“A complaints letter! I found it under our door. They can’t write me a complaints letter—it’s a fucking commune! Dimitri’s behind this, I know it.”
She looks over the page. “Some of these things might be reasonable.”
“Like what?”
“Like not enough vegetarian meals—”
“That’s Rhea. Goddamn Rhea and Dimitri. Why do we have all those meetings if they’re going to bitch behind my back? I swear, they only came here to ruin things. Dimitri’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Cape Cod.”
Maggie thinks of asking him what he knows about Dimitri and speed, but she only rubs his back and tells him it will be fine. She says everyone’s trying to make the farm better. She tells him to focus on the happy things.
And she’s right, too: in some ways it isn’t so bad. The lettuce she planted after the hurricane is flourishing. The pumpkins have begun to spread tendrils beyond the borders of their allotment. On warm evenings after sunset, she and Fletcher walk hand in hand down the orchard’s central lane, and sometimes through the fading dusk they see pairs of bodies lying together under the trees. There’s the luminescence of bare legs, the undulation of a head. At first she’s startled by such sights, even as part of her stirs, but she comes to take them as propitious, signs that together all of them have created something good.
The last week of August has arrived when one morning she goes upstairs to find George Ray standing there in his orange toque, knocking on her bedroom door. As far as she knows, he has never set foot in the house before, and he looks uncomfortable standing in it now.
“Sorry to be a bother,” he says. “I was hoping to speak with you. Will you come outside?” She nods and follows him down to the porch. After glancing in all directions, he continues onto the lawn before turning to her.
“Top secret, huh?” she says, trying to sound lighthearted, but he doesn’t smile, only keeps his eyes on the house as he speaks.
“I had an encounter last night,” he says. “Near midnight, in the orchard.”
She frowns, confused. “What were you doing out there?”
“Taking a walk. I do it most nights before bed.”
Maggie thinks again of the others in the barracks. “Are the people out there too loud? At a meeting we agreed on no noise after eleven—”
“They’re fine. The walk is good for me.” He doesn’t sound as if he’s being honest, but she can tell he’s not interested in arguing the point.
“So what happened in the orchard?” she says.
He speaks in a low voice. “Some time ago you told me about a pair of girls next door.” She nods, remembering.
“Last night I met them out there. They were by the wrecking yard wall, smoking up with a man from this place.”
“Who?” Her first thought is that it was Fletcher. No, it couldn’t have been. He was lying beside her all night.
“You have to understand,” says George Ray, “I didn’t wish to intrude on them. It was dark and I stumbled upon them before I could turn back.”
“Who was it?” she repeats.
“I promised not to tell. The man was very worried about people finding out.”
“So why are you telling me?” She’s unable to keep a hint of frustration from her voice.
“Because I’m concerned,” he replies. “A grown man with a couple of girls.” He looks at her without blinking. “It could cause problems.”
She nods. Whoever it was, if Frank Dodd found out, he could get the police involved. They might use it as an excuse to raid the farm, and with all the dope around, God knows what would come of that.
“They were just smoking up?” she asks.
George Ray takes a moment to consider his answer. “The thin one was sitting in his lap.”
All manner of debauchery begins to run through her mind.
“How did they act when they saw you?”
“The man was ashamed, the girls less so.” George Ray smiles wryly. “The red-haired one has a sharp tongue.”
Maggie remembers well enough. She tries to picture going next door and confronting the two of them about what happened but can’t quite manage it.
“So what do you want me to do?” she asks.
He shrugs. “You know this man from last night better than I do.”
“But you won’t tell me who it is.”
“I promised,” he repeats. But he adds, “I will only say that those girls should not be out late with a married man.”
“Dimitri,” she says, and his eyebrows lift enough for her to know she’s right.
“I don’t wish to cause trouble,” he insists.
“Of course.” Then a thought occurs to her. “Why tell me? Why not Fletcher?”
George Ray’s face grows pensive, as if he has asked himself the same question. “Because you seem to care about the farm’s success,” he replies. “And because Fletcher might overreact.”
He seems embarrassed saying it, but she knows he’s right. Fletcher would make a stink, and it could backfire on him. She doesn’t particularly care if Dimitri and Rhea leave, but she doesn’t want half the people on the farm going with them.
“Thanks for telling me,” she says. “I’ll think about what to do.”
He looks her in the eye and nods, and she feels a vibration go through her at what he’s shared, at the fact of his sharing it. As he walks off, she realizes she doesn’t want to speak with Dimitri. It will only lead to no good. She’d rather keep the matter between herself and George Ray. And suddenly it seems to her that Dimitri isn’t the only one in the wrong.
At that night’s meeting, Fletcher wants to talk about people who crash at the farm and don’t contribute anything, but Dimitri says they have more important things to discuss. He says they should start a public seminar on organic farming. They should organize a parade through Virgil in solidarity with the Quebec liberation movement. Everyone seems to recognize he’s just stirring the pot, because nobody bothers to respond. It’s as though they have turned up only to watch him and Fletcher argue.
Then Dimitri announces that what they really need to talk about is their exploitation of black people.
“For Christ’s sake,” says Fletcher, “you mean George Ray?”
“Some of us marched on Washington,” says Dimitri. “Anyone here feel strange having this guy as our personal slave?”
Hands go up around the room. Jim and Sarah from New Jersey, Rhea, Brid. Maggie can’t believe Dimitri’s gall.
“Is George Ray even Jamaican?” Dimitri says. “He doesn’t talk like it.”
“He’s not going to speak in patois with a bunch of crackers like us,” says Fletcher. “Look, he isn’t a slave. He gets paid. He chooses to be here.”
“But that’s a problem too,” says Rhea. “He’s only here for the money. I thought we wanted everyone committed to each other.” Maggie wonders if Dimitri has asked Rhea to take his side or if she’s just doing it instinctively, unaware of what she’s abetting. Either way, Maggie can’t let it go on.
“We shouldn’t talk about George Ray when he isn’t here,” she exclaims. Everyone turns to look at her. She meets Dimitri’s gaze and glares at him until he drops his eyes.
“Maggie’s right,” says Fletcher, standing. “I’ll go get him.” He sounds glad of her support and eager to have another ally in the room.
“That’s right, massa,” says Dimitri. “You fetch him for us. It’s how your family got rich, isn’t it? All those plantations.”
Fletcher gives Dimitri the finger but sits back down.
From the kitchen comes the ringing of the phone. Nobody moves, apparently unwilling to miss whatever’s about to happen next, so Maggie gets to her feet and runs to answer. As she goes, she’s thinking she’ll find George Ray herself and ask him to join them. When she picks up the receiver and says hello, the voice at the other end gives her a start. It’s Gran.