Watershed, page 4
Hiram Kills Enemy was standing on the porch of Louise Yellow Calf’s house. I had parked in the driveway and was still some thirty yards from the house and no one had yet spoken to me, but I knew it was Hiram Kills Enemy. He was a small man with two gray braids falling to the middle of his back.
“Who are you?” he asked, breaking off his conversation with Big Junior and another man.
“My name is Robert Hawks. I’m an acquaintance of Louise.”
“Hello, Robert,” Big Junior said. “Have you thought about selling your truck?”
“You know about the Buffalo soldiers?” Kills Enemy asked. “They were colored soldiers who fought against us. The white men sent them to do their dirty work. You know about them?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I know a little.”
“Are you a Buffalo soldier?”
I shook my head, wanting to smile.
Big Junior said, “Robert ain’t no Buffalo soldier.”
“He looks like one,” Hiram said, and then his serious face cracked with a small smile. “He looks like he’s from that Tenth Cavalry. What about your grandfather?”
“How is Louise’s mother?” I asked them, passing over his joking question.
“I don’t know,” Hiram said. “She won’t let me inside the house. She’s afraid of me.” He said it as if it were not an odd thing, not a thing to be embarrassed about.
“Go on inside, Robert,” Big Junior said. He said my name as if he liked the sound of it, not quite rolling the R.
I stepped onto the porch. “You’re Hiram?” I asked.
Hiram nodded, surprised that I knew his name. He shook my hand. “This is Wilson.” He indicated the third man to whom I nodded hello. Hiram looked away from me toward the mountain and said something in Plata to Wilson.
I knocked as I entered the house. The smell of food, particularly frying meat, filled the air. The walls were covered with photographs and the floor was littered with magazines that I looked at while I stepped over them; I saw most of them were Archie comic books. Then I saw one of the children curled up in a corner of the sofa. She was watching television.
I stood silently.
She raised a hand and waved to me.
“Is Louise here?”
“She’s in back.”
Just then Louise came into the room. She smiled on seeing me and I relaxed somewhat. “Come on back,” she said, without saying hello or asking me what the hell I was doing there. “Come on.” I followed the little woman down a short, dim hallway and into a brightly lit kitchen. The food smell hung in the air with the buzzing of the fluorescent light. Mary Brown was sitting at the table across from another old woman who sat in a wheelchair.
“Robert, this is my mother, Old Woman,” Louise said. “Old Woman, this is Robert.”
“Hello, Robert,” Old Woman said.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Old Woman,” I said. The words Old Woman did not come off my tongue easily and I longed for something else to call her. She motioned to the empty chair adjacent to hers and I sat down. Louise also sat at the table. Mary Brown reached over and touched my arm briefly, then said, “Thank you for driving me to the hospital.”
I nodded, then said to Old Woman, “How are you feeling today?”
“Better than they said I would.”
We sat without talking for several minutes. Louise got up and turned down the heat under a pot.
“What are you making?” I asked her.
“Chokecherry gravy.”
“Have you ever had chokecherry gravy?” Mary Brown asked me.
I shook my head.
“Give him some,” Mary Brown said to Louise.
It was nearly dark when Louise and I stepped out into the backyard. A cord of wood was stacked neatly along the wire fence and in front of it was a stack of long wooden poles, about fifteen feet long and tapering. Louise was wearing only a sweater and was cold, I could tell, but I didn’t offer my jacket.
“I suppose you heard about the FBI agents,” I said. “It’s real big news, I guess.”
“I heard.” She picked up a stick from the ground and began to peel its bark.
“They were killed last week.”
Louise nodded.
“They were killed about the time you were at my place,” I said, feeling clumsy.
“What are you getting at?” she asked.
“I want to know what you were doing up there near my place.” I looked at her eyes.
“Nothing, I told you.”
“Louise.” I stopped. “The state police came to my cabin to question me.”
She stopped peeling her stick.
“I didn’t tell them I gave you a ride. I didn’t tell them I saw you. I don’t know why, but I didn’t.”
“You could have told them,” she said. “You can tell anybody anything you want to.”
“So, you think I should give—” I took the card from my pocket and looked at it—“Officer Taylor a call and tell him I happened to forget to mention that you were up there in the snow with no boots, no coat, and no way home?”
“Why don’t you?” she asked.
It came to me then that I just couldn’t open up to the FBI or those state cops. All I really knew was that there was a lot going on that I didn’t know about. And how would I now explain my initial story, or rather my initial lie?
“So, what’s going on?” I asked.
“I didn’t shoot them,” she said.
“I didn’t think you did.”
“I didn’t see them either,” she said. She dropped the stick.
“I believe you,” I said.
“Did you shoot them, Robert?”
I glanced at her face and let out a brief chuckle. I kicked at a rock with my toe. “What were you doing out there, Louise?”
“Let it go, Robert.”
I felt myself becoming angry, but I put it aside. I didn’t understand what was going on. I didn’t much like Louise and it was clear she didn’t give a fuck about me.
Article 4. [The government of the United States and the said Indians, being mutually desirous that the latter shall be located in a country where they may eventually become self-supporting and acquire the arts of civilized life, it is therefore agreed that the said Indians shall select a delegation of the principal men from its band, who shall, without delay, visit the Indian Territory under the guidance and protection of suitable persons, to be appointed by that purpose by the Department of Interior, with a view to selecting therein a permanent home for the said Indians. If such delegation shall make a selection which shall be satisfactory to themselves, the people whom they represent, and to the United States, then the said Indians agree that they will remove to the country so selected within one year from this date. And the said Indians do further agree in all things to submit themselves to such beneficent plans as the government may provide for them in the selection of a country suitable for a permanent home, where they may live like white men.]
*
I drove directly back to my cabin after seeing Louise without even entertaining the thought of stopping at the junction for food. When morning found me I was dressed in the previous day’s clothes, feeling that I smelled slightly, and sitting in the chair in front of the stove. I was starving and had nothing to prepare. I drove down the road to the diner. It was about seven-thirty and freezing cold.
Holly, the waitress, said, “Sit anywhere,” even though I’d been in there over twenty times and knew to sit anywhere. Holly brought me coffee and a menu.
“Thanks, Holly,” I said as I sat in a booth.
“Name’s not Holly,” she said.
I looked at her. “Your name’s not Holly? Wasn’t it Holly last week?”
“It was. But not now.” She tapped her pad with her pencil. “You see, I’m getting married.”
“I see,” I said. “But wouldn’t that change your last name and wouldn’t that happen after you got married?”
She nodded. “I’m marrying Sam Wood.” She waited for me to figure it out.
“Ah,” I said. “So, what’s your new name?”
“Laurel.”
“Much better,” I said.
“Do you really like it?”
I nodded.
“What’ll it be?” she asked.
“I’ll have the number two. Wheat toast.”
The bell on the door rang and I looked up to see young Hanson, the deputy, come into the restaurant. He removed his hat as he entered, spotted me, and came over to my booth. He sat in front of me.
“Deputy,” I said. Everyone called Hanson “deputy.” In fact, I didn’t know his first name.
“Hey, Robert. Okay if I sit with you?”
“Of course it is.”
Hanson waved to get the waitress’s attention, then turned back to me. “You gonna stay the winter?”
“Looks like it.”
“You’re a hydrologist, aren’t you?”
The waitress came and poured Hanson a cup of coffee.
“Thanks, Laurel,” Hanson said. “I’ll have the special.”
Laurel smiled and walked back to the window between the counter and the kitchen.
“Yes, I’m a hydrologist,” I said.
“Do you like it? I mean, does it pay well?”
I nodded to the first question. “It pays all right,” I told him. “I’m on leave right now. That’s the nice thing. I get leaves every few years. So I can hang out up here for a while.”
“Sounds good,” Hanson said, but his words sounded thin.
“Have you heard any more about the FBI guys?” I asked.
Hanson shook his head. “They were shot, both of them, in the chest. Close up, you know? I never seen anything like that.”
“It must have been awful,” I said.
Hanson nodded slightly, as if he hadn’t quite heard me. He found his coffee and drank some. “I’ve been a deputy for three years. In all that time, the closest I ever came to a dead person was that truck driver who got paralyzed last summer. Were you here when that rig went off at Dog Pass?”
“I heard about it,” I said. “Any idea who killed them?”
Hanson shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t even know who’s in charge of the investigation. The state cops hate the FBI and the FBI talk to us like we’re not fit to peek in the bowl at their turds.”
I nodded.
Hanson studied me for a long second. “Somebody’s going to come talk to you again, to ask you more questions.”
“Why is that?”
Laurel brought our breakfast, then left.
“Why are they coming to talk to me?” I asked.
“One, because you live up there near where it happened . . .”
“And two?” I took a bite of toast.
“Two, because those state cops didn’t like you one little bit. You know, Robert, you’ve got kind of an attitude.”
“That’s been suggested to me before,” I said.
“Well, it don’t bother me none,” Hanson said, “but, jeez, you gotta watch it with some people.”
I opened the letter as I was driving away from Clara’s store. It was from Karen; I thought of disposing it unopened and unread, but I didn’t.
Dear Robert,
I hope this letter finds you relaxed by your fishing and enjoying the coming of winter. I’m doing well here alone in the city. Work is fine, except that Sheila, the witch, keeps accusing me of getting projects done on time just to make her look bad. I laugh it off though, knowing that of course she’s right.
I miss you, you big idiot. Why won’t you call me? I’m sorry if I caused you to be anxious and I’m sorry I’m so crazy. Actually, I’m not sorry. Why should I be sorry about something I can’t help? Why aren’t you sorry? You have got some nerve leaving me here in this sucky city and making me feel like it’s my fault. Why are you being so cruel to me? I’m so mad at you. Please know how much I love you, how much I care, even though you couldn’t care less about me or my feelings, fishing is all you think about. If I had gills instead of breasts, maybe you’d be more interested, you know what you can do with that bamboo rod you’re so crazy about. Go to hell, Robert Hawks! I love you so much. Please, come back. Please, call. I won’t be insane anymore.
Love
Love, Karen
Primary descriptions of watershed shape and geologic configurations were obtained from field investigations. Here again, observations agreed with Rocker’s work. The dominant characteristics in the Plata Mountain watershed are the west face of Plata Mountain; Silly Man Ridge; and the entry of Skinner, Dog, and Hell-hole Canyons into the watershed from the west and north.
Plata Creek was found to be dry above the entrance of Dog Canyon, to achieve roughly 9 cubic feet per second of flow from Dog, and then to lose and gain flow for about three miles below the confluence of Silly Man and Red Creeks. The channel of Plata Creek occupies a shallow trough and wide flood plain between dramatically undercut slopes of older terraces.
In my dream I was on the aircraft carrier Theodore Roosevelt and I was wearing a blue cap that read CVN 71 over the brim that shaded my eyes. I couldn’t see the cap, but I knew what was written on it. I was in the mess and I couldn’t see any water, nor could I see planes, but I knew where I was. I was sitting across the gray table from a big red-faced man who was eating little green grapes and he was smiling between bites, pointing at me with a sausage finger and saying, “You’re in on this somehow and when I find out how, I’m gonna have your liver for breakfast.” I told him to go fuck himself, then walked out of the galley, and started climbing ladders. I climbed ladder after ladder, higher and higher into the ship, thinking at the top of each one that I would find the deck, but I didn’t. All I found was another ladder and another ladder. Finally I met a man on a ladder, an Indian in traditional dress, beaded moccasins and a buffalo robe over his shoulders, but he had no paint on his face. I told him I was looking for the deck. He told me he’d been there and that there was no water. “It’s truly something to see,” he said, “this big ship sitting in the middle of a mud plain. See, you can’t feel the water.” I attended to my legs and indeed there was no motion, no movement of the ocean, only stillness, an unrelenting stillness that would not stop, a stillness I hated, a stillness I wanted gone, a stillness that woke me up.
I sat up in bed and looked out my window. I’d left on the outside light and I could see that it was snowing.
The strength of my grandfather’s personality had a delimiting effect on all those around him except my father and me. Most people were badly put off by his vocal and immediate repudiation of all things Christian, but oddly, in spite of the proclivity of the black community toward Christianity, he didn’t alienate his patients. It was perhaps the case that his antireligious tendencies seemed so abstract that they were not taken seriously, but rather as an idiosyncratic function of the brilliant doctor. My father kept his sentiments more to himself, nodding when the family of patients asked him if prayer would help and saying, “How could it hurt?”
Big Junior stepped with heavy feet into my cabin as if he was way too big to fit. The fact of the matter was that Big Junior was not all that big. He was a little shorter than me at about 5 feet 10 inches and weighed maybe 190 pounds, so he was stout, certainly, but hardly big. Nonetheless, I greeted him by saying, “Come on in, Big Junior.” I looked at the sky as he came in and saw that it was clear and bright. Big Junior had driven up the mountain in a baby blue 1963 Cadillac convertible, the color of the sky.
Big Junior said, “Louise said you had a nice place. This is a nice place. It’s in a nice spot and it’s a nice house. Nice house, nice truck. You’re doing all right.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s some car you drove up in.”
“That thing belongs to Wilson. Ugly, ain’t it? But it runs. Runs all the time. Can’t turn it off almost. Wilson won it in a rodeo way back when.”
“I see,” I said as I closed the door. “It’s ugly, all right.”
“Don’t tell him that. Wilson loves that thing.” Big Junior walked around the room, in a manner not unlike the state policemen who had visited days earlier. He paused at my tying table, dragging his finger through the pheasant tail feathers I kept standing in a jar. “You make your own flies?”
“Yep.”
He picked up an elk’s hair caddis and looked at it closely. “That’s really something. It looks just like a bug. If I was a trout, I’d bite this for sure.”
“Do you fish?” I asked him.
“Never been.”
I let out a sudden chuckle. “You live here in this place and you’ve never been fishing?”
“That’s right.” He sat in the soft chair in front of the stove as if to try it out. “This is nice.”
I picked up a log from the pile and opened the stove door; the heat brushed my face and felt good. Big Junior leaned forward and watched me closely. I watched him watching me while I put in the wood.
“What are you doing here, Big Junior?” I asked, closing the door and turning down the latch.
“Hiram asked me to come see you,” he said.
“Hiram Kills Enemy?”
Big Junior said, “Yes,” and continued to move his eyes around the room.
“So, why did he send you?”
“He wanted me to ask you something.”
I waited while Big Junior leaned back and seemed to enjoy the softness of the chair. His stout body was squirming its way into especially comfortable spots.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Would you take me fishing?”
“Anytime,” I told him and he said what about right then and I became just a bit short with him. “Big Junior, what does Hiram want you to ask me?”
“Oh yeah, he wants you to see him at his house tomorrow. He lives by the river. He’s got a nice place, too.”
“Did he tell you why?”
