Tatjana Soli: The Forgetting Tree

“You must stop this.”

“What?”

“Pitying yourself. We don’t know what happened to Joshua. But I see what is happening to the rest of the family. Do your job — hold things together.”

* * *

Then it occurred to her at last, the obvious choice. She went to Mrs. Girbaldi, the wealthiest woman in the county. “It’s a horrible thing to ask for. You have the right to tell me no,” Claire said. “Nothing is more precious than a child,” Mrs. Girbaldi said. The two of them went to the bank. A withdrawal wasn’t even recorded since she had enough cash in deposit boxes to satisfy the amount. The bag was placed in the location specified, a lonely stretch of highway toward the desert, in the crook of a tree. The women went to a diner for coffee, and when they drove back, the bag was gone.

After an hour, they had still heard nothing. Back home, Claire stood vigil on the porch, unable to tell anyone what she had done.

That night, Claire turned her back to Forster, only waking when Lucy tugged at her. The child mortified that she had peed in her sleep, soaking her sleeping bag. Claire took her into the bathroom, running the bath and washing her as she had when she was a little girl.

Lucy rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. “Is it our fault?”

“What?”

“We let Joshua go away.”

“Never think that.”

“Will the bad men come back for us?”

“You’ll be safe. I promise,” Claire said, bringing her to their bed and letting her sleep nested between them.

The next morning, Forster announced he would call the developers.

“I’ve taken care of it.”

All through the next morning, all through the next week, nothing. Then Octavio was allowed to turn the water back on, and the sprinklers ran, breaking the hard, cracked dirt, and still they heard nothing. As if, collecting the money, the kidnappers forgot their part. Claire kept replaying that night. It had been Octavio’s pickup going up the driveway. When did Josh decide to go after her?

* * *

At the Mejia quinceañera party, his daughter Paz wore a long blue gown. Her skin was milky, the crown of paste jewels on her black hair catching the light of candles, making her look as if flame were sparking off her body. It all came down to this, and whatever was out there in those dark fields, Octavio needed to protect his daughter, his whole family, from it. Despite the loud music, his father was dozing on a sofa pushed into the dining room. It was the old man’s new trick — the ability to sleep constantly, under any conditions. Octavio squeezed his father’s shoulder gently and only got a sleepy shrug in reply. He opened a beer and drank the full thing down in one gulp.

“Tavi, take it easy. The night has just started,” Sofia said, walking past with a tray laden with food. “People are paying attention.”

Sofia had never cared what people thought when she let Octavio take her to the lake all those years ago, but life changed. The house was crowded beyond standing room with relatives, and relatives of relatives, and friends, neighbors, only a small number of whom Octavio recognized, and the heat inside grew thick and pushing. He would go broke entertaining strangers, all people whose opinion his Sofia suddenly cared so much about. Not once did she suggest canceling for Joshua. Where had his gentle wife’s heart gone? Nevertheless, Octavio stopped in awe at the sight of his firstborn child; his eyes grew watery. Twenty years from this night, would Octavio himself be tucked away on a sofa, worn out by life, while his Paz threw the quinceañera for her own daughter? It exhausted him, the endless cycles of life, like the harvest.

“Ah, Papi, not now. No tears.”

Paz had replaced his young Sofia in her gentle concern for him. What worse hell could there be than to lose one’s child, one’s future? His love of Joshua was just as fierce as if he had been blood. Octavio shuddered as if a cold breeze had crossed his hot skin. Worse than the worst thing he could imagine, which was losing one’s land.

The band tuned up for the first dance, the one reserved for father and daughter. Octavio had learned steps with a dance teacher, who gave Sofia and the girls lessons, but he was too tired to practice every night for it to do much good. Now he clumped across the floor, his footwork even more cloddish compared to the princess steps of his Paz. He was self-conscious, mortified by the bright light and the attention of all these strange eyes on them. Let Paz have the light, only outside was he himself, among his trees, one with the earth that he tilled like prayer. Eat the orange, taste the sweet juice that was like liquid light; he wasn’t too shy to take credit for that. He stepped on Paz’s satin slipper right before the music stopped, but she pretended she felt nothing. A good girl. They ended to applause, and Octavio was released to go outside, cool off, and hide.

* * *

Paz was circling a group of older teenagers who ignored her, trying to make eye contact with a boy she favored, when she heard them talking about two young men from Apatzingán, Mexico, involved in a crime with a local delincuente who was always in and out of jail. News traveled in the neighborhood more reliably than in the newspapers, but even second generation felt no inclination to go to the police. Policía were still thought of in terms of their homeland, a force that could just as easily bring more trouble than less. Instead, it was preferable to close ranks and take care of trouble from within if possible. The Mejias were not much part of the community; they were considered a bit conceited, barely a step below their beloved employers so that they took the disappearance as a family matter. Sofia was determined to remedy this to get her daughter married even if Octavio was determined to turn a blind eye. This grudge allowed the guests to gorge themselves on the food and drink without guilt.

Paz wished to move off and forget such talk on her special day, but the words boy and money stuck in her ear and nagged. Her father’s heart had been heavy the last weeks; he scowled and kicked out of his way her younger brothers and sisters. Pretty, childish Joshua, who always flirted with her, was missing, and a bad outcome would not be good for any of them. Like a bird, Paz flew to her father, and he in turn herded the boys into a closed bedroom, despite Sofia’s begging that it was time to cut the cake, that he was ruining the family’s night. That he was always more interested in the Baumsargs than his own family.

* * *

Octavio’s fists clenched and unclenched, his uncles and brothers behind him, rumbling like thunder in the mountains. These were young, innocent kids, thinking they were cool by being in the know of gang talk in the neighborhoods. They had only heard wisps of gossip. Two no-goods were passing through and had met a small-time criminal named Denny Larsen at the local bar. Just out of jail for burglary, using a fake ID, he had found a job with a local caterer and worked the birthday party at the Baumsarg ranch. He bragged it would be an easy robbery. Start-up money for getting in the drug business. Octavio understood what had nagged at him earlier about the stolen silver globe — it had been found in the bag of a waiter, who was promptly fired. The Baumsargs refused to press charges.

Octavio went down the porch steps of his house, the house he had grown up in, where he raised his own family, and yet the steps felt unfamiliar. He knew with certainty that nothing would ever be the same. Blood pounded in his head something fierce. If he didn’t know better, he would say that he was having a heart attack, but this was an attack of a more intimate kind. His brother Avelino clutched a broken-edged baseball bat. A cousin held a pipe. Octavio had seen nothing that dark night, but the air had felt menacing as it now did. An electrical charge brushed over his skin like the feel of fur. The memory of a broken female body on the ground was replaced by the standing form of Paz, in her beautiful, shining blue gown that matched the night, sparks coming off her hair from the paste diamonds.