Evidence of Things Not Seen (13 page)

I’ve probably got all this time-dimension stuff wrong. But I wonder what Tommy would say about that guy getting killed in the pull-out. Like did his life really end? I mean, Tara and her mom had her dad’s body cremated afterwards, so it seems like he’s dead. But what about that whole other life he had down near Houston, is that part of his life still going on because those people don’t know he’s dead? It’s weird, right?

Maybe people are saying Tommy went into another dimension because they don’t want to face the fact he might be dead. But death might not be so bad. One time he looked at one my landscapes and said, “Do you think there are dead things in there?” Trippy, right? So I said, “In my painting, no. In the forest. Yes.” I wanted to be very definite. Because, as I said, he was very literal. Anyway, he said something like death is different state of being. When I asked him what he meant, he said, “Death is happening all around us. It’s not an end. It’s another way of being.”

It’s true, isn’t it? Like right here at Little Creatures Daycare, there are probably organisms alive in my yogurt while I’m eating it. Who knows how many bugs the kids stepped on when we went outside for a nature walk this morning? And that outdoor faucet where we wash our hands after art? See how that water drips on those rocks? I know for a fact that green moldy stuff is alive and well down there and who knows what’s growing or drowning under it. Life. Death. They walk hand in hand.

I probably sound like I don’t care. I do. I went out to the Stillwell property and did every walk after he went missing. I’d go again if you had another search.

I look for Tommy all the time. Last week, I saw some of those buzzard-looking birds circling a field and I stopped my car. I walked maybe a half-mile into the field to see if it might be Tommy’s body. It wasn’t. It was a dead deer.

I felt funny walking into the field. I half wanted it to be Tommy so we could stop wondering where he is and I half didn’t because I want to keep hoping that he’ll come back. Knowing he’s dead, if that’s what’s happened, would be a relief for his parents so they can stop wondering and worrying and looking. But knowing would be so final.

One time there was this fly in the art room. It was buzzing and buzzing and bumping into the windows. It was driving me nuts. So I opened the window and kind of whacked at it to push it out the window, only I whacked at it too hard and it died. I felt kinda bad but Tommy said, “Don’t worry. In another reality, it’s still alive.”

You know, I bet that’s why he was so awkward with casual conversation. He was always thinking of another reality.

Oh, no way. You stopped at my house and my mom showed you my paintings? She wasn’t so sure about me being an artist but when I got accepted at some pretty big-deal art schools and Parsons offered me a lot of assistance, she stopped being worried for me and now she can’t stop showing off my paintings. I’m going to leave at the beginning of August. My whole family is driving me up. That’s why I decided to stay and work at Little Creatures this summer. Once I go to New York, I don’t know when I will be back.

Oh cool, you noticed them. Yeah, I started putting eyes in my paintings. Not in an obvious way. But subtly, so Tommy would know they were my paintings. Like someday, when my paintings sell all over the world, Tommy might be in someone’s home or maybe a gallery or a museum and he’d see a painting of mine with the eyes staring out at him and he’d remember back to this past year and he’d look to see if I was the artist. And when he knew it was me, it’d be like time traveling.

JULY 6 . TWO MONTHS MISSING

WATERMELONS

Jake pulls his truck deep into the northwest corner of the pull-out, angling it so the bed faces out to the highway but the cab is shaded by the only half-decent-sized live oak in this dirt patch. Slowly, he unlatches the tailgate, careful not to let any of the fifty or so watermelons he has piled up in the back come tumbling out. Once the gate is down and none of the melons do a kamikaze dive off the back, he plucks one from the top of the pile. It’s nearly a perfect oval, deep green all the way around the middle, fading to yellow where he’d snipped it off the vine a couple of hours before. Balancing it on his knee, Jake slaps it, listening for that hollow
thunk
to tell him the fruit is firm, not overripe. He reaches in his back pocket and slides out his single-blade knife. Flipping it open, Jake slices the watermelon in one smooth circular motion. Then he pulls the two halves apart so they spilt with a crisp crack.

The fruit at the center is bright red and fades to pink next to the white rind. No matter how ripe, watermelons always smell like cucumber right after the first cut. Then as soon as the juice dribbles onto his jeans or on his hand, the sugary sweet smell makes his mouth water. Sometimes farming could be pretty dang monotonous, but cutting into a fruit or vegetable, full-grown from one puny seed, never failed to amaze Jake.

He sets the two watermelon halves on top of the pile so they stare out at the highway. Then he pulls the melon sign from the passenger side of the cab and leans it up against the bed of the pickup truck. In a way, the sign is overkill. If folks driving by can’t figure out what he is selling in the back of his truck, they’re either from another planet or they probably aren’t looking to buy any watermelons. But it’s tradition.

When Jake was little, his mom took scrap plywood from around the farm and painted each piece white. Every crop had its own sign. She wrote
MELONS
or
TOMATOES
or
CORN
in black letters, big, across the top. Then Jake painted the fruit or vegetable at the bottom of the sign. Every spring, they’d freshen up the signs together. Now his little sisters, Jessica and June-Bug, are starting to add their artistic touches to the signs. Jake had noticed that the tomatoes looked suspiciously like hearts.

He can still see the faded dollar sign under the white paint and an unidentifiable number. His dad asked them to stop locking in the prices with paint many years before. That was back when his older brother, mom and dad would come to the pull-out and sell the produce together. Now, his brother’s off at college. His mom’s at home with his two little sisters and his dad manages their satellite farm sixty miles away.

Every Saturday, Jake asks his little sisters to come with him. They want to come, and Jake bet his mom he could keep them busy for six hours. After all, he and his brother did the whole six-hour stint when they were way younger than his eight- and six-year-old sisters. But his mom is freaked out about the murder last month and Tommy’s disappearance two months ago. In fact, she’s lobbying hard to sell produce someplace else. Jake’s pretty sure his dad will wait the worry out.

He looks around the pull-out. Funny how small it seems now. He used to race his brother end to end and it seemed like he’d never get to the other side. Now he circles the whole thing in a minute. Ever since he found Tommy Smythe’s dirt bike stashed under the cedars two months ago, Jake walks around the pull-out every Saturday. If the trash can is dumped over, he rights it and picks up trash, if there is any. Truth be told, he’s keeping an eye out for any signs of Tommy. He still feels bad that he didn’t go out and look for Tommy that very day he found the bike.

When he called the Smythes to tell them he’d found it, they drove out immediately. They said Tommy had been missing since school got out the day before. They were kind of freaked out. Mrs. Smythe thought they should leave the bike in case he came back. Mr. Smythe didn’t want the bike stolen. Jake didn’t think there was anything to worry about. It’d been less than a day. He told them Tommy was probably camped out somewhere on the Stillwell Ranch. Jake felt bad that he didn’t get more worried right away. It just seemed that a kid like Tommy might wander off, get distracted, and maybe lose his way for twenty-four hours. Now that he’s been missing for two months, Jake wishes he’d driven his truck out in the field to look for him right then. He could have. They could have climbed in his truck and driven the ranch together. Instead, he helped the Smythes load Tommy’s bike in their car and watched while Mr. Smythe called Sheriff Caldwell on his cell. Mrs. Smythe sat in the car crying.

The more Jake thinks about how he didn’t jump in the truck and look for Tommy, the worse he feels. He hates how he waits around for things to happen. If that had been his brother or little sisters, Jake hopes he would have done it differently. At least he showed up for every search that Sheriff Caldwell organized.

Jake didn’t really know Tommy. He knew who he was. He seemed like a mini-genius but kind of odd, especially the way he would sit and stare at things, even people. He’d seen him drive by on that red dirt bike. Fast. Then he’d stop. Like almost in the middle of the road and stare. Jake couldn’t tell if Tommy was staring at him or particles in the air. Something. He was a strange kid. Still, he shouldn’t have hesitated. Ever since that Saturday, Jake keeps watching out for Tommy. Sometimes Jake really hopes Tommy will show up. Mostly he hopes Tommy will show up so he can stop feeling guilty about not looking right away.

Jake glances at his watch. Ten thirty. He probably has an hour before his first customers show up. Every fruit and vegetable has a best selling time. Watermelons sell better after noon. Cucumbers and tomatoes sell better in the morning. He’s tried to convince his dad of this phenomenon but he won’t have it. “Jake, we need to be there the same time every Saturday. Ten to four. Consistency is the key.” Jake doesn’t argue but he makes sure to tell his dad whenever his theory proves correct.

Today, it looks like he could get a little nap before his first customer. Jake walks back to the cab and climbs into the passenger side. He leans back and stretches his legs out so they rest on the door hinge. To someone driving by, this probably looks like the quintessential Texas scene. A pickup full of watermelons and some farmer in blue jeans with his boots hitched over the door. A photographer might slam on the brakes and take a picture thinking he’s capturing the essence of Texas. He’d have no idea that this particular farmer is a high school graduate who isn’t sure he wants to be a farmer.

Problem is, farming is all Jake knows. That’s what the Travers family is famous for: fruits and vegetables in the spring, summer, and fall; pies and canned goods in the winter. His brother went to A&M to study agriculture so he can join the family business. But Jake isn’t sure. He feels stuck. He graduated from high school but he doesn’t know what he wants to do. It seems like everyone else has a plan. His counselor made him apply to Shreiner, the liberal arts college about forty-five minutes away. He got in. He claimed his spot for the fall but he still isn’t sure he wants to go. Shouldn’t he know what he wants to study before he goes? Or maybe he should go and figure it out.

One of the cool things about farming is the seed knows exactly what it’s going to be. Yeah, Jake has to water and weed it, and worry about cold snaps and droughts, but if everything goes according plan, that tomato seed produces a bunch of tomatoes. There’s no uncertainty or wondering. The seed doesn’t have to figure out what it wants.

Honk. Honk.
“Yo, Jake!”

Jake opens his eyes and looks at the car next to him. Four yahoos from Fred High, crammed into a maroon Trans Am, pull up next to him.

The driver leans out his window. “Hey, Jake, how much will you charge us for four watermelons?”

Jake unhooks his legs from the door and stands up but they’re dead asleep. He leans back on the seat until the blood rushes into his legs. “Twenty bucks.”

“Five bucks a melon? How much if I buy one?”

“Five bucks.”

“Aww, man. Come on.”

As soon as his legs stops tingling, Jake walks over to the Trans Am. He recognizes the driver. His dad owns Clark’s Salvage Yard. What’s his name? Oh yeah, Alvin. He glances in at the others. He only recognizes the Mexican kid in the back. Nando. His dad Enrique helps on the farm a lot. Nando nods at Jake but doesn’t say anything. Jake knows the nod. High school code for knowing someone but not really acknowledging that you know him.

“You can’t be asking for discounts at the beginning of the day, Alvin. Come back at four. I might sell you the whole bed for twenty bucks.”

“Fuck, yeah!” Alvin high-fives the kid in the passenger seat.

“I
might.
Probably won’t. But I’ll definitely give you a discount. What do you want with four watermelons anyway? A circle jerk?”

“Whoa! Does that even work?” asks Alvin.

“Cost you twenty bucks to find out.”

“Seriously, man. I’m asking. Have you ever done it?” Alvin’s eyes shift from Jake to the watermelons. It looks like he’s trying to assess whether or not Jake is pulling his leg or if it is, in fact, possible to plunge his dick into the guts of a watermelon.

Jake smiles. “I highly recommend it. Seedless is better. You can scratch the shit out of yourself on those seeds.”

“Are those seedless?” Alvin asks.

“Mostly.”

Alvin looks at the other guys. They’re all listening. “Well, like how do you do it?”