Jack tried to imagine which of his children would become a rancher.
"Just talk to him, Jack."
"If a chance comes…"
"Not if a chance comes! You need to go after him, you heard what Athena said!"
Jack rubbed at his forehead, trying to loosen the steel band that was tightening around his temples. Athena was vocal in her mistrust of the authorities. Since she was a marijuana grower, she was probably right to mistrust them, but Jack didn't always see eye to eye with her. Supposedly there was a deep divide between growers and ranchers in this county, but in Catherine's case the lines were fuzzy. She had never grown pot, was vocally against it in fact, but many of her friends were growers or had become growers as they saw how much money was out there for the making. Molly and Jack had continued in Catherine's footsteps, avoiding a lifestyle studded with insecurity, hidden from the authorities. The trade had formed a web of secrecy around all the small towns nearby, a secrecy Jack had never been able to penetrate. Molly and Jack had nothing to hide in this whole thing. That was something to count as a blessing, at least.
"I don't want to take instructions from someone whose largest concern is a police raid on her property," he said, glancing at Gerard to see if he could gauge his thoughts. Gerard snorted quietly, but otherwise kept silent. He rarely volunteered an opinion, though Jack had learned it didn't mean he didn't have one. He lived with his mother on a homestead even farther into the hills than Jack and Molly's ranch. She grew marijuana and sunflowers side by side in her garden. Maybe the silence that Gerard had grown up with was part of what made him so quiet. Jack knew Gerard had been married once upon a time, and that he'd never really known his father.
"Out of the picture before I was five," he said, when Jack asked him about it. "Don't remember him much." And he shrugged. His voice always sounded like he didn't use it very much. The words left his throat and floated for a while before anyone ever noticed that he'd said anything.
Jack turned back to Molly.
"We've been given clear instructions about what to do next. When the kids show up I'm going to get Todd to help me finish clearing around the house and you can organize the packing. I don't have time to follow the Park Ranger around." He was speaking quietly and slowly, trying to keep her insides still, wishing the two of them could be working from the same cluster of assumptions about the way things worked and did not work. "We'd be better off doing what we're told."
Molly let her breath out in a hiss as she stopped milking and stood up. She reached out a hand and yanked Ruby off the milking bench, the surprised goat bleating in protest as she was forced away from her grains before she was done. Her back leg jerked in response and upended the steel bowl of milk, knocking it to the floor where it clanged like a gong, rolling in circles until it was finally still. Sam opened his eyes and closed them again. Jack watched the milk settle into the cracks in the earthen floor, disappearing almost as soon as it fell, soaking into dirt that was dry and thirsty. There were two puddles of milk on the toe of his leather boot. They sank soundlessly, and all that was left was a large dark spot on the floor of the barn, some splotches on his boot. Molly whispered to Ruby as she led her quickly away. Gerard looked up once, met Jack's eyes, and looked down again.
He felt that he should stand up and follow her. After a moment he did. Outside the barn, her steps were angry.
"Molly!"
She whirled to face him.
"It isn't the way things work up here!" she said. "You need to do something!"
"What should I do?"
"I don't know! Just talk to them."
"Why don't you?"
"You've heard it from my mother, Jack. It's a guy thing. All these macho firefighters…"
"That's not fair."
"Is it fair for me to have to stand by while you watch it burn to the ground?"
She turned and led the goat over to the spigot at the end of the pipeline that led to the spring, turning it on to fill the trough.
Blaming him wasn't fair either. He'd been over it again and again. His mind was always busy now, looking for the creases that could be smoothed in this crisis, unfolding it and refolding it like a piece of paper.
Everything had taken such a strange turn. He could hardly orient himself. The summer had started out so easily. They'd had a good winter, a good rainfall, and Jack felt that as a rancher he was finally coming into his own. The cattle were doing well, Molly had won that award for her cheddar last year and the glow carried her through the cloudy days of winter and early spring. She'd been so much happier and more comfortable with herself, more than he could ever remember. It was the first year that Rain, their youngest, was living away from home. They were empty nesters; a little sad about it, but enjoying a peaceful house and more time for slow mornings.
The past didn't seem to be looming over their shoulders anymore.
But there was no accounting for late summer storms, for lightning strikes and acts of God. The fire had started, it had not gone out and here they were. There was nothing within reach that could make it go away.
The goats piled over one another to get to the water in the trough beside Molly. They were so careless, allowing drops to spill over their black and brown hides and seep into the parched earth. They didn't understand about treasuring it, drinking every drop.
Jack watched his wife biting her thumbnail, her shoulders pitched toward her ears in that familiar way. The sun shone off her hair in brilliant flares as she stood with her goats around her, looking off towards the Buckeye tree on the nearest slope. He imagined how hot her hair would be, if he cupped the back of her head in his hand. He imagined that it would burn his palm.
He wasn't sure who heard the tires on the gravel first because as soon as he heard them he saw Molly look toward the sound. Todd's car pulled into the driveway, and Molly turned to look straight at Jack, eyes pleading from across the barnyard. He knew she was already sorry for her outburst as she braced herself against the intrusion of the outside. She always had to be pushing at something, even when the something was her own family.
THREE
Catherine must have been dozing, because she had closed her eyes to stave off some nausea while Todd was wheeling around those curves by the lake, and suddenly here she was, dabbing a strand of saliva off her chin in the passenger seat of her grandson's car, parked in the driveway of the house she had moved out of ten years ago. She stared at the eaves on her old roof as they dipped to a point right in front of her.
Sleeping, Lord, she could have used the driving time to adjust—it wasn't easy, coming back like this. She patted at her long gray hair, lifting her braid up from under her for a quick check. Still intact. She cleared her throat and turned to her grandson, Todd.
"Look at this old girl—nodding off," she said, embarrassed, trying to hide it.
He smiled, the freckles on his cheekbones standing out in contrast to his strange, crooked haircut and the tattoos that covered his arms.
"I would've been out like a light, if I wasn't driving," he said. "Amber was snoring in the back."
"I was not," Amber said. Catherine turned as far as her body would allow and patted Amber's hand.
"That's right," she said. "O'Leary women don't snore." Catherine could see Amber picking at a rip in her jeans. "We saw logs."
The kids laughed. They were nice kids. Funny that they were all still sitting in the car, unsure of what to do next. Catherine looked out her window. The pastures were yellow with late summer.
"Oh, Lord, is it ever smoky," she said. "How come they let this place burn down while we were away?"
Todd looked alarmed. Catherine smiled to let him know she was only teasing. Though it was true.
"Here comes your mother," she said.
Molly was walking quickly, in that bouncy way she had. She was still a ways off.
"Here comes Jefé, too," Catherine added. "Come to say hello."
The donkey made his way to Todd's open window and leaned in.
Catherine opened her door and swung her legs to where she could stand on them. Molly was by her side in a second, and Catherine used her daughter's shoulder to steady herself.
"Oh, Ma," Molly whispered, kissing Catherine on the cheek.
"Hello, Molly," Catherine said, pressing her face close to Molly's. She stepped back to look at her daughter, a good two thirds of a foot shorter than Catherine. It used to be a full foot, before Catherine got old and her spine pressed into itself. She had lost more inches than she liked. Molly was standing with her hands at her sides. The bony ridge of her nose had a few too many freckles on it. She lifted both hands, thin and brown, to her short, dark hair and pushed them through it. Catherine saw her hands shaking, saw how thin she had become, and she felt angry.
"That's enough worrying. There've been a lot of fires around here," she said. "The Old Growth and the Good Lord will stop this one. They haven't failed before."
Molly froze. "How can you say that first thing, Mama? You'd better listen to what we have to say, before you try to tell everyone what's going to happen."
"I know I'm ready to hear what you're doing about it. Nothing should have you in such a panic. Just look at you, shaking and scared. As though the Almighty wasn't taking care of us, just as he always is." She shook her head, waved her arm to show the huge sky.
Jack approached them and glanced at Molly before turning to Catherine.
"Hello, Catherine," he said. Molly was silent, her eyes on the dusty car. Jack smiled at Catherine, kissing her gently on the cheek. He was plenty tall, tall enough to bend down to kiss her. Tall like her husband had been.
Catherine's eyes prickled, so she turned and made her way over to a rosebush that had always been her favorite. She herself had put the plant in the ground, back when it was a tiny stick of a thing. Now it sprawled over the fence like it owned the place. She cupped one blowzy flower and bent her head to it, breathing it in. It smelled like home. When she lifted her face and released the flower she was back under control. The petals on the rose let go and drifted to the ground. They must have been barely on there.
She saw that Jack and Molly were both hugging Amber by the car, Sam pressing his wriggling body against Amber's legs. Todd's plaintive voice came from the window on the driver's side.
"Would someone please move this donkey?"
Jack laughed and broke away from the cluster they'd made with Amber, softly chiding the donkey, who moved away from the car door and stepped toward Jack, nosing around his shirt. Todd spilled out of the car, long arms and skintight denimed legs. He stepped around Jefé and hugged his dad, then walked carefully around the car to kiss his mother. They all stood and looked at each other, right there in the heat with the sun beating down on them until Molly finally suggested they move to the living room.
"Sounds like you have questions, Mama," she said to Catherine as they all shuffled toward the house. "It would be better to get those out of the way first thing. Don't you think, Jack?"
Jack nodded. Catherine needed to sit down in something that wasn't moving. She walked through the old, familiar house, leaning on Jack's arm. The corner of the kitchen with the teacup cabinet sitting in its old place gave her a pain somewhere in her chest. She felt it all the way in her stomach. She'd spent so many years in this house, the birth of every child, every single Christmas and Thanksgiving, every single boring ranch day that she adored.
"I need to visit the restroom before we talk about anything," she said. "Long drive."
She closed the door firmly behind her. Someone had fixed the lock on the door, that was good. Funny, she thought, musing over her business. The carving was still on the wall. A friend had given it to Catherine and Bill as a wedding gift. Those sweet verses from Isaiah.
She had needed the verses, much more than her friend ever knew.
Jack brought her to the blue armchair in the living room and she sat down, smoothing her hands over her slacks. So many veins had swum to the surface in these old arms. Why had she become so transparent? It would be so much better if her skin became tighter, more opaque, concealing her as she headed toward death. She could use a murky covering, especially now, when she didn't have her home to hide her. Whenever she was a guest in someone else's home, the ripples of her daily patterns smoothed away and she was left clear as still water.
Molly squatted in front of the refrigerator, trying to find them something to eat. By rights they would eat tomatoes, Catherine thought. She could see ripe tomatoes on every surface in the kitchen. Spilling out of bowls on the counter, sitting in a colander in the sink, in a box on the table.
"Didn't get your tomatoes put up yet, Molly?" she asked.
"What?" Molly asked, pulling her head out of the fridge. "Oh… nope. Not yet." She stuck her head back in.
"Leftover steak!" she said, emerging with a container held over her head. "Okay, Amber, you slice some cheese and I'll start with some of these tomatoes." She started washing her hands at the sink.
"Where are the knives?" Amber asked.
"You know better than to wash your hands in the kitchen after coming in from the barn," Catherine said. "That's what the bathroom's for."
Molly looked at both of them in turn, her face blank. "There's a knife in the drawer under the toaster," she said to Amber. "And I washed them already, in the barn, Mama."
"The knives used to be in the drawer next to the fridge," said Amber.
"I moved them."
"Why did you wash your hands a second time, if you'd already washed them out there?" Catherine asked. Molly laughed.
"I don't know. Habit."
"Why did you move the knives?" Amber wanted to know. "I thought they were fine where they were."
"It makes more sense to have them over there. Trust me, it does."
Amber shrugged and sliced little even slabs of cheese from the block. Todd was already slouched against the wall in one of the kitchen chairs, milling over the newspaper. Molly rinsed a few tomatoes and plopped them on a cutting board, yanked the drawer open to find a knife. The knives skidded to the front of the drawer.
"Slow down, we aren't in any rush," Catherine said, but Molly acted like she hadn't heard.
Catherine smoothed her hands over her pants again and leaned her head back on the chair.
"Do you have any olives, Mom?" Todd asked, looking up from the paper.
"Black olives."
"Huh. Greek olives go better with goat cheese."
"I don't think we have any."
"And I guess I can't just run out to the store," Todd said.
Molly wrinkled her face at him, shaking her head. The nearest grocery store was about forty-five minutes away from the ranch. The family never could accept it, Catherine felt. Molly was always griping about needing something and not being able to get it.
But Catherine knew there was only one way to stay and take care of a piece of land for seventy years. You just didn't entertain any ideas of being anywhere else. You let your feet become as entwined in the earth as the long roots of one of the trees. You grew your hair and didn't get fancy hairstyles that would have you in town in one of those swivel chairs staring in a mirror. You sat there on the porch, night after night in the deep evening, worn but happy, watching the land you had cultivated, land that was your keep and sustenance.
If these had been her father's days, Catherine wouldn't have walked off her land as an old lady. She'd have stayed and weathered in the sun until she died in the shadow of a great fir, her body buried at the foot of an oak. She wouldn't have worked so hard with so much dirt in the cracks of her hands, only to give it all away, find some shell somewhere to live in, make a new life that was a parody of a life, with no line to trace where she'd come from, no trail to creep along with trembling hands.
But there was Molly. Both of Catherin
e's sons had married women who were like sheep, careless about family obligations, which had the boys out of the picture as far as the ranch was concerned. Their wives didn't want the land, they wanted Starbucks and Wal-Mart. Molly, on the other hand, was honorable through and through. She understood responsibility and history and that hidden cord that tied mother to daughter for generations upon end. But Molly was a woman with an aversion to the ladder that Catherine's life offered her. She would rather climb a sheer rock face than admit she was accepting rung after rung of help from her mother. This is why Catherine left. Why she found a house for herself in a carpeted and formica'd container, living in a stale retirement community, not at all what she believed she'd earned. It was her sacrifice for her land.
Now Jack's voice brought her back to the living room and the armchair and she pressed her hands to her cheeks. She felt as though she could doze off again.
"What did you say?" she asked.
Jack was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him. Molly reached for something behind him and he stepped out of her way.
"I was saying that we should sit down now, before lunch, and I'll explain to everyone where we're at."
Todd said, "Let's do it."
"Shouldn't we wait for Rain?" Amber asked. She dried her hands on a kitchen towel and carefully draped it over the back of a chair.
"We'll have to fill Rain in later," Catherine said. "Your father's right, we need to talk now."
Everyone trooped the short distance into the living room and settled themselves into the sofas and chairs. Todd pulled a cushion off the couch and lounged on the floor beside Molly. Molly curled up with her legs underneath her, like a cat.
"I'm going to plough on in, and you can ask questions later, okay?" Jack said. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Catherine felt infinitely weary. She was thirsty, like she used to be if she was in the field all day in summer, the sun drying the stalks of grass before her very eyes.
"Molly, could you get me a glass of water?" she asked. Molly slowly uncurled herself and walked into the kitchen while Jack resumed talking.
The Eve Tree: A Novel Page 4