Watershed, page 10
The following morning, after a fitful sleep, I awoke to the sound of movement in the room and I rolled over to see Dr. Reskin standing before the window and a day that had not yet begun. He was holding a broken-down shotgun. I reached beside me in bed for Karen and didn’t find her. Reskin engaged the barrels with a clack and looked at me.
“Good morning?” I said.
“You ever hunt turkey?” asked Reskin.
“Once,” I said. “With my grandfather.”
“The turkey is a good, big bird. A wise and clever bird. You can hunt a band of turkeys for a week and never see one. Meleagris gallapavo.” He turned to face the window and looked out. “Quite an animal.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, get up and put on some clothes and we’ll see if we can’t bag us one.”
“Do I have time to shower?”
He frowned. “No.”
I sat up, less concerned now for my immediate welfare, and rubbed my eyes and the back of my neck. “What if we don’t get one?”
“We’ve got a Butterball in the freezer. We’ll put the bastard in that fucking convection oven down there and that’ll be it. Besides, wild turkeys are cunning, few and far between. You must know that. Can’t count on them.”
“Okay, I’ll get dressed.”
“All right then. I’ll be downstairs waiting.” With that, he left. His heavy boots marked time across the floor and then down the hallway outside.
I pulled on my jeans, laced up my boots, grabbed a silk undershirt from my bag, and put on a flannel shirt over that. I washed my face and stared at it in the mirror; I felt lost and sad. Downstairs in the kitchen I found Karen and her mother, in cozy robes, sitting at the table having coffee. I joined them.
Reskin came stomping in from outside. “Gear’s all packed,” he said.
“Don’t we need a dog?” I asked.
He laughed. “Hell, you know that turkey is still hunting.” He bent and kissed his wife’s forehead and then Karen’s. “We’re off.” Privately, I agreed.
Karen and Edith waved from the driveway as we rolled away in the doctor’s old International Scout. There was little traffic in Santa Fe on that Thanksgiving morning. We drove north out of town, then east, off the highway and along a dirt road higher into the mountains, and then stopped at a clearing. I stood at the back of the truck while Reskin took the shotguns from the rack, draped a shell-sack over his shoulder, and then handed one to me.
“I’ve seen turkeys up here before,” he said.
The shotgun he’d put into my hands felt familiar, like the one my grandfather had, the one he let me fire when I was twelve and the recoil put me on my butt.
“Here, put this on.” He handed me a bright orange skullcap and pulled one on himself. “Gotta know where the other is.”
We walked out across the clearing, then into the trees. There was only a thin layer of snow and the ground showed through in many places. The sun was up and some of the chill was being taken out of the air.
“The turkey is some bird,” Reskin said as we walked. “A noble creature. Benjamin Franklin wanted him as the national emblem.” He stopped, knelt, studied the ground, then rose to walk on. “You’ve got to hunt him as you would a deer or elk. Find some sign and wait him out. That’s all you can do.” He stopped and pointed to a place where some ground had been scratched up. “There you go,” he said. We stepped up the slope and he had me hunker down behind a juniper. “Now you just wait here and when you see one, pow, you let him have it.” He scurried on up the trail to find a stand of his own.
The ground was cold and I tried to pull my jacket under my butt to keep the seat of my trousers dry. The sky was bright blue, almost cheery, and I was hating being there. I looked around and yawned, then I fell asleep.
I sprang to my feet at the sound of a shot and grabbed the gun. I followed the direction Reskin had taken and some seventy yards up the trail I found him leaning against a spindly aspen. He was visibly shaken. He held his shotgun by the barrel, the stock hung at his shin.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I shot him,” he whispered.
The way he was talking I assumed quickly that he was talking about a person, somebody, and I said, nervously, “Who did you shoot? Another hunter?”
“No, a turkey.” He looked at me strangely, his eyes weak and sad, his mouth loose, and said, “I hid him over there.”
I looked and saw nothing. “Where?”
“Over here.” He walked over and pulled up some brush and there on bare, snowless ground was a good-sized tom, sprawled awkwardly and lifeless, one wing spread out over the head and the tail fanned out as if in display.
“Why did you hide him?” I asked.
“He’s so large,” Reskin said. “He’s just so damn big.”
*
The Bureau is considering the feasibility of instituting a program of disruption to be directed against organizations which seek to mobilize and effect a “political awareness” among blacks and Indians. . . . In considering this matter, you should bear in mind that the Bureau desires to disrupt the activities of these organizations and is not interested in mere harassment.
The phone was ringing as I entered my apartment. I watched it as I crossed the room. I was afraid it would turn out to be Karen and more afraid that it would be Davies. The machine would answer it in another two rings. I picked up the receiver.
“Robert?”
I recognized the small voice.
“So you’re here.”
“Stop trying to find me,” Louise said.
“Mary Brown wanted me to find you. I think she’s afraid your mother is dying.”
“Give up.”
“I’ll just go back to the post office and bother your cousin Florence again.”
“Give up.”
“What’s going on?” When she said nothing I considered the possibility that the phone was tapped. “Okay, I understand. Um, well, I’ll see you around. What shall I tell Mary Brown?”
“Tell her I’m all right,” Louise said.
“Yeah, it’s a real zoo up there,” I said. “She said Hiram is going to treat your mother tomorrow at four. Hiram’s in the house setting up. Yep, it’s a real zoo up there.”
There was another silence.
“Okay, then, I’ll tell her you’re all right.”
I hung up the phone and my hands were shaking. I believed she understood my message, but I didn’t know if she would comply.
Later that evening, I stupidly went to a place I had often gone for dinner. I went there as though I knew what I was doing, as though I wanted to see someone I might know, even though that was the last thing I wanted. I wanted to lie low, but because there was no food in the house and because I found myself too brain-dead to think of another place to go, I went there. So I walked into the restaurant and there was Karen. She was sitting at a table in the front as if I had called and asked her to meet me there. She was with a man and I was happy to see this, but before I could turn around and escape unseen, she spotted me. I let the hostess seat me, regrettably at a table only twenty feet from Karen and her date. I read over the menu, and tried to avoid her constant stare. I could peripherally see that her companion was twisting to see just what was commanding so much of her attention. Then she got up and walked over to me.
“So,” she said, “you’re back in town.”
I didn’t say anything, but tried instead to become as small and invisible as possible.
Too loudly, she said, “Where’s your FBI honey?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you, Karen. You’re being awfully rude to your friend.”
Loudly again, “He’s no friend, just some guy.”
“Some guy” got up, put his napkin on the table, and left the restaurant, a move I found worthy of mimicking, so I got up, too. That’s when Karen fainted. People at nearby tables gasped as she swooned and fell into me. Reflexively, I caught her and brought her gently to the floor. Diners left their tables and huddled around us, their faces open and craning on long necks, their voices garbled and constant. I dipped my fingers in my water glass and dripped a little on her face, shook her a little.
Karen’s eyes opened, she looked at me, and said, with all those people there, “You slept with her, didn’t you?”
I felt the bystanders looking at me, penetrating my worn-thin veneer, moralizing, and trying to commit my sorry face to memory for later warnings to daughters and friends.
“Madam,” I said, “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.” I let her head rest on the floor and stood up. “She’ll be all right,” I said, authoritatively, then stepped backward through the crowd and left the building.
Edith Reskin balked at the prospect of plucking the turkey, but a stern look from Reskin sent her stomping to the sink with the carcass. She was cursing him and saying, “The man is a lunatic, a New Testament-thumping lunatic.”
This was the first time in twelve years of Thanksgiving Day hunts that the good doctor had returned with a kill. An actual wild turkey had never really been expected. Reskin didn’t know quite what to make of it. He was a little nervous and of the mind that I had brought him this good fortune. He sat silently in his study awaiting his turkey dinner. Karen was thrilled with the bird. She cornered me in the upstairs bathroom as I stepped from the shower. I grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes.
“No,” I said. “Not in this house.”
“I want it,” she said.
“Not in this house.”
Her eyes grew moist and she ran down the hallway to the bedroom. I finished drying and followed her. She was stretched face down across the bed, crying.
“I’m sorry, Karen, but I simply don’t like it. This is your parents’ house. Their bedroom is right there for crying out loud. Your father has guns.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “The fact that he has guns couldn’t be more to the point.”
“Don’t you think they know we sleep together?”
“Now, that’s beside the point. Listen, don’t you want me to be comfortable?”
“Of course I do.”
“Okay, then.”
She was silent while I dressed. The tears ended and she sat up. “Do you ever think of marriage?” she asked.
I looked up from buttoning my shirt. “I guess.”
“What about us?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you think we’ll be together for a long time?”
My blood ran chilly through me and I felt my throat nervously clearing itself. “Karen, I don’t know. We’ve really just met.”
She looked hurt. “What are you saying?”
“We’ve got to know each other better. I mean, I’m looking forward to that, aren’t you?”
“Promise me something,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“Promise I’ll die first.”
I tucked in my shirttail. “What are you talking about?”
“Promise me that I will die before you.”
“What?”
“I don’t think I could stand being left alone.”
“Okay, you can die first. Let’s go down to dinner.”
Wukea-boo, his x mark
(Shaved Head) Chief Camanche
Wa-ya-ba-tos-a, his x mark
(White Eagle) chief of band
Hai-nick-seu, his x mark
(The Crow) chief of band
Paro-sa-wa-no, his x mark
(Ten Sticks) chief of band
Wa-ra-kon-alta, his x mark
(Poor Coyote Wolf) chief of band
Ka-na-re-tah, his x mark
(One that Rides the Clouds) chief of the southern Camanches
To-hau-sen, his x mark
(Little Mountain) Chief Kiowas
Si-tank-ki, his x mark
(Sitting Bear) war chief
Tah-ka-el-bool, his x mark
(The Bad Smelling Saddle) headman
Che-koon-ki, his x mark
(Black Horse) headman
On-ti-an-te, his x mark
(The Snow Flake) headman
El-bo-in-ki, his x mark
(Yellow Hair) headman
Si-tah-le, his x mark
(Poor Wolf) Chief Apache
Oh-ah-te-kah, his x mark
(Poor Bear) headman
Ah-zaah, his x mark
(Prairie Wolf) headman
Zootz-zah, his x mark
(The Cigar) headman
8
“I don’t want him here,” my grandfather said.
“Well, he’s coming,” my father said.
“Civil rights,” my grandfather spat on the ground. He was leaning against the wall of the house, outside in the fenced yard in which we kept the dog. My father was examining the pear tree. I was petting the dog, an overweight German shepherd named Bertha. My father and grandfather often spoke out in the yard, since my grandfather claimed he felt safer there. “Nobody’s going to give anybody any rights,” Grandfather said. He looked at me. “Lies, nothing but lies,” he said. “You’re going to teach this boy lies. No such things as rights, Robert.”
“Go on in the house, Rob,” my father said. “We’ll be inside in just a few minutes.”
“You might as well tell him to believe in Santa Claus. Some white man coming down the chimney to give a black boy gifts. That’s what’s this rights talk is. Santa Claus. Let some white man land on our roof and see what happens.”
“Go on inside,” my father said, again.
I walked away toward the door, but I did so slowly.
“You’re wrong, Papa,” my father said, his voice sounding tired. “Things are changing. They’re changing slowly, but they’re changing. It’s happening.”
“Where?” My grandfather coughed. “I don’t want that man here. It’s that Christian bullshit that bothers me the most. Black people running around after some white man’s invention.”
“Whatever,” my father said. “He’s got people mobilized, that’s all I know.”
I sat on the steps of the back door and continued to listen.
My father cleared his throat. “A policeman came by the office today while you were out.”
“Yes?”
“He asked me where I was last Thursday afternoon. Then he asked me where you were. I told him you were in the office with me. He asked me if I’d treated any gunshot wounds recently. I said no. I said no for both of us.”
“What kind of cop?”
“FBI. At least, that’s what he said.”
“Did you ask him if it was any of his fucking business who I treated and where?”
“No, I didn’t. Papa, I’m worried about Rob. And I’m worried about you.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, but he just happened to be with me. Son, I simply don’t want to become more watched than we are now. And that’s what bringing that minister’s going to accomplish. I already don’t feel comfortable talking in my own house.”
“Okay, Papa.”
“What am I supposed to do when a kid gets shot? Let him bleed to death? Tell him, I’m sorry but whitey doesn’t want me to help him because he’s a danger to democracy and the American way of life?”
“Okay, Papa.”
“These kids are doing things. I mean, this free breakfast program is a good thing. They’re trying to do things, anyway, and this, this preacher, this Bible-thumper, comes in and—you know that all he’s going to finally do is make concessions.”
“Okay, Papa.”
“Appealing to their Christian souls? Give me a break! Why isn’t the FBI looking for the rednecks who hanged that man out past Hopper? They searched wide and far when those white boys disappeared down in Alabama or wherever the hell it was. Civil rights, my ass. Nonviolence, my ass.”
“Let’s go in and eat. Come on, Papa.”
COINTELPRO is a code word for “counterintelligence program.” By memorandum 2/29/68 the Director authorized submission of 90-day progress letters concerning captioned program for purpose of stimulating thinking in offices where black extremist activities are concentrated. Forty-three offices are currently participating in the project.
Reskin cleared his throat to announce that he was about to recite grace. He fitted his fist into his palm, set his elbows on each side of his plate, and closed his eyes. He paused to let his silence spread across the table. “Dear Lord,” he said, his voice a bit deeper. “First of all, let me ask you a question: Why such a big bird? This is a large tom and I’m not sure I’m worthy of him. But I thank you. We thank you. And thank you for allowing us once again to sit at this table as a family. Please watch over us, protect us, though we may screw our brains out in the room next to our parents.” Karen sighed loudly, but Reskin didn’t miss a beat. “And watch over our guest. He is a good man. One might hope better for him than my daughter, but you do work in mysterious ways.”
“James,” Edith complained.
“So, Lord, let us finally say thank you for the lovely meal before us and our health and this fine home, the walls of which continue to reverberate with moans and gasps.”
“James!”
“In Jesus’ name, amen.”
Although upset by her father’s so-called prayer, Karen did not cry, but instead loaded up on mashed potatoes and refused turkey.
The turkey was a bit greasy, as game meat is likely to be, and strong in flavor. I couldn’t recall a tastier bird.
“So, Robert,” Reskin said. “Tell me about your family.”
“There’s not much to tell. My mother died six years ago. My father, three.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Edith said.
“They’re in a better place, you know,” said Reskin. “It would have to be. Karen tells me your father was a physician.”
