by Pete Hautman
I wish we’d talked about music more. I wish we’d talked about music at all. He never listened to it at home, just in his car, by himself, alone. I knew him my whole life and had no idea. It was almost as if I never knew him at all.
I drive south, trying to imagine him when he was my age. What kind of music was he listening to then? I don’t know much about eighties music. It was after the Beatles and the Stones, before Nirvana, and before hip-hop got big. I scroll through the iPod, keeping one eye on the road. Sex Pistols? Journey? Were they eighties?
I hear my dad in my head, yelling at me, Put the iPod down and drive! You want to get us both killed?
I put the iPod down.
Saint Louis is on the Missouri side of the river. I don’t want to deal with big-city traffic, so I stay on the Illinois side. The road takes me through Grafton, Elsah, and Alton, following the river closely for once. South of Alton I miss a turn and end up in a place called Pontoon Beach, where I see neither pontoons nor beaches. It’s almost noon, so I stop at a Burger King and order a Whopper with fries and a Coke. They take Mom’s credit card. I really should call her. But if she wants to know I’m still alive, she can always check the charges on her card.
I sit in the car and look at the Great River Road map as I eat. The “points of interest” triangles don’t look very interesting—mostly museums and such. I notice one place called Cahokia Mounds State Historic Site. It’s only a few miles away. I look through the various brochures I’ve picked up and find one about Cahokia. The brochure is pretty interesting. I’m still sitting in the BK parking lot reading it after my last french fry is gone.
Cahokia, according to the brochure, was home to the Mississippians, a Native American culture that lived along the Mississippi and its tributaries. As many as forty thousand Mississippians once lived in and around Cahokia. Their civilization collapsed in the 1400s; nobody knows why. Maybe flooding, or droughts, or politics, or who knows what. When the European explorers arrived in the 1500s, they brought smallpox and other diseases, and that pretty much wiped out what was left of the civilization. The Mississippians are gone now, but they left about eighty mounds behind, including the biggest earthen mound in the Americas.
There are Indian mounds all over the Midwest—I saw some in Minnesota. They just look like hills. I guess if you dig into them, you can find pottery and bones and stuff, but you’re not supposed to do that.
The biggest mound at Cahokia is called Monks Mound, even though no monks were involved in its construction. It’s huge. The whole thing was built by hand, one basket of dirt at a time. I want to see that mound.
The road takes me past a big lake. I still don’t see any beaches or pontoons, but there could be some. Almost as soon as I’m past the lake, I see a sign for the Cahokia Mounds. I turn, and off to the left I see the big mound.
It doesn’t look all that big.
I drive past the mound and join half a dozen other cars in the parking area. The mound looks bigger from here, like a pyramid with its top lopped off and its edges worn smooth. A crushed gravel path leads from the parking lot toward the south side of the mound. Along the way there are signs with information about the site, including some paintings of what life was like for the Mississippians way back when. The artist makes it look utterly peaceful and idyllic. I’m sure those Indians had to deal with a lot of their own assholes even before the assholes from Europe arrived and brought smallpox with them, but the paintings make it look like a nice place to live.
One of the signs says that there used to be a hundred and fifty mounds, but only half of them remain. I can see a few of the smaller mounds, like little hills where you wouldn’t expect to find a hill. The gravel crunches under my feet, and the big mound keeps getting bigger, and for a few seconds I feel as if I’m in a dream. Then I see a crumpled cigarette pack on the path, and the dream feeling goes away. Some asshole. I kick it off to the side. A few steps later I stop and go back and pick it up and put it in my pocket. I’ll get rid of it next time I see a trash can.
A wooden stairway leads up the side of the mound. I count the steps as I climb. After sixty steps I reach a flat area, a sort of terrace about a hundred feet across. I suppose it could have been a place where you could rest your legs, or maybe a Mississippian food court where they served roasted rabbits or corn on the cob. Not sure what they ate back then. There’s nothing here now, not even a trash can for the cigarette packet in my pocket.
The steps continue. I don’t count them, but there must be another hundred at least. When I finally reach the top, I see that I’m not alone.
Benches
I pressed the doorbell and heard a faint chime from inside. The door opened. Derek, Gaia’s older brother.
I have mentioned Derek before—student council president, tall, blond, good-looking, friendly, etc., etc., etc. Straight out of central casting for some cookie-cutter teen drama on TV.
“Hey, Stiggy,” he said. He knew my name because if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been so absurdly perfect. He probably knew the names of all two thousand students at Saint Andrew Valley High School. “What’s up?”
“Is Gaia around?”
A light went on behind his long-lashed blue eyes.
“Oh! You’re the guy she won’t talk about?”
“I don’t know who she doesn’t talk about,” I said, which had sounded great in my head before it’d dribbled out of my mouth.
“Come on in,” he said.
I stepped inside. It looked like every other three-bedroom suburban rambler I’d been in. Carpeted living room off to the right with a sofa facing the picture window, coat closet on the left, pictures on the walls, a short hallway leading to what I assumed was the kitchen. The house had the odd, nose-tweaking smell of athletic deodorant—then I realized it was Derek. His hair was damp. I deduced that he’d just gotten out of the shower and slathered himself with something.
“Guy!” he yelled over his shoulder. I thought for a second he was announcing my arrival, but quickly figured out that “Guy” was short for “Gaia.” I bet she hated it.
“What?” Gaia’s voice coming from the kitchen.
“You have a gentleman caller.”
Gaia appeared in the hallway holding a plastic bowl of cereal and a spoon. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her face looked scrubbed. No earrings. I’d never seen her without makeup.
“Stiggy,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was surprised, pleased, disappointed, or bored.
“Hi,” I said.
“Let me put this down.” She went back to the kitchen. I heard the clunk of the bowl dropping into the sink. I noticed a photo propped on a side table, a picture of two kids in swimsuits standing on a dock. Gaia returned, wiping her palms on her sweatpants.
“That’s me and Derek up at the lake,” she said.
Derek was still standing there in the hallway, watching us with a little smirk.
“So are you guys an item?” he said.
Gaia gave him a withering look that she’d probably given him a thousand times before. Derek grinned, shrugged, and wandered off to apply another layer of Manly Stank or whatever it was.
Gaia smiled. She held her hands out to the side and said, “Welcome to the American Dream made manifest.”
That sounded like a quote, but I didn’t know what from.
She grinned and said, “That’s what my dad calls our house.”
“I texted you,” I said.
“Oh. Yeah. I was over at Maeve’s and forgot my phone here.”
“How’s Maeve?” I didn’t really care.
“She’s a mess. You want to go sit out back?”
I nodded, then followed her through the kitchen and out the sliding patio doors to the backyard. A back garden, really. Instead of a lawn like everybody else had, the yard was all brick-edged plantings. A flagstone path wove between the rosebushes and peony beds.
“My dad’s kind of anal about his y
ard.”
She led me down the path to where three curved stone benches faced one another. We sat down on the ends of adjacent benches. About twelve inches separated our knees. I had never been more attracted to her.
“You look amazing,” I said. She smiled, and I knew that for once I had said exactly the right thing. Then I added, “Even better without the makeup.” Which was exactly the wrong thing, apparently.
“Thanks a lot,” she said, looking abruptly distant. She was good at that.
“You look great with makeup too,” I said quickly.
She gave a small nod and studied the rosebush over my shoulder.
“I thought maybe we could do something tonight,” I said. “Except I won’t have a car. My nosy neighbor told my mom I took the Mustang, so she’s kind of pissed. But I don’t know, maybe walk over to the Heights?” The Heights was a little movie theater where they showed old movies. My parents used to go there a couple of times a month to watch movies from when they were kids. Date night, they called it.
Gaia said, “What’s showing?”
I didn’t know. It didn’t matter to me. Why did it matter to her?
She saw my disappointment and shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “Whatever.”
“Or we could do something else.”
“No, a movie’s fine.”
• • •
Back at home, things had not warmed up. My mom was giving me the silent treatment. For dinner she had made herself a grilled cheese, but she didn’t make one for me. She took it to the den and turned on PBS and ate by herself; I had to make my own sandwich. At least she hadn’t tried to ground me. We both knew that wouldn’t work.
I left on foot, and got to Gaia’s around seven thirty. The movie was at eight. Gaia’s dad was home, but I didn’t have to go inside. She saw me coming and met me on the sidewalk. She was back in her uniform. Black jeans, black sneakers, and black top, with mascara and dark eyebrows, and lipstick the color of sunburn. Same with her fingernails.
“What are we seeing?” she asked.
“Fargo,” I said. “And they’re showing Rocky Horror at midnight.”
“Ugh. No, thanks.”
“No Fargo?”
“No, Fargo’s fine. I’ve never seen it. But no Rocky Horror, please. I’ve seen it, like, six times. Anyway, my dad would freak if I stayed out till two in the morning.”
The theater was a mile away. We’d only gone a couple of blocks when she said, “I don’t want to sit in a movie theater. It’s nice out. Let’s just walk.”
“Okay.”
“We could do the River Walk.”
“All of it?” The River Walk was a hiking path that ran for miles along the Mississippi. I’d been on it a few times.
“Just however much we feel like,” she said.
We walked. Gaia was talking about Maeve. I was only half listening. I liked hearing her talk, though. I could feel her voice not just in my ears but all over my body.
Gaia poked me with her elbow. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Sorry. What?”
“She found him.”
“Who found who?”
“Maeve found Michael! Her boyfriend? Who’s been missing for over a month? Turns out he’s staying at Maeve’s uncle’s farm in Prairie du Chien.”
“He’s at her cool organic uncle’s cool organic farm?”
“He’s been there the whole time. Only, he doesn’t want anybody except Maeve to know, so don’t tell anybody.”
“Who would I tell?”
“Just don’t. Anyway, Maeve’s going down there. Like, to live.”
“On a farm?”
“She wants to finish high school in Prairie du Chien. Her mom is cool with it.”
“Her mom’s cool that Maeve’s going to live with her boyfriend?”
“Things haven’t been so good for her at home. I think her mom’s just glad to be rid of her.”
That made me think of my mom. What would she do if I told her Gaia and I were going to live on a farm in Wisconsin? She’d totally freak out—or would she? I could also imagine her sighing with relief to be rid of her cranky car-stealing son. I really didn’t know what she’d do. Gaia was still talking, but I wasn’t really listening. I was glad Maeve was moving. I wanted Gaia all to myself.
We were almost to the river when she said, “So?”
“So, what?”
“So, what do you think? About what I’ve been saying?”
“Great,” I said. “That’s great.” It seemed like a safe response since I hadn’t heard a word in the last five minutes.
“Great?” She stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. “Maeve’s life is a complete disaster, and you think that’s great?”
Oh shit.
“I mean, I think it’s great that you’re telling me all this,” I said.
She rolled her eyes in that very Gaia way and started walking again. I fell in beside her and tried a new tack.
“Speaking of Maeve . . . did you tell her about us?”
“Tell her what?” She was irritated with me, I could tell.
“That we . . . um . . .” I almost said “made love,” but that sounded corny. I almost said “had sex,” but that was too clinical.
“Did it?” Gaia said.
Okay, that was another way to put it.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Of course I told her. She’s my friend.”
“So I should tell all my friends?”
“No!”
“What if I told Garf?”
“Garf Neff? Are you kidding me? The very thought of you and me having sex inside Garf Neff’s sick little mind is totally barf-inducing.”
“Garf’s not so bad.”
“Whatever.”
She was in a mood, and I didn’t understand why, so we walked without talking for a while. We reached the path along the river, a sort of wooded trail with a steep bank dropping off to our right and the river visible through the treetops. The path dipped down, a long stairway made of rough-cut logs and packed dirt. We went all the way down to the river and out onto a little sandy spit. It would have been pretty, except for all the trash washed up on the shore. We stood there for a while and watched a tugboat pushing a barge downriver.
“I wonder where they go,” Gaia said.
“The summer after high school, my dad and my uncle Donny bought a canoe. They wanted to paddle down the river all the way to New Orleans.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“It wasn’t. They only got as far as Winona. Donny was swatting at a horsefly, and the canoe tipped over in the middle of the river. They lost all their gear, and the canoe got away from them.” It was a story Dad had told many times, especially the part about it being Donny’s fault that they’d capsized. “They had to swim to shore and hitchhike home.”
Gaia gave me an accusing look. “You always end your stories on a downer.”
“That’s what happened!”
“You don’t have to tell it that way.”
“I don’t know another way to tell it.”
She looked away, out over the water.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” I could barely hear her.
“What? Canoeing?”
“Relationships. Telling things. Being honest.”
“I’m always honest.”
“Sometimes I wish you weren’t.”
“You want me to lie more?”
“I want you to lie just enough.”
We continued along the path and came to another long set of stairs, going up.
The sun was almost gone. I was getting an anxious feeling deep in my gut, and I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t because Gaia was cranky or because it would be dark soon—it was something else. We followed the stairs back and forth, a zigzag up the bluff, and emerged into a large grassy park. I knew then what was making me uneasy.
“Where are we?” Gaia asked.
“East River Park,” I said.
There were benches, four
metal benches painted blue, where you could sit and look out over the flowing waters. Or look, as my father had done on that cold February afternoon, at the frozen river. I wondered if he’d thought about paddling down the river with Donny, heading for the Gulf, before putting the shotgun to his neck and pulling the trigger.
Which bench, though?
“Let’s sit down for a while,” Gaia said.
“No,” I said.
“Wolverton Mountain”
Claude King
2:38
Monks Mound is nearly a hundred feet tall. It used to be higher, but over the past five hundred years the land has filled in around the base, and the top has worn down. It was once covered with wooden buildings, but they’re long gone. Now the top is just a flat, grassy rectangle, big enough for a game of soccer if you don’t mind losing a lot of balls over the edge.
A family—mom, dad, and two little kids—is standing a few yards from the top of the stairs. Dad is taking pictures with his phone. That’s what my dad would’ve done. They ignore me. I walk past them, following a path leading to the west edge of the mound. I can see Saint Louis. I can see the Gateway Arch glinting in the sun. It must be ten or fifteen miles away. I wonder if the tourists in the arch can see Cahokia.
The only other people on the mound are at the far end. Three of them. They look about my age. I follow the path and eventually pass near them. It’s two guys and a girl. One of the guys is sitting on an overstuffed backpack playing with his dreadlocks. He’s blond. I don’t get it—why would a white guy want dreads? He’s wearing a serape, giving his Rasta pretentions a Mexican twist. The other guy has kind of an angry vibe. He has lank brown hair down past his scowl, a couple weeks of scraggly beard, a fake-looking tie-dye shirt, and a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
The girl is taking selfies with the two guys in the background. She’s wearing a Bob Marley tee, which makes me wonder if the dreadlocked guy is her boyfriend. Her hair is a big mop of curly reddish blond, and her face is freckled. She lowers her phone and smiles at me.
