Colored Cotton

The flatbed pulled onto the shoulder of the desert highway and screeched to a halt. Dawson Melburn rolled off its deck onto the ground, managing by sheer luck to land on his feet. He wrestled his rucksack onto his shoulder and banged on the side of the truck. With a grinding of gears, it pulled away, leaving him in a cloud of red Arizona dust.

So this is Aguila, he thought. Tightening his hat’s chinstrap against the gusting wind, he stared westward at the rock formation with the hole in it, according to the locals the Eye of the Eagle. The lady at the market thought that some local hippie farmer needed field hands to work the cotton crop. Who the hell hires people to pick cotton? Do we have to bring our own sacks? Does being black give someone an edge?

The truck driver had directed him to a particular driveway. He walked down the dirt track toward a low house with sagging ridge rafters, buried in a stand of cottonwood trees losing their leaves in the wind and showering the ground with golden offerings. A collection of SUVs and dust-covered campers surrounded the house. Smoke drifted sideways from an outdoor barbecue. As Dawson drew near, something smelled delicious.

A woman of indeterminate age dressed in jeans and a tan work shirt broke away from the crowd surrounding the fire pit. She moved toward Dawson, her skin burnt Indian dark, graying hair pulled back in a huge braid, her eyes a Paul Newman blue.

“Can I help you, mister?” She stopped a half dozen paces from him.

“My name’s Dawson. People call me Daw. I’m looking for work.”

“How’d you find me?”

“The clerk at the market back in—”

“You mean Sally?”

“I guess. She was short, blonde, and—”

“Yeah, that’s her. She’s usually a good judge of character.”

“Huh.”

“So, have you done farm work before?”

“Yeah, all kinds. And I’m a heavy equipment mechanic. Can fix tractors, pickers, you name it.”

“That’s good to know. I need help … but I can’t pay much. Most of the folks working the fields are volunteers.”

Daw took a step backward and laughed. “Who the hell volunteers for farm work?”

“You’d be surprised. Most are city folks I went to college with. They think it cleanses their souls to come out here under the desert sky and pick my weird cotton.”

“So how much can you pay?”

“The minimum plus meals and a place to bunk.”

“Will I get a bonus if I work on your farm equipment?”

“Sure, you’ll get my eternal gratitude.”

“Huh.”

“Still wanna work here?”

Daw nodded.

“Come on and grab some chow. After everyone eats I’ll let you and the other newcomers know what this farm’s all about and why we’re different. You can stow your rucksack in that travel trailer.”

“You know rucksacks?”

“I was in the military.”

“Where?”

“Kandahar. Worked intelligence. How about you?”

“I was a bullet stopper in the eastern provinces. Almost three tours.”

“Welcome back.” She grinned for the first time, showing teeth the color of old piano keys. The woman pointed to an ancient Airstream parked next to the house. “You’ll share it with a guy and his wife. There’s a bathroom in the house you can use but the shower is out back by the water tank. Sorry, no hot water.”

“Fair enough. So … so what’s your name?”

“Sorry, I’ve been rude. I’m Clarisse.”

“So, who owns this place?”

“Me. Hey, don’t look so surprised.”

Daw grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“You should be. You don’t wanna be like some of the locals out here … rednecks who can’t stand the idea of a woman running a farm.”

“I don’t have a problem with that.”

“Good to know. So, where you coming from?”

“Here and there.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not in trouble with the law, are you?”

“No.” Daw tried to keep a poker face, hoping it worked.

“I got enough trouble with the sheriff without taking on more grief.”

“I understand. I won’t cause problems.”

“Did you go to college? Sounds like you did.”

“Yes, studied engineering. After I graduated I joined the Army.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t hold that against you.” Clarisse chuckled, spun on her heels, and rejoined the group around the fire pit.

This place looks like a survivalist commune. I’ll have to let my beard grow for a few days to fit in.

Daw left his gear in the Airstream and joined the crowd at the picnic tables that surrounded the fire pit. Most folks were in the last stages of devouring a barbecued chicken dinner. A grinning Latino handed him a tray, just like the ones used in the Army, and motioned him toward the food stand. Daw filled up and sat at a table occupied by a man and his wife or girlfriend.

“I’m Mark, and this is Leanne,” the man said.

“I’m Dawson. People call me Daw.”

“Just get here, Daw?”

“Yes. Sorry I’m not much for talking. I’ve been bumming rides all day. I’m beat.”

“Yeah, this place is a half mile past nowhere.” Mark laughed and returned to gobbling his dinner.

The sun perched on the horizon, turning everything red-gold. Most of the workers faded into the dusk, to their campers or cars, some to the house. A handful of newcomers, like Daw, hung out around the fire pit. Someone handed him a beer and he relaxed, ready for sleep. But Clarisse stood before them, demanding their attention

“Thanks for coming here. Before you crash for the night, you should know what you’re in for.”

“Yes’m, boss lady,” somebody cracked and a chuckle rattled through the group.

“My name’s Clarisse Gilbert and I own this farm. I’ve been here five years. After the Army then college, I joined the Peace Corps and went to Africa, worked the cotton fields with the locals in The Gambia — that’s a tiny west-coast country strung out along a river. Anyway, while working there, I noticed that a small number of plants grew colored cotton — mostly shades of brown and green, but an occasional blue.

“The locals wouldn’t pick those plants. But I did, brought their seeds back to the States. I started cross-breeding the plants, trying to get them to breed true. I’m close but not quite there yet.

“This farm is my nursery. I grow ten acres of cotton. For this crop, I’ve planted my Foxfire Brown and Sea Foam Green. That’s what you’ll be picking.”

“Why colored cotton?” one of the newcomers asked.

“Because it doesn’t require dying. That saves time, money, and the environment. My plants are vigorous. They don’t need — and can thrive without­ — chemical fertilizers or pesticides. And unlike dyed cotton fabrics that fade, my colors actually get darker with each washing. And there’s a market for natural things that don’t involve pollution that’s typical of most white cotton farming and fabric dyeing activities.”

“Why pick by hand?” Daw asked.

“Good question. Mostly because I can’t afford to buy the equipment to do otherwise.”

A chuckle rose from the group.

“Also, my neighbors are afraid that I will contaminate their fields of white cotton if I stir up the air using mechanical pickers. When I have the cotton ginned, I gotta pay extra to have the gins cleaned after my crop is processed to avoid contamination. So I depend on you folks to help me get this show off the ground, to do something right in this chemical-filled world.

“Now ten acres doesn’t sound like a lot. But picking is hard on backs and knees. So if anyone wants to quit, I won’t hold it against you. The process is pretty simple. You’ll get two plastic buckets in the morning, one to sit on and one to put the cotton in. When your bucket is full, you dump it in the bins at the end of the rows. We break for lunch at noon.”

“How long will the pick last?” someone asked.

Clarisse paused for a moment. “We have a small group of pickers this year. I’m running out of friends to tap.” She chuckled. “I think it should take us ten days, maybe longer. I’ll be asking some of you to help with transporting the crop to the gin. The weather is supposed to be clear and in the upper eighties. So wear sun block and hats. The bolls are pretty open, which should make picking easier. But if you wanna use gloves, just let me know. Thanks for listening and helping with my life’s work.”

After Clarisse finished, a small group gathered around her with questions. Daw sat at the picnic table and watched the last light fade from the tops of the cottonwoods. The sky turned black and the wind died. He wondered if he shouldn’t just move on in the morning, go east to some Midwestern state where corn or wheat crops might be ready for harvest, where the cops don’t pay much attention to white farm workers and the wages are better than this hippie operation.

“Thinking about tomorrow?” Clarisse asked and laid a hand on his shoulder, causing Daw to jump. She sat down on the bench next to him. “I hope you decide to stay. I figured you’d know how to operate a tractor. Mine is an old Ford. But it works pretty good. I need someone to empty the bins into the large trailer that I use to haul the cotton to the gin and bring the seed and baled cotton back here to the barn.”

“Yes, I can do that. I can also service the tractor if you want.”

“That would be great. It hasn’t been looked at in a while.  So … so why did you freeze when I mentioned the law … you know, before, when we first talked?”

“It’s a long story, and the less you know the better. But I’m not a bad or dangerous person.”

“That’s good to know. But could you at least give me the abridged version of why you’re running? Nobody just walks in here from nowhere like you did without a story.”

The silence built between them.

“Thinking about leaving?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Just tell me the basics.”

“I spent almost three tours in Afghanistan.”

“That’s a lot. I was only there for a year.”

“When I came back, I found my fiancée in bed with a jody.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t end well.”

“So how long have you been … been drifting.”

“More than two years.”

“Well, you can lay low here for a little while. But we’re not immune to trouble.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The neighbors have called the sheriff on me a couple of times this season — claim I’m wasting water, claim my cotton is blowing into their fields, complaining my pickers are on drugs. And there’s been gunplay.”

Daw shook his head. “Maybe I should leave. I left my weapons in Afghanistan.”

“Relax. I got it covered. Better get some rest ’cause it’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

“I’m used to long days.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Daw. But keep a low profile. You don’t want anybody spreading stories.”

* * *

Daw spent his first hour in the field perfecting his picking technique: grab the plant with his left hand and rip off a branch, wrench the cotton from the bolls with his right, toss the cotton in the bucket, repeat ad infinitum. The deep reddish-brown globs were soft and beautiful. But the hard spines of the bolls could slice and stab unprotected skin. Daw wore gloves.

Clarisse had instructed the workers to pick each plant clean to get the greatest yield. The lower back pain from sitting on the bucket and bending over felt excruciating. Daw knelt in the dirt and used both buckets to collect cotton, reducing the time spent hauling the crop to the bins.

The sun burned his back. The morning heat shimmered off the field. He emptied his water bottle in less than an hour. Another worker, the proverbial water boy, brought him a full one. But as hours passed, every movement became automatic — letting Daw’s mind drift into memory rooms that he didn’t want to visit: the war, his fiancée, the scrape with the law in Idaho; how any of this would end. He would control the ending, whatever it turned out to be. He had learned what lack of control felt like in the military — chains of command, chains of conformity, chains of fools. Had he become one of them, thinking he could disappear from his past?

At lunch, the workers flopped under the trees, ate bologna and Swiss cheese sandwiches, and took catnaps, talking very little, the long afternoon of fieldwork stretching before them. Days passed this way, for Daw broken by Clarisse’s requests to service the tractor and to help haul the cotton to the local gin, fifteen miles away.

One afternoon, after a long day picking, Daw sat under the trees, enjoying the evening breeze. Clarisse joined him and handed over an ice-cold beer. Slabs of tri-tip roasted on the barbeque, with dinner at least a half-hour away.

“We probably got three more days of picking,” Clarisse said.

“Yeah. I can service that tractor of yours before I leave. It needs a tune, oil change, plugs, carburetor adjustment.”

From the highway came the sound of a loud revving engine and a blast of country music that quit abruptly.

“Now what?” Clarisse muttered and stood to move from beneath the trees.

Daw followed.

She pulled a pair of small field glasses from a pocket of her cargo pants and stared at the highway. “It’s my yahoo neighbors. On Friday nights they can­ really get obnoxious.”

“What are they doing?” Daw asked.

“Looks like they’re drinking beer and—”

A series of four explosions echoed down the broad valley with fragments flying into the trees, disturbing the crows and mockingbirds that roosted there.

Daw and Clarisse fell to the ground. “Everybody down,” she yelled.

The crowd around the fire pit quickly flattened against the earth, as if in some kind of emergency drill.

Clarisse raised her field glasses. Another four explosions rang out.

“What the hell are they doing?” Daw asked.

“There’s a guy standing in back of the pickup with a shotgun, firing buckshot into my trees.”

“What the hell for?”

“They want me gone, some West Coast hippie spoiling their inland empire with colored cotton. I’m gonna get my rifle and scare them off.”

“Not a good idea.”

“I know. But I’m tired of this shit. They need to know there are consequences to their drunken behavior.”

“Are you trying to scare them or hurt them?”

“Both.”

“Not cool.”

Clarisse skittered sideways and dashed into the house, returning with a scoped Winchester 94. She chambered a round and sighted through the scope.

“What are you gonna do?” Daw asked nervously.

“Just make them bleed a little.” Clarisse breathed hard; her face had darkened and her whole body shook with anger.

“No, don’t do it. Believe me, it’s not worth it.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Here, give me the weapon. I’ll do it.”

Clarisse stared at Daw. “You’re already in enough trouble.”

“I don’t plan on getting caught, and nobody’s gonna bleed.”

He took the rifle from Clarisse and lay prone on the ground next to her. “Has this thing been zeroed out?”

“Yeah, last week I took it into the mountains north of here.”

“Good, now help me. Windage?”

Clarisse stared through her field glasses. “From the northwest, probably three miles an hour.”

Daw made a minute turn of the knob on the side of the scope. “Elevation?”

“Don’t change anything.”

Daw let his breathing slow while keeping both eyes on the target. He sucked in a deep breath, let half out, held it, then pulled the trigger. The beer can dangling from the shot gunman’s hand exploded. The guy screamed and dropped to the bed of the truck.

Clarisse grinned. “That was one hell of a shot from a hundred yards. You’ve done this before.”

The truck’s engine roared to life and began to pull away. From down the highway the wind carried the sound of sirens. In a moment blue and red flashing lights from a police cruiser pulled up in front of the pickup. Two officers got out, side arms drawn. The gunman in back of the truck stood, arms raised; the driver climbed from the cab. Both assumed the position against the truck and were patted down.

The cops stared in Daw’s and Clarisse’s direction.

“One of my pickers musta called the cops,” Clarisse whispered. “You’d better hide. They’ll use this as an excuse to search my place. The last time they claimed somebody had tipped them off about guns.”

Daw grunted something and low-crawled into the shadows under the picnic tables. From there he made his way to the barn. Once inside, he climbed into the open-topped cotton wagon and buried himself in Foxfire; it smelled like the desert after a rain. He focused on his breathing and lying still. Footsteps approached; the barn door creaked. The cops were smart enough to stay quiet. Probably listening for me to do something stupid. But Daw also knew how to be quiet for long periods of time. In his mind he willed himself invisible, once again in the fields, as if he was the earth itself, looking upward through quivering branches of cotton at a pale blue sky and circling crows.

The barn door creaked and footsteps faded. Daw remained under his blanket of Foxfire until the faint sounds of vehicles moved away on the highway. He climbed from the cotton wagon. Clarisse stood in the doorway.

“Figured you’d hide in here. Good choice.”

“Yeah, as long as I didn’t sneeze, it was perfect.”

“They’re gone. The cops busted my neighbors for firing the shotguns at us. But they’ll be cleared by morning and I’m sure I’ll see them again.”

“The police didn’t hassle you?”

“Not this time. I think they were impressed with my shooting. If it had actually been me, I would have kneecapped the bastard.”

“If you did, you’d be in the back of that squad car headed for jail.”

“I know, and …. and thanks.”

Clarisse stood before him, trembling. She came into his arms and kissed him, pressing him hard against her body. Chuckling, she climbed into the wagon. Daw scrambled to follow, ready this time to enjoy the softness of her golden brown cotton.

* * *

They woke before dawn and struggled with clothes and the embarrassment of first morning-after encounters with a lover. Clarisse disappeared to the house to help with breakfast, pulling bits of cotton from her hair as she went.

Daw hustled back to the Airstream and quickly packed his rucksack. Shouldering it, he moved to the picnic tables and waited for breakfast. Clarisse sat next to him, moved close, and laid a hand on his thigh.

“That was nice last night. Do you really have to leave? We’re so close to the end of harvest and you were … were great for me.”

“Can’t stay. Too many eyes saw what happened. Someone will tell someone else a story and … and the police will be back.”

“You’re right, but it should take a few days. At least let me drive you into town.”

“I won’t say no to a ride from a beautiful woman.”

“Cut it out.”

“Sorry.”

They made the 90-mile eastward trip to the sprawling desert city in silence, Daw thinking about where to hide next or whether he should chance it and return to the farm with Clarisse. From her quiet smile, he figured her mind was in the past, thinking about their roll in the cotton, and maybe others. Finally, she pulled the SUV up to a huge truck stop with lumbering semis headed in all directions.

“So where to from here?” she asked.

“It’s better if you don’t know.”

“Yes … yes, you’re right.”

“Thanks for the work and for—”

“Just shut up and leave. But if you drift back this way, I have more than one crop of cotton you can pick.”

Daw grinned. “I’ll remember that.”

He walked toward the nearest Peterbilt, its driver sitting in the cab holding a cup of coffee, country music pouring from an open window. Yeah, I can stand Tim McGraw for a few miles, at least until the first wheat fields start waving at me. But I can’t do this forever. I miss the Pacific, the storms rolling in off the Oregon coast, the snow in winter, even the mosquitos in summer. Maybe it’s time.

The truck driver stared at him hard. He was an independent, owned his truck, hauling farm equipment to someplace in Nebraska. He was pleased to hear that Daw could drive. Only a few miles outside of town, the driver climbed into the sleeper and snored loudly before the first McGraw CD was even finished. Daw smiled and watched the white lines flow past the huge rumbling machine, his mind all the while on colored cotton fields that got darker instead of fading, and on Clarisse.