Pilgrimage by Kathryn Kantner , drip coffee with a splash of half and half

Jess, exiting the truck, breathed in mountain air and watched a hawk soar into an updraft, its wingspan tilted against the clear, blue sky. Noelle tapped the driver’s window so that Richard would roll it down, and Jess smiled as Noelle kissed him while Abby, their other roommate, glanced away. The women had come to touch grass. Richard, eight years older, with crinkles around his eyes testifying to a wry sense of humor, would fish, enjoying a reprieve wherein he might savor his thoughts in silence.

            Once Richard drove off, Jess took the lead, kicking gravel along the road; after all, this pilgrimage had been her idea. Wading into weeds, she worried about poison oak while tiny burrs latched onto her socks. Despite the heat, Abby radiated elegance with her hair tucked in a topknot. Beyond a clump of trees, a rambling farmhouse, white with blue shutters, anchored the sloping lawn. ‘Victorian,’ Noelle breathed, eyes lit with excitement.

            Flowering shrubs lined the approach on this fine May morning. Adjacent to the larger house, a blue farmhouse with white trim was submerged in bougainvillea, and past it, the edge of a silvering barn could be glimpsed amid the trees.

            Whispering, the women debated whether they should knock. The silence thrummed save for the background aria of grasshoppers or perhaps cicadas, harmonizing with the birdsong. It seemed too early to ring the doorbell.

            A collie charged through tangled grass, and Jess froze, paralyzed, but Noelle crouched and extended her hand. The dog sniffed and barked anyway. ‘Hero,’ a woman hollered.

‘Come.’ She strolled into view, her blouse a billowing dream of gauzy cotton. She cupped a steaming mug in her hands. ‘Visitors,’ she said, surprised. ‘Yes?’

            Jess stepped forward.‘We wanted to see the women’s colony for ourselves.’
            ‘Ah.’
            Jess cleared her throat. ‘We came to work.’
            The woman eyeballed Jess’s Chucks, blazing white, stiff, not yet broken in, and Jess wished she’d had the foresight to ding them up a bit. ‘I’ll fetch Diane.’
            Noelle, suddenly self-conscious, tucked in her tarot card tee shirt,The Sun.

           Jess frowned at the ink stains beneath her fingernails, recollecting her job and Adam’s reaction when she’d confided her weekend plans. ‘Diane McCarthy? Bit out of favor these days?’

            Along with second-wave feminism. ‘Maybe Diane’s art isn’t breaking records at auction. Still, she’s a trailblazer.’

            Adam had removed his glasses and wiped them on the hem of his shirt. ‘Margaret was Caroline’s thesis advisor several years back. Caroline, Diane’s daughter, you see.’ Adam’s wife, Margaret, chaired the history department. ‘A shy young woman, capable, but lacking her mother’s verve. Other than holiday cards, we haven’t heard from Caroline in ages. Say hello, from Margaret?’ Adam had shuffled off to drink tea and rifle through a poetry anthology while Jess reminded herself, once again, that a career in academia held little appeal.

            Having culminated from the university where this conversation had taken place, Jess had stayed on to run the silkscreen studio in the wake of a professor’s unexpected leave. Adam covered the lectures while Jess assisted by grading assignments. Receiving a smidgeon more than minimum wage to coach students through the quirks of the equipment did little to ameliorate her panic over what her next steps might be. The professor would return in September.

            Launching a podcast had been Pedro’s idea. A cinema arts major, he figured they could leverage university contacts, not to mention AV equipment, and build a following. Only, Jess wasn’t sold on his topic: Why Art Matters. Securing a spot at this artist’s colony would solve everything, and Jess hoped to make a good impression. If a spot materialized, there would be no need to launch the podcast. If they did launch the podcast, they’d need a hook.

             The screen door banged closed, and Diane McCarthy loomed on her porch, taking their measure. ‘Visitors.’ That resonant voice, pure gold. ‘What can I do for you?’ Long, greying hair framed her face, while her fierce eyebrows and gruff manner telegraphed her disinclination to suffer fools. Her slight stature belied her status as a revered feminist and art-world icon. A veritable institution, in her plaid bathrobe. Jess prayed their visit today was not misguided and that Diane McCarthy would not find her a fool.

            Introducing herself, Jess referenced the interview where the Christmas Tree farm that kept the art colony solvent had been publicized. Diane had invited the public to drop by.

            Diane coughed. ‘At Christmas. To purchase a tree.’ When Jess appeared crestfallen, Diane added, ‘Never mind. We’ll put you to work. First, tell me about yourselves.’

            Jess noted the university where she worked, and that her position there was temporary. Having acquired a master’s in fine arts degree, her interest, she explained, was in ‘exploring new mediums,’ an allusion to the podcast. Best to leave it at that.

            Abby noted her role as an intern in Sotheby’s art appraisal department. This sounded impressive, but Jess knew her days were consumed by glorified data entry, logging the prices of artworks in a database. In fact, Abby no longer created her own work, although she spoke wistfully at times of her intention to return to it. Jess would expect that Diane McCarthy — artist, author, feminist — when confronted with a calcified institution such as Sotheby’s, would curl her lip dismissively, but Diane seemed interested.
            Noelle’s laughter broke the tension. Noelle was a talented painter, someone Jess might view as a threat, only she’d never compete with a friend. Noelle stammered that the art colony sounded intriguing. They had come to pitch in.

            Diane shaded her eyes. ‘You’ll weed the garden.’ She treaded downstairs, leaning heavily on the banister, then led her visitors through dewed grass to the garden plot.

             The garden consisted of lettuce, immature corn stalks, eggplants, tomato plants, and basil. Dirt mounds blemished a melon patch, and Hero, the collie, inserted his nose deep within a burrow and grunted. ‘Voles. If you spot one, there’s a shovel.’ Diane indicated a heap of tools.

           ‘Whack it on the head. Hero considers them playthings. But they ruin the garden. And I detest cats.’ Diane’s gaze rested on Abby, a sleek, feline sort of creature.

            As the three women kneeled, stains blossomed on Abby’s chinos at the knees, but there was nothing to be done. Diane whistled, and together she and Hero loped toward the house.

            It was hot work and dirty. Why hadn’t they brought gloves? Bugs, drawn by their sweat, hummed in their ears. Mercifully, the voles remained hidden. The plants clung to the soil tenaciously, their unyielding stalks abrading Jess’s palms. Still, a pile of uprooted weeds soon wilted in the sun.

            Noelle blew on a dandelion puff, sending wishes cascading toward the future. Tucking a yellow disk behind her ear, she gushed. ‘I grew up on Grandma’s farm. And now I think — I mean, we haven’t told anyone yet. But Richard and I are getting married!’ Abby yelped as Jess rose, watching Abby and Noelle embrace. ‘When?’

            ‘August. On Grandma’s farm.’ Jess hugged Noelle and offered congratulations.

            Abby started to cry. ‘We won’t be roommates?’

            ‘No, Abby,’ Noelle said gently. ‘Richard and I are moving to Bedford. You’ll visit.’

            Jess saw then that Abby favored Noelle; no surprise, for she favored Noelle, too. Noelle was easy and warm, while Abby had always been reserved. Of course, the three roommates had always gotten along. But suddenly, the prospect of Abby and Jess rooming together without their sunny third now seemed remote.

            The young woman with the gauzy blouse approached, but growing aware of the tableau, she paused. ‘Oh. I’m interrupting.’

            Noelle, beaming, wiped a tear from her eye. ‘I’m getting married. Otherwise, I’d live here. I love the idea of women artists working on a farm.’

            The woman assessed their pile of weeds, avoiding Abby’s tear-streaked face. ‘A camera crew is arriving this afternoon; you can stay until then. Of course, there’s more to see of our farm during harvesting season.’

            ‘When do you harvest?’ Jess asked.

            ‘Early October through November. We’ll haul the trees to the city and begin selling after Thanksgiving. You’re in the city; drop by and help.’

            Jess sighed. No telling where she would be by then.

             Approaching the main house, the visitors admired a small pond ringed by trees at one end. The woman, whose name was Belinda, nodded. ‘We’ll swim after brunch. Before the news crew descends.’
            Juvenile trees, Fraser and Douglas firs, brushed past Jess’s knees; these were planted in tidy rows. The air was redolent of pine. Belinda explained that they sprayed periodically with insecticide and kept the irrigation lines clear. Otherwise, the trees didn’t require much care. Which was the point. ‘We mow grass, tend the vegetables. There are repairs to do. We recently converted an old chicken coop into living space.’

            ‘How many women board here at a time?’ Abby asked.

            ‘Nine. Plus, Diane.’

            Noelle pointed to the power lines. ‘Too bad. Spoils the view.’
            ‘It’s where your power comes from,’ Belinda said, her lips curled. ‘Summer’s our changeover, colleagues leave, new faces arrive. Old-timers claim bigger rooms and studios. There’s a pecking order. Even here.’ Belinda’s eyes flickered to Jess. ‘We still have one opening.’ A glow flushed Jess’s neck.

            Abby smiled. ‘Imagine Jess in a chicken coop.’

             Inside, a young woman passed a platter heaped with scrambled eggs. Jess speared a forkful of spinach and chewed until a speck of dirt gritted between her teeth and put her off. Setting down her fork, she gulped hot coffee.

            ‘Eggs are from our coop,’ Diane said.

            At a break in the conversation, Jess described her university screen-printing gig, and then added, almost as an afterthought, ‘My colleague’s wife heads up the history department, and was your daughter’s thesis advisor. Margaret says hello.’
            ‘Universities are hierarchies,’ Diane remarked almost pleasantly. ‘Tenure is the residue of patriarchy. It’s gatekeeping. Exists to keep certain folks out.’ Diane scraped back her chair. ‘Come.’

             In the light-filled studio, they admired Diane’s oil paintings. On one wall, framed prints, mostly abstract images, were displayed in a row. Some of these were in color, others in black and white. One print was marred by a shadow image.

             Podcast host, Jess Mitchell: Neglecting to dehaze the screen? A rookie mistake.

            Guest, Diane McCarthy: This? It’s an intended effect.
            Co-host, Pedro Rodriguez: Diane’s not known for her works on paper.

             Jess sighed. Podcasts need sizzle. Dirt.

             When Jess copped to having read Diane’s seminal book, Abby winked, and Jess bristled at being accused of obsequiousness, for Jess had read Diane’s book, and had admired it. Diane smiled toothily, a queen among courtiers. Heartened, Jess gathered her courage. 'Belinda says a spot will open soon. How would I apply?’ Diane discussed the application process and agreed that a letter of recommendation from Adam would suffice. ‘I’d love to live here,’ Jess gushed.

            'And your job at the university?’ Diane stared out the window. ‘My daughter dreamed of a career in academia. But then, she’d always wonder: was her success due to merit? Or to her name?’ Jess wondered about Caroline but felt suddenly too tongue-tied to inquire further.

            Filing downstairs, Abby paused to admire a photo of Diane shaking Michelle Obama’s hand. ‘The camera loves that red blazer on you. It pops.’

            Abby was rewarded with an approving nod. ‘Politics is blood sport. Women’s rights are eroding. Attitudes are shifting.’ Diane’s gaze surveyed the distance. ‘Blood sport.’

            Jess found her words thrilling.
            Diane allowed the conversation to wither into silence.

             They left their clothes tangled near a honeysuckle bush. A glorious afternoon, the sun at its peak. Mossy rocks lined the bottom of the pond, and Abby and Noelle, with pond muck oozing between their toes, shifted awkwardly — nudity among strangers could do that. Jess darted through the grass, unashamed, hurtling into the water. ‘Cowabunga!’ She shot to the surface, spluttering.
            Marta hummed. 'I’ll bake cornbread once the crew clears out.'

            ‘Bake while they’re here,' Belinda said. 'They’ll love the tradwife vibe.’

            Noelle smiled. ‘You’re all so lucky.’

            Jayneisha frowned. ‘We are.’
            Marta glanced at Belinda. ‘Nothing’s perfect. Besides…'
            Belinda’s gaze silenced her. ‘Everyone expects something from Diane. To live rent-free. An introduction to a gallerist, a letter of recommendation.’

            'Diane’s no fairy godmother.’ Kayla sank low in the water.

            Jayneisha sighed. ‘The farm is peaceful, and the living is easy. Unless…'

            ‘Unless?' Jess asked.
            ‘Unless Diane’s been hitting the bottle,' Jayneisha mumbled.
            Belinda snorted.

            ‘Some evenings are fine,’ Kayla said. ‘Other times we’re on eggshells. Trying not to set her off.’
            ‘She gets angry?’ Jess asked.

            'Worse. She’s maudlin. Floods of tears. Pulls at her hair. It’s something to see. There are days when she doesn’t get out of bed at all. For us, those days are a holiday.’ Kayla grimaced at Jess. ‘Sorry. You probably hoisted her on a pedestal.’

            'Wish I’d visited before moving here. You’re clever,’ Jayneisha said.

            Belinda’s expression turned reproachful. ‘Mind what you say. The journalists would salivate. Make it ugly.’

            Kayla mimed a zipper gesture across her mouth.

            How odd. Instead of a temper, Diane weaponized sadness. Was this any less terrible? Jess regarded these women with horror and pity, for they had forgotten feminism’s call to speak truth to power. These women were cowed.

            Suddenly, Marta burst into song. ‘Babe,' Marta slung her arm around Jayneisha’s shoulders, singing the old Sonny and Cher ditty. 'I got you, Babe.' With that, she splashed away.

             Sun-warmed towels dangled on a clothesline. The three dried off and stepped into their underwear. In the bathroom, Jess pulled damp hair into a ponytail, then Noelle took a turn. Jess found Abby in the hall, studying a photo of a young woman with a pleasant smile and curly hair. Belinda arrived, out of breath. ‘The news van just arrived.’

            'Who is this?’ Jess asked.

            'Diane’s daughter. Caroline lived in that barn.' Belinda tapped the windowpane. 'Until three years ago.'
            ‘Where is she now?’ Jess asked.
            Belinda shrugged. ‘She’s cut off contact. It happened suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, like a knifing. Diane always asserted that women can have it all: a loving family, a successful career. But the ‘bad mother’ trope? That one’s hard to shake. Caroline’s estrangement upends Diane’s narrative. Christmastime is especially rough, so we sell trees. No one is supposed to know. But holding secrets is exhausting. That vacancy? It’s mine.’

            Caroline knew where to sink the shiv; the quiet ones always did. Jess watched as Abby, crouching, fastidiously knotted her shoelace.

            Abby stepped into the bathroom and bolted the door as Noelle, Belinda, and Jess drifted onto the porch. Minutes ticked by. Abby was taking her time.

            At last, Abby emerged. ‘Where were you?’ Noelle asked.
            'Consulting with Diane.’ Abby turned to Belinda. ‘She’s asking for you.'

            As soon as Belinda disappeared inside, Noelle turned to Abby. ‘Spill it.’

            Jess’s stomach clenched. Abby said, ‘I’m staying behind to help with the shoot. Even feminist icons want to look good in the media.’

            'So, you’re... what?’
            Abby shrugged. 'I’ll shadow Belinda and then return with the crew in their van.’

            ‘Abby! How amazing.’ Noelle turned to Jess.
            ‘It is,’ Jess echoed.
            Abby met Jess’s eye. ‘The opening could be mine. As her assistant.'

            ‘Wow,’ Jess said, nearly choking. ‘Abby in the chicken coop.’

            By the time Diane appeared on the porch to bid them goodbye, the shadows were lengthening. ‘To the sisterhood.' Diane’s raised fist morphed into a slight wave, and then she disappeared inside. A moment later, Abby followed.

            Descending to Outlook Road, there was Richard in Noelle’s Tacoma. Noelle slipped into the passenger seat and kissed him. ‘Well?' Richard asked.

            Noelle laughed. 'It was a good day. And a coup for Abby.’

            Jess cleared the ache from her throat. ‘Diane is complicated.’

            Richard studied Jess in the rearview with concern.

            ‘I mean, the women who live there aren’t happy. It kind of resembles a cult.' This is the unkindest thing Jess has ever heard Noelle say, and she accepted it as a gift.
            And yet, Jess couldn’t help but ache for Diane, grieving the loss of her daughter, confronting that empty barn, surrounded by young women of her daughter’s age, women who stifled giggles, exchanged catty remarks, who tread cautiously, stumbling over their words whenever Diane deigned to join them, albeit pickled in whiskey.

             At a roadside diner, the three gobbled burgers on the veranda, wiping grease from their chins with satisfaction. Rustling sounds in the shrubbery commanded their attention. Spotting the tiny rodent face, Noelle squealed. ‘A vole,' Jess said, glimpsing the quivering, food-seeking nose. They watched the critter frolic for a time, until they stood and stretched and disposed of their food wrappings in the trash can. Strolling toward the truck, they left the little creature scrabbling among the ivy.

            As Jess lowered the window, hoping for a breeze, she watched as a red-tailed hawk swooped from the roof and grasped the tiny vole in its claws.

            The vole’s stunned expression imprinted on Jess’s mind. Hoisted into the air, the vole must have sensed its fate as it was hauled into the wind and the world’s horizon stretched below, vast and dizzying.

            Family estrangement was quite common these days; there were deep conversations to be had. Their podcast would provide a platform where Caroline might speak her truth. Jess imagined she had a great deal to say. With Pedro’s help, this interview could be riveting.

            Jess brushed her qualm of guilt away, reflecting instead on how, outside the diner, she had glimpsed something else: a black box snugged against the wall. She could predict the fate that awaited that hawk.

            Sated from its feast, carmine feathers fanned along the bough, basking in sunlight. And then: the shuddering fall.

About the author

  

Kathryn Kantner has worked in the arts and nonprofit fields in New York and Los Angeles. After graduating with a master’s from UCLA, she has written grants and worked as a hospital-based clinician. This is her publishing debut. Her favorite books can be found at: www.thebooksnack.com 

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