The Owl & Moon Cafe: A Novel (No Series) (25 page)

When everyone had been through the barn Sally came back, leading her horse, then taking off his bridle and penning him in the corral. “Way mega fun,” she said, her smile wide. “The only thing that would have been better would have been if it had been actual dookey. It was bad luck the gardener picked up Cal’s poop today. Oh well, there’s always next year.”

Lindsay gasped. “Are you serious? You’re lucky everything turned out the way it did.” She rubbed her chest. “Now I know what it feels like to have a heart attack.”

But Sally was already on to something else. “Come on, let’s go eat cupcakes before Taylor licks off all the frosting. We still have to trick or treat with Savannah.”

Orgasm could be defined in several ways. First was clinical: sexual stimulation, engorgement, then the orgasm proper, consisting of muscle spasms that allowed pleasurable waves to move through various parts of the body. Mariah lay there dazed, thinking of the others. Metaphorically, the earth moved. Euphemistically, the squirrel got his nut. Colloquially, you were “coming,” or if you were from Scotland, you were “going,” she learned, as the words issued forth from Fergus’s mouth. What the hell. Everyone was happy, including Theodora, who had finally settled down on her cushion and tucked her head under the blanket.

So it felt great, but why did it make her want to say “I love you”? She remembered blurting out those words to Ephraim all those years ago, at a moment exactly like this. He’d inched away from her on the excuse that he needed a drink of water. This time she held her tongue. Fergus, on the other hand, couldn’t stop smiling, and complimenting her in a more and more pronounced brogue. Mariah touched his face, the whiskers having had all day to grow. He wasn’t handsome, he was rugged. His eyes were movie star quality, but the rest of him had been shaped by genetics and environment. Fergus Applecross was his own particular invention, and he was here with her, basking in the afterglow like a plant turning to the sun.

“Mariah Moon,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for the most memorable Halloween a lad can hope for.”

“You’re welcome.”

She turned in his arms until her left hand connected with his shoulder. Likewise, her left leg eased over his, and last she nuzzled his chest, a mass of wiry hair that tickled her nose. “Think your dog will forgive us by morning?”

“Most decidedly. Empty stomach trumps betrayal every time.”

Oh, God. I love him, she told herself. How is it possible that a person I misunderstand half the time can touch my flesh and give me an orgasm and my brain flies out the porthole? I’ve studied this stuff. I know what sex does to people. A decent sociologist would say that poor girl, she cannot separate sex from love. Say that’s true. Say we have a dozen orgasms, or fifty, and I still feel like I love him.

So long as I keep it to myself, what’s the harm?

“I
S THIS DISGUSTING OR WHAT
?” Sally said as she peeled crushed candy corn from the patio flagstone Thursday morning after the Halloween party. Then she stepped in gum, lost her footing, and stubbed her toe. She yelled the F-word, and Lindsay waited for Sally’s mom to render her latest punishment.

When there was no reply from the house, Lindsay said, “You’re lucky your mom didn’t hear you. You can’t get in any kind of trouble until our project’s done.”

Sally rubbed her toe. “So? Neither can you.”

“I don’t get in trouble because I don’t swear.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Crikey, Lindsay, who cares? If either one of us gets into trouble, we’re both screwed.”

Lindsay had a headache from not enough sleep due to eating a giant Hershey bar, which kept her awake most of the night. Savannah had made them trick or treat practically every house in Carmel-by-

the-Sea and then carry home her loot. “Let’s just finish.”

The sooner they were done, the sooner they could get to Charlie and company. It was time to harvest the first plants, and Gregorio had told them how cutting and drying the plants correctly was essential to producing a crop. Every time they went to the greenhouse, Lindsay’s stomach hurt so badly she could barely breathe. She knew they were going to get caught. It was only a matter of time. It might even be today.

“Finally!” Sally said, throwing the last smashed cupcake into the trash can. “I should get paid for this,” she told her mother, who had wheeled out to serve them breakfast, which was juice, toast, and tofu scramble.

“It’s you who ought to be paying me,” she said. “Particularly after that peanut butter stunt. Mrs. Foster-Lewis gave me an earful this morning. She didn’t back down until I offered to pay for Taylor’s therapy.”

“Mom,” Sally said, grabbing her around the shoulders. “You rock! But where’s the bacon? The real eggs?”

“Still inside the chicken and the pig. Your friend doesn’t like meat, and since she’s our guest, we should pay a little attention to what she likes. It won’t kill you to eat tofu once in a while. Bring your dishes inside when you’re finished.” She wheeled herself across the deck into the house.

“Eat fast,” Sally said. “We have work to do. Your mom’s going to be here pretty soon.”

From the cloying smell in the greenhouse, Lindsay could tell it was time to change the activated charcoal filter. She kept note of the scent variations in her lab book. During the first weeks of the growing experiment, the plants had a newly cut grass smell. As they grew, they took on a skunky odor, reminding her of rare summer nights when there was no wind. Now the thick resiny odor coated everything, including their gloves and hair. For this reason, she and Sally had changed into overalls and rain boots, and tucked their hair into shower caps.

“I can’t believe how stupid I look in this shower cap,” Sally said as they checked each numbered plant against their logbook.

“Try thinking how you’d look in a prison jumpsuit,” Lindsay reminded her.

“Omigod,” Sally said. “I’m so nervous. What do we do first? Cut the leaves off, or hang the plant upside down on the fishing line?”

“What we do is we go over the list again,” Lindsay said. “This is our one chance at harvest if we’re going to be ready for Science Fair. We can’t make a single mistake.”

Sally grimaced. “My gut is killing me! What did my mom put in that tofu, Ex-lax? Please tell me you brought your Pepcid with you.”

Lindsay put her hand in her pocket and fished around. “Sorry. It’s in your room in my backpack. Where’s the list?”

Gregorio printed so neatly Lindsay wished she could copy his style:

1. Have the fan leaves turned yellow?
   
2. Has the smell reached its peak?
   
3. Has the plant stopped producing resin and crystals?
   
4. Has the bud mass stopped increasing?
   

The answer to all the questions was yes on seven of the fifteen plants. They unfolded the canvas and set it on the gravel floor so they’d be able to lay the cut plants on top and not lose anything. The project could win them a scholarship. The evidence could get them expelled. Lindsay handed Sally the tree saw.

“Here goes,” Sally said, and began to hack at the first woody trunk.

The leaves trembled, and Lindsay wondered if plants felt pain. If so, how depressing to be a dandelion. She reminded herself this was all for Allegra. She wanted to put her gloved hands out to catch anything that might fall so they wouldn’t lose even one leaf that could be made into organic medicine to help Allegra feel better enough to eat. After they finished, they’d transfer the canvas to the shelf made of wooden slats and begin the pruning. To see which method yielded the strongest crop, they planned a wet manicure as well as a dry one.

A wet manicure involved immediate cutting, trimming away the fan leaves—the outer leaves—which you kept. The advantages were less resin to deal with, but careless cuts could harm the bud. With the dry manicure, you only trimmed the fan leaves, and then did the remainder of the cuts when the plant was dry. The harvested plants needed to hang upside down in a dark utility cupboard until curing.

“We should get a lock for the drying cupboard,” Lindsay said.

“Why?”

“So no one can get in.”

“This cupboard looks like nine million other cabinets in all the greenhouses,” Sally said. “The floor’s gravel, which means my mom won’t come in here. It’d wreck her wheelchair.”

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.” Lindsay studied the first plant. Useful parts went into one pile. Throwaway stuff would be carted down to the compost heap. The last time she had begged Gregorio to do the cutting, he refused.
You can do it, chica,
he said. They’d used Lindsay’s tip money to buy new manicure scissors, eighteen bucks, which seemed like a lot until they found a pair designed for harvesting pot on the internet that cost $500. They had sterile glass canning jars with rubber washers and pull-down lids. Curing was essential for chlorophyll breakdown, which had magnesium in it. Magnesium was responsible for the harsh taste of smoke, so you wanted that out of there as much as possible. A gallon of rubbing alcohol would be enough to cut the accumulating resin, which really did stick to everything, Lindsay discovered as she scratched her nose and felt some sticky goo. There were so many ways to be found out.

Lindsay had completed one wet manicure and Sally was still cutting the second when they heard the horn honk, and someone call out her name.

“Damn!” Sally said. “The one time your mom’s early!”

“Sorry,” Lindsay said, and hurried out of her overalls and back into her sweats, which she’d stowed in a plastic bag. She had just toed her feet into her untied tennis shoes when the door to the greenhouse swung open. Her back was to the door, and she felt her heart stop while she waited for the worst. But it wasn’t her mother who came in, it was Taylor Foster.

“I left my stuffed dog at your stupid party—” she started to say, but stopped when she saw what Sally was doing. “Did I tell you my cousin’s a cop?”

In the background, Lindsay heard her mother’s voice calling. She really was here early. “Sally,” she whispered. “What do we do?”

“Just go,” Sally said, dropping the plant and whispering in her ear. “Act like you don’t know anything. I’ll take care of Taylor. Now run.”

Lindsay slid by Taylor and raced down the gravel path until she came to the corral where her mother stood petting Soul Man. “Hi there,” she said, smiling. “Isn’t this a beautiful horse?”

“I guess,” Lindsay said, panting. Her mom had never mentioned liking horses before. “Sally wins ribbons riding him.”

Her mother was smiling like she’d gotten her teaching job back. She pulled her car keys from her pocket and twirled them around. “Hey, I saw your other friend run down to meet you. What’s her name?”

“Taylor.”

“She’s cute. Linds, I’m so glad you’re making friends. Did you have fun at the party?”

Lindsay found it gross that her mother couldn’t stop smiling. “It was all right.”

“Great.” She kissed her on the top of her head. “Hey, you smell funky. What have you two been up to?”

“Making a compost heap,” Lindsay said. It wasn’t a total lie. After this morning, all their hard work just might end up there. She wished they could throw Taylor Foster into it. Just bury her in coffee grounds and eggshells and let the worms work her over.

At the café, everybody seemed to be in a good mood except Gammy. She was dressed in her navy blue slacks and the red sweater with the sailboat on it. For accessories, she wore her silver bangle bracelets. Each time she poured a coffee refill, the rattling made Lindsay think of prison bars clanking shut. They put kids in jail now. Tried them like adults.

Just like every day, people were impatient and crowded the counter, but Gammy’s responses were stern and clipped. She’d put up the Thanksgiving decorations—the cornucopia and the pumpkins in the window—by herself. Had Sally’s mom called and told Gammy about the pot? Ogodogodogod, she prayed. If I have to get busted, please let it be Allegra who finds out. She’ll talk my mom out of sending me to Wilderness Camp. Lindsay thought about calling Dr. G, but there were so many customers waiting for orders it was out of the question.

After the lunch rush, Gammy went upstairs to lie down. Lindsay waited tables for an hour, trying to concentrate, but she worried about what was going on at Sally’s so much she was sick to her stomach.

“Hey, you,” Mr. Cashin said as Lindsay made a pass with the coffeepot. “How about a smile with your service, girlie?”

Lindsay stretched her lips over her teeth. “How’s that?”

“Better,” he said. “How about a refill while you’re at it?”

She knew it was mean to fill his cup all the way to the brim, that when he lifted it he’d spill a little, but the fifty-cent tip he’d leave just wasn’t enough to make up for his bossing her around. When she served her last order, Lindsay went into the restroom to throw up. On her knees, she tried to time barfing with the flush of the toilet so no one would hear. This time, besides the tofu, there was black stuff. Little grains and some clumps. It looked like pepper, or coffee grounds, but she didn’t drink coffee. Then it hit her. Omigod, was it resin? Had the cannabis resin gone into her nose and traveled down to her stomach? Who could she ask besides Sally? She heard Carl Sagan say, Occam’s Razor. Begin there, and work outward.

“Mom, where’s Allegra?” Lindsay asked when it was almost closing time.

“I don’t know. If you’re done bussing tables, Simon could use a hand.”

“All right.” Lindsay walked into the kitchen only to find Simon holding a screwdriver above the dishwasher.

“It’s official,” he said. “Time of death, four-oh-five
PM
.”

“What happened?”

“I’m pretty sure your great-grandmother scared it to death.”

Lindsay’s hands felt small inside the yellow rubber gloves. She scrubbed and rinsed and Simon dried.

Suddenly it was all too much—Carl Sagan’s voice in her head, her mom singing songs, Gammy angry, having to buy an expensive dishwasher, her black throw up, Sally back there in the greenhouse alone with Taylor Foster, not to mention Allegra and the insurance company and how much her pills cost. Lindsay would have given
Dragons of Eden
to the thrift store if it meant she could undo the events of this day. Oh, God, what if this was what it meant to be a grown-up? That life became harder and harder and eventually you were so weighted down with worry you never smiled anymore. It sure explained all the antacid commercials on television.