Читать книгу Accidentals - Susan M. Gaines - Страница 8

1

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the birds that day. No harbingers of apocalypse. No heralds of a new age. The last summer of the millennium was fading, and the fall migrants were en route to their summer homes as if nothing were amiss, the lagoon peppered with a seasonal medley of ducks. American Wigeon, Ruddy Duck, Surf Scoter, Bufflehead, the names ticked through my head like a familiar, comforting litany. It seemed a bit early for Buffleheads, but there were dozens of them bobbing about like bathtub toys, their heads flashing white in the late afternoon sun.

I’d driven north to spend the weekend with Mom, and she’d asked me to take her birding. This was not something we were in the habit of doing together, and I should have known she had some ulterior motive, especially when I saw what an elaborate picnic she’d prepared. But I was a little slow on the uptake, if not the entirely oblivious hijo sonámbulo she’d accused me of being as a teenager, her sleepwalking son.

I took her to a spot in Point Reyes that my grandfather used to like, a place I hadn’t been back to since he died. It was one of those rare days when the Northern California coast was simultaneously free of wind and fog, and it felt good just to be away from the city and my tedious cubicle job. The place was more crowded than I remembered, with groups of hikers scattered along the trail around the lagoon. I paused to scan the water through the binoculars, reeling off species names for Mom, who was, predictably, uninterested. She wasn’t a birder, never had been. Neither was Dad, for that matter, though I learned everything I knew about birds from his father when I was a little boy. It was one of those things that skipped a generation, like the unruly Uruguayan eyebrows on the other side of the family, which had passed Mom by and landed, thick, black, and incongruous on my fair, freckled face. Grandpa Gordon took me tromping all over California, from the Sierra backcountry to the LA city dump, in search of birds. Birdwatching had been his passion, his lifelong obsession, and he’d died birding in Tuolumne Meadows, collapsed with a heart attack, binoculars in hand. That was over a year ago, just before I graduated college, but it was only recently that I’d really begun to miss him. I wasn’t obsessed like he’d been, but I did have the birder gene, somewhat diluted. It was more habit than anything, something I’d been born to. You went for a walk, you looked for birds. You went kayaking, you looked for birds. You went camping, or fishing, or climbed a mountain—you looked for birds.

“I’m going back,” Mom announced, ignoring my recitations.

“Already?” I scanned the dunes at the far end of the lagoon, focusing on a late-nesting Snowy Plover. I never would have spotted it from so far away, but there was a sign announcing its presence and a group of people staring at it through binoculars. Apparently, Snowy Plovers had been elevated to endangered species status since I was last here. Poor unassuming little peeps spent their lives trying to avoid notice and now here they were, the center of attention, like a display in a museum.

“Already?” Mom echoed me. “Hace más de treinta años. Thirty-one, actually. Summer 1968.”

I lowered the binoculars and turned to Mom. “What are you talking about?”

Objectively speaking, my mother was unremarkable looking—short graying brown hair, olive skin, features that were a bit too large for her face. Thin, wiry body. Average height. But to her friends and students and colleagues, she was a beautiful alien species, blazing with manic energy and intelligence, like a comet streaking across their suburban sky. She could also explode, of course, or more likely implode, but Dad and I were the only ones who ever saw that. When I was small, she’d gone to a shrink a few times at Dad’s behest, but I think the shrink just ended up joining her ranks of charmed friends. At the moment, she had a bemused expression on her face and was quietly watching a phalarope feeding in the shallow water a few yards from shore, the binoculars hanging unused around her neck. “I’m going back to Uruguay,” she said.

“Oh.” When I was growing up, we’d gone to Uruguay to see her family every other Christmas, the way other families went to Iowa or New York, except we got summer and beaches instead of snow. I’d stopped going when I started college, but she and Dad had gone together until a couple years ago. “That’s a Wilson’s Phalarope,” I added. “In case you’re wondering.”

She shot me a look, and smiled. “I’m wondering why she does these pirouettes.”

“He. It’s a male. He’s stirring up the crabs and bugs from the mud.” I watched the phalarope spinning and dipping like a drunken ballerina. “What about Dad?” They still saw each other, after all. I even suspected they slept together now and then, though I wasn’t supposed to know this. Dad used to love to go to Uruguay. And Mom’s mother doted on him.

“Tu papá,” she sighed. “Tu papá se achanchó.”

Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Dad had turned into a contented pig? A stick in the mud? I lifted the binoculars to watch a grebe that had just popped up from an underwater fishing excursion in the middle of a flock of scoters. “Horned Grebe with very large fish,” I announced. It was having a hard time getting the fish down its gullet, bouncing along the surface of the water with the tail hanging out its mouth. I glanced at Mom to see if she was watching, but she was still staring at the phalarope, missing the show.

They used to fight all the time when I was a kid, or rather, Mom fought and Dad listened implacably, mumbling the occasional platitude, which only drove her into worse frenzies. Her threats to leave him had been their marriage’s refrain, cries of wolf that echoed unheeded through the caverns of my otherwise happy childhood—until the wolf arrived in truth, two years ago. I was already in college, but it caught poor Dad unawares. He thought they’d come safely round the bend to middle age and were home free. Mom, of course, had her own version.

“All your father cares about anymore is that stupid job,” she said as I watched the grebe come to terms with its fish. “This American dream bullshit. What is that? Three cars and a big house with three bathrooms in a neighborhood with streets that don’t go anywhere. Comfort. Striving for comfort that you already have.”

She always sounded ridiculous when she cussed in English. With her perennial mispronunciation of “shit” as “sheet,” she sounded like a cartoon caricature of the Latino bandit, likening the American dream to something a bull might sleep on, rather than a large pile of crap. “Dad has one car,” I said. “A Honda.” We’d never lived in an especially big house or had three bathrooms either, but I let it go.

We walked a little farther along the edge of the lagoon, and then headed up to the top of a grassy knoll for our picnic. Mom’s rants against American materialism and suburbs were all pretty familiar. But I’d never heard her talk about Dad with such disdain before. He wrote computer software for chemists, made a good middle-class salary. I knew it wasn’t the money itself that bothered her, but the idea that Dad took the job seriously, when, like my job in Oakland, it seemed to have no worthwhile purpose besides the accrual of money. Dad called this practical. He strove for comfort, got it, and was content. What was so wrong with that? He ate well, worked, tossed a baseball with his son and took him camping and fishing in the summer. He read books and went to movies and the occasional play or concert, usually by some gray-haired seventies rock band. Normal stuff.

I watched Mom extract containers of food from the knapsacks, setting them out on the faded red bedspread she’d brought for us to sit on. She’d made pascualina, the chard and egg pie she only made for special occasions. Slices of homemade bread and ham, tomatoes and sweet peppers from her garden. All my favorites. “Dad cares about you,” I said, finally. “And me.”

She looked up, surprised. “Ay Gabrielito,” she said quickly, laying her hand on my arm as if to stop the thoughts she’d let loose. “Of course he cares about you, bichito. He’s a great father, a dear, dear man.”

She’d overstepped her own boundaries, I realized then, boundaries I hadn’t, until that moment, been conscious of. She’d always been sarcastic with Dad, sometimes to the point of downright meanness. But she had never, not in any of their worst moments, the myriad almost-divorces that punctuated my childhood, said anything disrespectful about my father to me, or to anyone else that I knew of. He was an irreproachably decent man, and she knew it, for all that she’d spent half a lifetime reproaching him. I half-shrugged, half-nodded, acknowledging what was, apparently, an apology.

“This is about me, Gabe. And your father never dared to scratch the surface of that.” She placed squares of pascualina on plastic plates and handed me the one with the whole egg in the middle. “I can’t stand this big monster country anymore.”

She said this with such pronounced bitterness that I looked up from the tomatoes I was about to load onto my plate. I suddenly had the uneasy feeling that I’d been humming along to the wrong tune all afternoon.

“I’m going back,” Mom said when she saw the confused look on my face. “Para siempre, a vivir. Al paisito.”

I stared at her. “To live? You’re moving to Montevideo?”

“End of September. Thirty-four days, to be exact.”

My mother had lived in California for thirty years. She was a naturalized citizen who voted in every American election and grumbled when she listened to American news. She had a gringo ex-husband—or yanqui, as the Uruguayans say—and a thoroughly yanqui son. She spoke English with a vocabulary that was more sophisticated than that of your average American. Oh, she clung to her Spanish accent, along with a few nostalgic affectations like drinking mate instead of coffee for breakfast, and she still scrambled up the slang. But according to her mother in Montevideo, she also spoke Spanish with an American accent. If leaving Dad had been a not-so-surprising surprise, moving back to Uruguay was a total non sequitur. “Mom?” I said. “Don’t you think this is a little sudden?”

“Oh no. I’ve been thinking about it for the past ten years.”

This was news. She’d just moved and taken a new job, teaching her favorite courses at what was reputedly one of the best junior colleges in the state—a full-time faculty member, after decades of working as a part-time adjunct. She’d left Dad with most of their communal belongings and her rented house was no bigger than a cottage, but she’d wanted it that way, or so she said. She’d fixed the place up, hung things on the walls, even framed the bird drawings she’d salvaged from a calendar I made when I was twelve, a bird for every month. Evidence of the garden she’d built up in the cottage’s backyard was on my plate—the homely chard, the unusual multicolored tomatoes and peppers she liked to grow.

“My father is dead,” Mom said, closing her mouth around the words, as if to establish their finality. “And Mamá isn’t getting any younger. I want to look after her in her old age.”

It was hard to imagine Mom or anyone else “looking after” my aloof, independent abuela, who’d been living alone since my first memories and probably a lot longer. Mom’s father had left the family when she was a kid, and he’d never been much in evidence when we visited. I vaguely remembered him as a pair of thick black glasses and wild white eyebrows, an older, more stilted version of my uncle Juan Luis. I knew he’d died earlier that year, but he was over ninety and it hadn’t seemed like such a grand event, not like when Grandpa Gordon died. Mom hadn’t even gone to Uruguay for the funeral.

“What about your job?” I asked.

“Puf.” She made one of those little sounds that could still mark her as Uruguayan, dismissing twenty years of dedicated teaching, a long list of awards, and generations of grateful students with this little blast of air and a flick of her hand. “I already resigned.” According to Mom, teaching at the junior college had been her concession to motherhood—she had a master’s degree in biology and would have gone on for a PhD if it weren’t for me—but she was, by all reports, exceptionally good at it. Teaching, that is.

I refilled my plate with ham and bread and pascualina. This was Mom’s weird idea of a goodbye dinner, I realized, her adiós to the monster country. Adiós to California and the great Pacific. To her yanqui son. I watched a wave rise and crash into a wall of frothing white almost as high as our knoll. The bank of fog on the horizon was already tinted with the oranges and reds of the approaching sunset, and it was the time of day when everyone was out looking for something to eat—a pelican dive-bombing the fish beyond the surf, a White-tailed Kite hovering like an elegant white moth above the bluffs to the south, a Marsh Hawk on cruise patrol beneath it, shorebirds dabbing at the wet sand of the lagoon’s tidal flats. We’re nature’s guests in paradise, Grandpa used to say, and when I was a kid, watching a swarm of phalaropes descend on Mono Lake or creeping across these very dunes and competing for how many sand-speckled Snowy Plover eggs we could spot, I had believed him. But what had looked vast and immutable when I was small seemed diminished and doomed to me now, hemmed in and outmoded, Grandpa’s paradise as quaint and irrelevant as a Renaissance painting in a postmodern art exhibit. “What are you going to do down there?” I said, turning back to Mom.

She smiled and perked up, as if this were the question she’d been waiting for. “I’m going to grow vegetables! A real farm!”

This was the punch line? “You grow vegetables here,” I said. “Remember? The biggest, sweetest, juiciest chocolate peppers in Northern California.” I held out a thick slice of brown pepper, but she waved it aside, and I ate it myself. When I was little, she’d brainwashed me into thinking they really tasted like chocolate. I’d even painted a picture of them in the third grade, an ode to chocolate peppers in chalky brown tempera paint with “Hershey’s Peppers” inscribed across the top.

“You remember my father’s estancia? We went out there once, but you were pretty little.”

I shook my head. “I thought he was an architect. I didn’t even know he had a ranch.”

“Oh yes. Really just a chacra, but Papá was pretentious, called it una estancia. It was managed by a couple of paisanos and their families. Three horses, a pony, and some cattle. We used to spend the summers there with all our friends.”

I ate the rest of the peppers and started packing the empty food containers into the knapsacks while she went on about the estancia and the pony her father had given her. I was used to her being nostalgic about Uruguay. And I was used to her complaining about the monster country and its politics, the yanqui this and yanqui that. But these had been separate activities, two independent states of Mom—it never occurred to me that they had a common denominator, let alone that they might add up to action.

“That land now belongs to me and your tíos,” Mom said as we folded the blanket. “And it’s just sitting there, abandoned. Juan Luis is too busy to do anything with it, and he’d never get Elsa to live out there. Rubén is in Venezuela, too buried in problems with Mariela to think about anything else. Mamá thinks we should sell it, but it’s not worth much of anything. Three hundred hectares, Gabe. Good soil, plenty of water—and in Uruguay, it’s not worth anything. We should be farming places like that, but all they can think about is cattle.”

I watched her stuff the bedspread into the knapsack. She was wired, energized, about to launch off our knoll and fly south with the millennium’s last migrant birds.

“I’ve been talking to Juan Luis and Rubén,” she said. “Papá left us a little money, and I want to invest my part in the estancia. I’ve got some savings here. We don’t need that much, to get things started.”

“You’re out of your mind.” I turned away and cupped my hands around my mouth like a megaphone. “Forty-nine-year-old American housewife has midlife crisis!” I announced to the ducks and shorebirds below us. Mom hated being called a housewife, even though she had, in fact, managed our household and done most of the cooking and cleaning when I was growing up. I spun around to address the Marsh Hawk that was cruising our way. “Biology teacher reincarnated as Uruguayan peasant!”

“Uruguay is reinventing itself,” she went on, ignoring my goading. “Everyone complains that we’re too small, that we don’t stand a chance, but it just takes a little imagination. El paisito is finally moving on, Gabe, starting over. And I want to be part of that.”

We started down the steep side of the knoll, toward the far end of the lagoon, where there weren’t as many people. I knew this place like I knew the inside of the house I’d grown up in. Maybe that was why it no longer impressed me.

“When you vote in el paisito,” Mom said behind me, “you know it matters.”

Theoretically, I could have been an Uruguayan citizen—I’d been born by chance in Montevideo when Mom was visiting and started labor too early. But I’d never lived there, hadn’t even been to visit since I was sixteen. My memories were limited: Abuela’s dark house with the grape arbor in the backyard, kicking a soccer ball around on the beach, eating massive amounts of meat and dulce de leche and bizcochos and the best ice cream in the world. It was a place for vacation.

“It’s a dream,” Mom said wistfully as we came to the bottom of the knoll. “Going home, farming that land.”

It was a dream I’d never heard about before, a home I’d never thought of as her home, and a ridiculously prosaic undertaking for a midlife crisis, or so it seemed to me. I guess Dad and I had taken her gardens for granted.

I led her out to the edge of the lagoon’s tidal flats and knelt in the sand, quietly surveying the scene. Red Knot, Long-Billed Curlew, all three species of peep. Spotted Sandpipers. A flock of dowitchers were peppered around the mudflat like little oil derricks, their long bills probing for treasure. Grandpa’s paradise might seem diminished and passé to me, but it was still a five-star hotel for migrating shorebirds. They came from the east, from the Sierras or the Great Plains, and stayed for the winter; or they came from Canada and Alaska, fueled up on California cuisine, and continued south into Mexico, Central America, and beyond … to Uruguay? No one went to Uruguay.

“Gabriel …” Mom drawled, riding the Spanish accent on the last syllable like a hawk on an updraft, leaving my name to linger in the evening air. She had squatted down next to me in the sand, and she was watching me so closely I wanted to scurry away and disappear in the dunes with the besieged Snowy Plovers. “¿Por qué no venís conmigo? Just for a few months. Visit the family. Stay through Christmas and help me get the farm started.”

I had the sensation that she’d been reading my mind before I’d even read it myself, a feeling I used to get when I was small: I’d be certain she was ignoring me completely, so self-absorbed and trapped by her own torments that she’d forgotten I existed, and then out of the blue she’d start up a conversation about whatever weird thing I had been thinking or dreaming about.

“You don’t care about that job you’re doing,” she said. “Las bobitas you’ve been going out with. Esa naba—”

“Mom. Nicole was a pre-med student. Not exactly a dumb turnip. Not even a dumb blond.” Nicole was the only one of my college girlfriends Mom had met, but she’d already decided in high school that my taste in women was problematic.

“Are you still seeing her?”

I shrugged. We’d split up over a year ago, when I graduated. Since then, I’d slept a few times with a girl I met kayaking and had an on-and-off affair with an older woman at work, but nothing to tell Mom about.

“Seriously Gabe, why not make the trip with me? You have more money in the bank than you know what to do with anyway.” She laughed abruptly, and a Willet that was feeding nearby took off in an indignant flash of black and white. “You can subsidize my farm operation! Just think, Gabe, your first venture capitalist investment! In Uruguay!”

“Sure, Mom, great idea. We’ll be millionaires in no time.” It was the first snide remark she’d made about my job at Envirorep. In fact, she’d been disconcertingly supportive, almost like a normal mother. She’d even helped me buy clothes when, two months after graduating with a useless degree in geography and no more idea what I wanted to do than I had when I finished high school, I landed a job that paid more than she made at the JC.

“You haven’t seen the family in years. Mamá was asking about you. Juan and Elsa will be thrilled. Maybe Rubén will even come from Venezuela for Christmas.”

I thought about that, and about the job. I spent eight hours a day sitting in front of a computer analyzing geographic information systems data. It was simultaneously challenging, boring, and pointless—a deadly combination. But it did pay well. And they liked me there, treated me like a rising star. The seduction of positive feedback.

“You’ll like the estancia,” Mom said. I hadn’t even looked at her, but she knew she was getting to me. “It’ll be spring, summer. If you don’t want to help with the farm, you can go exploring. Borrow a horse, or go hiking and birding.”

I knew nothing about the Uruguayan countryside, except that it wasn’t very populated, which sounded appealing. Mom was right, I had a lot of money in the bank. I could even travel if I wanted. I thought about what she’d said about Dad, the disrespect that had escaped her marginally maternal vigilance. I loved my father, I respected him. And yet, I wasn’t unaffected by Mom’s disdain for the normal successes and goals of life. It was part of my inheritance, after all, bound to breed confusion and discontent.

“I can’t bear to see you so cynical. You’re too young for that.”

“I’m not cynical. The world is cynical.” I was twenty-three years old, convinced that nature was fading with the millennium and I’d been born too close to the end—but I didn’t think I was really cynical. Disaffected, perhaps. Ambivalent.

“Gabe. That job—”

“Yeah, okay. The job is cynical.” The goal of the so-called environmental consulting firm I worked for was to keep its big industrial clients out of court and save them money. Period.

I pressed the binoculars to my eyes. Marbled Godwits, Dunlin, Semipalmated Plover, Yellowlegs, a jumble of juveniles and molting adults in every conceivable stage of plumage. Somehow they all knew where to go for the winter, how to find sustenance, when to find a mate, how to raise their young. I’d read that migration was part learned, part genetic, and yet even now, with climates changing and their habitats disappearing at apocalyptic speed—even now, when you’d think they’d be just as confused as the rest of us—they all seemed to know what they should be doing.

“Uruguay te hará bien,” Mom said, as if I’d agreed to go. “It’s a place you can get your mind around. The perfect antidote for end-of-millennium post-adolescent angst.” She reached over to brush the hair back from my forehead, a triumphant smile breaking across her face.

I backed away from the caress and stood up, annoyed. “It’s your middle-aged angst that needs an antidote,” I said. “This is your midlife crisis we’re talking about, thank you.” As if Uruguay mattered. As if cynicism or ambivalence or whatever it was that infected me had a stamp that said “Made in USA,” or, for that matter, “Made in China” or “Feito no Brasil,” as if it weren’t just another transnational product, without label, without recourse, sin patria. “I’m just going along for the ride,” I said. “If I go.”