by Len Levinson
“At the rate you're going, you won't be alive when I'm forty.”
“I'm sure that'll make you very happy.”
Tobey leaned forward. “Do you know what happened when everybody thought you were dead? Your mother nearly died, and probably it drove your father mad. Thanks to you, Jeffrey is at West Point, anxious to follow your scandalous footsteps, and he'll probably be the first killed when he arrives on the frontier, because he's not nearly as much of a bully as you. You're driven by an abnormal need to be admired, and I shouldn't talk to you this way, but don't you appreciate all your parents have done for you?”
“Do you know what Apaches do when their people get old? They leave them behind to die in peace, and I think it's far more humane than letting them become feebleminded. Hell, I don't want to live unless I can care for myself. Have you ever stopped to think you might be killed walking the streets of this city someday?”
“Have you ever stopped to think you might be a fraud?”
Before Nathanial could respond, the meal was served. But he had lost his appetite. “You don't understand how bitter and angry you are,” replied Nathanial. “If you don't put love in your heart, you'll be a dried-out old fig.”
“Who'm I supposed to love—you?”
“Yes, and everyone else. That's what it says in the Bible.”
“Even the Devil quotes scriptures, they say.”
Nathanial decided to stop debating a law student. Neither man spoke for the rest of the meal, which they consumed hurriedly. Declining dessert, they departed the restaurant, and on the sidewalk, shook hands, wishing each other well perfunctorily, then parted and never looked back, hearts brimming with mutual disapproval.
***
Cochise sat in front of his wickiup, observing members of the masked dancer society making costumes, headdresses, and magic wands for the devil dance. Meanwhile, musicians practiced in a far-off canyon where no one could hear, and all Chiricahuas purified themselves through fasting, abstinence, and prayer. The more they gave themselves to the devil dance, the more likely the exorcism would be effective.
Coyuntura approached Cochise. “I have seen something amazing,” he said. “The Mimbrenos have a piece of lightning-blasted wood this big.” Coyuntura held his arms in a circle.
Cochise was impressed, because lightning-blasted wood was sacred to the People, and Cochise never had seen a chunk that large. “Show me.”
Coyuntura led Cochise into the wilderness, passing clumps of fernbush and tomatillo. They came to a clearing where the sick Mimbrenos lay in a large circle, eyes closed, around a jagged chunk of lightning-blasted wood on a gray-and-red striped blanket.
Cochise gazed at the magic substance. Somehow it had remained intact, though scorched and ripped, whereas most lightning-blasted wood shattered into splinters. That meant the wood was stronger than the mighty thunder spirits and worthy of veneration. Cochise dropped to a cross-legged position and bowed to the wood, then closed his eyes and proceeded to meditate.
His face felt warm, time passed effortlessly, and before dusk, Nana rose slowly to his feet, the signal the devotion had come to an end. Nana stretched jerkily, then bent down to place the wood in its holy deerskin bag. Since Nana was so weak, he was assisted by Geronimo, the warrior-medicine man of the Bedonko clan, and Mangas Coloradas himself. Cochise joined them and said, “May I touch it?”
Nana held the bag open. Cochise placed his hand on the sacred wood, which felt like a lump of warm coal, and something in his elbow twitched, a sign that power had been awarded. Cochise felt as if it were raining, although the sun shone. “Where did you get it?”
“It was given us by Sunny Bear.”
Cochise didn't recognize the name. “Who is Sunny Bear?”
Nana struggled to throw the bag over his shoulder. “Sunny Bear was a bluecoat war chief who lived among us for a time, but then went back to his people.”
Cochise appeared astonished. “But . . . why . . . how?”
“There was a battle, he was fighting against us, but then he saved the life of Jocita. Soon thereafter he was wounded, so we healed him and taught him our ways. After that he had many visions and killed a bear that surprised him alone in the mountains. Another day he was struck by lightning, and it left a white streak in his hair, here.” Nana pointed to his head.
Cochise was astounded by this information. “Where is Sunny Bear now?”
“He has returned to the eastern lands. Or perhaps his luck has run out, and he is dead. Or maybe he will be back one day. It is hard to know about a warrior such as Sunny Bear.
Nathanial entered a small shop on Bleecker Street. Colorful dolls adorned the walls, hung from the ceiling, and were displayed in glass cases. The dollmaker was in his forties, with a graying blond beard, a small nose, eyeglasses, and eager little eyes. “How old is the child?” he asked pleasantly in a German accent.
“Almost one.”
“Boy or girl?”
“Girl.”
“A one-year-old girl vill vant a good friend like Fritz.” The dollmaker plucked from the ceiling a rag boy doll in blue polka dot shorts.
Nathanial stared at the dollmaker's creation, whose painted face smiled back at him. “All the children love Fritz,” said the dollmaker.
Nathanial tucked Fritz under his arm and prepared for the ordeal of parting with his daughter, as if a piece of his flesh was breaking away. As he strolled uptown, he cautioned himself not to lose his temper at Clarissa, but neither could he fall at her feet and beg forgiveness. I must be calm, he told himself—like General Zachary Taylor at Palo Alto.
There were taverns aplenty on his route, and Nathanial stopped at 8th Street for his first snort, setting wrapped Fritz on the bar. His second and third refills came at a cellar tavern on 15th, and by the time he hit Gramercy Park, he was mellow, philosophical, and expecting to create a spectacle before his wife and in-laws.
I'll be gone in a few days, so it won't matter, he told himself as he hit the rapper. He remembered how happy he'd been when first he'd courted Clarissa, and how furious he felt toward her now.
The door opened, and a middle-aged, kind-faced Irish maid appeared. “Hello, Captain Barrington,” she said cheerily. “Right this way, sir.”
She led him across the parlor, where Nathanial had sat many times with his prospective in-laws, anxious to get their daughter into bed. Finally, he'd succeeded, they had a child together, and now it had come to farewell. They arrived at a door on the second floor, the Irish maid knocked, then retreated diplomatically.
The door was opened by Rosita, the Mexican maid. “So you have come at last,” she said crossly.
Nathanial did not feel obligated to make explanations, but could not look her in the eye as he headed toward the rug where little Natalie sat with a wooden rattle, gazing blankly at the great man come to visit. He lifted her into the air and kissed her pudgy cheek. Natalie hugged her huge father, who always smelled of whiskey and tobacco. A smile came over her toothless face as their cheeks touched. She looked at him in amazement, for he seemed so mighty, even stronger than Mother.
“I'm going away,” Nathanial told his child. “Goodbye, my little princess. Fritz will take care of you while I'm gone.”
He pulled off the wrapping, held out Fritz, and the child made gurgle sounds as she reached for the bright-colored fellow. How can I leave my child? Nathanial asked himself. But if I remain in New York, I'm liable to murder her mother or blow my brains out.
The atmosphere felt oppressive, so he kissed his child on the head, squeezed her shoulder, and headed for the door, Rosita at his heels. “I want to talk with you,” she said.
Oh no, thought Nathanial.
She folded her arms and said, “This is a very bad thing you are doing.”
“My wife doesn't want to be married anymore, and I don't feel like remaining in New York. If you want to return to New Mexico, I'll pay your expenses.”
“Perhaps you can desert your daughter, senor. But I cannot.”
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“Her mother has caused this little tragedy, not me.”
“You are a very clever talker.”
“It's better than strangling Clarissa.”
Rosita narrowed an eye. “Is it that bad?”
“Afraid so.”
She nodded sagely. “Then you had better go while there is time.”
“If you need anything, get in touch with my mother. And thank you for being so good to my daughter.”
He hugged Rosita, then turned abruptly and descended the stairs three at a time, causing much noise and the trembling of beams in the house.
“Good day, sir,” said the Irish maid, bowing at the door.
Nathanial tried to smile, but tears rolled down his cheeks as he reached the sidewalk. Nearly blinded by sorrow, he headed west on 21st Street, as the maid observed his passage, then closed the door and returned to the parlor.
“Is he gone?” asked a voice from the library.
“Yes.”
The door opened, then Herbert and Myra Rowland appeared, followed by Clarissa. “Thank God,” said Myra, a stout, bespectacled warship of a woman.
“What did he say?” asked Clarissa of the maid.
“He is leaving for the frontier, ma'am.”
Clarissa felt relieved that the impediment had been removed, yet felt plagued by the failure of her marriage. Should I run after him? she asked herself. But fame beckoned. If he can't accompany me into my new future, it's better that he goes away.
“Clarissa, I do believe you're crying,” said her mother.
“It's nothing,” replied Clarissa, brushing the tear with a knuckle.
“Your mother and I tried to warn you,” said her father, a portly banker in a dark green suit. “It's not surprising that he's left you.”
“He's very proud,” explained Clarissa.
“I think he's ignorant,” replied her mother. “Giving up everything for frontier living.” She tapped her head. “If you ask me, I think he's got the same illness as his father.
Clarissa said impulsively, “I'm tired of talking about him, thinking about him, and being afraid of him. If you don't mind, I've got work to do.”
Before practicing the piano, Clarissa decided to look in on Natalie, who was having an incomprehensible baby conversation with a gaudy, grinning doll. Clarissa knelt beside Natalie, who glanced at her, then returned to her new companion. Rosita sat on the sofa, crying. Clarissa wanted to join her, but felt relief at jettisoning her domineering husband. She kissed her child, then returned to the piano, where she poured her anger and misery into Bach's Italian Concerto.
Nathanial worked his way downtown, making regular stops for liquid refreshment. When he reached Union Square, his gait was unsteady and night was dropping like a black cloud over Manhattan Island. He passed the bronze equestrian statue of George Washington at the southern end of the square, threw him a salute, crossed 14th Street, and nearly was trampled by an omnibus.
Offices were letting out, the sidewalks crowded with pedestrians, and Nathanial felt as if his heart still were in Gramercy Park. I thought Clarissa and I were star-crossed lovers, but love is just the glorified excuse to fornicate like hound dogs.
His first love, Layne Satterfield, had left him. So had his first wife, the former Maria Dolores Carbajal, who resided in Santa Fe with two of his other children, Zachary and Carmen. And now his second wife was continuing the tradition. They all loved me madly at first, but changed once they knew me better. What disgusting creature lurks within me?
Finally, he came to Pfaff's, filled with familiar faces but no friends that time of day. All the tables were taken, so he joined the crowd at the bar, ordered a mug of beer, and sipped it among the others, hoping someone would jostle him, so he'd have an opportunity for a fight. But he knew punches would solve nothing, and indeed produce worse results, for the person he blamed most was himself. There's something foul about me, he decided.
Nathanial needed fresh air, so he staggered outside, managed to remain upright, and teetered toward Washington Square Park, where he collapsed onto a bench and sat in the darkness, gazing at the home in which he'd been raised. Lights shone in the windows, and he could imagine his parents sipping tea together. The world seemed off-kilter to Nathanial, as if he were slipping into the void.
I sure wish Nana the di-yin medicine man were here, he thought. A smile came to Nathanial's lips as he remembered happy times among the People. A warrior must plunge onward and not worry about unworthy considerations. He lit a cigar as he recalled raiding with Victorio, Nana, Geronimo, and the other warriors. What a thrill it had been, a sensation of raw power. That is my world, and an Apache woman never would leave her husband for a piano. I must get out of this stinking hell called New York City, he thought, and I'll buy what I need on the trail.
He crossed the park, a new spring in his step. Continuing downtown on Mercer Street, he passed a row of whorehouses, where gentlemen entered or departed, with the occasional covey of street prostitutes chatting in the shadows.
Everything in New York is for sale, thought Nathanial. Like that damned wife of mine. Who the hell does she think she is? Why, she was nothing when I met her, and I made a woman out of her.
Nathanial wanted to fall down and howl his guts out, but he'd land in the Bloomingdale Asylum. When I return to New Mexico, he decided, the first thing I'll do is buy a horse, ride onto the desert a ways, and scream at the top of my lungs. He turned the corner onto Grand Street, deserted except for an old drunk heading toward Broadway on the far sidewalk. Nathanial looked at him and thought, that'll be me if I'm not careful.
Nathanial blinked, wondering if he were dreaming. A pack of goblins emerged suddenly from shadows beneath shop windows closed for the night, then leapt upon the man, who hollered at the top of his lungs, “Halp!”
A lead pipe connected with the drunkard's skull, he dropped to his knees, but far ahead at Broadway a group of pedestrians appeared, among them a policeman. “Halt—you little thieves!” he yelled, then blew his whistle.
The goblins scattered, some diving into the murky shadows that had spawned them, other, fleeing west on the opposite sidewalk, and one cut into the middle of the street, heading toward Nathanial, who held himself motionless in a doorway. As the imp drew closer, Nathanial realized it was the red-haired female street urchin he'd seen earlier, a crazed expression in her eyes as she clutched her victim's wallet. She ran frantically on thin legs, then glanced back to see whether the copper was gaining on her, and when she came abreast of Nathanial, he reached down and snatched her out of the night, then held the squirming struggling child and examined her at closer range.
She was filthy, ragged, smelly, and she tried to bite his hand. “Settle down,” he told her calmly.
Her eyes filled with crocodile tears. “Please don't turn me over to the coppers, mister.”
She spoke with a faint Irish brogue, and he guessed she was around nine years old. He realized that fate had dealt him a creature even worse off than himself. Meanwhile, the copper blew his whistle and ran toward the downed citizen, and other coppers in the vicinity whistled that they were on the way. The other thieves had disappeared.
Nathanial slipped into the alley, holding the child like a sack of flour. He ran the alley's length, crossed a street, hopped a fence, and landed behind a store closed for the night. Then he set her down next to a barrel filled with trash, and they regarded each other in the dim light. “We'll wait here,” he said, releasing her.
She glanced about for avenues of escape. “What you gonna do wi’ me?” she asked nervously.
“A few weeks in the Tombs might be appropriate.” He referred to the city prison on Centre Street.
She attempted to run, but he grabbed her wrist. Then she made more crocodile tears. “Please don't send me to the Tombs, sir,” she begged. “They'll put me with the bad girls, and one of ‘em might kill me.”
“Perhaps it's what you need, to cure you of your wicked ways.”
“I'll n
ever do it again, sir. Here—take the money for yourself.”
She held out the wallet, her hands trembled, and he realized she was a frightened child who didn't get many square meals. “We'll give it to the police,” he replied, snatching it out of her hands. “Where do you live?”
She looked at him defiantly. “Five Points.”
“Where are your parents?”
“My maw's in jail, and I never knew my paw.”
Poor, pathetic little thing, thought Nathanial. She might be cute if she weren't so damned dirty. “When's the last time you had a good meal?”
She placed her grimy little fists on her hips. “Well, I was gonna have one afore you come along.”
“I'd take you to a restaurant, but you're a disgrace. You can come to my hotel and have a bath, but I don't have children's clothes.”
She narrowed an eye. “You ain't one of them fancy fellers what likes little girls, are you?”
“I love little girls, but not the way you think. Besides, who would touch you, you're so grimy. I certainly wouldn't force you to come with me.”
She smiled and wagged her hips from side to side. “Will you buy me a pretty dress?”
“Anything you want.”
She seemed prepared to accompany him, then hesitated. “I'm not sure I trust you.”
“I don't trust you either. But as I said, it's up to you.”
“I'm not as bad as you think,” she said in a surly voice.
“You're probably worse. Have you ever killed anybody, with your pipe?”
“I never stay long enough to find out.”
He realized she was not inherently evil, but fought to survive like the gutter rat that she was. “I'm going home,” he said wearily. “It's been a terrible day.”
“Why don't you leave the wallet wi’ me?”
“Because it's not yours.”
“That old drunk can afford it.”
“I will feed and clothe you, but I will not assist your life of crime. Wouldn't you like to be a nice girl, instead of the filthy little criminal that you are?”