Better Food for a Better World. Erin McGraw
can be Ivory soap. Ninety-nine and forty-four hundredths percent pure.”
A fat drop of ice cream had fallen onto Sam’s shirt, and a brown ring like a minstrel’s outlined his mouth. “Here,” Cecilia said, handing him a store napkin from the stack she and David kept on the table. This one read, “Responsible Action Is the Gate to Freedom.” She also handed him “The Boat of Commitment Can Sail Over the Waters of Uncertainty” and “The Marriage of Intention and Action Bears the Offspring of Clarity and Joy.” The last one was David’s contribution after a night of brainstorming, and Cecilia thought it was pretty good, even if it did sound like it came from a fortune cookie.
Scrubbing at his shirt, Sam leaned across the table to read the next one: “‘Our Goal Is Not Gold, but Wholeness.’ That had to be Nancy’s. Everybody else’s goal is gold. So is David pure? He’s not a performer.”
“He’s Ivory soap. Like you.” Embarrassed, rushing, she added, “He’s very supportive of my music. It was his idea to have me give lessons.”
“Not exactly performing.”
Cecilia shrugged. “It’s something. And we really do need the money. Not that it’s much.”
“David says you guys are ready to start a family.”
“Did David? I didn’t know we were going public with that piece of information.” Looking back down at her drawing, Cecilia added a tuft of grass under the weight lifter’s feet, then regretted it. Fussy. “David’s full of plans, but they all hinge on me getting pregnant. Which I’m not.”
“Relax. The baby will come, and after the first few sleepless nights you’ll wonder why you wanted it so much.”
“Listen, you don’t need to tell anybody about this,” she said without looking up. “I feel a little vulnerable. I had a dream that Life Tie-ers were hanging over my bed, and Nancy was giving me advice.”
“Vivy’s had that dream too. Then she dreams of bringing an AK-47 to bed with her,” Sam said. “If anybody had told me back in college that Nancy Califfe would turn into the thought police, I would have fallen out of bed laughing.”
“What was she, a flower child?”
“Baby, we were all flower children.” He clattered his bowl into the sink and sat across from Cecilia again, leaning back in his chair, his hands locked loosely behind his head. He was all lines—tendons, bones, as ropy as a boy. “She was strictly long dresses and Birkenstocks. She looked like a cross between a Quaker and Grace Slick.”
“Nancy?”
“She had a German shepherd named Garcia with a bandanna around his neck.”
“You’re making this up.”
“Swear to God,” he said, holding up his hand. “She used to come by everybody’s apartments with loaves of whole wheat bread she’d made. You could build a wall with that bread. And she was slow. We used to tell her movies started an hour earlier than they really did so we could get to the theater on time.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine this,” Cecilia said. “What happened to that person?”
“Beats me. She and Paul got caught up in some guns-and-sombreros group that was ready to bring on the revolution. By the time she gave up on Che Guevara, she had turned into the Nancy you know and love.”
“This is amazing. David hasn’t told me any of this stuff.”
“He may have forgotten. He’s changed too.”
“If you tell me that he used to wear tie-dyed T-shirts I’ll know you’re lying.” Even to her own ears her voice seemed round with suppressed laughter.
“Naw. David’s always been a white T-shirt guy. But he was the Plant Man. He liked plants better than food. He liked plants better than girls. None of us ever figured him to work behind a counter.”
“Ice cream wasn’t exactly a career choice, you know. He got his PhD in botany, but by the time he came back home every job was agribusiness. If he’d had an MBA people might have been interested. When Paul and Nancy offered him partnership, it looked pretty good.”
“And now you get to live a life filled with Natural High napkins,” Sam said.
Cecilia plucked “Our Goal Is Not Gold” from the pile, stared at it a second, then folded it into a small square. “You want to know the worst? We liked the napkins. We were all set to live lives full of intention and action.”
“‘Were.’”
Cecilia unfolded the napkin, then folded it again, lining up the edges more precisely. “I’m just a little sick of it all, you know? Most times I can think of something better to do on a Sunday night than go to Life Ties. Last week K-Camp broadcasted Joshua Bell and the Berlin Philharmonic. There are days when I look at my life and I don’t recognize one thing about it.”
“What do you want to do?” Sam asked. “Would you rather be playing in an orchestra?”
“Let’s not talk about heaven,” Cecilia said, making herself meet his gaze and smile. “Sorry to get so worked up. I’m just frustrated. I won’t mean half of this tomorrow.”
“And half of it you will.”
“Pretty self-indulgent, huh?”
“Are you kidding?” He leaned forward and looked at her steadily until she began to tremble, and looked down. He said, “I wish I had anything I wanted to do as much as you want to play your violin.”
“Don’t even say it.” She reached for another napkin to fold. “Don’t—talk.”
Sam didn’t. Instead he watched her fold, and the silence between them thinned like high-altitude air.
When Cecilia spoke her voice was very tight. “You know what David likes? Leaf texture, quality of the soil, humidity. The little balcony outside our bedroom is so jammed with tomato plants we can’t even walk out there. Every year he goes out to the community plots and helps people with their peppers.”
“Would he leave Natural High for a plant job?”
“He would have at first.” She studied the napkin, compressed into a square the size of her thumbnail. “Now he’s settled in. I think he’d rather not know.” Instantly, Cecilia felt like a traitor, although she hadn’t said a word that wasn’t true.
“Maybe I’m going to be out of line here,” Sam said. His voice sounded strange too, or maybe Cecilia’s alarmed brain was distorting things. “Maybe this is information you don’t want. But there’s a walnut orchard over toward Mineville that’s looking for a part-time guy. Half farmer, half overseer. New people bought the property as a tax shelter, but now that they’ve laid eyes on the place they’re hot to get production up. It would mean a chunk of time out of town every week, but I thought about David as soon as I heard.”
“How would he square it with Natural High?”
“Long-term investment. We have to buy our walnuts someplace, and we like to support local growers. Besides, there’s no actual rule against outside work, even though Nancy acts like there is. Head, heart, and soul to Natural High.”
Cecilia was shaking her head, although she was already envisioning David striding among his trees, his fingers stained from the walnut juice, his voice lifted in song. Giving in, she imagined herself joining him, strolling under the canopy of branches while he pointed out new grafting techniques. And then—why stop now?—she imagined them at home together with their milk-faced children, smiling, hand in hand, any flutter of unease pushed aside by David’s hearty farmer’s joy.
She said, “Don’t say anything to him; let me think about it.”
“I don’t know how long the job will