Page 30 of The Rich One

Our parents weren’t always like this, they came from middle class homes, even went to New York University which is where they met. But sometime during the nineties, they started following the music festivals—The Grateful Dead, Phish, The Allman Brothers and the like—and created some crazy as shit bonds with those they met there. My mother was smart but also crafty, making clothes and jewelry to sell at the shows, providing them with enough gas and food money to make it to the next one.

It was in ninety-seven, when I was about a year old, that they inherited my grandfather’s land after he died. As the only living kin, my dad got everything. Instead of creating a home life like the rest of America, my parents lived to the beat of their own beliefs.

They brought back their friends, and on that land they placed nine mobile homes in a big circle, where we all ate and lived together like one big happy fucking family.

The only reason I didn’t lose my fucking mind was because Kai was there. We were all homeschooled by my mom who’d double majored in Literature and Education. She’d often say that, had she lived the life her capitalist parents had wished for her, she would have been a teacher.

I never met any of my grandparents. Anytime I asked my mom about them, she’d tell me they weren’t understanding people and didn’t deserve to bathe in my light. But I’d heard her tell my dad they were assholes who ruled their home with a painful fist.

Despite all of my wary feelings toward the way my parents had chosen to live their lives, the one time of year that I always loved was the Harvest Moon festival. It was an all-day affair where we planned out our time, decorated, cooked, laughed and enjoyed just… being. Living. Thanking the universe for everything good in our lives.

Even as a cranky teen I could see the beauty of that night.

Between the six families, there were nine kids of all ages. Everest was my responsibility when we played, but Kai made it a point to help me. Freya, who was a few months younger than me, was my best friend, but Kai was my forever friend.

Or so I thought.

The Uber drops me off at my brother’s place, which is just a few miles away from where we grew up. The old Hippie Farm—as the neighbors had dubbed our commune—is now holding four cookie-cutter homes where our childhood tree houses only exist in our memories.

The one thing we all agreed on when we went our separate ways was the Harvest Moon Festival.

Now that Everest and Petal have a home with a decent amount of land by Staten Island standards—if only he knew how many blowjobs their house cost—we promised to keep this one tradition alive.

So here I am, at the butt crack of dawn—seven in the morning on a Friday—to help my sister-in-law set up the decorations and make the apple pies. All organic, of course.

“River!” Petal’s voice is soft and embracing, like her name. All velvety and warm. Exactly like her hugs, which she’s lavishing upon me right now.

“Hey, Pet.” I squeeze her to me and thank the gods she came into Everest's life, even though they are so young. She helps him focus. Ev's such a free spirit, but Petal is the love of his life, and he takes his responsibility of making sure she's happy seriously. He still refuses to have a corporate job or even work for the capitalist devils, whoevertheymay be. It’s frustrating, sometimes, when I think back to everything I’ve sacrificed for him to be happy. But then, I remember the promise I made when our parents lay dead in the crashed car—blood running over the dashboard, eyes open and looking at each other with no hope of survival.

I promised him he’d be happy again. Happy and healthy. And maybe, just maybe, I’d feel less guilty.

Nine years and endless clients later, I can say I’ve kept my promise. The problem is, the sale of his produce isn’t going to pay the house off.

I am.

He pays for the electric and all the utilities, but the house… it’s on me. And that’s okay. It’s my burden to carry.

“So, I’ve sorted the apples. All the ingredients are here for the pies and there’s a table ready with the crafts. I’m so excited! This will be our first Harvest Moon in our new home. Can you believe it? Okay, so what would you rather do, cook or craft?” Her smile is infectious so I do what we’re supposed to do this time of year.

I give her a genuine grin and choose the crafts table. “Cooking is too stressful, I’ll cut and paste instead.”

“Thank the goddess, I’m much better at cooking.” Petal was raised as the perfect little homemaker. She’s good at everything she puts her mind to.

“Where’s Ev?” I ask, but I’m guessing he’s out getting wood for the fire pit. I look over the materials on the table, a familiar warmth burning in my chest at the sight of the old book pages lying in one pile and a stack of leaves in another.

Our tradition is to find a copy of a book that best describes our year—whether positive or negative—and rip out the pages. On them, we glue a leaf then attach all the pages together with a hemp cord, making our own garlands. Then we drape them on the trees around the fire pit. The idea is to tell the universe that either our last year was difficult and we are working on making some positive changes, or our year was amazing and we are taking stock on how to keep our good fortune.

I choseThe Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo. As difficult as her life is in the story, there’s just something good about her existence that I hang on to. My life isn’t shit. It’s not ideal, I know, but it’s my own.

“He’s at the farmer’s market. He wanted to get the rest of the apples sold before tonight.” Petal’s voice always has a dreamy sound to it when she talks about my brother. It’s cute. And naive in all the best of ways.

“Right, makes sense.”

We get down to business, her breaking a sweat with each crust she makes from fucking scratch, and me cutting, gluing, and linking pages together with the hemp. It’s mindless work, almost all muscle memory from our childhood, but it allows me to drift away into my thoughts while Trey Anastasio—the lead singer of Phish—belts out lyrics on the mostly-upbeatAC/DC Bag.

Jesus, the memories his voice provokes almost bring tears to my eyes. I work fucking hard at pushing away the images of my parents to the deep, dark recesses of my mind. I can’t. I cannot function if I’m constantly allowing their smiling faces and midnight dances around the fire to cloud my consciousness.

The truth is, for all her free love mentality, my mother was a hardcore believer in fidelity; to her husband, but also to her self.

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