My father pointed. “That’s a big house.”
Yes, I nodded.
He reached his hand out to touch mine. We got up and walked at the rate of what seemed like two steps per half-hour. My mother needed to sit again. The sun was too hot. She wore a white bonnet and sandals on her feet. Her feet were calloused and there was a bunion on her small left toe. She pushed her foot through the sand. We were quiet and shy with each other, like swans. For a brief moment we hung suspended in the tropical air. I told my mother I loved her. She said, “And I love you.” We looked at each other and then away. The warmth felt good.
The next morning they said, “Our Nell is suffering, we can’t diet,” and we all sat down to bagels and lox. My father squeezed fresh orange juice for the three of us.
The night before I left, my father and I watched television for a long time. There was a rerun of Gunsmoke, followed by a situation comedy, then a program about the Amazon River. We ate chocolate ice cream out of round white bowls. I spooned the last bit into my mouth and looked down at the empty bowl on my lap.
“Nell,” my father said.
“Yes?” I looked up.
“Don’t remarry out of loneliness.” Those words drifted over to me across the chasm between his chair and the sofa I sat on. We looked at each other and I nodded.
“I won’t,” I said.
After he said that he fell asleep. He must have been thinking it for a long time. Just then, on television they showed the crocodiles on the river. It was the part my father had wanted to see the most.
The next day, I flew back to Minnesota.
50
MATTHEW FROM UPSTAIRS tied a blue cowboy kerchief around my neck. He said that that was what the Tibetans did to say good-bye. He and Marian stood at the curb and waved.
The sun was just coming up as I drove south on Highway 35. Just before the Burnsville exit, I pulled over to the shoulder, got out of the car, and stood with the traffic of bleary-eyed commuters passing me by in the opposite direction. The sky was streaked with pink and yellow, caught in fast-moving clouds. I looked back at the city and saw the IDS Building, Minneapolis’s tallest skyscraper, the one that King Kong could not climb.
“Okay,” I said to myself begrudgingly. “You learned a lot here. Go ahead and say good-bye.” And I closed my eyes and wished the whole Midwest well. When I opened my eyes, I smiled and nodded. I waved my hand, then got back in the car and pulled into the traffic, heading away from all I had just said farewell to.
South of Albert Lea, I turned my car on the cloverleaf and faced west. I stopped in Worthington to tank up. The gas station attendant told me that I was standing in the Turkey Capital of the United States. I told him I was impressed as I surveyed the flatness all around me.
He said, “Yup, a town in Texas once challenged us. They had the nerve to say they were the Turkey Capital.” He yanked the nozzle out of my car. “The citizens here got up in arms. To settle the matter,” the attendant, now leaning against the pump and biting the tip off a cigar, continued the saga, “we had a turkey race down Main Street. Their turkey’s name was Ruby Begonia and ours was Paycheck. We figured a paycheck goes fast. The whole town came out for the race. The schools shut down.” He closed his thick-lidded eyes and shook his head, remembering. “It was fun. That dumb turkey of theirs flew to the top of a pole, and they couldn’t get him down. Paycheck didn’t take any straight route himself, but he had all the time in the world to win, since Ruby wouldn’t come off the pole.”
The attendant smiled. “We won. Yup, you’re standing in the Turkey Capital of the World. You should be proud.”
“Oh, I am, I am,” I said, holding out a ten-dollar bill, hoping he would take it and I could go on my way.
He looked at the bill. “Where ya goin’?”
“Out west.”
“Be careful.” He handed me four dollars’ change. “They’re crazy out there.”
“So I heard,” I said as I lowered myself into the driver’s seat. I shot my hand out of the car window at him, and as I pulled onto the road, I noticed through my rearview mirror that he was still watching me.
I crossed into South Dakota, and after a while I stopped in a town so small it had only eleven stores, seven on the west side and four on the east. There were two cafés on opposite ends of the street. One was open for lunch and one for dinner. I pulled into the town at three in the afternoon, so the dinner one had just opened and the lunch one had just closed. The dinner one was named Covey’s. They sold postcards of the café, and while they set up the salad bar, I wrote one to Blue. “Dear Blue, I’m in South Dakota. I’m on my way. I’m sitting at the counter of the café you see on the other side. See you soon. Love, Nell. P.S.” I drew a rooster. “How’s old Sylvester doing?”
I paused, put the non-ink end of the pen in my mouth. Then I wrote under my signature another signature: Banana Rose. It felt good to write her name.
The salad bar was ready. I piled my plate high with cottage cheese and marshmallow salad full of bits of canned pineapple. This was my ride and I was going to enjoy it. I looked at the local newspaper, which came out of Sioux Falls. Heifers were going at a higher price. A little girl named Polly made eleven dollars selling lemonade on the corner of Eighth Street and Oak Avenue.
As I sat there finishing the last of a dish of canned corn kernels—you could go back to the salad bar as many times as you wanted—I knew I had to go see Anna. I hadn’t planned to. Originally, I felt this trip was only about me, about my return alone to New Mexico, but now I ached to see her. I knew she’d be home. She was teaching summer school.
I headed for Dansville, and this time I knew how to get to her house.
I ran up the side steps and knocked hard, screaming through the screen door, “Anna! Anna, where are you?”
“Nell? Nell, is that you?” she called back. “Just a minute. I’m in the bathroom. Just come in. Door’s unlocked.”
Anna came running out and grabbed me as I let myself in. “Why didn’t you let me know?”
“I just decided. I’m heading home.” I had a big grin on my face.
“To Minnesota?”
“No, silly, that’s not home. I’m going to New Mexico, Anna. I’m moving back.”
“You are?”
“Yes.” I nodded. Just then I noticed how thin Anna had become and that her eye had gone in. I grew quiet. “Anna, you’re not going crazy again, are you?”
She sat down on a stuffed green chair. All the color drained from her. She picked at a thread on her pants. “I’ve been having a hard time, Nell.” She paused. “That’s why you haven’t heard from me in a while. I don’t think I’m going crazy exactly, just—I don’t know.” I knelt beside her and she tousled my hair. “My mother went into a home a month ago. She had another stroke and didn’t come out of it. And before that we weren’t getting along very well.” She paused again. “Dad’s feeble and a bit senile, but he still lives in the house we grew up in. Daniel keeps an eye on him.”
“You and your brother still getting along so well?” I asked.
She perked up a little. “Yeah, and we’ve gotten even closer since my mother’s illness. Daniel seems to understand that I’m different, and it feels so good to have someone in the family who really accepts me. ’Nam gave him a broader view.”
“And how’s your writing coming?”
She shook her head. “Not so good. I’ve been too depressed.”
I grimaced. “Anna, are there any groups you could join? Lesbians? Writers?”
She shook her head. “Nell, you know I’m not a joiner.”
“Well, why don’t you join me and move back to Taos?” The idea sprang suddenly into my head, and I thought it was brilliant.
She laughed feebly. “That would be fun—but, Nell, I have responsibilities. I can’t just leave with my mother in a home.”
“But Anna, you have to save yourself—you’re going crazy again. I’m serious. Pack up and get the fuck out of here.” I stood up.
“C’mon.”
She brightened for a moment and then looked down. “I’m not like you, Nell. You always act on your pain. It gets you moving. Besides”—she hesitated—“I don’t know if I want to leave Daniel. He might resent me moving away, leaving him to take care of Dad alone.”
“Oh, Anna, you and your Midwestern stoicism. ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light’!” I thought I’d give her a little literary boost.
“Nell, Dylan Thomas was talking about death.” I followed her into the kitchen area. “Want something to drink?”
“Got lemonade?” I asked. “I’ll buy some if you set your booth up.”
“I’ll make some and for you it’s free.” She reached into the freezer.
“But, Anna, isn’t it a kind of death you’re living? I mean, you’re unhappy and you’re not writing. I couldn’t stand that.” I spun her around to face me. “Anna, you know what made me act? Not my pain. I decided that I was going to make it. I still don’t know how or what that means. After Gauguin left, I was so down, I couldn’t do anything. I knew I had to make something important enough to get me out of bed each day, so I gradually focused on my painting. And right now if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I’m going to paint no matter what.”
I paused. “Wow, I never said that before to anyone, even to my self.”
Anna studied me closely. “You’ve changed.”
“My heart was pulled out of me. I didn’t think I’d live. Gauguin was so different after Taos.” All at once I didn’t want to talk about Gauguin anymore. “Do you want to go out for dinner? That place we went last time—is it open at night?”
The next morning we drove to a secluded swimming spot Anna knew on the Elkhorn River.
We put down our towels and undressed. “Anna, it’s so, so”—I looked around—“Midwestern. The summer, the trees. A wide and lazy river.”
“Let’s jump in. No hesitation.” And then she dove under, her butt shining in the sun for a moment before it submerged.
I followed. My head surfaced, hair and lashes dripping. “Anna, you little shit. It’s freezing! Why didn’t you warn me?” I was treading water.
“If I did, you wouldn’t have come in.” She began doing the back stroke.
“I’m getting out. I’m freezing.” Teeth chattering, I scrambled up the bank, grabbed a pink towel, and wrapped it around me. There were goose bumps all over my arms. A storm cloud moved over the sun. “Anna, look!” I yelled, and pointed toward the sky.
“Don’t worry. We have time.” She dove under again.
I dried off and sat down on my towel.
After a while she came out and joined me.
“Anna, quit being so athletic. Writers are supposed to be lazy and frail. You’ve got to get in the proper shape. Words have to ooze out of you. A firm body produces nothing.” I was shading my eyes with my hand. The sun had come out again.
“Let’s eat,” Anna said, reaching for her bag. She pulled out a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich.
“Hand me a peach.” I reached out my arm.
She burrowed in her bag. “Nell, I’m so glad you came. I feel like a new person with you here.”
I broached the subject again. “Anna, come back to Taos with me. You were happy there. You were writing there. People don’t care if you’re weird there. Everyone’s weird.”
She took a big bite of her sandwich. God, did I hate jelly. I don’t know how she ate it. She chewed and chewed on that one bite until I thought her teeth would fall out. “I hear you, Nell,” she finally said. “I’ll think about it. I really will. I never thought I could, but now that you’re going back, maybe it’s possible.”
“Really?” I sat up.
“Really,” she said.
I grabbed her jar of lemonade and held it high. “I propose a toast: Next year in New Mexico!” Then I unscrewed the lid and took a big gulp.
As we drove back to town, it began to pour. At one point it was coming down so hard, we pulled under a nearby bridge and just sat there.
“I try to capture what this place is like in my writing, but maybe I’m too close to it,” Anna said above the pelting water. Everything was green, greener in the rain. The wind blew and the trees bent without breaking.
“Can you put on some heat? I’m cold.” I was hugging my arms, which were covered in goose bumps again.
“Here, I have an extra shirt.” She leaned over the back of the front seat and brought forward a red zip-up jacket.
I put it on. “Anna, what’s it like to write? I mean, how do you do it?”
“I don’t know.” She flicked the steering wheel with her nail. “I guess you have to tell it so people who read it understand. Otherwise you’re not communicating. Isn’t that the way it is with painting, too? It has to communicate.
“Yeah, even if you can’t say exactly what it is you’re communicating, a person has to feel something.” Then I told her about the new paintings I had been doing back in Minneapolis. “I could hardly paint after Gauguin first left. I wanted to die. Then over time I began to paint from that place.”
“What place?” Anna started up the car. The rain had eased.
“From death. First I did dark abstracts, and then I began painting things that looked alive—a tulip, a maple in full bloom things that were alive now but that I knew could die.” We pulled out from under the bridge. “I think down in Taos I believed we were all immortal, that we’d never die. Now I know that isn’t true.”
Anna nodded. “Open your window. Everything has been washed clean. Smell it?”
I rolled my window all the way down. “Yeah, I smell it.” Leaves, road, grass, the end of July—I breathed in all of it.
I was supposed to leave early in the morning two days later, but Anna and I were having so much fun it was hard to separate. I think she gained five pounds while I was there. I kept encouraging her to eat. One night I roasted a chicken with potatoes and we ate the whole thing.
On the last day I made one more cautious stab at her moving down, and I could see she was serious about considering it. It made me happy.
I didn’t leave until late afternoon. By the time I reached Maxwell, Nebraska, it was dark and I was tired. I unrolled my sleeping bag near a cow pasture, outside of town. The earth was dark and rich. To my left spread a field of corn, and above my head a blanket of stars.
In the morning, I got back in my car and looked at the road atlas. I decided to head for Boulder. I wanted to see Eugene, and I figured I could stay with Happiness. She lived there now and was also a Buddhist.
When I got to Fort Morgan, I asked directory assistance for Jane Berg’s number. I telephoned her, and she said her roommate had gone off for a week camping, there was an extra room, and she’d be glad to have me. She gave me directions to her house. It was within walking distance from the downtown mall.
I thought of Jane as I drove toward Boulder. She was beautiful, always dressed in layers and layers of brightly colored skirts. I remembered when she named herself Happiness.
A bunch of us had been sitting around the kitchen table at the Elephant House, talking about our families. Jane came from Cincinnati. She said there were three kids in her family, and they were all happy except her.
“Yeah, right,” Carmel had called out.
“No, really. I was the only maladjusted one around. My parents have always loved each other. My father is a banker who does good deeds for the community, and my mother is an amateur opera singer. She plays The Marriage of Figaro and The Barber of Seville on the stereo all the time. Into this happy house I would walk, carrying this cloud of gloom.”
“You’re okay now, aren’t you?” I’d asked.
She nodded. Then she lit up. “Do you think I could change my name? I’m gonna call myself Happiness. This way I can be like my family—at least when I’m not with them.”
“Huh?” Tim looked confused.
“I’m happier when I’m away!” We all laughed, and then we baptized her, dri
pping lemon juice on her forehead.
I shook my head at the memory. We believed it all, didn’t we? Banana Rose, Happiness, Neon—I got butterflies in my stomach. I was nervous to see him. We hadn’t spoken since that day I left over three years ago. It’s okay, I told myself. Eugene and I are friends. He’s not mad at me for running off to marry Gauguin.
I passed the exit for Keenesburg. The thing about those years was that we had had so much fun. Everyone had wanted to play. Everyone, I thought, except Anna. Well, sometimes she would play, but she was always uptight about her novel. When she moves down, I thought, maybe I can get her to write about the hippie years instead. That will be a better subject than those damn depressing cows.
I pulled into Boulder at 8:30 in the evening. Everything seemed lush: Rose vines crawled over sidewalks; columbine, petunias, and zinnias were tangled together in gardens; and sweetpeas had draped themselves across people’s front porches. Many of the houses were oddly shaped. Looking at Boulder at that moment, I appreciated it. When I had lived there before, it was my enemy. I’d blamed it for taking me from Taos.
Jane and I sat up until midnight, sipping tea and talking.
“You know, Light’s here now too and Mark—oh, you knew him as Gum—everyone’s changed their name back. We’re all trying to be respectable citizens.” She took a deep drag from a cigarette.
“Do you ever miss Taos?” I asked quietly, hugging my left knee, my foot up on the chair.
“Oh, sure, I still miss it, but when I think about it, I feel confused. How can I want to be there and here at the same time?”
“Do you ever think of moving back?” I asked.
“That time is over for me. There’s no way I could make a living down there, and I certainly don’t want to live the way I did. I’m older now.”
“Do you think I’m crazy for going back?” I held my breath, waiting for her answer.
Jane paused. “No, in some ways I envy you. But it won’t be the same; most of the old people have left.”
“There are some still there,” I said quickly, letting my breath out in a gush. “Like Blue.”