She waits and watches, the anticipation building in her as people work their way through the line, filling their plates, pausing to chat in groups of three and four or exchange pleasantries with Wade and some of the others dishing up the food. As soon as the last couple (the mayor and his wife, definitely his wife, and what’s her name—Yolanda?) have entered the line, she snatches a dripping bottle of Piper Sonoma from the ice as if it’s a living thing, raises it high and begins rapping a spoon against the base of it in a sharp peremptory way. “Attention, everybody!” she calls, whirling about to draw their eyes to her. “The time has come to gather round for champagne”—holding her grin, watching their faces—“because we’ve got some toasting to do here.”
And now Wade’s beside her, furiously untwisting the wire from one bottle after another, the corks jumping in succession and people crowding in with their paper cups as the bottles go round. Laughter rings out. There are sallies, quips. Freeman, a plate in one hand, glass in the other, makes his way to her. The TV camera, shining and insectoid, moves in. Smiles abound. When all the glasses are full and she’s feeling a rush of triumph and vindication as purely satisfying as anything she’s ever known, she lifts her glass and Freeman follows suit. She holds it there for one climactic second, and then, grinning so furiously she can barely form the words, she sings out, “To Anacapa, one hundred percent rat free!”
On Guam, there was no champagne, because Guam wasn’t snake free and never would be. There were too many species involved, too much vegetation, too many invasives, too perfect a pest. Half a dozen times Robert teased himself into thinking he had a solution, the last being a virus able to survive only in cold-blooded creatures, and he busily inoculated snakes with the pathogen and set them free, but the pathogen didn’t take and there was no noticeable change in the population numbers. He used to joke that the only way to eliminate them would be to nuke the island, and even then it was his bet that some would survive, hidden in a crack in a wall or coiled in a lead pipe. Once, when she was working in the field with him, they discovered a length of PVC tubing no more than half an inch thick and there were six snakes wedged in it, aligned like the wires of a conduit. And now, according to the article he’d sent her, he had a new hope: acetaminophen. Simple, cheap, the active ingredient in Tylenol. A blood thinner, like brodifacoum, but far more selective in what it kills.
Early experiments had been promising. Two three-hundred-milligram tablets, delivered in the carcass of a dead mouse, would kill a brown tree snake, through internal bleeding, in three hours. Yes. But how to deliver it? Robert and his colleagues had air-dropped a thousand Tylenol-laced mice over a carefully cordoned-off section of forest, but most had become hung up in the branches and gone to rot before the snakes could discover them and there was the further question of what the bait would do to non-target animals. Plus, how many mice would it take? How many drops? There were estimated to be upward of two million snakes on the island and even if the staggering amount of funding for that kind of operation could be raised and even if the agent was found to be non-reactive with other animals, the chances that all the snakes could be eliminated was, roughly—or no, exactly—zero. They were there for good. And so the native trees would continue to decline because there would never be birds sufficient to broadcast their seeds, and the spiders and insects would thrive, and in a hundred years, fifty, Guam would no longer be Guam.
The sun is in her eyes and she has to pinch them shut to tip back her head and allow the cool affirmation of the wine to trickle down her throat. She will give her little speech, hand out her press release, lie back on a blanket with Tim and watch the birds slip overhead against a sky drawn back to the infinite. This will be her reward, her peace, her joy. She has been an instrument of good, striking down the invaders that plagued her grandmother in her distress all those years ago and for all the years hence wrought havoc on the eggs and unfledged chicks of the birds that evolved to roost and breed in a ratless world. Well, she’s given them back that world. Given them a chance. And now, as she’s about to avow publicly on the raising of the next glass, she is prepared to move forward, undaunted, with the aid and guidance of Freeman Lorber and all the other incomparable people of the National Park Service, Channel Islands, to the far bigger challenge of Santa Cruz.
“Santa Cruz!” she’ll call out, the bludgeoning trochee rising from deep inside her like a war cry while they lift their glasses in unison, in support and encouragement and as a mark of their commitment to the cause, right-thinking people, educated people, caught up in the intoxication of the moment in this place she’s come to love more than any other on earth, more than Hawaii, more than the Berkeley Hills, more even than Guam. “On to Santa Cruz!”
And then it’s the next morning, a Sunday, fresh-squeezed orange juice, bagel with cream cheese, the newspaper. Tim’s habit is to sleep late whenever he can and today is no different. When she slipped out of bed at her usual time—six-thirty—he was hunched under the blankets, breathing lightly, looking as if he’d sleep till noon, and she saw no reason to wake him. Let him sleep. Her life isn’t like one of those soft-focus movies where couples moon at each other over poached eggs and coffee out of cups the size of salad bowls and then stroll hand-in-hand along the beach—no, it’s real, and she has a real relationship with a living breathing man who likes to sleep later than she does. And so what? Good for him. Tim has his life, she has hers. And when they intersect, so much the better.
Outside, the fog is already lifting, the sun emerging as a pale presence among the trunks of the trees, till suddenly, in a single burst, it slices through the window to illuminate the kitchen, taking hold of the stainless-steel knobs of the oven and the glass lens of the clock on the far wall. The yard jumps to life. The begonias fire. Morning in Montecito. She’s had a lazy glance at the headlines—Bush and his war—and filed the dishes away in the dishwasher. There won’t be anybody on the beach this early but for a handful of dog walkers and joggers, or at least that’s her hope, and so she slips on her sneakers and heads out the door and into the morning.
On down the block, past the hotel and its Lucullan expanse of lawn, the air cool and fresh still and no cars moving along the access road out front. Cutting diagonally across the blacktop, she takes the direct route to the stairway down to the beach. She doesn’t follow the tide charts—no time to bother, and besides she’d rather be surprised—and so she feels a little lift to see the expanse of wet sand running out to the flats cobbled with the slick dark mounds of boulders rubbed smooth by the twice-daily shifting of the waters. Low tide. When the tide’s up full, the waves beat at the seawall and she’s reduced to taking the sidewalk above it. This beach, directly across from the long tan smudge of Santa Cruz on the horizon, doesn’t catch the big waves, which tend to run lengthways down the channel, and so isn’t especially interesting as far as beaches go. It’s pretty, no doubt about it, but there isn’t much by way of tidepools and relatively little washes ashore. Aside from trash. And dogshit wrapped in neat little plastic bags. Does that drive her crazy? Yes, it does. That people should take something natural, waste, feces, the end product of an animal process, and seal it in plastic for future archaeologists to unearth from the landfill in a thousand years is pure madness. This world. This skewed and doomed world.
But here she is, on the beach, weighing her options—right or left?—before deciding to turn right toward the bluffs that wrap around to Santa Barbara proper and the pier beyond and all the mad crush of civilization that comes with it, thinking there might be something of interest among the slabs of rock that have successively peeled away from the cliff face over the years and come crashing down into the surf. When the tide is exceptionally low, as it looks to be now, a reef is exposed there, with some scattered pools hosting the usual suspects—mussels, barnacles, urchins, winkles, anemones and hermit crabs, in addition to the occasional surprise of a brilliant blue-and-white nudibranch or stranded octopus. The carcass of a juvenile gray whale had washed up on the
rocks there one spring—bearing what had to be wounds inflicted by a great white—and summer before last, during a dinoflagellate bloom, she’d come upon a crowd of people gathered round a seal pup, trying to urge it back into the water, when clearly it had drawn up on the beach to warm itself.
The animal was obviously undernourished—she suspected domoic acid poisoning as a result of the toxin concentrated in the plankton working its way up the food chain and delivered in its mother’s milk—and when she reached it, a shaven-headed young Latino in a wife beater was attempting to drag it over the rocks and back into the sea. Before she could think, she was on him, furious, snatching at his arm and trying, for all his bulk, to pull him away. There was a screaming in her head—here was yet another well-meaning animal lover doing exactly and precisely the wrong thing, the fatal thing—and she could feel the blood rush to her face. “Let it go!” she barked, rigid with anger, locked there—her hand fixed to his arm as if it were mechanical, made of nuts and bolts and titanium tubing—until he obeyed her. And then, as the pup fell away from his grasp and he gave her a look of such confusion she almost felt sorry for him, she added, in a voice of steel, “Stay back, all of you.”
She’d maneuvered herself between him and the seal, which was scrabbling at the rocks in a panic, but too weak to do much more than that, rising on its flippers and falling back again, and the man came to life in the flicker of that instant, thrusting his face in hers. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded. He had a slim faded blue tattoo on the inside of his left wrist—a dolphin, leaping—and his breath smelled of tangerines, as if he’d just worked his way through a citrus grove.
It was an interesting question: who was she? It went to a point of authority—what gave her the right to interfere when he’d got there first and was only trying to do the obvious, flexing his muscles and his will for the benefit of his girlfriend and maybe his buddies and the crowd too, a true Samaritan motivated not by love of self but by love of all things? Even now, with a twinge of embarrassment, she remembers the answer she’d offered up: “I’m a scientist.”
Well, all right. At least she’d saved the animal, punching in the number of the Marine Mammal Center on her cell while the crowd stood back and the seal settled into its skin and the angular blades of its bones. Now, making her way toward the bluffs, the memory of the incident rises up and fades away again, because she’s spotted a pod of Risso’s dolphins—five, six of them—working the shoreline two hundred yards out. These are among the biggest of the dolphins, ten to twelve feet long and as much as eleven hundred pounds, normally a deepwater species but feeding in close this morning, and she takes their appearance as a rare treat. She’s walking briskly, trying to keep the animals in sight as they move toward the bluff, when she spots a figure up ahead, a man coming toward her with a pair of dogs. The dogs—airbrushed skulls, plunging pelvises, skin painted to bone—are greyhounds, she sees that now, and she’s thinking, Good for him, he’s rescued the animals from one of the racetracks in Florida, until she focuses on him and sees her mistake. There’s the set of the jaw, the wide shoulders and disproportionately long neck, something in his stride—but none of that gives him away. There are plenty of people, plenty of men, built like that, men who kick out their legs as if they’re trampling something or somebody with every step they take. No, it’s the dreads. Sand-colored dreads that fan out from his head as if he’s striding through a wind tunnel.
She feels a beat of panic. He’s seen her, she’s sure of it. Does she need an ugly confrontation now, this morning, when all she wants is a walk on the beach and a chance to savor the moment? She thinks to turn away, to walk in the opposite direction, retrace her steps—she can explore the reef anytime, tomorrow, the next day—when he calls out her name and she freezes. “Hey, Alma!” he shouts, the dogs fanning away from the bare struts of his legs like interceptors. “Alma Boyd! Alma Boyd Takesue!”
What she’s never told Tim—he never asked and he wouldn’t believe it anyway; she can barely believe it herself—is that once, for one disastrous truncated evening, she dated Dave LaJoy. Or had dinner with him. Or tried to. She’d met him at one of the music venues downtown, a coffeehouse that featured new young singer-songwriters. She was there alone one night—she was new in town, just weeks into the job she’d felt so lucky to get, six months away from meeting Tim—and here was this good-looking guy in his thirties sitting with another guy at the table next to hers. He was wearing a concert T-shirt with a likeness of Micah Stroud, guitar in hand, imprinted on the back of it, and that was an immediate plus in her eyes because in those days Micah Stroud was known only to those in the know. She liked his smile, the way he held himself, his hair—his hair made a statement. You didn’t see too many men his age in dreads. She figured him for a musician or an artist, maybe a writer, a photographer, someone independent anyway. “You look lonely over there,” he said. “Want to join us?”
And she did. And it went well. And when the weekend came he called and asked her to dinner, her choice, anyplace she wanted to go. She wasn’t really looking to get involved, not after Rayfield and her three years on Guam, where she’d got used to entertaining herself, and since she knew nothing about him except his own version—he owned some electronics stores, had done well, liked the outdoors, was currently unattached—she decided on a place she knew in the lower village. Pricey, but what wasn’t? The cuisine was nouveau Italian and she’d been there often enough, either alone or in the company of one of the girls from work, as to qualify as a regular. Often enough in any case to rate special treatment from Giancarlo, the owner and maitre d’, and to feel comfortable dining there, under his auspices, with a stranger. Who could turn out to be the love of her life. Or a disaster.
Things started out well enough. He showed up at her apartment on foot, with lilies from the flower girl—woman, actually—around the corner, and he made small talk while she put them in a vase, grabbed her black lace shawl and led him out the door. They walked up the street, across the bridge over the freeway, and into the lower village, the getting-acquainted banter running along smoothly—he had a house just up the hill, not more than half a mile away, and he went right by her place all the time, and how long had she been here? Three months? How had he missed her? He couldn’t believe it. She didn’t have a dog, he guessed, because if she’d had a dog he would have been sure to run into her on the bluff or the streets or beach. No, as he’d seen, she didn’t have a dog, though she loved dogs, but she was hardly settled yet and her business took her out to the islands a lot and dogs weren’t allowed there for fear they might spread disease to the resident foxes and skunks. The islands? he’d said. I love the islands.
Giancarlo greeted them at the door and showed them to a table by the window and then the waiter—Fredo, a tall saturnine Chileno who assumed the air and accent of a Neapolitan for the sake of authenticity—presented them with the wine list. “What do you prefer?” LaJoy had asked her. “Red or white?”
She shrugged. “I like red,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too. But of course it depends on the dish. And the occasion.”
“Actually,” she confessed, “I’m not that much of a sophisticate. Three years on Guam’ll do that to you.” She gave a deprecatory laugh. “When you’re on Guam you drink what you can get. Sake, mostly. And whiskey. Or as they say, ‘Wheesky. Wheesky-soda.’ And gin, of course. G and T, the old reliable.”
He didn’t have much to say to this. His head was lowered to the wine list, the dreads falling forward to reveal the pink tessellations of scalp beneath. He was running a finger down the columns of offerings until finally he summoned Fredo. “Let me talk to the sommelier, will you?”
Fredo, funereally proper, stood over them, hands clasped behind his back. “I am afraid,” he pronounced, fighting his accent, “that we do not have a sommelier as such—”
“As such?” LaJoy—Dave—was giving him a look of hostile disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do you or don?
??t you? Or are all the wines on this list ordered, cellared and poured by the tooth fairy?”
“I,” Fredo began, “or Giancarlo—”
“Get him over here.”
Fredo gave a small bow and vanished. While he was gone, LaJoy, gnawing a breadstick as if it were made of wood, lifted his eyes to her. “Amateurs,” he said. “I hate amateurs.”
She said his name then, slowly, reprovingly. “I’m sure they’ll do the best they can. This place—I don’t know if you’ve eaten here before—but this place is really topflight, as good as any restaurant in town.” She paused. “What were you looking for? Exactly, I mean?”
He ignored her. He was staring beyond her to where Giancarlo was making his way across the crowded room, people beckoning to him, reaching out to shake his hand and bathe in his smile, congratulating themselves because they were on intimate terms with the owner. And Giancarlo more than fulfilled his role—fifty-two years old, born and raised in Turin, tall, open-faced, wearing a slate-gray Italian silk suit, his hair swept back like a don’s. He was smiling when he came up to the table. “Alma,” he said, repeating her name again, before bending to take her hand and kiss it. “What can I do for you and your gentleman friend?”
“You’re the sommelier?” LaJoy seemed to be glaring at him. “I’d like a bottle of the Brunello di Montalcino Riserva, 1988—the Castello Ruggiero, the one here,” pointing to the bottom of the last page of the leather-bound wine list. He raised an admonitory finger. “But only if you’ve got more than one on hand, because there’s nothing more disappointing than ordering a top-end wine and getting to the bottom of the bottle only to have the waiter try to substitute something else.”