Marcela slouched away from him and averted her face, her temporary good cheer punctured. “Mind giving us some space to discuss?” She directed the question to Ben, but Cello felt the force in it that was meant for him.
“Go right ahead,” Ben said, warming and loosening up under their impending skirmish.
“No, you can go right ahead.” She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head toward the tree line.
“That’s fine.” He held his hands in the air and started to walk off.
“And stay gone until you hear us call for you,” she called.
“Okay, sure.” The smile in the boy’s voice was obvious.
“Seriously? You’re gonna leave me here?” she said.
“Why? Do you want to go? You know I’m coming back with our money. You got nothing to worry about.”
“Right, of course you’ll come back because Joanie’s still here.” Marcela rolled her eyes and shook her head at Cello.
“That’s not the only reason.” Cello crossed his arms over his chest, and remembered the sleep-warmed weight of the baby there. He needed to be the one to go, and he needed to go alone. Even if he told her, Marcela wouldn’t care about depositing another payment at the Stuckey’s—she’d say he was better off throwing his share away, or giving it to her. “You know I’ll take care of it. And somebody’s got to get back before everyone’s up. You can cover for me. I don’t think you should be alone with this guy. Unless that’s what you want?” Cello wiped the sweat from his face. It was getting hot as the morning swelled.
“Um, no—thanks, anyway. Don’t fuck this up. Make sure you follow him the whole way—I don’t want him running off with my share. He seems like kind of an asshole.” Marcela tossed her head, and the musty smell of their blankets filled the space between them.
“Well, that I know how to deal with. Hey! Man!” Cello shaded his eyes with his forearm. As Ben ambled toward them, Cello noticed how Ben’s body looked like it, too, was part of the earth, like it had grown and morphed from the layers of soil and shale. It was the way his feet connected with the ground as he moved, like the land came out of him and grew down through the soles of his feet. Cello tried to remember where he’d felt that before, and then flushed when he realized it had happened with Joanie, with her naked body moving from the river.
Cello cleared his throat. “Okay, I’m coming with you.”
“Sounds good to me,” Ben said, smiling widely as though he’d known exactly what Cello and Marcela would decide.
“I’ll see you at home, Cello,” Marcela said. “Be careful.”
“You, too.” Cello and the stranger packed up the harvest in silence. Cello followed along as Ben brushed the crusted soil off the roots and plaited the stalks with the skill of a produce packer. Cello studied the neatly folded burlap bags Ben set at his feet. Nothing about this venture seemed spontaneous or amateur. Ben worked well and quickly, surprising Cello. He was used to working this way only with Sil.
That kind of communion was what Cello thought you might find in a church; it was one kind of devotion. Harvest, and planting and tending, all of those, for Cello, were a conversation with greatness. Coaxing something beautiful and living from something so vast and complicated, well, it didn’t really feel like toil. He knew it wasn’t like that for everyone, but it was for Ben—the familiar, content respect for that work streamed off his shoulders. It was a curious, close feeling, almost like holding hands with someone.
Cello shook his head, shuffling the reason for this errand—a tiny baby on his own—up to the front of his mind. “So, we’re pretty close to done here, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, I guess. How come you didn’t want your friend to come?”
Cello was quiet, gathering the little plant carcasses, careful of the brittle, delicate strands of roots. “None of your business,” he finally said.
“That’s like your catchphrase, man. Tell them to put it on your tombstone.” Ben held his hands up, like a film director setting up a shot. “None of your business.” Ben rolled his eyes, an impressive echo of Marcela’s merciless teasing.
“Well, it’s not,” Cello said. “How much are we getting for this? And don’t lie now, ’cause I’ll be right there watching you.”
“Forty a pound. That okay with you, Mr. None-of-your-business?”
“Yeah, it’s okay,” Cello said. He tried to stay relaxed, as loose as a layer of cloud cover, but in his mind, the possibilities erupted and multiplied. “Let’s go now.” He skimmed the eagerness out of his voice. “I can’t be gone all day. I’ve got work to do.”
“Fine. When do you need to be back?” Ben dusted off his hands over the pile they had gathered.
“Noon.”
“Well, I rode my bike over. I usually borrow my roommate’s car, but he’s using it today.”
Cello worried his lip with his teeth.
“What, you don’t have a car, either?” Ben asked.
“Nope.” Cello shook his head. “How far is it? Can we walk?” He looked at the pile of filled sacks and felt his optimism trickling away.
“Not if you want to be back by noon,” Ben said.
“Alright, I guess I’ll try to get Sil’s truck, unless...” Cello looked the other boy in the eye for the first time. “Do you have another bike?”
“No,” Ben replied, his voice flat, dry.
“Well, shit. I guess I’ll sneak out the truck. I’ll meet you by the road.” Cello gestured to where the county route access road pressed a rim up against the garden’s edge.
“I’ll take the plants,” Ben said.
“No, I’ll take the plants,” Cello corrected, pleased by how uncompromising and serious, even mature, he sounded.
“That makes no sense.” Ben sighed. “Why don’t you just take half, and I’ll take half?”
“Doesn’t seem fair. Our deal was me and Marcela get two-thirds, right?”
“Fair? Dude, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be selling this at all.”
“Fine. Half. Ten minutes, down there, the first place you run into the road.”
Cello held the pile of plants against his chest and ran. He was already late to work in the garden; he hoped Marcela came up with something believable to tell Letta. Taking the truck without permission would be bad. The beating he got for running away would feel like a nap compared to what Sil would do if he found his truck missing. Maybe he could tell Sil he needed to haul the tiller down to the new plot. If Sil was still hungover and taking it easy, he wouldn’t notice the time.
Cello paced around the back of the trailers, straining his eyes for the metallic flash of the truck. If Sil had taken it out already, there was nothing Cello could do.
“Where you been?” Joanie’s voice sliced through the humid, late-morning air. She pulled her loose hair over her shoulder, and her deeply tanned throat, glimmering with perspiration, shone out at him.
“Nowhere,” he said.
“Marcela said you had the runs. Letta bought it, but the rest of us know she’s the one full of shit.”
Cello flushed, felt all the blood in his body pushing up against his skin, trying to get out. “I—I need the truck,” he stammered.
“What for?” As Joanie moved closer, he felt his muscles contract. He looked up, met her dark eyes with what he hoped was confidence.
“Just something.”
“What are you and Marcela up to?” she asked. “You’re not gonna tell me?” Joanie’s breath was warm against the side of his face.
“Nope,” Marcela interrupted. She shuffled through the grass, noisy as a creature alone at night. “What’s going on, Cello? How are you feeling?” she asked.
“A little better. I wanted to take the truck to get something. For my stomach.”
“I’m sure Letta’s got something for you. You know they won’t let you take the truck out alo
ne.” Joanie looked from Cello to Marcela. “I’ll go ask Letta and see what she’s got.”
“No,” Marcela said, too loud.
“No?” Joanie repeated, challenging.
“Why aren’t you working?” Marcela asked.
“Me?” Joanie said. “Why aren’t you working?”
“It’s an emergency. Believe me.” Cello looked right at Joanie when he said it, willing her to understand the importance of this trip.
“Go on,” said Marcela. “We’ll cover for you. Right, Joanie? Just go, Cello. Go now.” Marcela raised her eyebrows and gave him an encouraging, emphatic nod.
“Right, okay. Tell Sil I needed the tiller down the hill at the new plot. If he asks.” Cello darted back to where he’d stashed the burlap sacks of prepared ginseng, begging God or anyone to keep this part of his day quiet. He opened the door to the truck’s cab and piled the bags onto the cracked vinyl bench seat. He put the truck in Neutral and circled to the back, heaving a push against it. It took a few tries, and more strained and protesting muscle tissue—Cello was sure he’d be counting bruises on his upper arms and shoulders later—until the truck began to roll. He skipped back as it veered slightly off the drive, but came to a jaunty stop at the base of the second slope of gravel-covered lane. He didn’t want to start the truck until it was too late for Sil or Letta to stop him.
Cello thought he heard voices, but hurried after the truck, anyway. Better to ask forgiveness later than permission now, he thought. He couldn’t remember who had said that to him, but it was from a long time ago, from someone who’d cared about him—one of those memories so far down in the mulch of his mind something twisted in him to think of it.
He turned the key in the ignition and hoped the robust sound of birds and animals chattering would mask the sound of the engine. He hoped Sil had already tied one on this morning, his senses blurry and sluggish. He hoped Letta was still upset about the baby’s motor-oil-dipped foot, that she was distracted and cowed by someone whose cruelty was greater than her own.
As the engine gnashed and caught, Cello was surprised to discover he was more proud than afraid. He was alarmed but also buzzed by his boldness. With a small, satisfied smile, he pulled the truck forward.
16
Joanie felt the change in the family—of the garden—like a missing tooth. It isn’t just me, she thought. The removal of the baby, the breaking away of Cello and Marcela in some mysterious alliance, even her own postnatal weakness, had all destabilized the garden. She could sense the Vine testing their reliability, their suitability, every time she closed her eyes. This uncertainty terrified her; if she ever needed the Vine to cooperate with and trust her, it was now.
Joanie left Marcela in the yard and peeked into the kids’ trailer where Sabina, Miracle and Letta were playing cards.
“Hey, Sabina, want to come with me? Gonna take that walk now,” she said, careful to keep her voice neutral and easy despite the panic she felt.
“Where, exactly, are you two going?” Letta asked, smoke streaming out of her nostrils in a suspicious flare.
“I’m going to teach Sabina a couple of the basics,” Joanie said, clearly, confidently. “I need a little help with the Work. An assistant.”
Letta’s mouth turned down in a skeptical twist. “She’s not ready. And I can tell you’re up to no good.”
Joanie shot Letta a cool stare. “She is ready.”
“Oh, I guess you know best.”
“We both know I know more than you.”
Letta, stung, looked hard at her foster daughter. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Don’t be afraid. Everything I do will be for this garden, and nothing else.” Joanie reached out for Sabina’s hand, to help her off the floor. She felt a pinch of worry as she found herself already standing over Sabina without even realizing she had moved.
“This won’t bring him back, honey,” Letta said, soft and sad, as Sabina clamored to her feet. “It’s too dangerous.”
“You don’t know that, Letta. What if it can?” Joanie gave her a defiant shrug. “And if you’re that worried, you can come help us. See exactly what I’m doing.”
Letta curled herself around Miracle, as though she didn’t want Joanie to take her, too, and lit a cigarette. “I don’t think so,” she said with a deliberate look at Sabina. “It’s not really safe if you’re not bleeding—yet or anymore.”
“I can keep you both safe,” Joanie said.
“No, thank you.” A nervous tremble undercut Letta’s voice. “I’m not good at it anymore. I was never any good at it. And anyway, if you know everything, then you know it’s a young girl’s game.”
“It’s not a game at all. The Work I’m doing, it’s something different.” Joanie saw Letta lean back before she understood that she was pressing herself toward the older woman. She was so stunned and thrilled to be the stronger one that she didn’t question what force had bullied her forward against Letta.
“Sabina, you don’t have to go with her,” Letta said, but made no movement to approach Sabina, or to hold her back.
“I want to help. I like doing it,” Sabina said quietly, eyes cast down.
“Fine. If you two hurt yourselves, don’t come crying to me!” Letta shouted, crossing all of her limbs, and closing Miracle and herself away from the two girls.
The chapel was different, charged. Joanie could sense it immediately, even before she caught the green glow of it in her sightline. It responded to her. The verdant call of the chapel reached out, near desperate, to fold her into the woven little cove. The longing was violent, and it produced an urgent answering inside of her—a mother’s frantic compulsion to feed her hungry child.
Joanie clutched Sabina’s hand and pulled her forward in a half run.
“Ow, Joanie, don’t yank on me like that,” Sabina said, withdrawing her fingers from Joanie’s insistent clasp.
Joanie forced her pace to slow. “Sorry.” But she wasn’t sorry. The Vine was loosening its hold on the garden because it was tightening its bond with her. Helen had never mentioned anything like this in any of her notebooks.
“Well,” Sabina said. “What do we need to do?”
Joanie knelt in the chapel and began to trace Helen’s patterns for worship over the walls. Instead of drinking the patterns in, the Vine seemed to press out against them. It wanted something else, and Joanie needed to find out exactly what. “We need to come back. With something more,” she said.
* * *
Cello knew moving slowly wouldn’t make the engine’s growl any quieter, so he sped off to the meeting spot he’d arranged with Ben, finding the boy by the side of the road. He stopped the truck without pulling over. “Get in,” he said, though Cello wasn’t sure if Ben could hear him through the window glass.
Ben moved efficiently and, with more grace than Cello expected, he settled his bike into the back of the pickup.
“Go on,” said Ben, throwing his share of the haul on top of the pile between them. “I’ll tell you when the next turn’s coming up.”
Ben led them to a neat, compact neighborhood. All of the houses were symmetrical, matching pieces, painted the color of seashells. The lawns were uniformly shorn, and the hedges and mailboxes were all the same height. Cello was surprised by the neighborhood’s respectability and permanence. The house number—232—was stenciled on the curb in navy blue. As he drove, Cello’s eyes repeatedly flickered to the rearview window to make sure Sil hadn’t somehow followed him.
They parked on the street a few houses down. Cello was used to subterfuge, to confusing people. Even if this was legal, and he wasn’t sure it was, it didn’t feel right to drive up and approach the house like a guest. He thought back to all of his family’s transactions with the Josephs. Those had felt nothing like this.
“Wait here,” Ben said.
“What? No—that’s not what we ag
reed.”
“There was no deal about this part. My guy will get nervous if he sees me bringing people up here. This is his home,” Ben said.
“So?” Cello climbed out, holding an armful of overfilled sacks to his chest. “You don’t let me come in, I take our share back.”
Ben cranked the passenger window up. “Fine. You better not fuck this up, man. Just let me talk, alright?” Ben asked. He stood close, too close, Cello thought as they walked up the brick, herringbone-pattern path to the front of the house.
Cello stared at the pristinely painted white door. Even the doorknob seemed too nice for him to touch, all glossy and shining.
“Do you think there’s a back door, or a garage or something? It doesn’t feel right for us to be here.”
“This is how I always do it.” Before Cello could stop him, Ben reached forward and pressed the doorbell. He practically leaned into it—surely, Cello thought, maximizing the sound inside. He winced, imagining Mother Joseph’s response to this kind of salutation.
The man who opened the door was older, middle-aged—not too much younger than Mother Joseph, but the comparisons to Joanie’s former mother-in-law ended there. He was short and fiercely sunburned—his eyebrows like two bleached-blond fuzzy caterpillars on a red stone. He adjusted a dark, wool cap, moving it farther down his creased forehead.
“Benjamin,” he said. “I see you’ve brought a friend.”
“What’s up, Dr. Santo?” Ben said with a perky little wave. Cello stared at Dr. Santo’s thin, cashmere sweater, and felt the dampness of perspiration under his soiled T-shirt.
“You had better come inside,” said Dr. Santo, scratching an arm through his sweater.
“Want me to bring this in?” Cello asked, lifting the fragrant burlap-wrapped plants up a little.
“No, I want you to leave it outside,” Dr. Santo said, like a robot, Cello thought. “Better yet, just throw it into the street.”
Cello’s eyelids stretched open all the way, until the corners of his eyes hurt.
Daughters of the Wild Page 16