Full Measure: A Novel Read Free Page A

father told him that three Fallbrook citizens had died in the fire—a dad and two young children. What kind of man stays behind in a wildfire with two young ones? he asked.
    “You can see where the fire burned through Big Gorge,” he said, gesturing with his tumbler. “It was really screaming by then. I watched a pair of coyotes try to outleg it. The gusts were fifty miles an hour, all bone-dry and straight from the desert, so you can guess who won that race. L.A. was burning. Orange County, too. And San Diego—terrible fires south of here. Ours broke out last so it took quite a goddamned while to get help. Fallbrook Fire says it looks like a downed power line way up in Rice Canyon, fanned by the Santa Anas. San Diego Gas and Electric, of course, they’re on the hook if that’s true, so they’re saying it had to be arson. Either way, like a lot of the growers, Norris Brothers doesn’t carry crop insurance. As you know.”
    Patrick looked down at the blackened swath of what they called the Big Gorge. He could see where the fire had jumped the dirt road and taken out ten acres of trees in a rough circle. It looked like a giant IED had exploded. Standing around the edges of the circle like witnesses were trees that had partially burned, portions of their trunks still carrying life and some branches untouched, their ash-dusted leaves fluttering in the breeze.
    “Patrick, I don’t know if there’s anything you can do for your brother. But if there is, please do it. I’m at the end of my tether with him.”
    “I’ll take him fishing. He likes that.”
    “He became stranger every month you were gone. First the dope. Then Evelyn Anders. Christ. I wonder if he’s back on the drugs. He seems either high or low, no functional middle. And he spends almost all his free time alone in the bunkhouse. God knows what he does on the computer. I can’t get him to see doctors anymore. They all threw their hands up on him anyway.”
    Patrick took a long swallow of the bourbon. He felt the same bottomless pull of it that he always felt but surrendered to only on occasion. Still, he felt that such an occasion would be soon at hand and it was something he’d looked forward to in coming home—a good peaceful bender. These people will miss the point of it, he thought, I’ll drink to remember the good things, not to forget the bad.
    “As you know, I let Miguel go. I just couldn’t afford him after this. Now I need help rebuilding our groves and our business. And of course someone to take it over someday. My first choice is you, as it’s always been.”
    “I don’t want it, Dad.”
    “I’m trying to make you want it.”
    “But I don’t. I know that’s an insult to you. I’m just not a farmer and never will be.”
    “I hear no insult at all. But you’re actually a damned good farmer. Ten summers teach a boy a lot. I’ve got another five years of muscle left in me, if we can make it through this thing. You know, you could help me get this place up and running again and chase your dreams later. Plenty of time in the future to buy that boat and guide those clients and catch those fish. How much money have you socked away for the boat?”
    “Eleven grand.”
    “That won’t buy much.”
    “If I start off in the bay I won’t need that much boat.”
    “So, you mean a panga like the Mexicans use?”
    “I need a center console, good decks for casting, and a trolling motor for stealth.”
    “And you think there are enough fly fishermen around San Diego for you to make a living?”
    “If I figured right.”
    “There’s what, three or four other guys already doing it?”
    “Two on the bay and two offshore for the big stuff.”
    “Eleven grand?”
    “A used boat for sure, Dad.”
    His father squinted out at the charred hills. “Farming isn’t a dream, Pat. It’s just a living. Business was bad enough before this. Ag water was cut back thirty percent because of drought, so I had to stump thirty acres back in May. Yield