The Influence (3 page)

Lita had made chicken enchiladas, from a recipe in the cookbook he’d given her. “But it’s not exact,” she warned. “I had to change a few things because we didn’t have all the ingredients. As you might have noticed, out here we can’t just run down to the local supermarket if we need something.”  

“Now that you mention it, where do you get your groceries?” Ross wondered.  

“We make a monthly run over to Willcox for the things that’ll keep,” Dave said, motioning toward the open larder to the right of the refrigerator. “Beans, rice, detergent, what have you. There’s a small grocery store in town for some of the day-to-day stuff, but a lot of things we barter or buy from neighbors.” 

“Or pick up at the farmer’s market,” Lita offered, bringing over a plate of enchiladas. 

“Or pick up at the farmer’s market,” Dave agreed. “We sell there, too.” 

“There might not be as many choices as there are in a big city,” Lita conceded. “But we eat a lot healthier now than I did when I was growing up. A lot more fresh food and homemade items.” She touched her husband’s shoulder, their earlier fight—whatever it was about—obviously over. “It suits us.” 

Ross nodded and bit into the food she’d put in front of him. “Delicious,” he proclaimed, and meant it.  

“Thank you. And thanks for the cookbook.” 

They ate. And talked. About things in general, about nothing in particular. It was nice, pleasant, and time flew by, but eventually they finished eating, and Ross looked through the window at the shack across the yard. The lights were on in the small building, but around it, all was black. It made him feel depressed to realize that this was where he lived now, in what was basically a studio apartment surrounded by a lot of nothing. 

The feeling must have shown on his face, because Lita put her hand on his. “What are you thinking?”  

“To be honest,” Ross said, “I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to take this. I’ve been here for, what, four hours? And already I’m lost. I don’t know what to do with myself.”  

“Culture shock,” she told him. “I felt the same way when I first came here. But you’ll get acclimatized pretty quickly. And once you get used to it, you’ll wonder how you ever ran in the rat race.”  

“Maybe. But right now, I’m looking at a lot of free time.” 

“You can go online, look for work.” 

“That’s a whole hour out of the day.” He leaned forward. “Dave. I was wondering if you have some jobs I could do around this place, something I can help you with. Not for payment,” he added quickly. “But to, you know, pull my weight.”  

“Not really.” 

“Come on. There must be something I can do, some sort of busywork you could give me.” 

“We-l-l-l,” Dave said slowly, “We will be selling at the farmer’s market on Thursday. I’m a little behind on fixing a section of roof on the coop, so you could help out by collecting eggs for me. That’d definitely save me some time.” 

“Done.” Ross paused. “How exactly do you collect eggs?” 

Dave laughed. “I’ll show you tomorrow morning.” 

“Okay.” Another pause. “You ranchers get up at, like, four, don’t you?” 

“Not us. We get up when we get up. I usually eat breakfast, catch up on the news and maybe get out there around eight. ” 

“That’s more my style.” 

“In summer it’s earlier because it gets so hot, but right now…” He shrugged.  

“Perfect.” 

Ross wasn’t a big dessert guy, but Lita had made some sort of lemonade pie in honor of his arrival, so he felt obligated to have a piece. It was delicious, and he told her so, and she explained that the lemons came from one of the trees behind their house. It turned out that, in addition to an extensive garden, she and Dave had several fruit trees on the property: lemons, oranges, apples, persimmons. 

Dinner had stretched to well over an hour, and Ross excused himself, pushing his chair back from the table, not wanting to overstay his welcome. Lita seemed disappointed and asked him to stay, so they could continue to catch up on old times, but he told her that there would be plenty of time for that. Besides, Dave wasn’t asking him to stay, and the last thing Ross wanted was to be a point of contention between them, particularly if he
had
been the source of the argument they’d had before he arrived. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” he said. 

“Goodnight,” Lita told him. “You want me to call you for breakfast?” 

“No, I’ll just make myself some cereal. I can’t be coming over here for every meal.” 

“It’s—” she began. 

“I’m not much for breakfast, anyway.” He nodded toward Dave. “I’ll be up by seven and ready by eight. Should I just come over here or…” He trailed off. 

“I’ll stop by and get you.” 

Ross nodded. “Sounds good. “ He took his leave and waved as he stepped out through the kitchen door, the way he’d come in.  

He’d left a light on in the guest house, but surrounding the structure was nothing but darkness, an inky emptiness that engulfed the world beyond for as far as his perceptions stretched. It made him feel small and uneasy, and that feeling did not abate as he entered the guest house and closed the door behind him, sealing himself in. He thought about watching TV, but there was nothing on, so he IMed a couple of friends and spent the next hour chatting online, describing his first day of exile, before going to bed early, feeling sad and lonely as he fell asleep listening to the clucking of chickens in front of the overwhelming silence of the desert.  

**** 

Ross awoke in the morning feeling better. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had something to do today or because he was already starting to get used to this place, but he was almost cheery as he poured some milk and Raisin Bran into a bowl, and made himself coffee. The television helped, too. Watching the
Today
show, the way he usually did, seeing crowds of people begging for the attention of the weatherman as he walked outside the studio, made Ross feel more connected to the larger world, although when he heard that the next segment was an interview with the Muppets, he shut off the TV. There was nothing more embarrassing than seeing a well-respected reporter who ordinarily questioned heads of state about important world events pretend to interview a puppet, and force himself to laugh at the stock replies issuing from the unseen man working Miss Piggy or Kermit the Frog. 

He brushed his teeth, then opened the drapes. Dave was already carrying a toolbox and ladder toward the chicken coop. Ross opened the door and hurried after him. “I thought you were going to come and get me.” 

“I was. After I took my supplies out, I was going to see if you were up.”  

Ross wasn’t sure he bought that. He had the distinct impression that Dave did not want him along, but there was no overt opposition as he quickly put on his shoes then followed his host over to the coop. 

Dave had already leaned the ladder against the side of the building, had climbed up and was near the top, placing his toolbox on the barely sloping roof. An oversized plastic pail filled with patching materials lay at the foot of the ladder. “Could you hand that up to me?” he called down. 

Ross picked up the pail by its metal handle—it was heavier than it looked—and used both hands to push it to shoulder level, where Dave took it from him. “Thanks.” 

Dave placed the pail on the roof next to the toolbox, then climbed down. “Follow me,” he said. 

The chicken coop was much bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, and the adjoining yard, behind the building, was as big as a baseball diamond. Both were filled with pacing, clucking hens far too numerous to count. 

“How many chickens do you have?” Ross asked. 

“A hundred.” 

“Wow.” 

“It’s not as much as it sounds. We could really do with a hundred more, but we just can’t afford it. The guy I bought the animals from, he has a free-range farm out past Willcox, and he has over five thousand layers. We’d be making a
very
comfortable income if we had that many birds. I’d probably have to hire a man or two to help me out.” He shrugged. “But of course, we don’t.”  

“So what do you want me to do?” Ross asked.  

“Collect eggs.” 

“Okay.” 

“If they were caged, it would be a lot easier,” Dave admitted. “You’d just walk down the aisles and pick the eggs up from the grates. But we don’t believe in that. It’s cruel. Chickens raised that way have no life at all. They can’t even turn around. They’re stuck in the same position for their entire adult life. They’re just egg machines. But as you can see, our chickens have litter to scratch around in, and in the yard here they can get down in the dirt to fluff up dust around their feathers, which, believe it or not, helps control parasites. We also don’t cut off their beaks, although a lot of places do, even so-called ‘organic farms,’ because chickens like to fight. But, so far, we haven’t had any trouble.” 

“So how exactly do I do this?” 

Dave pointed to tubular structures lining the walls. “Those are nesting boxes. That’s where they lay the eggs—for the most part. There are also a couple of other places I’ll show you where you’re likely to find a few. Anyway, you pick up one of these baskets here, get a scoop of feed out of this barrel, throw the feed out, and when the birds go for it, pick up the eggs and put them in the basket. When the basket’s full, bring it over to the house, drop it off, then come back, get another basket and keep on going. 

“We store the eggs in a root cellar next to the toolshed on the other side of the house. It’s kind of a natural refrigerator. Before we put them in there, we clean them, inspect them, carton them, then take them down.” 

“Then you sell them?” 

Dave nodded. “There are standing orders for big customers like the store in town, and they’ll come in throughout the week to pick up their eggs, but a lot of our sales are at the farmer’s market.” He held up his hands in a gesture of completion. “That’s about it.” 

He walked with Ross through the filling of the first basket, but the process was pretty simple, the chickens cooperative, and Ross filled the second basket on his own while Dave worked on the roof of the coop. There was something oddly relaxing about egg collection. A Zen thing, he supposed. Presidents and people in power always made a big show about doing manual labor on their time off: clearing brush, chopping wood. He’d always assumed that was for effect, an effort to show the yokels that they weren’t just pointy-headed intellectuals but deep down were simple, honest hard-working folk like themselves. It had always seemed phony to him, contrived. But having been initiated into the rural experience himself now, he understood how simple, repetitive work could help clear the mind, could offer a welcome respite from the overthinking of modern life. 

For lunch, Lita made them all a frittata with some of the eggs he’d collected and with vegetables from the garden that she’d canned at the end of last season. It was delicious, and he took a plate of leftovers back to his shack, intending to heat them up in the microwave for dinner. 

“I’m glad you came,” Lita said before he left. “I’m glad you’re staying with us.” 

Ross thought about his dwindling bank account, the final unemployment checks coming up, and his condo, which, hopefully, the realtor would be able to rent out or sell. “Me, too,” he said.  

THREE 

Over the next few days, Ross developed a kind of routine. He’d wake early, make himself breakfast, then go out and gather eggs. He was on his own schedule, didn’t need to wait for Dave to invite him or help him, and after one or two hours of collecting, he’d take all the eggs he’d amassed and bring them over to the house, where he’d help Lita clean them, sort them and place them in cartons.  

He didn’t love working with chickens, but he got used to it, and it gave him something to do, even though, at odd times throughout the day, he would have flashbacks to his former life, what he thought of as his
real
life, thinking:
I should be in a staff meeting right now
or
I should be on break, heading to Starbuck’s with Alex
or
I should be mapping out specs for a new flight control system
. It was ridiculous, the 180 his life had undergone, but he did not allow himself to dwell on it for fear of becoming mired in self-pity.  

Following the completion of his “chores,” as he jokingly called them, Ross would have lunch, sometimes by himself in the shack, sometimes with Lita and Dave, and in the afternoon, he’d go online, make phone calls, send out resumes and look for work. Evenings were spent watching TV, playing online games or emailing friends, though he took dinner with his hosts, both because he felt obligated and because Lita was a far better cook than he was.  

On Thursday, they went to the farmer’s market to sell. He set his alarm for five, but Lita and Dave were already up, Lita gluing labels onto the last jars of honey, Dave carefully packing the egg cartons and honey jars into larger boxes along with protective layers of bubble wrap. The market didn’t open until nine, but they were ready to go by six-thirty, and they ate a leisurely breakfast together before counting out money to put in the change box, loading a table and chairs into the back of the pickup, and heading off to town, three abreast in the truck’s small cab. 

After a bumpy uncomfortable ride on obviously shot shocks, they arrived in Magdalena, where the last section of street in front of the church was blocked off with two sawhorses, though that was probably unnecessary since Ross doubted there was much traffic here even on a busy day. Leaning out the window, Dave motioned to a cowboy-hatted septuagenarian standing next to the sawhorse on the right, and the old man pulled it aside to let the pickup through. Dave parked at the far end of the farmer’s market next to a Native American family setting up displays of jewelry and leatherware on a sheet-covered folding table, and the three of them got out of the cab. 

Looking up at the adobe church at the end of the street and at the adobe building behind the pickup truck, Ross felt as though he was no longer in Arizona. He’d been born and raised in the state, but unlike California or New Mexico, which both had heavy Spanish influences, Arizona had always seemed to him very
anglo,
more cowboy-and-Indian than the rest of the Southwest, less Mexican. Magdalena, however, felt like it belonged south of the border. Even its name stood out from those of its more American neighbors: Willcox, Benson, Bisbee, Douglas, Tombstone…
Magdalena
.