All Over Creation (28 page)

“She's forgetting the names,” he said. “If no one knows what they are, and if no one plants them, the seeds and their stories will die.”

“But what about Lloyd?” Cass asked. “Can't he remember?”

Y spoke up then. “Well, that's the drag, you see. Lloyd's mind is okay”— he glanced up toward the stairs—“it's his body. Between his colon and his heart, I don't think he'll last out the growing season.”

So I capitulated, with the provision that the Seeds divest themselves of illegal substances while on the property and refrain from political agitation within the county line. The children were happy, and, watching them, I started to feel an overwhelming sense of relief as well. Charmey said she would help with the cooking. Y and Lilith would see to Lloyd's needs. Geek and Frankie would work with Momoko in the garden, first cataloging, then planting, and finally with the harvest. It seemed too good to be true. My mind slid over the inevitable, and I focused on short-term possibilities. If this worked out, maybe I could leave, take the kids back to Hawaii, as long as I came back at the end, to wrap things up. After dinner I lit a cigarette and walked outside into the garden.

It was a clear night and cold. On the far edge of the field the greenhouse glowed like a large, faceted lantern. I wandered over, thinking that maybe Momoko had left the lights on. Instead I found Geek, inspecting an elaborate web of narrow hoses. He looked up when he heard me.

“Come in,” he said. “Close the door.”

It was warm inside, and the humid air and scent of peat hit me full on. “Oh! It feels like Hawaii!”

“You've never been inside here?”

“No. I thought it was all closed up and everything was dead.”

I walked down the aisle between the benches. Plants lined the shelves, their branches, leaves, flowers, and tendrils all spilling and twining, green and lively. I reached out and stroked a fern. It had been months since I'd seen anything grow.

“It's nice here,” Geek said, unclogging a miniature tap and blowing air through it. “You think anyone would mind if I brought a hammock and slept out here?”

“Ask Momoko. I don't mind.”

“It gets kind of crowded in the Spudnik, with two couples.”

“It's wet in here, though.” A drop of condensation formed and fell from the glass pane onto my head. “You could make a tent out of a tarp.”

“A tent and a hammock,” he said. “And a corner bar that serves smart blue drinks with little umbrellas. You could join me in the afternoon for tropical cocktails.”

It sounded nice. “The kids miss Hawaii.”

“You do, too.”

“Yup. I hate it here.” I walked along the rows of seedlings, running my finger across their feathery tops. He didn't say anything and the quiet made me want to talk. “I ran away when I was fourteen. This is my first time back.”

He lowered the hoses to the workbench. “But you've seen your parents in the interim?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“That's pretty intense.” He picked up a plastic connector and fitted it back into the end of a hose. “I won't ask why you left. But why come back?”

“Beats me. I guess I felt the kids should meet their grandparents. They've all got different fathers, and I wanted them to know they shared something other than just me. But mainly I was curious. I'm thirty-nine. You get that way.”

“Great,” he said. “That gives me something to look forward to.”

“What, like in the next decade?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “More or less.”

I watched him work, cleaning out the valves with a sharp piece of wire. I felt old and cranky. “So are you guys really planning to stick around here and help with the seeds, or was that little speech of yours more or less bullshit?”

He looked up quizzically. “Why do you doubt us?”

“Hey. Life on the road, man. Just one big flow, right? All I want to know is, are you going to flow on out of here or can I count on you?”

“Sure,” he said. He pushed his glasses up with the back of his hand. “Listen, I'll make a deal with you. We'll stick around as long as you do.”

“Great.” It was not exactly what I wanted to hear. “You better set up that bar and get those blue drinks coming quick. I'm going to need them.”

He held up the web of hosing and grinned. “I'm working on it.”

“You have two choices for accommodations,” Jillie said. “The Liberty Motel or the Falls Motel.”

Elliot looked up from the computer. Jillian was perched on the edge of his desk, balancing a legal pad on her knee and showing thigh beyond it. “Huh?”

“Pay attention, Elliot,” she said, tugging down her skirt. “I don't have to do this, you know. I'm not your secretary. I'm just trying to help so we can get out of here and get some food. I'm starving.”

He sighed. “Sorry.”

“Which will it be?”

“Which is better?”

“They both have telephones.”

“Oh. Super.”

“The Liberty allows pets—”

“The Falls,” he said.

It was going to be a long night. Elliot took a sip of cold coffee as he watched Jillie on the phone. If he leaned back in his chair, pushing the limits of its hydraulic tilt feature, he could almost see up into the dark triangular grotto formed by her crossed thighs. He tried to calculate if he'd have time to grab a bite to eat with her, take her home, fuck her, come back to the office, and finish his press release by deadline. Not likely. Something would have to go.

Food.

No, she'd already expressed her feelings about that. Maybe they could fuck now, or in the cab on the way to a restaurant. Maybe they could get takeout and go to her place. He sighed. He could see he was going to have to forgo the fucking. It was always the fucking. Hardly seemed fair.

He looked back at the screen and reread the lead:

 

Ugh. Too many P's. Where did they get these speechwriters?

“What's that all about?” Jillian was standing next to him now, peering over his shoulder and butting him with her pudendum.

He sighed. “Potatoes.”

“Huh?”

“It's a speech I have to give to a bunch of farmers. No big deal. Listen, Jillie, I gotta come back here tonight. You wanna just get takeout and catch a cab and . . . ?”

“Forget it, Elliot. I need real food. Meat and, yes, potatoes. Come on!”

Elliot sighed and got to his feet.

“I don't get the connection,” she continued in the elevator, taking Elliot's hand out from under her skirt. “Radical environmentalists don't like spuds?”

“You're not making this easy, Jillie.”

“It's not supposed to be easy, Elliot. If it were easy, you wouldn't want it.” The digital voice chip in the elevator, programmed to a feminine tonality, announced their arrival in the lobby. Elliot grimaced. “I don't like her,” he complained as the elevator door slid open. “What happened to the ding? I liked the ding.”

“I've noticed that you're a bit of a Luddite, Elliot.” Jillie's heels clicked across the marble lobby of the D&W building. Elliot lagged behind, admiring the tautness of her calves. He felt terribly sad. Why was he such a horny old bastard? Why was Jillian so excruciatingly young and lovely just now?

“No, I'm not,” he said. “I'm all for progress. I just miss the good old ding.”

“Yeah, well, you and your ding. How did that go?”

Out on the street Elliot held his hand up for a taxi.

“ ‘My ding-a-ling, my ding-a-ling . . .' ” Jillie had a nice singing voice.

He held the door open for her and climbed in after. She stopped singing long enough to give the driver the name of a steak house. Elliot stared at his hands, lying on his thighs. They looked like dead animals. Roadkill. Run over and lifeless.

“You're right, Jillie. I shouldn't have mauled you in the elevator. I should appreciate you for your mind.”

“That's okay. I forgive you. Now, tell me, it's got a great ring to it, but why Liberty Falls?”

“I'm giving that speech at a big Potato Promotions Council meeting in Pocatello, and I—”

“You're meeting to promote big potatoes?”

“Right.” He could tell she was just trying to keep him talking.

“And these potato-hating radical environmentalists are . . . ?”

He sighed. She didn't really care. “It's biotech they hate. Genetically engineered food. Potatoes, in particular. They mobilize all over the country and dress up in costumes and do actions—”

“That's adorable! What do you mean, actions?”

“You know. Political actions. They're activists.”

“Like what you used to do in the old days? In Frisco? Sit-ins and happenings and stuff, with your fists in the air?”

Oh, God, she was so young.

“ ‘Power to the People' and all that?”

“All that,” he said. “And boycotts and teach-ins and street theater—”

“Street theater? Oh, God, not those awful
puppets?
”

She was cracking up. He watched her patiently. An idea was beginning to dawn on him. “Listen, are you interested in this?”

“Not really.”

“Because it's a good story.” If he could get her interested, maybe she could sell it to her editor. “It's not all just puppets and unwashed kids. Some of these groups are engaging in heavy-duty terrorist tactics—arson, blowing up labs and research facilities. Last year they tore up a bunch of transgenic-crop test sites around the country. They're linked to large international groups with lots of media clout in Europe, and we think they may be planning something. A protest against potatoes or—”

“No!” exclaimed Jillian. “Possibly planning a protest against potatoes?”

He grimaced but soldiered on. “Things are heating up after all the WTO fuss in Europe. You interested? You think Wurtz would run something on this?”

“No, Elliot. I'm just probing the workings of your slimy PR mind.”

“Hey,” he said. “I used to be a journalist, too, you know.”

“Before your fall. So what's in it for you?”

He smiled. “Purely the pleasure of passing on helpful information to you,” he said, placing his hand on her knee. “It's what I do. It's why you like me. Why you deign to slum around with me and tolerate my advances. I'm a useful guy.”

“
Used
to be,” she said, pushing him away. “Back when you were still doing big tobacco. People were interested. Plus it was sort of a thrill, dating someone truly on the side of evil. I used to get a lot of points for that.”

“Tobacco is old, Jillie. Biotech is cutting edge. It's just a matter of finding the right angle. You'll see.”

“And yours is . . . ?”

“The human angle, Jillie.” His voice was husky. “C'mon, I'm looking for a little grassroots support, here.”

“I get it,” she said, slapping his hand as it crept up the inside of her thigh. “Let me guess. You're going to some podunk potato town to pimp some poor farmer's wife—”

“Cute. Too many P's.”

“—for the heartbreaking story of harassment by the Luddite left.”

“Always looking for an attractive victim. You think Wurtz would be interested?”

“Nope. Wurtz isn't interested in potatoes. No one is interested in potatoes. Didn't you used to live in Idaho?”

“Oh, please.”

“Teaching high school or something?”

“ ‘In my salad days—' ”

“Dodging the draft?”

“ ‘When I was young and green of judgment—' ”

“Elliot, I said it was okay that you tried to maul me in the elevator because I felt sorry for you. It is not okay in a taxi.”

“Can't help it. I'm an activist, babe. Just looking for a little action.”

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