Read Online Full Measure: A Novel by T. Jefferson Parker - Free Book Online
Authors: T. Jefferson Parker
Ads: Link
all of us.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Patrick, Ted, and Archie walked the reeking groves, trying to guess which of the damaged trees might live and which would die. Archibald said that if there was a blessing in this fire it was the speed of it, leaving, possibly, a number of trees still alive. By spring they would see new growth on the survivors, few as they might be. Those without life by April they would cut off at the ground and Norris Brothers would try again to get a Farm Credit Bank loan for replacement trees. Archie said if God smiled on them, which He rarely did anymore, half of the trees were still alive and would make it. A harvest from those trees was three years out now, but if spring showed at least half them alive, the bank would loan. The bank would have to loan on forty acres of good Haas avocados.
Patrick knew that if replacement trees were watered generously, and did not get Phytophthora root rot, or stem canker or sunblotch disease, or fall prey to looper worms, amorbia larvae, thrips, mites, or worms, they would produce fruit in three years. Three years, thought Patrick. And there had already been no pick earlier this year because of the March freeze. He thought of Pharaoh and wondered what his father had done to bring all of this down on them, knowing he had done nothing.
But in the meantime, there was plenty to do. First was to paint the southwest exposure of each tree with a fifty-fifty mix of white paint and water to prevent sunburn of the unprotected trunks and branches. This should be done quickly. Then they’d replace the damaged irrigation line, risers, sprinklers, valves, and timers. When that was done the whole system would need to be flushed to keep the mains clean. After that they’d need to circle each tree with straw, out to fifteen feet per tree, to keep the fall rains from washing away the soil. All the while, Archie would continue to make the rounds to the other Farm Credit banks, begging them to do their jobs, as he put it.
* * *
The brothers started with the irrigation and Archie began the painting. Patrick worked with his shirt off and enjoyed the mild autumn sun on his back. He ducked under the seared branches and walked the grids looking for melted line and sprayers. Plastic was no match for a wildfire. He was soon as black as the trees, the ash got through his bandana into his mouth and nose, and his safety goggles needed constant wiping. He saw that Ted was mostly black also, but he had some lightness in his step, in spite of his bad feet, and he was moving about with his shoulders back, attempting to hold his gut in.
Patrick’s phone vibrated in his pants pocket and he was pleased to see platoon-mate John Bostik’s name on the screen. “Boss.”
“Hey, Pat. What are you doing?”
“Labor.”
“Everything burned up?”
“Pretty much. You?”
“Maria kicked me out so I got my own place in Oceanside. You should come over sometime. Party.”
“That’s too bad about the girl.”
“It’s cool. I just met her and I was driving her crazy. I can’t sleep or concentrate. The littlest things freak me out. Fuckin’ car backfired yesterday and I just about lost it. Everybody around me just pisses me off.”
“Yeah, me too, the little things. I’m getting some sleep, a little. It’s weird not being crowded in. Maybe you should see a doctor, get some pills.”
“I already got more pills than I can take. Maybe we all could hook up after the Three-Five memorial.”
“We’ll do that. I’ll talk to Salimony and Messina. You hang in there, Boss.”
Bostic had operated a heavy explosives detector known as a Minehound for thirteen straight months. He had often been silent, Patrick remembered—silent as he listened for the sound of metal registering through his headset. Bostic was the platoon’s silent ears. Now Bostic was quiet again for a long moment. “I heard ‘Paint It Black’ in a bar and almost couldn’t take it. That’s how I feel. I hate
CHAPTER SEVEN
Patrick, Ted, and Archie walked the reeking groves, trying to guess which of the damaged trees might live and which would die. Archibald said that if there was a blessing in this fire it was the speed of it, leaving, possibly, a number of trees still alive. By spring they would see new growth on the survivors, few as they might be. Those without life by April they would cut off at the ground and Norris Brothers would try again to get a Farm Credit Bank loan for replacement trees. Archie said if God smiled on them, which He rarely did anymore, half of the trees were still alive and would make it. A harvest from those trees was three years out now, but if spring showed at least half them alive, the bank would loan. The bank would have to loan on forty acres of good Haas avocados.
Patrick knew that if replacement trees were watered generously, and did not get Phytophthora root rot, or stem canker or sunblotch disease, or fall prey to looper worms, amorbia larvae, thrips, mites, or worms, they would produce fruit in three years. Three years, thought Patrick. And there had already been no pick earlier this year because of the March freeze. He thought of Pharaoh and wondered what his father had done to bring all of this down on them, knowing he had done nothing.
But in the meantime, there was plenty to do. First was to paint the southwest exposure of each tree with a fifty-fifty mix of white paint and water to prevent sunburn of the unprotected trunks and branches. This should be done quickly. Then they’d replace the damaged irrigation line, risers, sprinklers, valves, and timers. When that was done the whole system would need to be flushed to keep the mains clean. After that they’d need to circle each tree with straw, out to fifteen feet per tree, to keep the fall rains from washing away the soil. All the while, Archie would continue to make the rounds to the other Farm Credit banks, begging them to do their jobs, as he put it.
* * *
The brothers started with the irrigation and Archie began the painting. Patrick worked with his shirt off and enjoyed the mild autumn sun on his back. He ducked under the seared branches and walked the grids looking for melted line and sprayers. Plastic was no match for a wildfire. He was soon as black as the trees, the ash got through his bandana into his mouth and nose, and his safety goggles needed constant wiping. He saw that Ted was mostly black also, but he had some lightness in his step, in spite of his bad feet, and he was moving about with his shoulders back, attempting to hold his gut in.
Patrick’s phone vibrated in his pants pocket and he was pleased to see platoon-mate John Bostik’s name on the screen. “Boss.”
“Hey, Pat. What are you doing?”
“Labor.”
“Everything burned up?”
“Pretty much. You?”
“Maria kicked me out so I got my own place in Oceanside. You should come over sometime. Party.”
“That’s too bad about the girl.”
“It’s cool. I just met her and I was driving her crazy. I can’t sleep or concentrate. The littlest things freak me out. Fuckin’ car backfired yesterday and I just about lost it. Everybody around me just pisses me off.”
“Yeah, me too, the little things. I’m getting some sleep, a little. It’s weird not being crowded in. Maybe you should see a doctor, get some pills.”
“I already got more pills than I can take. Maybe we all could hook up after the Three-Five memorial.”
“We’ll do that. I’ll talk to Salimony and Messina. You hang in there, Boss.”
Bostic had operated a heavy explosives detector known as a Minehound for thirteen straight months. He had often been silent, Patrick remembered—silent as he listened for the sound of metal registering through his headset. Bostic was the platoon’s silent ears. Now Bostic was quiet again for a long moment. “I heard ‘Paint It Black’ in a bar and almost couldn’t take it. That’s how I feel. I hate
Similar Books
