by Doyle, Brian
Mm.
Tell me a funny story.
Well, I don’t know. I am a little rattled tonight. My memory isn’t what it was. I am getting old, Dan. No way around it.
Just one story.
I’ll tell you a story if you promise to go right to sleep afterwards.
Deal.
Well, hmm. I’ll tell you about when the People first started to celebrate the Fourth of July. It wasn’t our holiday, you know—we were always an independent people, England was never our mother—but my grandfather remembered when we celebrated it for the first time. It was maybe 1877 or so, a few years before the Ghost Dance War east of us, when most of the tribes and clans rose up one last time against the loss of their lands and language and stories. That’s a sad story. They wore white leather shirts, Daniel, because they were convinced bullets couldn’t pierce white leather shirts. But they were wrong. That’s a long sad story. That was the end of all the People east of us. And we were ending too but we didn’t know it then. We didn’t know it for the longest time. My father was the one who saw it clear finally. He was the one who spoke it and the People never forgave him for it. He was a brave man, my father.
What was his name?
Sisaxai, which means healer with two hands. He was a body healer and a spirit healer too. Very few people could do both healings. He had a healing sign carved on his bed. My mother carved it for him. My mother was one of those crazy Cheamhills! She lived in a place called Wamka, the Valley of the Gophers. Her name was Wocas, which is the bright yellow lily in ponds and lakes. My father met her when he was berrying there one summer. They were in thickets by a creek. He didn’t know she was one of the crazy Cheamhills. He saw her through a thicket. He said hello and she ran away down the creek quick as a deer. He used to tease her about that all the time. When you saw me you ran away! he would say to her to make her laugh. I must be as ugly as a cod! he would say. He was always trying to make her laugh. She liked to laugh. They were always laughing. He was a brave man, my father. He walked into that Cheamhill village one morning shirtless with his hands empty and his hair unbraided. I have no war for you today, he said to the Cheamhills. Their warriors surrounded him. They were furious at his cheek. Tunaqayu, o warriors, I saw a woman of your people in the thickets and there’s nothing I can do to control my heart now, he said to them. The tunaqayu men did not want to listen but their old women made them listen. I am here with no weapons, said my father. I am here with my hair undone. I am here without armor. I am here without brothers. I am here without friends. I am here without the heart I used to have. I lost it there in the thickets. I wish only to speak to the woman I saw. I wish only to see her again. Her face is now my food. If she tells me to leave I will leave. If she tells me she does not like me I will leave. I have no war for you today. That’s what he said. He was a brave man. My mother liked to tell that story.
What happened? says Daniel.
Well, they called my mother out to look at the crazy man from Neawanaka.
And?
They understood each other.
What does that mean?
They liked each other.
Did they get married?
O, not for a long time. But eventually yes.
Why so long?
There were many negotiations, not least between them. They were from different people, and different countries, and they lived in different ways, and even ate different foods. My mother never did like fish and fish is about all my father ever ate. But they understood each other. It’s like your mom and dad, Dan. They understand each other. Now there’s another story. They met by the ocean. And your grandmother and I met by the river. And your great-grandparents met by that creek in the Valley of the Gophers. So we all met by water. Be careful, boy. Your woman will be waiting by water. That’s just the way it is. She’s probably waiting there for you right now. Time for bed.
You never told me about the first Fourth of July here.
Ah, you’re right. Tomorrow.
Goodnight, Gramp.
Goodnight, boy.
I love this, Gramp. When you tell me stories.
Me too.
I love you, Gramp. I love you very much.
Me too, Dan. Me too.
22.
No Horses goes up the coast alone for a couple of days.
On a clear day the Oregon coast is the most beautiful place on earth—clear and crisp and clean, a rich green in the land and a bright blue in the sky, the air fat and salty and bracing, the ocean spreading like a grin. Brown pelicans rise and fall in their chorus lines in the wells of the waves, cormorants arrow, an eagle kingly queenly floats south high above the water line.
She lies in the hot sand half-asleep, thinking.
Am I insane?
Owen tries to lose himself in his shop but work doesn’t matter and he isn’t hungry anymore and he can’t sleep, so he goes to the Department of Public Works and kneels down in the grass and stays there for an hour in that position, his face pressed into the grass, the hot dying smell of it filling his nose and mouth and eyes, his sobs muffled by the embracing grass, his tears sucked down by the thirsty grass, his body grateful for the gentle grass, and then exhausted he sprawls full length in the endless grass and stares at the sun and tries to burn his eyes out of his head, my eyes are holy and burning like Billy says, he thinks, but soon his eyes can’t endure the pain anymore and they close protectively and by that time Owen’s mind is driftless and exhausted and he falls asleep.
Cedar sees all this from the window.
23.
The man with eight days to live is thinner and thinner. The bones of his face are sharper and sharper. He spends more and more time in the chair by the window under the maps of the sea. Daniel reads to him. The doctor sits with him morning noon and night. Moses floats up every afternoon to sit with him also. The man and Moses have become friends. When Moses floats up and lands plop on the railing the man rises slowly from his chair and helps Daniel into his wheelchair and wheels the boy out on the porch in the fat salty sun. Today man and boy and crow are talking about water and daughters. I love both my daughters the same but in different ways, says the man. One is a challenge and the other is a comfort. One is a battle and the other is a refuge. One is brass and the other is velvet. One is a knife and the other is a spoon. Daniel tells the man about his grandfathers and grandmothers. One grandfather is alive and the other is dead, he says. One grandmother walks like the wind and the other never walks anywhere. One grandfather fights against time and the other one fought against hunger. I guess everyone fights against something. I fight hawks, says Moses cheerfully, and they all laugh. A fourth voice laughs: Kristi, who has been listening from the porch door. Come out, come out, Kristi, it’s sunny, says Daniel. I am afraid of the eagle, says Kristi. I am no eagle, says Moses, startled. The bird talks! says Kristi, startled. That bird is my friend Moses, says Daniel. Moses, Kristi, Kristi, Moses. Moses bows and says the honor is mine, Kristi. The bird talks! says Kristi. Indeed he does, and with a great deal of sense, says the man with eight days to live. Not to mention a terrific grasp of the Psalms. Moses is fully as astute on the Psalms as our host the doctor is on the Acts of the Apostles in particular and the Good Book in general. He rises slowly and offers Kristi his chair but she declines politely, still staring at Moses. Did you teach him to talk? she asks Daniel. No no, says Daniel, Moses works with my dad. Actually I was instructed in your language by a wonderful woman now deceased, says Moses quietly. Tell us about her, says the man. O, says Moses, she was a wonder in every way, a remarkable creature. Never lost her temper. Never did her hands rest for an instant except when she was asleep. Sang all day long. An excellent cook. She was a nun. She died recently. I think of her every hour. Her soul shone like the face of the sun. Moses stops speaking, unable to go on. I’m so sorry, whispers Kristi, and she reaches out tentatively and strokes Moses’ gleaming back and for the first and last time in his long life he begins to cry, long ragged aching sobs, the sound of
lost, the sound of empty, the sound of alone. Daniel stares at his lap and the man stares out to sea but Kristi stands up and gathers the weeping crow into her chest and belly and bends over him and croons, the sound of healing, the sound of warm, the sound of yes.
24.
I am of the clan of crow, Moses explains to Kristi. They are still sitting on the porch, Kristi stroking his back and Moses humming with pleasure. Daniel and the man with eight days to live have wheeled inside for naps. I am no eagle, says Moses. God forbid such a thing. The clan of raptor is a mean clan. Their minds are small. Their horizons are meat. They take pride in their violence. They tear and shred each other with no regret or compunction. Their hearts are limited. They have no sense of time. They have no perspective. They have no past and no future. They are never sad, having no past to mourn and no future to fear, but they are never happy. They glower and snarl. They live for blood. What kind of life is that? They glory in power. What kind of life is that? They have no humor and their affection for their children is measured out in meat. What kind of life is that? Whereas my tribe is motley and chaotic. My tribe is dense and tumultuous. We argue and tease and wrangle and goof and fly upside-down. We are brilliant and stupid. We are lonely and livid. We lie, we laugh. We are greedy and foolish. Sometimes we all sing together. We tease dogs. We can be cruel but never for very long. We just can’t sustain it. If we could sustain and organize our cruelty we’d rule the world. But what kind of life is that? We all fly home together at the end of the day. We have no kings. We have no outlaws. We have no ranking. We have no priests. We have no status. Age confers nothing in our clan. Size confers nothing. We have no warriors. We have no beauties. That’s just how it is. We all look the same. Our stories go on all day long. We remember everything. Our life can be maddening. It gets loud. We never agree on anything. We bicker. We play jokes. We take chances. I have often taken refuge with your tribe just to escape the hubbub of my tribe. Your tribe is better able to be alone. Lots of you are alone. Lots are lonely too. The old nun who raised me, who saved me from death in the mud, my dearest friend, she was alone and sometimes lonely, but she fought loneliness with calm ferocity. She was a most remarkable woman. You look like her. She was a most remarkable creature. You have the same eyes. It is remarkable. Is her soul now in your body? I do not fully understand the ways of human beings. They are a curious and remarkable tribe altogether. They are capable of anything. I know that much. They are a constant surprise to me. They are a constant surprise to themselves also. They appear to live in a state of constant amazement. This makes them refreshing and infuriating. But there is a greatness about them sometimes. More perhaps than they know. Or a capacity for greatness. More than they know. It’s confusing but I know this to be true. I have learned that much in all these years.
25.
The man who beats his son goes to the priest to see if there is some way he can stop beating his son. I don’t want to hit the boy, he says. I hate myself when it happens. I love that boy. He’s not really a boy anymore. He’s a young man. I love him dearly. He’s never had a mother. I’ve tried to do everything. I am all balled up inside. I have a dark place inside. I don’t know what to do. Can you help me? I can’t go on like this. He can’t go on like this. What can I do? I am afraid. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of losing control. I have nothing but Nicholas. If I lose Nicholas I don’t know what I would do. Maybe I am so hard on him because I am afraid of losing him. He’s going to leave the house soon, I know it. That’s okay. That’s natural. That’s normal. I know that. That’s good for him. He’s a young man now. He’s very strong. He’s a bright boy. He’s a gentle boy. I think of all the blows I have rained on him and I am ashamed. I am mortified. I lose my temper. There are days I can’t look at myself in the mirror. There are days I hate myself. He’s all I have. He’s all I’ll ever have. I clean fish for a living. I smell like fish. I have to let him go. I know that. I just want him to be okay. I have to learn to trust him. I have to let him live his life. I have to let him leave. It’s okay to be alone. I don’t mind. I like being alone. It’s okay to be alone. It’ll be good to hear from him sometimes. Whatever he does. Maybe he’ll go to college. Maybe he’ll get a job. Maybe he’ll stay nearby. Why would he though? Probably he hates me. Certainly he hates me. How could he not? Sometimes my mind is unclear. Sometimes I have to sit down. I love that boy. I want everything to be okay. I want him to be all right. I love that boy. Can you help me?
The priest wants to say something wise, wants to say something piercing, wants to reach across the table where they are sitting in his kitchen and hold the man’s face in his hands, the man’s heavy face, the faint smell of fish and ice, the man’s salt and pepper hair, the faint smell of fear and love, the man’s heavy bowed shoulders like the shoulders of a bear, the faint smell of his loneliness and pain, the sleeves of his red sweater poking out from the sleeves of his blue coat, which he would not remove, but the priest can bring no words to his lips, nothing easy or facile comes to mind or mouth, yet he knows his moment is at hand, a heart is gaping open in front of him, his work is staring him in the face, so he reaches out wordlessly and cups the man’s hands in his hands, and brings up one word from deep in his throat, up it comes flashing and struggling like a silver fish from the murky green sea: Yes.
26.
On Saturday Sara and Michael and the girls, three of them if you count the one in Sara’s womb, have breakfast together, waffles and jam and peanut butter, and peanut butter gets all over the table, but just as Michael is about to growl at the younger girl who made the mess she bursts out laughing with such a peal of hilarious clear clean unadulterated unmodulated unselfconscious artless merriment that he has to grin, and then he takes the two girls to the beach for the morning, it’s low tide and they can piddle and putter and puddle in the tide flats, digging for mole crabs, screaming at the occasional scuttling scuttering Dungeness crab, trying to catch the infinite number of half-inch transparent mottled fish of no determinate gender or species, and Sara cleans up the peanut butter and then she goes for a long walk, along the river and then through the woods on the path where Daniel flew off, and then suddenly, without forethought, as she passes the Christies’ house, the one with the mammoth statue of a logger in front, cut and carved by George Christie as a monument to his former profession, a dying way of life, as he says, an American subculture worthy of preservation but ignored by everyone, he says, a crucial art and craft and labor of this region but no one cares, he says, we had our own language and manner of dressing and sense of humor and it’s all gone now he says, and as Sara prepares to knock on the door he yanks it open and he actually is saying these things into the telephone, some newspaper guy is interviewing me, he says to Sara, hang on a second here he says to the phone, what can I do for ya? he says to Sara.
Is, is Anna home?
Out back by the river, follow the path, he says to Sara, no, not you, he says into the phone.
Sara follows the path through fern and Oregon grape and salal and elderberry, alders leaning over the path protectively, and when she gets to the river she looks for Anna but doesn’t see anyone, and the path just stops, so she steps closer to the river, looking both ways, and then what appeared to be a rock moves, it’s actually Anna wearing a hooded brown shawl, and the two women look at each other silently.
My name is Sara, says Sara.
Anna says nothing. The river sings.
You don’t know me, says Sara, but I heard you sing years ago and I never forgot it. You were amazing.
Anna says nothing. The river mutters.
I know you sang with orchestras and operas and things.
The river hums.
I have sort of a favor to ask.
Deep basso notes from the river as it rolls rocks.
I’d like to learn to sing. Like you do. Well, not that well, but the way you do. Beautifully. Real singing. I want to surprise my husband. He loves opera, and I …
Which operas? says Anna, her voice
rough from disuse.
Tosca.
What else?
Just Tosca, really. That’s his favorite opera. He only has that one tape in his car. He listens to it all the time.
Anna says nothing.
I’d like to take lessons is what I mean, says Sara. Voice lessons. I don’t have much money but I thought I could trade work for the lessons. I could clean your house. Or work your garden. I have two daughters and they could work with me.
Anna says nothing. The river sighs.
It’s a lot to ask but it would mean an awful lot to me.
Is this for you or for him? says Anna.
Well, says Sara, startled. It would be a gift for him, I guess. I’d like to surprise him. But I—I’ve always wanted to sing. Sometimes when I am alone I sing. I would never sing in front of anyone else, but I sing alone.
Sing, says Anna.
Now?
Yes.
What … should I sing?
Sing the river.
The river?
There’s a high voice and a low voice in the river, says Anna. Those are the easiest to hear. There are a lot of voices in the water but those are the easiest to pick out. Sing the high voice. Find that note and just sing that note. Follow that note with your voice. Listen.
Part of Sara wants to bolt back up the path but she takes a deep breath and listens to the river and after a minute yes indeed she hears the high tone in the water, maybe it’s the edge of the river where it spins along the patient shore, that’s where the high pitch comes from, and the low tone is in the middle, over the thrumming rocks, who knows, no one knows, there seem to be a lot of tones once you really listen, and then Sara opens her mouth and starts to sing, and she sings in and around the high tone, playing with it, and Anna rocks back and forth and the river sings and Sara sings and sings, and afterwards, when she is walking home along the river, she is rattled and elevated and not quite sure what just happened, she thinks maybe she heard three voices singing, and as she gets close to the house she does hear three voices singing, it’s the love duet by Cavaradossi and Tosca in the opening act of Tosca; Michael is singing Cavaradossi’s part and the little girls are singing Tosca’s part together.
