Having said the syllables—Simultaneous Reincarnation—Mayn found them generally applicable like a lot of fairly equal units in an articulate structure and—on his way to dinner with his old friend Ted who, full circle, though not looking well, was with AP again though glad not to be packing one of their computerettes to file his stories into, whence at twelve hundred words a minute one of the new high-speeds prints "out" far and wide your likely less than twelve hundred words, hence less than minute waltz—Mayn had no one but his same old self (if entertained) to tell that at the thought plus the thought that Larry’s Modulus was maybe bigger than the both of them and getting Jim now if not to the Century, where Ted kept his dues up because he admired the famed Drew (but-twice-perhaps-a-year-encountered) Middleton even beyond his gifts as a raconteur—getting Jim at least from this alarming Simultaneous Reincarnation with Grace to those more innocent heartfelt ancient times with Mayga barside, when Brad became Jim’s brother by losing half his brotherhood to a scandalous secret, and the wind his poor mother carved, damn her, damn damn damn her, curved by whim of some swerved splinter in the groove of her unwed brain, took him no less straight away from home as she had either ordered or predicted—a home so real it got nicknamed secretly by Jim and his grandmother—yes, and Margaret at that moving moment of Brad’s Day became, if temporarily, only his grandmother by losing her credibility as a historian "reporting in" with odds and ends coming terribly maybe true within the old tales, for what about that Navajo Prince’s mother coming out of death to life when the son left her?—and had he ever returned home? (for we did not absolutely leave him camped by a river ‘neath the threatening protection of that unprecedented cloud), the stories didn’t get finished by Margaret (Jimmy, if not Margaret, cut them off in ‘45), nor by him, Mayn, in later days with his drab and other modern amendments such as trying to figure what the "plant growth" was that Margaret once said Marcus Jones thought he had to use (we mean, botanical process) to explain the development of (pistol-related) Mena’s unprecedented moon-white mouth—but losing something of her credibility at the cemetery and on the porch, for she’d said, "My heart"—my heart—when she would never speak of her daughter like that, would she?—she wasn’t tender with her, though with Jim’s aunt in Boston she wasn’t either, yet was she tender with Alexander?—for she had him, and she had, to confess the truth, Jim (did Indians really say "How"?)—but the porch, the porch, a muddled not quite nice riddle came across those kid stories for a time, for what was Margaret crying about on the porch that night?—’cause she didn’t ever cry, and hadn’t there often been "a mumbling of the eyes" (as Mena that other night on the desert floor with Marcus translated a fugitive insight of Sequoya’s), a looking unclearly each at each between Jim’s grandmother Margaret and her daughter Sarah?, but you might have thought that that night when Jim secretly observed Margaret and Alexander on the back porch Sarah was still dying, strangling in waters so deep and cold they preserved you (also you, from ever putting her out of mind, though by the direct route from Windrow or the circuitous, no doubt, inertially sideways-slipping flight route round the world that you must have pretty well taken a few times on business you never stood again on that beach, that sand, from where those older green deeps of water were harder to believe in than a black, icy plummet from the brink of a mountain quarry in the Berkshires)—and not only the night porch but the cemetery: what had that meant? He had sometimes made conversation with his father whom he had to admit he felt sheltered by, and while We many of us seldom in later years felt moved to visit Mel, once when with the children Flick and Andrew Jim let his father take them down to the shore while he Jim looked up his Indian classmate backfield rival Ira Lee, who no doubt like other Indians worked at the Fire Department; and once upon a time asked the author of that obituary so brief it flirted with the unspeakable, all that amazing grief was Brad’s own, so Jim could better fall forward into the obstacle of all space round Windrow leaving that full-blood behind him in that house mingling with time while Jim the other brother who’d been told to go away where he belonged presently did so—well, that is, upon graduation and after helping his half-brother carpenter a high-school Shakespeare set of different levels and a couple of trapdoors, and other formalities such as announcing he would stay clear of the newspaper racket (Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole? added Alexander and wondered where the expression had come from)—as far as—as far as— oh think of something—as far as your old Navajo Prince from (he joked) . . . but didn’t finish, for his grandmother didn’t appreciate his distaste for what had been a family concern even though her daughter, Jim’s mother, Sarah, would never have scribbled for the paper had Heifetz played in Windrow or Einstein at the ‘39-’40 World’s Fair or had she had a mother who in 1920 would have let her go gallivanting off—
—yet because in later years he would rather report business, industry, new Coast Guard meteorology functions, the specifics of a Sprint missile’s hard core even if, like an Edsel car, such facts shortly "obsolesced," or such human data as how an apartment house set up its own energy mill on its city roof, nuts and bolts reality, no more, he was peculiarly angry at the Spences of his business surviving on exorbitant "tips," inflated little payments for putting one source in connection with another source in the covert interest of gaining information that was to be sure news for coverage but for money-like leverage, too; but he was above starting something with Spence when Spence with stubble like sooty earth on his cheek, and chin like sand, chimed in with a question from bar’s end sparked by information he surely had never heard firsthand here, and one year or the next was heard to say, "You mean you had a cemetery with a race track on one side and a golf links on the other?" (Chuckling derision it was not, but allusive, invasive, pervasively collusive, so Thassright, Spence, thassright, thass what I said. Or, Spence was heard to say, "You mean your grandmother was honest-to-God pursued by that Indian eastward? How far, then? how far?" (Doubt it, Spence, doubt it.) Or, "You mean your mother left a note only for the owner of the boat?— and she said she was sorry this was all a terrible accident, that his boat was there and he was away?" (Forget it, Spence, you didn’t hear a thing; forget it.)
And so when he saw this very Spence—as trashy after fifteen years of off and on being within Mayn’s sights, as sleazily unaltered as some crum who was probably loved by someone, but who?, a love child!, there, that was it!, a love child, as Margaret had once called Mayn’s counter-brother (half-) Brad—Spence in close convjersation at the Press Site we hardly remember with the South American gentleman Mayn was interested in, so he felt his very body inclining to blot Spence from that night view of the white poised vehicle NASA’s vertically movable bridge three Florida miles off, but it came to him, the subject having been fatally on his mind (and he checked it out with his colleague Ted), that Spence was Lincoln reincarnate doing all the damned things that Lincoln could not let himself try doing, until Mayn laughed and asked what had ever happened to the President-elect’s dog, left with a neighbor in Springfield to be walked in the invigorating February chill, smelling near and far— Why that’s who Lincoln became, said Ted.
Mayn, we already remember, took his time and was not an interrupter, and Larry liked this when he told Mayn about the "Pseudosphere" and drew it like a personal horn for him—
like a little old-fashioned solid picture of other possible space but here a la high-school geometry but then Larry fell silent stunned that he’d confined himself to studying the pseudosphere as a graph showing the extent to which a surface bends, a graph of bending moments (!), when this garden-variety old Euclid-type image of other, far out geometries of space linked up (like capsules) in his mind with a backward-photographed relation between the growth of the nuclear mushroom and the wild gravity of that somehow highly personal obstacle the black hole. Well, Larry seemed slightly freaked. So Mayn mentioned the Russian laser whizzes who figured out a way to fire a ruby laser beam through a smearing lens and into methane gas or it could be one of the o
ther so-called non-linear mediums that are optically affected by light, like crystals and aerosols, and with this "phase"-something-or-other mirroring process get the light beam to come back like a time-reversed image with the distortions gone—which, fired and retrieved through atmospheric turbulence, could help us plot storms, and had uses in satellite weapon systems Mayn preferred not to think about. Mentioning these things, Mayn did not ask Larry why he accepted tacitly the Simultaneous Reincarnation label for maybe being in Two Places, voiced off the top of his head by Mayn himself, while for weeks he had never alluded to the future he might well have come from to judge from his onetime friend Mayga’s willingness to go along with it. But Mayn did ask, What do you mean "they disappeared," the two faggots in the hallway? to which Larry replied that he meant that they disappeared. Meaning? Mayn asked. Well, that Lar’s been accepting these urban phenomena lately. Maybe the space of the elevator reached out and took them (Larry grinned with one side of his face). Mayn was quite fond of him. He missed his own son. Larry let go some tears out of his eyes, his face was screwed up. Mayn had a vision and Larry put one hand across his eyes and got out some words of what he was feeling: "I wouldn’t rather live with her; I wouldn’t. I thought they got along pretty good, you know? I mean it’s O.K. with my father. Oh I don’t want her to come back. Oh ... ! No, I don’t mean that, I’m too old to say that; forget I said that. Maybe it’s who she’s with, another woman, like a mother—is that it? I want her to come back. But I don’t. That’s all. But I think she will." Larry is slowly, softly almost laughing, like not quite trying to throw up, and Mayn finds history right here.
Time to call a halt to falling forward, we know the voices have not stopped, back home in that place that, like founders, his grandma and he called Windrow, their name for the growing town; nor stopped in the Hermit-Inventor’s New York, nor the Harrisburg near where the Navajo Prince, increasingly real as he came eastward, encamped canopied by a cloud imbued with the lumens of a Moon barely there that night but implicit in the dawnlike fineness of ash comprising in fact the Anasazi healer’s humorous airborne remains, long before our current software’s hardware but not before our perennial software itself.
Mayn should not take Larry into his confidence. It might be dangerous. Larry did not need, moreover, to hear a middle-aged man confirming his own words from a past that could seem a future to the boy, though boy was not enough to call him. Nor should Mayn be father to the boy. He already had one, who could help him simplify his economics homework and take him to see Shakespeare Off Broadway and they’d discuss it on the way home— "Let’s walk; O.K., Dad?"
I didn’t want her to come back, was what Mayn the boy said to the spooky porch that absorbed two, three Margaret tears; and, once asked by his wife what his (apparently not very narrative) mother Sarah thought of all the grandmother stories, reported Sarah saying, Good God! I never knew any Indians.
But if he said, I don’t want her to come back, he also said: I don’t want them to find her.
He conceived of her standing right there on the beach that September day (when she was in fact long gone), awaiting a fugitive sub but herself turned invisible, yes by one magic that the Germans had at the last second salvaged from the lost War (for they did things, and proved that things had causes and then switched around and began with a cause and made a thing), salvaged through a woman leading a cadre of men and finalized a device for becoming invisible, say by an internalized meteorological focus of concentration kin to the destructive yearning of the continent to contain all the anger and hope of its tribes even if from New Mexico to Maine this yielded a mount of waste here and there that would need moving by a new geology.
Naturally it passed through Mayn’s mind—alternating current, direct, forget which is which—that his mother might have passed into another life and by some established route not died at all. Oh he never went back to that beach. Christ save us from the sentimental beachware of nostalgia, thank you. Yet wait a moment, fuck you, yes He will if we want save us. She wasn’t there, for why should she be? But neither had she been there on Jim’s secret September day in ‘45 when no one knew he was down at the shore; Jim’s no kook, no private eye, no mystic, none of the above or below; and no mother was there in spirit or intent, any more than on the day of her disappearance a few weeks previous when her family had not been there to say goodbye she had embarked by acknowledging only the owner of the boat she would always need in Jim’s mind, a boat exactly as present as the owner was not. But Jim knew it didn’t make the best sense, the sense which breathes from the soundest family histories. He knew. And knew, as well as he would ever know the statistics of what the corporations in question vowed they would only do to that giant foreign southwestern landscape of the Four Corners through flaying its cloak of (if you call that) vegetation—and knew as well as he would know that the dark-blonde woman Dina West, who "needed" him, she said, to help add to the evidence exposing the power companies’ surgery of the land (so exposed already under the vast, flat New Mexico sky we don’t just right off the bat think of their operational Enterprise as Private), did not need in the same way her husband and his radio station in Albuquerque for an instant of history coinciding with the appearance above it hanging still together of the plume from the Four Corners plant, a sign that the waste of parts may yield coherence of the whole; yet she was not coming on to Mayn when she let him take her (in her car, driven by her) past the turnoff for her Paseo and along the Sandia Mountain highway to a bedroom suburb you might call it if the land were not always taking over and surrounding us with distance and those distances of the sky’s horizon that you stop thinking about and without much ado join but a permanent change of mind if you could only lay your hand on it circling back to find it not quite there now (so you look up, you look down), and, within that pretty elegant trading post the bedroom suburb, an artists’ joint that Mayn had eaten green chili and soft, mellow chalupas in once and never forgotten when there was nothing to remember there where he thought you could drink a meal every other night if you were that caliber of artist until, in this conversation that was supposed to be about wasting environment, he just couldn’t see what the blonde was adding to the specifics he was already in possession of except, of course, within their vivid margins of number and compound one more brief life (hers) implicit in the reality and threatening to be like other stories, long before he heard from a new friend named Norma some of the same stories, more or less, fed back if not shunted via that central agency of information-sharing power Grace Kimball, which collected him more than he them, until, sipping her second straight-up margarita in sync with "your" waitress in a pearly shirt approaching from yet another corner of the woody place to try and take their order, his blonde environmentalist dinner partner with the husband with his radio station asked if Mayn was married—a question whose sense was the words he had said already to himself yet with the meaning What’re you doing here, guy?—until he heard the bottom line in her say with quiet exactness that Ray Vigil’s idea Indians’11 get into commercial geothermal (given the right rock somewhere—and not meaning the Indians working on the hot rock experiment at Los Alamos) was nuts because water was what they wanted, not money or innovations; and Mayn heard her say that she and her husband after twelve years had a good, good friendship and he had said any time she wants to go to Washington as lobbyist or, indeed, work on Interior Department people, he has connections for example with the cement industry, though probably she has plenty through the Bureau (of Indian Affairs) and the Council (Indian Youth)—
—and in some rush of faith so that she tapped her candlelit fingers on his wrist (the waitress tilted her head cheerfully at them and they decided on flan for the lady), he told her about a red convertible automobile equipped to negotiate a New Hampshire lake, and a tiny sailboat with Mayn’s two children sliding around this in fact man-made body of water slashing in close to the piny shore, sliding out toward a point where a whole lot of Indians got trapped by some other Indians and
incinerated like a fortress guarded by a meaningless moat—
—and you and your wife?
—they had loved and admired each other—
—ah; well people don’t get divorced only because of that—
—but he had left her.
Often? she asked.
Yes, he smiled.
For what?
He didn’t say, Business . . . or To prove we’re like other people (though the blonde lady said, Ouch, in the pause).
But we’ll probably . . .
Get back together again?
Now that you mention it, no; she is there year round now. We used to rent.
Mayn and the woman laughed with warmth and tension, in the knowledge neither was content to agree the reasons for separation were "usual" reasons, we all knew what they were (if you call separation without catastrophe real separation!), but in the evening of a day a year and more later, after he had elected not to take Larry into his confidence even in the quite other matter of a displaced, semi-incognito Chilean economist formerly of Dr. Allende’s full-employment, long-rooted, short-lived regime, he heard the woman’s voice in his phone receiver in the middle of the night and struggled off the peak edge of Ship Rock where he would have dreamt then (if he ever dreamt, but he did not) that he was, if her cheerful voice that brought him to that edge had not also woken him in the sharp, rainy light of a New York apartment he had once lived in and rented (and now clandestinely owned), she was in New York and in trouble, she thought, because of a man named Spence who had phoned to call himself an acquaintance of Mayn’s and to ask if she had spoken yet to Mayn’s daughter because their mutual involvement in coercing a western power company through the leverage of something called national technical means capability for verifying placements of missiles, could conceivably put them in jeopardy, and it was likely that Spence would ring her again.
Women and Men Page 107
