Authors: Marisa Silver
Mary
17.
Porter, California, 1935
S
he’d seen him before, driving his truck through the groves. She wouldn’t have noticed him except that the truck had the name of the grower painted on it, and, when pickers saw that truck driving past, they hissed warnings at their kids to stop fooling around, worked a little faster, climbed the ladders to get at the high oranges, and disappeared in the leaves. Mary did not appreciate being stalked and threatened, and she looked straight at the driver to let him know it.
James and Ray played nearby. Ellie, Trevor, June, and Della spent the day at school, which was just a three-sided shed set up next to the outhouses at the camp. There were days when the heat created a stench so terrible Mary told her kids to stay home rather than risk whatever sickness might be spread by the smell of the waste. Ray was old enough for learning but he was a troublemaker and too jumpy to sit still. Mary hoped he would calm down soon. He was difficult to keep with her. He would follow a butterfly or a sound, and often, when she climbed down from a ladder with a full basket, he would be gone. Once she’d found him hanging off a high branch of a tree. If she hadn’t seen his feet poking out he would have fallen and broken a leg or worse. James was a worry in a different way. He rarely spoke. He was content to play alone for hours, and if she tried to entice him out of his quietness with the promise of a sucker on payday, the bribe didn’t seem to matter to him. At the drugstore in town, the other children would press their noses against the glass candy case and loudly debate flavors, but when she asked James if he wanted cherry or root beer, he would simply nod and she would have to decide for him. Women looked at him with pity because they thought he was slow, but Mary knew his problem was something else. When Toby died, James had been too young to understand and too old to forget the sorrow she carried around that made her smile come a second too late and made her ears grow dull so that her children would have to call her three or four times before they could get her attention.
Ray said something to James and then punched him in the arm when James didn’t respond. As she scolded Ray, Mary noticed that the company truck was parked twenty feet away. She shouldn’t have looked that driver in the eye. Now she’d been marked as someone to watch. She cursed herself for her bad attitude, warned Ray to stop bothering his brother or else, then went back to work so that she wouldn’t be accused of agitation. A group of pickers had set out demands for better pay and conditions. The next day, those same men and their families were gone, replaced by people who were so grateful for the work that it would be a while before they would cause trouble.
The driver got out of his truck. He wore clean slacks and a shirt that still bore the creases of pressing. The cleanliness set him apart. That and the skin on the back of his neck, which was so pale it seemed to reflect the sun. He gestured with unscarred hands as he spoke to the field manager. Mary’s fingers looked like carrots just yanked from the ground. The dirt was so deeply encrusted in the lines that scored her palms that a fortune-teller would have had no trouble seeing whether her life was lucky or not. After years in the fields, her skin was beginning to darken, as if her mother’s Cherokee had finally surfaced to offer its protection. A few months earlier, Mary had gotten word that Doris had died of pneumonia. She had lost the farm in Tahlequah, and Mary’s brothers had taken her with them when they moved to the western part of the state. Just in time for all that dust that made it impossible to go from the house to the privy without tying a rope to your waist so you didn’t get lost. A life of throwing water on a dirt floor and beating sheets with a broom twice a week, and it was dust that got Doris in the end.
There’s nothing I can do about that, either.
The man took off his hat and ran his hand over his blond hair, which fell just below his ears, a length that would have been a tease to the lice that made women in the camp take razors to their children’s scalps. There were days when Mary thought her kids were of a race of bald, alien creatures from the funny pages who had landed on a citrus farm in California. The sun picked up the golden hairs on the man’s forearm, reminding her of the wheat fields back home, and then of Toby. It had been four years since his death, but she could still summon the feeling of his hand on her calf when she climbed the ladder to unload her sack of cotton onto the bed of the truck. Her skin had been a magnet to his fingers no matter how tired and sore and sick he was. But when she tried to summon his face, she could see him only as he was at the end, his lips nearly black, his eyes sunken in their bruised sockets. It was painful to see untouched beauty in the form of this golden man.
One afternoon, she walked some distance from the camp to find a place to go to the bathroom, leaving Ellie and Trevor in charge of the others. She knew it was vain to crave privacy, but it irked her that the things in life that should belong solely to an individual—what a man and woman got up to at night or what a body had no more use for—became the day’s news to strangers. She heard a voice behind her. “Excuse me, ma’am.” It was no more than a hoarse whisper. She’d heard of women being raped by desperate men and quickened her pace, but his footsteps trailed hers. She knew she would not be able to outrun him if it came to that. She spun around, screamed, and clawed at his face. He cursed and jumped back. With horror, she realized she’d attacked the man from the truck. He would fire her for certain. She would not be able to collect for the work done so far that week, since the agreement was for six days’ work or no pay at the end of the day on Saturday. She would pack up before dinner. The children would complain; they were hungry all the time now and they waited for her to feed them the way her old farm dog used to wait by his bowl with a craven look in his eyes. She would be hard-pressed to find another camp before nightfall, but the kids were used to sleeping in the car. How much gas was in the Hudson? She had been planning to fill up on payday. Her fingernails had scratched the man’s cheek. Would he have her arrested?
“You oughtn’t to sneak up on someone that way,” she said, her adrenaline making her unaccountably brave.
“I didn’t expect to be attacked.”
“If I’d really attacked you, you would be bleeding.”
“I’ve seen you,” he said.
“And now you see me again.”
“My name is Charles Dodge. Charlie . . .”
Dodge Farms,
she thought. “Good for you.”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“My name is Mary Coin, and if you’re going to fire me, just let me know it. I got kids back there who don’t need me to linger with strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. We’ve just now exchanged introductions.”
“Knowing the name of a man doesn’t count as familiar.”
He had a careful smile, as if he were waiting for someone to ask him what there was to be happy about. Maybe he would let her work through the end of the week.
“Do you mind if I walk with you?” he said.
“You want to escort me while I take care of my needs?”
His face colored. “I’m sorry that you don’t have more privacy at the camp.”
“Are you going to do anything about it?”
“I don’t see how it’s possible,” he said apologetically.
“Then don’t be sorry. Except about your bad timing.”
She turned and walked on. She found some high bushes, lifted her skirt around her waist, pulled down her underwear, and squatted. Suddenly, the situation struck her as funny and she started laughing. Her urine spluttered in fits and jerks, which seemed still more amusing as it brought to mind James standing with his pants pulled down, his sweet, dimpled bottom so carelessly exposed while he concentrated hard on his pee.
When she headed back toward camp, the man was still by the side of the road, staring into the brambles as if he was studying something important there.
“I was just . . .” he said, but he had obviously not thought up a reasonable excuse.
“Some people would think it a queer thing to wait on a woman when she’s doing her business,” she said.
“Do you always say what you mean?”
“I’m not clever enough to make things up.” She started walking toward the camp, and he walked alongside her.
“I envy you,” he said.
She stopped and looked at him. “You know what? If you’re going to insist on talking to me, you cannot say things like that.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When you say that you envy me, you’re putting me down.”
“But I’m not.”
“You think I haven’t read my Bible? Blessed are the meek? There’s nothing blessed about having to empty yourself in the bushes.”
“I just wanted to talk to you,” he said quietly.
“You won’t get what you came for.”
His expression fell. “You think so little of yourself?”
“The opposite,” she said. They had reached the edge of the camp, and she walked away from him quickly in order to put distance between herself and gossip.
• • •
H
e was in the grove again the next day. She felt his eyes on her as she climbed up and down the ladder, knew that he could see the sweat stain that ran down the back of her blouse and the dark half-moons of wetness underneath her arms. She refused to meet his gaze. She felt enraged that he had so easily taken control of her thoughts, as if she were simply part of the land over which he had rights. But at night she found herself restless and irksome, each child doing or saying something that annoyed her. She could not sleep and spent hours outside the tent pacing here and there and nowhere, just walking to stop her body from feeling itself. The next time she saw him in the field, she looked right at him and did not turn away. When she walked out of the camp that evening, he was there.
When they were finished, he stayed on top of her. His spent weight anchored her in a way she liked. She never stopped moving from one farm to the next, and when she reached a new place, she had to set up the tent and get the children settled and prepare food and keep them as clean as she could, and get them to go to school if there was a school nearby, and then she went to work and picked and pulled and climbed up and down ladders. Except for her few hours of restless sleep each night, there seemed to be hardly any time when she wasn’t in motion. Now came the relief of his body making it impossible for her to move, this solitary moment of not having to make a decision. But she immediately distrusted the feeling realizing it was a figment of loneliness and knowing, too, that there was nothing to be gotten from this more than what she had already received—a little warmth and that blessed moment afterward when her thoughts were caught in the space between seconds and she just hung there, momentarily free until it passed. She pushed him off her, lifted her hips, and tugged down her dress.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
“I know what I am.” She stood up, straightened herself out, and walked away.
They met each evening for two weeks. When she started to bleed she did not come to him. During those days she could feel his eyes on her but she didn’t look up. If she passed him at the weighing truck she struck up a conversation with another woman so that he would not try to talk to her. When her week was over, she felt the familiar agitation in her breasts and thighs and, the next time she saw him, she made sure to catch his eye.
“I thought you’d given up on me,” he said when she met him on the road that evening.
“I never counted on you to begin with.”
“You always do that?”
“Always do what?”
“Decide what a thing is before it’s happened?”
“I don’t have the luxury of chance, mister.”
“Don’t call me mister, like I’m some man you bumped into on the street.”
“But that’s who you are. Exactly that man.”
He stood close enough to her so that she could feel his breath on her face. She felt self-conscious, ill-equipped for what was happening. “I haven’t washed,” she said quietly. “I stink of dirt. Of your dirt.”
“I don’t care.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“Please, Mary,” he said. “Please.”
• • •
H
e wanted to know things about her. Where was she from? Who were her parents? He was intrigued that she was a half-breed, and he studied her face, looking for the Indian in her. He never asked about the man who gave her six children, and she was relieved not to speak Toby’s name. The omission allowed her to pretend that what she was doing was separate from her real life, and that the comfort and excitement she felt were in her control. She could walk away at any time. It would be as if these tussles in the weeds had never happened, as if this man were just a character from a dream.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” he asked one night. He was lying on top of her and he gently blew strands of hair off her forehead.
“What do you want to know all these things for?” she asked.
“I want to know you.”
“Why?”
He laughed. “What do you think we’re doing here?”
“Fucking.”
He rolled off her and lay on his back.
“What?” she said. “Are you courting me? Are you going to marry me?”
“You have a hard heart, do you know that?”
“Look at me,” she said.
He stood up, buttoning his shirt, adjusting his trousers.
“I said, look at me.” Her dress was open, her chest exposed. “You know what I think when I see myself, when I see these?” She slapped her hand over her breasts. “I don’t think of you kissing them. I think, I wish I still had milk coming and that one of my kids was young enough to drink it, ’cause then it would be one less hungry child at dinnertime.”
“Sometimes I don’t understand you at all,” he said.
She stood up, buttoning her dress. “I don’t need you to know what my favorite flower is or the name of my first dog. That doesn’t do me any good.”
“You want me to pay you?” he said angrily. “Is that what you’re after?” He reached into the back pocket of his pants and took out his wallet. He tossed some bills on the ground between them.