silence. “Listen,” Fahey said finally. “Maybe you’d like to come out to the porch. I could fix you a chair.”
He watched her smile for the first time.
“That would be nice,” she said.
Fahey carried pillows to one of the old redwood loungers he kept in the little room he’d built along one side of the trailer. The room had begun as a deck. Over time he’d added plywood walls with large, screened windows and a tin roof. He helped her to the chair, fixed a pillow for her head, and put a blanket over her feet.
“You can watch me bring in the herd,” he told her.
She narrowed her eyes against the glare, looking out across Fahey’s land. “What herd?” she asked.
Fahey went to one of the white boxes stacked beneath a screen just outside the room. He came back with a handful of black, moist soil in which a number of reddish worms could be seen wriggling in his palm. “These guys,” he told her.
Magdalena looked at the worms. “I see,” she said.
There followed several hours of hard work: Fahey on the farm, the Gull’s three acres, shoveling red worms into the motorized harvester he’d bought used from a woman in Perris.
The harvester was six feet long, cylindrical in shape, and reminded Fahey of an amusement park ride—some small version of the hammers and loop-the-loops he’d ridden in supermarket parking lots as a boy, a noisy, rotating amalgamation of metal and mesh. It was comprised of three separated compartments. Into one he shoveled the contents of a windrow. The windrows, now three feet high and looking like no more than long lines of black dirt, had begun as shallow rows of cow manure into which the worms had been planted. As the worms fed, reproduced, and defecated the windrows had grown. The worm shit was known as castings. The worms were referred to as a herd. The roundup consisted of separating the castings from the herd. The harvester did its thing—sifting the contents through screens that would leave castings in one compartment and worms in another. Each could then be sold. The castings went principally to nurseries. The worms went mainly to individuals. Some owned bait shops. Some wanted to begin worm farms for themselves, others wanted to populate a garden. Fahey operated his own website. People ordered through it. The castings went into bags. The worms went into white, wooden boxes, along with a certain amount of soil. Fahey produced a third product as well—a substance known as worm tea, a mixture of water and castings allowed to simmer in the sun in large metal canisters the size of beer kegs. The worm tea could be placed into plastic bottles and sprayed over gardens or lawns. Fahey had explained these things to Magdalena. He had gone so far as to draw her a diagram of the harvester on a pad of ruled paper so she would know what went where. He had imagined that if she could follow what was going on, it might prove therapeutic. She could take a break from her devil inthe mesa. Fahey had devils of his own to contend with. He knew about diversionary tactics.
Fahey drank as he worked. Beer. He kept a case on ice in a plastic trash container next to the vats of worm tea. The sun rose above Mexico, and came on, the heat with it. Fahey removed his shirt. He drank steadily. When one can was empty he would toss it into a container next to the one that held the beer and take another from the ice. The beer both invited speculation and dulled thought. It evoked memories yet held them at bay, enabling Fahey to observe them as one might observe a parade of tall ships passing through a fog.
Fahey’s father had come to the river valley at the close of the 1960s, trailing creditors the way a dying animal trails buzzards, the last of his savings in hand, looking for an out and believing he’d found one, for by that time the Mexicans were not the only ones who wanted to develop the Tijuana River Valley. On the U.S. side, too, there were businessmen eager for development. There were also
He watched her smile for the first time.
“That would be nice,” she said.
Fahey carried pillows to one of the old redwood loungers he kept in the little room he’d built along one side of the trailer. The room had begun as a deck. Over time he’d added plywood walls with large, screened windows and a tin roof. He helped her to the chair, fixed a pillow for her head, and put a blanket over her feet.
“You can watch me bring in the herd,” he told her.
She narrowed her eyes against the glare, looking out across Fahey’s land. “What herd?” she asked.
Fahey went to one of the white boxes stacked beneath a screen just outside the room. He came back with a handful of black, moist soil in which a number of reddish worms could be seen wriggling in his palm. “These guys,” he told her.
Magdalena looked at the worms. “I see,” she said.
There followed several hours of hard work: Fahey on the farm, the Gull’s three acres, shoveling red worms into the motorized harvester he’d bought used from a woman in Perris.
The harvester was six feet long, cylindrical in shape, and reminded Fahey of an amusement park ride—some small version of the hammers and loop-the-loops he’d ridden in supermarket parking lots as a boy, a noisy, rotating amalgamation of metal and mesh. It was comprised of three separated compartments. Into one he shoveled the contents of a windrow. The windrows, now three feet high and looking like no more than long lines of black dirt, had begun as shallow rows of cow manure into which the worms had been planted. As the worms fed, reproduced, and defecated the windrows had grown. The worm shit was known as castings. The worms were referred to as a herd. The roundup consisted of separating the castings from the herd. The harvester did its thing—sifting the contents through screens that would leave castings in one compartment and worms in another. Each could then be sold. The castings went principally to nurseries. The worms went mainly to individuals. Some owned bait shops. Some wanted to begin worm farms for themselves, others wanted to populate a garden. Fahey operated his own website. People ordered through it. The castings went into bags. The worms went into white, wooden boxes, along with a certain amount of soil. Fahey produced a third product as well—a substance known as worm tea, a mixture of water and castings allowed to simmer in the sun in large metal canisters the size of beer kegs. The worm tea could be placed into plastic bottles and sprayed over gardens or lawns. Fahey had explained these things to Magdalena. He had gone so far as to draw her a diagram of the harvester on a pad of ruled paper so she would know what went where. He had imagined that if she could follow what was going on, it might prove therapeutic. She could take a break from her devil inthe mesa. Fahey had devils of his own to contend with. He knew about diversionary tactics.
Fahey drank as he worked. Beer. He kept a case on ice in a plastic trash container next to the vats of worm tea. The sun rose above Mexico, and came on, the heat with it. Fahey removed his shirt. He drank steadily. When one can was empty he would toss it into a container next to the one that held the beer and take another from the ice. The beer both invited speculation and dulled thought. It evoked memories yet held them at bay, enabling Fahey to observe them as one might observe a parade of tall ships passing through a fog.
Fahey’s father had come to the river valley at the close of the 1960s, trailing creditors the way a dying animal trails buzzards, the last of his savings in hand, looking for an out and believing he’d found one, for by that time the Mexicans were not the only ones who wanted to develop the Tijuana River Valley. On the U.S. side, too, there were businessmen eager for development. There were also
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