Terry Sanville - Issue 37

Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been published by more than 480 different journals, magazines, and anthologies including Folio, Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated four times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

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Mandarin Risk Management

Gerald gripped the vibrating steering wheel with both hands and eased the ancient van back into their lane. But the wind off the Arizona desert kept pushing him and Shirley toward the interstate’s median and oncoming traffic. He slowed, which helped some, but only prolonged their torturous westward journey. They’d been on the road five days, coming from Michigan and dropping south early to avoid being hammered by late spring storms. 

“Do you want me to drive for a while?” Shirley asked. 

Gerald shook his head. “We’re about thirty miles from the California border. I’m hoping the wind will slack off when we get past Needles.”

Shirley chuckled.  “Honey, it’s all desert and wind.”

“You’re right, darlin’, you’re right. We’ll stop for lunch soon. I can rest then.”

Gerald had taught botany at a major state university. He’d fallen in love with Shirley while they both attended a national botany conference in San Francisco. Both of them were approaching Social Security age. But he felt much younger now, sucking up the energy of new love. He had no regrets leaving Michigan’s harsh winters behind, eager to return to his boyhood home state. 

“There’s a rest stop ahead,” Shirley said. “Why don’t we pull over?”

“Good idea.”

They drove into the almost empty parking lot, stopped close to the restrooms, and sat without speaking. The art of traveling with a lover felt new to them: deciding when to speak, when to quietly stare at the landscape; when to tell stories; when to argue and debate; when to sleep. But learning the self-taught skill of companionship was not without its bumps. 

Traveling the desert, Gerald had halted their progress to inspect and photograph just about every plant that he’d only seen in books, making their westward sojourn anything but flowing. He could tell she felt impatient to get through the barren desert with its struggling-to-survive towns full of abandoned and decaying businesses. But she’d not complained. He wished she had. His wife had been the stoic type, even in her death; leaving Gerald and his adult daughter to do all the grieving. 

Finally, Shirley broke the silence. “After that last stop, we’ve got plenty to eat. You want me to make us some sandwiches?”

“Sounds great. And grab that bag of mandarin oranges. After eating diner food for five days, I need something to cleanse my palate.”

“Yeah, citrus will do that and we’ve got plenty. They’re so sweet yet slightly tart, just like you.” Shirley leaned across and kissed Gerald, a kiss that lingered and was well returned. Gerald glanced in the back of the van, thinking for a moment that maybe they could do more than just kiss. But a semi pulled into a parking space close by and destroyed their illusion of privacy.

The wind continued to sandblast their van. In the distant haze, mountain ranges drew ragged lines between earth and sky with flat scrubland in between. They munched ham and cheese sandwiches, drank ginger ale from the cooler, followed by the oranges. 

Gerald asked, “Do you think the agriculture inspectors at the border will have a problem with us bringing in these oranges?” 

“Oh God, I forgot all about those guys. Yeah, that could be a problem. Oranges can carry pests and diseases like citrus greening.”

“I guess we’d better ditch them.”

Shirley frowned. “Hold on a minute. We’re in my private van with California plates. I’ve crossed the border plenty of times and have never been searched. I can just stuff the bag under the seat.”

Gerald nodded. “Yes, but if they do find the oranges they’ll want to search the rest of the van and would find my collection.”

Shirley asked. “Geez, Gerald, why would they give a flying fig about your collection of liverworts?”

Gerald felt hurt by her dismissal of their importance. “Well, first of all, I would have to explain the name and then try and convince them that my mossy little specimens don’t carry any diseases or nasty bugs. But they could confiscate everything.”

Shirley peeled an orange and greedily devoured it. “Look, Ger, the probability of getting searched is so low and these things are absolutely delicious.”

“But the liverworts are my life’s work. You think it’s worth any risk of losing it over a bag of oranges?”

“In the remote chance they search us, I’ll help explain the benign nature of your collection to the inspectors. I too am a biologist, remember?”

“I’m sorry, Shirley, but that’s not enough. Unless we ditch the oranges here, I can’t go any farther … with you.”

Gerald could almost feel Shirley’s body stiffen. The situation had rapidly grown intense. Maybe this is a test of our relationship, he thought. I can’t believe I gave her an ultimatum. Is any of this, oranges or liverworts, worth risking our … our love?

They sat in silence for some time, the bag of oranges lying open between them. 

Finally, Shirley shuddered and broke the silence. “Well, I … I suppose we could buy some more fruit in Needles.”

Gerald let out a deep breath. “Thank you.” He shifted across the bench seat and scooped her into his arms, felt her relax and nuzzle his neck. “Let’s eat as many of those oranges as we can and leave the rest to the crows and coyotes.”

“It’s a deal,” she whispered.

They spent the rest of their lunch break devouring oranges until they couldn’t eat another slice, the sticky juice from the tiny golden globes dripping off their chins. They heaved the dozen or more that remained into the parched desert, trying to see who could throw the farthest. Shirley did well for a girl. The effort took away any residual tension.

Back on the road they approached the California border and the agricultural inspection station. A highway sign flashed “Inspection Station Closed. Please Drive Through.” Shirley stared at Gerald and began to giggle. Their hysterical laughter could be heard as far away as Barstow.