I had heard words of censure about this little place, and at last we were told that it was just ahead of us. To be sure it is just a handsome old Colonial residence and not prepossessing in comparison with the others. And it may be my entire loyalty, but I thought it was just too nice for anything. There is a drawback in that no one is around who appears to have to do with affairs except the colored servants. But we met Mr. Walter Lennox, the Secretary of the New Jersey Commission, who made us feel very much at home and showed us the rooms—banquet room and sleeping apartments—which are not open to all visitors. Of course the first thing we Jersey girls did was to devour the register.
("Crystal rocks?"—"I think that was over in the Horticultural Building. She described it for the Democrat: a pyramid of tropical vegetation in the center towering up to the glass dome, and grassy knolls with fountains and pools; and avenues; and orchids from Short Hills; and under the pyramid a pint-sized model of the Crystal Cave in South Dakota—that’s the labyrinth in the headline.")
It sounded proper, like her report of the light show one night over the Lagoon with one building after another illuminated with hundreds of electric lights, and the searchlight making the water throw gold sparks, and something called "The White City" there in the dispatch but she never talked about it or much about the Fair, Susan B. was there to visit the Women’s Building displaying handicrafts and Mary Cassatt’s mural of modern woman "plucking the fruits of knowledge and science," Margaret declined an invitation to attend the opera in Milwaukee because she had only just met the people who asked her, who were from Madison, Wisconsin and had an Irish name: a vivid correspondent but then in the next weeks an errant daughter. But the white city under the lights fulfilled "the most alluring dreams anyone ever had, with John Philip Sousa’s band playing dreamy Spanish airs, and, later, car after car passing with people hanging on like swarms of bees." ("I can see them." "Bless you, baby, so can I—one foot on, one foot off. T hear Mark Twain is here, but no one has seen him, which is hard to imagine,’ she wrote, I remember. Do you know, she gave a full account of Coxey’s friend’s reincarnation theory: chemistry came into it, and Christ, and Congress too. Newspapers aren’t what they were, thank God, but Easter 1894 the New York Herald gave a thousand dollars worth of clothing to the Coxey marchers though I happen to know one of the California hoboes named Jack London did not wish to change his clothes.") But she really went West, you know, and Florence got sick after they spent a day at the Cudahy Packing Company in Omaha, visiting one thousand hanging carcasses, and the man who gets five dollars a day for sticking ten hogs a minute (a job which in some states disqualified a man from serving on a murder jury), and the children packing smoked meats, and the process of making butterine mostly out of tallow to which is added some small amount of real butter and the small amount of white waxy waste left after the golden mass got pressed from it was used in chewing-gum factories and Margaret reported (!) the only thing not utilized in the whole plant was the squeal of the hog—and what happened then isn’t clear except two other New Jersey people persuaded Florence to go home with them and Margaret remained with a family in Omaha for two or three days more. And then, incredibly, she kept on west. ("She must have had something amazing in her to go away across the country like that—Victorian girl correspondent." "Or she was homing on something amazing she wanted to get. Long skirts, hat—you ought to see the photograph of her on a bicycle I have—she might have bicycled the Colorado trails!" "No.")
Oh she came back; but she went to Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico, well I told you we don’t know where all she went. It’s in the dispatches. ("You mean you haven’t read them all? I guess I can understand that, Jim— Jim, dear.")
Margaret had her own stories when Jim was eight, ten, eleven, twelve. ("You don’t pretend to know much, do you? with your Taney decision of ‘37 and your Amboy Railroad"—"and the Midway Plaisance at the Chicago Fair if we can come back to it, where according to her report she saw the Cairo Street with donkeys being ridden by Americans, and a Dahomey Village with fifty mud huts and grinning natives with next to nothing on and a witch doctor who cured rheumatism by cutting a slit down your back and rubbing powder in it—" "—in her long skirt and her hat . . .")
Stories she told were something else, and this girl Barbara-Jean hardly interrupted except in some mental way during two sudden fragments offered during dinner before the movie, before the night, before this morning shower of love geysering down from pipes that otherwise rose up from far below, except to say she was disturbed by a feeling of . . . traces, the word just came out—traces—traces in him like a grain giving off vibes (sorry), some Thing that’s, some Power that—I sound like Total Woman—you’re not aware of it—it’s—
Was it animal, vegetable, or mineral?
Well, since he asked, it was more mineral, but speaking; and it was acting at long range.
A few voices ask inside Mayn, So what’s to be gotten out of this?—all this matter of Chicago tipping westward and the rest?
Answer: The reason why two places there in the shower (New York shower; New Mexico plateau) laid upon each other a congruence that wasn’t bad at all, unlike the reason behind that merely mental union—a late-model shower head that has taken James Mayn, and others in his recollection, from the future (whoever happens to be with him in the cube of the future) and has done what is done to the two of them by what the shower head at once reminds him of and foreshadows, both; and as the void fades, a porch-rooted father, his own, is saying, ‘77/ tell the world" and that nowadays you get one for the price of two. The son’s earth-odored flame of anger sprouts only in the rest of the body, not in mouth or eyes, and later he remembers this—this ore.
But they fade apart, the girl breathing, Mayn breathing, the girl asking, "Do you ever get high?"—he answering, "I get drunk sometimes, but intentionally." "Do you feel there are things you remember only when you’re . . . ?" "I do." "Because when I was drowsy this morning before we got in the shower, I started remembering the time I was half asleep, really a long time ago, Cape Kennedy." "Too long ..." "Yes, but I didn’t mean that; I meant that you were talking in the dark and I saw your face; why was that?" "Guess it happens." "Very funny. I think it was about Chile, I know it was, but I think it was someone from Chile; and you talked on and on, and I saw you being tossed over your own shoulder: why was that?"
You talk back to her at the risk of an equal falling backward through the foreign arms of that Navajo windbag and that Albuquerque environmentalist woman into the cracked Earth whose storms tossed up Ship Rock into time, a wreck sailing its gray-blown iceberg through a landfall.
"I’ve got some jewelry from out there," she says naked and thoughtful in her bedroom; "the men make it mostly, the women are starting to do some, the poverty gets to look like landscape if your car is running smoothly; it was spring and I saw some dry-painting, the real stuff you’re not supposed to be able to see (perhaps that’s sad), and I wanted to pay the people and one man surprised me and took my money. You know how they mix charcoal and vegetable pigments, I mean isn’t that right?, on a background of buckskin or sand, so it’s sometimes called sand painting. It’s ritual, it’s a cure for sickness; when were you there?"
She wants to know about geothermal energy, what he knows about, just like a woman—tapping the Earth. Mayn remembers her all over again from Cape Kennedy, she has conviction. Oh she’s in a gap, she’s free, sharp, charitable, in place; will travel when she has to for her magazine and when she wants to, and she wants to know if the geothermal Navajo is in private business and has he dropped all the names he must have acquired—Spanish, European, Christian nicknames, and a secret war name (traditional)—she has a brilliant Bolivian cape, eats Japanese and vegetarian though is into brain parasites lately and may sometimes throw back (all these details of not-yet-knowing-her) the raw fish though they’re pretty when they’re served curled and nestled like white rose petals with beads of quince-colored roe in the middle like a bloom; shares the ch
eck but won’t make a fuss if she gets taken; plays squash; does the Plough but not the Headstand; studied physics and banking; broad forehead; plays Rolling Stones and the B-Minor Mass without being well-balanced. How is she so gentle, so accurate? She has avoided losing out. She’d know what to do in a Baptist church, hymnal in hand, or in a high church Whiskopalian. Or when a male neighbor’s thumping on her front door twice in an hour. She has nonetheless just let a second set of keys just appear on the pigskin knuckles of some gloves. How can she be so finely unconscious, naked here? His problem, not hers.
But if (she’s thinking)—look—fine if you’ve got a magma chamber a mile or two down full of molten rock swelling up through a break in the crust, even granting you could have when these sites are inactive volcanoes—and granted hot water under pressure way down there will stay liquid at much hotter than a hundred centigrade, maybe double that; and granted if you bring it up to the surface it’ll flash into steam which you can harness: still, what if there’s no water to work on? And where exactly were they planning (hoping, figuring, fixing) to drill?
He nears—no; hears—the Albuquerque environmentalist lady but in Mayn’s own words retelling to the Barbara-Jean girl in New York some sentimental passion for Zuni grandmas belied by efficiency and the long, taxing drive down through Gallup and its glittering pawnshops full of Indian silver and to Albuquerque. Oh I hear it in our wonderful air out here, Mr. Mayn, another airport poisons the air, wrecks the ears, and what of the Earth itself, Mr. Mayn?—"what of"? she is sounding Indian for God’s sake—I felt the Earth alive right there on my front seat this morning so I want to reach way down. My hands know. And I’m not especially religious, any more than selling time for TV-radio is my religion either, a woman has to have a job—I think we need gas—but the Earth is the Lord’s and the Earth is alive, so how can it listen to us if its drums are busted? Spider Man told the Earth Surface People a ringing in the ear signals death or disaster, and the Earth is one great ear that hears more than what you say; it hears what you mean. I don’t mean you yourself. Ray Vigil tells some of this: you’d be surprised. Everything got an explanation: the difference is you pick some things to not explain.
There’s a second, indefatigable wind the plateau ignores that passes through Ship Rock and Window Rock and crumbled (two centuries’ worth in two minutes) the stone ladder so three Pueblo women got stranded up on Enchanted Mesa when the men were out hunting, close to but not quite the story Ray’s father told him and he told Dina who told it to Mayn—who finds that Jean knows it already, even in his version simplified and alloyed with a certain hydrostatic compulsion: story of the Holy People below the Earth who once upon a time down there were driven by flood and that’s how they came up onto the surface. Like Spider Man and Spider Woman who taught Earth Surface People to weave, but many other Holy People do not speak, and many are not always friendly to Earth Surface People and must be given songs and dances, the Wind People and the Thunder People and Fringed Mouth and Coyote (listen a witch once impersonated Coyote so my own father fell off his horse that everyone told him not to herd sheep on and he wound up in Ship Rock hospital with concussion and delirium); and we cannot forget in terms of our growth potential that the Hero Twins did not kill off all the monsters, so the blood of the dead ones that is dried up into the lava you stand on is not all the blood of the monsters; likewise while the Holy People up here travel on the echoes of the flood and on the Big Screen of the Rainbow, and on the Superwatts of the reldmpago which is lightning in the language of Coronado who came seeking the Seven Cities that were gone by his time but held under the Earth for the future, and the Holy People as they move about now among the Earth Surface People that they created are helpful or dangerous for life is dangerous for it bends into other life, though full of natural resources which matter to the future of Navajo people, these spirits—these Holy People—travel on also shafts of the sun like the wind, you better believe it, for this is not just their speed, it is how they keep in touch with the Holy People who stayed below, yes, oh the professors down in Albuquerque and Tempe think they believe this, anyway some Holy People stayed below through the terrible flood while most of the Holy People rose to Earth Surface through a reed that soon became clogged with viscous, sandy noise, Jean, for the fear of death—there goes the door again—seeped down from above, and Spider Man taught that noise in the windpipe is one of the four signs of disaster—
—You’re not the type to tell this, but there’s a reason you’re into it and it’s not culture and it’s not hobby and it’s probably not insanity and it’s not copy you’re turning out—wait, there’s the door.
Well, those that rose became spirits, and those below have heated that ancient flood with elements given by the Sun, elements like, hell, why not electro-magnetism? until the time when a Navajo will come with a business sense and with vision and with roots deep enough below the dried blood of the monsters and will tap that energy source and bring all those stranded but worth-watching Holy People up to the surface so we’ll have more Spirit and a new time of gratitude between Earth Surface People and the Holy People and the Sun and Moon that ask one death each per day, and above all we will have a Navajo geothermal power source.
Navajo-Ute—get facts straight; think you can lean on the man at the other end of your wire to pick you up?, so it’s Navajo-Ute, you said yourself, didn’t you? Something for everyone. Male and female at the dividing line concentrating to keep the Earth from cracking, one knee, one thumb, one jawbone’s like another, even one tail if you don’t get down too close to the bone, but here she comes again like an intelligence orbiting you or you it, she with her knowledge, though knowing her only from our brief docking and recovery at Kennedy Space Center, I’m not inspired to pick an argument which is how the sexes got separated if not created according to Void’s Book of New Navajo—Is it that you’re Divorced Man who confused this with history like secretly getting religion? No, that’s not it. You were created after a geothermal super spat under the Earth so the sexes ceremonially separated. Then the females of the Holy People bore a series of monsters whom it thus became necessary to murder, lynch, subject to a "rolphing"—which the erstwhile editor of the Democrat tells his son meant lynching in 1934 when it was not Indians as a century before but Negroes—eliminate, waste, blow them away, or, as an interested party, ask for their death. So here came the Hero Twins to do the job with a minimum of words and a maximum of lava stamping so hard the plates down deep in Earth’s crust came apart and magma from Earth’s mantle gurgled, welled, bent upward. But where did those old twins come from?
From Changing Woman, Mr. Mayn, explained the Albuquerque environmentalist lady Dina, sure I’ll have another Manhattan, but we should eat and I have to call my husband—
So here came the Hero Twins to do the job, but go way back before the power of this Earth we saw today began to suffer erosion, before breaking sound barriers had to be noisy instead of just a slipping through between, if you see, and we find First Man and First Woman who I think must have created the universe together, but the Navajo don’t say so though what they think is anybody’s guess and might be something else.
No, lady, we think First Man did the job. But don’t sell First Woman short, Mr. Mayn, for she was right there behind him like a shadow that wheels off the south corner of Ship Rock even much later when Earth Surface People learn how to tap the oil, the vanadium, knock power out of a rock, and if I can’t give you this blue-green silk shirt off my back may I buy you a beer? —you know what they say about drunken Indians, and now it’s the anthropological chemists.
But Blessing Way, Mr. Mayn, you might be interested in coming here when they have the ceremonials. Blessing Way is the one that recalls the meeting organized by Changing Woman at which Earth Surface People most of them created by Changing Woman learned about horse and gila, yucca and the storms in the sky and how to use the wind without building magic carpets that carry their own vacuum cleaners you can’t switch off if your husband
is a TV sports commentator, Mr. Mayn, with his own plane and I should call him.
But Jean here on Election Day in New York knows stories—the same ones—our Indian heritage inspiring internal decor plus thought about native American history when natural resources become unnatural by excluding Us —and there’s Changing Woman, they say in the ceremonial that Changing Woman is young and beautiful, Miss Universe, and she has this fantastic home on the Western Waters, which is a prophecy of the coming of the Geothermal Spirit—
—Now you’re being facetious, Jeanie.
And since, Mr. Mayn, we are stopping (Dina of New Mexico had said), you can learn the word for gas—chidi bi to (‘‘car’s water"), they speak the language more than write it.
But, Dina, where did First Woman and First Man come from? That is, just to get my facts straight, did they sail in on Ship Rock?, this would have been when it was active. I can’t keep all this from getting practical.
Women and Men Page 41
