I looked out across the bay, waiting for the frustration to pass. The water was dark and gray and dirty looking. Red sludge? Probably. I looked over at Jack; he was waiting for me to say something. It was hard for me to speak. "Okay, I never had the chance to say good-bye to her. At least, my dad and I . . . well, that was complete. But . . .
"I was right. Yeh haven't done your cryin', have yeh?"
I glowered up at him. "Go fuck yourself. Leave me alone."
I levered myself back to my feet and strode off away, just to be alone for a while. Just to cool off for a minute.
Dove came pushing through the dry brush and made ticktocking noises at me.
"I don't understand that talk, Dove. Why can't you speak in English?"
Dove looked hurt and retreated quickly, and I felt like an even bigger asshole than I already was. That's right. Take it out on the kid.
Except-everything Jack Balaban had said was right. I had abandoned her when she needed me the most, the same way I'd abandoned everybody else when they needed me. That was the pattern of my life. Get close, get close enough to hurt-and then betray.
But always make sure that you have a good reason first. A good reason always lets you off the hook.
The funny thing was that I couldn't cry.
I couldn't cry because I couldn't remember her. I couldn't remember her face.
What I kept seeing was the enigmatic smile of that Japanese fellow at dinner that night. I kept seeing the smarmy greediness of the man she was sleeping with, Alan Wise, or whatever his name had been. I remember wondering about worms in Santa Cruz. I remembered everything except why I should care.
All I could remember were all the things I resented: the time she did this to me, the time she did that. I was glad to be free of her. No. Jack Balaban was a stupid old Welshman, who made noises to children. How could I be mourning someone I was so angry with?
Damn.
I pushed through the brush, in the direction Dove had come from.
I'd called Dr. Davidson in Atlanta once. He'd actually answered his own phone. I'd wanted to ask him a question. "Is it possible to grieve for a whole planet?"
He hadn't said yes, he hadn't said no. What he'd said was, "You don't think it's possible, that's why you're asking." And I'd had to admit that was the truth.
"Jim," he'd said. "The Earth is a part of you; the cool green hills of Earth are a part of all of us, and they always will be. We haven't lost them. We just have to look for them in our hearts for a while, and hold them there as a vision of what once was."
"And will someday be again," I added. Dr. Davidson didn't respond to that. "You don't agree?"
"I don't know." There was something about the way he said it. Flat. Unemotionally. He really didn't know. It was chilling. The voice I depended on for answers didn't have all the answers.
"If we can't grieve for a whole planet," I said, "how do we do our grieving?"
"A piece at a time," said Dr. Davidson. "You can't do everything at once. Do it one part at a time. Grieve for the great elephants. Grieve for the verdant grass. Grieve for the shining dolphins and the laughing otters and the dusty grasshoppers. Cry for the golden butterflies and the fat wrinkled walruses and the silly-looking duck-billed platypuses. Weep for the red roses and the tall ficus and the sprawling green ivy. Sorrow for the highflying eagles. Even the scuttling scorpions and the ugly-tough crabgrass and all the tiny diatoms. Grieve for the purple mountains and the silent icebergs and the deep blue rivers. Grieve for them all, one piece at a time, one day at a time. And in your grief, let them live in your heart.
"Yes, miss them-but in your sorrow, also cherish them." It made sense. Of a sort.
At least it was a way to continue. But . . . my mother.
I couldn't grieve, because I couldn't forgive.
And I couldn't forgive her because I couldn't forgive myself. For Jason.
I was the person my mother used to warn me about. She would have to forgive me first before I could forgive her. And she couldn't do that, because she was dead.
So I couldn't cry.
I could only be angry.
I was staring at what I was seeing without seeing it at all. And suddenly, Dove's tick-tocking noises made sense. He had been imitating the sound of footsteps.
There were footprints here in the soft dirt. Cleated footprints. Neither of the boys, and neither Jack nor I, were wearing cleats on our shoes.
In fact, I couldn't think of anybody who wore cleats. Strangers had been prowling the base of the peninsula. I forgot about my mother.
She was going to have to wait until I had the time for her. Again.
40
"This is as safe as it gets."
"No man is an island, but some of us are pretty good peninsulas."
-SOLOMON SHORT
"Make it quick, Jim," B-jay said. "I've got enough problems already. We've got kids missing again. I'm afraid that they're going feral on us. You're going to have to put off finishing your fence. I want you in the search party."
I shook my head. "Joey Donavan's been missing over a week. That's not feral, that's something worse."
"We've had this conversation before, Jim. I'm tired of hearing about Chtorrans . . ."
"B-Jay, listen to me! There are renegades in the hills and they're scouting Family."
I told her about the footprints, and the boy in the hills. "I should have realized it before. They use children as scouts. B-Jay, I've got to have some help finishing the fence. You've got to call Santa Cruz for military protection."
"I am not going to put myself under the authority of the military government, dammit! I fought too hard to get out from under their thumb."
"Don't be stupid! We have no defenses here. We have two hundred kids and less than twenty adults. A truly determined assault will devastate this place. They could be on us tomorrow. Or tonight!"
B-Jay pushed a hand back through her hair. "Jim," she said. "I've heard the speech. You've got your fences. There isn't anything else you can do and there isn't anything new you can tell me."
"Do you know how renegades use children?"
She held up a hand. "Spare me the horror stories. I have an imagination. Jim, you've spent the last two weeks putting up those damned dangerous fences. Now, you're telling me they're not going to work?"
"Those fences will stop worms. They won't stop truly determined renegades."
"Jim, stop it!" Betty-John screamed at me. Her face was red. "I am sick and fucking tired of your Chtorran paranoia! So is everybody else! We've got children missing and you want to arm for war! Give the rest of us some credit too! Let us be right once in a while!"
"Okay, be right!" I shouted right back. "But you'll end up just as dead as if you're wrong! You're living in a dream world! You don't know what's out there!"
"And you do?"
"Yes, dammit, I do!" I was screaming in her face. "Christ, B-Jay, I'm trying to save lives!"
"So am I!"
For a moment, we both just stared at each other, both breathing hard and glaring angrily, neither backing down, neither willing to concede an inch.
Betty-John spoke first. "I have done everything I can for you, Jim. I really have. I went out on a limb for you, so you could build those worm fences, even though you're the only one who seems to think we need them. Nobody else does. We've never been attacked here, we've never even seen a Chtorran in this district. This is one of the safest counties in California. But not a day goes by that you don't worry about Chtorrans and renegades. Considering your history, Jim, don't you think that's a little, um . . . derivative? Symptomatic?"