Valley of the Moon (7 page)

“You were quite forward-thinking for your time, then,” I said. “A real feminist.”

“A feminist?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Somebody who supports women's rights.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.”

Unless he was a brilliant actor, he'd never heard the word
feminist
. You couldn't open a newspaper or magazine in 1975 without reading an article about feminists protesting some inequity or another.

Despite my skepticism, my heart lifted. What he was describing was a truly egalitarian society. I was in the presence of an honest-to-God idealist. I wanted to share with him that I was an idealist, too, but the idealist in me had been driven underground. Buried by the past five years of a shitty, low-paying job, and my inability to figure out how to better my and Benno's lives.

Please let him be real. Please let this place be true,
a little voice inside me said.

It was August and the fields were high with corn. In the orchard the last of the peaches clung to their branches and the apples were showing their first pinkish blush. The vegetable garden overflowed with produce: peppers, green beans, zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash. It was the farm's busiest season, he explained.

There were people hard at work everywhere. Some ignored me when he brought me by; others stared boldly. I didn't sense unfriendliness, more of a stunned curiosity. Would I help them? Would I hurt them? I tried to appear as unthreatening as possible. I said hello whenever I caught somebody's eye; still, I knew they were relieved when I moved on. I felt like a voyeur. Perhaps they felt like an exhibition.

“How do you decide where to put people to work?” I asked.

An elderly man picked corn. For every ear of corn he put in the basket, the woman beside him picked a dozen. It obviously wasn't an easy task for him.

“I don't decide, they decide,” Joseph said. “If they want to be on the garden crew, they're on the garden crew. If they want to be on the animal crew, they're on the animal crew.”

“But what if everybody wants to be on the animal crew and nobody wants to be on the garden crew?”

“That's never been the case. The numbers always work out.”

“But what if somebody isn't suited for the particular kind of work they want to do?”

“There's always some way they can contribute. If you tell a man he's useless, he becomes useless.”

Yes. And if you tell a woman she's only good enough to clean up people's dirty plates, she'll always be cleaning up people's dirty plates,
I thought.

“How many crews are there?” I asked.

“Garden, fields, orchard, brambles, animals, building, medical, domestic, kitchen, winery, and school,” he rattled off. “There's also the herb garden, but that is Martha's domain—she works alone.”

“Brambles?”

“Blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, too, even though they're not technically a bramble. The bramble crew is mostly children, who end up eating practically everything they harvest. But it's a fine first job for them. They have to learn how to pick around the thorns.”

“How many people live here?”

“Two hundred and seventy-eight: 55 children, 223 adults.”

“And you can produce enough food to feed you all?”

“More than enough. In fact, since the fog, we've let some fields and gardens go fallow.”

He led me into a large two-story building. “This is the workshop, the building crew's home base, although most of them are out on the grounds this time of day.”

The workshop was cavernous. Tucked into the corner was a blacksmith station. Every kind of tool imaginable was neatly hung or stacked against the back wall. There was even a horse mill.

Maybe Greengage was a living-history museum, like Old Sturbridge Village or Colonial Williamsburg, where the employees were paid to dress up and stay in character no matter what.

A man sanded a plank at one of the tables. It looked like he was putting together a tiny house.

“Magnusson!” Joseph called out.

The man stalked across the workshop floor. He was an intimidating figure; he towered over Joseph. His hair was white-blond, his eyes cornflower blue.

He stared at me, clicking his massive jaw.

“For God's sake, don't be a cretin. Be polite and say hello,” said Joseph.

“Hello,” he grunted.

“What are you building? A house for elves?” I said nervously.

Magnusson rolled his eyes.

“A privy,” said Joseph.

A privy. Right. No flush toilets here.

“Sorry,” I said, then cringed.
Act normal, Lux; they're just people.
I was surprised how badly I wanted them all to like me.

“What do you mill?” I asked.

Magnusson walked away without a word, done with me and my ridiculous questions.

“Grain,” answered Joseph. “Oats. Wheat and corn.”

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. “I'm sorry. I live in San Francisco. I don't know how you do things on a farm.”

“That's fine. I love talking about what we do.” He led me out of the workshop.

“I'm afraid I made a bad impression on your friend.”

“Magnusson is a Swede,” he said, as if that explained everything.

We walked past pretty little cottages and two dormitories. On our way to the schoolhouse, Joseph told me they didn't keep to a regular school year. When the children were needed to help with a harvest, school let out. When the community work was done, school was back in session again.

The schoolhouse was empty today. Written on the chalkboard was a Walt Whitman quote.

Now I see the secret of making the best persons: it is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Sun streamed through the windows and birdsong filled the air. How I would love for Benno to go to school in a room like this. How I would have loved to have gone to a school like this. Against my better judgment, my spirits soared.

“Whitman is Martha's patron saint,” Joseph said.

“Did you and Martha meet here on the farm?”

“We met at a lecture on cross-pollination methods for corn.”

Was he serious? He didn't crack a smile. Yes, apparently he was serious.

“Is she from California?”

“She's from Topeka, Kansas. A farmer's daughter.”

He told me how Martha had been raised by her Scottish grandmother, a feisty old woman who ate bacon sandwiches, befriended the Kiowa, rode bareback, and practiced herbal medicine, as had her mother, and her mother before her. It was this grandmother who made sure Martha knew her digitalis from her purple coneflower, this grandmother who transformed her into a gifted herbalist.

“Martha's a midwife as well,” he said.

“Wow. So she takes care of everybody?” Two-hundred-something people? That was a lot of responsibility.

“We have a physician here, too. Dr. Kilgallon, better known as Friar. They have an agreement. If it bleeds or is broken, it goes to Friar. Everything else goes to Martha.”

“So she treats people with what—tinctures?” I'd seen the row of tinctures at the co-op. I'd always been intrigued, but I was doubtful they'd work as well as Tums or Tylenol.

“Not just tinctures. She makes eye sponges and wine cordials, fever pastes, catarrh snuffs, blister treatments. But more often than not, her prescription is simple. Chop wood. Eat a beefsteak. Kiss your children,” he said.

“That works?”

“You'd be surprised. Never underestimate the power of having somebody pay attention to you.”

I wanted a Martha in my life.

He took me to the wine cave. Past the hay shed and the chicken coop, the sheep barn and the horse barn. We climbed into the hills and he proudly showed me one of the four springhouses on the property. Then he proceeded to give me a long lecture on gravity-propelled irrigation systems while we gazed down upon the farm, which was set in the bowl of the valley, a verdant paradise.

I was enchanted. My chest ached with longing. There was something here that was familiar, that I'd been missing but I hadn't had any idea I'd been missing until this man had shown it to me.

“Well, if you have to be trapped, this is the place you'd want to be,” I said.

His face transformed into a mask of incredulity. “Good God.” He quickly walked away, leaving me to follow.

I
t was exhausting, trying to act normal around her when what I really wanted to do was ply her with questions. Instead she plied me with questions—clearly she'd never spent time on a working farm. Still, she was not a prissy woman. She didn't hold her breath in the pigsty, or shudder when she learned she would have to relieve herself in a privy. I could see she was fit. Her hands were red and rough like Martha's; she used them to make a living.

“Where in San Francisco do you reside?” I asked.

“Noe Valley.”

“Where do you work?”

“At a pub.”

“You're a barkeep?”

“I'm a waitress, but don't look so shocked. Women bartend, too. Where are we going?”

She was afraid I was taking her back to the fog. I have to admit, if I'd been told I'd traveled back in time nearly seventy years, I'd have run back to my own time as fast as I could. That would be most people's natural reaction. Instead she'd worked hard to keep an open mind. She listened intently and soaked up every little detail, and gradually, over the course of the afternoon, I'd seen Greengage cast its spell on her. She hadn't said anything to that effect, but it was written on her face—awe.

Despite my misgivings about her, I was heartened to see Greengage had lost none of its charms. Indeed, it had a beauty and goodness that seemed to transcend questions like the ones we were grappling with today. If she really was from 1975 (and I still wasn't convinced), I couldn't begin to imagine the things she'd seen. The kind of life she lived. That our simple community had dazzled her gave me hope.

All at once I realized how badly I wanted for her to be real. To be who she said she was.

“I'm taking you to the house for a rest. I'm sure you must be fatigued.”

She smiled. “I am. I am fatigued.”

“We eat early. The dinner bell rings at six.”

Her face clouded over. “I don't have any money to pay for dinner. I didn't bring any with me. I'm sorry.”

That was four times in the last hour that she'd apologized. I couldn't hold my tongue.

“You must stop saying you're sorry every other minute. It's—there's simply no need for it.” I stopped myself from saying how unattractive it was to hear a woman apologizing all the time. “There is no fee for dinner. You are our guest.”

I hadn't laid my hand on any currency in four months. That had been one of the unforeseen boons of our strange circumstances, not having to worry about money, dispensing it or making it.

She stared at me, her color high.

“I didn't mean to offend you,” I said.

“You're right. I apologize too much. I hate that about myself.” She looked off into the middle distance. “I'll help clean up, then.”

“That's not necessary.”

“But everybody here pulls their weight. You just showed me that. I can't take something from you without giving something back.”

“You are our guest,” I repeated. “We don't expect anything in return.”

Her eyes welled up with sudden tears.

“Joseph, you old boot,” said Fancy. She sat on the front porch, waiting for us. “You've monopolized Lux for far too long. Give somebody else a chance.”

“We were on a tour,” I said.

“What did he show you? The boring workshop? The chicken coop? I would have taken you to meet Dear One.”

Dear One, known to everybody else as Eleanor, was the daughter of Polly Bisbee (our childhood cook) and was Fancy's closest friend.
Dear One
as in “Dear One, would you get me a cup of tea?” “Dear One, would you mind ever so much closing that window?” She'd been Fancy's companion until my mother died, and then she became her lady's maid. Fancy would never refer to her as a maid now. My sister had been slower to evolve than me, but eventually she had come around.

Fancy and Eleanor were not permanent residents of Greengage. In fact, they'd arrived for their annual visit just days before the earthquake. It had taken them four weeks to travel by steamship from London to New York and then another week on the train from New York to San Francisco.

“I would love to meet Dear One,” said Lux.

Fancy jumped up from her chair. “We're off, then!”

“No, she is in need of a rest,” I said.

Lux nodded at me gratefully. She'd been too polite to turn down Fancy's invitation, but she really did need to sit down. She looked quite pale.

“I suppose you've had quite a shock,” said Fancy.

“Well, you've had quite a shock, too,” said Lux.

Fancy was usually steadfastly upbeat, it was one of her great strengths. But this was not one of those times; she now slumped in despair. I drew my sister to me. She laid her head against my shoulder and sighed.

“Yes, I guess we have,” she said.

Dinner was a strange affair. Some people came and paid their respects to Lux; they bobbed and curtseyed and welcomed her, making me feel I was sitting next to royalty. Others avoided her like a leper, going out of their way to bypass her, walking down another row so they wouldn't risk having to say hello.

It was terribly awkward. Twice I got up to leave and twice Martha stopped me.

“They are looking to you to set an example,” she said. “They're nervous. They don't know how to make sense of what's happening. Give them some time.”

Lux was polite. She greeted everybody with the same warmth. She looked them in the eyes and shook their hands like somebody who wanted desperately to be accepted. She started on another round of
I'm sorries
—“Sorry for what's befallen you,” “Sorry it hasn't befallen me,” “Sorry I'm free and you're not”—but I kneed her under the table and she immediately stopped.

“Sorry,” she said to me under her breath. “This is just so weird. I don't know what to say.”

“Do something,” said Martha to me.

I stood and clinked on my glass with a knife. The room quieted.

“Listen up,” I said. “These are the facts. This is what we know. This woman, Lux, accidentally found her way here through the fog. It seems she can come and go through the fog, though we cannot.”

I couldn't bring myself to voice the unfathomable, that according to Lux, on the other side of the fogbank it was 1975. I paused, expecting somebody to start interrogating me about it, but the room was complicit with silence. We all needed some time to grapple with this news.

“I know you want answers. You want to know what's happening. What does this mean? Her arrival.” I took a deep breath. “I don't think it means anything.”

This was a lie. Her arrival changed everything and we all knew it, but because we didn't know what it
really
meant for us, everybody agreed to let this lie stand for now.

“Not for us, anyway. For us life goes on as it has for the past four months. Nothing has changed. We will get up in the morning and meet with our crews and put in a good day's work, and then we will sleep, knowing we've earned our rest. And the next day we will wake up and do it all over again.”

“Is she staying?” Matteo asked.

I looked down at Lux.

“I'd like to stay a few days, if you'll let me,” she said quietly, so only I could hear.

I fought to keep a neutral expression on my face, as if it didn't matter to me whether she stayed or left.

“For a while,” I confirmed. “Treat her like one of us.”

“Yes, please,” said Lux. She got to her feet. “I don't want any special treatment.”

Oh, but she was special; this was clear the moment she stood. Even if she wasn't from the future, she could travel freely through the fog and we could not. She blinked once, twice, and took her seat.

I sat on the porch in the dark. I couldn't sleep; I'd been sitting there for hours. I heard Lux before I saw her. The sound of her bare feet creeping down the stairs. The squeak of the door opening. She padded to the railing in a muslin nightgown (Fancy must have lent it to her), put her hands on the railing, arched her back, and sighed.

I cleared my throat, announcing myself, and she jumped.

“You could have told me you were there,” she said.

“My apologies,” I said.

My eyes had acclimated to the night long ago, so I took the opportunity to survey her unseen. I estimated her age as somewhere in her twenties. Her face was without wrinkles, her complexion fair but tanned by the sun. Her brown, shoulder-length hair had fallen out of its braid. She impatiently pushed her fringe to the side, exposing dark straight brows. She had a small but sturdy frame and was of medium height. I could smell Martha's soap on her skin; it was unnerving.

“Can I have one of those?” she asked.

I gave her one of my precious cigarettes. She leaned forward and I lit it with a match. She inhaled deeply, held the smoke in her lungs and blew it out.

“Do you still think I'm mad?” she asked.

“I'm on the fence.”

“Well, how do we get you off the fence?”

“Do you have any identification?”

“Not on me.” She thought for a moment. “Everything's at the campsite.”

“You could answer a few questions,” I said.

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Who's the president of the United States?”

“Gerald Ford,” she said without hesitation.

“What number president is he?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Who's the prime minister of England?”

“I have no idea. But I can tell you that in 1914, England, along with France, Russia, and Japan, will declare war on Germany. America will try and stay neutral, but finally in 1917 we'll join the fight and help win the war, but at a terrible cost. Something like seventeen million people will die. Trench warfare. Gas. U-boats.” She shuddered. “World War I.”

“World War
I
?”

She looked at me calmly.

“That implies there's a World War II.”

“From 1939 to 1945,” she said. “Something like seventy-five million casualties.”

“Dear God. World War III?”

“Not yet. But America just wrapped up a war with Vietnam.” She took another puff of her cigarette. “Oh, yeah, and a man walked on the moon.”

I grunted with skepticism.

She grinned. “I'm not pulling your leg. Neil Armstrong in 1969. Do you want to hear more? I could tell you about the Depression, about Prohibition, about the civil rights movement, about Martin Luther King, about
Roe v. Wade.
Abortion is legal now, by the way.”

I held up my hand. “That's quite enough, thank you. A few minutes of quiet, if you don't mind.”

“Of course. You'll want to take that all in,” she said a little smugly, pleased to have put on such a convincing show.

The crickets chirped. A moth batted its wings futilely against a closed window. My mind reeled.

“Don't you want to ask me any questions?”

“My questions were answered today when you took me on the tour,” she said.

“Are you saying you believe me?”

“No. Yes. I mean kind of. What else can I do? At some point you just have to sort of commit, right?”

“Commit to what?”

“This. Us. What's happening. That I'm here. That you're here. That this can't be, and yet it is. It's beyond the laws of nature, but until some other evidence surfaces to disprove you, I'm going to go along with all this, and maybe you'll go along with it, too. What other choice do we have?” She shrugged.

She'd just expressed the same conclusion I'd been coming to. Continuing to mistrust each other seemed like a waste of energy, at least for now.

“Do you think we did something? To bring this on?” I asked.

“Like what? What could you have possibly done?”

She was right. We had done nothing but work hard to be self-sufficient and treat each other fairly and equitably.