“Astragalus — that’s the primary genus called ‘locoweed’ — is kind of mysterious,” he said. “It seems to poison stock in a couple of ways, some of which aren’t really understood. But one thing it can do is accumulate toxic elements from the soil. Like molybdenum—”
“—or selenium,” she guessed.
“Exactly. Some locoweeds are ‘indicator’ species; that means they’re indicative of a seleniferous soil,” he continued, happily sliding into pedantry, “and some are actually ‘obligate,’ meaning they’ll only grow on selenium-rich soil.”
“So what’s growing around here?” She pointed to the locoweed Sam was still carrying.
“Oh, this is just plain old Spotted Loco, I think. Some variety of Astragalus lentiginosus — they’re damn hard to identify.”
“Oh.”
“But that doesn’t mean it can’t be toxic. For all I know, even Spotted Loco can take up enough selenium to be dangerous, in certain environments.”
“Like the drainage pools.”
“Like the drainage pools.”
“So it wasn’t Eddie’s fault after all,” she said.
“Looks like it. But hey, nothing’s ever Eddie’s fault,” Sam replied blandly, as they stepped into Patterson’s living room.
Dwayne had his arm around a sweet-faced woman about half his size and, apparently, half his age. In her frilly bathrobe, glossy braid of hair hanging halfway down her back, she seemed to have stepped out of a Victorian daguerreotype.
“My wife Cheryl,” he said tenderly; and when she emerged from the kitchen in a moment carrying mugs of coffee, he took the tray from her solicitously, saying, “I’ll get that, honey.”
Claire watched, touched, although she couldn’t help but note that the attentiveness seemed to be all on Dwayne’s side. Cheryl herself was silent, not sullen but... wooden. Without affect.
Old fool besotted by young wife, thought Claire wryly, though how Cheryl could resist that accent was beyond her. She would have married Patterson just to hear him talk; Sam’s inherited Oklahoma twang was one of his most appealing features.
“Well, Eddie,” Dwayne joked, “I was kinda hoping you all at the Station would increase my stock. Hell, I can knock ’em off myself!”
There was strained laughter. “Tough times for cattlemen,” Sam said sympathetically.
“You bet.” He settled back and took a sip of coffee. “To my way of thinking,” he said reflectively, “American-bred beef’s the best meal there is.” His speech had a halting, rural rhythm, as if words were as scarce a resource as everything else. “But them Yuppies is all eating fish, or tofu, or some damn thing, fast-food places ’re buyin’ beef from Brazil... plus I got some built-in problems over here.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll give it to you in a word. Water,” Dwayne said. “My natural forage here dries up in midsummer and then I gotta start buyin’ feed or irrigate — ’n my water rates is higher’n spit on a griddle.”
“You’re in the Westside Water District,” Sam remarked, and Dwayne laughed.
“Yep. State water, from the Aqueduct. One hundred twenty an acre foot. Just my luck; right across the road they’re gettin’ federal water at twenty.” Patterson sighed heavily. “I’m like one of them old wooly mammoths I seen in the tar pits down in L.A. Cain’t turn no way at all.” Claire felt enormous sympathy for him.
In the car on the way back, Eddie, garrulous with relief, actually managed to talk about something besides himself. Dr. Moreau meets Old MacDonald, thought Claire, listening to Eddie’s descriptions of livestock bio-engineering. Cows that produced oceans of milk. Chickens that squeezed out eggs like rounds of ammunition for a few weeks, then died, completely depleted. Legless chickens. Tailless pigs.
“Tailless pigs?” echoed Claire.
“Yeah. See, cannibalism is a big problem with pigs when they’re raised in confinement, and they always start with the tail.”
While she digested, so to speak, this information, Eddie moved on to Dwayne Patterson.
“He’s only owned the Lazy D for three years,” he said. “Came from Texas. Had some kind of windfall there, that’s how he came to buy it. He’s a good manager, knows his stock, keeps up with new developments. The selenium treatment is a case in point... ordinarily,” he finished, reddening. “But I’m afraid he’s going to go under, even so.”
On Saturday, Armen Bogosian called Sam to ask if he’d like to take a look at the contents of the dead calves’ stomachs. Sam excitedly agreed, sounding as if he’d been offered a peek at the Mona Lisa instead of some slimy, partially digested weeds, but Claire decided she’d pass. He returned in an hour looking puzzled.
“Definitely not any of the varieties of Spotted Loco I’m familiar with,” he declared, slapping his Flora of California down on the table. “I have a feeling it may be Astragalus hornii; they call it ‘sheep loco,’ which suggests that it’s toxic, and the habitat fits — ‘alkaline soil, sometimes about desiccating pools or on lake shores,’ ” he quoted. “What I need to do now is go over to the drainage pools and see if I can find it in some area where Patterson’s stock might have got at it—” He stopped suddenly.
Claire regarded him with resignation. She was leaving tomorrow, and they had agreed that they would spend the day together in romantic pursuits, not tramping around some desolate marshland keying out native plantlife.
“Why don’t we drive over to the nature preserve?” she said brightly.
He looked at her suspiciously, trying to divine if this was a genuine offer or a trap. “You really wouldn’t mind?”
“No. I’ve never seen that part of the Valley—” She halted. He was grinning at her.
“Tell you what,” he said, pulling her towards him. “Why don’t we drive over in about an hour?”
“An hour? Think you can stand it? How about five minutes?”
“No, an hour sounds about right. Maybe two.” He paused. “Actually” — kissing her neck — “I’ll check it out while you’re gone.”
3.
Sam eased onto the San Diego Freeway, slammed on the brakes as a Mercedes cut in front of him, and cursed absent-mindedly. His relief at this moment almost overwhelmed his distaste for L.A. and his churning impatience with the traffic; he had been dreading this day and now it was done. Claire was on the plane, headed for Boston, and in the hands of Fate.
It was not that he couldn’t do without her for three weeks. In fact, he was sort of looking forward to an orgy of botanical walks, frozen pizzas, and dumping of clothes on the floor, not to mention pure solitude, which he missed. But — Boston. He had never been there, and he regarded it with unmitigated suspicion; from Boston Claire had simply appeared one day, and by Boston she might as easily be resorbed.
She had been back to visit once and had stayed for almost two months. He had accepted the fact that he was never going to see her again. Not that he had been unprepared; the place seemed to be filled with old boyfriends of unimaginable sophistication and sex appeal, old friends of matchless wit, work far more glamorous and prestigious than what the Citrus Cove Experimental Field Station could offer. So he had been very sad but unsurprised.