I’m sorry, but what exactly are you suggesting? Mama had jumped into the conversation so suddenly it startled me. I’m afraid I don’t understand, she said. Now that Elliot’s gone, why wouldn’t we just continue managing our farms like we’ve been doing? Let’s be honest. As often as he was away, his death doesn’t really change anything.
Exactly, Jennifer said. Not to give Elliot any credit, but he arranged his little operation so that each family would be self-sufficient. Different parcels, different bank accounts, different expenses. The new arrangement pretty much writes itself. What we need to decide is whether there are any assets that can be rightfully claimed among the five of us, and then figure out how we want to divide them.
Quit stalling, Mom, Beth said. She had a strong, carrying voice like her mother’s that made me feel even more childish by comparison. Tell them what you told us a month ago. Logan and Will nodded their approval, arms crossed over their flannel shirts like a pair of old-timey bartenders from TV.
You ladies make some good points, Katie said. But what you’re taking for granted is that you each have a farm to call home and nothing can change that. And that’s where you’re wrong. What we really need to decide is whether we can stand the chance of losing everything now that the son of a bitch is gone.
Chance, Mama said. What chance?
I see that look on your face, Sandra. You’re scared. You know exactly what it’ll mean for your children if you can’t find a way to hold on to your land. Problem is, the Republic of California isn’t as concerned about your children as you are. Way they see it, farming is the only thing this valley is good for, and they mean to see each parcel turning out as many crops as possible. Now, the Congress up in Sacramento is liberal, but parcel allotment is handled through the state and county ag bureaus. And as far as the State of San Joaquin is concerned, an unmarried woman has no business running a farm on her own. Especially if she has kids.
She’s right, Dawn said. Neighbor friend of mine had her husband run out on her last year. When she went to file her taxes, the county cut her land parcel in half, set her back to ten acres. Said twenty was too much for her to handle.
None of the wives spoke for several seconds. I watched their beseeching, desperate eyes move from one face to another in search of answers.
No one can turn a profit on ten acres, Claudia said.
Not if they want to eat, Katie added.
Dear God, no, Mama said. She bent forward so that her hair fell across her shoulders and hid her face from view. I set my hand on the ridge of her spine and stroked it up and down.
It’s okay, Mama, I said. We’ll figure something out.
She sat up straight and brushed the hair from her eyes, but I could tell from her open mouth and vacant gaze that she was far away from everything that was happening inside the living room. All through my childhood, every time nectarine prices fell or a bad harvest came in, I had to listen to her fretful exclamations about going broke and winding up on the streets. There was nothing in the world she feared more. And now, with this latest piece of news, her nightmare of poverty must have seemed so close to becoming real.
It’s the same story all over the valley, Katie said. Men in charge decide how to divvy up the land, and they don’t want anybody farming who doesn’t match their idea of what’s decent. No gays, no illegals, and no unwed mothers. Doesn’t matter if we’re widows. Way they see it, if we really cared about our kids, we’d remarry in a hurry.
And they call themselves Christians, Claudia said.
Katie looked around the room. How about it, ladies? After all we’ve been through, you ready to find yourselves another husband in time for tax season?
Not particularly, Jennifer said. But if worst comes to worst, I have a trustworthy foreman I can probably talk into marrying me in name only.
Smart girl, Katie said. That was my idea too before I started reading up on California ag law. Then I stumbled on something so worrisome I had to invite you all up for a barbecue just to sort it out. It might be nothing, but if what I suspect about Elliot is true, we’ll be lucky to come out of this with ten acres between the five of us.
Get the fuck on with it, Mama cried. Now all eyes were on her.
You’re overheated, Mama, I said. You know how your head aches when you get too hot. Without drawing any more attention to us, I hurried to the kitchen and fixed her a glass of red wine to sip on. When I returned, Dawn was flipping through the stack of papers on her lap.
Take your time, honey, Katie said. It should be a long blue document with a date stamped at the bottom.
Found it, Dawn said. She held the form in front her as if to prove she was being truthful.
That’s good, Katie said. Now go ahead and read out the name printed on the first line. Right above your own name.
Dawn turned the document around and squinted at the carbon impression at the bottom. E. F. Rabedeaux, she said. Same as the signature.
Katie touched her face and sighed. That’s what I was afraid of, she said.
Who is it? Jennifer asked. Who’s E. F. Rabedeaux?
Elias Rabedeaux, Mama said calmly. That was Elliot’s real name. He changed it when he moved out from the coast.
For a second there, Claudia and Jennifer both appeared dumbstruck. I tried putting myself in their place. It was one thing to know you’d been lied to when four others had been deceived the same way. It was another to find out you’d been deceived just a little bit more than the others, that Daddy had tipped the scales by adding at least one extra lie to their plates.
Elias Rabedeaux was the name he signed our parcel papers with nearly twenty years ago, Katie said. What about the rest of them? How many names did he have going in all?
Amid the sudden outcries and shuffling of papers, the full picture of Daddy’s corruption gradually came into view. Twenty years earlier, Elias Rabedeaux had applied for a land parcel in Fresno County, aiming to grow plums with his young wife Katherine. But by the time he married Sandra and turned his eye to Kings County and nectarines, Elliot Temple was the name he was using on the paperwork. Year by year, county by county, wife by wife, his territory had expanded out across the entire length of the valley. Elias Temple applied to grow grapes in Tulare County with his wife Claudia. Eli Temple preferred almonds, Madera County, and Jennifer. When the time came to bring his new wife Dawn to Merced, E. F. Rabedeaux decided to try his hand at peaches. None of the wives had any idea what the F stood for, though I’m sure they could’ve offered a suggestion.
I know it’s hard to accept, Katie said. But it’s obvious we weren’t the only ones being duped. He wasn’t carrying on as a bigamist just for fun. There was a financial motive as well. Not many people know it, but the parcel program only allows each family a certain number of acres in total. In most counties the cap is at sixty, but anything more than thirty is usually pretty hard to come by. And here he was with a hundred acres of land under five different names.
It’s a fraud, Beth said. He was defrauding the state. Sort of thing people go to prison for.
That’s right, honey, Katie said. At best, we’re looking at heavy fines, back taxes, and censure. And that’s on top of eviction. Any time someone dies and leaves a bunch of land behind, the government’s bound to start poking around. All it’d take is a few phone calls and a state audit for the whole house of cards to come crashing down.
Claudia shuddered briefly and retreated to the kitchen. I thought she might’ve been done for good until she returned carrying the wine bottle and four long-stemmed glasses. None of the wives bothered with decorum. Us kids waited silently for the slow gulping to cease.