Patrick had not, however, demanded his workers flee as well. At least not all of them, including those housed in his rental property, nestled deep in citrus trees. He even allowed them to turn on the single window air-conditioning unit at night. But when his truck arrived at dawn, that unit had better be turned off.
To the inhabitants of his rental, he offered triple the pay if they stayed. “Stupid to tell everyone to leave.” Patrick had spit out his chew when he’d extended the deal. “You can’t force a man off his land. This is my land! Government can’t take it. That’s what they want to do, you know. I’ve got a twelve-gauge waiting for them if they step one foot on it.”
Juan and the others had just stared at him, doing the calculations in their minds. Mama could get that hip surgery. Maybe even get Tommy across the border, if the price hasn’t gone up.
“Damn fires probably won’t even make it here! Where do they think they’re going to get their damn orange juice if we cut and run? Screw them and their blockade. You can keep people from coming in, but my ass if they’re going to force us out.”
So of course Juan had stayed, even when the video on their grainy television showed weary firefighters battling what the graphic on the bottom of the screen repeatedly labeled “FIRE CRISIS.” At the beginning, all the reporters talked about was finding the ignition source for the fire that was cutting a swath through the fertile farmland, burning tens of thousands of acres. But now, all anyone focused on was how even with the military’s assistance, the fire kept raging, even springing up in areas not even close to other flames.
It was no wonder Juan dreamed of fire.
And he could feel the devil coming to watch it all burn.
Juan said a prayer to Mother Mary to keep away Diablo. The devil wouldn’t rise from hell with horns and red skin; he would look like every other entitled white man. He would have red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. He would be handsome and tall. Juan feared he’d see him every time he closed his eyes to sleep.
Juan knew the devil was responsible for the night he didn’t remember, and for turning his dislike for Patrick into hatred.
It had been a year now since Juan had woken with Patrick kicking him. Tasting dirt in his mouth, Juan felt the kick to his hip. He had rolled over to another kick, Patrick’s fat face leaning over him, blocking out the sun. “I don’t pay you get to get drunk and disappear!”
“No comprende….”
“Listen,” Patrick had waved his fat finger in Juan’s face, “If you ever, I mean ever, pull a bender like that again and not show up for work for an entire day, I’ll ship your ass back to Tijuana and give you to the border patrol myself. Understand that?”
Juan had scrambled to get on the truck, apologizing profusely.
The others had later explained as they’d stripped the clementines. Juan had gone out for a smoke before bed two nights ago and never returned. Patrick had rolled up this morning to find him lying outside on the ground.
“Tequila!” Mateo had joked.
Juan did like his Jose Cuervo, but only touched it on Saturday night when there was no possibility of work the next day (Patrick kept a Bible in the bed of his truck and thumped it often when talking about the merits of a hard day’s work). Juan had disappeared on a Tuesday night.
Later came the dreams of fire, and the white man watching him. Juan knew the dreams were a warning from his Heavenly Father that the devil was near, and that he needed to protect his soul and himself.
So when Mateo had privately shown him the Smith & Wesson 629 he’d purchased from the alley behind the 7-Eleven, Juan had asked how he could get one as well. Mateo had made it happen, and Juan kept it with him at all times, contained in the side pocket of his cargo pants. The devil could come anytime, and Juan would be ready. And if Patrick decided to kick him ever again…
When he had such thoughts, he’d pray to Mother Mary for forgiveness and quickly pat the weapon.
Juan slid forward when the truck suddenly veered off the road and came to a rough stop beneath the citrus trees. He and the others knew what to do. They scrambled to lie down, throwing the filthy blankets Patrick kept in the bed of the truck over themselves. Even under the heavy blankets, they could hear the whirl of the military helicopter pass over and then fade away. When the sound was gone, the truck lurched forward.
It happened at least once a day. When they were picking in the orchards, all they had to do was make sure they remained deep in the foliage. Patrick always kept the truck parked beneath the leaves so it couldn’t be seen. At night, Patrick would choose one of them to go with him as he used one of the few back roads not blocked off by the military to make the delivery.
“Trust me on this,” Patrick always repeated. “These oranges are like solid gold. Stupid celebrities in LA will pay twelve times over for the last of the true fruit from the valley, just for the bragging rights. Got to keep the money flowing until these fires die down. Government can’t take everything from us.”
The truck turned into the grove and pivoted underneath the widest of canopies. Juan and the others slid out, their muscles already stiff from the jarring ride. One by one, they grabbed the ladders and set off for the trees.
Thankfully, Juan’s ladder opened easily underneath a particularly thick patch of mandarins. It didn’t always happen, for the ladders were constantly used and moved. As he climbed to the top, grasping the first fruit, he heard the commotion beneath.
Mateo was shaking his own ladder, angrily trying to pry it open. Don’t, Juan wanted to cry out. Treat it gentle–
With a loud crash, the ladder fell to the ground in two succinct parts, the worn-out hinges spilling out in the grass, nuts and bolts forever lost. Mateo stood above it, astonished.
Patrick moved like a bull from where he leaned on the truck. “Damn fool!” he charged. “Son of a bitch! You’re gonna climb that tree like a fucking monkey! No place for me to buy a new ladder at this point. You know how much money you cost me, monkey? That’s all you all are, a bunch of monkeys.”
When Patrick shoved Mateo, Juan reached down to his pocket. The gun felt heavy resting against his thigh.
Patrick reached up and pulled down an orange, shoving it in Mateo’s face. “You’re worth less than this. You know that? What it’s going to cost me to smuggle in a new ladder is coming out of your wages. You comprende?”
Patrick began to peel the mandarin with his hands. Each peel he removed, he then whipped at Mateo. “Just consider each one of these peels a dollar not in your pocket. One, two, three. Get up that damn tree! Climb it boy!”
With a swift move of his leg, he kicked Mateo towards the tree, chomping into the orange.
Juan had seen Patrick do it before. It horrified him each time Patrick swallowed the mini fruits whole. The farmer was clearly proud of his ability to do so. Juan imagined the fruit slipping past Patrick’s tongue, causing him to choke. He thought about it having a bitter taste, perhaps because of a white mold on the inside. Or better yet, a black widow spider had chosen that particular fruit and was at this moment about to strike the inside of the farmer’s cheek.
Juan pictured the mandarin as a tiny sun, fiery to the touch.
Patrick clutched his throat and gasped. First it was just his left hand, but then his right flew up as well. Juan saw a bit of Patrick’s tongue emerge. Was it scorched black?