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  Janice was steaming the milk for Frank’s cappuccino when he walked in the kitchen door. She turned and accepted his morning kiss and was surprised by a momentary flash of arousal. That hadn’t happened in a long time and sadly it didn’t last now. Janice hadn’t felt even remotely sexual towards her husband since they’d moved here over a year ago. The new Frank Joseph Bane III held no appeal. Of course he didn’t know that. Janice made sure to act willing and appreciative whenever Frank turned his attention towards her but she never really felt anything with him anymore. No, this morning it was just Pablo’s Blueberry Madness. She noticed that when she was alone, the Blueberry Madness often made her unbearably horny. She thought she’d try and go take care of herself as soon as Frank got in the shower.

  WHERE ELLIS LIVES

  ELLIS LIVED IN THE GUEST COTTAGE OF HER FATHER’S OLD ranch house. She had to sell off most of the property when he died but was able to keep the half-acre that sat on a bluff just above the ocean. The big house and stables were leveled immediately upon the sale and the new owners built a hotel-sized mansion that dominated the entire three acres. This was a property that her grandfather bought in the 1920s before the area was popular. Ellis had grown up here, riding her horse on the beach, exploring the gullies, surfing, and on good days, digging for clams with her father at low tide. When she sold the main part of the property, Ellis made enough money to live comfortably for the rest of her life. A friend of her father’s invested it. She’d never have to get a “real” job.

  Ellis pulled up to her chain-link gate and got out to open the padlock. All the other houses on this street had expensive landscaping and state-of-the-art security systems. It made the neighbors crazy that Ellis still had a dirt driveway and a cheap-ass fence. The guy across the street offered to pay for a new gate and some plants, said his gardener would maintain the front of her property, so that she would be in “harmony” with the rest of the neighborhood. Ellis told him to fuck off. She liked it the way it was. Once a year she hired Bill Hax to come cut the wild mustard and trim the trees, because they were a fire hazard and the city required you to clear, but otherwise Ellis liked to let nature take its course.

  There were huge eucalyptus trees that lined her driveway, planted years ago as a wind block, which hid her from the main house and the increasingly large mansions that crowded the ocean-side cliff. Those trees both shielded her and allowed Ellis to pretend that nothing had changed, that this was still the landscape of her childhood. She looked at the beach and saw the simplicity of nature, the unchanging beauty of the ocean. As long as Ellis didn’t glance to her left or right, if she just focused on the horizon when she drove through the gate, she could tell herself that nothing had changed.

  She parked her truck, hung her wetsuit over the fence to dry and went inside to take a shower.

  The lamp by the couch hadn’t worked in a couple of weeks. It was made of coppery-tin and shaped like a saguaro cactus, five feet tall and hollow. You changed the light bulbs through secret little hinged doors on the back of the cactus. The tin had an elaborate design of punched holes running up and down the trunk and it was through these meager holes that the light shown. Each lamp had two branches with sharp edges, which stuck out on opposite sides near the top, that were totally dangerous if you didn’t watch where you were going. There were six lamps in all. Stupid looking things, absolutely impractical as they produced very little light, but Ellis’ father had brought them back from a rare vacation to Mexico and somehow she just couldn’t let them go. They stood around her tiny house like a mutant army, little glowing sentinels made out of tin. They kept her company and made her feel protected and so now she was performing exploratory surgery on the broken one, trying to figure out what the problem was, while she waited for Pablo. The screws at the base of the lamp were corroded and she struggled to get the Phillipshead screwdriver to bite.

  The phone rang but Ellis didn’t feel like talking; she let the machine pick up. The fog had rolled in just after sunrise, so dense that she couldn’t even see to the far end of the cove. Ellis hated these kinds of days. The grayness, the lack of visibility, made her feel isolated and alone. Hopeless. There were dark places that she had to avoid at all cost: undertows, caves, black alleys. Moods. Important to keep busy. Don’t stumble, never fall. It was good that Pablo was coming.

  The machine clicked on. “This is fucking cruel, Ellis. I haven’t slept. I can’t eat. Just fucking pick up the fucking phone and please fucking talk to me. Do you want me to beg? Okay listen to this. PLEASE. Please talk to me. Please see me. Please don’t break my fucking heart and ruin my fucking life. What did I ever do to deserve this? PLEASE, ELLIS, PLEEEEASE.” There was a pause and then the machine clicked off.

  Ellis twisted and the last screw gave. She removed the base of the lamp and saw immediately what the problem was. Mice. How did a mouse get in there and why the hell would it want to chew some old wire?

  The phone rang again. “Who’s going to take care of you? Your friends? That little tribe of losers can barely make it out of bed in the morning without you there to show them how. You think they’re going look after you? Worry when you’re feeling down or lonely? Has any one of those guys ever asked you how you’re feeling? You scare the hell out of those pathetic lost boys. They don’t know you. They don’t have the strength to know you. I saw you and loved you for who you are . . .” The machine clicked off.

  Ellis dug in her toolbox and took out a lightweight extension cord. No problem. She could splice the chewed wire and make it good as new.

  The phone rang again. “Listen to me, I swear to god, if you don’t . . . ” Ellis put down her tools, walked over and turned off the answering machine then unplugged the phone. Enough. She grabbed her jacket, went outside.

  The teak chairs were damp but Ellis didn’t care. She sat down, noting for the millionth time how comfortable a wooden chair could be if well designed. Teak was an amazing wood. It didn’t rot and its natural oils protected it from termites and other pests. It aged gracefully and stayed strong, turning a beautiful silver as time when on. It was the only wood to use near the ocean. Ellis’ father had told her all these facts when she was just a young girl and he’d brought home the chairs and matching table. He’d told her that the furniture would last forever, promised her that it would be there long after he’d gone. Ellis remembered she’d cried. She had hated it when her father talked about dying, panicked at the thought of being left alone. But of course it was true. Those chairs showed no sign of weakness and her father was dead.

  There was a gaggle of women down on the sand. These were the neighborhood stay-at-home moms who lived in all those Godzilla-villas. They got the kids off to school, went to yoga class, had their lattes, then met on the beach, struggled into their custom-fit ladies’ wetsuits, grabbed their thousand dollar longboards, smeared on their designer sunscreen, strapped on their sun-protective visors, and hit the surf. They often hired some cute young instructor, sometimes it was Pablo, and then competed with each other to see who could scream and squeal the loudest. God, Ellis hated those women. They spent an hour in the water Monday, Wednesday, Friday, waves or no waves, then probably went home, showered, and headed off for their tennis lessons. They considered themselves adventuresome and brave. You could tell by the way they swaggered up the beach. They were approximately Ellis’ age but were from a completely different planet. And Ellis wasn’t nice to them. They greeted her like puppies, eager to play, desperate to make her one of their own because she was a “real surfer”, but Ellis just bared her teeth and drove them away. Now they’d seen her come outside on the porch and they raised their voices as if inviting her to join their conversation.

  “Raw milk! It’s like magic food for children,” the bossy one yelled. “Zoe was lactose intolerant but now she’s thriving. No more rashes and she’s actually lost some weight, thank God!”

  “But wait, I thought we were supposed to cut all dairy,” said the short, fat one. “I’ve been juicing. Isn�
��t that the better way to go?”

  “Pasteurized dairy,” the bossy one said, impatiently. “No one is allergic to raw milk.”

  “The Jensens got their own cow,” another said. “I wish we had space.”

  “Their housekeeper milks it every morning. She’s from Belize or something. Speaks perfect English.”

  “But don’t cows attract, like, flies and stuff? I hate flies.”

  “You know, psilocybin mushrooms grow in cow pies.”

  “Who cares?”

  “What about E. coli?”

  “So exaggerated. Corporate propaganda.”

  “I think warm milk right out of a cow would make me barf.”

  “You’re so small-minded, Katie. How can you know without trying it? Raw milk is so good for you.”

  “Because it’s thick, disgusting milk. I don’t care if it’s good for me.”

  “I did hear that milk can make you lose weight. There was a study.”

  “Hey guys? What’s the difference between an additive and a preservative? And is one worse than the other?”

  “Yeah, I can never get that straight.”

  The volume rose with each statement. They seemed to be yelling their questions directly at Ellis, as if to impress her with their heartfelt concerns.

  Ellis angled her chair so she was looking down the beach in the other direction and tuned them out. She considered going inside and getting a joint but then grabbed the pouch of Drum tobacco off the table and rolled herself a cigarette instead. Frank had been after her to stop; smoking didn’t fit in with his sensible lifestyle. She licked the paper, pulled out the straggly bits of tobacco—the rastas, lit the cigarette, leaned back and closed her eyes.

  She needed to get rid of Frank. It was absolutely time. No point in second-guessing herself. Hell, she didn’t even like the guy, not really. Yes, there were moments when he held her or kissed her when she felt protected, safe. And maybe she did have a weakness for that fleeting sense of security. But it was just that, fleeting. He was married plus Frank Bane was boring. She was the one passing out the thrills these days and she was pretty sure there wasn’t a chance in hell of him reciprocating.

  Ellis heard Pablo’s camper pull down the driveway. She ground out the butt and dropped it in the bucket filled with sand that she kept as an ashtray. As she stood, one of the ladies down on the beach called out and waved. Ellis ignored her and turned away.

  “Hey baby doll.” Pablo walked onto the deck wearing a pair of trunks and t-shirt. All muscle, that boy, with a tight butt that swelled nicely right up onto his rock-hard back and the most beautiful tanned stomach ever seen on a man. He dropped his sack of laundry on the deck and was ready for a hug when Ellis walked over kissed him.

  One nice thing about Pablo, you didn’t need to ask twice. He pulled her in tight and she immediately felt him respond which made Frank Bane completely disappear.

  PABLO HAS SEX WITH ELLIS

  DON’T EVEN START ‘CAUSE I ALREADY KNOW. I’M THE ESCAPE when things get tough. The stiff drink. The bullet that she bites. It’ll never change. Of course I know this is going to hurt. But look at her. Could you walk away?

  It’s not just about sex. Even back when we were little ratty beach groms digging down in the wet sand for blood worms, mining the cliffs for gold, or body womping in the brutal shore break, that girl had my heart. Ellis was the leader. The only girl, she was tougher and crazier than all the boys combined. Little skinny Ellis, with her long bleached-out hair and peeling sunburned nose, was the first to climb up into the spooky sea-caves down by the point when we were just nine years old. She swam to the outer reef in huge storm surf and jumped off the highest cliff into crashing waves just to prove she could. There was something a little crazy about Ellis, some kind of thrill-seeking death wish that drove her to take insane risks. Walter Hagan’s mother found out what she was up to and stopped him from playing with her until he hit junior high school, same with Dan Brownell’s parents. But otherwise we were left to run free and Ellis was our leader.

  My opinion? It’s about power. She gets off on destroying men. Same kind of rush she got as a kid with her dare-devil stunts. The farther she pushes the envelope in these relationships the happier she seems. She likes to take them up then drop them down and watch them shatter on the rocks below. Me? I’m exempt. I’m like some kind of brother who she has sex with once in a while. I know that’s kind of sick, but what can I do?

  I have yet to see one of these guys walk away on their own. She sends them off, broken and bleeding. Banishes them. They lick their wounds and then, it’s the craziest thing, they come back for more. Once Ellis gets in, there’s no getting her out. She’s permanent. Her roots infiltrate and anchor themselves in every corner of a man’s body. Really there ought to be a warning label, big red letters right across her forehead. She likes the married ones because they don’t cause as much trouble—too much to lose. It’s a card that she can and does play against them. Married guys are just like shooting fish in a barrel, that’s what Ellis always says.

  I like having sex with her. Hell, I love it. But it’s always on her terms. Ellis calls the positions, the pace, sets the tone. If Ellis is feeling happy, we have one kind of sex—giggly and fun. If she’s sad, it’s slow sometimes even tender. And when she’s pissed off, it’s rough. Rough for me, that is. You’d be surprised by the amount of pain that little girl can inflict.

  For the record: I’m nobody’s bitch. No chick is ever going to tell me what to do. Hell no. I call the shots. The dominance thing? Women in my world wouldn’t dream of it. I’d break a jaw before I’d let a woman order me around. But Ellis doesn’t count as a woman. I’m not saying she’s a dude and I’m definitely not some kind of closet-homo-faggot. I wish I could present you with a clear reason why I let her do the things she does. I’d like it to be a logical explanation, something we could all understand. But I can’t. I’m still that little beach rat following her around, trying to win her approval, taking her dares. There’s something thrilling about it that I don’t seem to outgrow. She’s got me and I don’t think she’ll ever let go.

  FELIX DUARTE

  FELIX DUARTE WAS TYING BUNDLES OF FRESH CORN, PEELING back the husks and knotting them together with twine, then hanging the clusters on nails he’d pounded into the eaves above the front porch. The hot Mexican sun was relentless at this time of year and he knew the corn would dry quickly. He could have used the back porch, the exposure was actually better, but he wanted everyone to see his impressive harvest. Felix had turned that mean, steep hillside out back—rocky, sunburned in the dry season, muddy and useless during the rains—into a virtual Eden. The family’s land was far more productive now than when his father had been alive. Before they’d barely produced enough corn to feed themselves, now they had a little extra that they could sell at market. Felix had reconfigured the crops, clearing a larger growing area by hand, and worked out a series of drains so that the site didn’t flood during the rains. And during the dry season, he’d changed the watering system. Now that his father was gone, he insisted his little brothers, twin sisters and even his mother do their part transporting the water. When his father was in charge, it was just the two men who lugged the buckets and clay pots up that near-vertical mountain. It took hours to get the crop watered, and often on those hot afternoons they’d have to do two or even three rounds. His father had insisted that this was men’s work, that they didn’t need female help. But now the whole family worked and Felix was able to cultivate an even larger growing area. He also had more time to develop his own special fertilizer, an active combination of compost, manure and worms. His corn was bigger and sweeter than any in the area and lately a lot of them were turning to him for advice on fertilizers and watering cycles. It felt good. But he was smart and didn’t give his secrets away for free. He’d agreed to help Manuel Sanchez with his planting in exchange for growing rights on a small corner of his farm and Franco Angulo had expressed interest in a similar deal. Perhaps there w
ould be others.

  Felix climbed up the little stepladder he’d made out of scrap wood and secured the last bunch of corn. He was short and carried that little ladder with him everywhere while working. When he was younger he’d been embarrassed by his size, teased most of his life, but these last couple of years since his father’s death, when he’d become head of the household and a successful, respected farmer, he finally felt like a man. His height wasn’t an issue anymore.

  “Felix,” his mother called. “Can you bring some water?”

  “Me too,” yelled sister Maria, the bossier of the twin sisters.

  “And me. Please!” said Magdalena, the other twin, who was his favorite. She was sweeter and prettier. Everyone preferred Magdalena and that made Maria furious.

  “You don’t need your own cup of water, Magdalena. You just had one.” Maria was permanently frustrated. The whole world was wrong and she had the correct answers, but no one would ever listen to her.

  Felix walked inside and got three cups of water from the jug on the table. They didn’t have plumbing in their house but they were lucky because the well was close by. Some families had to haul the water for a long way.

  His mother and two sisters knelt over on the shady side of the house with their backstrap looms hooked around the posts. They worked silently every day for hours, as if in a trance, weaving the yarn, pulling the shuttle back and forth. Before his father died, Maria and Magdalena had attended school. Maria excelled especially at math but both girls were good students and they enjoyed their studies, something Felix had never done. But when the father died, they’d quit school and started working full time with their mother making shawls and the blankets with intricate, beautiful designs. They were now fourteen and almost as talented as their mother. Duarte women were considered the most skilled and their weavings always brought a good price at the central market. But it was slow work, a single shawl could take two weeks, a blanket could take almost a month. If only it didn’t take so long, Felix thought as he carried the cups of water outside.