Ana of California (3 page)

E
mmett Garber took the usual route. It was his favorite time of day—namely, anytime he found himself alone in the old pickup truck. He rolled down the windows, turned up the music, and accelerated down the farm road.

When Abbie first mentioned the idea of taking on an extra hand, Emmett envisioned an intern from the university up north. Class credit was just as desirable as a wage, he thought, and a young man with farming prospects would be glad of the experience. He'd been college age when his father enlisted his help on the farm.

“The world needs more men in the field,” his father had said. “Nothing more noble than tying yourself to tradition and terrain.”

Emmett had been offered two choices on his eighteenth birthday: life on the farm or time in the military, and he'd chosen the former.

He'd been content enough, if a little lonely. It was the
summer Abbie left the farm that Emmett first noticed Josie, Abbie's childhood best friend. She'd been there all along really. But one night at a bonfire down on the beach with a bunch of other kids, he found himself sitting next to her and realizing they'd never actually had a conversation. Without Abbie around to protest her best friend's dating her older brother, it wasn't long before Josie was once again a permanent fixture around Garber Farm.

Emmett moved out of the farmhouse and into the barn. Farm life took on a different meaning now that he had someone to share it with. He and Josie were married on a windy, cloudy day as the meadowlarks sang. It was a small ceremony, with just a few people in attendance, including Abbie as the slightly bewildered maid of honor. But it was the first time Emmett Garber remembered welcoming the seasons of his future.

“Our future,” he had told Josie. “For what is mine is yours, forever.”

“Forever's a helluva long time, son,” his father had said. “Sometimes
way
too long.”

But an eternity without Josie seemed almost worse. It was easier for Emmett to remember the bitterness of the end, still too painful to remember the warmth of the beginning. Whatever he chose to remember, the circumstances remained the same: he was still here and she was still gone. The farm and Abbie were all that was left.

“What kind of grown man lives alone with his goddamned sister?”

Emmett said this to Neil Young, whom he always envisioned riding shotgun. Neil was a good listener. He didn't always answer, but sometimes he did, so Emmett turned the music up and sailed toward the oncoming shore.

“
A maid
.
A man needs a maid
.”

“Indeed,” Emmett thought to himself.

“
It's hard to make that change . . .
” Neil sang.

“Right again,” Emmett said.

He turned the truck down Roseberry Lane, away from the sandy coastline. He drove past familiar flat green farmland dotted here and there with cottages, errant tractors, and worn dairy silos dwarfed by their redwood neighbors.

The cars began to multiply as he drove closer to civilization, closer to the populated area where learning and logging had lured both the hippie and the money-hungry pioneer. Though most of Emmett's friends had moved away, he was never interested in life outside of Hadley. He'd never seen the point. Everything he'd ever wanted was a stone's skip away from the farm; the wider world never tugged at his chin like it did for Abbie.

Emmett sped up as he approached the airport and parked in front. The small parking lot was surprisingly empty given that there was an incoming flight. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the torn paper with the flight number and name of the kid, whoever he was, whatever he looked like—Abbie hadn't elaborated—to make sure he'd arrived at the appropriate time.

“Cortez,” he read aloud with a shake of his head, wondering if Neil had reached into his pocket and scrawled it himself.

“
Cortez . . . the Killer.
”

 • • • 

A
na sat chewing the skin around her nails. It wasn't as if she'd never been left somewhere before. She chose the most visible seat nearest to the doors of the airport entrance,
reminding herself not to panic, and calmly took in her surroundings.

“So much wood,” she thought of the wall-to-wall paneling. “Like a lumberjack's cabin.”

The airport lobby couldn't have been more different from the vast steel blankness and harried blur of LAX. There was a deer head mounted on one wall, for instance, and only a handful of travelers milling about. One man seemed to be looking for someone in particular, scrutinizing each passenger in turn. He got the attention of the lone security guard, the very same one who had approached Ana earlier with crossed arms and pursed lips.

“I'm looking for a kid, about sixteen, name of Cortez. He was supposed to be in on the flight from L.A.,” Emmett told the security guard, who didn't seem the slightest bit interested.

“Yeah, buddy, that flight's been in for over half an hour.”

“See any teenage boys wandering around?”

“Nope. But there's a girl . . .”

“Boy, Cortez something. My sister didn't give me the last name. Typical.”

“You sure you're not looking for a girl? Because there's a kid been taking up the whole front bank of chairs over there. Says she's working on a farm for the summer, but you and I both know that's code in these parts.”

Emmett looked over at the lone figure sitting near the door. It was most definitely a girl, somewhat diminutive, though hard to tell under the oversize army jacket she was hiding underneath. He continued staring, hoping his eyes were playing tricks. She caught him looking and sat up straighter.

“That's her,” the guard said, pointing in Ana's direction. “Has to be. Seems like trouble if you ask me.”

“Surely this couldn't be my ride,” Ana thought. Mrs. Saucedo said to expect a single woman named Abigail Garber who'd most likely be thrilled to see her, and not this puzzled-looking man. Ana grabbed her backpack and clutched it to her chest.

“Cortez?” the lumberjack said as he ambled over.

“Yeah, I mean, yes, I'm Ana Cortez.”

“Where'd you fly in from?”

“L.A.—the Los Angeles International Airport,” she corrected herself. “Are you Abigail Garber?”

“Do I look like Abigail Garber?”

“Well, I wouldn't want to presume. People have all kinds of crazy names these days. Not that it's a crazy name.”

“You're waiting for Abigail Garber, correct?”

“I am. Sir.”

Ana held her bag tighter. Emmett nodded his head and clenched his teeth, unable to hide his frustration.

“Do you have some sort of paperwork or verification?” he asked.

“I don't have a driver's license if that's what you're asking, but I do have an ID card.”

“No, I mean papers telling me your . . . specifics.”

“No offense,” Ana said, “but I was told by Mrs. Lupe Saucedo from Los Angeles County Support Child Services that I was to wait for an Abigail Garber to pick me up and not to leave with anyone else.”

“I'm Emmett Garber, Abbie's brother.”

“Do
you
have paperwork or verification?”

“This is ridiculous,” Emmett said. “If your name is Cortez and you're waiting for Abigail Garber to take you to Garber Farm, then I'm your ride.”

Ana remained still, her eyes focused and unblinking,
making it difficult for Emmett to hold her gaze. He cleared his throat and pulled a well-worn leather wallet out of his back pocket.

“The mustache is a beard now,” he said, handing over his license.

“I can see that. It's distinguished. Like a regal lumberjack.”

“You think I look like a lumberjack?”

“Honestly, I don't really have a frame of reference.”

“May I?” Emmett reached for Ana's backpack but she held it close.

“If you don't mind, sir, I'd like to hold on to it.”

“Call me Emmett, not sir,” he said, taking back his license and walking toward the doors. “Let's go.”

Ana had no choice but to follow.

 • • • 

T
hey sat in silence as the old Chevy choked its way down the highway. Emmett gripped the wheel and chewed his cheeks. Ana stared out the window. She didn't have the same queasy feeling she'd felt in the past when situations became sticky, but she knew better than to drop her guard. She kept one eye on the towering trees, the other on the driver's reflection in the window. It wasn't as if she didn't know self-defense—with or without the army knife they confiscated back at the airport in L.A.—but she liked reminding herself to remain alert, as if some familiar person was sitting next to her whispering it into her ear.

Emmett shot his hand toward the stereo, then hesitated and placed it back on the wheel. Ana edged closer to the door and slid the hand covertly hiding underneath the backpack on her lap nearer to the latch. The truck was feeling crowded—mentally, at least. Emmett had already made up
his mind back at the airport, but felt it important to reiterate to his brain that the Cortez girl would not be staying. He went over the conversation he'd undoubtedly have with Abbie later. She would be the one to break the news, seeing as how she was the one who got this all wrong in the first place. Until then, he thought it best to keep the journey back to Hadley breezy yet conversationally minimal.

“Music,” Emmett announced, switching the stereo on, thinking that at least with Neil there'd be a third person in the truck.

Tall trees darkened the highway as they wound through the state park. Ana marveled at the roadside restaurants barely glowing with lamplight and the gas stations selling dream catchers and giant chainsaw-carved bears. She inhaled the cool mountain air trickling in through the crack in the window, letting it cool her nerves.

“Dark velvet,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“It looks and smells like dark velvet out there—kind of smooth and earthy yet soft with a hint of something undetectable that'll suffocate you out if you inhale too much. I have a strong nose.”

“Looks like it.”

“Does it? You're not the first person to point that out, but I appreciate your honesty and interest in facial aesthetics. My abuela said my nose is a mark of strength, like María Félix's, and that I'll grow into it one day. I'm not offended or anything; I think some of the greatest faces are marked by a distinguished nose.”

“I meant that it sounds like you have a strong sense of smell.”

“Oh.”

“Who's your abuela?”

“My grandma.”

“I see.”

“She's dead.”

Sunlight zigzagged across the dashboard as the truck crept out of the density of the forest and coasted down the hill into a canyon dotted with pine trees.

“Holy—” Ana exhaled. “This view is insane!”

“Yep.”

“Everything's concrete where I come from. Strip malls, buildings, metal fences, that kind of thing. But this . . . this is unreal. Magnificent even.”

“Mm-hm.”

“But I'm sure you're used to it in a way that makes it harder to see its beauty. Like if you stared out at the same building every day and never noticed the new plant in the window across the street. We become blind to what waves right in front of us sometimes. I'm not suggesting you're blind or anything, it's more that—”

“You're trying to fill the air?”

“Am I talking too much? I'll shut up. It's just, I've never seen anything like this before.”

The truck rattled as the road began to snake in and around the oncoming hills. Emmett turned the music up.

“It's kind of funny you put this on,” Ana continued, raising her voice over the volume. “I mean it's totally apt.”

“What is?” Emmett said, turning it back down again, but only slightly.

“He says he's been to Hollywood and Redwood, then he says, ‘
I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold
 . . .' I didn't cross the ocean, but I did see it for the first time from the airplane.
I've been to Hollywood Boulevard a bunch of times, and now I'm here in the redwoods. Neil's kind of nailin' it right now.”

“You know Neil Young?”

“Not personally or anything, but I met this guy in the library who I'm pretty sure lived there during the day. He was always camped out at one of the music stations and suggested I check out Neil, so I did and started to get into the lyrics. We would talk about bands sometimes—Ronnie, I mean, the guy in the library—or sometimes he'd talk about crazy stuff, like Vietnam, and I'd just listen. This guy had a ton of sensational stories, volumes. Anyway,
Harvest
is way better than
After the Gold Rush
, which we both found to be a little whiny.”

“
After the Gold Rush
is a masterpiece.”

“But it's like Neil's struggling to find air when he's singing, right? Like he's trying to find his voice or something, and there are way too many other voices throwing themselves around. Also? Not enough harmonicas. But if we're singling out songs, ‘Birds' is kind of beautiful if you deafen yourself to the lyrics, which seem maudlin, even for Neil.”

Emmett snorted, or laughed; it was hard to tell.

“You went to the library to listen to Neil Young?”

“I went there because it's quiet, but also for the free music and books. I mean it's a library. That's what you do there.”

“I don't go to libraries.”

“Well, you're missing out.”

“Not really much of a reader.”

“Or a music critic.”

Emmett turned the music back up as the truck rattled along. They descended into a valley lined with dry creek
beds and withered ferns. It reminded Ana of the empty river in L.A., all cracked and concrete with a few weeds that refused to stop growing.