by E. C. Frey
The series of articles I’ve been working on are worse than war. At least in war, there’s the camaraderie of shared experience, shared threat. And yes, there’s even the intoxicating allure of meaning. Life becomes defined by those who would kill or be killed. It takes on sharper edges. There is clarity in imminent death. The world of water cartels and public relations and banks and governments and organizations, though—they beat you up with all the things they don’t say. The meaning is always inferred, like a black hole. They are ghost words.
But these are not the things my boss wants to hear. He has always championed my coverage of war, but the line between right and wrong, good and bad, is never blurred in life and death. Those lines are a lot murkier now, and the stakes for their meaning are higher. I need to keep my job, but I need to tell the truth. He wants me to “knock off the Indian shit.” I choose objectivity, but it is always difficult when you come from a world in which truth has been shape-shifted. I will always see the truth through the prism of a world defined by the reservation—one is either on or off. In white man’s speak, being off the reservation means going rogue. There is no gray area. My boss expects me to pick a side and “get on with it.” Even though it is safer on the reservation, I’ve always been off. Going rogue now is no more a risk than it has ever been. And now I’m just lying to myself. But what do I know? I am a mixed-blood. My blood quantum is murky and my heart is suspect to both sides. I live in a world in between. And it is always somewhere in that in-between land, that frontier of human imagination, that the things not said hide their relevance.
It was supposed to be an uncomplicated series on water. Something you could print in a glossy magazine and suburbanites could place on their coffee table as a point of discussion when the conversation grew thin. But how the hell does a truth walker sugarcoat water com-modification? And now the deadline approaches. I am closer to that border. Who knows what will happen when all the shit I’ve uncovered hits the fan. Will this article even see the light of day? Is all this danger worth it if my articles ultimately find their home in a vault or the bottom of the trash?
I need to go home, but not yet.
My dogs follow me to the kitchen. A quart of milk and some random leftovers are a pathetic reminder of my relationship to food. After Sarajevo, I ate little for a week while those journalists who had survived with me ate their first meal out of the war zone like it was their last. The soggy, sagging doggie containers weep into the metal refrigerator grates. I extract them and lob them into the garbage, but my dogs remind me that their relationship to food is not nearly as complicated as mine, so I retrieve the wet containers from the trash. While they eat the remains, I slather peanut butter on bread and coat both slices with a thick sheen of honey.
I let the article go. It is now out in the universe and I will know soon enough what all that energy will bring me. It has been a long winter, and the dogs need to unfurl their legs as much as I do.
The unusually warm spring air has liberated the scent of cherry blossoms and dogwoods throughout DC, and my neighborhood is no exception. It mixes with those of the many ethnic restaurants on my street. The aroma of barbecued meat and yeasty baked bread fills the air, accompanied by cumin, cardamom, and vanilla. The scents are heady and I long for something more, something bigger in my life. The want is enough to drown me. Pedestrians stroll the streets and join in animated conversations at the many cafés that dot my neighborhood. I am an observer, a traveler through their space, a wanderer in between.
I order far too much food at my favorite take-out place. All the food in the world cannot fill me.
Back at home, the dogs dance and pirouette around my legs, their tails wagging and thumping against my skin. I fill a dish for myself and scrape the rest into their bowls. They finish quickly and join me on the couch. I flip through the channels and settle on a sitcom. The show requires no thought and yet my mind flips through its own channels, the noise constant and ever changing. I snuggle into my quilt. The dogs settle into the folds around my legs. They are warm against me, but my mind is a minefield. Shadow twitches, but it is not from puppy dreams. I stroke his tail—strands of hair are soft and compliant to my touch. He settles down.
I drift far into the light that dances and plays across the plains and illuminates the manes of horses. I am a part of them, a part of the herd, but they spook. The power of their hooves splinters the earth, muscles pulse with the wind, manes and tails fly and dance freely.
I am at once horse and rider, separate and the same. So much freedom leaves me breathless and I close my eyes to the warm sun. I am the red fire of that which dances in the sky.
It happens fast. Thrown to the ground, my breath knocks free of my body.
Flesh rips. The spirit of my voice shreds.
I open my eyes.
A cougar snarls and drips blood, my blood. I lie in stillness and watch myself dissolve.
The sun glares in synchronicity with the two wild orbs barely hidden behind the slits of the cat’s eyes.
Death is imminent, but I am not sad.
Drums beat, a pounding, primordial rhythm. The cougar backs away and I rise in direct proportion to her retreat. I cradle my throat, but it is whole again.
I look for the cougar, but she watches and withers as I grow. Where she stood, a circle forms. Women of every size and color dance in two concentric, opposing circles. They keep time to the constant drum, and from their belts hang scalps still red and dripping.
The horses stand proudly at the fringes, watching and waiting, pawing at the earth.
As the dancers pass, one turns to look in my eyes. Two eyes, deep and red, look into me. The dancer smiles. Torn flesh snags in the crevices between her ragged teeth.
A single drop of blood oozes onto the ground within the heart of the circle. I reach for my throat and find my voice.
The sound of a scream and a phone ringing wakes me. The dogs stand at alert, their ears perked.
The clock reads 3:33 a.m.
The TV speaks in hushed tones and fills in the corners of the room with disembodied conversation.
The phone rings again.
“Hello?”
The voice is coarse and muffled. “Watch where you go, Miss Westerman. Stop what you’re doing. Now. Before it’s too late.”
“What?”
“Listen carefully. We assume the next article will pertain to your last little . . . expedition into things you don’t need to know. That could be very dangerous for you. This is a warning. There won’t be another one.”
Click.
“Wait? Who are you?”
But there is no answer.
What am I doing? It’s not as if I haven’t known. The sense of a force, a spirit of evil, has been following me. Ignoring the premonition is like lying to myself.
I press my palms to my blurry eyes. Focus. Who could the caller work for? It’s way too late anyway. The article has already been faxed. Even if I wanted to squash the story, my boss has the last say. I’m sitting here in the small hours of the morning contemplating my next move, and something tells me I better make the decision fast because the future could get ugly.
No. I will not be scared away from this. I have already seen the worst that man has to offer. And I am a journalist. High stakes and danger come with the territory. It’s what makes the truth so precious—precious like water. Seeking truth requires understanding its opposite.
I settle back onto the couch. Shadow and Luna rest their chins on my chest. They will follow me into my dream sleep. I do not want to go there, but soon my eyes are heavy. Too heavy to rise and check the locks on my door, I am a prisoner to my body even as my mind screams to wake.
5 Ten-Year Reunion—The Garden In Moonlight
Mariah leaned toward the mirror and swiped the mascara wand across her eyelashes. Brown eyes gleamed back. She sighed. Makeup was her concession to the event. She had anticipated this reunion for months, but now that the moment was here, her stomach gurgled. Old memories
flooded back and moved like a tidal wave, threatening to smother her. She smoothed out her dark hair and donned the long, glittery dress she had bought for the occasion. Fiona wanted them all to be dressed in the latest styles, Hollywood glamour. Mariah blanched. Beverly Hills was already wearing off on her friend.
Mariah took one last look in the mirror. She wanted to be taken seriously. She could not imagine how that would happen in this ridiculous dress.
She met Esperanza and Eve in the lobby.
“I guess we’re all Hollywood now.”
Esperanza giggled. “Oh my God, Mariah. You look so beautiful. Someone’s going to get laid tonight.”
Eve laughed. “Doubt it. They’ll be all hot and heavy and she’ll kill them with a lecture on the necessary rights for the IRA hunger strikers before she descends into a long sermon on the ways in which the Irish penal laws were a lot like federal Indian law.”
“Very funny, Eve. You make me sound like a joy kill.”
“If the shoe fits, girl.”
Esperanza laughed. “Stop. We love you. You bring joy wherever you go, Mariah.”
Eve threw an arm around Mariah’s shoulder before throwing the other around Esperanza’s. “Keep telling her that and maybe we won’t have to talk about Bobby Sands tonight.”
Mariah shrugged off Eve’s arm. “Knock it off, Eve. Even if I thought someone would want to hear about the IRA hunger strikes, it would go over everyone’s head. They’re too caught up in their own lives.”
“Ooh, Mariah. Watch out. You’re making one of those blanket statements.”
“Regardless, I’ll keep the conversation light tonight. Okay?”
“Okay. That’s good for me, ’cause I want to party.”
Esperanza smiled. “I wonder what the Rose Garden would look like today.”
Mariah perked. “Probably changed. It was already changing. We should go tomorrow.” A cloud passed over her face. “So long as we stay away from—”
“Yes,” Eve said. “We will avoid it. Let’s do it. Our activity schedule says there’s swimming and a golf tournament. I’m not up for either. Rose Garden?”
“Definitely,” Mariah said.
“Well, that’s decided,” Esperanza said. “Shall we go? The ballroom awaits us.”
They approached the reception table.
“Oh my God, Mariah. You haven’t changed one bit.” The girl handed her a nametag.
Mariah was at a loss.
Eve came to her rescue. “Mariah, it’s our old friend Tammy the Tank!” She bobbed her head at the girl.
“Lose the attitude, Eve. No one calls me the tank anymore. I’m skinnier than you.”
“Yeah, you’re skinny all right,” Eve said. “You’re a skinny-ass bitch.”
Tammy stood up, leaned toward Eve, and pointed her finger at her face. “I can still beat you up. You’re just a skinny-ass bitch yourself.”
Eve smiled as she reached for her nametag. “I thought so. C’mon, Mariah. Espy. Go howl at the moon, Tammy. You never had me fooled.” She retrieved Esperanza’s tag and ushered her friends into the ballroom.
Disco balls hung from the ceiling and music pounded from speakers. The sound bounced off the walls.
Mariah scanned the room. Fiona waved frantically from a table near the middle. Mariah could see the rock on her finger even from a distance. “No down-and-outs here.”
Eve surveyed the occupants. “Thank God, Mariah. We gotta get through tonight.”
Esperanza clucked. “Listen to you two. The evening has barely begun and already I feel like I need to pound some margaritas.”
“You’re right, Espy.” Eve shrugged. “Let’s just have a good time. Even if it’s just the five of us. Who needs the rest of the world?”
Mariah smiled. “Except it’s not the five of us. Fiona and Heather brought their husbands.”
“Why shouldn’t we honor their choices in life, Mariah?” Esperanza said, shaking her head. “It can’t always be just the five of us. There’s always room for more. Besides, we’re not exactly the life of the party when it’s just us.”
Eve’s eyes widened. “Speak for yourself. I think I’m a lot of fun.” She moved toward her married friends.
Fiona and Heather met them before they made it to the table and they all embraced.
Fiona danced back and forth. “I’m so excited to see you guys.”
Mariah hugged Fiona. “I am too.”
Mariah felt a hand brush her bare back. She turned. Luke Genovese’s eyes gleamed. “You’re on fire, Mariah. Smokin’ hot.”
Eve giggled.
Mariah turned and maneuvered to rid herself of his hand, which was gravitating lower. “Thanks Luke. You look good too. So, what have you been up to?”
“Not much. How ’bout you?”
“Oh, I’m a journalist. I covered the Irish hunger strikes, for example. Have you heard about Bobby Sands and the other nine who died?”
Eve explosively expelled a laugh.
“Uh, no, I haven’t.”
Mariah coyly batted her eyelashes. “Oh, I could give you a little lesson.”
Esperanza and Eve laughed. Luke regarded them sheepishly. “No thanks, Mariah. You are beautiful but you’ve always been too damn . . . weird.” Luke finished off his drink and moved away.
Mariah turned to her friends with a frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Eve chuckled. “Seriously, Mariah. It’s Luke. What do you think he means? He means you’re not an easy lay and he’s on the prowl.”
Fiona grabbed Mariah’s arm. “C’mon, you guys. I want to introduce you to my husband.”
Eve followed. “We already met him. We were at the wedding. Remember?”
“Yes, of course I remember. I wasn’t that drunk.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Knock it off, Eve. I may have been tipsy, but I was mostly just happy. Happy to be marrying the man of my dreams, and happy that my best friends could share it with me. Don’t rain on my parade.”
Eve squeezed her arm. “Sorry. I don’t mean to. I think I need a drink.”
“There’s my girl.” Fiona swirled in her beautiful gown, her diamonds meshing with the lights from the disco balls and refracting around the room. “Gavin, would you mind getting a drink for Eve? Thank you, sweetheart.” She turned to Eve. “What do you want?”
Eve smiled at Gavin. “Red wine. Thanks, Gavin. It’s good to see you again.”
Gavin returned the smile. “The feeling is mutual.” He turned to Brandon. “Brandon? Shall we get these beautiful women some drinks? Esperanza?”
“Red wine too. Gracias.”
Gavin bowed his head slightly at Esperanza.
“Mariah?”
“I’ll take a Blood and Sand. Thank you.”
Gavin smiled. “Classic.”
Fiona grabbed his elbow. “No. What the hell is that? She’ll take a Screaming Orgasm, like me.”
Gavin rolled his eyes. “She doesn’t want that.”
“Yes, she does.”
“No.”
Mariah interceded. “I’ll take a glass of red wine, then.” She wiped a line of sweat from her upper lip. The conversation made her uncomfortable, but Brandon’s intense gaze made her even more so.
Gavin gave his wife a curt look, but continued. “Heather?”
Brandon stepped forward. “Don’t worry. I know what she wants.” He grazed Mariah’s arm as he passed.
Fiona sidled up to the group. “Did you see Tammy? Wow. She’s changed.”
Mariah snickered. “Not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“Eve pulled the old Tammy out of her skin.”
Esperanza laughed.
Heather moved closer. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve got this one,” Eve said. “She means she hasn’t changed much at all. Oh, she might’ve shed a few pounds, but she hasn’t shed any of that meanness. She’s still a punk- ass bitch.”
The memory of the day Tammy laid her fists
on Heather and cemented their bonds of friendship lingered unspoken in the middle of the group.
Sunny Hollow stretched to one side and Sycamore to the other. Hunkered in a hollow at the border lay the public Rose Garden. They were not allowed in Sycamore, not even one foot—except the Rose Garden. The garden was acceptable, revered even, and tended to by women with blue hair who wore gloves and hats and carried purses on their arms. It was a land in between. Their turf, lower Sunny Hollow, a hamlet of craft bungalows and storybook-style houses, bordered Sycamore.
The girls’ friendship started in the autumn.
One Saturday, Mariah’s mother took her school shopping and Mariah campaigned for a pair of penny loafers. If she had to go to church, she needed acceptable shoes. If she was going back to school, she needed new shoes. Either way, shoes carried the weight of her world. They made her less different.
Her mother didn’t budge.
Mariah kicked the toe of her scuffed shoe against the base of the checkout counter. “But Mom, no one wears saddle shoes anymore.”
Her mother smoothed a strand of errant hair from her face. “We’re not everyone. Christmas is coming soon. Maybe for Christmas.”
“That’s too late. I’ll be dead by then.”
Her mother chuckled. “You should be an actress. Such drama.”
She scowled at her mother, whose eyes, the color of melted chocolate, patiently regarded her. Mariah played with a piece of thread that had freed itself from the weave of her sweater. “Why can’t we buy them now?” She ground the sole of her offending shoe into the floor. “Oh, I forgot. We’re Indian. It’s not our way. Right?” She practically shouted the last words, and was immediately sorry for it.
Waiting for the change, her mother held her hand over the counter. “That has nothing to do with it.”
