The Forgiven Page 12

  They told me about Jose sitting on a scorpion while taking a break from picking avocados in Mexico. The woman he was working with pulled his pants down and quickly removed the stinger from his bare rump to minimize the spread of the poison. It was an embarrassing situation for a teenaged boy. We got a big laugh out of that, but they laughed even harder when I told them about breaking my ankle while being chased by a cowboy on Halloween in Austin while I was wearing high heels.

  When the landscaping season ended in November the brothers went back to Mexico, and I went back to working on my book. Day after day I pecked away on my typewriter until I had amassed a stack of paper comprising several chapters. Then I got a severe case of writer’s block and I couldn’t write again for quite a while. I needed stimulation, so I called Nikki and asked her to meet me for a few beers at DiLello’s. I thought it might also stimulate our relationship, which had stagnated. It lacked the intense sexuality that I needed to satisfy my desires, so after a pitcher of beer I alluded to tantric yoga again, and again she alluded to the fact that we weren’t married, so we couldn’t do it. For me, marriage was out of the question, and for her so was any kind of sex beyond petting, apparently. Unable to find middle ground, our relationship ended unceremoniously that night.

  CHAPTER 17

  Around Christmas, I was reminded of little Christine, who was born on that magical day one year before in 1980, and I wondered what had become of Cathy. I lost touch with her after my mother adopted Christine. Was she still truck farming near Makanda? Was she romantically involved with someone now?

  Because my relationship with Nikki was over, I felt free to contact Cathy just to see how she was doing, so I sent a letter to the last address I had for her, thinking that she probably still lived there. Her roots were deep on that old farm. She was good at living off the land. We had that much in common: I made a good living landscaping and we both took the winter off. We’d both have spare time for a visit, so I proposed that in the letter. Two weeks later I received her reply, “…come on down.”

  The weather was mild for January in Illinois, so the drive down was free of ice and snow. When I got to Carbondale I decided to stay there for the night before going on to Makanda. I checked into a motel, grabbed a hamburger, and went to a bar called The Club. I’d heard that it was a Vietnam veterans’ hangout. Many veterans were in college in those days because of the draft and the availability of the GI Bill.

  At first it was hard to distinguish between vets and typical “College Joes” because nearly everyone in the bar had long hair, like most students did. I had known plenty of so-called hippie GIs when I was in Nam. In fact, I had written a poem about such guys.

  It happened so fast after conscription,

  your transition from dispensing prescriptions

  at that free clinic in Frisco,

  to expending ammunition in a frustrating war of attrition.

  You became a GI Joe who scrawled peace signs on your hat.

  A hippie soldier you were called,

  although at times you experienced combat.

  Peace and love might have been the talk,

  when you were standing down,

  and smoking grass from a bamboo bong,

  but when it came to going after Viet Cong,

  you went from dove to hawk.

  Pundits like Cronkite claimed you were defeated,

  yet you succeeded in kicking Charlie’s ass

  in just about every fight.

  But back in the World you were expected to readjust overnight,

  and become the peace-loving man you had been, again,

  before you were drafted by Uncle Sam,

  to kill or be killed in Vietnam.

  And you did, despite an alcohol addiction and PTSD,

  afflictions you managed to treat quite successfully,

  with THC.

  There was a little THC going on at the Club that night, in a back room where a joint was being passed around. It was on the way to the rest room, so I stopped by for a toke or two. Smoking grass was a social thing done freely in a public setting, especially in hip places like Carbondale, where bartenders and cops, looked the other way.

  Delightfully stoned, I returned to the bar and got another beer. One of the men who had shared the grass sat down next to me, so I bought him a beer for being so generous.

  “Thanks, man,” he said. “My name is Bill, what’s yours?”

  “Mick.”

  “Never seen you in here before – townie or student?”

  “Neither, just passing through on my way to Makanda.”

  “I know of a hippie chick down there who grows some mean grass. That’s what you just smoked.”

  “Good shit,” I said. “I got a helluva buzz.”

  “Yeah. She also sells it baked in brownies at Mr. Natural’s Health Food Store. Not your typical Ladies Auxiliary bake sale, but it’s lucrative.” Bill laughed. “When you eat one it gives you the munchies, so you eat another one. I prefer to smoke it though – goes well with these.”

  He clinked his glass against mine. “Here’s to gettin’ high,” and he quaffed the beer.

  “I see that you’re wearing a POW/MIA bracelet. What’s his name?” Bill asked.

  “Timothy Bodden, from Taylorville, Illinois. He was a door gunner on a helicopter that was shot down in Laos. He’s been missing ever since.”

  “Now that’s a coincidence. I was shot down in Laos too. After two years of captivity, I was freed by a Marine recon patrol. We weren’t supposed to be in Laos, yah’ know, according the Laotian Accords, but we were responding to the NVA’s presence there. Which was also in violation of the Accords convened to give Laos total political autonomy. The country was supposedly off limits to all foreign forces. At least that’s what I’ve gathered from reading about it.”

  “How were you treated by your captors?”

  “Not too bad at first, but after I tried to escape they got pretty rough. Slapped me around in the middle of the night so I couldn’t sleep. If I dozed off during the day they strapped me to a tree and splashed water up my nose. Life can be hell when you’re deprived of sleep.”

  “Bet you sleep good now.”

  “Didn’t used to, too many nightmares, but then I got into pot. It helps a lot, along with a couple of beers. In fact, it’s past my bedtime now, so long.”

  “Peace,” I said, then I left too.

  After a good night’s sleep, I ate a big breakfast at a place called Mary Lou’s, then I drove down through the wooded hills to Makanda to visit Cathy.

  Although the trees were bare, their black, scraggly skeletons looked magnificent silhouetted against the gray sky like a charcoal rendered by an artist inspired by the stark beauty of winter’s woods.

  Cathy’s reddish brown brick house stood on a rise among naked oaks providing a splash of color to the black and gray wintry scene. Smoke billowed from the chimney, signaling that someone was home. As I drove up to the house, Sport, the black lab, ran to my truck whimpering and panting and wagging his tail. So much for vicious watch dogs. The cats were nowhere to be seen, must have been sleeping as cats are inclined to do most of the time. Cathy came out on the front porch, smiled and waved. She met me halfway with a hug.

  “Long time no see,” she said. “You’re looking healthy. Must be the landscaping.”

  “So are you. Must be the farming. Still selling your veggies and goat’s milk and cheese at the coop?”

  “Yes, and at a greater volume than ever before. I adopted a new way of farming after reading The One-Straw Revolution. Ever hear of it? It was written by a Japanese farmer named Masanobu Fukuoka. Come in, I’ll tell you more about it.”

  “Man, sure smells good in here, like something baking.”

  “Brownies. I sell them at the coop too.”

  “Oh, I heard about them in Car
bondale.” I said with a chuckle.

  “You did?” Cathy seemed surprise. “Where at?”

  “The Club.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I go there sometimes to reminisce with the vets about my brother.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “I haven’t been able to tell you, Mick, because we lost touch for a few years. He was killed in Vietnam one day before we pulled out.”

  Tears welled up in Cathy’s eyes and the mood darkened like a cloud passing before the sun, but through it all she managed a slight smile.

  “Josh was planning to join the Peace Corps after he graduated from college, but then he was drafted. Ironic, isn’t it? When they sent his body home they included the canvass cover of his helmet. He had drawn a peace sign on it.”

  There was a moment or two of respectable silence before I changed the subject.

  “So what’s this about your new way of farming?”

  “Well, Fukuoka calls it the natural way of farming. He adheres to four basic principles in the process: no cultivation, the earth, he says, cultivates itself naturally by means of the penetration of plant roots and the activity of microorganisms, small animals and earthworms.

  “Number two, no chemical fertilizer or prepared compost, which drain the soil of essential nutrients. When left to itself, the soil maintains its fertility naturally in accordance with the orderly cycle of plant and animal life.

  “Three – no weeding by tillage or herbicides. Straw mulch, and a ground cover of white clover interplanted with the crops provide effective weed control.

  “And fourth, no dependence on chemicals, because from the time plants develop as a result of such unnatural practices like plowing and fertilizing, disease and insect imbalance become a greater problem. Nature, when left alone with no interference with its natural process, is in perfect balance, Fukuoka maintains.

  “As a result of practicing these basic natural farming principles, he has demonstrated that they produce harvests comparable to those of modern scientific agriculture at a fraction of the investment of labor and resources. So, where is the benefit of scientific technology, he asks.”

  While nibbling on the brownies and sipping coffee we gradually got high, and Cathy continued to tell me more of what Fukuoka wrote in The One-Straw Revolution.

  “He says that long ago at the end of the year, the one-acre farmer who practiced the simple method of natural farming spent January, February and March hunting rabbits or relaxing before the fire, gazing at the glowing coals with his hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea. But gradually this three-month vacations dwindled down to three days indicating how needlessly busy modern farmers had become.

  “One day while cleaning a shrine in the little village near his farm, Fukuoka noticed some plaques hanging on the wall. Dusting them off, he saw dozens of haiku composed as offerings to the surrounding land, indicating that the farmers of old had enough leisure time to write poems.”

  “So,” Cathy smiled contently, getting up to rekindle the fire in the pot belly stove, “since adopting Fukuoka’s natural farming ways, not only have I found time to hunt rabbits, but I’ve also composed a poem or two. Care to hear one?”

  “Of course.”

  The sun-warmed turf of Mother Earth,

  damp from the rain of a thunderstorm,

  germinates a seed in dormancy,

  like the womb of a woman in pregnancy,

  giving birth to a tree in its infancy.

  And the question of the ages arises,

  that has puzzled the wisest of sages.

  Which came first, the seed or the tree?

  “And for supper we’ll have fried rabbit, with sauteed carrots and onions that I’ve stored in the cellar over the winter.”

  After eating, over a bottle of wine, we talked about many things well into the night.

  Cathy asked about Christine and how my mother was doing with her.

  “Everything is fine, last I heard.”

  “I hope to have a baby to care for someday,” she said, somewhat forlornly. “But first I’d have to find a husband. Not too many would be willing to settle down on this little farm with me. Most men want a woman to follow them in pursuit of their careers in some city somewhere. Like you and your landscaping business in Springfield.”

  “Funny you should bring that up. I’m thinking about selling it to the two Mexican brothers who work for me.”

  “How come?”

  “I’ve thought about doing what you’re doing, you know, going back to the land. Somewhere down here in southern Illinois near the university in Carbondale, which would provide some culture – foreign films, lectures, music and the like. I’d be in competition with you selling my goods at Mr. Natural’s.”

  “Oh, there’d be plenty of business for both of us. Are you serious about this?”

  “Very.”

  “In that case there’s ten acres for sale down the road from here. No house, and the land is full of stones, the soil is good though, in some spots, I’ve been told.”

  “Stones, huh? I’ve handled plenty of those landscaping. Who’s selling it?”

  “The guy’s name and phone number is posted on a pole by the road.”

  “I’ll drive down there in the morning and have a look. Meanwhile, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn in. It’s been a long day.”

  “Suit yourself. You know where the bedroom is. Good night.”

  “Night.”

  I didn’t go to sleep right away. I tossed and turned thinking about the possibility of buying some land down here. A lot would depend on how much stone there was and how much the guy wanted for it, and now much money I could make selling the landscaping business to Pepe and Jose. And what I would do for shelter because the land didn’t have a house on it.

  The stones! That’s it, the stones. I could build a stone house. Maybe the Gonzalez brothers would help as a part of a deal for the business. But I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. First I’d have to find out how much the man wanted for the land, then I’d determine how much the brothers would be willing to pay for the business, and if they’d be willing to help me build a house with the cost of their labor as part of the package. My head was spinning with the possibilities. Finally I fell asleep until I was awakened by the smell of bacon frying. I got dressed and went downstairs into the kitchen where Cathy was preparing breakfast.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Sleep well?”

  “Not too. Thinking about the land you said was for sale kept me awake. On my way back to Springfield I’ll stop and get the man’s phone number and give him a call when I get to Carbondale.”

  “Eat first. I wouldn’t want to send you off on an empty stomach.”

  As we ate I told her how much I had enjoyed our short but sweet visit, and how inspired I had become about farming the natural way after hearing about Fukuoka’s One-Straw Revolution. After a cup of coffee I bid Cathy a fond farewell with a promise to come back soon.

  CHAPTER 18

  The acreage that was for sale was about two miles down the road from Cathy’s place.

  From the road I could see many scattered red cedar trees, indicating that the soil was very likely rocky. When I wandered over a knoll, a meadow came into view and judging from its expanse of green grass, it was fertile enough to grow crops. I plunged a finger into the turf – it was soft and moist.

  Below the meadow was a pond into which a rocky stream flowed. The source of the stream, I discovered was a bubbling spring, which I hoped would provide me with potable water. I tested it by drinking some from cupped hands. As I continued to survey the property, I felt no ill effects.

  Pleased with what I saw, I jotted down the phone number posted on a utility pole by the road. When I got to the general store in Makanda I called.

  “Ten acres, $3,500.” The man got straight t
o the point. “You one of them back-to-the-land hippies from Carbondale?”

  “No. I’m from Springfield. I own a landscaping business up there, but I’d like to do some farming down here.”

  “This land isn’t exactly suited for farming, although there is a patch or two of fertile ground.”

  “Yeah, I saw the meadow. It’s about the size I’m looking for to grow some crops.”

  “You’re gonna farm without a house, or at least a tool shed?”

  “Well, as far as the house goes, I’m thinking that I might build a small one with all those stones on the land. And as far as tools go, the type of farming I’d be doing requires very few. Besides, I have some I landscaped with.”

  “So then, do you want to seal the deal?” the man asked.

  “First I have to find out how much I can get from the sale of my landscaping business. I’ll keep in touch. I hope the land will still be available by then.”

  “Okay, look forward to hearin’ from ya.”

  Upon returning to Springfield I immediately wrote a letter to Pepe stating that I’d sell the business to him and Jose for $15,000 with an option to reduce that in exchange for the cost of labor he and his brother would charge if they were willing to help me build a stone house.

  Two weeks later Pepe replied in a letter that he accepted my offer, but that he and Jose would only be able to help me build the house on weekends. The landscaping business would require their attention Monday through Friday.