The Voice of Wild Places, page 19
Watt’s confusion softened, and a smile touched his lips. “Yes.”
“She wanted to go with him, to come here. But Percy said it wasn’t her place, that she wasn’t fit for it. And this is just one case of many, men telling women what they can or cannot achieve, that they are physically less capable. Too delicate. And yet, here I am. With a lame leg, to boot. It hurts like hell fire, but I’m here. Capable. But none of the credit will go to women, because I …” Cornelius trailed off, frustrated. He desperately wanted another cigarette, or better yet a drink. But his lungs were heavy with all the tobacco he’d already smoked that day, and his throat was drier than sandpaper. He'd been the one to ensure no alcohol had come along with them, and now he was angry with himself for it.
Watt studied him, brows drawn together. Slight wrinkles creased his eyes and mouth, and Cornelius became strangely fixated on them. He wanted to trace them, feel how deep they went. It was too early to tell what they were carving into Watt’s face, and the next few years of his life would determine whether they deepened into laugh or frown lines. Cornelius thought maybe they were leaning towards the latter, and he wanted to change that. But all Cornelius had done in his life was make people frown. Hell, Watt was doing it now.
Slightly baffled, Watt said, “But you aren’t a woman, Cornelius. Why should … ‘the credit’ go to them?”
Cornelius made a frustrated sound. He gripped his head with both hands. “I am here, but here?” His hands drifted downwards, grazing his throat, pausing meaningfully on his chest, then continuing until his hands came to rest in his lap. Voice rigid and angry, he said, “The physical proof they need is right here.”
Cornelius felt as if he could tear himself open right then, and abruptly realized he had. He was set aflame, even if the fire was several feet away from them.
In that slow way of his, Watt said, “I hear what you’re saying, but I think you’re looking at this wrong.”
Cornelius lifted his head to look at him. “Why?”
Watt scratched at the scruff along his jaw that had taken hold since Cuiabá, a much darker color than the hair atop his head which had grown, but lightened in color from bronze to gold. He said, “I don’t know, because how can anyone know who someone is without being explicitly told, but you may be the first … transvestite? I don’t know the right word, I’m sorry if that’s not right. But you may be the first American of that nature to go on an expedition into the Amazon of this magnitude. Isn’t that something worth claiming the credit for? And besides, there are women explorers. Hell, we’ll be meeting up with one soon, and you know many. Women are more than capable of forming their own stories without us men doing it for them, you know."
Watt said this last bit playfully, as if Cornelius had been saying otherwise. Cornelius stared at him, at a loss for words. For a few moments they said nothing. Cornelius reluctantly turned his gaze to the sky when he realized he’d been staring open mouthed at Watt for longer than appropriate. Two thoughts hit him.
Watt was right. And Watt was playing with him. Comfortable enough to. He wasn’t shocked by Cornelius’ question, or put off. He even sounded interested, like he’d been waiting to be asked this very question. Or perhaps more simply, any question at all.
Cornelius lifted a shoulder. “That word never really fit me. It’s … not about the clothes. Or not just about the clothes.”
Watt nodded. “Is there one? A word?”
Cornelius shook his head. “I don’t know. Man is fine enough for me.”
“Alright.” Watt rubbed at his beard again. “Can I … ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“When did you know?”
Cornelius’ fingers twitched, then relaxed. He glanced at the campfire, then to Watt. Their past temporarily superimposed on the now, of Cornelius telling Watt all those years ago how he felt, who he was inside. He said, “I … I was never a girl. Not in the way they were supposed to be. I was rough and played hard, asked too many questions and refused to be tamed. Mother said I’d grow out of it, that it was the hazards of growing up in the country. But I didn’t. When I got older, after I’d …”
Cornelius’ face heated exponentially. “Once my body started changing, I knew something was wrong. Off. Everything fit wrong, including my own skin. I hated to be seen in dresses, or seen at all. I didn’t know why, only that I was angry. I thought maybe it was the way women were treated, the expectations put upon them. But one day, when you were swimming in the lake with Jimmy …”
Watt startled a little, surprised to hear of himself. When Cornelius didn’t go on, Watt said, “What?”
Cornelius cleared his throat. There was no way around this. “During the last summer you visited, I—well. I thought it was a crush. I was just so fascinated by you, and in a way that was entirely like anything I’d felt before. And then that day at the lake came, and watching you swim I just thought … I don’t want him. I want to be him. Not you you, but … I wanted your life. I wanted to be a man.”
Okay, so he might have lied a little. But he couldn’t make Watt uncomfortable, not now. Although, by the rising color in Watt’s face Cornelius had already done that by tenfold.
“I remember that day,” Watt whispered, and his eyes glazed over with memories. “I almost didn’t get in the water. It felt wrong somehow, that you and your sisters weren’t allowed to swim. But you kept pestering me, telling me I wouldn’t get another chance to dip my toe in Lake Michigan. So I did.”
Cornelius grinned. “Me? A pest?”
Watt chuckled. “The most troublesome of them all.”
“Oh, calm down.” Cornelius bumped against Watt.
Watt bumped him back. They exchanged smiles again, then stared into the fire for awhile, digesting truth. Hesitantly, Watt asked, “And do you … like men? Is that why you were there, at that place?”
Cornelius should not have felt as blown away by that question as he did. Nevertheless, he replied with a quick and deflecting, “Do you?”
Watt’s throat clicked as he swallowed. He reached for the chain around his throat, running his thumb over the cool metal. The following silence was everything, and Cornelius shifted. Not away from Watt, just in place. The silence stretched on, and on, so Cornelius let it be. He felt sure of Watt’s answer now, and he didn’t want to pressure Watt into anything. Besides, he felt so hollowed out from doling out his own honesty that he was content to just exist side by side.
“There was a man in my regiment that I was fond of. It wasn’t … like that, but … we’d the City left together, stayed together through training and everything. He was the only one who seemed to really understand me, and didn’t mind that I didn’t talk very much. He talked enough for both of us, anyways. He was a storyteller, but his tales were simple. Apple picking on the farm upstate, chasing after cows and persistent younger siblings. I hadn’t heard someone speak with such vigor and life since … a long time. Of course the stories were for everyone, not just me. But we had our own … moments, I guess you could say. I’d always wondered about myself, and the way he looked at me sometimes I wondered about him too. And for the first time in my life there wasn’t someone telling me—”
Watt paused abruptly, sucking in air. And then, so quiet that Cornelius could hardly hear him, Watt went on. “I've always known that I didn’t like girls like that. Even when I was young. And my father knew, too. He tried to shame it out of me, beat it out of me. I still—I haven’t, Cornelius, but when I was with him, I wanted to. I thought about it, dreamed about it. Wrestled with myself over what to do, because there was this shine in his eyes when he spoke to me you know? And was it because he felt the same way I did, or was it all in my head? But I wasn’t brave enough, I couldn’t—”
Watt broke off, mouth closing so hard his teeth clacked. Cornelius’ heart ached for him, it really did. He was overcome with an intense desire to hug Watt, to hold him and tell him it was okay, that love had no bounds. But it sounded like maybe Watt was coming around to that truth on his own, and Cornelius didn’t think his word would mean much to Watt. Instead, he slipped an arm around him, resting his hand on Watt's shoulder. He gave it a gentle squeeze, and Watt released a mighty sigh that might’ve been a little choked.
“What’s his name?” Cornelius asked.
Watt closed his eyes. “Frederick.” After a moment he opened them again, and tears spilled onto his cheeks. “His name was Frederick.”
Was. Did Watt see him die? Or was he faced with a dead body, or perhaps worse yet, no body at all?
With his free hand, Cornelius reached into the space between their laps and curled his finger around Watt’s. It was his pinky finger, the one missing the tip. A story Cornelius had not yet heard. Watt did not startle. He smiled, a small and tremulous thing. He leaned against Cornelius and held his hand in return, just by the one finger, and they sat there together for some time in silence. Watt drifted off to sleep and Cornelius took up watch again, allowing the man to rest in his arms. He stared up at the sky, realizing he’d spoken to Watt about damn near everything under the moon.
Everything but the contents of Nina Fawcett’s letter.
He Knows
May 18th, 1930
Crossing the Paranatinga was a strenuous effort that demanded every ounce of thought and muscle that Watt had. He was glad for the distraction of simple labor, everyone was tired and quiet that morning which led to too much room for thinking.
They decided to ford the animals and supplies from one side of the river to the other, utilizing an area where the water was relatively low, but still high enough to reach their chests. Roots of scrub trees protruded from the reddish brown dirt of the steep river banks, exposing themselves in an effort to quench their thirst. The water ran quick enough to render it clear, and be a nuisance.
Guiding the mules on foot, Severino went first, followed by Cornelius, then Watt. Antônio remained, waiting for Severino and Watt to return for the pack mules. When Cornelius led his steed into the river, he nearly tumbled down the embankment and into the water. Thankfully the mule was steadfast and did not spook easily, providing Cornelius with a rigid source of support.
Of course he refused all offers of help, and Watt was helpless to do anything but watch the man struggle across the river. He’d thought it was because of the man’s leg, but when Watt made his own crossing he found the river bed was the type of silt that sucked at you, doing its best to drag you down, and the current was surprisingly strong. Watt and Severino returned for the other mules, and Antônio, and by the time they all got across a break was needed.
Shielded by the mules and shrubbery, the men stripped down and changed into fresh sets of clothes and boots. Watt’s cheeks were aflame the entire time, thus far they’d been able to change in relative privacy and isolation, but not like this. Needs must, however, when soaked to the bone. By the time he found a branch to hang his clothes on, Cornelius joined him fully dressed, his hair combed back and a lit cigarette pinched between his trembling lips. Watt hurried up and pulled a shirt on, but he could tell that Cornelius had already seen the ugly scar on his shoulder. His attention brought a burning phantom pain along with it, and Watt turned away to prop his wet boots upside down on a rock.
Cornelius did the same with his own boots, then hung his clothes beside Watt’s. After hanging up his trousers, boxer shorts, socks, and a shirt, he glanced Watt's way and smiled crookedly around his cigarette. “Your hair's long."
The tension eased in Watt's shoulders, and a smile escaped him as he withdrew his pipe. “You're one to talk.”
Cornelius leaned heavily on his cane, shifting closer to Watt. A bit more serious, he quietly asked, “Did you sleep alright?”
Watt lifted a shoulder, cheeks flushing as he recalled how exactly he’d fallen asleep last night. Held by Cornelius. He’d awoken to the man staring down at him, gaze intent and a tiny smile cresting his lips, telling him to go to bed before the others woke. What a sight.
“I think so,” Watt said, realizing he’d been staring at his companion for far too long without answering. “Thank you, for uh—” He coughed. “For talking to me. Did you? Get enough sleep?”
“Of course.” Cornelius chuckled softly.
They smoked tobacco and drank their canteens dry, then refilled them with iodine treated water from the river. Cornelius took pictures of Antônio by the river and spoke quietly with the man in Portuguese. Watt wandered nearby, pleased when he found several unique looking stones that he tucked into his pocket for later. It was a running joke among the others at this point, that Watt was carrying more rocks than gear, but he really wasn't. He limited himself to a dozen, trading out the small rocks with more interesting ones as needed. His eyes wandered, too, glancing over at Cornelius every now and then, unable to stop thinking about their conversation last night. He’d revealed his greatest secret, and Cornelius had easily accepted it. Him. Watt wasn’t sure why he’d thought Cornelius would do otherwise. Not because of his own nature, but because Cornelius had a heart. A good one.
It all had Watt rattled. Unsettled. He couldn’t help but read his companion's every move and expression, certain that Severino and Antônio had overheard their conversation, or that Cornelius was looking at him differently. That last part may not have been all paranoia.
Cornelius had said he’d had a crush on Watt … well, Watt from his youth, anyhow. Watt was not anywhere near the same person he was all that time ago, physically or otherwise. Too much had changed, broken. So Watt convinced himself that the look in Cornelius’ eyes this morning was not interest. In fact, he convinced himself that there was no look at all. He was overthinking.
Watt joined Severino who was keeping the mules and Maggie company. She was eager to continue on their journey, she’d crossed the river twice without complaint and still had enough leftover stamina for days, but settled for attention instead. He wasn't sure how the old girl did it, and a pang of guilt hit him. She should be in retirement lazing about their apartment, not laboring through the wilderness.
“Traidor.” Severino laughed when she managed to tug a stick out of his hands and dutifully delivered it to Watt when he approached.
Watt chuckled softly and tossed the stick into a patch of reddish brown dirt not far off. When he turned his attention back to Severino, he caught the man staring at his hand. Watt flexed his fingers and said, “Are we ready to go?”
Severino nodded, smoothly taking the hint. Man was too damn curious for his own good. “I am if you are. Or do you have more pebbles to fetch?”
Watt grumbled in response, unable to keep a smile from his lips.
They traversed through sparse grasslands which gave way to thickening trees at a steady pace, talking little. Cornelius couldn’t remember the last time he felt so exhausted. His body ached, and his mind was heavy. His mount seemed equally tired after the crossing, and Cornelius still felt bad for falling and clutching to her like he did. Embarrassed, too. His companions hadn’t any trouble crossing, and if they suffered beneath the strain of their trip they didn't outwardly show it.
He did his best to keep his mind off his body, which worked out fine as he kept thinking about Watt’s body instead. But not in the way he would’ve liked to be thinking about it. No, he was thinking about the bullet wound on either side of his right shoulder. He hadn't known that Watt had been shot. And then there were the scars on the backs of his hands. The missing tip of his left pinky finger, an injury Cornelius assumed occurred during war time. What happened to him during those days lost in the woods?
What he kept coming back to were the metal, circular tags hanging around his throat. He wanted to know why Watt still wore them, were they his own or Frederick's? Was he still in love with a dead man? Cornelius could believe it, Watt had a deep heart with enough love to fill the ocean. He bet the man was a romantic. And to lose someone so tragically, well. Nothing could beat a love story like that.
They arrived at the Simões Lopes Post by mid afternoon, covered in sweat and assaulted by insects. This part of the country was cerrado, dry prairie land. The Post was well organized with government buildings and the staff needed to run them, and fit with a local for the missionaries from the South American Indian Mission. They dismounted and met with the missionaries and the agent of the Indian Protective Services, all were friendly and welcoming. The men of God made Cornelius’ skin crawl, but he did his best to be grateful and polite. Afterwards, they were brought to the neighboring Bacairy Village itself.
Cornelius noticed a large building that seemed reminiscent of a warehouse. When he asked about it, the IPS agent explained that it was indeed a warehouse. All the posts serving Indigenous peoples were being pushed to be self-sufficient, and as such they grew their own rice, corn, cane, and other crops on reservation land.
“And is any of it sold in the cities?” Watt asked, which surprised the agent.
The agent said, “Well, yes. It is a good way to support the post financially, especially when our residents are so hard working and bring in such yields that it is far beyond what we can consume here.”
“I see,” Watt said, and it sounded like he didn’t see at all.
The agent picked up on this as well and quickly added, “It is our mission here to give the natives the isolation and privacy they desire, and any support they may need. This area is quickly becoming settled, as I’m sure you saw on your way in. And not just by the get rich quick sort of folk, but people who are here to stay. It is imperative that the people here have a way to … bridge the gap, so to speak.”
Cornelius opened his mouth, but Watt discreetly pinched the back of his arm. Cornelius nearly decked him. What the hell did Watt know about how wrong this was, and what gave him the right to shut Cornelius up?
Instead of hitting Watt, he scowled and rubbed at his arm.
They were confronted with a large, elevated dirt area surrounded by grass and fence. The soil was packed down between great square clay buildings thatched with palm leaves, and gallery forests waited in the distance beyond the fencing. A small cattle herd was also visible in the distance on the cerrado, another puzzle piece that did not fit. According to von den Steinen, the Xinguano Bacairy were fishermen that relied on the rivers, and grew their own food. Perhaps this was more of that self sufficiency the agent spoke of.
