The man was missing his leg below the knee. In its place was a shiny prosthesis that she had seen runners wear in the Paralympics. His home looked quite elaborate for sitting on the side of the road: sturdy black cardboard below and three weather-beaten purple sheets moving in the breeze covering the upper half of the stall. The whole thing stood on a slope, which made up the narrow strip of land between the on-ramp to Lawrence Expressway and Highway 85 in Cupertino. The tent structure blended in between live oak bushes.
Traffic had come to a complete halt. Still, if the prosthesis hadn’t been blinking in the sun, hitting Joyce’s eyes at the right angle, she might have missed the whole scene. Joyce reached into her purse below the passenger seat, grabbed her phone and snapped a picture. The man seemed concentrated, hard at work, checking the lock of a bike chained to a tree and filling a bucket with dirt. The cars ahead of her started moving again. Joyce stole one last glance over her left shoulder; this wasn’t safe. She noticed that she was holding her breath. She had to keep the car moving. Her curiosity got the better of her. She made a U-turn on Lawrence Expressway, took the next exit and went towards the on-ramp again. She wanted to get another look. The man had disappeared into the tent now. A grown man could stand upright in there and no one saw him from the outside. She observed a shovel digging right below the purple sheets to the left. The man had built a home there.
Elliot III didn’t pay attention to the cars on the road. Rearranging the garden was on his to-do-list today. Plant the sea lavender, water it, get food at Apple at six. Then practice chess. He kept busy. Elliot III counted himself lucky to live so close to the Apple kitchen. He had arrived here three months ago and never skipped a meal. Better than MREs in the field. ‘Eat local’ read the green sticker on the compostable plastic containers the food came in. Back then it made sense that they called Santa Clara Valley the “Valley of Heart’s Delight”, everyone grew what they ate and had enough to make a living. Where was ‘local’ when all the fields were gone? Grandpa Elliot I had grown potatoes, corn and cauliflower. As a young boy, Elliot III had often tagged along to help with the watering. Much better than Fallujah. The mortar fire had come in waves and in between waves he forced his mind to control the center squares on the chess board. When his dreams transported him back to Iraq, he concentrated on the fake surf coming from the waves of cars rolling by on the freeway. His mind didn’t obey him anymore, fear ate up every bit of stillness he could muster. But he was back on the land, his land. Grandpa Elliot I had maintained the fields near the Mission Santa Clara for over forty years, and before that they belonged to his great grandparents. His family went far back, as far as the Spanish. On both tours all he had wished for was home. But after the house had been sold, with his father gone and Grandpa no longer alive, this was the best he could do. He took care of himself. No handouts for him. Besides, he did best when he was on his own.
It was time to ride over to Apple. Elliot III unlocked his bike and pushed it down the slope. He lucked out with the Ottobock. Bike riding was easy after he learned to lock his knee at a 45-degree angle. His friend Carlos dealt with two artificial legs. Carlos was in his squad back in Fallujah. After the incident, they were taken to an army hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. They had not reacted when three men casually walked up to their post. They looked like fellows from the Sunni security force they had helped train. But when the men came close, they raised their arms and yelled Inshallah. Their vests rigged with explosives took them out immediately. Carnage. Carlos’ legs were gone, and he lost his left one. But it was their ticket out of the war.
They spend a lot of time together in Germany. Carlos refused to fear the future. Elliot III always thought that his friend could spin pain into hope. He wanted to go into politics, start his own chapter of Veterans for Peace back in New Orleans. There was a black man in the White House, someone who had actually voted against the war, Carlos insisted. The man had promised to end all wars. Carlos was eager to fight for a cause he believed in. Who would speak out if they didn’t? Yet Elliot III wasn’t convinced, politics wasn’t for him. As much as he liked Carlos, he needed to get back to California. All he wanted was to go back to the land, and stay there.
He arrived at the food dumpster after his 20-minute-ride. Today they had left a recyclable container with something that looked like steak, mashed potatoes, green beans and tomatoes. The packages still felt cold from refrigeration. Three small dessert boxes and two drinks in glass bottles. A cupcake with one of those cream pillows and rainbow sprinkles on top, a yoghurt sitting on top of fruit and a brownie. One of the drinks had a label that read Fresh-Pressed Carrot/Orange Juice with Turmeric. He unloaded yesterday’s empty boxes and put them into the recycling container right next to the one for compost, packed up the new boxes and swung himself onto the bike again. Dinner, his daily chess lesson, sleep.
Joyce wanted to meet the man. She was aware that this was another diversion for her. Didn’t she have enough on her plate with the divorce? Don’t get involved, one of her better voices told her. But the man’s apparent steeliness had impressed her. Two days after her discovery near Lawrence Expressway, she parked her blue Prius at a nearby coffee shop on El Camino Real. It felt a bit reckless to walk alongside the ramp, but the cars drove slowly due to the construction and she walked fast. She had a purpose. As she came closer, she detected movement behind the purple sheets. Hesitation held her back for a split second, before she called out:
“Hello Sir?”
No answer.
“Sir, could I talk to you, please?”
Quiet.
“Sir?”
A shuffle behind the purple sheet, and then a deep voice:
“Anyone out there? Who are you?”
“This is Joyce.”
Elliot III stepped out from behind his curtains and looked at her with a frown. His dark brown eyes stared into her light green ones. There was a strong smell of sweat emanating from him. Joyce gripped the shoulder strap of her backpack to force all hesitation out of her voice.
“My name is Joyce Brickner. I drove by yesterday. The traffic stopped and I was impressed by your tent. A friend of mine has one of those. She pointed at his prosthesis with a knowing nod. It’s an Ottobock, right?”
“It is.”
“What is your name?”
“Elliot III, Ma’am.”
She reached out and shook his hand. She could tell that he hadn’t expected a handshake and sensed that her confidence impressed him.
He took a step back, his face opening into a wry smile.
“So why are you here?”
“I just wanted to say hello, to see if you need anything?”
“I have everything.”
Joyce was surprised when Elliot III made an awkward welcoming gesture with his arm.
“Come in then. Have a seat.”
Behind the purple sheets, inside, he pointed at two overturned buckets on a wooden level platform.
Joyce knew how much effort it took to install something like this on a miserable dry slope. She had grown up with a father who worked as a contractor and never refrained from having at least two projects going at home.
She stepped forward and sat down.
“Water, Ma’am?”
“I am ok, thank you.”
She noticed a pail with a few plastic dishes neatly arranged next to an overturned crate in the corner that held a chessboard with elaborately carved figures.
“How do I know that you aren’t one of these county people who want to evict me?”
“Evict you?”
He sat down and stretched the leg with the prosthesis toward her.
“This is my lot, you see. Has been in the family for as long as I can remember. My grandfather planted corn here, long before any highways came along. Our place. I live off the land and I’ve been working it, shifting the dirt around, making the foundation stronger. Family-owned for generations. The house is gone, but the records ought to show that we had land here. Look it up. I’m trying to reclaim 37 square feet for myself, all ours before they plastered the new highway across the orchards.”
“I see,” Joyce answered, “and you said people from the county are asking you to leave?”
“The Sheriff has been here twice, insists it is public land. But he has no idea. I win if we go to court. The deeds are in some county archive.”
“Where is your family now?”
“I haven’t talked to them since I returned. They kept me in Landstuhl, Germany for six months and then for another four months in Palo Alto at the VA. My grandparents’ house is gone. Used to be in Santa Clara. Johnson Court.”
Joyce, who had vowed to keep from sharing about herself, answered:
“You know, I’ve been with the county for many years. I am retired now, but I could try, well, try to talk to someone. Would you give me your relatives’ names? Is there anyone else in the area that you know?”
“The county? I knew it. No, Ma’am, no!” Elliot III yelled abruptly at her and stood up.
“I’m not talking to anybody. All I want is my peace. Fuck the county.”
Joyce froze and her body tightened. She was alone here with this disturbed soul on a dirt strip between two busy roads. She got up and took a breath while planting her feet as firmly as possible onto the sloping ground. This might not have been such a good idea after all.
“I normally don’t yell at ladies, Ma’am, but… This is my land.”
“This is also public space, Sir, and they might ask you to leave because you are not safe here.”
“Not safe? You must be kidding. Everyone is safe in Cupertino. Leave me in peace. Is that too much to ask? The nurses at the VA confirmed that the roadway noise is like therapy for me. It reminds me of sleeping in the desert where the planes sounded like the surf of the ocean. It beats subsidized housing where it is so quiet that I climb up the wall. And I don’t like people. I have seen people at their worst and I want to be left alone.”
“I am sorry. I can’t imagine all you have seen. I hope they will let you stay then.”
“They don’t have a choice. I fought for them, didn’t I? They have to let me be. On my land. On my terms.”
Joyce stumbled out of the tent. Elliot III followed her.
“I appreciate that you asked me in. Here is my phone number. Call if you need something.”
Elliot III refused to take her card.
“This is all I need. As I told you before.”
They surprised him in the early morning. Someone tore down the purple sheet, marched in, heavyset steps. Where was he? Iraq? In the valley? At home? Not the Sheriff again. No, it was the police.
“Elliot Nathanson in here?’
Still on his sleeping pad, his Ottobock resting at his side, Elliot couldn’t move. Someone kicked the palate that was his bed. He struggled to sit up, supporting himself with his elbows.
“I am Elliot III, last name Nathanson. And my grandfather did not sell out to Hewlett Packard, therefore this is my land. It was his brother, Uncle Norman, who agreed to the sale and started the whole mess.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Nathanson. The fact is, that you set up camp on public land and are obstructing a construction zone. We have to take your tent down.”
“Fuck no, no way, you won’t. Jesus fucking Christ, fuck you. I’m not going anywhere. This lot is mine,”
Elliot III yelled.
“I am sorry. This is it. The Sheriff gave you two warnings already. It’s not negotiable. We can step out and give you some time to pack.”
“I am not leaving. No fucking way.”
“We can’t help it, Nathanson. We have to follow orders. If you won’t come with us, we will carry you out. This is the last word.”
“Carry me out on a stretcher, two bullets through my head, my right foot mangled as well?”
“No one will hurt you, Mr. Nathanson, we simply have to clear the site. It is no campground. Get ready now, we will be waiting outside.”
Elliot’s head started spinning. A piercing headache hit his forehead like a bullet. His hands shook as he strapped on his prosthesis. No time for the soothing arnica salve from the nurse. No time to pack. His chessboard into the backpack, along with pants, two shirts and the warped paperback with Brian Turner’s poetry, Carlos had given him. The portable camping stove came in its own bag.
“And where do I go from here?” Elliot III addressed the two police officers, one of them a woman, as he hobbled outside.
“We have secured a bed for you at Cecil White in San Jose. But you can also go to the group home next to the VA clinic in Menlo. They will help you get on your feet, it is hard without any support, Mr. Nathanson”, said the young woman.
“What else but a fucking shelter? There we go again. Fuck. Where do you think I escaped from, my dear lady?” Elliot answered, his voice resigned.
“I need to be by myself, I hate people,” he added.
“San Jose or Menlo Park?” the policewoman asked after they settled in the car.
“Who the hell are you to chase me off my lot? You weren’t even born when we took care of our land, my grandfather and I”, Elliot III yelled at her.
The police officers decided to take him to the VA clinic. He refused to speak for the remainder of the ride.
“I’m not taking anything of that sort ever again”, Elliot III shaking all over yelled at the nurse who checked him in at the VA.
“I’m perfectly sane, if only you’d let me live on my terms, on my land.”
“I think you’d feel and rest better if you took at least the sleep meds.”
“It makes me just more agitated and awakens the children’s voices.”
“What children’s voices?”
“Sure, I will tell you. Did you know that a five-year-old boy will play chess with you on Monday and dance over your dead friend’s body on Friday?”
“I’m sorry, you had to go through this”, the young nurse replied.
At 4:30 am the next morning Elliot III consented to take the usual meds, tranquilizer, antidepressants and an anticonvulsant. The doctor was kind and threw in six weeks of behavioral therapy for PTSD. Elliot III agreed to the group home after 12 hours of sleep.
When Joyce saw on her next drive-by that the tent was gone, her mind went into overdrive. What now? Her friend Lindsay had connections at the VA; they would know. Elliot III probably thought that she had called, because it happened right after her visit. Should she get involved? She couldn’t walk away. He would feel betrayed. This could worsen his trauma. He had trusted her and she couldn’t let him fall into the system. At home Joyce shoved her laptop and bank statements aside, grabbed her phone and opened her contacts. She needed to know where they took him. After talking to her friends at the county, who called the police, she felt better. At least he hadn’t disappeared, but there was no time to lose. Despite his distrust in authorities, Elliot III might respond to a younger person, someone who knew nothing about procedures, rules and laws, someone who took him the way he was. He had been more open and straightforward with her than expected. Behavioral Sciences at the county level had started a mentoring program between teens and veterans, teens and Alzheimer patients, even teens and seniors who needed help with basic technology like using an iPad. Joyce made another seven phone calls in two hours. She went to bed exhausted that night and swore to dedicate the next morning to the financial statement for her divorce settlement. Her ex-husband Fernando was breathing down her neck about the mediation session next week. But as long as the divorce wasn’t settled, she didn’t have to worry about moving.
Elliot III hadn’t worked in ten years. But his therapist at the VA insisted:
“If chess is your thing, you’ve got to try this. This is your chance.”
“But I would have to face tons of young kids? I don’t even like kids. They are tough to hang out with.”
“As far as I know you’d teach only one kid at a time. And the parents pay per hour. You can charge quite a bit in Silicon Valley.”
Elliot III didn’t believe that anyone would pay him for playing chess and he was scared to death of teaching. But his therapist, his doctor and the teen, who had shown up out of nowhere, kept at it. Did he have a choice? He knew that they had taken down his tent, torn out his sea lavender and would pour concrete over his garden.
By next Monday he had a job. He taught chess at Cupertino Library four afternoons a week at one of the square tables right across from the children’s reference desk facing the courtyard where a green-minded librarian had started a vegetable garden with the help of suburban teens. Elliot III stared at tomato stalks while his students pondered their moves. Sometimes he noticed the circumference of the cocktail tomatoes grow bigger between Monday and next-week’s Monday. Josh, the teen they hired, had brought him here, introduced him to the children’s librarian who assigned him a table, gave him the rundown of the dos and don’ts of the space. This was it. His services were advertised on Next Door, a private neighborhood social something, or at least that’s what Josh called it. He had no clue what it was, but Josh helped him with everything on the internet. Messages appeared like magic on his phone. Parents signed up their kids. He only had to confirm the dates.
Elliot III received so many requests that he had trouble keeping a calendar, at first. He didn’t have time to worry about teaching skills. He simply did it. For those few hours in the afternoon when rooks protected kings and the queen lurched aggressively across the board, the shooting and screaming stopped in his head while he showed the young children of Silicon valley engineers how to make their next move. He memorized more openings and asked the kids to practice them. His favorites were the King’s Indian Attack and Sicilian Defense. Josh even taught him how to use a computer to look up chess moves. He liked that, but he took great care not to look at the news, which seemed to lurk everywhere on his laptop. The librarians left him alone. One friendly lady with a volunteer batch, admonished him to keep his Kleenex and paper towels from escaping, when he spread them all out for folding between lessons. Other than that, they kept the peace.
Joyce prided herself for tapping into the county’s new teen program. She had been right. Josh was a junior at Homestead High in Cupertino, captain of the school’s chess club, member of the debate team, fast on his skateboard and easy to talk to. He was the perfect candidate. Joyce was given permission to drive her protégé Elliot III and his assistant Josh across town to a second hand clothing store. They hardly talked in the car, but accomplished what they had come for. Jeans and khakis, several long sleeved t-shirts to hide tattoos and a light jacket. Elliot III didn’t object and looked presentable. Joyce felt that her work had paid off. Now she was back to her finances. She would have to find an apartment after the house was sold. But she wanted to stay, she had moved so often. All of a sudden she knew why she had been attracted to Elliot’s makeshift home. She allowed herself a half smile. If he could do it? Still. A tent wouldn’t do for her.
It happened fast for Elliot III. A bed, new clothes and a job in six weeks. Josh showed him apps on his new phone. “Play Magnus” was the best. You selected a playing level at simulating Magnus Carlsen’s age and the app came up with custom chess engines designed to play like Carlsen himself. Elliot III took his best lessons from Magnus.
Josh came by the library on Friday afternoons and then they walked to get a burger at In-N-Out. When they were together Josh constantly checked his phone. His phone did everything for him. He shared that he needed sixty community service hours in order to go to one of the better colleges. So he logged hours spent with him on his phone. It sounded better than the evergreen ROTC Elliot III had taken; they’d recruited him right at the edge of his high school campus. Two years later and he’d been dropping out to join a war. What kind of a war anyway? Big mistake. Josh got credit for taking him to the barber for one of those cheap cuts, credit for getting clothes at the Second Chance Carousel. The kid was efficient. The lady? He still wasn’t sure if he could trust her. She seemed to pull the strings in the back. He felt like a guinea pig. He didn’t even care now whether she had called the police. It was ok. Teaching chess was ok. Except for sleeping in that group house. A bomb killed 32 in Baghdad on his third day, 12 years ago. It left a crater in the street. He had helped collect body parts, stunned, listening to a language he didn’t understand. It was too quiet and stuffy at the VA, no soothing sounds, no surf. A bomb could go off any time of night. He missed the land, just a few square feet of dirt to call his own. And in some of his nightmares he woke to being evicted again. So he stayed in the bed he had been assigned.
He had been teaching for three months when Josh brought along Joyce on his regular Friday visit.
“Surprise, surprise,” Joyce said.
“We found out that your birthday is coming up and Josh is about to graduate from high school. We thought we could celebrate together at In-N-Out.”
“If you say so,” Elliot replied.
He kept his eyes down, feeling shy being showered with so much attention and good will. Joyce all of a sudden looked at a loss, too. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass him. What had she expected? Open arms, a hug?
She took a deep breath and tried to put herself into Elliot’s shoes. Who are these strangers trying to straighten me out?
Josh broke the awkwardness.
“In-N-Out Burger it is, right? Our Friday routine.”
Elliot III nodded, packed up his Kleenexes into his backpack, put in chessboard and laptop.
They settled down with their burgers and fries at In-N-Out. Joyce looked bedazzled and Elliot III felt weird. What was up with her? It was easier to hang out with Josh. Why had she come along?
“We have a gift for you, Elliot,” Josh started, holding a thin fry between middle finger and thumb, guiding it towards his mouth.
Elliot stared at him, feeling more and more uncomfortable. He glanced at Joyce and she avoided his eyes. Josh in a very matter of fact way pulled a large envelope out of his backpack and placed it between the red plastic trays on the table.
“Well there is this new thing. You can find out about your ancestors, like extend your family tree and see where you came from, and since everyone here in the Valley came from somewhere else, and you don’t have any family around, we thought it would be a cool thing for you to do.”
Josh went on explaining about a bit of saliva on a stick, sending it to a lab and they would analyze your spit. Was this for real?
“You are so proud of your grandfather and it might be fun for you to know where his folks came from. I just did it and believe it or not, there wasn’t just France and Spain, but even Russia in my blood.”
“Josh came up with the idea,” Joyce added, as she saw how puzzled Elliot III looked.
“He wanted to give you something before he leaves for UC Davis at the end of the summer.”
“And, what exactly do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Pull out your laptop and I will show you,” Josh said.
Josh elaborated about what he had found out about his own ancestors as he moved the cursor over a colorful map of the world. Elliot III gave in and placed the stick on the inside of his cheek. Would hamburger grease influence the results?
Elliot III learned through DNA testing that his ancestors had indeed come from Spain, but there was also 10% of Hispanic blood somewhere in the mix originating from Honduras. An unexpected result was a second cousin, Edgar, he found, who lived at the edge of the valley in Gilroy. Elliot III had become fascinated with the genealogical facts he could gather about his family on the ancestry website. He agreed to a meeting when Edgar contacted him. They met at a coffee shop in San Jose.
“How come that we never met growing up?” Elliot III asked Edgar.
“We moved to North Dakota, when I was two. My father had an argument with his brother about the land they jointly owned. I believe he paid him out, but Dad never looked back. He didn’t want to talk about his life in California.”
“And how come you are here now?”
“My wife’s family is from here. We met in college studying environmental science, and then realized that we would rather farm instead of trying to operate from the sidelines.”
“And how did you get the land?”
“Megan inherited it. It was the missing piece we needed after we realized that we wanted to be farmers.”
“And now you are just a few miles away from the place your father left”, Elliot III stated.
He felt comfortable with his cousin and agreed to visit the farm soon.
Elliot III and Edgar found out that they had more in common. They both worked in libraries. To supplement the income from the farm Edgar worked 20 hours in the Morgan Hill Public Library as a technician. Three months after they met, Edgar invited Elliot III to join the enterprise Garlic&Chicks. Elliot III was hesitant and said there was no way he would intrude, but Edgar convinced him. There was a shed in the backyard, which they could fix up. Then Elliot III could reside by himself. There was always work on the farm, Megan would appreciate the help while Edgar was gone.
The work took several months. Elliot III helped every weekend. Next to the shed was an old outhouse that they upgraded and retrofitted with an outdoor shower. Once it was done Elliot III moved 50 miles south from Menlo Park to Gilroy. After the sterile group house he enjoyed the noise of the chickens and loved listening to the rooster crow. Good to know that the sun was cresting the horizon. Time to get up and check on the plants. Time to go to bed right after dusk. He refused electricity. It was often windy on the farm, which sat exposed on the hills east of Gilroy. Then there was the soothing sound of rustling leaves. When everything quieted down at night he could hear the cars on Route 152 in the distance. Every night he spent a whole hour at the chessboard figuring out new opening strategies, before he lay down on his pallet. When Edgar told Elliot III that they were looking for a chess teacher at the Morgan Hill Library, he hesitated.
“It’s a lot for me, Edgar. I haven’t even settled in. And the sea lavender I wanted to plant, you know. Tomatoes, zucchini, pumpkins for the fall, I like the land.”
Joyce finalized her divorce at the end of the summer. She couldn’t afford to live in Mountain View on her retirement budget. After the sale of the house, she found a studio in Morgan Hill just south of the hustle and bustle of San Jose. She started tutoring the children of farm workers at the library, diligently improving her Spanish by starting a Spanish book group. Every other Friday she picked up 12 fresh eggs at Garlic&Chicks.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christine Welter is a Northern California based librarian, fiction writer and translator. Born and raised in Germany, Christine moved to the U.S. after receiving her MA from Tübingen University in English and Linguistics. Since then, she’s held various teaching roles, translated numerous books from German to English and worked in a number of major libraries — the Library of Congress among them. Her favorite authors are Toni Morrison, Hilde Domin and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. She loves hiking and German Carnival, she has two children and lives in Silicon Valley with her husband and two cats.