Counting by 7s (28 page)

I end up talking to a lot of different people.

Finally I'm introduced to a man with a large right ear and an almost nonexistent left ear.

Just a nub, really.

The man has a scar on his neck on the nub side.

He doesn't look like a fighter, so my guess is he was in an accident.

Human ears have successfully been grown on the back of rats and then attached to the head of a human by grafting.

Obviously, I don't bring this up.

But I want to.

The man with the ear issue goes into a back area and returns with a book filled with the notes from hearings.

For a second I find the connection interesting. He's in charge of the
hearings
—and something happened to the outer covering of what he uses to hear.

But I don't obsess on that.

The man watches me with real intensity as I leaf through the documents.

The garden in the center of our apartment complex does not need the approval of elected officials to be transformed, but I want whatever I submit to the bank to appear very professional.

I spend a good chunk of time for the next two days writing a proposal for an interior garden at our building.

I include drawings (done by Quang-ha under my direction in exchange for biology flash cards).

I include research on the climate of our area, the ideal plants that can be grown here, and a study of the benefits of green areas in living spaces.

I also pull the building permit for the Gardens of Glenwood to show that the interior space has the proper drainage, and that in the original plans, they didn't show rocks, but plants.

It's my first project since Before.

After two days, I have a full three-ring notebook to submit to the bank board.

I believe that I may have provided too much information.

That can be as big a mistake as too little knowledge.

But I can't stop myself from amassing more and more material.

I'm making the request in Dell's name, because he is the person on the lease, and also because getting this kind of detailed plan from a kid would no doubt raise the flag of alarm.

I present Dell with the black binder.

“Here it is. I think you should go into North South Bank. Ask to see the manager. Introduce yourself, and then leave this with him.”

Dell is silent as he opens the notebook and begins to look. It doesn't take long for him to say:

“I can't do this.”

He shuts the binder and tries to hand it back to me.

Dell Duke is not a bad person. He is just bad at
being
a person.

And he has issues with authority.

Or at the very least, he seems very easily intimidated by anyone who has some. I say:

“We're not asking for money. We're not asking for anything but permission to remove an eyesore and transform a communal place. It would be an improvement.”

I've barely gotten the words out of my mouth when Mai comes through the front door. She's been at her friend Kalina's house.

“What's going on?”

I look from Dell back to her.

“I've made a proposal and Dell needs to take it into North South Bank.”

Mai has crazy power over people. It only takes one word from her.

“Dell . . .”

He changes course like the wind in a dust storm.

“I'll drop it off tomorrow on my lunch break. Does that work for you two?”

We nod.

From the couch Quang-ha says:

“I did the drawings.”

The garden project is under way.

At least on paper.

T
he new court
date was set.

Pattie held the document in her hands.

The system was responsible for children until the day they turned eighteen years old. So Willow Chance had six years to navigate these waters.

Pattie remembered the note that Willow had written the first day she met her social worker at the nail salon. She couldn't imagine that any other kid had presented something as precise.

Willow had a high-functioning brain. That much was clear.

So what does the world do with a twelve-year-old girl without family and a network of close friends? What were the choices?

In the big envelope the social worker had sent, Pattie now found a pamphlet for the next state-sponsored Adoption Fair.

From what she could see, the process looked like speed dating.

The fairs were held in a park. Prospective parents arrived and mingled with the busloads of kids, who came with social workers.

Hot dogs and hamburgers were served. A softball game was usually organized. The idea was to just be natural and give people a chance to get to know each other.

According to the statistics on the last page of the informational brochure, there were matches made. And of course, sometimes they worked out.

Pattie felt certain that the little kids, especially the cute ones, got all the attention, since they were featured in the pamphlet.

The older kids, even the more outgoing ones who were trying to sell themselves, no doubt ended up the snakes at the petting zoo. People probably kept their distance.

It was hard to imagine Willow Chance in such a setting, but maybe she would defy the odds.

Hadn't she been doing that her whole life?

Mai liked to shop. So even her mother's regular trip to the farmer's market presented an opportunity to browse.

Pattie always bought chicken feet from the man who sold organic eggs. He saved them for her in a special cooler of ice. She used the yellow fowl feet to make a soup that Mai had to admit was delicious, but it tasted better if you didn't see the ingredients.

While her mother went down her shopping list, Mai wandered the aisles of the parking-lot-turned-market, looking at the organic honey and the purple turnips.

Willow said that she used to grow everything that they sold there in her own backyard.

Mai looked at the lettuce and the potatoes and the onions and the red cabbage.

It didn't seem possible.

But Willow wasn't a liar.

About anything.

At the far end of the last aisle was a man playing a banjo. Mai moved closer to hear him.

The sun was shining, but it wasn't the punishing heat of summer or late spring. The air was still cool.

Mai took a seat on the edge of the curb and listened.

She couldn't help herself from imagining the notes of the plucking strings playing for dancing chickens.

And then in her dreamy vision, the birds suddenly were without feet.

Mai stood up.

She felt a growing sense of panic as she looked in all directions for her mother.

It wasn't just the idea of the feet-less fowl that was causing her distress; she now saw sunflowers for sale in tubs in almost all of the stalls.

She hadn't noticed them before.

Each blossom held its own unique possibility.

Willow told her that if they didn't get their small sunflower plants at home into the ground soon they'd be stunted.

She said that they needed to put down a real root system to achieve their potential.

Don't we all, thought Mai as she hurried toward her mother in the distance.

Don't we all?

B
ig news.

My binder worked, and the bank has given Dell Duke the go-ahead to do the garden conversion.

But the letter (which is from the senior vice president's office) has additional information besides the legal permission to take up the rock pile.

Someone over there at North South Bank is on top of things, because as the letter states:

 

Taking the initiative to improve the property as a renter shows a commitment to the values we at North South Bank hold dear.

We have never, in the history of the bank, seen such a thorough proposal.

Therefore, Mr. Duke, in addition to granting you permission to plant a garden in the central, uncovered atrium, we have made the decision to ask you to be the Building Representative for the Gardens of Glenwood.

 

I don't think anyone ever asked Dell to represent anything before.

He looks like he won the lottery.

It's a strange combination of being wildly excited and deeply afraid.

I'm wondering now about his parents.

Maybe as a toddler he was locked in a woodshed in a cold climate for extended periods of time.

He appears to have just been let out.

Looking at him as he reads the letter a sixth time aloud, I realize he's sort of weeping.

I assure him that being the building rep is a big honor that he richly deserves.

The next thing I know, he's down in the garage putting a sign in front of the best parking space in the open carport.

It reads:

RESERVED FOR BUILDING REP

DELL DUKE: UNIT 28

I guess he just doesn't get what being of service means.

Now that we have permission, the plan can be executed.

It's Saturday, and we're all here except Pattie, who has the most customers on the weekends.

I ask Quang-ha how he would suggest we remove the red lava rock. I'm secretly thinking he might want to get involved in all of this.

He isn't remotely interested.

But apparently he got something out of
Tom Sawyer,
even if he didn't read it or write the paper on Mark Twain.

He only says:

“Give the rock away. People love anything they think is free.”

This strikes me as accurate.

I go down the hall to discuss the idea with Dell. Sadhu is there in the living room.

He's a lot nicer to me since I made Dell a computer. He has even asked my opinion on a few technical things.

And I'm allowed to borrow his fifteen-watt soldering gun.

When I explain to Dell that my plan is to give away the rock, Sadhu says:

“List it online. It will be gone before you know it.”

I post an offering of free red lava landscaping rock.

I say that if you can haul it away, you can have it.

Only 7 minutes later, I get my first response.

Quang-ha appears to be right.

The idea of something for nothing is appealing in some visceral way.

Even if free things are never free.

The burden of ownership means everything has a price.

I think that's why really rich and famous people look so weighed down and glum in most photos.

They know that they have to keep their guard up. They have things other people want.

I have said that the red rock is on a first come, first serve basis.

Before I know what's going on, I have four different people over here fighting over the stuff.

The lava rock enthusiasts scare me.

Since Dell is now the building rep, I make him go down and deal with it.

I have no idea what he says, but Mai and I hear all kinds of shouting.

The important thing is that in two hours all of the rock is gone, and so is the ripped black plastic sheeting underneath.

I said that it was also free.

We all head downstairs (even Quang-ha wants a look) and we stare at the newly exposed dirt.

What remains is only the hard-packed ground. It's not even brown. It's dusty gray.

Maybe the construction crew dumped a few leftover bags of concrete on their way out.

I guess everyone is thinking the same thing, but Quang-ha is always the one who gives the unspoken a voice.

He says:

“Nothing's going to grow here.”

Pattie has just come home from work and she seems more worn out than usual. She stands with us and stares at the big rectangle of nothing. Finally she adds:

“It's a bigger-looking space when it's not covered with rocks.”

Dell chimes in:

“And a bigger project than anyone thought.”

Pattie sighs and starts up the stairs.

“Most things are.”

I don't want to be crushed, but it's possible they are talking about me, not the ugly, exposed area that is now the centerpiece of the courtyard.

Mai puts her hand on my shoulder. She says:

“Let's go eat. Everything looks better in the daylight.”

It looks even worse in the full sun.

I go downstairs early, and it's only me and the dirt, which I now realize has a gritty top, like someone sprinkled coarse sea salt on a gray cracker.

Even if I got everyone in this entire complex to join me here with garden tools, I don't think we could make it happen.

Plus I've only seen a few of the other residents. And they don't look like people who would want to swing a pickaxe.

Regular soil is a crazy mix of everything from fine rock fragments to water, air, insects, and even bacteria and fungi.

It's all necessary.

I remember the first time I looked under the microscope at a pinch of the dirt from my own backyard.

It was a shocker.

Now, as I think about this open space, I know what has to be done.

Deep tilling of the soil isn't a good idea unless you are facing the kind of ground we have here in the Gardens of Glenwood.

But this situation calls for heavy machinery.

We have to rent a Rototiller.

I can't do this myself for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is that you have to be eighteen years old to even legally operate the equipment.

I go back upstairs, and when Mai wakes up, I explain the situation.

She doesn't look like she has any idea what I'm talking about, even when I clarify that a Rototiller is a machine with sharp blades that mechanically chop soil.

But she understands something, because she says:

“So we need an adult, a credit card, and a car?”

Dell wants no part of this.

Mai has done a lot of talking, but it's the resident from unit #11 who makes the difference.

A guy named Otto Sayas—I would give anything to have a name that was a palindrome—knocks on the door.

He wants to know what's happening with the “big dirt patch in the courtyard.”

Otto Sayas doesn't look very happy, because his unit opens right up onto the future garden site.

I'm guessing from his attitude that he didn't have a problem with the patch of red lava rock and weeds.

Dell has to talk to the guy because he's the building rep. I hear him explain:

“It's all going to be planted. You'll see. We are right in the middle of the project.”

I catch sight of Otto Sayas and he's still scowling. He barks:

“Nothing in the world will grow there.”

Then the magical part happens, because Dell sort of puffs up and says:

“You just wait and see.”