Meanwhile, that leaves me out in the fields in the morning, doing the work of my foreman, checking on my strawberry pickers and driving the tractor through acre after acre of produce, making sure it meets the qualities restaurants want. Then I drive the cattle in the afternoons, trying to find newplaces for them to graze, which is a challenge after the droughts we’ve been having.
Not to mention that everything is blooming at off-peak times thanks to irregular rains and the dry farming I've been trying to institute when there isn't enough groundwater to sustain it. Thank you, global warming.
Slapping a hand against the back of my neck, I wipe the glaze of sweat and dry my hand on my pants. I've been out here six hours already, and it's barely eleven o’clock.
Time for a little lunch and a chat with my brother. We’re overdue for a good heart-to-heart, and I'm hoping that he's resolved a few things with Karen since the night I picked him up at the Hitching Post.
When I get back to the house, I find him already there on a mountain bike, chomping on a Subway sandwich from his open daypack. I can smell the tuna from here, and it reminds me that I haven't eaten.
“Hot as blazes out here. I’m already sweating, and I’ve barely ridden a mile,” he says.
I do a quick assessment, looking for watery eyes, listening for slurring in his voice to see if he’s been drinking on his day off. He seems okay, and I exhale my relief.
“You mind if I grab a quick protein bar before we head out?” I ask. I tear the wrapper off the first bar and shove a second one into my pocket. Chad takes off down the front drive, and I follow.
A few blocks later, we’re riding uphill on a dirt fire road that takes us through a dry canyon with very little shade. It's silly to be out riding in the heat of the day, but this fits my work schedule, and I’m glad Chad is willing.
When we reach a flat area with a lookout, we slow our bikes to take in the view of Willow Springs. I chug some water, and Chad takes a can of beer from his pack and pops the top. He chugs most of it before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Icalculate that if he starts drinking now, he’ll probably pass out in the early evening, which will save me a late-night phone call. And I hate that it’s how I think about things, gauging whether I’ll need to pick up Chad from a bar.
“How are you doing with all that, man? Better since the other night?” I ask, gesturing at the beer can.
“Wow, you get right to the point, huh?” he says. “No small talk or anything? Is that why the girls like you so much?”
“Very funny. I’m asking seriously.” I know I’m a broken record, but I can’t ignore behavior that is derailing every part of my brother’s life.
“Yeah, about that night. I'm sorry it went down that way. I shouldn't have had that much to drink. It won’t happen again. Bygones.”
“Come on, Chad. I’ve heard it a hundred times, and the shit never changes. Are you willing to lose Karen over it?” There’s a fine line between concern and lecturing, and if I cross it, he’ll shut down.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Come on, it's me. I’m Team Chad. You said Karen left. Is she back? Everything okay?”
I'm going to keep peppering him with questions until he answers at least one of them.
“I told you I don't want to talk about it.”
“Well, too damn bad. We have a lot of miles on this road, and I don't feel like talking about anything else.”
“God, you're a frustrating asshole,” he says.
“We come from the same stock, so I'm not going to take offense,” I say. The only difference is that he inherited our dad’s alcoholism and I inherited his other asshole traits. Not sure which is worse, honestly.
Chad swings a leg over his bike to dismount and lays it gently on its side. Then he stomps over to the farthest part of theviewpoint from where I’m standing. Because I’m a relentless son of a bitch, I put my bike down and follow.
As soon as I get within ten feet, he turns. “She hasn't been back since that night. You happy now?” he asks.
I continue walking until I’m close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. He finishes the beer and squeezes it in his fist. I wish I could take his pain away, whatever its source, but I know I can’t.
“No, I'm not happy,” I tell him. “I want what's best for you.”
He stands there stiffly. Eventually, he nods.
“What happened?” I keep my voice quiet, even.
“Says she needs to find herself. That she was never happy with me living out here. And she needs some time to think about the other thing…”
“The drinking.” I’ll name it if he won’t.
