The Lemon Orchard (11 page)

But all he had to do was call, and Julia would come over or invite him to the Casa. It was lovely, the way he imagined it might be if he and Graciaela had a grown daughter. Today was gray and quite chilly. It called for a wood fire, which he built himself—the legacy of his New Hampshire boyhood. He’d called to ask Julia what she was doing, and she said she was in the midst of a project.

“How industrious!” he said.

“It is, sort of,” she said.

“You intellectuals,” he said. “Why don’t you come over here and work on it? It will make me feel so smart just to watch you.”

She’d laughed and said she’d be right over.

Julia brought her laptop and a stack of books and maps and set herself up in his study. The fire crackled on the hearth. Bonnie lay in canine bliss staring at shapes in the flames. Perhaps she imagined they were badgers to chase through the woods. Lion saw the same licks of fire and imagined they were his enemies in hell, all the actors who’d gotten the roles and awards that should rightfully have been his.

He sighed happily.

“What are you thinking?” Julia asked.

“Nothing. Just evil things.”

She smiled and went back to her laptop, clicking away on the keyboard. He set out the backgammon board and she didn’t even look up.

“You’re not even slightly curious about the wicked thoughts rattling around in my head?”

“Do you want to tell me?” she asked, leaning on her elbows and finally giving him some attention.

“Yes. I am remorseless. I’m filled with resentment for everyone who has more than I, and I imagine terrible things happening to them.”

“Who has more than you, Lion?” she asked kindly, and he could tell she meant it. He felt a twinge of shame.

“Oh, darling, don’t listen to me. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

“Material things don’t make you happy,” she said. “Right?”

“Right. And what are those awards”—he cast a glance toward the mantel, where his one Oscar, several Golden Globes, and one Palme d’Or stood amid framed photos of various leading ladies—“but objects that will outlive all of us?”

“Why are you so blue, Lion?”

“I didn’t think I was,” he said. “Having you here makes me happy. But I suppose it also reminds me of who I am missing.”

“Shall we say her name?”

“No,” he said. “Let me maintain the fiction that you suspect nothing. But we can toast her.” He raised his vodka and she raised her coffee and they drank to Graciela.

“Love in any form is still love,” Julia said.

Sometimes she surprised him. He knew of her deep grief, had seen it pouring off her skin, and realized she had closed her heart to all but family and the closest friends. But then she could say something like that.

“What are you doing there?” he asked, gesturing at her books and laptop.

“Revisiting some old research, mainly. Remember the year Jenny and I went to the desert in Mexico?”

“Of course. Your uncle was very proud of you, getting your master’s. I was worried about scorpions crawling into your sleeping bags.”

Julia laughed.

“Are you writing an article?”

“No, I’m mainly remembering what it was like to be in the Sonoran Desert. Retracing my steps, in a way.”

“Hm,” Lion said, watching her go back to work. Retracing one’s steps—he was familiar with that activity. Only he called it obsession. Well, that might be overly dramatic, but he did find himself reliving moments spent with Graciela. If he closed his eyes, could he feel Graciela beside him? Could he touch her face, kiss her throat? Could he hear her whisper, “Why can’t humans be allotted two great loves in the same moment, at the same time?”

“Oh Lord,” he said out loud, causing Julia to glance up in surprise. She smiled, as if she knew he was dreaming. The truth was, he felt sick of Graciela’s poetic words about two great loves. John and Lion, he got it. But he wanted to be her one and only—he always had. He didn’t feel her presence, couldn’t hear her voice, couldn’t laugh with her.

He wondered why Julia was reliving old days in the Mexican desert. Did re-creating those weeks of research somehow bring Jenny back? Lion stared at her, bent in concentration over the computer screen, and knew they were survivors on the same ship—floating on the open sea without the people they loved most.

Julia

Halloween passed, and Julia felt relieved. She’d had to steel herself for the day itself. Jenny had always loved Halloween, and in the last years of her life had taken to hanging tiny ghosts made from cut-up worn white pillowcases from the dead elm in the middle of her meadow.

Malibu seemed festive and celebrated the holiday with many lights and decorations on houses all along the Pacific Coast Highway, and in the Malibu Country Mart, and with tons of pumpkins piled around the Feed Bin at the foot of Topanga Canyon. Julia stocked up on candy, but no trick-or-treaters made their way up the long driveway to Casa Riley.

The weather had been chilly for about a week, but now the sun was beaming again, every day in the mid-eighties. Julia received a letter from John saying how much he enjoyed being in Ireland during the fall; the cold rain was inspiring him to stay in the library and write. She also received a letter—not just an email—from Chris Barton.

She had written to him about Roberto and Rosa, told him all she knew so far, and asked if he had any ideas on who might have information about a migrant child who had been lost in the desert.

Dear Julia,

What a pleasure to hear from you after all this time. I keep waiting to see your application for an associate position in the department, but so far no go. Sorry for taking so long to get back to you. I’ve gone from the desert to the jungle, and electronics are no more workable here than they were in Sonora. In a sense I’m backtracking from our expedition, into Mayan culture and various expansions, but this isn’t a scholarly paper, so we’ll leave that for now.

There are a few places you can try in your search for Rosa. I’m sorry, but the first is obvious: the Pima County Medical Examiner’s Office. Assuming your migrants crossed west of Nogales, Arizona, the desert is brutal and takes more lives than it spares. The morgue has a terrible backlog, but I’m sure would be helpful if you could provide the right information.

Five years have passed—a long time not to hear news of the child, if indeed she survived. If she had, her father’s illegal status would make it difficult, if not impossible, for the authorities to contact him.

Knowing the name of the Border Patrol agent who detained Roberto and went to look for Rosa is helpful. He will have records of that search, and may be willing to share them with you. I would try him, or his supervisor, and see what you can come up with.

Another option—it might sound more hopeful but is not necessarily—would be the Reunion Project. It is located in La Jolla, California, and I highly recommend you visit my colleague there—Dr. Juan Rios. He is an applied anthropologist who went into forensics after so many migrants began dying in the desert and mountains. He gathers data from morgues, Border Patrol alerts, and individuals looking for information about family members or friends. His goal is to bring people together—alive if possible, but if not, and more often, so they can bury the remains of their loved ones.

I hope this helps.

Maxine is back in Connecticut right now but will be joining me for the holidays. I’m sure it’s a long shot, but if you find yourself hankering to lay your eyes on a seventh-century Mayan tomb, come down and see us. The kids will be here, too. You’ll never believe it, but Henry is working with me. Remember how bored he was eleven years ago? I’ll never forget Jenny getting him to scratch out a petroglyph in her rock collection—he drew an eagle, and was quite happy. The only time we really saw him enjoy himself that summer—he was dead set on making us regret bringing him along. He finished Harvard last spring and is taking a year to decide what’s next.

Anyway. Call Juan—I’ll write him and tell him to be expecting you.

Fond regards,

Chris

She followed Chris’s advice and sent an email to Juan Rios. She also reached out to the U.S. Border Patrol, asked for Jack Leary, and was told that he had retired. She decided to wait until she heard back from Dr. Rios before talking to Roberto again.

They always waved and called hello, had short conversations about the weather or Bonnie or the property. During the cold week, she’d seen him in a heavy jacket, walking through the orchard to check every tree. He would stand at the base, laying his hand on the trunk, gazing up into the branches as if looking at each leaf, each lemon.

They hadn’t had frost, but she remembered from childhood that citrus was sensitive, and she knew he was monitoring the fruit for possible damage. He made his survey each morning after dawn and each night just at twilight, so she got used to seeing him striding through the orchard, touching each tree as if greeting an old friend, making sure all was well.

A six-foot-high stone wall surrounding the pump had mysteriously cracked along the base. Perhaps there had been an earthquake that Julia hadn’t felt, or maybe the concrete was just old. One morning in early November, when the sun was hot again, she walked Bonnie along the coast path and heard the whir of a power saw.

Heading in the direction of the noise, she saw that Roberto was building a wooden frame to prop up the wall. He had constructed the brace to rest firmly on the ground, with lengths of two-by-fours angled up to the wall’s top. When he finished nailing the last board, he wiped his forehead with a bandanna and turned to the masonry tools he’d set out.

She crouched in the shade with Bonnie, petting her fur and thinking of Jenny. Jenny had always helped untangle the burrs and twigs caught in Bonnie’s lovely, lush coat. Sitting quietly, Julia worked out some of the brambles while Bonnie panted contentedly beside her. They watched Roberto work alone; she wondered where Serapio and the others were.

He was tall with broad shoulders that filled his white T-shirt, and his close-cropped hair and beard looked almost black in the bright light. He worked steadily, stopping to appraise what he had done so far, testing the wooden supports to make sure they would hold, examining the wall itself.

Julia liked sitting there, watching him. Now he was mixing the concrete, pouring sand and cement from burlap bags into the mortar box, directing the garden hose, the water a silver arc pouring into the mixture. The heady smell of lemons surrounded her. Holding Bonnie close was like hugging Jenny. She thought of all the threads stitching everyone together, the inquiries she had put out, feeling as if Jenny were guiding her to find Rosa.

The light shifted—the sun rising higher over the eastern mountains—and the shade disappeared. Roberto glanced over, saw Julia and Bonnie reclined in the grass thirty yards away. He waved and Bonnie took it as an invitation—she went bounding over, and Julia followed.

“Hi there,” she said, walking over. “We were just feeling very lazy, watching you work so hard.”

“Not so hard,” he said, laughing. “La, Julia . . .”

“Where are the other guys?”

“Serapio’s mother is sick, so he is with her today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is it serious?”

“I hope not,” Roberto said. “She had a heart attack in August. They worry about her.”

“I can understand,” Julia said. “She lives in L.A.?”

“East L.A., like Serapio, like me. They have a big family, and the children take turns staying with her. Today is Serapio’s turn.”

“What about your other helpers?” she asked. “This looks like a big job.”

“I didn’t go to find day laborers, because I want to fix the wall myself.” He smiled. “I caused the damage, I repair it.”

“You caused it?”

“On Monday,” he said. “The pump broke down, and while I was fixing it, I smashed right into the wall with some copper pipe.”

“It could have fallen on you!” she said.

“I’m too fast,” he said, smiling.

“That’s good,” she said.

“Anyway, it’s still standing. The crack isn’t too bad, but I want to fix it before it gets worse.”

“I’m sure you’ll do a great job,” she said. “I’ll let you get to it.”

He hesitated. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Bonnie and I love it here. We never want to leave.”

“I hope you don’t,” he said.

His remark surprised her, filled her with unexpected joy. She couldn’t disguise her feelings and felt the blush spreading across her face. It was odd; they existed nearly side by side at Casa Riley, and they were connected by their daughters, but beyond that she had no idea of how he felt about her.

“Really?” she asked.

He nodded, taking a step toward her. He stared at her, his eyes golden brown in the sun, and for a minute she felt he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. He reached up as if to touch her face, then noticed his hands were gritty with cement. They both laughed nervously.

“I’d better let you get back to work,” she said. “Before the mortar dries.”

“Yes, good idea,” he said.

“See you later,” she said, starting to walk away. Bonnie lingered, as if she didn’t want to leave him.

“Julia, I have a question,” he said. She turned back, saw him standing especially tall.

“Oh,” she said. “Sure, what is it?”

“Do you like Mexican food?”

“I love it.”

“Would you ever have dinner with me?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “That would be wonderful.”

Roberto

When he woke up that morning, if someone had told him he would be having dinner with Julia that night, he would have called him a liar. He barely knew what had come over him—he thought of her all the time, dreamed of her at night, but the difference between imagination and reality was huge. Yet she had said yes, and in a few minutes they’d be leaving the Casa.