crap by himself.”

  “As the doctor said, it’s highly likely he’ll regain many of his functions.” She tore the cover off her Cup-a-Soup. Steam rose between them. “I’ll give you a printout of numbers for home-care nurses, but most of them insist on insurance.” She handed him the expired insurance card, scratching his palm with her talons.

  He already owned sippy cups. He bought Ensure at Ute’s on the way home, leaving Don in the car. He called Charlene from the pay phone outside the post office. “Don’t you worry about Kayla. Get your dad situated, and I’ll bring the baby by later. I’m telling you, it’s a godsend that you’re visiting now, what with Denise away to god-knows-where.”

  “Who’s Denise?” The phone crackled. Charlene said she had to go.

  It was nearly impossible to get his dad into the trailer. The wheelchair he’d rented wouldn’t unfold. Sweating in his snap shirt, he smashed his foot down on it like he did on Kayla’s stroller. Once inside, he fell asleep on his dad’s bed, but then Don made a noise he’d never heard before from a human being. It was the sound of a cow in distress. He rushed into the other room, but Don had fallen silent, and his face held no sign of pain or effort.

  When Donnie turned away, the noise returned. He wondered if it wasn’t his father at all, but some injured wild thing that was trapped inside the trailer. He crouched by his dad. “What is it?” Donnie fanned out the hospital’s cards on the coffee table. “Point to what’s wrong.” Don didn’t even twitch.

  “Aren’t you coming?” Mikala asked Rebecca, the only one not tying boots or standing up.

  It was seven in the morning, and they were getting ready to leave the room they’d been sequestered in for ten hours, fighting like a jury. At stake was a contest over who was losing the most. Each person defended only himself or herself, using details of psychological pain from twenty years of life. You don’t understand. See, my mom . . . The thing you need to know is, Llamalo was the only place where . . . Caleb was the only person who ever treated me like . . . If it turns out he’s a liar, then who can I . . . ?

  Rebecca found the others particularly unconvinced by her case. She’d only been there this one summer. “So, you’re sad about your dad? Is that what you’re saying?” She was sad about David, too, she tried to explain. But they insisted they were all devastated, all of them implicated in his leaving. And to think Caleb hadn’t even told them about David’s broken pelvis. Can brilliance justify deceit? Yes. No. Yes. No. Rebecca’s few minutes of testimony ended as the rest of them returned to Caleb, chasing after a car that was driving away from them.

  No verdict had been reached. Only this: As Scott opened the door to let in the Colorado sunlight, they all suddenly agreed, although nobody said as much, that they’d wasted their last hours together. They were about to swim alone again in the ocean of oblivious humanity. Nobody else would understand what they meant. Llamalo? Yama Low? Weird name. I hated summer camp, those creepy cabins. Yours didn’t even have cabins? Huh. For the rest of their lives, they would dream about trying, and failing, to get back to a wide plateau and a tall mountain with the white shape of an animal on its side, where Caleb was waiting for them, and they would wa
ke up in their city or suburb and spend their days in longing, nothing and nobody measuring up.

  The very last group of counselors was saying goodbye. Saskia, driving east, would drop Jamal and Jeremy at the Port Authority in New York. Scott and Mikala, headed northwest, would take Nat and Kai to the Greyhound station here in town.

  “We’d be psyched to drive you there, too,” Mikala said, brow furrowed with concern. But Rebecca, whose parents had never had time to drive her anywhere, who had always taken buses—to the orthodontist, to orchestra rehearsal, to Llamalo at the start of the summer—Rebecca had another idea, and she’d asked Mikala to loan her the money for a second night at the motel.

  “You had a girlfriend? All this time?”

  Don shook his head. No, no, no, no. Then he started crying again, tears leaking from the unfrozen eye. The doctor had explained that this was physiological, not emotional, a common response in stroke patients, but Donnie hated it.

  “You can’t deny it. I got proof.” He pulled a tissue from the box on the kitchen table and dabbed at the sagged face. Stretched his legs, crossed them at the ankles, all the dexterous things he could do. “I’ll lay it out for you. First to spill the beans was Charlene, but she was cagey. Then . . . hold on.”

  He sprang up and opened the fridge, casting light upon the foiled casseroles cooked by the ladies of the town. Macaroni splendor, cream-of-mushroom mystery. A banana pudding made especially for Kayla, although she’d left for New Mexico yesterday evening, clinging to Donnie’s arm and shrieking while he buckled her into Marci’s mom’s car.

  Donnie reached for a can of Coors. It was Sunday morning. Already today, he’d lifted his dad onto the toilet and wiped him and laid him on the bathroom floor to put on his diaper and shoved him into his wheelchair and held up two cartons and said, “Chocolate or vanilla?”