All You Get Is Me (10 page)

I slide the CD into the player.

“I mean it now, you’re playing with fire, young lady.”

We drive along in the slow lane as Frank sings “Fly Me to the Moon.”

Chapter 9

M
y dad looks over his tiny gold reading glasses at me. He’s sitting at the wooden kitchen table surrounded by books and pamphlets and photos. His pen is poised over a blank page in a lined notebook. My dad is not a computer person.

“What’s up, honey bear?” he asks me as I slide into the chair across from him, wiping my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt.

“Those hateful chickens are fed and watered. The farm stand is stocked and the compost heap is turned and can you please tell Steve that his worn-out socks will not break down in the compost heap? I’ve told him a thousand times and he seems not to hear me.”

My dad snorts and tries not to grin. I glare at him.

“Why is that funny to you? I swear it’s like some sort of male conspiracy out there.” I get up from the table and yank open the fridge, pulling out a pitcher of chilled water and pouring myself a glass.

“Want some?” I hold up the glass.

“Sure.”

I pull another glass out of the cupboard and put the water in front of him. I sit down across from him again.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing a speech. I’m speaking at a sustainable farming conference in Vermont this weekend.”

“This weekend? When will you be back?”

“Monday night.”

“Who’s going to run this place?”

“Steve and you.”

“Thanks for telling me.” I sulk.

“Honey, it’s not the Pentagon. You’ll be fine. Jane’s coming out for the weekend to stay here too, so you’ll even have a woman to conspire with.”

“Yeah, right. Her and Steve will be doing it all weekend while I do all the work.”

“You know that’s not true. Jane will take it very seriously.”

Suddenly a lightbulb goes on in my head. If my dad’s away I can have Forest over. I can talk to Steve and he’ll keep it to himself. Jane will be cool and Miguel and Tomás definitely won’t say anything. Plus, I’d like Forest to meet all these people. I don’t think I should tell Tomás who Forest is just yet. Another bit of guilt washes over me.

I put my empty glass in the sink and glance out the window at the gardens outside. Tomás has proven himself to be a very good worker. Right now he’s bent over a shovel, digging up beets and baby potatoes for the market and the restaurant deliveries. He works steadily and with purpose, jumping on the edge of the shovel with both feet and bending over to knock the dirt off the beets and then tossing them into the wheelbarrow.

“So, what’s your speech about?” I ask, my mood lightening by the second.

My dad writes for a couple seconds and then lifts his head. “Educating restaurants and grocers on the benefits of buying directly from local and sustainable farms.”

“You might want to throw in a couple of jokes to warm up the crowd.”

“They don’t need jokes. They’re all farmers and they paid four hundred bucks to be there.”

“Trust me, Dad. Everyone needs jokes.”

I open the screen door and walk out onto the porch to sit in the rocker for a minute. Rufus is napping next to the porch swing, his body stretched out in the shape of a “U.”

I pull my knees up to my chin and play with the Guatemalan bracelet that Forest tied on my wrist yesterday. I gaze out at the farm and lose myself in yet another replay of the moment I had with Forest when we said good-bye at the swimming hole (which, by the way, we now call the tar pits). I was nervous and flustered, knowing that if a kiss was coming, that would definitely be the moment. I know enough about moments to know that they’re delicate and fleeting and if you’re not careful you can blow them to bits. We both got out of the car and I walked over to my bike and bent over to unlock it. As I stood up, Forest took me by the hand and pulled me closer till our faces were about four inches from each other. He let go of my hand and let his hands rest on the small of my back. He tilted his head and pressed his lips on mine and just sort of left them there for a second, waiting for me to catch up. I pressed back with my lips and let my hands go wherever they wanted. They settled into the slight curve just above his hip bones. I could feel the outline of his ribs through his shirt. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, but after he pulled away he kept his face close to mine and ran his fingers down my jawline. He didn’t say anything and neither did I, until he got back in his car and I was on my bike. He told me he’d see me soon and he waved and drove away in one direction while I pedaled off in another, hardly able to move my trembling legs at all.

Even though that technically wasn’t my first kiss, I scarcely remember anything about the few times I’ve been kissed before. Those kisses were all fumbling, awkward hands and lips that didn’t know what to do with themselves. My kiss with Forest made every other kiss completely forgettable.

Out by the barn, Steve is adding oil to the tractor. He doesn’t notice me until I’m right next to him.

“Hi, Steve.” I stand next to the tractor, faking interest.

“Hey. I didn’t see you there. What’s up?”

“Um, I hear Jane’s coming for the weekend.”

“Yup. We’re going to camp out.”

“Great. Listen,” I say, glancing up at the house. “I have this, um, new friend that I want to invite over but I don’t think my dad would approve.”

Steve screws the oil cap back on. “Who? That guy whose mom killed Sylvia?”

“Yeah, could you maybe not mention that around him?”

“What about Tomás?”

“Tomás doesn’t have to know who he is. It would only hurt him.”

Steve looks disapproving.

“I know, I know. It’s complicated, okay?”

“Okay. I won’t say anything.” His voice takes on a protective big-brother tone. “Is this guy okay?”

“Yeah.” I look down at my boots and blush.

“Okay. I think I get the picture.”

“Thanks, Steve. I’m thinking about letting you listen to my new CDs.”

“Terrific,” he grumbles.

On my way back up to the house I pass by the open bunkhouse door. I never go in there, but a flash of color gets my attention and I poke my head in. On the little table where I left the lavender, there’s a white candle burning in a glass jar. Next to that is a small photo of Sylvia in a silver frame, smiling and looking radiant in an embroidered white blouse. Silver hoops hang from her earlobes. Her shiny black hair is parted down the middle and pulled back tightly in a traditional style like Frida Kahlo wears her hair in some of her self-portraits. This must be an older photo. I remember that Sylvia’s hair was cut short the day I saw her, the day her life was cut short. I can’t even imagine how Tomás gets through the day if this photo of Sylvia looking very much alive is the first thing he sees when he wakes up. A rosary made of soft pink stones lies coiled next to the photo, arranged carefully so that the crucifix is faceup and touching the frame.

Taped to the wall at the end of the bunkhouse there’s a poster of Cesar Chavez. I recognize him immediately because I studied him in middle school. He was a Mexican American who founded the UFW, the United Farm Workers union, and fought tirelessly for farmworkers’ rights. You can’t live anywhere near the Mission in San Francisco without knowing who he was because they even named a street after him. He’s a hero to all farmworkers, but a lot of people, including my dad, say that all the good that he did has been undone by conservative anti-immigration government. I suddenly feel like I’m intruding so I leave quickly.

Early (even by farm standards) on Friday morning, I say good-bye to my dad and assure him that everything will be taken care of while he’s away. (He’s thoughtfully composed an endless list of things that need attending to.) I tell him that I’ll miss him a lot and resist the urge to shove him into the idling truck, where Steve waits in the driver’s seat to take him to the airport. I even stand in the driveway and make a show of it, waving as Steve pulls onto the road and the old pickup disappears. I’m fifteen years old (nearly sixteen) and I’m almost completely unsupervised until Monday night! Rufus returns from escorting the truck to the road and we walk back to the house together, up the stairs and back to bed for another hour. When Steve gets back I have to do restaurant deliveries with him but Miguel and Tomás have them all packed and ready to go, so I can sleep until five minutes before Steve is due back. Thirty minutes into my hour, the phone rings. I jerk awake and dig for the phone under a pile of dirty clothes.

“Hello?” I try to sound alert in case it’s my dad.

“It’s me.”

“Forest?”

“Yes, how many me’s do you know?”

“What are you doing? It’s early.”

“I know. I couldn’t sleep and then I remembered it was okay to call. It is okay that I called, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” I pull the phone under the quilt with me.

“What are you doing?”

“Um, I’m mending a fence on the back forty.”

“You are?”

“No. We don’t even have a back forty, and if we did, I doubt the phone cord would reach. Actually, I’m in bed.”

“Oh God! I woke a farm girl? Somehow I wasn’t picturing that.”

“It’s okay. I need to get up anyway. The ungrateful chickens need tending to.”

“Wait. Stay where you are. I want to picture you there for a minute.”

“Okay.” I close my eyes and listen to him breathe. I hope he’s not picturing me in a rumpled, oversize T-shirt and saggy boxers, which is what I’m wearing.

“What time can I come over?”

“How about six?”

“I’ll see you then.”

By five o’clock Steve and I are back from doing deliveries. I brought my stack of fresh CDs along and we had a pretty good time getting into all my new tunes. Music is a great motivator and we knocked out the deliveries in record time. By the time Forest is due to arrive I even have the house looking halfway decent, which is better than it’s looked in months. Laundry is in the laundry room, books on the bookshelf, and papers in a neat pile. The compost bowl next to the sink has been emptied and all lingering farm odors have been banished with Telegraph Avenue incense.

The first thing Forest says when he gets out of his beast in the driveway is “Man, I love that farm smell.”

Rufus is annoyed at having his nap interrupted but he gives Forest a proper greeting, sniffing his leg and wagging his tail. Forest pats his head carefully, like someone who’s not around animals much.

“He probably smells L.A. It’s really hard to get rid of that smell.”

“He loves city people. He took to me instantly.”

Jane is in the kitchen boiling baby potatoes fresh out of the ground and chopping dill to make a potato salad. She sees Forest arriving and walks out onto the porch for an introduction, wiping her hands on her jeans. She takes his hand in hers and I probably should have warned him that she has superhuman strength. Luckily she doesn’t hug him. Her hugs can collapse your lungs. Steve has a tent all set up on a small stretch of grass just inside the apricot orchard and he’s built a fire pit out of stones so they can pretend to camp. Jane even brought all the stuff to make s’mores. I introduce Forest to Steve and then I take him on a tour of the place. I’m not sure if he’s even interested but I soon realize that he most definitely is, and he asks a million questions. I can’t believe how little he knows about food, let alone growing food. I walk him over to the fig trees and pluck a ripe fig. I pull it apart with my fingers and give half to him. He puts it in his mouth and his eyes open wide.

“Wow. I’ve never tasted a fig before. It sort of tastes like sweet dirt.”

“I know.” I smile and eat the other half.

By the time we’re finished, he’s tasted most of the food we grow. His hands are black with dirt and his shoes are caked with mud. I’ve explained composting in full detail. It blows his mind that we take all of our weeds and vegetable trimmings and eggshells and coffee grounds and even newspapers and pile them up, and that pile magically turns into the rich soil that we grow the vegetables in. Once he’s got the hang of composting, I explain companion planting (planting a variety of herbs, flowers, and vegetables that attract good pests and repel bad pests from our main crop), and rainwater reservoirs (catching the winter rain in underground tanks to use for summer irrigation). I’m starting to feel like a museum docent. I show him the greenhouse and the barn and the chicken coop and my darkroom, which interests him more than anything. The photo he took of me at the diner is clipped to the clothesline. He looks at it carefully and nods.

“Can I have that?”

“Of course.” I unclip it from the clothesline and hand it to him.

He holds it carefully by the edges with his dirty hands. He looks at it so long that I ask him if he wants me to sign it.

It’s weird how I sometimes resent being here on the farm and living the opposite of the life I’d imagined for myself, but when I show the farm to Forest, an unexpected sense of pride swells in me. I’ve helped create so much of what stands here today and it feels pretty cool right now.

I save the house for last. I’m not sure what he’ll think of it. Surely it looks nothing like the houses he lives in. We walk into the kitchen, which is now filled with the aroma of fresh dill and onions and vinegar. Jane is chopping small red onions and singing along to an old Cat Stevens record she found in my dad’s collection. A glass of red wine sits on the counter next to her. She found the case that Reynaldo left behind for us on his last visit.

Forest strolls from room to room as though the house were a farm museum, one of those places you can visit to see how the early pioneers lived without electricity or running water.

“Wow. This place is so cool,” he says quietly, the floorboards creaking under his feet.

All I can see is that this place could really use a coat of paint.

“Come on. I’ll show you my room.” I lead the way upstairs. I’m not about to waste all the tidying up I did. The sun is dipping and my room is filled with a pre-dusk light that seems to add a certain romance to it. He sits on the iron bed and runs his hand over my quilt.