Andrew Valencia: Lord of California

All right, then, I said. I guess I love you too.

She smiled and stood on tiptoes to hug me around the shoulders.

You’re still kind of a bitch, though, I said.

I know, she said. It runs in the family.

With the cars packed up, all that was left to do was round up the kids and say goodbye to the farm. But I was already itching to go. I knew enough secrets about the land not to get sentimental about putting it behind me. And besides, any chance I had to sit behind the wheel of the Lexus was one I was going to take. I pulled the small key out of my pocket and unhooked the club from the steering wheel. The first time I saw it lying in the backseat, I had no idea what it was. I had to ask Mom, and felt foolish after she explained it to me. Of course Dad would’ve taken extra precautions to keep his new car safe. He was always worried about his things falling into the hands of the wrong people. He wouldn’t have approved of me driving his convertible. He wouldn’t have approved of any of this. But his approval didn’t matter anymore, if it ever did. I was driving his baby the whole way there, and not giving it up.

My brothers piled into the backseat while Mom sat up front with Karina balanced on her leg. She made the sign of the cross over her chest. She smiled at me.

You ready, mijo?

I pressed the button to let the top down. Yeah. I’m ready.

Mother. My mother. Thank you. Thank you for doing the best you could by me. It wasn’t an easy life you led. It wasn’t the life you expected. But thank you for helping me to become free.

Somewhere in this valley, or somewhere beyond, is the land we were promised when we made our promises to one another. A promise made not in blood, but in something stronger. Blood is weak. Blood is deceitful. They got that lesson wrong in Sunday school. Slash the vein, watch it pour. Nothing constant, nothing real. Watch it change colors in ordinary air. Watch the yellow plasma separate after a few hours on the ground. Wine becomes it in the hand of a priest. Wine betrays it in the mouth of a father. My father. Your husband. My children will know his name, but will never hear me honor it. In the vineyard, where our story began, there is too much poison to grow anything new. In the orchard, too, where our stories converged, nothing new will grow there either. But we will grow, and we will prosper, in California as well as anywhere. My sisters and brothers and mothers and me. We will finally have a home.

Our city is out there. We will find it before the end.

Our city is rising. Lay the stone.

The author would like to acknowledge and thank the following people for their support during the writing process: Robert Lasner, Ryan McIlvain, Kathy Valencia, Brian Desmarais, Elise Blackwell, David Bajo, Brandon Haffner, and Matthew Fogarty.

Copyright © 2018 by Andrew Valencia

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher. Please direct inquires to:

Ig Publishing

Box 2547

New York, NY 10163

www.igpub.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-63246-060-8 (ebook)