I’m doing this for you, sister, he thinks. Doing this for you.
He places the logs upright, gets them close to level, then confronts the next monster. He thinks he can clean and jerk it into the wheelbarrow, and he sees that it will have to land dead center or the implement will flip over. He guesses the log at eighty pounds. He tells himself the log is none other than Sgt. Bill Furlong. Stoops, wrestles it up, and — all legs and arms now — takes two steps, drops it over the edge, and in.
With its heavy cargo the wheelbarrow tries to take off downhill, but Matt hangs on, gets it into a slalom like a downhill racer, left and right and left and right down the driveway, leaning back to brake, the log bouncing against the steel like it’s trying to jump out.
But he gets there, delivering his prize just a few feet from his target, and wrenching it into place beside the first big section.
He stands in something like victory, heart pounding throughout his body.
Sun beginning to break through.
Thinks: You can do this, you can do it. Sees his next four logs waiting for him in a fragrant heap just a few yards away.
Loads and goes.
By seven he’s moving slower, but there have been no disasters. Five round trips so far and twenty-five logs in place. The wheelbarrow is a godsend. So are his leather gloves. His sweat-drenched work shirt has been mauled by the big logs, and his stomach and ribs are abraded and on their way to raw. But, looking down from the top, he’s proud.
He turns to see Sara Eikenberg coming down the walkway from the house, swinging what looks like a wicker picnic basket. White shorts and a brown top and flip-flops.
“Good morning, Matt!”
“Sara!”
“You look exhausted.”
“You look evolved.”
“Aren’t you the funny one. I brought you some breakfast.”
Matt upends a big log for her and one for himself, and another between them for a table. He knows he smells of eucalyptus and sweat but doesn’t care. Sara’s perfume is spicy but rich. Her halter is dark chocolate brown like her eyes.
“I only have five minutes,” he says.
“That’s too bad.”
She opens the basket, sets out two foil-wrapped items that smell like bacon and eggs, two bottles of orange juice and two bananas. Napkins with little sailboats on them.
His bacon and egg sandwich goes fast. Banana too, then the orange juice for energy.
She’s squinting at him in that way of hers, like she’s not sure if she approves of him. Her hair is wavy and corn-colored, strands bleached by the sun.
“You give me odd looks,” she says.
He wads and drops his napkin into the basket. “Sorry. But you kind of remind me of my sister, and when I think of her the situation just seems hopeless.”
He can’t believe he’s said this. He knows his hope of finding Jasmine has been weakening by the day, but he hasn’t admitted it out loud until now. Just yesterday he thought he’d be relieved when this endless, clueless searching for her was over. The knocking on doors for nothing. The disappointment. Which made him feel traitorous and ashamed and angry at himself. And he’s angry again, right now, for eating breakfast with a pretty girl who’s not even his girlfriend — if he really has a girlfriend — when he could be searching for Jazz.
She leans forward and places her hand on his knee. A puff of that perfume. “It’s out of your control. You’re doing everything you can and it will either be enough or it won’t. It is my personal belief that you will find her.”
“Belief based on what?”
“That I like you and want the best for you. And for Jazz, of course.”
Matt’s skin is burning under her hand. And he’s surprised to hear this from Sara. This word, “like.” Does she mean it the same way Laurel means it?
Then her hand is gone and she’s nodding toward the logs. “How’s the job going, Matt?”
“Twenty-five done, maybe another one-seventy-five left. It’s harder than I thought. So I really have to get back to work, Sara. If I take too long, my papers will be late.”
Now it’s Sara who gives Matt the odd look. “Om says we die but we don’t end. That we evolve into something higher, to die and evolve again. I’m not so sure I believe that.”
“You think we just die and that’s it?”
“I think it’s very possible that we die and that’s it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Why can’t I be serious?”
“Because you have everything.”
“Yes, and that’s exactly the point. Every single thing. Life is more than matter. More than material things. If we only live once there has to be more to care about than the houses we buy and the cars we drive. There has to be more to love.”
A ripple of darkness on her face. A hard glance at Matt, then a faraway stare to the Pacific.
She packs the breakfast wrappings and banana peels back into the basket, closes the lids. “I’ll bring this back full when you’re done.”
A look and she’s off. Matt watches her head toward the house, basket swinging.
32
He’s home by two-thirty, perched heavily on his upended red bucket in the driveway, folding and rubber-banding the papers as fast as he can. His tree-trunk muscles feel huge and cumbersome, not so much painful as inflated.
Sara has paid him fifteen dollars and sent him home with the picnic basket restocked with two sandwiches, potato salad, and an apple, all of which he shovels down while doing the papers. She told him to hang on to the basket and fork and return them to her sometime.
He looks at the Schwinn Heavy-Duti standing loyally by, wonders if he’ll have the strength to make up the hour and a half of delivery time he lost in Emerald Bay. Considers doing the route in the Westfalia but with all the stops and starts it would actually take longer. More complaints. Old Coiner on the rampage. Wear and tear on Mom’s van. He mildly shudders at the thought of what she might be doing right now out in Dodge City.
He feels terrible about working for Sara when he could have been looking for Jasmine. But he needed those fifteen dollars.
So now, on his paper route, he strains and finds new strength. He thinks of his pain as deserved punishment. He gets the job done more or less on time.
On the way home he gets two meat burritos and a side of rice at Taco Bell with Sara’s money. He puts the bag of food in the front basket and slogs for home up Coast Highway, every gentle rise feeling like he’s on the Tour de France.
Grail and Christian are standing outside Mystic Arts World and Grail waves Matt over. “Matt!”
He pulls onto the sidewalk and stops, straddling the bike. His groin and hamstrings twang with pain.
Grail jokes about Furlong bringing him in for questioning but not having anything to arrest him for except possession of a bag of dog shit.
“That was funny,” says Matt.
“I’ve got another easy delivery tomorrow if you’re interested,” Grail says.
“I can’t,” says Matt. “I’m looking for Jazz door-to-door. It takes time, and I did some extra work today that I shouldn’t have.”
Grail shrugs, purses his lips. “I’m bumming for you, man. I had no idea what all went down, until I read that article. She’s here in town for sure. You’ll get her back. I’ve got every brother keeping watch for her. We all like her. There’s lots of us who care. It’s not Jasmine’s Karma to be treated like that.”
“She is being treated like that. But I hope you’re right.”
A moment of silence for Jasmine Anthony.
“You look bigger,” says Christian.
“I think I’m growing,” says Matt.
Grail takes a look inside the Taco Bell bag in Matt’s basket. “You know, Matt, about tomorrow, it’s the same gig as last time, same book, same customer. Take about five minutes of your life and I’ll go five bucks this time.”