Watershed, page 11
“Yes, he was. A GP.”
Reskin nodded. “Why didn’t you go into medicine?”
“Daddy,” Karen whined.
“I guess I just like being outside.”
Reskin looked off toward the far wall as if hearing distant music. “I can understand that,” he said. “I love being outside too. Maybe I should have gone into hydrology.” He laughed. “Do you like your work?”
“Most of the time. Sometimes it’s a little tedious.” I took a bite of turkey and chewed it while I watched Karen watching me.
“Very tangy,” Edith said.
Reskin sat back in his chair and looked at his wife. “If you don’t like it, just leave it on your plate.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Edith said and sighed. “I said it was tangy.”
“Of course it’s tangy.” Reskin stuck a forkload of meat into his mouth and bit down slowly. “Game birds have more flavor than your everyday, force-fed, overweight, crippled, domestic clones.” He looked at me. “How do you like it, Robert?”
“It’s very good,” I said.
“See,” he said to Edith. “Robert likes it.”
“Jesus Christ,” Karen muttered.
Reskin slammed his fork down on the table and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Lighten up,” said Edith.
He turned to me again. “Do you hear them? On the one hand, my daughter. A photographer with no visible inroads to the land of talent, an irresponsible sperm bank who excused an act of murder with the words, ‘It’s my body.’”
“James!” shouted Edith. “That’s enough.”
Karen was crying, crying so hard that it sounded almost like laughter. She took yet more potatoes, slapping spoonfuls down onto her plate.
“And my wife,” Reskin went on. “A political groupie who has intimate fantasies about invalid presidents past.”
Karen launched herself from the table; her chair fell to the floor, and she hit the stairs running.
Edith collected herself, breathed deeply, grew larger, stood up, and said, “At least I’m still a Jew.” And with that, she too was gone.
*
I slept very late, awakened at last by the freezing condition caused by the breakdown of my apartment building’s furnace. I tried to call the superintendent, but his line was engaged—which meant that either someone else was complaining or his phone was off the hook, indicating in any event that he was aware of the problem and that at some glacial pace it would be remedied. But what it also meant was that after my shower I would be unable to linger comfortably around my apartment until the afternoon when I hoped that Louise Yellow Calf would meet me at the zoo.
I wandered around Larimer Square for a while, eating more than usual because I was a little anxious—too nervous to sit in one place for long, but apparently not nervous enough to lose my appetite. In fact, I seemed to need food in my hand and mouth constantly. The sun had come out and in Denver’s fashion the day was beautiful, promising only forty degrees but looking like seventy. I browsed in a bookstore, then went to the zoo.
In the zoo parking lot, I remembered just how big a place it was, with its various houses of birds and reptiles and its paths leading here and there, to the pachyderms, to the big cats, to the bears. I went to the bears and sat there for a long time watching the polar bears splash around in their pool. The clear weather had brought a number of people out, but still it wasn’t crowded and if Louise walked by I’d have no trouble spotting her. A fat couple came and stood in my view of the polar bears, so I moved to a bench in front of the black bears. A man and his little girl wandered by and I watched her escaped red balloon float away over the reptile house. The man and girl came back with hot dogs and chips and sat at the other end of the bench.
“They say I’m a bear dreamer,” came the small voice from beside me. It was Louise.
I didn’t look at her, nor at the man who was with her. “I’m glad you came.”
“I’m sorry about all of this,” she said in a subdued voice. “I didn’t mean to involve you.”
“Well, I’m involved. I’m real involved.”
“What can I say?”
“Tell me what happened out there.”
“I didn’t do it,” she said.
“Did you see it happen?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“No.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“I was there to meet them, that’s true. But I never even got to talk to them.”
I looked around, saw the fat couple buying food at the snack bar and a man policing the area with a broom and cart.
“So, what am I supposed to do?” I asked. I glanced quickly over at her, then back toward the bears. “What are you involved in? I think you owe me that much.”
Louise sighed.
“Maybe I can help,” I said.
Then it was just me and Reskin in front of the turkey, our wine glasses half full, the candles flickering on the table. We ate on in silence, each taking more turkey. Reskin seemed happy to be there. I remained because I was too exhausted or too much a coward to climb the stairs and face Karen. Sitting there, however, I realized how empty my life was, and I felt more strongly than ever my grandfather’s presence. I wasn’t very concerned with the recent events of dinner. This family had a long, complex history just as any family does, and I was not about to take sides; I didn’t have the energy nor the interest to do so.
Reskin stopped chewing and looked at me. “You think I’m a mean bastard?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Are you mad at me?”
I shrugged.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “I’m sixty-three years old and I don’t know what to do with my life. I don’t know if I’ve done anything so far.”
A dog barked somewhere.
Reskin chuckled softly. “You’re a smart young fellow. And a hydrologist. You know the ground, the planet. Have you figured out this world?”
I shook my head.
“I read the papers and watch the news and I know they’re lying to me. I used to get upset about it. But not anymore. Now I simply find it entertaining.” He shook his head as if to shake something loose. “You would think that in over thirty years as a physician I would have learned something about the meaning of life, but, in fact, I haven’t. That’s sad, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“Damned sad. Life is short.”
“Yes, it is.”
He took up his half-full wineglass, raised it. “To these sad times,” he said.
I drank with him.
*
Factors such as soil type, weather, slope, and vegetation affect the proportion of surface and subsurface water that feeds a stream. Perhaps ⅛ of annual run-off of the hydrologic cycle finds its way to the ocean, while ⅞ filters down into the ground and conducting groundwater. All of a gentle rainfall might infiltrate the ground, but whether it does or not depends on the duration of the precipitation and the nature of the soil.
9
I was sent to my mother’s house while Dr. King was staying at my father’s. My mother tried to explain to me how important the man was and why I should be proud about his staying at my house, but all I could hear were my grandfather’s words.
“I don’t see why I can’t be there too,” I said.
“Because there are a lot of sick people who want to hurt Dr. King. Your father thought it would be better if you were here and I agree with him.”
I leaned back in the caned chair and stared past the lace curtains out the window into the yard at the garden shed, which was falling down.
My mother pointed out to me, with her head nodding, that Dr. King was a Christian, and I nodded in rhythm while she let that sink into my head.
I said, “I read that George Wallace is a Christian.”
My mother stared at me.
“Did your grandfather tell you that?”
I shook my head.
“George Wallace is no Christian. He’s a heathen.”
“What about Strom Thurmond?” I knew only that he was a racist from one of the Carolinas.
“Your grandfather’s going to go straight to Hell, you know that.” My mother was rapidly tapping the kitchen table with the fountain pen she always carried.
“Grandfather says it’s whitey’s religion.” I said it that way, knowing that would get to her.
“Don’t talk like that!”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“Isn’t it what?”
“Whitey’s religion?” I pointed to the picture of the blond, blue-eyed Jesus she kept on the wall.
“Your grandfather’s going to Hell, you know that.”
We just sat there in that familiar quiet and uncomfortable soup that was ours; my mother stared at me as if I were the devil on fire while I stared up at that sickening picture of Christ. I realized then that, for whatever reason, I was loyal to my grandfather. I loved my mother completely, but in my mind I could not find a place for her, understanding somehow even then that I couldn’t reconcile her beliefs with my own observations concerning the world. The same arguments about religion and subsequent problematic behavior that had caused her to agree to my living with my father would surface again and again. And the more she would condemn my grandfather and my father for their transgressive thinking, the further away I would drift from her.
Article 9. The several tribes of Indians, parties to this treaty, acknowledge their dependence upon the Government of the United States, and agree to be friendly with all the citizens thereof, and commit no depredations upon the person or property of said citizens, and to refrain from carrying on any war upon other Indian tribes; and they further agree that they will not communicate with or assist any persons or nation hostile to the United States, and, further, that they will submit to and obey all laws and regulations which the United States may prescribe for their government and conduct.
Upon returning home from the holiday with Karen and her parents I understood that I wanted, needed, and would be ending the relationship —but, whether out of weakness, stupidity, or laziness, I didn’t. Instead I walked around shaking my head, knowing that she too saw the break coming; her behavior became more erratic, and her jealousy surfaced more frequently. In the face of her malignant insecurity, even I could see clearly that I was doing neither of us a favor by prolonging things. But we continued to go out to dinners and movies and come home to one or the other’s apartment and fuck. There was no such thing as safe sex with her. We of course used condoms and staved off chances of disease, but with each penetration, another nail was driven into our coffin. Her whimpering orgasms left me cold, her pseudo-aggressive initiations of foreplay irritated me, and her obsession with her weight sent me plummeting into sleep. We would lie in bed and she would open her mouth, letting out the words weight or fat and I would be gone, dreaming somewhere in my head about fishing alone on a stream. All the while, I guess because I felt guilty for beginning the relationship, I attempted to convince her that I cared about her. I had proven to myself that all the warnings from friends were justified, but I was too kind to hurt her feelings. So, instead I let things hang on and ended up hurting her even more.
*
It was strange standing in the dining room and looking out at the side yard where the dog lived. There had never been a window on that wall and now most of the wall was gone, blackened bricks were strewn about, two-by-fours were shattered and exposed. The furniture and the remaining adjacent walls were charred badly and smoke still rose from spots. My grandfather kicked through the rubble while my father stood beside me with his hand on my shoulder.
“Were you here when it happened?” I asked, my eyes riveted to the hole in the house.
“Yes,” my father said, clearing his throat. “We were sitting at the table in the kitchen. Whoever it was drove by and threw the bomb against the side of the house.”
“Damn crackers,” my grandfather said, taking a long deep breath. “And you know, the damn insurance company won’t cover it. Wait, you’ll see. That lily white agent will come out here and say it was arson and that’ll be it. Damn crackers.”
“Son,” my father said, “I want you to stay with your mother for a while.”
I shook my head.
“You’ll have to,” he said.
My grandfather walked toward us, kicking at a piece of a chair. “Just for a little while.”
I never did get a good look at Louise in the little-girl get-up, as I kept my eyes the whole time on my feet, the bears, or the fat people. She asked me at one point how well I knew the mountain and I told her I knew it very well, that I had studied it during all seasons.
“Will you come and talk to some friends of mine tonight?” she asked.
“Talk about what?” I pushed at a cigarette butt on the ground with the toe of my shoe.
“Will you come?”
“I’ll come. Where?”
“Good. Be at the Sidewinder Tavern downtown, tonight at nine-thirty.”
“Okay. Want to tell me more?”
“Tonight.”
This program has as its objectives the neutralization of black extremist groups, the prevention of violence by these groups, and the prevention of a coalition of black extremist organizations. Since these offices have participated significantly in this program, it is felt we can now relax our administrative procedures by eliminating the 90-day letter. We will not suffer from this discontinuance, as continued participation in this program by field is followed by individual Supervisors in Racial Intelligence Section, Domestic Intelligence Division. In addition, the Inspection Division analyzes each office’s participation in this program during field-office inspections. In view of the above and to streamline our operations, it is recommended these progress letters be discontinued. No change is required in any Bureau manual.
The heat was back on when I returned to my apartment, and although it hadn’t been on for long, the sun through the window had cooked the air and made it bearable. I unpacked the groceries I’d picked up on the way and put a kettle on for tea. I stood in the kitchen, leaned against the sink, and watched the kettle. I made the tea and sat at the table. I wondered what I was going to find out tonight, wondered whether I needed to worry about being followed, and realized immediately that I didn’t know how not to be followed and wouldn’t be able to detect anyone tracing my movements anyway. I would just take for granted that Louise understood that.
About halfway through my cup of tea there was a knock at the door. I looked at the clock on the bookcase and saw that it was nearly seven o’clock. I was dreading the prospect of seeing Karen as I walked to the door, but somehow the rapping on the wood didn’t sound urgent enough to be hers. I opened the door and there was Gladys Davies, half smiling through what I immediately and clearly recognized as a condition just this side of intoxication.
“Hello, Mr. Hawks,” she said. “May I come in?”
I stepped aside and let her enter, realizing as she walked passed me that she was in her stocking feet and carrying her black pumps.
“Didn’t you get my messages?” she asked.
“No. My machine’s been acting up lately.” I wondered why it was so easy for me to lie to her.
She sat down on the sofa and leaned back, blew out a long breath. “It’s just a little chilly in here, isn’t it?”
“The heat was off in the building for a while,” I said. “What do you want?”
She looked at me with that shine covering her eyes and a slow smile found her face. “I’m from the FBI. Remember? I know you remember. You’re in way over your head Mr. Hawks.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “Listen, do you have any coffee?”
“I have tea.” I was still standing by the door. “Do you have a warrant or something?”
“Nope. I don’t need one. Your little friend is a very bad person who hangs out with very bad people. Did you know that? She would just as soon cut your throat as look at you.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“The woman who runs the store up near your cabin seems to recall seeing her get out of your truck.”
“Clara’s damn near blind,” I said. Then, “I might have given a young woman a ride and then I might not have. You’re telling me that the woman at the store only seems to recall the incident. Are you always drunk?”
“No,” she said curtly. “You don’t have coffee?”
“Only tea.”
“That’s right, the tea drinker.” She looked out the window, then back at me. “Her name is Louise Yellow Calf, aka Louise Small Calf, aka Lois Yeager. You got any akas?”
I walked across the room to the chair in front of the sofa and sat on the arm. “What would your superiors say if I called them and told them you were drunk in my apartment?”
Davies reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a card. “Here,” she said, leaning forward and handing it to me. “The office number is on there. Just call and let’s see what they say.”
I held it in my fingers and studied it. Then there was another knock at the door, a rapid, uneven knock and I thought “Why not?” as I walked to the door and opened it.
It was indeed Karen and she was standing there with a large bouquet of brightly colored flowers. She said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Three times, just like that, quickly. Then she saw Davies and opened her mouth as wide as any human being I had ever seen and let go with a scream that rattled the whole building.
I stepped back from the noise and ended up standing beside Davies, who had gained her feet.
“I was right all along!” Karen shouted.
“There’s nothing going on here,” Davies said, surprising me. I glanced over at her and saw that she was a bit unsteady on her feet. She sat back down.
Karen kicked the flowers and slammed the door and I was horrified to see that she was on the same side of it as I was. “I need to talk to someone,” she said, stepping past me and sitting on the chair opposite the sofa.
“There’s really nothing going on,” Davies said. I recognized in Davies face the same look she had shown just before passing out in the restaurant.
