Ana of California (9 page)

“Where's Dolly?” Ana asked, attempting to break the silence.

“Up in the barn,” Emmett said, taking a sip from the can.

“I feel like we didn't get properly acquainted.”

“Properly acquainted?” he asked with a snort that wasn't unfriendly. “I'm sure you'll get the chance.”

“Does this mean I can stay another night?” she said, figuring she should double-check, just in case. She'd used this tactic before—getting verbal permission before she knew circumstances might change.

“I told you I'd give you a month. I'm a man of my word,” Emmett said. He was already counting down the days.

They continued staring out over the land, the sound of barking coming from the barn in the distance.

“I used to have a dog,” Ana said.

“Did ya?”

“Her name was Chelo. She wasn't around very long, but she was beautiful—very sweet natured and strong before she got sick.”

“Sounds like a good dog.”

“She was a champion among pups.”

“What breed?” Emmett said, forcing himself to give in to the conversation.

“Pit bull. She had half an ear.”

“That's a shame.”

“I always thought it made her unique. The last time I saw her, though, she had a whole lot less than that. It was a tragic situation. She was sweet even when she was in pain.”

“You were with her then? When she died?”

“No. She was always tied to a fence in the backyard. They took her away one day and then brought her back in terrible shape. I remember I wanted to hold her because she was trembling and crying so much. There was blood.” A tremendous amount
,
she wanted to say, elaborating further on the ghastly mess of a thing that twisted her heart apart every time she thought about it. She remembered how she and Chelo seemed to share their fate quietly, how they would make the most of what they both knew would be very little time together
.
“I snuck outside, and she stopped whining when I got close. She licked me, and I remember trying to hug her around the neck, but someone took her away again, or me, I can't remember. We were always being taken places we didn't want to go. Anyway, she never came back.”

“I'm . . . I'm sorry to hear that.”

Abbie popped her head out of the front door and waved an oven-mitted hand before shutting the door again.

“Tell my sis I'll join you a little later,” Emmett said. He walked down the steps and headed toward the barn.

 • • • 

A
bbie prepared an elaborate dinner to match the morning's breakfast. There was roast chicken, carrot salad, fresh rosemary corn bread, and lavender lemonade. It was the first time in a long time Ana had asked for seconds. After dinner, she checked in with Mrs. Saucedo. It was a brief conversation and not the usual barrage of uncomfortable questions, but she was reminded, yet again, to mind herself. Ana sat in the living room for a moment, taking in the dim light and cozy appeal. She understood why Abbie had come back and never left again.

Before heading upstairs, Ana went into the kitchen to say good night. There was a knock on the back door.

Abbie put her book down and shrugged her shoulders.

“I've got something for Ana,” Emmett mumbled from outside.

Going off Abbie's gesture, Ana opened the back door and saw Emmett standing with Dolly. She anticipated the dog's leaping in her direction, but with Emmett's firm hand holding the leash, Dolly remained still, licking her lips eagerly as Ana walked outside.

“What's up, Dolly?” Ana said. She crouched down and rubbed vigorously behind Dolly's ears as the dog flopped over to one side, exposing her belly.

“Be careful,” Abbie warned from the screen door. “That dog will charm you into submission.”

“Or the other way around,” Emmett said. “Dolly, this is Ana . . . Ana, Dolly.”

Ana shook one of the dog's upside-down paws. “Pleased to meet you.”

Emmett cleared his throat. “There you go. Properly acquainted. Feel free to, uh, to drop by and visit her if you want. See you both in the morning.” He and Dolly walked back across the garden toward the barn.

Ana thanked Abbie for dinner and said good night again, this time waiting for Abbie to respond as if she needed permission to leave the kitchen. She crept upstairs to the small bathroom. There was a claw-footed tub, and she had to turn the knobs several times before figuring out the right temperature and what to press, or in this case pull, to get the shower to work. Not knowing the Garbers' policy, she did as she always had and counted to 120 as she washed, being careful not to use up too much of the soap and water. She couldn't believe she didn't have to share the bathroom with anyone else—a first, she thought. “But don't get used to all this,” she reminded herself.

She tiptoed back to the bedroom and hung what few pieces of clothing she had in the armoire. She peeled back the covers before slipping into the tall bed. The sheets were cool and soft, the whole bed a feathered cloud with room to stretch out on either side. Abbie had left a small glass of water on the nightstand along with a couple of books to read, but Ana propped the notebook she fished out of her backpack on her knees, clearing her mind, and letting her ballpoint pen move across the page.

Not sure where the sketch ended and the dream began, her eyes became heavy as the paper filled with images. Flying dogs, barking birds, a cat-pig, and a Chihuahua-chicken.
Overripe berries twinkling across the sky like stars; their juice raining down upon a tangled garden. Up in the trees, a figure clutched a swaying branch. Her pen traced the shape over and over again. There was no face, just a shadow hidden behind a curtain of
leaves.

I
t was a dark Tuesday morning nearly two weeks later when Ana awoke, got dressed, and headed downstairs, realizing when she got to the kitchen that this routine felt alarmingly normal. She treated the morning like any other, even though it was the one day of the year she always tried to forget. Abbie said hello while standing against the counter reading the latest issue of a farming magazine. Ana fixed herself a bowl of cereal and topped it with milk and a handful of blackberries before heading out to the fields.

The first week spent working the land wasn't what she had expected. She was aware of the hard work, at times backbreaking, especially if she was working on rows of strawberries or pulling and stripping bulbs of garlic. Manny explained the importance of cover crops and had given Ana a lesson on sprouts the day before. Even though she thought “alfalfa” was one of the best words ever, she renamed it
“awfalfa” because, as she explained to Manny, who would ever want to eat plant hair on a sandwich?

Ana began to look forward to the work, however difficult she still found it. What she enjoyed most was the morning waltz through the rows of mysterious fruits and vegetables, quiet but for the crunch of her weight in the dirt.

Her week of work even resulted in a new appreciation for the coworker she deemed “Roly,” who made faces at her when the picking became tiresome. Though they spoke very little, she felt she'd been accepted into the Vic and Rolo duo as a third wheel, mostly ignored but clearly tolerated, the field mouse of the crew.

The workers had changed since her first week. There were the regulars—Rolo, Vic, Joey, and René—but the rest of those reporting to duty had shifted. She wanted to ask a million questions—about where the workers lived and why some never came back—but she kept her mouth shut, even though it pained her.

On days that were difficult, or when she couldn't seem to do anything right, she turned her soft focus further inward, allowing whatever crop she was working on to blossom in her mind's eye, a carnival of twisting roots and branches upon which numerous stories took her to distant universes. She was lost in one such daydream when Emmett approached.

“Cortez,” he said. “I'm going to put you on weed duty for the rest of the morning. Vic and Rolo will finish up here.”

Both men nodded and continued working. Ana stood there holding her gloved hands in the air.

“Just leave the gloves on the ground along with your cans. The guys will take your haul in and have it sorted for you.”

Ana did as she was told. The work shirt tied around her waist and her favorite white Hex T-shirt were covered in dirt and tiny speckles of juice. She followed Emmett back down the path.

“The parsley's a mess,” Emmett said. “I'm going to have you weed it.”

They passed a row of tiny plants shooting up from the ground. They reminded Ana of miniature palm trees only with much more interesting fronds. She had never thought to ask what they were.

“What are these?”

“Kale,” Emmett said, quickening his pace.

“What's that?”

“Kale?” he said, exhaling a little too sharply, as if this were something she should know. “It's a type of brassica.”

“A what?”

“Like broccoli or cauliflower.”

“Oh,” Ana said. “Appetizing.”

“You're from Los Angeles and you've never heard of kale?”

“No. I never saw the ocean until the day I flew here, either. Shocking, isn't it?” Ana reminded herself to control her tone. “My abuela always wanted to take me, and I think my parents might have driven me to Long Beach or something when I was super little, but I don't remember. So how do you eat this stuff?”

“Kale?”

“Yeah, brassica. Much better name if you ask me. Like a forgotten orchestra section.”

“You steam it or sauté it, I guess. You can also eat it raw. Abbie's always going on about how it's full of nutrients—customers love it. You've
never
heard of kale?”

“I've. Never. Heard. Of. Kale.” She enunciated each word for emphasis, and Emmett went silent. Before she gave herself any time to ponder whether or not she was about to be fired for lack of vegetable knowledge, Emmett stopped in front of a long row of thick green bushes.

“You know what parsley is, don't you?” he asked.

“It's the curly green stuff sprinkled on nondescript Italian dishes, only it's kind of inedible.”

“Yes, but we grow flat-leaf parsley, which is the opposite of the curly-leaf kind.” He seemed impatient, Ana noticed, and didn't elaborate in the way Manny did. “Do you know what a weed is?”

“A type of plant . . . ?” Ana asked, not knowing which definition he was referring to and worried she'd choose the one that would get her arrested.

“Yup. It's basically anything you don't want growing in your fields.”

“But it's a plant.”

“Yes, it's a plant, one that inhibits the growth of other plants, so we have to get rid of weeds sometimes. They're taking over our parsley.”

“Even though they're just growing where they want to grow?”

“Yes,” Emmett said.

Ana wondered why anyone would plant parsley in the first place, if it didn't even taste good. She was on the weeds' side, for sure.

“You know what parsley looks like, right?” Emmett continued, somewhere between mystified and frustrated. “It's the opposite of the flat leaves, so pick those and throw them into the middle of the row. The parsley's not ready for
picking until tomorrow morning, right before Abbie heads out to the farmers' market, got it?”

“Pick the weeds, toss them into the middle of the row.”

“Exactly,” Emmett said, nodding his head.

Ana watched him make his way across the fields, and when he was safely out of sight, she kneeled down to take a closer look at the bushes. There were two types of plants growing: some that were longer, flat and narrow, and some that were more in the shape of a four-leaf clover. The longer, narrower ones seemed the flattest, more the opposite of curly, as Emmett suggested. She took a deep breath and wondered if she should double-check with Manny or one of the other workers, but everyone was busily working much farther out in the fields.

So, Ana made an educated guess. She began pulling the clover-looking plants because they were wilder and more abundant, “taking over,” as Emmett had said. She accidentally snapped a few off at the center of their stems, not realizing you had to grip from closer to the bottom. Once she got the hang of it, she worked fast and efficiently, getting lost in the pulling and throwing of weeds, finding joy in the tossing of them all over the middle of the row. She imagined the praise she'd get from Manny, who would then tell Emmett—in front of everyone else—and how maybe she'd get a nod of respect. She envisioned Vic and Rolo high-fiving her and René giving her a gentle bow. She became so lost in the work she didn't notice the bell ringing out across the fields. The workers began gathering at the packing truck for lunch. She continued picking, wanting to prove her enthusiasm to Manny, who walked toward her through the rows of kale.

“Ana!” he said cheerfully. “Working hard! Let's take a look—”

He stopped abruptly. Ana watched as horrified alarm swept across his face.

“Did Emmett tell you to do this?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, her heart pounding. “He said to pick the weeds and leave the parsley. He said to leave the flat ones intact.”

“
Ay-ay-ay
,” he said, exhaling, shaking his head. “Did Emmett tell you which was which?”

“Well, he said your parsley was the opposite of curly parsley, that it was flat, and that the weeds were everywhere. So I left the long flat ones and picked the other ones, which seemed to be the plants that were taking over.”

Manny shook his head and cupped his hand over his mouth, keeping his eyes locked on the piles of green resting in the dirt.

“I picked the wrong ones.”

“Yes,
mija
.”

Ana didn't know what to say. She wanted to cry but told herself not to. The thought of disappointing Manny, let alone Emmett, again made her want to turn around and sprint into the forest to embrace whatever dark fate was surely waiting for her. They both looked up, not realizing Emmett was standing behind them.

“What is this?” he said.

“It's not her fault,” Manny said, remaining calm and giving Ana a look that implored her not to say anything. “She didn't know, okay? She thought she was picking the weeds.”

“But I explained everything to you,” Emmett said. “How could you not understand?”

Ana looked from one man to the other. “I guess I don't really know what flat-leaf parsley looks like?”

“But I was standing right here,” Emmett said, exasperated. “You could have asked me to show you.”

“You didn't ask me if I had any questions.”

Emmett took off his baseball cap, squeezed it in his hand, and put it back on again. He looked down at the pile of parsley and then over to Manny.

“I, I'm really sorry,” Ana said. “I thought I was doing it correctly. And, to be fair, I didn't completely understand your instructions.” She looked over at the trees and picked a spot to run to.

“I should have checked on her sooner,” Manny said. “It's my fault.”

They stood there for a long, quiet moment, the sounds of the workers conversing across the fields in the background. Emmett bent down and picked up a small bunch of parsley. He handed it to Ana.

“Smell that,” he said.

Ana put the leaves up to her nose and took a deep breath.

“What does it smell like?” he asked her.

“Um. Kind of fresh? A little bit like pepper.”

“Okay, rip off a leaf and give it a chew.”

Ana looked up at him and wondered if this was her punishment, but Manny nodded. She tore a small leaf from a flimsy stem and put it in her mouth.

“What does it taste like?” Emmett asked.

“It tastes like what it smells like,” she answered, then swallowed. “Sharp and pungent, but not in a bad way.”

“The next time we ask you to weed the parsley and you're confused, rip off a leaf, smell it, and taste it.”

“Yes, sir.” She looked from one to the other. “Am I going to be fired? I completely understand if that's unavoidable. I deserve the punishment even though the instructions weren't explicitly delivered.” She looked up at Manny, who shook his head while staring at the ground.

“Manny, let's gather all this up and take it to the boys.”

“No problem,” Manny said, scooping a portion of the picked parsley into his arms. He gave Ana an encouraging smile on his way to the truck.

“I screwed up big time,” Ana said, but Emmett didn't answer.

In truth, his mind was elsewhere, specifically on the thought of Josie, the anniversary of her departure looming. He knew he should have given a better explanation of what to do, going so far as to pick a few weeds himself, but he resisted an apology. He wasn't keeping Ana for much longer anyway, he reminded himself.

“Why don't you grab lunch and head on in with Abbie,” he said.

Ana watched as he walked away.

 • • • 

“W
hat's the deal with compost anyway?” Ana asked Abbie on their drive into town.

“I mean, I get that it's good for the soil or whatever, but worms?” Ana continued. “However full of protein Manny says they are, they're disgusting. My abuela sometimes ate grasshoppers, and I won't even get into what she did to cow's tongue, but ‘learning from worms' makes no sense to me.”

“Emmett's methods don't always make sense, but he's teaching you for a reason.”

“The reason is punishment.”

They passed a few modest brick homes and small bungalows before slowing to the curb and coming to a stop at the bottom of a sloping green lawn. Abbie turned the ignition off and they both sat there looking out of the passenger-side window.

“Monarch Mansion,” Abbie said with a cluck of the tongue. “Pretty nuts, right?”

If there was any home in all of Hadley that was the antithesis of Garber Farm, it was Monarch Mansion. Though elaborate Victorian mansions were common around Hadley, Monarch Mansion was in a class of its own. There was no mistaking the theme. Painted in alternating shades of warm yellow and burnt orange, it was covered from top to bottom in anything and everything related to butterflies. There were stained glass butterfly scenes in the windows and butterfly carvings in the railings of the stairs leading up to the front porch. Rocking chairs, painted in shades of pale pink and electric blue, flanked the entrance, along with butterfly-shaped pots planted, of course, with flowers to attract the real things. The wooden sign, swinging ever so lightly in the breeze, advertised the property, in looping cursive, as An Award-Winning Bed and Breakfast. In slightly larger letters underneath, it read
PROPRIETOR
:
MINERVA
F
.
SHAW
.

“I think we passed this on my first day,” Ana said, “but I don't remember its being so . . .”

“Ridiculous?”

“I was going to say ‘insane,' but in sort of a glorious way.”

“Wait until you see inside.”

Ana jumped out of the van, smoothed her T-shirt and jeans, and tightened the work shirt around her waist. She pulled her hair out of the ponytail, letting it fall loose around
her face. They wound their way up the pebble path, passing an ornate gazebo as they ascended the steps to the front doors of the mansion. Abbie threw open the doors as if she owned the place.

“Minerva!” she called into an empty entrance room awash in floral wallpaper that enveloped a grand staircase leading up to what Ana imagined were the guest rooms. They peeked into a sitting room, also empty, but filled with antiques. A framed photograph of a balding man wearing a loud bow tie sat atop a piano in the corner. Ana followed Abbie through a larger living room crowded with couches, butterfly paintings, and windows with heavy drapes. There was a connecting formal dining room, its enormous wooden table laden with flowers and candles, and just beyond it a smaller breakfast room just outside the kitchen, where, framed in the doorway, a peacock in heels leaned against the counter smoking the longest cigarette Ana had ever seen.