Counting by 7s

  Quang-ha has done more laughing in the last ten hours than I’ve seen in the last ten weeks.

  He just finds everything funny now.

  I didn’t understand until recently that emotions could be so contagious.

  I now know why comedians are important in culture.

  Sitting on a milk crate in the middle of the night with a flashlight illuminating what at this point is a paint-blasting project, I laugh too.

  At nothing, really.

  Then I realize that I’m laughing because I’m laughing.

  It’s after three in the morning.

  Jairo’s gone. Pattie went to bed after he left. Mai can’t seem to stop herself from pushing run-off water away from the building with a broom.

  Dell is still outside, but he’s been asleep on his lawn chair for an hour. He got cold and climbed into a black plastic garbage bag. He punched his feet through the bottom and now he reminds me of a talking raisin I once saw in a TV commercial.

  A guy in the apartments across the street told us to turn off the machine a few hours ago, but Quang-ha ignored him.

  Finally, Quang-ha gives us a signal and Mai kills the motor.

  She and Quang-ha and I stand back and point our flashlights as we stare at what’s been done.

  Layers have been removed.

  Of dirt.

  And pink paint.

  And acne-like, lumpy stucco.

  The whole surface of the structure is smooth and sleek.

  All the cracks are gone. And so are the bald patches where the stucco had crumbled off.

  The odd design of the place, with its high windows and box-like mass, now appears futuristic and forward-thinking.

  At least to me.

  And it is not an exaggeration to say that the Gardens of Glenwood is the cleanest building in all of Bakersfield.

  For three days, it is hard for any of us to move our arms.

  We walk around like plastic soldiers with our limbs held tightly to our sides.

  I go down at night and water the dirt to keep it from blowing again.

  And I prep the soil. I add a slow release, granular fertilizer that I got Dell to buy at Home Depot.

  By mid-week we are ready for the next step.

  We have over four dozen sunflowers, in twenty-three containers, a less-than-thriving poinsettia, and bags of mulch to spread.

  As soon as we put the sunflowers in the ground, they should take off.

  They will send roots down as far as six feet into the soil. Their single stems in the next few weeks will each produce a terminal flower bud.

  I know how this all works.

  About a month later, after they’ve gained up to eight feet in height, the large, flat disk that is the flower will unfurl.

  For a week it will bloom.

  Bees will arrive and pollinate the many florets that make up what we think of as the single flower (but what is in reality many, many small blossoms).

  A week later, when the blooming is over, the florets will turn into seeds, and ripen.

  All of the energy will move to this next generation of life.

  The plant will have given birth to the future, and then it will be done.

  This is the way it works. From the bacteria in the sink to the fruit fly circling the bowl of bananas. We’re all doing the same thing.

  But if people saw all of this for what it really is, who knows if anyone would get out of bed in the morning?

  I will soon have the garden covered with a crop of sunflowers, but in five weeks it will have to be replanted.

  And so will I.

  What goes in the soil next should be more permanent.

  Right now I’m the sunflower.

  Temporary, but attaching myself to the ground underneath me.

  The garden is challenging me, as always, to see my own situation.

  My court hearing is next month.

  I’ll be ready. I’m not sure for what exactly.

  But maybe that’s what being ready really means.

  Chapter 51

  Dell pulled into the parking lot.

  There wasn’t a place for him, for his car, for his always-now-sore-from-exercising body.

  After circling the lot in frustration, he lined up in front of the only available spot he could find.

  It was tiny, crowded on one side by a school district van and on the other by the chain-link fence that wrapped around the entire property.

  Dell stepped on the gas, intent on inching slowly ahead.

  Instead, his foot slipped.

  Every hair on his body stood on end at the sound of metal on metal as the fencepost dug a crease along the entire right side of his vehicle.

  Dell cut the engine as he shouted and swore and pounded his fist (which hurt because he accidentally hit the dashboard instead of the upholstery).

  He found himself thinking of Willow. She would have told him before he went forward that the space was too small. She would have calculated the mass or the distance or figured out something.

  Dell pushed the thought of the girl out of his mind and opened the door.

  He was faced with another harsh reality.

  Even though he’d almost taken out the fencing along the passenger’s side, he was still so close to the van next to him that he doubted he could get out of his car.

  He’d just have to make this work.

  Wasn’t that what life was now teaching him?

  Dell gritted his teeth and got his left leg and then hip out.

  But his tummy, even angled and sucked in, was a real problem.

  Hoping for the best, he let his belly go. It pushed in all directions, and the edge of his car door dug straight into the side of the neighboring van.

  Another metal on metal sound.

  He stared wide-eyed at the damage.

  That van panel was like cardboard!

  Dell slammed his door shut and took off in a run away from the scratched-metal crime scene.

  But as he made his way through the rows of cars, a dark mass leaped from behind a tire and slithered right between his wobbly legs.

  Dell felt the fur touch his ankles and he shrieked like a startled child.

  Inside the low brick building that housed most of the administration, he could see heads suddenly appear in windows.

  Dell dropped down to the asphalt to shield himself from the peeping professionals.

  And that’s when he got a close-up look at the creature formerly known as Cheddar.

  The cat was thin and mangy with one hairless ear and a chunk missing from his now-crooked tail.

  But the animal was more than scarred and dirty; he was frantic and desperate.

  Cheddar arched his back and in an attempt to appear fierce, showed his spiky teeth as his pale green eyes turned dark jade.

  A chill ran up Dell’s spine.

  He had adopted Cheddar, and then he’d let the animal fend for himself in a parking lot.

  He had not made a single attempt to rescue him.

  Dell stared into the eyes of the frightened feline, and something clicked.

  He had to take more responsibility for his actions.

  He’d start with the cat.

  Dell grabbed Cheddar by the scruff of the neck and was surprised at how easy it was to get control of the animal.

  Cheddar was not a feral cat.

  He’d been brought up with the touch of a human hand and he seemed perfectly happy to get back in the company of a man with possible access to canned food.

  Dell crossed the lot back to his car and then he squeezed himself and Cheddar into his vehicle.

  Cheddar jumped into the back as Dell started the engine.

  He could hear a new sound now. It was low, but distinct.

  The ca
t was purring under his seat.

  Dell reversed out of the parking spot, and curiously this time the fence post didn’t even touch his vehicle.

  Dell dropped off Cheddar at a vet on Central Avenue with instructions for a flea bath and a full exam. He’d pick the animal up at the end of the day.

  He then returned to the school district offices, and this time parked on the street and walked two blocks.

  He then went straight to the main office, and reported damaging the van.

  It turned out the school district had insurance and the woman told him not to worry.

  Dell went to his office with a spring in his step.

  Maybe it was the running. He’d lost almost fifteen pounds.

  Or maybe it was knowing that he’d done right by Cheddar.

  Chapter 52

  The cat is back.

  It’s very big news around here.

  At least to me.

  Sadhu is allergic, so Cheddar is going to live with us in #28.

  For now.

  I’m obsessed with this cat.

  And it’s working out because Cheddar is sort of obsessed with me, or at least very interested, which in the world of felines counts as obsessive behavior.

  The cat sleeps on my bunk of the Semper Fi beds, tucked inside the curl of my body.

  He wheezes once he’s really asleep.

  When I get up early to go to the bathroom I see the cat move his crooked tail in his sleep.

  His paws twitch.

  He’s running.

  I would like to see those dreams.

  Cheddar waits on the ledge of the front window for me to come home from the salon in the afternoon.

  Or maybe he just enjoys the view. But it certainly looks like he sits with a sense of expectation.

  I have my life’s savings in a metal box under my bed.

  I have tried to contribute each week for food costs (I think of it as a reverse allowance), but Pattie refuses to accept the money.

  I try to get Dell to take some and he also says no. His no isn’t as solid as her no, but he gets his point across.

  So today is the first time I’m spending any of my cash.

  I go to the pet store on 7th Street.

  I pick out a lime-green breakaway safety cat collar. It is highly reflective and glows in the dark.

  I pay an extra two dollars to have Cheddar seared into the bendable plastic. I add Pattie’s phone number—not Dell’s—for emergencies.

  I also insist that the collar have a bell. Cats in the wild do so much destruction to the bird population.

  But I think that if Cheddar has his way, the cat will never set foot on anything but carpet for the rest of his life.

  I’ve left the door open and he has no interest in even investigating the hallway in our building.

  Once I get back to the apartment and Cheddar has been outfitted with the new collar, Quang-ha complains about what he calls “the annoying ringing.”

  But even he has to admit that the cat (with the hairless ear and the crooked tail) is in his own way sort of inspiring.

  Dell and I talk about practical things now in my weekly sessions.

  I have two concerns.

  I am anxious, of course, about finding a legal guardian.

  And I’m constantly thinking about what to do once the sunflowers are finished.

  The plants have grown in these last few weeks and they have bloomed.

  Quang-ha’s is the tallest. It reached almost seven feet. I think everyone in the building has really appreciated the spectacle.

  A few people have complained about the bees.

  But it’s impossible to please everyone.

  Now these plants are on the downside of their lifecycle. I need to think of what to do once they are removed.

  If you slice off part of most established plants—this mature plant can be thought of as the parent—and you nurture this severed portion, it will grow.

  It is called a cutting.

  I have no real resources (that I can think of, because my life’s savings don’t add up to much) to landscape the large area of soil in the courtyard.

  I told the bank that we had a plan, and I presented that in the drawings that were submitted.

  But that was hypothetical.

  And this is reality.

  I’m going to need to take life from what I can find in the neighborhood around me in Bakersfield to landscape this place.

  I start small.

  A basket.

  Scissors.

  Wet paper towels (to keep my clippings moist).

  I have a few small cuttings taking root in water glasses by the window.

  I need to think bigger.

  Dell drives me to the Southside plant nursery on Saturday and we buy rooting hormone and three large bags of potting soil.

  While we’re there, I see Henry E. Pollack. He runs the place.

  I have known this guy since I was very young.

  He and my dad used to talk about football and he gave us discounts for years.

  I’ve looked at fungus and insect infestation for him in the past.

  And I’ve given advice on grafting limbs on fruit trees.

  I’m in the back checking out their new pittosporum tenuifolium, and I catch sight of Dell talking to Henry in the corner.

  It looks sort of serious, which makes me nervous.

  In the car, I ask Dell what they were whispering about and he says:

  “Henry wanted to know how you were doing.”

  People are uncomfortable asking a kid that question. So they ask adults.

  But those adults a lot of times have no clue about the answer.

  I look out the window at all the plants growing in people’s gardens, and get lost in that.

  But later, at the stoplight, I say:

  “I’m trying not to put down permanent roots. That’s probably what you should tell people like Henry.”

  Quang-ha is on the couch watching a TV show about a guy who drives around the country in a convertible eating bacon cheeseburgers.

  Mai is looking at a catalog for swimsuit enthusiasts.

  Dell is clipping his beard into a paper bag (to keep the bits from flying around the room).

  Cheddar is asleep.

  Pattie is at the salon.

  She has been staying late more often now. I worry about that, but she doesn’t like anyone to question her schedule.

  I come into the living room and explain my plan, which is for us to drive around town and take small cuttings from interesting plants.

  Quang-ha doesn’t look at me but manages to say:

  “Would that be stealing?”

  I’m encouraged. At least I have his attention.

  “This is an interesting question. If we were on someone’s private property, we would be trespassing. And that’s breaking the law.”

  Quang-ha then mumbles something that I can’t understand.

  So I continue:

  “Plants are people’s property. But what if the plant extends into the area of the sidewalk? What if we are on public property, such as a park or a library or a state building?”

  Quang-ha keeps his eyes on the television and says:

  “What if you move to the left? You’re blocking part of the TV.”

  I take a step to the side.

  Silence.

  Only the television and the sounds of Dell struggling to clip his shockingly wiry facial hair.

  And then Quang-ha says:

  “Just take stuff out of people’s green trash cans. The work will already be done for you.”

  I look at him now with admiration.

  Quang-ha’s mother is the hardest worker that I’ve ever seen. And she has passed on to her son a uniqu
e quality. He understands labor in a different way.

  If he’s not interested in something, he will do anything to get out of doing it.

  I mean it when I say to him:

  “Quang-ha, you may very well have a future career in management.”

  As if to drive home his point he says:

  “If there are any ice-cream bars in the freezer, I’ll take one.”

  There have never been ice-cream bars in the freezer, but I now will buy a box at the first opportunity.

  Chapter 53

  For the next 17 days, Mai, Dell, and I become experts in the green garden trash cans.

  In our town, trash is separated, with blue cans for recycling and green for anything from the yard. Black is for everything else.

  My first observation: The green receptacles are not always filled with just cut grass and dead flowers.

  I’ve found spaghetti in there. And all kinds of other objectionable things.

  Some of them beyond creepy.

  But for the most part, the people of Bakersfield, California, are following the rules of rubbish, meaning that they are tossing their garden waste in the right direction.

  And this stuff is mostly alive.

  Pattie doesn’t want any more tubs or containers in the apartment. She put her foot down on that. And Dell only has his room down the hall, where Sadhu has strict rules.

  Again, Quang-ha is the one who has the answer.

  “Take everything up to the roof. No one goes up there.”

  He hasn’t been back since we put the broken glass on the skylight, but he obviously remembers what a wide-open space it is.

  So now there are pots and containers all over the flat space.

  With the rooting hormone and so much full sun and water, I’ve got a mini-nursery going.

  And then we lose almost all of the plants.

  There is a light rain and someone named S. Godchaux in unit #21 reports a small leak in the ceiling in his bathroom.

  He calls the bank, and they don’t notify the building rep. They notify their repairman.

  Pattie and I are at the salon and of course I know nothing about this until it is all too late.