Infestation
By Alexander J. Theoharides
1
The flight from Dulles to Minneapolis-St. Paul International was the first Emily Neuman had taken in over three years. Before stepping onto the plane, she swallowed pills her mother had given her. They made her feel weightless and for much of the flight Emily imagined that she was the one responsible for keeping the airplane aloft. As soon as the effect of the pills wore off, she was certain the plane would be unable to bear her unforeseen weight and all the passengers would die.
Emily’s seat was by the window, adjacent to the right wing. Next to her sat a middle-aged man who smelled of smoked cigarettes and unwashed clothes. He was the last passenger to board. Although there were several seats open, as soon as Emily saw him duck his head and begin shuffling his way down the narrow aisle, she was certain he would sit next to her. As he approached, their eyes met and he nodded at the open seat. Mind if I sit? Emily shook her head. Of course not.
For the first half of the flight, Emily closed her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to slow her mind’s frenetic pace. Instead she slipped from trivial memory to failure to dream. Midway through the flight the man next to her cleared his throat. Emily shifted in her seat and opened her eyes. The man nodded toward the stewardess. Sorry to wake you, he said in a rasping voice. Would you like a drink? Emily sat up. No, no thank you. She glanced out the small window at the wing. The night before she left, her fiancé David had tried to explain the physics of flight. He was certain that if she could rationalize the process, she would be able to control her anxiety. It hadn’t helped. When Emily looked at the wing she noticed (quite rationally, thank you very much) the faded Northwest logo, the rusted bolts, and the emptiness of the sky. When she thought of the mechanics of flight she recalled breaking news stories of frozen landing equipment, geese taking down a 747 and men in masks, who waved semi-automatics in the air as they flew airplanes into skyscrapers.
A red light above Emily’s head flashed and the captain’s voice came over the intercom. We’re experiencing normal turbulence, he said. At this time I’d like to ask everyone to please remain seated. The plane wobbled ever so slightly in the air and Emily glanced at the other passengers. Many of them were asleep; others read or stared at computer screens seemingly ambivalent to their own mortality. Emily looked out the window again. David had volunteered to take time off from work to fly out with her—to hold her hand. Emily had been appalled and of course she refused. Hold my hand? As if I’m a small child? she asked him. Her fear had nothing to do with flying alone. David should have known that. He apologized profusely and told her he was just worried because of how much he loved her. Emily forgave him. After all, she was supposed to love him, too. But now his words, I’ll hold your hand, were lodged in her head. She took a deep breath. In three months she had to marry him.
The airplane dipped suddenly. Emily bowed her head, and clutched her arms around her chest— overcome with nausea. It was the helplessness of flight that bothered her, her conviction that she was in some way responsible for the safety of the airplane. She saw the headline. Death by Flight. 150 People Killed in Crash. No names given— no reported details about her life. She was not Emily Neumann, recently deceased, beloved daughter, sister, fiancé. She was dead and her body lay buried beneath dead bodies she had never known. She was dead and her last thought was what a terrible way to die. She was dead and when the angels came to carry her soul to heaven they would see her discarded ashes, frown, oh it’s her, the one who caused the crash and then they would fly away leaving her soul to rot on earth.
The red light turned off and the man next to Emily gave a relieved whistle. For the money we pay, he said. You’d think they’d at least give us some decent seatbelts. Emily pretended to laugh. The man scratched his right hand across the gray stubble covering his neck and chin. Are you from Minneapolis? he asked. Emily shook her head and gave her prepared answer. No, I’m traveling to Minneapolis for work. To Wisconsin, really. I represent a wildlife foundation and I’m scheduled to meet with several local farmers to discuss the methods they can employ to stymie the spread of the emerald ash borer. You?
The man stretched his neck, rolling it slowly from left to right until he produced a small crackling sound. Nope. I transfer in Minneapolis. Cheaper that way. I was just out East visiting some friends and hiking the Appalachians. Pretty this time of year. Good trails. Now I’m headed home to Colorado. He crossed his left leg over his right and began to nervously tap his left foot in the air. You’ll have to excuse me, he said. I don’t follow the news much. What’s the emerald ash borer? Emily reached into her briefcase, and showed the man a picture of a penny-sized metallic-green beetle. The emerald ash borer, as you can see, is a beetle. It was first discovered in Michigan in the late 1990s after it was accidentally imported into the U.S. from China within the wood of shipping crates— just another passenger in the global market.
The man acknowledged her joke and Emily continued. For the first few years of its residency the emerald ash borer remained dormant. However, in the last three years it has managed to spread throughout the upper Midwest, by entering ash trees through holes left by woodpeckers and laying eggs inside the soft bark. It might help if you think of the hatched larvae as being comparable to tapeworms inside the digestive tracts of cows, sheep, or even humans. Once inside the ash tree, the larvae steal food and water from their host until they have disrupted the tree’s transportation of nutrients and effectively killed it.
Emily paused in her discourse and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her left ear. Sorry, she said. This is my third year studying the emerald ash borer and we’re no closer to finding any real solutions. I’ve become a bit obsessed. The man nodded. What kind of damage are we talking? Emily laughed. Good question. One of the more frustrating aspects of science is that there are an infinite amount of hypotheses for any dilemma. For instance, I am currently working with three ecologists. The first argues that the problem lies in the fact that the wood industry has been slow to react. Instead of removing infected trees, they cut them down into cheap firewood, and thus spread the infestation further. The second, who is a bit of an optimist, believes the emerald ash borer can effectively be contained through identification and the use of pesticides. And the final ecologist contends that the only true solution is to let the emerald ash borer eat its way to extinction. This past spring the beetle was found for the first time in Wisconsin. Next, of course, is Minnesota, where there are an estimated two billion ash trees. If the third ecologist is right, almost all of them will die.
When Emily finished speaking, the man sat silently for several minutes. Not exactly a feel-good story, he said finally. Then he glanced down at his watch. I can’t wait to land. Emily nodded. I need a cigarette and now, he continued. Do you smoke? Emily shook her head. You’re lucky, the man said. It’s a terrible habit. Sometimes I feel like I have to spend half my life outdoors just to exercise out all the toxins I send into my body. Emily noticed that the man’s hands were shaking slightly. She stared at his right hand. His middle three fingers were extended and seemed to be stuck together. The man caught her looking and laughed. That happened in Alaska. I was camping with a few friends when an ice storm caught us unprepared. By the time we made it out, my fingers were frostbitten so badly it hurt to bend them. Still does. Emily pretended to look apologetic. The man smiled at her. No worries. It was a great trip.
2
On the drive to his home on the Wisconsin bank of the St. Croix River, Stephen Anders told Emily the history of the region. At first, Emily tried to pay attention and did her best to ask Stephen several pertinent questions. He was an important contact and if she made a strong impression, there was a good chance she would become her company’s official representative to Wisconsin. Midway through the trip, Stephen pointed out his window at a broad expanse of river. We’ve had a bit of drought this spring, he said. Believe it or not, the St. Croix is usually much wider. Emily looked at the slowmoving river. Although it was approaching evening, several canoeists remained on the water. Stephen shifted in his seat. We’re in Ojibwe territory now. They called the upper portion of the river the Ricing-Rail and the bottom, where we are now, the Big River. In 1683, Father Louis Hennepin changed the name to the River of the Dead because the Ojibwe were in the habit of floating their elderly and infirm down river in the moments before they died. They believed the river had the ability to wash away all the effects of life and when they reached the end of it they would be reborn.
Emily looked out her window at the springtime wildlife. When she was young, she had spent hours in the hatchback of her parent’s station wagon trying to name every tree they drove past. She believed that unless she was able to properly identify the trees, they would cease to exist. As Stephen continued his discourse, she played her game: Heart-Leaved Birch. Sugar Maple. White Cedar. Black Hawthorne. Slippery Elm. Burning Bush. Weeping Willow. Emily didn’t see any ash trees or if she did, she was unable to identify them.
They drove through the small downtown of Taylor’s Falls and onto a large bridge that passed over the St. Croix. Stephen pointed out several rock climbers working their way up through the natural potholes and caverns alongside the riverbed. Emily nodded her head and tried once more to pay attention. Then she closed her eyes and rehearsed the methodology to identifying an ash. First, the leaf: eight to twelve inches long. Compound. Five to nine leaflets. Light to dark green. Either finely toothed or smooth edged. Stephen turned the car off the state highway and onto a two-lane road that paralleled the river. Almost there, he said. They approached a white pickup parked along the side of the road. An old man was on one knee changing a tire. Stephen slowed the car and asked the man if he needed a hand. The man looked back at them and used the sleeve of his red t-shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead. His eyes caught Emily’s and he stared for a moment too long. No, he finally said in a gruff voice. All it is, you see, is a nail in the tire. Job’s almost done. I’ll be out of here in a few. Stephen nodded and wished the man good luck. People are like that here, he told Emily as they drove off. They like to do everything by themselves.
3
When they arrived at Stephen’s home, Emily excused herself to the bathroom and called David—even though she knew he was still at work and unavailable. When his message played, Emily was infuriated by the tone of his voice. Hello. You’ve reached David’s cell. Thanks for calling. Please leave your information after the beep. His message was polished and energetic. It had taken him four tries before he was finally satisfied. First impressions are important, he lectured her. Imagine what would happen if a business contact heard my voicemail and thought poorly of me. The Devil is in the details.
Emily hung up the phone without leaving a message and stared into the bathroom mirror. She had once heard her father remark, after he had finished shaving his beard for the first time in several years, how strange it was not to be able to recognize his own face. As Emily looked at her reflection, she understood what he meant. She splashed water on her face and then ran her forefingers along the outline of her brow. She couldn’t get David’s voice out of her head. Hello. You’ve reached David’s cell. Would you like me to hold your hand? Emily looked at her face again. This is the face that is engaged to David. She wanted to scream or at the very least to break the mirror— instead she slowly counted to ten, flushed the toilet, which she hadn’t used, washed her hands and then left the bathroom.
4
The next morning, Stephen took Emily on a tour of his 50 acres of rolling farmland and forest in search of a grove of infected ash trees. As they walked along a dirt path, Stephen pointed out the invasive species— maple saplings, burning bush, thistle— and talked about his plan to replace them with native prairie grass and wildflowers. They reached a small bluff, which overlooked the river valley. Stephen paused beneath the shade of a willow tree and for a few moments they both stared off into the distance. My wife and I, Stephen said, bought the land because of this view. When we were young, we resisted putting down roots. I suppose we believed that diversity could only be experienced by travel. Those were good years, but I must say I think we’re happier now. Over the past twenty years we’ve done our best to encourage the native plants to return and repair the damage done to the land by decades of farming. It’s often frustrating work, let me tell you, and a few times when I’ve looked out on the sea of farms that surrounds my land I’ve been overcome with helplessness. Still, every morning when my wife and I walk to this spot, we marvel at how different it seems— at the land’s miraculous ability to recover.
When Stephen finished speaking, Emily walked to the edge of the bluff. The hill dropped steeply and ended several hundred feet below in a pile of rocks and discarded lumber. Most of the hill was covered in prairie brome and porcupine grass, however, just beneath the bluff’s edge, Emily noticed a tuft of baby’s breath. She knelt and ran her fingers over the delicate white flowers, which belied the treacherous roots that burrowed deep into the dunes and made it impossible for certain native plants to grow. Emily could feel Stephen watching her. She knew he would be disappointed if she left the baby’s breath alone. For a moment, as she closed her eyes and listened to the morning breeze moving across the long prairie grass, Emily tried to imagine what the world would look like if humans had never existed.
She leaned over the edge of the bluff and ran her right hand down through the sickle-cell-shaped leaves until she found the base of the stem. If she removed the stem, only the immediate problem would be solved. The roots would lie dormant until next spring, at which point they would continue to spread the infestation. Emily crawled forward until most of her torso hung over the edge. She looked beneath her and imagined the fall. It wasn’t a straight drop and although it would be painful, Emily didn’t think she would die. Even if she fell, her life would continue. She would return home. Marry David. Let him hold her hand. Bear several children. Quit her job. And then die. Emily took a deep breath. She held onto the edge of the bluff with her left hand and leg and used her right hand to dig a hole around the baby’s breath. When she found the root, she pulled it out. Then she steadied herself. Stood up. And dropped the baby’s breath over the edge of the cliff.
——
Alexander J. Theoharides is a graduate of Skidmore College. He makes his home in Minneapolis where he works as a writer and teacher.
Photograph used in conjunction with Flickr’s Creative Commons Agreement. It can be found, in its original form, at http://www.flickr.com/photos/xerostomia/194413378/.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 25th, 2009 at 2:00 am and is filed under Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
