Dalva (23 page)

To change the groggy subject, I began to interview Lundquist on his employer's family history. By experience I know these rural types insist on beginning at the virtual dawn of creation; in this case, the murder of his own grandfather during the Sioux uprising near New Ulm, Minnesota, in 1862. Lundquist had decided, for reasons he didn't care to explain, that all Indians were members of a “lost tribe of Israel,” and our mistreatment of them would bring our eventual doom. I attempted to divert him from this gibberish back to actuality, with mixed luck. I damned myself for not having brought along my small dictaphone-recorder. After all, the man was eighty-seven and liable to drop dead at any moment. He began working for Dalva's grandfather in 1919, and thus had been a family employee for an astonishing total of sixty-seven years. I was tempted to inquire after his wages, but then he said he had received his own farm in a will when Dalva's grandfather had died in 1957. Lundquist had never expected to own anything—under the system of primogeniture the family farm had always gone to the oldest son. Immigrant families tended to perpetuate this European custom, creating the class of disaffected hired hands made up of younger sons, which helped fuel the Populist Revolt. I was brought up abruptly then by his statement that he would say nothing about the family without Dalva's permission. His deceased wife had mentioned a secret to a preacher and had been banished from the household the last year of “Mr. John W's” life. If he talked to me maybe his farm would be somehow taken back, and then what would happen to his daughter, Frieda, who had always been too big to find a husband? I attempted to get him rewarmed by directing him back to the Indians. He said Indians were ignored because they were bothersome. They were bothersome because they were a different kind of “animal” compared to us, wolves as opposed to foxes, horses compared to cows. This was peculiar enough to me to be interesting. We in the academic world like to think we are bathing the country in logic and right reason, when all you have to do is stop at a service station
or read a newspaper to find out otherwise. There is a spine of goofiness in America that has never been deterred by literacy. It's not that we are in a genetic sump but that literacy, the educative system, barely scratches the surface of the ordinary consciousness. Just as we hit a bump on the gravel road and were choking on the road dust filtering up through the floorboards, Lundquist announced that once a Sioux boy had worked for the family. This boy had “secret powers,” could beat up the toughest men, ride his horse at night while standing on it, and talk with wild animals. Everyone in the family and in town was happy when this boy disappeared. I made a note to question Dalva on the wonder boy. On the outskirts of town Lundquist looked at me with a trace of scorn and said that Dalva should have married the president of the United States, or at least the governor. He left me feeling like small potatoes when he stopped at a butcher shop, returning quickly with a single frankfurter for his dog. The terrier held the wiener in his mouth during a few moments of frantic growling, then closed his eyes and ate it with grim pleasure.

The upshot of the day was navy-blue shame, memory loss, minor recriminations, and what a scholar (the fabled Weisinger) called “the paradox of the fortunate fall,” which (in short) means that if the hero (me) doesn't fall from grace because of his “hubris,” there can be no reaffirmation of the common good. The bottom line was a little mayhem and public drunkenness. The downfall began with the miniature fiddle Lundquist kept under the seat of the pickup. Our intentions were still good at the grain elevator and feed store where I passed for white, was generally ignored and invisible like any bumpkin in bib overalls. We loaded up with bags of horse feed, then looked at each other and up and down the summery main street, which was crowded with farm families doing their Saturday shopping. There was an unworded agreement that it was a shame to leave this festive scene for a quick turnaround back home.

Our first stop was at the Swede Hall, where several dozen extremely old men were playing pinochle and drinking beer and schnapps. Lundquist went to the head of a big room and rapped on a table. Everyone stood with a certain irritation, which changed to applause and bows when I was introduced
as a professor from “the coast of the Pacific” writing a history of the Northridge family. The room was acrid with the smell of cow manure, chewing tobacco, and kerosene. We made our way from table to table back toward the entrance, accepting gracefully little “snoots” and “snits” from bottles of low-grade whiskey such as Guckenheimer, which I had never seen outside of a steeltown.

Back on the street Lundquist rubbed his tummy and offered that he sure would like a hamburger to cut the raw whiskey if he had the money. I suggested the biggest steak in town but he said he couldn't chew steak, a hamburger would be fine. Off we went to the Lazy Daze Tavern for a massive burger with fried onions and a few cold beers. This bar was full of the largest men I had ever seen assembled in one place short of the San Francisco 49ers I had once studied at the airport lounge. Several of the men turned out to be from the posse that had rescued me, including the man who had hoisted me aboard the horse. He bought me a shot and said he hoped I had “got my bearings.” A drunken wag insisted that Lundquist fetch his fiddle, which met with general agreement in the form of table-thumping.

It was an extraordinary performance, and I would not have traded the experience, though I would gladly have given the hangover to a television evangelist. Lundquist began with the Swedish national anthem (
Du gamla du fria, du fjällhöga Nord,”
etc.) with a few of the old men from his club who had filtered in joining him. It was really quite touching the way these codgers sang about a motherland they probably had never seen, looking upward at an invisible flag or vision with moist eyes. Lundquist continued with songs I hadn't heard since the Steelworkers Union picnics of my childhood: the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” (the whole room rowdy), “Red River Valley,” “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” (ironically), “Juanita” (“Soft o'er the fountain, ling'ring falls the southern moon,” etc., with everyone coming in on the chorus, “Nita! Juanita! Lean thou on my heart,” etc.), and others. I'm not by nature sentimental but became quite moved by it all, the way Lundquist would crane his prunish neck, his wavery voice being joined by all those farmers in their longing, as we all feel, for an imaginary Juanita. Then, as a sign-off, Lundquist
played a few jigs, with several spry octogenarians dancing in unison, after which they all collapsed, quite parched, in a booth, where they resumed their pinochle game.

Up at the bar I was introduced to a younger man, about thirty, an outsider like myself, who was referred to with good humor as “Nature Boy.” I am aware enough of bar etiquette to know that “Nature Boy” would normally be an overt term of ridicule, but exceptions could be made: every village in America owns a huge oaf named Tiny. In this particular case the sobriquet was used in a light, jocular way, because the man in question, though only a little over average height, was well muscled and had an air about him of the bounty hunter or soldier of fortune. We played several games of eight ball and I found out he was doing a survey on a large piece of federal land north of town on the effect that surrounding farming practices had on the flora and fauna. He mentioned his sponsor, one of a dozen nonprofit environmental groups, the activities of which have confused me for years. My ex-wife was forever trying to save, from a distance, everything from mountains and whales to rivers and baby seals. In my conversation with Nature Boy there was a little of the embarrassment of being the only two educated men in the tavern, though he seemed oblivious to this.

Our pool game was interrupted by a tussle between two behemoths over one selling another a group of calves with something called “shipping fever.” They were bent on squeezing each other to death and knocked the heavy pool table against the wall. Everyone in the area tried to stop them by piling on when they hit the floor, and it reminded one of those nasty incidents in a professional football game where control is only tentatively reestablished by referees. The ozone of violence pushed me to drink a little quickly, and I was forced to doze in a booth with Lundquist and the odorous pinochle players. After I don't know how long, Lundquist actually yelled “Yumpin' Yiminy” and we were out of there in a trice. It was getting late—twilight, to be exact—and Frieda would be angry if he was late for dinner. Drunk, he drove twice as fast as sober, and halfway home we caromed off into a soggy ditch. I remember we argued about the next course of action and apparently agreed on falling asleep. At some point we were
located by two sheriff's deputies, Dalva, Naomi, Frieda, a wrecker, and various concerned folk. I was taken home and put to bed without supper in the bunkhouse, waking in hysterics in the middle of the night because I was being chased by an Indian who resembled a minotaur in Ghirardelli Square. I wrapped myself in a sheet and stumbled out into the serene moonlight, curling up on the ground, where I discovered myself in the morning covered by flies and surrounded by geese feet.

This woeful experience kept me on the straight and narrow for several weeks. I worked like a demon for days from dawn to dusk, as if I were trying to save my life and good name, which was the point. My first few days in Nebraska, I realized, had been a bit trying, to myself and others. Dalva, by never uttering a word of criticism, allowed me to stew in the juices of self-knowledge. For instance, under my white sheet tent, and guarded by geese, I was trying to think of a way to put a good face on a top-ten hangover when Dalva arrived with ice water, aspirin, a wet washcloth, a glass of fresh orange juice, and a thermos of coffee. She was dressed prettily and on her way to church with Naomi. Rather than saying, “Michael, Michael, Michael,” then lacing into me as my ex-wife would have done, Dalva merely said, “I hoped you weren't dead,” wiped my face with the washcloth, helped with the water and aspirins, poured the first cup of coffee. I could see under her skirt, which bore the same infantile excitement as seeing up the teacher's dress at school. Oh, to be a groundhog, burrowing there, searching for health. She did say Lundquist had walked over early that morning to apologize for letting me drink. It was a seven-mile round trip on foot, and sometimes he had to carry the dog, who tended to lose interest in walking. Frieda was denying him use of his pickup for the day. The dog, out of sympathy, had kept the geese away from my sleeping body, and had even fetched me a stick to play with if I ever awoke. She handed me the stick and drove off for church. In my own friendly circle of louts and abrasive intellects I didn't know anyone who went to church. I could see her singing hymns in
her white underpants. There's a sexual pathology in severe hangovers that I never quite understood; booze in large quantities acts as a shock treatment, and the unlived sexual life hits you pretty hard in the morning. My ex-wife, who was a truly horny soul, tended to take advantage of my Sunday-morning illnesses. Now I became meditative, as if the white sheet were the Himalayas—I reminded myself to call a Jungian I knew and ask him where the redskin minotaur came from.

When I threw off the sheet the second time Dalva was home from church and busy digging out the barnyard spring that led into the creek. The day had become hot and she was wearing shorts, halter, and knee-high rubber boots, an incitement for me to help out. I chugged the thermos of coffee, went to the bunkhouse and put on my coveralls and boots, and joined her. I was a little dizzy but dug vigorously by her side, waiting for her to say something complimentary about my efforts. Instead she prattled about the humor in the sermon—in these Last Days we are all hostages to our doom, whether in Beirut or Omaha—so I dug even harder until suddenly the sky darkened and I pitched backward into the cold creek, which just as quickly revived me. She stood over me with more than a trace of concern, and, looking up at her from this vantage, she reminded one of an S&M Valkyrie. She said I probably had forgotten my high-blood-pressure pills, and also needed something to eat. I admitted it had been twenty-four hours since my hamburger. I rolled over and used my hands to drag myself into the shallow current and wash off the mud, a fully clothed fish, possibly a carp.

After lunch and back at the desk, I began to brood about the nature of time and how it is involved with the private struggle, usually in silence, with public life. Memoirs, especially those that attempt to sum up an entire life, tend to gloss over this struggle: the utterly wrong turns, paths, marriages, decisions, time as a flood of vertigo sweeping all of us over the edge of being, time, which never forgave anyone a single second. A little girl I loved, who used to proudly make me snow angels on January hillsides in the sooty Ohio Valley, drowns in suspicious circumstances, after three marriages, in tropical waters. I see her long hair floating, her body tumbling in the tidal rush.