Sands Rising

by H M Wilhelmborn

  “About five years—”

  “You’re just a baby!” she remarked. “I’ve been shopping here for thirty-two years, since 2002. Where were you in 2002? How old are you? You’re just a baby! Look at you! Don’t grin at me like that!”

  “Ma’am, I’m still not sure. What exactly is the problem? I’d really like to help.”

  “Well, you’re not listening,” she said as she threw her hands up. “I just told you that you’ve been increasing the prices almost every week in this baked-goods section. I used to buy all my stuff from you guys, but no more.” She pointed at the bread again. “A loaf of bread is now $8.75! $8.75! Look at this loaf over here with the fancy stuff in it, your ‘Classic ConfiPrice Loaf,’ and that’s $9.25!”

  I took a deep breath, and my heart was pounding. I wasn’t going to pay nine bucks for a loaf of bread. I walked over to the buttermilk biscuits. $17.25 for a dozen!

  “Can you afford this?” The woman, who later told us her name was “Mrs. Nancy Y,” asked the supervisor. “Can you afford this?”

  The manager appeared, and he asked Mrs. Y to follow him. He’d explain why the prices seemed a little higher—

  “Seem!” she yelled. “Seem? You mean are? Well, you can tell all of your customers why you are gouging us. Go on.”

  “Ma’am,” the manager said, “we do our best to source all our products from cost-effective suppliers that also meet our commitment to quality and ethical practices. We’ve also been a little alarmed by the surge in the price of wheat, but it’s to be expected if we follow the news. Oklahoma and Kansas produce much of our wheat. With the ongoing droughts there, a drought in Germany (which produces wheat), and Australia (which also produces wheat), prices have soared. It’s in the news, ma’am.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Y said, “it’s one thing for the prices to go up in Australia or Germany or Oklahoma, but that doesn’t mean that you need to raise the prices in San Diego!”

  A few customers laughed, and Mrs. Y looked at them and said, “Right? It’s just so nonsensical to me that you’d just up and raise the prices in San Diego. Why would you do such a thing? To be in solidarity with the supermarkets in Germany?”

  “Ma’am, the market—”

  “Oh, that’s rich,” she said. “Of course, you’d mention the market. You and the TV. It’s all over the papers as well. ‘The market is going up.’ ‘The market is going down.’ ‘The market went flat.’ ‘The market almost died.’ You’d think it was someone’s heartbeat. I change the channel whenever they talk about that market BS. Where is this market? Does it even exist? I have my own problems without worrying about other people’s market problems. So, when will ConfiPrice bring the prices back down again?”

  Mrs. Nancy Y stared at the manager and the supervisor, and they did not answer.

  “I’m giving you forty-eight hours,” she said, “and if you don’t bring the prices back to normal, I’m reporting you both. What are your names?” She read their name tags. “Calvin and Curtis. I’ll be reporting you both to the state attorney general’s office. I pay my taxes. I know what’s right!”

  I nodded at Mrs. Y as she left the store. Another customer indicated that Mrs. Y was right because some customers now couldn’t afford a single bag of flour, which had almost doubled in price.

  I needed to get our shopping done quickly because who knew what trouble the kids were giving Mauru in the car. I decided not to buy buttermilk biscuits, bought two loaves of bread instead (after going back and forth), some pasta, and a few other goodies we needed. The price of beef, I noticed, was also rising. I closed my eyes, shook my head, and reached for some beef cutlets until another customer told me to take a look at the spatchcock chicken on sale. I opened my eyes again.

  At least something was on sale.

  I lifted the package of spatchcock chicken and saw it was nearing its “sell by” date, which probably meant that the chicken had been sold at full price initially and no one had bought it, so ConfiPrice wanted to sell it fast. I had no problem buying it since it was still within the consumption window, so I bought three. Another customer came by and took the remaining four, and we smiled at each other.

  “Get it while you can,” she said. “Enjoy.”

  Mauru couldn’t believe it.

  “Well,” he said as we unloaded the groceries from the car when we got home, “it kinda makes sense, babe. It’s not like we should be surprised, but I am. We’ll make it work.”

  Although we weren’t struggling to make ends meet, we’d have to find inventive ways of making our diets fit our budget while also thinking about college funds, cars for the kids when they were of driving age, and so on. A lot of that stuff was a long way off, but things that seem far away have a way of arriving unannounced and demanding your full attention when you’re focusing on things that seemed more urgent.

  “We could sell our place and move in with my mom and dad,” I said, “if it ever came to that.”

  Mauru shook his head. “We won’t need to, babe. We’ll figure everything out.”

  “Or we can move in with your parents in Sacramento,” I suggested.

  He shook his head again. He couldn’t live with his parents.

  About a week or so later, Mauru was reading the Golden State Herald when he looked up at me, shook his head, and continued reading.

  I knew the look.

  It was the same look he had when his dad announced that he and Mauru’s mom had joined a swinger’s club up in Sacramento, and they wished they’d done it sooner.

  It was the same look his sister, Elisa, had when she learned that her boyfriend, who was held in a federal detention facility pending deportation for trafficking illicit substances, was thinking of proposing to her.

  “What are you reading, Mauru?”

  I had tried calling him “Mau” when we started dating, which he hated just like he hated beets. He said “Mau” made him sound like a kitten. I even tried calling him “Ru,” and he said that if I ever felt like adding the syllable “ben” to it, I’d make him sound like one of his favorite sandwiches.

  “Mauru” it was.

  “Those guys from the California Water Party are back in the news,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  I put my apron on and got ready to make the only Sardinian dish Mauru’s family knew and loved: Zuppa Gallurese. I set the oven temperature to 375 degrees, took a seat on Mauru’s lap, and read what was on the computer screen.

  “Wealthy Party Promises to Tackle Environment Head On.”

  “At least someone’s doing something,” I said as the oven came to temperature. “I mean Governor Barrow is trying, and I really like her, but even she says she can only do so much at the state level. We also saw the Water Party at that tent city, and they seemed to be helping people.”

  “We’ll see,” Mauru said as he showed me the article by Linda Maywrot. “The thing is,” Mauru continued, “these guys sound like opportunists who ten or twenty years ago would have called themselves proud Republicans or Democrats if that would have gotten them elected. They might even have called themselves something entirely different a century ago if that would have meant power. The environment isn’t their thing. Power is.”

  He sneezed and excused himself.

  “Listen to this, babe,” he said. “‘The California Water Party (CWP) was founded in 2025 by Jeremiah Trehoviak and his protégé Anton Cola on the back of a napkin in Menlo Park, where the CWP has a sprawling compound. A former member of the CWP says that Mr. Trehoviak, a Silicon Valley billionaire who made his fortune through coltan, which is used in the manufacture of electronic devices across the planet, had a ‘vision’ to change the world, beginning with California, during a bout of measles in the Southern African Federation, where he met Mr. Cola. Mr. Trehoviak’s ‘vision’ led to eighteen months of seclusion in the Namib Desert and the publication of The Right Path, which is a self-glorifying autobiography that speaks of ‘the great visionary genius of the First of his kind, Jeremiah Trehoviak, to wh
om was delivered under an African sunset the seven postulates and beliefs of a new earth and a new environmental utopia based in California [sic]:

  Good morals and good water are the foundation of a healthy people [sic].

  When morals and water become polluted, we die.

  We must avoid death at all costs.

  We live by facing our moral and water issues [sic].

  These are life and death issues.

  The Right Path wants us to thrive.

  If we fail, destruction awaits.’”

  “I’ll give him one thing,” Mauru concluded. “Trehoviak isn’t the sharpest knife in the kitchen with this postulate gibberish, but he’s unabashedly self-promoting. And he’s picked the right moment to announce that his party will field candidates again in 2038. Water’s the only thing people care about now.”

  I returned to the kitchen and cut the stale bread, which we’d bought on sale at ConfiPrice, into thin slices. I placed the bread at the bottom of the roasting pan. Grated parmesan went on top, followed by some crushed parsley and pepper.

  Few things can compete with the smell of freshly cracked pepper.

  We always splurged on organic Kampot peppers before their price made them unreachable. They never made us sneeze, and when cracked, their aroma was both peppery and fruity, just like their taste.

  On top of the pepper came another layer of stale bread and pecorino, followed by another layer of bread. Then one tablespoon at a time of delicious beef broth until the bread was slightly soaked. Fontina on top of it all, and into the oven for nine to twelve minutes.

  After dinner that night, there was a loud knock on the door. Jon ran to the door, thinking it was his grandparents. My parents were on a cruise in Alaska, so I knew it couldn’t be they, and I am an only child, so no siblings. Elisa, Mauru’s sister, was in Boston with her new beau, whose name was literally “Beau,” and Mauru’s parents were up in Sacramento.

  I opened the door.

  I gasped.

  There they were in the flesh!

  A fine gentleman, probably the one I’d seen at the tent city, and a beautiful lady, also from the CWP, were at the door. As I stared at the man, I became somewhat lightheaded. My nipples joined in the fun, and I felt myself smiling.

  “Babe,” Mauru called from the kitchen, where he was washing the dinner dishes, “people asking for handouts? The Church asking for donations?”

  “Um, one minute!” I yelled in response. “Um . . .”

  I looked at the two models in front of me and scratched my head. Who cared who they were?

  “Hi, hello, welcome.” I grinned at the models. “Well, come right on in,” I said. “Why don’t y’all just come right on in and make yourselves at home?”

  I don’t know where that “y’all” came from. I was born in Upstate New York, and Mauru’s family never said “y’all” at all.

  “Hi, Ms. . . .” The man greeted me as he extended his hand. He had big hands, the sort you read about in romances by my favorite romance writer, Ambrosia Skiffles. More giddiness followed as I told myself to calm down and look at them both in the eye. I asked them what had prompted their visit as they entered our condo, which was strewn with toys and two unopened boxes of recently delivered diapers, and the laundry hamper was in the corner.

  “You can call me Jan, Janet,” I said. “Jan-et.”

  “Janet,” the man said, “I’m Mike. We’re with the California Water Party. You may have heard of us. We’re going door-to-door introducing ourselves to fine citizens like you and your husband. We’ll only take ten minutes of your time. We stick to the clock. Please forgive the intrusion.”

  He smiled, and I thought for a moment of “Janet and Mike.” I recalled what my mom had said in a naughty moment about the first time she met my dad.

  “I had to stop looking at his feet, which were so big that I told myself that he was a keeper,” Mom said.

  I glanced at Mike’s shoes.

  “We promise, Janet,” the lady who might steal my husband said. “No more than ten minutes.”

  She said her name was “Greta” or “Granite”; I do not remember. I’ll stick with “Granite” because I didn’t like her from the start.

  “Welcome, Granite and Mike.” I smiled. “You have, um, ten or so minutes.”

  “It’s ‘Greta,’” she said. “Just ‘Greta.’”

  They took a seat on the couch.

  Mauru came into the living room, and Jon ran to him.

  “Babe,” I said, “meet, um, Mike from the California Water Party.”

  My husband walked right up to Granite and introduced himself in a deep voice as “‘Mau’ or ‘Ru,’ short for ‘Mauru,’” whichever Granite preferred.

  “They’ve only got ten minutes,” I told Mauru, feeling myself frown.

  “Take all the time you need,” Mauru said as he kept glancing at Granite.

  “We’ve got to feed Nate, who’ll be awake any time now,” I said. “Nate will wake up at any moment now, Mau.”

  “So, um, we’ll get right to it,” Granite said. “The California Water Party was founded by the people of this state for the people of this state. Our goal is to bring the state government to your home and to give you the power to decide what should happen with your hard-earned tax dollars, especially in these trying times with rising prices and instability just about everywhere you turn. Could we ask if you’re both registered voters?”

  The answer popped right out of me, “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  Blinks all round. Crickets and everything else.

  “Um, would anyone like some coffee?” Mauru asked, embarrassed for me.

  “No, thanks,” Mike said. “We’re asking if you’re registered voters because our party believes in bringing people together, no matter who they are. You’ve probably heard of us working with asylum seekers and migrants, whom no one wants to admit are the result of the poor choices we made right here in the US. Not even Governor Barrow will talk about that fact, but she’s sent the National Guard to the camp at San Ysidro to keep these people in, which is a mess because some of them are internally displaced Americans from other states.”

  Mike looked at Granite, and she smiled at him. I wondered how long they’d been together, how they’d met.

  “Lots of homeless people at the camp, too,” Mike said. “They’re Americans, just like you and me. There are also some Europeans, Africans, Asians, and Australians. Governor Barrow’s worried about them taking people’s jobs. She’s also worried about a possible outbreak of illness, which we screen for anyway on the Mexican side of the border with our people in the Mexican Water Party. Despite all the rhetoric from Washington about concern for the people at San Ysidro, the federal government has sent only one immigration official to help process all the asylum applications. Why do these people still come to the US? Because there’s still something left of the American Dream. The California Water Party considers it our moral duty to help those in need, which the people of California care about. It’s also the Right Path. As Jeremiah says, ‘The Right Path wants us to thrive.’ The California Water Party realizes that people have become so apathetic about politics that they don’t care.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s pathetic!”

  “Babe.” Mauru lightly put his hand on my shoulder. “I think Nate’s woken up. Could you check?”

  I was embarrassing myself in front of strangers. I stood up and went to the kids’ room, where Nate had woken up and was playing on his own with the toys around him. My son was smiling. I sat with him and thought of how he’d grown over the past year. His weight had tripled since birth, he could stand on his own, was starting to walk, and he could sit with us at the table for meals. I hugged and smelled him.

  Oh, that baby smell! It’s like buttermilk biscuits, and I’m an addict!

  I checked Nate’s diaper, which was dry, and I carried him to the living room, where Mike was testing samples of our water, and Granite was entering the data into her foldable tab
let.

  Jon and Nate sat on the floor and played as I listened to the conversation the grown-ups were having; I tried not to embarrass myself any further. My thoughts wandered. If Mauru ran off with Granite, how would I compete? I have a gap in my teeth, it’s the first thing you see when I smile. At that point, I also had more curves than I cared to count.

  I put my hand on Mauru’s, and he smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

  “Greta’s asking what kinds of changes we’d like to see, babe.”

  “How about dropping the prices of essential goods?” I smiled.

  “Well, um, that’s a tricky one,” Granite said as she wrote down what I said. “Anything else?”

  “Governor Barrow,” Mauru said, “has increased the funding for recycling sewage water throughout the state. I’d say the initiative needs more funding than has been earmarked. And why aren’t we getting more desalination plants online like they’ve done in Australia? And what about free health care for those whose asthma and other illnesses are aggravated by the drought? People are dying.”

  “Got it.” Mike nodded as Greta took more notes.

  “What about our morals in these desperate times?” Granite asked. “Do you think our morals are up to par? Do you think we could do more to make people respect the resources we already have like our water?”

  “Well,” Mauru said, “I think education is the key to all this. So maybe more campaigns promoting environmental awareness so that our teachers, for example, can be better informed when they talk about environmental degradation or environmental justice. Who even knows what those things mean, but they’re in the papers all the time now.”

  “Right,” Mike said. “We want California to be more water-independent than it currently is. We believe that there is a lot of water waste in our state. We’re for restricting landscaping of all kinds, which is water-intensive. We also want to restrict the consumption of products whose water footprint is mind-boggling. California produces about 85 percent of all almonds consumed in our country. Almonds guzzle about 1,800 gallons of water per pound. Can you guys believe that? We also produce about 90 percent of all olives consumed in the US. Olives drink about 500 gallons of water per pound. The largest amount of dates in the country is also grown in California. Dates require roughly 350 gallons of water per pound. In the Coachella Valley, near the Salton Sea, we also grow mangoes. Mangoes go through nearly 170 gallons of water per pound. Just think of those numbers. Numbers never lie. That’s why we want to bring more desalination plants online, and we want to make people more accountable for water waste. It makes sense. It’s the Right Path. Could we ask what your children’s names are?”