999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [188]
“And this is my brother Mark.”
“Hello.”
“Say, are you feeling all right?”
“Why? What do you—”
“You turned pale all of a sudden.”
“It’s nothing. I just haven’t been eating well lately.”
“Then you ought to try this.” Luke Parsons pointed toward a small bottle filled with brown liquid.
Romero narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”
“Home-grown echinacea. If you’ve got a virus, this’ll take care of you. Boosts your immune system.”
“Thanks but—”
“When you feel how dramatically it picks you up—”
“You make it sound like drugs.”
“God’s drug. Nothing false. If it doesn’t improve your well-being, we’ll give you a refund.”
“There you are,” Romero’s sergeant said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He noticed the bottle in Romero’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Something called home-grown …” The word eluded him.
“Echinacea,” Luke Parsons said.
“Sure,” the sergeant’s wife said. “I use it when we get colds. Boosts the immune system. Works like a charm. Lord, these tomatoes look wonderful.”
As she started buying, Luke told Romero, “When your appetite’s off, it can mean your body needs to be detoxified. These cabbage, broccoli, and cauliflower are good for that. Completely organic. No chemicals of any kind ever went near them. And you might try this.” He handed Romero a small bottle of white liquid.
“Milk thistle,” the sergeant’s wife said, glancing at the bottle while selecting green peppers. “Cleans out the liver.”
“Where on earth did you learn about this stuff?” the sergeant asked.
“Rosa down the street got interested in herbal remedies,” she answered as the three of them crossed the train tracks carrying sacks of vegetables. “Hey, this is Santa Fe, the world’s capital of alternate medicines and New Age religions. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”
“Yeah, those crystals around their necks. They’re New Agers for sure,” Romero said. “Did you notice their belts were made of hemp? No leather. Nothing from animals.”
“No fried chicken and take-out burgers for those guys.” The sergeant gave Romero a pointed look. “They’re as healthy as can be.”
“All right, okay, I get it.”
“Just make sure you eat your greens.”
* * *
The odd part was that he actually did start feeling better. Physically, at least. His emotions were still as bleak as midnight, but as one of the self-help books he’d read had said, “One way to heal yourself is from the body to the soul.” The echinacea (ten drops in a glass of water, the typed directions said) tasted bitter. The milk thistle tasted worse. The salads didn’t fill him up. He still craved a pepperoni pizza. But he had to admit, the vegetables at the Farmers’ Market were as good as any he’d come across. No surprise. The only vegetables he’d eaten before came from a supermarket, where they’d sat for God knew how long, and that didn’t count all the time they’d been in a truck on the way to the store. They’d probably been picked before they were ready so they wouldn’t ripen until they reached the supermarket, and then there was the issue of how many pesticides and herbicides they’d been doused with. He remembered a radio call-in show that had talked about poisons in food. The program had dealt with similar problems in the environment and—
Romero shivered.
That program had been the one he’d listened to in his car the night he’d been waiting for the shoes to drop and his son had been killed.
Screw it. If I’m going to feel this bad, I’m going to eat what I want.
It took him only fifteen minutes to drive in from El Dorado and get a big take-out order of ribs, fries, cole slaw, and plenty of barbecue sauce. He never ate in restaurants anymore. Too many people knew him. He couldn’t muster the energy for small talk. Another fifteen minutes and he was back at home, watching a lawyer show, drinking beer, gnawing on ribs.
He was