by Ann Cummins
Heading south. Through the Uncompahgre Gorge toward Bear Falls. In the middle of the San Juan Mountains, which long ago took his father and now are all mined out.
39
NOVEMBER 1. This is the month of Fridays. Usually there are only four, but this month has five. It seems to Delmar that he should get one off, since there's an extra one, but no. There are no free Fridays until February.
The morning was good. He spent the early hours collecting the garbage. Mr. and Mrs. VD either got up very early, which is not like them at all, or they were up all night, because all the lights in the house were on, and Mr. VD came to the door, opened it, and shouted something at him when he backed the flatbed up to their cans. Delmar doesn't know what he shouted, though, because he was listening to his morning music, oldies today, the Stones.
He thought it was going to be a hungry day because he's completely out of supplies, but just as he was driving his load of garbage out to the dumpsters, he saw Angie walking in, her husband driving away. Angie brought her lunch today, green chili that she made herself, and when Delmar stopped to say hello, she pulled a little Tupperware dish out of the paper bag and gave it to him, saying she brought extra—for him.
He thinks he might have a chance with Angie. She's starting to get that look in her eye.
So he had the chili for lunch, the best he ever ate. At one-thirty he starts getting ready for his trip down to the flatlands. He's got to do his shopping before meeting with Officer Happy because the days are short, and he doesn't like riding his bike home in the dark. He's just putting on his empty backpack when his mom drives through the clearing.
"Hey," he says, walking over to her. She rolls the truck window down. "You back?"
"I'm back." He hugs her through the open window.
"How long you been back?"
"A few days. So this is where you work. Fancy."
"Yeah."
"Well, I guess it keeps you out of trouble."
He grins. There's a big paper bag on the seat next to her. "Did you bring me something?"
She smiles and hands him the bag through the window. In the bag: a boom box.
"Cool."
"I didn't know what you were listening to these days, but I thought we might go down to Hastings and get you some CDs."
"Great. But I've got my appointment today."
"I know. I thought I'd give you a ride. We can go shopping afterward, and then maybe a movie?"
"Cool. What's playing?"
"Silence of the Lambs."
"That's been there a while."
"I guess it's popular."
"Seen it."
"Oh."
"It's good. I'll see it again."
"No, we can see something else." She hands him a newspaper section with movie listings. He scans it.
"How about Beauty and the Beast?"
"Isn't that a kids' movie?"
"I hear it's good."
"Let's go to the cheap one, then shopping, then Mexican food." She smiles at him. "We'll make a night of it."
"Well, we can't go to the cheap one because I won't be done until five."
"Oh? Did they change your appointment time?"
"No. I have to be there at three."
"Two hours at the parole office?" She pushes her sunglasses down on her nose, looking over the rims at him. "Why?"
"Because I turned into a pumpkin."
On the way down the mesa, he tells her about showing up almost an hour late for his appointment the day Uncle Woody died, and the only reason he's not in jail is that Becky went in with him and told Officer Happy what had happened. But as punishment, Officer Happy keeps him waiting for two hours now. He doesn't tell his mom everything, though, because she seems sad.
"I shouldn't have gone away. I didn't know Woody was that bad off. I thought he'd still be around when I came back. Grandma tells me he's at Desert View Cemetery. That's not what he wanted."
"'Aoo'. It's not a bad place, though."
"How do you know? Have you been there?"
"Sure." During his warrior days. It got to be a test of courage for Indians to go into the white cemetery, especially after they noticed a pattern; things started happening to the brothers who went there. Like Harry died right after he visited the cemetery. Delmar went to test his courage, and it was spooky. He could feel the dead crowding in. But he just talked to them, the way he talks to the ones on the mesa, and so far they've let him be. Maybe it's because he's a half-breed, he doesn't know. The dead pass through him.
"I heard your dad's in the area."
"He was. I don't know if he still is."
"Boy, I leave town and everything happens." She downshifts, slowing for the stop sign on Thirtieth Street. "How'd he seem?"
"I don't know. Not too good."
"That's what Shimá said." She turns right onto Thirtieth. She smiles, shaking her head. "Sam. I should've gone there this year. To Florida. But you were in jail, and Shimá needed help, and..."
"How come you stayed with him so long, Mom?"
She shrugs. "We have fun. He was always fun. Mostly. He's a free spirit. I always felt like we were kindred spirits. And he's your dad."
They pass the college, gleaming white buildings in the desert, and she turns onto Butler. Delmar has begun looking into night classes for the spring. It will be hard, though, riding his bike, especially if it snows. By February he should have his uncle's car running. Becky told him Uncle Woody wanted him to have the car. He's been hitching to his aunt's house on weekends and working on it.
"You're a little like him, Del. Your dad."
"I know. You told me."
"The best of him. There's a lot of good in him." Delmar shrugs. "Maybe we should go see him when your parole's up. You'd like his boat. You want to?"
"No."
She pulls to a stop at Twentieth and looks at him across the seat, and he looks at her. She nods and says she understands.
She drops him off at 2:55, saying she'll be back at 5:00. At exactly 3:00, he walks into Officer Happy's office and picks up the plastic cup on the edge of his desk. It has occurred to him that he could wait until, say, 4:30 to do his business, and then he wouldn't have to sit in the hall holding his piss for two hours, but he's pretty sure that would backfire. There's a small round mirror in the corner of the hall. Officer Happy's office window looks out onto the hall, and Delmar can see a miniature Xavier Happe in the mirror, and he knows Mr. Happy can see him. He's pretty sure the public display of his piss is part of his punishment.
It was embarrassing at first. It started the week after he turned into a pumpkin. He got the cup and pissed in it, but when he went back for his appointment, somebody else was in there, so he sat down to wait. But then the 3:30 appointment showed up, then the 4:00, and he finally figured out that he now has two appointments, the one at 3:00 when he picks up the cup and the one at 4:45 when he delivers it.
He doesn't mind so much now. It's amazing the things you can get used to.
There's a chunky secretary, Yolanda, who goes out for a smoke about every half hour. She says things to him coming and going, like how they'll probably fire her but she's got to have her smokes, and she's tried nicotine gum, nasty stuff. She has never said one word about the cup, which he appreciates. He likes politeness in people.
At exactly 4:45 Officer Happy calls his name. He puts the cup on the edge of the man's desk and wipes his fingers on his jeans. The cup is wet on the outside because it's filled to the brim and the paper lid doesn't fit so good. Some has leaked over the side.
"Just three months to go," Officer Happy says.
"Thirteen Fridays," Delmar says. "Twelve after today."
"Think you'll make it?"
"Hope so."
The officer nods at him. He's looking at the cup, which has made a little wet spot on his wooden desk.
"So what'd you do this week?"
"I got my application from the college. I've got to take an entrance exam. I'll ace it. I'm good at tests. T
hey've got lots of forms. It'll probably take a month just to fill those out." He started on them last night, just answering the easy questions, like name, sex, age, ethnicity—they never have a category for his ethnicity so he always marks Other, which makes him feel like an alien from Planet of Whispers, which makes him feel good.
"If you need any help with them, Delmar, bring them in."
"Okay."
"Anything else?"
"Nope."
"All right, then. This time next week." Delmar gets up to go. "And Delmar?" the man says. "You don't have to fill that cup so full. A little sample will do."
"Oh, that's okay," Delmar says. He grins. "I am an excellent pisser."
40
RYLAND, WAKE UP," Rosy is saying.
He opens his eyes. "I wasn't asleep."
"Yes, you were."
"I was resting my eyes."
"Oh. The girls and I are going to church."
"Today?"
"It's All Souls Day. Did you forget?"
"We're going to get some lucky stiffs out of purgatory," Sandi says. He and Rosy have been watching the girls this afternoon while Eddy helps Sue with an open house.
"You want to come?" Rosy says.
"No." He has a two-ton weight on his chest today.
"What are these?" Pooh calls from the kitchen, a note of hysteria in her voice.
"Get your coats," Rosy says. "It's chilly. Fish sticks. They're defrosting."
"Fish sticks! Do we have to have fish sticks? I'm not eating them," Pooh whines.
"You better change your attitude," Sandi says, her voice trailing off. The back door slams.
The kids had been watching the cartoon channel. Ryland hits the OFF button on the remote. Down the street Lady Finger barks angrily. Been barking. All afternoon. The dog is lonely. Used to be she could count on him every day to come down and say hello on his way to visit his pals at the cemetery.
He stares at the plywood children in the ash tree and runs his finger over a mole on his arm that has started to go funny. He's been sleeping here in the living room for the last several nights. For a while after Sam called—that strange, silent phone call—Ryland kept dreaming that he called again. At least that's what Rosy says. That it was a dream. But he's not sure she's right. Rosy has been taking sleeping pills. Neither of them has been sleeping well. It's very possible she sleeps too heavily to know. Several times he struggled out of a dream to what he's certain was the last ring of the phone.
So he's camping out in the living room, closer to the phone, hoping Sam will call again. He's left a few messages at the marina in Florida, but if Sam has gotten them, he's not returning the calls. He wishes the man would check in. He doesn't like the way they parted, especially after that strange phone call.
Ryland figured Sam was on the reservation or wherever Alice is. But then Rosy tried to find out, mostly because Ryland's new bedroom drives her crazy. She wants to get back to normal. It upsets her notions of order, him sleeping in the living room. She says it upsets his sleep cycles. Probably true. Nights on the sofa he mostly just dozes, days in his chair he dozes some more. Just after the phone call she asked around and found out that Sam had left the reservation.
The ocean in his throat heaves. He swallows, and his eyes tear.
He should have gone to church with them, done his part to pray the dead free. He just doesn't want to miss Sam if he calls.
Where is he? It has been almost two weeks since that night. The call left Ryland feeling turned inside out. Not at all like Sam to do a thing like that. They listened to each other's silence for half an hour before the battery on his portable went dead.
The ash leaves have turned. Skinny spears shroud the plywood children, like a yellow feather coat. Soon the leaves will drop, and Rosy will take the wooden children down so they don't dry and crack in the winter air.
He closes his eyes. The pooch barks furiously. One block beyond her, the skeleton crew is waiting. Woody has joined their ranks. He and Rosy sent a check to Woody's wife a month ago. Wanted to help with the funeral expenses. The check came back within a week. Rosy doesn't know this. Ryland got the mail that day. Woody's wife probably doesn't know it either. He doubts she would have returned it. Ryland is pretty sure the girl sent it back. Becky Atcitty, whose birth they toasted twenty-five years ago. Funny how things turn out. She has no use for him, that girl. That's okay. He doesn't have much use for himself.
Ryland tore the check up and put cash in an envelope, addressed it to Woody, and sent it without a return address. The cash didn't come back.
Ryland would like to see that man. Woodrow. He would like to ask if Woody holds him responsible. Didn't seem to that day when Ryland and Sam visited. But maybe he was just being polite. Navajos. Never could read them. If Woody holds him responsible for—everything. For all the mistakes they made every minute of the day on the reservation... Self-pity, Ryland, is a sin. Go to your room and get rid of it.
Down the block the pooch rat-a-tat-tats.
If Woody holds—held—him responsible, then probably he is. Woody was a pretty straight shooter. Seemed to be, anyway. Except Ryland doesn't really trust "seemed to be." He tries to think of the times in his life when what seemed to be actually was. Never. There are always surprises in the shadows. He plays with the funny mole on his arm.
He just wishes somebody would tell him if he is or if he isn't. Responsible. He can't seem to figure it out on his own. On this, the day of atonement, it would be a good thing to know.
He closes his eyes, sleepiness tugging. Little flea-head. Little barker. In his mind's eye he can see his driver's license on her side of the fence.
Poor little thing can't help but bark. She has no brain.
He should go see his pals.
He begins to drift into that half-dream state he knows too well, thinking it would be nice to get up and take a walk, then doing it in his mind, pulling his cart behind him, thinking as he does that if it were true sleep, he could leave the cart behind, as he sometimes does in those rare liberating but disorienting dreams when he steps back in time and has self-sufficient lungs. But in the half-dream the cart goes with him everywhere. It's autumn, the tail end. The sidewalk will be messy with drying apples. The cart will catch in goo. Almost, he can smell it. Almost, it smells like applesauce. Crabapples rotting under foot.
Bury me in applesauce. Bury me in butter.
They buried you in Grace Cemetery, Mama. I couldn't go.
He jerks, waking, tears stinging his eyes.
He wipes them away.
He takes a drink of water from the glass on the TV tray next to him, then switches on the tube, tuning it to the black-and-white channel, muting the sound. It's almost five o'clock. He can tell by the noise of traffic on Cactus. Every day the traffic revs up at this time, and every year the revving gets louder—louder cars and more, so many more. The house fills with the smell of exhaust this time of day, and in the living room, which is closest to the street, it never goes away completely.
The mole. Rosy wants him to have it burned off, but he's decided to keep it. See what happens. He's had moles go funny for years. He's betting nothing will happen. He seems to live in a strange vacuum where things go wrong but never wrong enough.
Sam has the skin of a Norseman, thin and white, but he never had trouble with moles, though he was in the sun just as much as Ryland. There, too, Sam beat the odds.
Rosy'll give him trouble about this mole. I warned you, Ryland. How many times did I warn you not to take your shirt off and get burned to a crisp?
Guilty. Guilty as charged.
The cemetery dog is singing. Exhaust coats his tongue.
Apple guts squish under his shoes. He doesn't have the energy to change direction. Pick up your feet, soldier.
The back door slams. He hears one of the kids say, "He's asleep." He opens his eyes.
"He's not asleep," Rosy calls from the kitchen. "He's just resting his eyes."
He closes his mouth, licks h
is dry lips, pushing the oxygen tube against his nose. Pooh perches on the couch opposite him.
"Guess what, Grandpa." He straightens up. A lace beanie is bobby-pinned to the top of her hair. "I got two out."
He clears his throat. "Two what?"
"Two souls. Out of purgatory."
"Two. That's good."
"What you have to do is go in and out of church six times and say six Our Fathers, six Hail Marys, and six Glory Bes each time."
"Well, that sounds easy," he says.
"It's not so easy. It takes a long time. You have to do that for each soul. Next year I'm getting three out. Guess what else?"
"What?"
"We get pizza for dinner because we were good at church."
"Oh, happy day."
"That dog," Rosy says, coming into the room, still in her car coat and holding Teri. "You'd think it was Friday."
"TGIF," Ryland says.
"What does that mean?" Sandi says from the doorway.
"That means," Rosy says, "that every Friday the dog's owners celebrate the end of the week and don't do what they should do, which is take care of their dog. I wonder if something's wrong over there."
"Eh, the dog barks at the wind," Ryland says.
"The wind is picking up. I think it might storm," Rosy says. "Ry, I don't have enough hands, so I'm going to take the girls with me to pick up pizza. Can you watch Teri for half an hour?" She puts the child down. "Come on, honey, let's take your coat and hat off." But Teri runs to him laughing, out of Rosy's reach. "Ry, take her coat and hat off," she says, heading for the back door. "Let's go, you two."
Teri slouches against Ryland's leg, watching the silent TV. He unfastens the strap under her chin—her cap, a woolly blue helmet. He unbuttons her coat. "Want some juice? Let's get you some juice."
They go for juice and look for one of her books, then settle in, he in his chair, she on her footstool reading to him. The dog's yapping syncopates the rattle of Teri's nonsense. Yes, it's irritating, the yapping. On the TV Claude Rains, all bandaged up, is terrorizing his partner. Ryland turns the mute off and the sound up, trying to drown out Lady Finger. Rains says, "If you try and escape by the window, I shall follow you, and no one in the world can save you."
