TIN SOLDIERS
Boot Hill, Nebraska, U.S.A. (1991)
* * *
Boot Hill, Nebraska, U.S.A. (1991)
Past the heat-seared road weeds, past the Tomahawk truck stop, I found the magic barrier crossing which once had filled me with awe and exaltation so many years ago when I left the east forever (so I'd thought) by Greyhound; now it eased me, pleased me, but could not help me anymore. It was the line between east and west. At first it was just a jaggedly wavy gray-gray horizon; then it doubled, dark purple from cloud-shadow; the same dark purple I once saw in Gallup, New Mexico. All had to cross that line, and when they did, it changed them. In the white convertible ahead were two white-helmeted soldiers. The one on the right kept saluting. When we got closer I saw that he was a girl whose long locks snapped and fluttered below the white suncap; she kept stretching her arm out as if to catch more than her share of the harsh hot sunlight. Then we got a little closer, and I saw that she wasn't a girl at all, just a pimpled boy with long greasy hair, smirking and elbowing his brother the driver, smoking cigarettes; it was to flick the ashes that he stretched his arm out. Then we drew level with them, and I saw that he was an epileptic, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolled back; in his hand a tightly rolled strip of white paper that his fingers could neither squeeze nor drop. As we passed them, he winked. Then I realized that he was only on some drug.
We'd crossed the line. We were all in the west now. Looking back at the white convertible, I saw how a leathery expressionlessness like something out of a sleazy cowboy novel had molded itself over the pimpled boy's face; he'd become a Westerner once more, his amoebic freedom gone until the next time he went east. I was reminded of the way that Boot Hill's cracked and white-stained iron-gray boards leaned hard in the hot-packed dirt. W M COFFMAN SHOT 1875. Mrs. Lillie Miller, since petrified, was surrounded by black fence, cracked dirt and junipers. A single black-eyed susan grew by the new houses (one driveway held a canvas-covered boat). They'd crossed the line. A barely legible stone said UNKNOWN COWBOY 1883. The unknown cowboy in the white convertible behind tipped his hat, massaged his pimpled cheeks, and yodeled: Yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiouuuu dippy-dippy-dooayheeyooooooooooooooooooo!
FOURTH OF JULY
Pacific Palisades, California, U.S.A. (1992)
* * *
Pacific Palisades, California, U.S.A. (1992)
Starfrosted balloons at the parade nudged the sidewalk people who'd drawn up bare knees like grasshoppers. The man in the white suit and the red vest raised his swizzle stick. He commanded his platoon of cymbals, trumpets and arms with full authority, except over Frieda. The parade marshalls turned the corner slowly, seated on top of their car in a successful campaign to outdignify the white lace umbrella with red and blue ribbons and the Rolex float; because it was one of those idealized beach days when the fences smelled like lemon wax; it was the emancipated day when the majority in their united wisdom emerged from double-garaged houses hidden behind roses to exercise their rights and interests—nay, vested rights, imperious mandates!—exercised them to the full amount of their recognizance, subject to the well-poised consent of the legislature. That was why the pink car with pigears rolled slowly, conveying the senator and his lovely wife. Next came the bagpipers, strutting, whirling their sticks, stern and solemn, staring straight ahead. Benign red faces in kilts beat the tattoo of liberty under liberty, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the city councilman in the skyblue car with the two American flags who led the seablue car followed by the horses and other well-intentioned persons; the councilman had read the manual on how to attain and lose happiness.
The councilman leaned down and half whispered to his chauffeur: You know what Frieda kept saying? We were darkness once.
The chauffeur coughed politely.
Frieda and Priscilla had come that morning when the councilman was inexpertly ironing his necktie. (At that moment the chauffeur was still playing catch with his son.)
Is there any luggage that I can help you with? the councilman said.
No, said Priscilla. Can't you see that we didn't bring anything?
He showed them upstairs to the guestroom where Priscilla used to sleep when she was little. On the wall hung an old stick-figure drawing of Frieda's which Emily had framed. Priscilla turned it to the wall. Frieda got the bunk bed. It was the first time he'd seen Frieda since the bad thing before the other bad thing had happened.
I really appreciate this, Frieda said. Especially right before the parade and all. You know, I got into some sort of strange circumstances or I wouldn't be here.
Oh, sure, said the councilman heartily.
Are you going to wear a dark costume? she said slyly.
Well, now, Frieda, I guess that depends.
The necktie was ready. Priscilla came into his room as he was tying it. It was red, white and blue.
That looks really stupid, she said.
I'm trying to get votes, he explained.
I want you to watch Frieda for half an hour while I fill a prescription for her, said Priscilla. And listen for the phone. She'll try to call one of two places—either the cemetery office, or else a cab to go there.
The cemetery office!
Priscilla was turning the picture face-out again.
Do you mean where Emily is buried?
Look, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't an emergency, Priscilla said.
I could unplug the phone, the councilman offered, determined to disregard her spitefulness, there being, after all, no victory that he could gain over her anymore except the one, by definition unacknowledged, of self-restraint.
Would you be so good as to do that? Priscilla said very formally.
Even as a child she'd been both severe and pompous. Closing his eyes, he saw Emily helping the small girl into a new white dress, trying not to smile while the girl gave her a lecture on how to fasten buttons. She'd loved Priscilla, who now went into the bathroom. The councilman checked his necktie again in the hallway mirror and, sighing, stepped into Frieda's room. That sad individual was biting her nails. A traffic helicopter overflew the house, so that the windowpanes buzzed, and Frieda began to laugh, her face still in her hands.
Do you have an ashtray? she said abrupdy. I have a headache. My mind has been hurting for a long time.
How long? said the councilman very agreeably, watching the summer morning pour down the sides of buildings.
Three eons. Since before Auntie died. That's why I want to work on my writing now. On my scientific theories.
Oh, said the councilman.
They're cosmic, she said, rather defensively. They're about darkness.
The councilman went to the bathroom to comb his hair one more time and make sure that he still looked good because the chauffeur was coming. Then he thought about Emily. He did not care to think about her right now. He did not want to think about Priscilla or Frieda or the parade, either, but he had to. He closed the door.
Priscilla was knocking. He hated her. He took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, put his glasses on, checked his tie in the mirror, and opened the door.
Where's Frieda? Priscilla said.
She's not in her bed?
No.
They went into the other room and stood looking at the empty bunk. The window was open.
She must have gone down the fire escape, said the councilman. Is she suicidal?
Not at this point, I think. She was excited to come here because she remembers Auntie. But I really don't know. She's changing quite fast right now.
Has she done this before?
This is the second time. I've got to do something right now.
Me too, said the councilman coolly, seeing the chauffeur pulling up.
Ladies and gentlemen, our Citizen of the Year.
The reviewing officer waved everyone along, the four horses pulling the Wells Fargo stagecoach, teenagers on top waving to the old people in their sidewalk chairs, the dog on the leash. The Citizen of the Year didn't fall off the back of his chair
.
And now, isn't that wonderful! Three lovely ladies!
The councilman looked, and did not know which ladies were meant. He was in the parade now. Were they the clown girls stabbing, winking and whistling while the girls on the sidewalk grinned in wonder; or the women in sunhats sitting together on the bumpers of cars; or the girls in baseball caps and bikinis, girls of the blue-gray sea, blue-gray mountains, girls of the palmtrees like lollipops, girls of the cars and boats? He checked his tie. Then he saw Frieda in the back of the red car, which was bright as the skin of a carbon monoxide corpse. A woman in a skeleton costume sat beside her, waving an American flag at the crowd. — That lady's out to lunch, he thought. This is the Fourth of July, not Halloween. Oh, well, what does it matter? He wanted to let Priscilla know about Frieda, but she was searching at the cemetery as far as he knew, and meanwhile the Chamber of Commerce's President named the Youths of the Year, who seemed to be a pimply couple waving between stars and American flags. He'd never seen them before. A baby stretched out her hand at the councilman and he smiled and waved at the indifferent young mother. The chauffeur drove in silence, watching the speedometer, which read three miles per hour. The councilman wanted to check his tie again, but didn't. He kept looking for Frieda but all he could find was an old man bowing from a strawberry Ford, bowing toward the sea down between the trees.
Frieda! Frieda! he heard Priscilla scream. Oh, my God!
Looking right and left, the councilman saw sea air and sailboats.
Then among the quick low buttock-sweeps of cars and all the exhaust flavors, a girl's hair was curly like ferns blooming from the back of her crash helmet. It was Frieda. She grasped the skeleton's waist with one hand, the back rail with the other. Her arms were stained with dirt. Speeding in her pink shirt, she shrank into the palm of the afternoon. The councilman saw Priscilla in an Impala, chasing her. She'd almost caught up with her. The councilman saw her white sneakers, her tanned calves as she straddled the dark wheel, leaning with her hips and behind. Then he saw someone else's hand in the window of a Volkswagen Rabbit, and on the freeway the other cars gathered about her like chesspieces. Far ahead into the smoggy hills, the red tail-light winked underneath her once more, and then the grayness of other cars drowned her.
Hours after the end of the parade, Priscilla returned alone.
Lifting up Frieda's pillow, he found a sheet of paper, which read:
If I have to suffer then you are the cause. I have just as much of a claim on Auntie as you, maybe more because Priscilla says you murdered her, not that I believe her because she is also a murdering bitch but if anyone killed Auntie it must have been you because she always loved me not you. As soon as you married her she started to die. If you'd just left her alone she would have lived forever and married me. But no you couldn't live alone you murdering sonofabitch you had to have your Emily. Well don't think I can't marry her even now. I have the science to bring her back. If you need somebody why don't you latch onto Frieda because I don't want her and her blood is poison. There's darkness all around you. I'm going to find your wife.
I'm not surprised, said Priscilla later. My sister was very fond of Auntie.
THE ANGEL OF PRISONS
San Bruno, California, U.S.A. (1992)
Phnom Penh, Cambodia (1991)
Mogadishu, Somalia (1993)
Coral Harbour, Southampton Island, Northwest Territories, Canada (1993)
Bangkok, Phrah Nakhon-Thonburi Province, Thailand (1993)/span>
Wailea, Maui, Hawaii, U.S.A. (1993)
* * *
County Facility for Women, San Bruno,
California, U.S.A. (1992)
Birds and poppies outside, meadows and fences inside; and that wasn't inside yet, not after the gate security check, not inside the black double doors (opened by intercom), nor the gray and white tiled anteroom. This was the "pre-release facility"—another little sneer of optimism to enliven the Angel's report; no doubt they'd name a womb the "pre-birth facility" if they could, but what about babies who were born dead? — Because there were no bars, this jail was also called the "open facility." It was about as open as its "modesty curtains" were modest. The southeast sally port led into a long clean corridor that smelled of paint.
The basic design concept is there's a center and the cells are off the center, the officer explained. What we're trying to use is internal controls, positive reinforcement. We're trying to effect a behavior change.
Why not? laughed the Angel.
The control room was high and square, with windows all around, slanted down onto the halls and the cement floors where the women sat at picnic tables or lurked in their open cubicles. The ones in orange jumpsuits were low-level felons. The ones in yellow were awaiting sentencing. The ones in blue had received clearance to go outside. There was an odor of carrots.
That one, the Angel said.
I seen you up there, said the hunky girl in yellow with the pursed lips.
Do you know where you are? the Angel said.
Sure.
Why are you here?
Somebody called somebody's mama dirty.
That's right, said the Angel. That's finished you. And do you remember the darkness when you died?
I dreamed I been walkin' on worms . . .
That was when they buried you. That was when they shoveled the earth over your eyes.
The air gits so thick around here.
You'll get used to it. After your skull is fully exposed, you won't mind the shortness of breath. Maybe you'll get to like the noises that the rats make when they go by. But the darkness . . . Well, it takes time to learn to see in the dark.
Naw, it don't really git dark at night, the girl said. They have to keep the lights at a certain level. If they don't, people start talking or someone might git a seizure or something. Anyway it don't matter. The longer you're here the more sleepier you git, 'cause you git to do more activities.
And are you ready for your final judgment?
I go to court the thirty-first. I'm fightin' goin' to this drug program. They're tryin' to make me do this year plus eighteen weeks. And I told em y'all must be out of y'all fuckin' head. I'm on three years' felony probation. Anything over two bags is sales. They dropped it to possession 'cause I'm a user. You never know what that Judge is gonna do. He got some shit in His cornflakes you don't know what He gonna do.
I'm glad you know that. So you figured out that there's a worse place than this.
Yeah. Yeah, I know that, Mr. Angel. You're not the first social worker told me that. You know, that other social worker really pissed me off. He said to me: I see a lot of discomfort in your soul. — So why does he say that?
I don't think you should be worrying about that. What you ought to be doing now is remembering your life.
Everything is ought around here.
Your only hope is to understand what got you here, the Angel insisted.
They just picked me up on the street down here.
They just picked you up, did they? My. Through no fault of yours?
I been in the hospital fifty-one days. I didn't know I had a bench warrant. They said: You know you got a warrant, Miss Tompkins. — My probation officer is an asshole. He's just automatically assuming this is a habitual offense. Please don't try it. 'Cause I can git fucking ignorant. Fuck him and feed him fish. He's one of them fucking niggers that want to make a name for himself.
(For a long time the Angel stared into that yellowpale, lined resentful face. He faced her inimical lizard-eyes. He watched time stain that pale and aging face, that pale tongue. She mumbled with her snaggle-teeth.)
And what's in your name? the Angel said.
My name don't mean nothin'. You can see I'm wearin' the yellow.
And what's in your sin?
My sin don't mean nothin', neither. Like I said, it depends what side of bed that Judge gits up on.
And you think that's wrong?
'Course it is.
The Atlas Page 37
