All Over Creation (48 page)

“
Ce n'est pas vrai?
” Charmey asked. She had lettered the banner and had drawn smiley potato heads on either end. “I thought certainly there was the E.” She was wearing an apron above her bulging stomach and held a big wooden spoon, sticky with cookie dough. Geek walked in just then and overheard her.

“It's okay, Charmey,” he said. “You can't help it. You're French.” She brandished the spoon at him, and he leaned over and licked it. “Mmm. Chocolate chip.”

“Carob chip,” she said. “And I am Québécoise.”

“Tastes good anyway, and that's still a good excuse.”

I opened the screen door and stepped into the kitchen. Geek fell silent. The others all looked up, and then, as though on cue, they looked away again, concentrating on their tasks. I could see Phoenix's cheeks redden, and I wondered if he guessed where I'd been. I hadn't told anyone that Elliot was coming, though. Nobody seemed to have much to say, so I started to walk on through, when Ocean skipped up with a cookie in hand, waving it in front of my face.

“Look!” she said. “You can eat one, but you have to pay.”

“Okay. How much?”

“You pay what you can. It's by donation.”

“How about a nickel?” I said, fishing in my jeans pocket.

She frowned. “It's
carob chip,
Mom. It's even better than chocolate chip, plus it's got nuts, plus it's got oatmeal and fiber, plus it's organic.”

“How about a dollar?” I felt guilty, buying my daughter's love, but I was pretty desperate.

“Really?” she said, impressed. She was still at an age where a dollar seemed like a fortune. You could buy a lot of her love for a buck.

“Sure. It sounds like it's worth it.” I handed her the bill and took the cookie. “Mmm,” I said, taking a bite. It had the consistency of adobe and tasted like barely sweetened cardboard. “This is delicious.” The chips were okay.

Ocean looked at the dollar bill, then danced over to Charmey. “Look!” she said. “I made a sale! A dollar!”

“You paid way too much,” Geek said. “The recommended donation was a quarter. Fifty cents max.”

“It's for a good cause.” I offered him the rest of the cookie.

“No thanks,” he said. “Do you mean that?”

“If you say so.”

“Okay, I'll eat the rest of that for you.” He took the cookie and popped the whole thing in his mouth and started chewing. Ocean was loudly counting all the cookies and calculating their profits at a dollar per.

“Eleven dollars, twelve dollars . . .”

I watched Geek chew for a while. “So I got you some more press coverage,” I told him. He raised his eyebrows, still unable to speak, so I continued. “Elliot Rhodes. From Washington. Remember?”

He seemed to be having a difficult time with the cookie.

“I called and told him what you all were doing. He's here. He came for the action. He's going to try to write something about it.”

Geek made a choking sound.

“You want a glass of milk?”

He shook his head. Finally he swallowed and could speak again. “That's great, Yumi. Thanks.” But he sounded distracted, like he was already thinking about something else.

I didn't pursue it. It was enough that I had done something to help, and it was nice to be a part of things again. With the smell of baking and all the bustle of craft activity, it felt like Christmas Eve in the house, the way the holiday ought to feel but never had in our small, quiet family when I was growing up. I'd always wanted to belong to a big, happy family that felt like this, and maybe the sudden coziness led me to overlook my apprehensions. I went into the living room. Momoko, Lloyd, and Frankie were sitting around a folding bridge table, funneling poppy seeds into little packages.

“Can I help?” I asked, sitting down next to Momoko.

Lloyd looked up. “Why, thank you, Yumi,” he said, and when our eyes met, he seemed as startled as I was. As I scooped up the tiny seeds in a spoon and let them roll into the mouth of the envelope, I was aware that my heart still thumped like a bunny with the pleasure of pleasing Daddy.

On the second of July people started showing up. Lloyd was sitting on the porch in his rocking chair when the first vehicle arrived. He'd seen it coming from a ways off, lumbering slowly along the dirt road, kicking up dust. He felt a bit of a shock when it slowed, then pulled into his driveway. He didn't know what to make of it.

It was an old school bus, the top half of which had been replaced with wooden walls and a roof made of hand-split cedar shingles. A narrow deck with driftwood railings ran around the sides and back, and the entire exterior of the structure was covered with a web of hooks and nets and rigging into which were woven pots and pans, brooms and buckets, a winch and a come-along, some bicycles with miscellaneous spokes and wheels, and the day's laundry, hung out to dry. The vehicle had Oregon license plates. It pulled right up to the porch and cut its engine. The driver stepped down and threw his arms around Melvin, who was there to greet him. Lloyd could see the man's eyes gleaming under thick, shaggy brows. A dark beard covered the rest of his face. He wore a crocheted cap in rainbow colors and brown corduroy trousers that were sizes too big, held up by a pair of suspenders. He didn't have a shirt on.

The man's name was Cedar. His companion was a woman named Aloe, and they had a little boy named Bean. Where do they get these names? Lloyd wondered when Melvin brought them to the porch to introduce them.

A Volkswagen bus was the next to arrive, followed by a ratty parade of small, fuel-efficient cars from Japan. Battered and splotchy with rust. Patched with putty, and painted. Covered with bumper stickers. SAVE THE WHALES. HUG A TREE. LOVE OUR MOTHER. NO JOBS ON A DEAD PLANET. DON'T PANIC, EAT ORGANIC.

As he watched the vehicles congregate in his yard, a feeling of dread grew in Lloyd's heart. He pictured them driving through the center of Liberty Falls, maybe even stopping for gas at Mr. Petrol's Pantry. This was not the event he'd imagined. It wasn't his reputation in town that concerned him—he'd pretty much given up on that—but he simply couldn't countenance the way these kids were dressed. Undressed, more like it. The afternoon was hot, and the boys were all shirtless, their hair tied up in bandannas. The girls had on long skirts, which they gathered around their waists, baring their thighs. On top they wore skimpy scraps of fabric attached with straps, no thicker than baling twine and not half so sturdy. Most of them weren't wearing anything else underneath. It made Lloyd very nervous every time one of them raised her arms to hug a friend or ran too quickly across the yard.

He looked around for Yumi, realizing he hadn't seen her all day. Her kids were over with Melvin and Lilith, helping to set up chairs. He started rocking harder. Never thought he'd see the day when he'd look to Yumi for propriety. At least you could count on her to keep most of her clothes on in public.

The first rust-free vehicle to arrive was an Airstream Land Yacht motor home with Nebraska plates. Lloyd eased himself down the steps and into the yard to intercept it. The occupants made no attempt to exit. They sat behind the large tinted windshield with the engine running, staring around at the milling crowd. Lloyd slowly crossed the yard with his walker, then stopped in front of the bus and gave a wave. They raised their hands and waved back, and from where he stood, looking up at the windshield, their arms looked like the wipers, moving in unison. Then the man stood and opened the door.

“Didn't know if we had the right place,” he shouted from the top of the steps. He wore plaid shorts and a pink golf shirt. “Things sure have changed a bit around here.”

“Still the same,” said Lloyd. “Still the same. Wife's in the garden. She'll be glad to see you.”

Lloyd peered up at the woman, who hadn't moved from her seat. Outside the Land Yacht, a group of young men with bold tattooed designs on their naked torsos had formed a loose circle and were kicking a small crocheted ball up in the air with their bare feet. Sweat put a sheen on their golden skin.

“Howdy, Martha,” Lloyd called up. “How's the garden?”

“Hard time to leave, Lloyd,” she said, not taking her eyes off the circle. “Right during bean season.”

“Appreciate you coming,” said Lloyd. “We're expecting a few more of our customers. You won't be the only ones.”

“Glad to hear it, Lloyd,” she said.

They watched the tattooed men leap and twist, chasing the little ball. They wore kerchiefs on their heads. They wore necklaces with leather pouches.

“Hey,” one of them shouted at the Land Yacht. “Turn off the engine! You're wasting fossil fuels.”

“Don't mind them kids,” Lloyd said. “They seem odder than they are.”

“It's an interesting look,” the man offered, making no move toward the ignition.

“We've got a bunch of 'em helping out. They're pretty good gardeners. We're having a productive season, in spite of my heart.” Lloyd cleared his throat and spat.

“We were real sorry to hear about that,” the man said.

“Guess it's just that time of life. Time to downsize, you know?”

“Early retirement, eh?”

“Can't keep on going forever. Let me call the wife.”

Lloyd hobbled his walker around so that it pointed at the garden. He scanned the rows, then spotted Momoko bent over in a bed of melons. He raised his arm and tried to shout to her, but he started coughing and had to lean over to catch his balance. Martha honked the Land Yacht's horn, then turned off the engine as an afterthought. Momoko looked up. She waved and started walking toward them. Lloyd shuffled back.

“Hard to tell how much she's following these days,” he said. “Appreciate it if you wouldn't mention downsizing to her. She's real worried about her seeds.”

“Not a problem, Lloyd.”

Momoko made her way through the circle of half-naked ballplayers. A tattoo caught her eye, and she stopped to inspect it—a bold black Japanese character in the small of a young man's back. She tapped him on the arm and looked up at his face as he turned, shielding her eyes against the sun with her hand.

“You know what means that one?” she asked, pointing to the large tattoo.

The young man twisted around and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It's the Japanese word for happiness.”

“Nope,” she said, shaking her head. “It is not mean happiness. It mean stupid.”

“No way!” the kid protested, twisting and peeking over his shoulder, as though the tattoo might have changed shape when he wasn't looking.

“So sorry,” she said and started to walk away, but then she stopped. “Hey,” she called back to him. “You a happy guy?”

“Yeah,” the kid said, looking a lot less happy than he had before.

“But stupid, too. Stupid to put such big happiness in back of you.” She turned and walked up to the Land Yacht.

“Hello, Mr. Jack!” she said. “Howdy Mrs. Martha! How is your bush bean growing?”

 

 

The rally officially started on the morning of Saturday, the third. By ten o'clock there were approximately 120 registered participants, which would grow to twice that number by the end of the day. By the following afternoon, the Fourth of July, just over 400 people had stopped by. This number included customers of the Fullers, comrades of the Seeds, and citizens and supporters from neighboring cities and towns. It included poets from Pocatello, students from the university, and Shoshone representatives from the local tribes, as well as journalists from all the local papers, a couple of freelance photographers, and a camera crew from the network affiliate. The figure also included unregistered participants: a few fertilizer salesmen and other representatives from the agrochemical industry; locals who stopped by to gawk; a busload of interfaith, antipornography activists; and the police, who arrived on the second day to arrest the Seeds and shut the party down.

But that was day two.

On day one Cass got there just before ten. Frankie was testing the PA system, tapping the mike and causing an electronic squeal to rip through the mounting heat of the morning. People winced and laughed and clapped. Stragglers moved closer. The great painted banner that hung above the stage proclaimed WELCOME TO THE IDAHO POTATO PARTY! Pictures of smiling potato heads beamed down upon the crowd.

Cass found Yummy and Poo at the edge of the crowd of hippies who were gathering in front of the stage. They looked so colorful with all their exotic clothes and beads and hair done up in strange ways.

“It's like a rock concert or something,” Cass said to Yummy, holding her arms out for the baby. She had come over as soon as she could, after Will had left for the fields. To keep an eye on things, she told him. But she liked the excitement that was filling the air. She stood on her tiptoes to see the stage. She lifted Poo up to her shoulders so he could see, too. He clung onto her hair with his fingers, then started to drum on her head.