P: So. You’ve been speaking to my mother.
C: Yes, I met her several years ago.
P: Have you ever been here before?
C: You mean, in Neah Bay?
P: No, in this trailer. Our home.
C: Maggie and I conducted our interviews at the museum.
P: When was the last time you saw her?
C: Last summer.
P: Did you notice anything different about her?
C: Well, she’s getting older. That’s clear. It lends urgency to our work.
P: I mean, did you notice anything wrong with her?
C: No? I don’t know how to respond.
P: How was her memory?
C: She . . . you know, she meandered a little, but I always thought her non sequiturs were charming, and they seemed culturally appropriate.
P: What?
C: Non sequiturs are when someone says something that doesn’t logically follow from the prior statement.
P: I know what non sequiturs are. It’s funny, though, that you found them, what was it, “culturally appropriate.” Why’s that?
C: I . . . well, I’ve noticed that Makahs have a habit of answering the question they want to hear, rather than the question I ask. That’s all.
P: Like politicians.
C: Like anyone, I guess. Maybe they find my questions inappropriate. Maybe they think I need to know what they’re telling me before I know the answers to my actual questions. Maybe they’d rather talk about something else. I can’t be certain. It’s part of my job to be somewhat intrusive, but I’m aware of how awkward it is to be interviewed.
P: Give me an example.
C: Are you okay with me being here?
P: I’ll tell you to leave if it comes to that. Give me an example.
(5:00)
Claudia paused and replayed the recording, surprised by her own sincerity, laughing at his completely inappropriate “compliment.” Nice to see some restraint in a woman! Please. How did he think any men were still alive? Still, she liked Peter; he intrigued her. For some reason, she was capable of being more honest in the field than she was with her own family; in the end, she could leave the reservation and would too, which everyone knew.
Many of her colleagues delegated the act of transcribing fieldnotes, pressed for time or perhaps horrified by hearing themselves fumble toward enlightenment. Excruciating as that was, this was her favorite part. She dwelled on her mistakes—the interruptions, saying the wrong thing, slipping sideways into unwise silence or worse, unsolicited explanations of purpose—when an insightful question or a direct answer was warranted.
C: Okay, an example. So, maybe I would ask someone what it means that Makah dancers always enter the dance floor in a counterclockwise circle. And maybe they would wait a while and say, “Did you see my granddaughter at Makah Days? She was the best dancer, and she looked so pretty. She’s going to be Makah Princess next year.”
P: Well, that’s easy. I can tell you why they’re not answering. It’s stuff you have no business knowing.
C: That could be it. They may also be afraid of contradicting what someone else told me. And, by the way, I’m not in it for business.
P: You’ll sell your book, won’t you?
C: Ha! Maybe. But I won’t make any money.
P: Wouldn’t you be selling our knowledge?
C: I contextualize what’s been shared with me. Anyway, your participation is voluntary. And I make sure to thank my informants in the acknowledgments.
P: Your what?
C: Oh, informants? That’s an old word for people who work with me. Participants, that’s what I meant. That’s the term we use now.
P: Informants. Sounds like spies.
C: I know, it’s strange. Archaic, really. That’s not how I think of you. I just . . . you know, you’re not like most of them.
P: Who? Your spies?
C: No, most of the Makahs I’ve met.
P: You’re saying I’m not Makah?
C: Maybe it’s your years away, but you act a little different.
P: How so?
C: They’re less, um, sharp, by which I mean, direct. Or . . . ah . . . argumentative? They’re a bit more welcoming. Of me, I guess. More hospitable.
P: What, you don’t like the coffee?
(10:00)
C: No, the coffee’s good. Thank you. I didn’t mean that.
P: You don’t like being questioned.
C: No, that’s fine, too. My research is collaborative in nature.
P: I’ll tell you what I don’t like.
C: Okay, tell me.
P: I don’t like you telling me what’s Makah and what’s not.
C: I’m sorry.
P: No, you’re backpedaling.
C: You’re on fire this morning!
P: You’re pretty hot yourself.
Laughter.
Claudia blushed. She should have shut him down. Peter was handsome, but there was something more, an edge that had been lacking in Andrew, who was so solicitous of her moods, right up until he wasn’t.
Peter called her bullshit. She couldn’t believe she had the nerve to tell him about his own people. In reminding him he’d been gone, she’d implied he wasn’t as “Makah” as someone who had stayed. Historically, Makahs cultivated passivity as a social weapon. If someone insulted Peter, his lack of response would symbolize his relative strength.
In the world of bondage, that was called topping from below.
P: Truce?
C: Can I ask a few questions?
P: Sure.
C: What’s in those garbage bags?
P: Oh, she wants to know what’s in the bags.
C: I’m right here in front of you.
P: I’ll answer that in a second. Did my mother tell you what’s going on?
C: I don’t know what you mean.
P: My mom has dementia. So maybe she forgot to tell you she’s a hoarder.
C: Um . . . she said she was saving stuff.
P: Did she tell you why?
C: I think it made her feel better, like things weren’t being lost.
P: Did she ever tell you why?
C: Well, I was going to show you this transcript when she came out. She said she was waiting for you to come back. I think she wanted you to see it. I think she may have been saving it specifically for you, to tell the truth.
P: Why would she tell you that? She barely knows you.
C: I offered to help her.
(15:00)
P: Help her do what?
C: Go through the stuff.
P: Why?
C: I like her. And she seemed . . . lonely.
M: Who’s lonely?
C: Oh! Hi, Maggie!
P: Mom, you remember Claudia.
M: I said, who’s lonely?
C: Well, we all are, I guess. It’s part of being alive.
P: Tells us to be grateful for company.
Her hands jumped off the keyboard. She had been so fixated on Maggie that she completely ignored this loveliness from Peter. He was telling her he wanted her to be there. His voice had thickened—with anger, she’d thought, but maybe it was emotion, or even desire. He diverted Maggie’s attention from Claudia’s stupid accusation—he’d stranded his mother—and commanded her to be nice to their guest.
Peter tricked Claudia by speaking from the heart. Most of the people she knew didn’t do that. It was easier to be ironic. Less vulnerable, more defensible. What did he want from her? She reminded herself of an early life lesson. Men want one thing. It helped to remember that people are more alike than they are different, even if they don’t seem that way. It took until adulthood for Claudia to realize that most social awkwardness manifested a shared intent to forge connections. Why else would anyone put up with the painful pauses and missed signals of new relationships?
By the time she swallowed that epiphany, she had already decided she didn’t need anyone and would go it alone. That’s why Andrew had been a goddamned mira
cle, now gone the way of miracles.
M: Did you save any coffee?
P: Wouldn’t be a good son if I didn’t. There’s a fresh pot on.
M: I’ll help myself.
P: Already did most of the work for ya.
M: He’s feisty today!
C: I was just noticing that.
. . . pouring . . .
M: Let’s move this party to the living room.
. . . crackling . . .
P: Here, Mom. Take the chair. We’ll sit on the couch.
M: So, ahem, ah . . .
P: Claudia.
M: Yes, yes. Claudia. What brings you to our village?
C: Thank you for asking! I’m here to continue the research we created together last summer.
M: What was that?
C: Here, this should refresh your memory . . .
Fuck! What a terrible thing to say to a demented old woman.
. . . this is the transcript I was telling you about at Washburn’s. It’s a written record of an interview you gave me at the museum.
M: . . .
C: We can go over it together, if you like.
M: Let’s not fool with it now. Let’s visit. Peter will look at it later.
C: You talked about your mother’s beautiful voice.
M: She sure could sing.
C: I wish I could have heard her!
M: They didn’t ask white people to dances, back then. It’s all mixed up now.
C: Did they let Mexicans in? [laughs]
(20:00)
M: Those Mexicans are going to run us all over. They already took Indian jobs. My parents picked berries and hops. Nobody does that anymore. It’s a disgrace. Might as well let the blacks in while we’re at it.
P: Mom! You can’t say stuff like that.
M: What? It’s what everyone’s thinking.
C: I was joking, of course.
P: Not so good at that, are you?
C: I don’t belong in the field, apparently.
P: If you’re going to be here, get used to it. This is how she is.
C: Is that an invitation?
P: What do you think, Mom?
M: About what?
P: Should we ask Claudia to come back another time?
M: Is she leaving? Good, I have some things to get done around here.
P: I mean, should we pick up where you left off last summer?
M: What?
P: I could use some help going through those bags.
M: I thought we were going to do that together.
P: We will! Claudia can help us.
M: I don’t . . .
P: Why don’t you say goodbye now? She’s about to head out.
Claudia stopped the recording. Peter hustled her from the couch before his mother could voice the “no” inscribed on her face. Peter would work as a go-around, but he would not betray his mother’s wishes, once spoken. Claudia was drawn to him in spite of herself, in spite of everything. And now she needed him. Maggie had a diagnosis. His consent might be required to work with a senile woman.
A series of tasks awaited Claudia—conduct and transcribe interviews, provide them with copies, since co-ownership of data was a hard-won tribal right—wind up and repeat until a pattern swirled below the surface like cream poured in coffee. Transfixed, she would stare into the testimony, mapping the billows of information until a new theory emerged. She had a lot of work to do.
Her laptop’s white screen darkened and went black, reflecting her face. She traced the crescents waning beside her mouth, putting all she said into parentheses.
Chapter Six
THE CLINIC’S WAITING room was clean, well lit and crawling with children. In one corner, three boys peeked out from a fort of chairs, hoping to be noticed so they could get a good case of the giggles. A tired young woman sat near them, entranced by her phone. Peter steered his mother to the opposite wall, depositing her in a chair before he approached a middle-aged lady peering into her monitor.
“Hi, I’m here about my mother, Maggie?”
“Peter! You’re back! I heard that, but seeing is believing, right? And here you are!”
He was pretty sure he’d never met this woman. She was sure as hell acting like he had. “Hello.” His reflection looked uncertain. He layered on some oomph. “How are you?!”
“You don’t remember me. Well, I’ve changed—six kids took care of that—but you haven’t! You look the same.” Her glasses hung on a neon lanyard around her neck. Flesh pillowed around the creases left by her wire frames.
He searched the contours of her expectant face, excavating what it might have once been. And there, in the flash of chin amidst a jawline that joined face and neck without so much as a curve, in the forehead that rose smooth from her tweezed wisps of eyebrows, in the swoop of nose that crinkled up with her smile it dawned on him, holy shit, we used to date, we did it on your dad’s couch, and I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. “Suzy!”
She waggled her fingers. “How’s it going, Peter?”
“Good, good! And you—six kids. Congrats!”
“How about you?” She checked his left hand. “Did you find what you went lookin’ for?” She said it sharp, an edge to her lips. She was his last girl before he took off. He didn’t let her know when he left. She had a habit of interpreting his silences so everything he didn’t say was either what she wanted to hear or the worst thing anyone could think.
“I need to check my mom in.”
She gave him a clipboard. “Fill this out. We’ll get her taken care of for ya.”
His back was to her by the time she muttered, “As usual.” He swore she said it, but she made a commotion, tapping papers into a stack and swiveling in her squeaky chair to file them away.
His mother played peekaboo with the kids. Next to her, a grizzled man worn lean by life was hacking into a magazine. His mother always told him not to touch the stuff in waiting rooms. Why do coughers sit close? Get away from my mom, Peter wanted to shout. Don’t you see she’s delicate? But now the man was playing peekaboo with the magazine, the boys growing frantic with joy at so much attention.
Not for the first time, Peter wished for a brother, someone to play and fight alongside him, someone who understood what was going on without a big talk. He had been a latebreaking baby, the kind everyone thinks is an accident because his mother was in her forties and liked to party. She said she’d been waiting for him, and who knows? Maybe she had. He settled in on her other side, sliding out the greasy ballpoint stuck sideways into the clipboard. Losing himself in the forms, hesitating above every box, uncertain, his mom too distracted to fill in the blanks of family history, he scanned the long list of diseases. Which would he inherit? He needed to ask the doctor some questions.
His mother shooed him into his seat when the nurse came.
“Mom, that was the point of today.”
“Oh, I thought we were having a nice time together.” She took the nurse’s arm, exchanging glances with Suzy. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Go ahead.” As if she were asking for agreement. “I’ll be here.”
He presumed she would try to impress the doctor with how well she was doing, not disclosing the night terrors. Everyone knew about the wandering, given how often she passed the clinic on foot. Did they know how much she had socked away in the house? Wouldn’t someone have called the authorities? Doubtful. There were so many firetraps on the rez, where small hills of junk served as stockpiles against an apocalypse or the more certain future of not having enough to buy another.
On the wheelchair ramp, Peter scrolled through his cell phone contacts, smoke singeing his eyes. Old folks arrived in cars driven by younger versions of themselves. From A to Z, not a single person he wanted to call.
When Peter lived in a Tacoma apartment block filled with immigrant families and other single men who preferred solitude to responsibility, he spent countless hours smoking on the porch, kicking his legs onto the railings, watching rain fall thro
ugh the yellow lights of the parking lot, which held back a grove of madronas that was nothing but a dusty strip in summer that dripped the rest of the year.
He waited on that porch until fall, waited for something to happen that would make waiting meaningful, but it did not. In fact, the only memory he salvaged from the bleak slog of that year happened in August, when he should have been swimming but instead was still on the porch, smoking, watching tallboys multiply along the concrete walls and filling them with butts, playing a slow form of Tetris with empty packs and beers until he realized he had recreated his mom’s favorite basketry pattern, row by row, something along the lines of . . . – – – . . . over and over, and decided to take out the recycling.
He took out the garbage while he was at it, edging down the stairs with three bags per hand because he hated multiple trips, which is why he never had enough groceries, his fists sweaty and clenched as he neared the dumpster and a line of bins.
Just because he was a bachelor didn’t mean he was an asshole. He took care of things. He recycled. Indians are like that, he thought, we protect the land when others look away, and if it weren’t for us, there would be no good streams left for salmon in this state. While he was musing and sorting, tossing cans until the bottles became a stale pile on the bottom of a bag he upended in one long clinking rush—never feeling like more of an alcoholic than when he took out the recycling—he heard it, the dry crack, and barely had time to look up before the tree was falling, the thickest branch of the nearest madrona coming down in pieces like a marble column, crashing into itself and onto the dumpster not two feet from where he stood, rooted, the emptied bag in his hand.
Later, he would learn that madronas are like sea stars. Sometimes they’ll tear themselves apart to survive. Following the sun like a flower, their branches twist and turn. Any branch cut from the light destroys itself, clearing a path to the sun, littering the floor, nourishing what remained.
He left Tacoma when his contract down at the docks expired, ditching the stained couch he hauled up from the corner where the college kids left it to the rain, containing in its crevasses two lighters, a spatula and a pair of lace panties. He still had the lighters, which worked—a miracle—debated on the spatula but kept it because he didn’t have one, and fished out the thong with a bag-wrapped hand like it was shit from the dog he never allowed himself to have.
Subduction Page 6