The Antelope Wife (20 page)
And all the time Sweetheart is sitting across from Klaus, looking at him, her eyes fixed in his eyes, their minds locked in some form of knowing. They rise in unison. She somehow imparts her grace to him and they float out the door with their arms around each other. Between them, the pilot light of alcohol, dead blue and steady.
Gakaabikaang. That’s the name our old ones call the city, place of the falls is what it means from way back when it started as a trading village. Although driveways and houses, concrete parking garages and business stores cover the city’s scape, that same land is hunched underneath. There are times, like now, Frank gets a sense of the temporary. It could all blow off. And yet the sheer land would be left underneath. Sand, rock, the Indian black seashell-bearing earth.
The red beads were hard to get and expensive, because their clear cranberry depth was attained only by the addition, to the liquid glass, of twenty-four-carat gold. Because she had to have them in the center of her design, the second twin gambled, lost, grew desperate, bet everything. At last, even the blankets of her children. She won enough, just barely, for the beads. And then the snow fell. Gazing into the molten hearts of the ruby-red whiteheart beads, the children shivered, drew closer, chewed on the hem of her deerhide skirt. First one, and then the other, plucked up the beads from behind her hand. Even knowing they were not food, it was the look of them, bright as summer berries, that tempted their hunger. When her fingers finally closed on air, she turned, saw her youngest quickly swallow the last bead. The mother looked at her children, eyes dazed, fingers swollen, brain itching. All she could think of was finishing her work. She reached for the knife. Frightened, the children ran.
She had to follow them, searching out their panicked trail, calling for them in the dark places and the bright places, the indigo, the white, the unfinished details and larger meaning of her design.
T
HE DOG IS
standing on his chest again, looking down into his face and grinning the same curious, confiding dog grin that started Klaus on this eternal binge. The dog is a scuffed-up white with spooky yellow-brown eyes and a big pink dragging tongue. The damn thing has splayed wolf paws, ears alert and swivel-based like a deer’s, and no pity whatsoever for Klaus.
“Boozhoo, Klaus, you are the most screwed-up, sad, fucked-in-the-face, toxic, shkwebii, irredeemable drunk I’ve talked to yet today,” says the dog Klaus calls Wiindigoo Dog.
“Get off me,” says Klaus.
Weary. Tired. Klaus had thought wiindigoog were strictly human until this dog came to visit him on a rainy afternoon this summer. Sweetheart Calico has, of course, left him, too. Come back. Then left again. Sent back this dog in her place. Wiindigoo. Bad spirit of hunger and not just normal hunger but out-of-control hunger. Hunger of impossible devouring. Utter animal hunger that does not care whether you are sober or brave or have your hard-won GED certificate let alone degree. No matter. Just food. Klaus is just food to the wiindigoo. And the wiindigoo laughs.
“Shit-faced as per usual.” The dog yawns. Its black gums gleam and its ears point straight at Klaus. “I suppose we should have one of our little sessions?”
“No!” Klaus firmly says. “No!” Louder. “Nooooo . . .”
But Wiindigoo Dog is dragging his fat blazing purple killer tongue all over Klaus’s face, feet, hands, everywhere. With each tongue lick Klaus shrieks and gags with laughter until he is crying in hysterical hiccups, at which point the dog leans down into Klaus’s face and breathes month-old fishhead dog breath on Klaus.
When he is utterly immobilized, then, he leans down and tells Klaus his latest dirty dog joke.
“S
O
K
LAUS, NOT
too long ago I overhear these three dogs. A Ho-Chunk dog. A Sioux dog. An Ojibwe dog, too. They’re sitting in the veterinarian’s office waiting room talking about why they’re here. The Ho-Chunk dog says, ‘Well, the other day they were eating that good stew they make, just lapping it up right in front of me. That night they put the cover on the stew pot but they forgot to put the pot away. So I sneaked into the kitchen and I took the top of that pot in my teeth, set it down careful, and ate all the rest of that stew. Then I got in the garbage and ate the bones and the guts of everything that went into that stew. Then I wanted to sleep but oh, by that time I had the worst stomachache. I just had to go. I barked, but the Ho-Chunks, you know they sleep good. They never even stirred in their sleep, so, well, I just went caca all over the house. Now, I guess, they’re so mad they’re going to put me to sleep. I guess I'll go easy anyways. What about you?’
“ ‘Me,’ said the Dakota Sioux dog, ‘I have a similar story. You ever heard of the stew the Dakotas make with guts? It’s mighty good, and my owner had a big plate of that plus all the makings for Indian tacos in his pickup one day. He was driving home and I was proudly sitting in the cab of the truck when he stopped. He get out, left me sitting there with all that good stuff, and I just couldn’t help it. I wolfed it all down. Every bite. Man, was it ever good! But then I waited and waited and my owner, he was having a good time, and he didn’t come back. I tried to hold it for a long time but finally, well, I just had to go. I went all over that cab of his pickup. Boy, when he came back, was he ever mad! He brought me here. I’m going to be put to sleep too. And you, what about you?’
“ ‘Well me,’ said the Ojibwe dog, ‘I was sitting on the couch one day just dozing off. I was half asleep and my owner, she likes to vacuum her house in the nude, she was doing her usual housework. She was working on the carpet right in front of me and usually, even though I’m not fixed, I’ve got a fair amount of self-control. But then she bent over right in front of me and I just lost it. I went right for her.’
“ ‘Sexually?’ asked the others.
“ ‘Yeah,’ the Ojibwe dog admitted.
“ ‘Gee,’ said the other dogs, shaking their heads, ‘that’s too bad. So she’s putting you to sleep too.’
“ ‘Gawiin,’ said the Ojibwa dog, modestly. ‘You know us Chippewa dogs, we got the love medicine. Me, I’m getting a shampoo and my nails clipped.’ ”
“Y
OU’RE A VERY
sick dog,” says Klaus.
“You’re the blooming picture of health yourself,” says the wiindigoo dog. “I gotta motivate out of here.”
“Listen.” Klaus tries to look pitiful. “Go get her, will you? Bring her back to me.”
“Get who?”
“You know,” says Klaus, very shy, “please. My sweetheart.”
“Your sweetheart who doesn't love you. Let her go,” says the dog.
I
WONDER IF
I am going to change now, thinks Richard, as the ambulance rockets through Gakaabikaang. I am not going to die, which is a disappointment. After he left Frank’s bakery, he walked about a mile, then collapsed on his head. He may have a concussion, but he can’t seem to pass out again. Richard pauses in his thoughts to feel the piercing regret. But there is also an odd pulse of pleasure as his life threads strongly through him, stabilized. His ambulance-ride meditation continues.
Why not live as if I did die? Why not live as if nothing matters? All the consequences of being the old Richard will land upon me, but perhaps I can endure. After all, I am the last of a family who mostly perished underneath a grand piano that nobody knew how to play. At my grandmother’s funeral a young nun tried, but the piano was ruined by the same rain and snow that had weakened their lungs. Yet here I am, a survivor. This life is heavy, but also, it is nothing.
The ambulance stops and he is wheeled into a lighted place of shining surfaces. He is obviously an indigent man with no insurance, so he is parked in the hall with no painkillers. When the pain starts, it is fierce. He moans and sobs until a nurse gives him a wonderful shot that erases his disappointment in living.
Don’t ever forget, says the morphine, how sweet I am.
The hallway lights dim and a humming hush falls over the actions of the nurses and doctors and trained paramedics and cleaning people and the other patients, too, with their urgent complaints and serious faces. A young girl is wheeled by; she is the age of his daughters. A pale child weeping with fear.
Richard thinks of the young nun who tried to play the piano for his grandparents. Love washes powerfully through his heart.
Oh, pale child, he thinks, pale child of astounding beauty. Don’t be afraid. But she continues to wail down the hall until heavy doors shut soundlessly.
R
ICHARD DRIFTS, SLEEPS,
and when he wakes he is stitched up, bandaged, discharged, and walking the street. The morphine leaves his body stealthily, whispering, You want me. And then the pain is outrageous. Richard picks up one foot and then the other until he is at a shelter where they know him. They feed him mashed potatoes, gravy, watery corn, and give him a cot to sleep on. He sinks into a long blackness. But then the ripsaw snore of the man sleeping next to him stabs regularly into his brain, and that night, staring into fuzzy space, Richard understands he can no longer bear the random snores of other winos. In prison, he will be safer from random snores—a roommate, maybe, whose snore he will get used to. He will be warm. He will be fed and there will be lots of other Indians. There will be a television and a routine and maybe he can figure out his next move in life.
I will surrender myself to justice, he says to the snoring man.
T
HE NEXT DAY,
Richard walks to the police station, through the doors that open so easily and shut so completely.
“I surrender,” he says to the desk clerk.
The desk clerk takes his information and puts it into a computer.
“Stay here,” he says after a moment, and indicates a line of chairs.
“Good-bye, random snores,” says Richard, and sits down. He waits for an hour. The officer makes a phone call. Richard waits some more. Finally, a man in a gray suit with no tie walks up to him and hands him a packet of papers. The man walks away. Richard opens the packet. They are divorce papers.
Richard walks back to the desk clerk.
“I surrendered to a different thing,” he says. “I disposed of toxic carpet in an ordinary barn. There should be some charges against me sitting in your computer.”
The desk clerk politely looks Richard up again, but says that there is nothing pending.
“No warrant? Nothing from the EPA?” Richard can hear desperation in his voice.
“Not at this time,” says the clerk.
“This federal administration sucks,” says Richard as he walks out the door. “No concern at all for illegal dumping. And my head hurts like hell.”
“Wait!” says another officer. “Your name once again?”
“I was in the newspapers,” Richard says modestly. From his pocket he takes a wine-blurred clipping.
“So you’re the asshole that screwed that nice old Norwegian couple,” says the officer. “I’m sure there is a warrant somewhere.”
Richard reclaims his chair and sits back, shuts his eyes.
T
HE BRUISED PODS
of cardamom. Sweet cake flour fine as powder. Scent of vanilla easing up the stairwell. Frank is browning tart crusts. Makes his own lemon curd to fill them. Juices the lemons, shreds the peel, stirs the pudding in a thick-bottomed kettle with the timeless assurance of a man whose beloved wife is just upstairs. They have finally moved in together, so they are, he figures, married in the old-time Indian way. As in the old-time traditions, he will keep fixing up her house forever. But instead of hunting, he’ll bake. Rozin is at her desk organizing, studying, taking notes, all with the relieved intensity of a born-again student. She has decided to finish her undergraduate degree and go to law school. She breathes the vanilla wafting up the stairs and feels on her skin the slow increasing tension of the baking crusts below her. Vaguely she anticipates the moment of piercing sweetness, the first bite, the taste he will bring her at noon.
She shuffles her note cards and lets the screen saver—silver bolts of lightning turning purple, magenta, yellow, silver again—streak and snag across the humming face of her computer. Rozin wants to do something special for Frank’s birthday, something memorable, something even a little outrageous so that, in the future, he will remember how much she cared about his birthday. Even if they never get married (she considers this just living together), they will tell each other about it and eventually the birthday narrative will be just as good as, say, a wedding.
Frank is bored by gestures of storybook romance. Flowers and music leave him blank, even fancy wines. Those things are too predictable anyway. She needs something more, something that will reach toward Frank in a way that touches some essence of who he is, and it will be private, and it will be just the two of them, which will surprise him, because Frank has heard her speak wistfully of gathering together the very people he would invite to, say, a wedding. But she will instead create some sexy private moment, some personal ritual that would be known only to them.
To this end, she sets her mind.
In a how-to-get-him magazine article, she once read about a woman who greeted her man at the door wearing only plastic wrap. It is, she considers, a sort of miracle substance to Frank—he uses it all the time when he bakes. She thinks of getting a roll from the kitchen and making of herself the surprise. But then, the stuff itself is so clingy, so staticky, so dry and unwieldy and easily ripped that she doubts it will feel that good to make love dragging in its folds. She thinks of wearing only chocolate, or homemade raspberry jam, or sugar frosting, or peach. She thinks of lemon curd and cheesecake filling. Considers buttering herself and rolling in a bath of cinnamon. Or fluff, she thinks, go cheap maybe. Marshmallow fluff. Marshmallows. A bikini of tiny multicolored marshmallows. Frank can take his time eating them, but then, once she is naked, he will be stuffed full of stale marshmallows. Rozin’s mind drifts. Whatever they are. Are they made of marsh? Or mallow? She imagines preparing the cake, the thing itself, the cake from the recipe he has perfected. The blitzkuchen. Theirs. But then what? How will she wear it? How will they eat it? What if she makes a mistake? In her dream she sees them grind the cake to crumbs between them. Yes, and no. She will wear something else, or some lack of something. She comes full circle to the plastic wrap. Thinks obsessively about the way to devise her dress.
F
RANK ISN’T CRAZY
about his birthday. So he decides he’ll ignore it and give Rozin a party instead. She will plan something for him, sure—but he’ll do her one better by surprising her.
On a bit of cash register paper he makes a list of gifts and possibilities. Jewelry. Little luxuries. A private, exquisite dinner he can cook. A night of solitude in some remote place or just a camp-out on the kitchen floor. He thinks of her, what she will like, however, and then he thinks of her again, understanding what she really wants. After all, he’s heard her mention the party with longing, out loud.
Friends, family, reunited enemies, survivors of the last six months. They’d meet. They’d have a party—where . . . here. Frank looks around him. Here! In the house. Here, where the locust trees shed that fluttering shade, he will string lights. Speakers. He sighs, resigned to it. There will be music. Dancing. Beer. Kool-Aid. Pastries. Cake and barbecue. He’ll make the cake of cakes once more, again, from the refined recipe. They’ll all be there. It will be generous, big, loud, and best of all, a smile slowly dawns in him, exquisite, he will make it a surprise.
T
HE WEEK BEFORE,
she panics. Thinks of buying him a watch. A name bracelet. Shoes. Something he can look at every day. Neither one of them mentions the birthday, and its avoided bulk grows between them—bigger and bigger like a twice-risen bread, and then a vast wild-yeasted dough. It doubles and redoubles itself—and the tipping load of it grows flimsy and the two grow shy. They can’t touch, retreat after work; isolated in their plans, they neglect each other’s company and brood. Make secret phone calls. Each cultivates a convincing memory loss. They mention little as the date approaches, then less, then nothing. It is as though they are both secretly adulterous.
The Birthday
The air is dusty and faintly golden, but the morning has been cold so that the scent of the lilacs newly blossoming hangs here and there in pockets of sweetness. All day, Rozin glances at the index card that holds her plan—the twins with Cecille, a supposed dinner out. After the store closes he will come home. She will be setting flowers in vases. Unwrapping candles. Sautéing mushrooms. Changing the sheets on their saggy double-bed mattress. As he nears the predictable end of his routine she’ll light the candles upstairs in the bedroom. Doff her clothes. Apply perfume. She will cover, or rather decorate, herself strategically with stick-on bows. Two bright pink ones on her tawny nipples. One below.
That evening, she does all exactly as she has envisioned. Last thing, she peels the waxy paper off the stick-on rectangle and applies the bows. The two pink. Below her navel, she smacks on a frilly expensive bow, white and silver, bought at a Hallmark shop. She pins her hair up and presses another tiny hot pink bow on over her ear, a white one on her shoulder. A tiny spice-brown bow on each earlobe. She wedges her feet into silver high-heeled pumps. Picks up a match, a sparkler, a cupcake. Nothing else. Her heart drums as she smoothes on her lipstick and touches an extra dab of perfume to each temple.
D
OWNSTAIRS IN THE HOUSE,
sliding through the front door from which Frank has removed the creak, and from the back alley through the wild yard, the wedding party guests come whispering, tiptoeing, sneaking childishly, huddling together. In the big room below, where the staircase from the upstairs gives out into the kitchen, there is a wider step, almost a landing, next to which Frank stands with his hand on the light switch. He has informed them all of the routine. When Rozin comes down the stairs and reaches the landing, placed almost like a small stage at the entrance to the kitchen, when she pauses in the gloom, he’ll hit the switch. They’ll all yell. . . .
W
ALKING DOWN THE STAIRCASE
through the hush of the evening toward Frank’s voice, hollow at the bottom of the steps, Rozin is preoccupied with balance and timing. The heels are higher than she is used to. Naked but for the bows, she shivers. She comes down slowly so as not to stumble. That would ruin it all. She plans that she will stand at the bottom of the stairs, where light will catch the satin in the ribbons of the stick-on bows. In one hand, the cupcake with the sparkler in it. In the other hand, the match she will strike on the rough wood of the door frame . . .
T
HE SCRAPE OF
the match, the flame, and her uncertain voice. Frank flips on the lights. The packed crowd shouts on cue. Surprise!
And everybody is surprised.
Rozin blinks. She stands, heels together, mouth open. She is naked, but for the trembling bows. The sparkler sparks on the cupcake she holds. For an endless moment, the party of friends and family stand paralyzed, gaping. Then Rozin stumbles backward, gasping, as Frank with extraordinary presence of mind whips a starched white apron off the hook behind him and drapes it over her. He bends close to her in concern. Face working, she waves him off. Tears sting his eyes. Nobody has the presence of mind to speak. The silence holds until it is broken by one solitary hiccup from Rozin. Huddled over the apron, the cupcake smoldering and smashed at the silver tip of her shoe, she hiccups again.
The party waits. The hiccups sound like the prelude to a bout of hysteria. Though she is no weeper, Frank nonetheless expects her to cry. Her shoulders shake. Her forehead is red in her hands. But when she lifts her face, her small laugh lights a string of firecracker laughs through the kitchen so that Frank’s own scratchy, hoarse, unfamiliar laughing croak is part of the general roar.
