Читать книгу 142 Ostriches - April Davila - Страница 9

TWO

The next morning, I got up early to collect as many eggs as I could before the funeral. Joe Jared had been excited to get my phone call, but until all the details of the sale were worked out, the chores that made up my daily life on the ranch would need to be attended to.

The sky hung heavy with the scent of a coming storm. Rain was a rare and welcome thing in the desert. Soon, the low clouds would open up as if sliced from below with a blade. A deluge would fall for an hour, maybe two, soaking the parched land and setting everything to sparkle. I loved rainy days. Everybody did. Giddy children would dance in the streets with their heads thrown back, and the adults would gather in grateful clusters to agree on how much we needed the water. Nobody owned an umbrella.

Wrestling the wheelbarrow from the barn, I shoved it through the sand to the center of the corral. The metal grate at the base of the elevated grain silo came open with a clunk, and the ostriches all swiveled their heads. The bird feed slid down a metal sluice into the trough below, and the birds gravitated toward their breakfast.

I ducked out of the way, daydreaming about Montana, where I wouldn’t spend my days being pecked at by aggressive birds that outweighed me by two hundred pounds. Up and down my arms, the welts they’d given me held every shade of bruise. I planned to collect the eggs while the ostriches were preoccupied with their meal, hoping to avoid as many nips as possible, but as they rose to their feet, I saw that the nests were all empty. All except one, in which a solitary egg rested on its side.

Confused, I scooped it from the nest. It was warm and had a good weight to it. I scanned the floor of the corral for the distinct white curves of the eggs, but there were none except the one in my hand. I cradled the egg in my arm and walked the full length of the corral, taking in one empty nest after another. The sandy rings looked like little blast marks left in the wake of some bloodless battle.

Over at the feed trough, the birds reached past one another with their long necks to poke at the grain below with quick, deliberate jabs, the way my aunt would check the temperature of a pan by tapping at it. Outwardly, everything was as expected.

From the far end of the corral, I watched as the birds finished eating and drifted away from the empty feed trough, dispersing into the corral. The hens loped to their nests and settled their desert-brown bodies precisely as they did every day. There was nothing unusual about the birds. In fact, once the hens sat down, hiding their empty nests, I almost doubted myself, but the weight of that one single egg told me I wasn’t imagining things.

My thoughts went immediately to the conversation I’d had with Joe Jared the night before. He had been eager to move ahead with the purchase of the ranch, but I had no doubt he would back out of the deal if something was wrong with the ostriches. Not that he cared about the eggs as product. He ran a meat and leather operation, hatching the eggs and raising the chicks for slaughter. But he needed eggs all the same.

Can’t run an ostrich ranch without ostrich eggs.

Still carrying the one egg in the crook of my arm, I took hold of the beak of a nearby female to check for signs of sickness. Her feathers fluffed in protest and she shifted on her nest, but I held firm and she allowed me to pull her face close to inspect for congestion or sticky eyes or anything that might signal a sickness of any kind. There was nothing. I checked one of the males too, but by all outward appearances, they were in perfect health.

I climbed up the feed silo ladder to inspect the grain for rot, thinking maybe the lack of eggs was due to a problem with the birds’ food, but there was nothing wrong there. I even took a sip from their water trough, testing for a bitter taste or funny smell. The water was cool and clean. Of course, I knew there were things I wouldn’t be able to detect, but subtle toxins would take time to do damage. I couldn’t explain the sudden stop of egg production over one night. It didn’t make sense. Nothing appeared amiss. Nothing except the lack of eggs.

I was still trying to figure it out when I saw my aunt’s minivan approaching. I delivered the lone egg to the cold storage unit and hurried inside to change.

At the beep of Aunt Christine’s horn, I emerged in a recently purchased, black cotton sack of a dress that was too tight in the shoulders but mercifully covered the bruises on my arms. I climbed into the passenger seat. Aunt Christine wore an elegant black maternity dress with a satin V-neck. She gave my dirty boots a sideways glance but said nothing.

My cousins sat subdued in the two rows of seats behind me, clad in matching black dresses. The oldest had been a baby when I came to live on the ranch, the center of attention in every room. Then, just as she took her first steps, the second was born, then the third, fourth, and fifth, dividing the family’s adoration until they ceased to be individuals and became simply “the girls.” Five babies seemed like plenty to me, but then, after a gap of several years, Aunt Christine announced that God had seen fit to bless their family once again. Another girl.

My aunt, burdened with the weight of that sixth pregnancy, leaned into the steering wheel with determination. It was a miracle she could even reach the pedals considering how far she’d put her seat back to accommodate her extended middle. She threw the minivan into gear. “After the service,” she said, the van rumbling over the gravel drive, “I need you to collect the photo of your grandma. I had it framed. I’ll collect the flowers and the urn.” Her energy for funeral planning was impressive, but that was what Aunt Christine did. She took care of things. She was good at it.

I gave a worried backward glance at my birds as we drove away from the property, wondering again at the lack of eggs and nursing a hope that the empty nests were a fluke. In the distance, the tips of the mountains scraped a gray ceiling. The minivan zipped along under the somber sky.

Aunt Christine counted off the people she expected to attend the reception at the ranch, grouping them by family. “That’s nine cars,” she said. “I told them all to park against the corral fence so we don’t block anyone in. Hopefully, this rain will hold off until we get everyone inside.” She leaned forward, straining over her belly, to peer up at the sky through the windshield. “I’ve got coffee set to brew, and a couple of the ladies from the church will make sure folks get enough to eat.” She glanced over at me. “All you have to do is smile and be polite.”

“I can be polite,” I said.

On our left, PFX Cement rose up out of the earth with its five industrial silos and three enormous geodesic domes. A twisted tower of massive tubing climbed twice as tall as the silos, surrounded by scaffolding that never came down but somehow managed to appear temporary. My boyfriend worked for the company but had traded in a vacation day to join me at the funeral.

“Devon coming?” Aunt Christine asked, as if reading my thoughts.

I nodded. Devon brought a welcome balance to Aunt Christine’s structured tension. It was comforting to know that he would be at the church.

We came to Sombra and breezed through the only stoplight, continuing on into the expanse of desert surrounding the small town. Eventually the scrappy desert brush and rolling hills gave way to the tract homes and strip malls of Victorville. The sky was holding when we arrived at the High Desert Oasis United Church of Christ, but I could smell water on the wind, feel it on my face and arms.

As we crossed the parking lot toward the massive cement block of a building, I surveyed the collection of cars, wondering if one of them was my mom’s. Last I knew, she had a beat-up black Integra, but that had been eleven years ago. I had no idea anymore what kind of car she drove. We passed a Subaru with a bumper sticker from Redwood National Park. I tried to conjure an image of her camping up near Willits or Ukiah. Seemed unlikely, but no more so than her driving the Ford pickup parked next in line, reporting every day to some respectable job and collecting a steady paycheck.

The truth was, I had no idea who my mom was anymore. After eleven years, how could I? Odds were she hadn’t changed much. She probably still worked nights at some bar and slept all day. Or maybe she’d finally taken those online classes she always talked about and was working as some kind of administrator in an office building in downtown Oakland. A paralegal maybe. We passed a Mercedes and I tried to picture her driving it, her blond dreadlocks wrapped up in a bun on top of her head, but I couldn’t keep a straight face. Then again, none of Grandma Helen’s acquaintances drove such a nice car. I sobered and prepared myself for whoever we might find inside the church.

The double doors facing the parking lot hung open despite the threatening weather. Aunt Christine, the girls, and I followed the center aisle and emerged from under a deep balcony. It was an ugly, cavernous church. I had attended each of my cousins’ baptisms there, and every time I noted the stoic lack of beauty, the aggressive scent of industrial cleaning products that never seemed to dissipate. The place was covered—floor, walls, and ceiling—in an oatmeal-colored fabric. The only natural light floated in through one large, circular window above a stark metal cross. No stained glass, no structural details. I thought how I would joke later with Grandma Helen about how tacky the place was, but then, just as quickly, realized I wouldn’t.

The thirty or so people who had taken the morning off to pay their respects didn’t fill the first two rows of pews. The giant stage could fit three hundred people easy, and I could envision a giant choir singing, arms raised, but on that day it was empty except for a small table covered in white lace. On it rested a wooden urn between a vase of lilies and a framed photo of my grandmother.

I hovered beside Aunt Christine as she greeted friends in hushed voices. A round woman with short curly hair and glasses took my hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. I recognized her but didn’t know her name. She had brought a lasagna out to the house, big enough to feed twelve people. “Thank you,” I said, grateful when another approaching well-wisher, a middle-aged man with a wiry beard, compelled her to move along, sparing me from any small talk. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. I looked past him to scan the faces in the room. None were my mom.

I wondered if I would miss any of these people when I was gone. My aunt was sweet but overbearing about the way she wanted things done. As for the rest of the people gathered there, I hardly knew them: acquaintances of my grandmother, friends of my aunt.

Aunt Christine’s husband, Todd, strode the side aisle of the church with his cell phone pressed to his ear. His stylish blond hair matched the self-assured smile of a guy who was used to people liking him. He lifted his free hand and waved it, as if dismissing a bad idea, and snippets of a contentious negotiation floated over the pews: that’s unacceptable, you call him.

My cousins spotted their Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Michaels, and rushed to wrap her lower half in a hug. In the dim light, her fiery red hair reminded me of a chicken’s comb. With the girls fluttering around her in their black dresses, she could have been a fat Minorca chicken, an appearance only emphasized by her pointy nose and too-small eyes. She reached to take Aunt Christine’s hand in an awkward clasp. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Aunt Christine said, and she agreed when the girls asked if they could sit in the second pew with the chicken lady.

At the very back of the church, under the enormous overhanging balcony, I could barely make out the shaded figure of my uncle Scott. He looked healthier than he had in recent memory. He was clean-shaven and his shaggy brown hair had been cut short.

Uncle Scott and Aunt Christine were not on speaking terms, so it had fallen to me to break the news to him about his mother’s death. When I called, he had told me, unprompted and in a pleading tone, that he had been sober for five months. That was a good run for him—if he wasn’t lying.

The guy in the ill-fitting suit next to him was Matt, Uncle Scott’s best friend and NA sponsor. His hair was pulled up into a topknot and he was scrolling through something on his phone. The icy glow of the screen lit up his goatee. Matt’s hipster affectations were annoying, because really, there was nothing hip about Victorville, but Uncle Scott tended to avoid him when he was high, so the fact that he was there was a good sign.

Aunt Christine stiffened. She had spotted them too.

“Do you think we could—”

“No.” She took her seat and folded her hands in her lap.

It didn’t feel right to make my uncle sit all the way in the last row like an outcast, but the fact that Aunt Christine hadn’t thrown a fit and insisted that he leave was a minor miracle. I decided not to press the issue.

I raised my hand to throw a little wave at my uncle, hoping that Aunt Christine wouldn’t notice. He returned my wave, but I couldn’t see his face well enough to make out his expression. Aunt Christine glanced up at me expectantly. I took my seat.

Devon appeared at the end of the pew. In the three years we’d been dating, I had never seen him in a suit. The smooth gray fabric emphasized his broad build and hid the slight paunch of his beer belly. He smiled when our eyes met and he scooted into the pew next to me. He kissed my cheek. The soapy smell of shaving cream floated around him. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“You’re not.”

He laced his fingers into mine. Devon’s hands were rough from his work at the plant and his fingernails always held thin lines of white cement dust no matter how much he scrubbed. They were strong, reassuring hands. “Thank you for coming,” I whispered.

“Of course.” He lifted my hand to kiss it and my sleeve fell away, displaying the collection of bruises on my arm. He winced.

“Stupid birds.” I pulled the fabric back into place.

“You should hire someone to help out,” he whispered.

“I know,” I said. I had intended to. When I was a kid, still too young to be in the corral, Grandma Helen had a guy who helped out during the summer months. A dark-skinned man with a stern face. I thought his name was Carlos, but when I flipped through Grandma Helen’s address book, there was no one by that name listed. I figured I could probably drive into Victorville and talk to the guys who stood on the corners hoping for work. I had even looked up the word for ostrich in Spanish, to augment my intro-level language skills. Avestruz. That was before I set things in motion with Joe Jared. He would bring his own guys in. All I had to do was keep things running long enough for the sale to go through.

I hadn’t told Devon about selling the ranch. He knew about my job with the Forest Service, of course. It wasn’t a secret. He had supported me through the application process despite his reservations about my being gone for months at a time. We had agreed to see how it went, maintaining our relationship long distance. But now, with Grandma Helen gone, I could hardly expect the birds to take care of themselves while I was away. He probably thought, like everyone else did, that I would give up the Forest Service job and stay on at the ranch. With everything that had been going on the past few days, I hadn’t had a chance to tell him otherwise.

“Devon, I—”

But before I could say any more, Pastor Phillips took the stage wearing a black suit and a plum-colored tie. A portly man with white hair, he walked slowly to take his place at the front of the church. He invited everyone to take their seats, but the small crowd was already sitting, waiting for him like schoolchildren, faces tilting up from the first few pews.

“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered.

Pastor Phillips spoke about finding God’s grace in hard times. He held out his hand toward the small wooden urn and told us Grandma Helen was in a better place. She would have hated the whole thing. She had never understood Aunt Christine’s embrace of religion.

Faith and motherhood were intricately entwined for my aunt. It was as if the nurses, while swaddling her firstborn, had tucked God into that striped hospital blanket right alongside the baby. The Heavenly Father came home with them that day, and religion became a part of their lives as much as sleepless nights and dirty diapers. Over the years, as she brought home each new baby and her collection of striped hospital blankets grew, Aunt Christine became more and more serious about her faith.

It didn’t make sense to Grandma Helen. When pressed, she would say that the desert was her church, the perfect rhythms of nature her hymns, the elegant wisdom of the ecosystem her Bible. She put her trust in the shifting sands that surrounded her and said that if there was a God, he resided in the wind and the moon and the unrivaled yellow of a desert marigold.

I planned to spread Grandma Helen’s ashes in the desert, after all the religious observances. Grandma Helen had said goodbye to her husband in the same way, many years before. I had never known my grandfather, but it was nice to think of them together again, their remains blowing across the great expanse of the desert in swirling gusts of wind. Pastor Phillips carried on, quoting the good word and expounding on God’s love, but my mind returned to the ranch, worrying over that one lone egg.

I shifted in the pew, anxious to be done with the service so I could get home and check for more eggs. Without them, I could forget about selling the ranch. It wouldn’t be worth the barren land it was built on.