Object: Talking Heads LP Location: 51 Plumule Way, Sierra, California Resident: Caprice Alexander If you look at Sierra on a map, you''ll see it''s shaped like an obtuse scalene triangle. You won''t see all the backyard beekeepers, grow operations, and do-it-yourself houses. Flatten our town out like that and it''ll look ordered. Contained. But Sierra is part of a wild that rolls down off the mountains and reaches between the suburban-style houses, trailers, and cabins. A wild that creeps out from behind the oak and pine, in the shape of foxes, deer, and mountain lions. A wild that comes up on a sudden rush of wind. We put down our roads, build our houses, but the wild is still there.
Prowling. Anytime I talked about how small Sierra was, my gramps would say, "Sierra''s on the Road to Nowhere, Cappi." Then he''d sing a few lines of that Talking Heads song. I''d tell him the song was a metaphor, not a literal road to nowhere. He''d shake his gray ponytail and say, "It''s good to be from nowhere. A guy like me can have a view like this." He''d point to the canyon, where the afternoon light glowed an orange no photograph could capture, and the mottled greens of pine, oak, and red-barked manzanita above the river made you feel like you''d walked into a landscape painting. Gramps wasn''t wrong.
You really can''t get anywhere from Sierra, at least not quickly. Sierra''s shaped by canyons on the east and west, mountains to the north. The lower town limit''s a crenellation of hills that folds into California''s great valley, growing its rice, almonds, and smog. The three main roads out trace the canyons'' edge in winding lines. No highways. No fast escape. Living in Sierra was like being a fish trapped in a pond where the feeder creek dries up most of the year. If you wanted out in any permanent way, you had to plan, and hope the waters ran high so you could swim for your life if the chance came.
At least that''s what I thought. I never imagined we''d be--well, you know. No one imagines it. You just--can''t. Gramps teased me for wanting to leave. He really thought there was no better place on earth. He always wanted to grow the town, welcome newcomers. He knew all about Sierra.
He''d built it. Not the roads, but the houses. Hundreds of them. He tried to preserve the trees when he could. He said they make the town. Roots, you know. Once, Cecil Ito took Gramps and me over Sierra in his little three-seater plane. From up there it looked like there was no town at all, just three roads twisting through trees.
After we came down, Gramps brought me his Talking Heads LP and said I should keep it. We listened to it on Dad''s record player in the living room as we looked at a map of what we''d flown over. I said the map made Sierra look tame, but the view from the airplane made it seem all wild. Sierra wasn''t either. Not really. It was both. A wild filled with people, living in houses my gramps built, nestled between the trees. Under the greens.
Perched on the edges of canyons or tucked back from the twisting pavement. People lived. Thousands and thousands hidden on roads that led nowhere. FIRE SEASON EIGHT WEEKS BEFORE "Honey, ask your brother if you can grab something," Dad said as he stepped into the driveway. "Don''t," Beckett called. "Only a laundry basket''s left." "Really?" I said, looking at the two boxes in Beck''s hands. His cuticles were frayed, and his arms, strained by weight, shook.
A heavy feeling expanded in my center. I tried to ignore it. My brother was alive. Home. Sober. That was good. "I''ll get the laundry," Dad said. "Hungry, Beck?" Mom eyed how his shorts hung too low on his hips.
"Starving," he said. His voice was a fake cheery that made me wonder when he''d last eaten. Heat blew in the open door with the scent of dried grass and pitch. A guy jogged down the middle of the road, his footfalls slapping the concrete, dark hair peeking out from under an orange bandana. I''d been seeing him running all summer and wondered where he came from. He was cute, but didn''t he know about heat exhaustion? It was ninety degrees and climbing. Dad returned with the laundry basket in one arm, head turned away. When he got close, I could smell why.
He shut the door and stumbled. Cursed. Clothes spilled across the floor as Cheerio, our cat, darted under him. She looked up, her gray face indignant. A pair of boxers hung over one ear and down her body. Dad scratched her head with his free hand, called her a "stupid cat" in a baby voice, and picked up the underwear with two fingers. Cheerio lifted one white paw to swipe at the fabric, and then stretched out across the entry floor. "Don''t worry about that, Dad.
I got it," Beckett said, appearing empty-handed. He hummed as he scooped up the musty clothes. Dad handed the basket over, saying, "I''m going to tell your gramps you made it--he was hoping you''d be here for lunch." Beck nodded as Dad slipped out the front door. "Did you give up bathing and laundry?" I asked, lifting my foot to stand in tree pose. "Yeah. It''s a standard part of rehab." Beck arched one eyebrow.
I took a deep breath, swaying on my standing leg as I pressed my palms together because I was not, absolutely not, going to let my brother unbalance me in all the ways he used to. I was not going to hide in the closet if he yelled. I was not going to ask Mom to stock the kitchen with unbreakable plastic cups. I was going to trust him. Even if three years ago he shattered a dozen glasses while I hid in the closet. He was on the mend now. I could stand to be in the same room as him. On one leg even.
"Come on, Caps. Gotta get used to my rehab jokes." I teetered but didn''t fall. I''d recently mastered keeping my foot way up on my thigh above the knee. I felt powerful. "So is bathing against the rules? Do you have to get dirty to get clean?" The corner of my mouth ticked up as Mom shouted from the other room: "Caprice! You know cleanliness is an inappropriate metaphor for sobriety!" "Sorry," I mouthed. Beckett grinned. "Easy joke," he said.
"Try harder." I inhaled slowly, wondering if maybe Beckett and I would be siblings who laughed together again. His expression shifted. "Didn''t Mom tell you? I went to Davis--to see Mason. I--stayed awhile." "Oh," I said. She hadn''t. Mason was Beckett''s best friend from forever who now "lived" at UC Davis Medical Center.
Beckett had walked away from a totaled truck with a few bruises and Mason, six months after the accident, had air mechanically pushed in and out of his lungs. Mason couldn''t talk, or even blink in reply, and I wanted to know what Beckett had done there, and if it was even safe for him to visit right after being discharged. But the best support for people coming out of rehab, according to the internet, was to focus on the present and not ask too many questions. So I didn''t. "The Vanagon doesn''t have a shower, but I''m thinking of trying to install one." He smiled, same as when we''d sneak down to The Last Dam Stop: Gas and Grub and buy candy we weren''t allowed at home. I chewed the inside of my cheek. Was he joking? It wasn''t funny.
"Laundry is downstairs. That way, remember?" I said, pointing. Once he would have tried to knock me out of my pose. Now he shuffled past me politely, but the basket bumped my hip anyway and I dropped my foot to the floor. He stopped, reaching out his free hand to me. I brushed it away and focused hard to keep my yoga face relaxed. " If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting ," he sang, words from an old song. Beck was lead tenor in the Sierra High Singers.
More than once, deals were made that kept him performing despite his rule-annihilation and spotty grades. Once he was out of high school, there was no more chorus to keep him in check. There were years we barely saw him. Then, after the crash with Mason, he got worse and worse for two months until finally he''d begged for Mom and Dad to help. They found a rehab facility on the coast with an opening. He''d been there the last four months. Now my brother was back. My sort of sad, broken, too-skinny brother with a laundry basket and two boxes to his name.
He didn''t look menacing. But he was an unknown variable. The peace and calm we''d found without him was probably about to evaporate like water off the cracking clay of Sierra soil. All I really wanted was to get through the coming year without any big surprises, finish the app I was developing, and get into college. That was my program. My plan. Beckett looked at me from behind a strip of greasy hair, and he must have seen how hard I was working to keep my yoga-relaxed face on, because he said, "I''m not a meth lab, you know. I won''t explode.
" I smiled at that. A little. "You sure?" "I smell bad, but not that bad." His voice was smoke-worn and tired. I swallowed. Technically, Beckett suffered from substance use disorder from alcohol, but I knew it led him to some pretty dark stuff, though no one had ever bothered to tell me the details and I didn''t ask. My brother joking about how a meth lab smelled made me feel off, and a little scared. Was he serious? Did he really know? Or was he teasing me? I didn''t know how to ask, and I felt like I did when Cheerio disappeared at night, and I was stuck alone imagining the worst: foxes and bobcats out for her soft belly.
In the year after Beckett dropped out of college, we did a f.