by Gayl Jones
I think it’s legal for Canadians to be here, I said. I know I like going to Canada.
Well, I know there’s some illegal Irish here and they ain’t chasing them back to Ireland neither. I like the Irish, though. They usedta have signs that said no dogs or Irishmen allowed. I’m part Irish myself. Don’t laugh. I am. I’ve got as much true Irish in me as I’ve got true African. I’m multiracial. I just don’t play the multiracial game. It’s all politics anyway. My culture is African American, so I’m African American. You look like you’re multiracial too. You don’t have to be light-skinned to be multiracial. You don’t have to look like Vanessa Williams.
Which Vanessa Williams? I asked. I’m supposed to have Afro-Cuban in me. Us real name is supposed to be Aguila and not Eagleton, but some Afro-Cubans came to America and changed their names to Eagleton. I think águila in Spanish means eagle, don’t it?
And I bet you got a little Indian in you too, ain’t ya? You remember when colored people usedta always be telling people they got a little Indian in ’em? Ain’t know which tribe, or even that Indians—Native Americans—got hundred of tribes, they just know they got a little Indian in ’em?
I know what tribes—Seminole and Cherokee. But I’m still an African in America.
Carolina and Abio suddenly appeared at the door of the dressing room. He smiled and thanked Joan for her generosity. He said he might not need to stay there at her farm, that his university might come to his assistance, or some of his fellow countrymen who were exiled in America, but he expressed his gratitude. He looked at me with curiosity, but said nothing. Then they excused themselves.
Joan sat shaking like she’d suddenly turned all nerves.
What is it? I asked. You afraid of the immigration police after all?
Naw, she said. She calmed herself, picked up the phone and called James, She told him to expect some guests at the farm. She told him their names, but not who they were, and that they were deportable. She put the phone down. She turned toward me.
Come and wipe this shit off my face, she said. Wipe this shit off me.
You are wonderful, I said. But I hope you don’t get your fool self in trouble. I mean, legally, like I said, it might present a problem. I’ve got some friends in South Texas who work with illegals, some friends of Norvelle’s actually, always getting their asses in trouble, working with the illegals, refugees from different part of the world and people who come here as illegal aliens, and especially now with all this anti-immigration bullshit. I forget what they call their organization. It ain’t Amnesty International, but it’s something like that. Norvelle calls it the New Underground Railroad. He says it’s sorta like in the old days of slavery, when a fugitive slave was illegal. You know, the Fugitive Slave Act, when escaped slaves had to be returned to their owners and that the people really for human rights had to go against their government, you know, like the Quakers, you know. Like in Hitler’s Germany, when there were these Germans who would give shelter to the Jews and even print up fake identification papers for some of them and print up fake food coupons. I read that in one of those books of yours, about some of the Germans who would hide people hunted by the Nazis. Those people have the idea that there’s no such thing as an illegal human being, and they consider the immigration police just thugs, but government thugs. They ain’t all thugs, though. I know this African-American guy who’s an immigration policeman. I met him when we were in South Texas. Then I seen him on television when those Chinese illegal immigrants were captured, and he was leading one of these Chinese women into the detention camps. He wasn’t treating her like an illegal, he was treating her like a human being. I don’t know about those white immigration police, though. I don’t know if they see human beings or just see illegals, you know. Somebody said that African-American guy married one of those Chinese women, though, and stopped being a immigration policeman. Like that story I heard about this buffalo soldier who was fighting the Indians and then he realized he shoulda been fighting with the Indians, you know like in the Seminole wars, so he started fighting with the Indians. They’s always praising the buffalo soldiers for being Indian fighters, you know. Anyway, Norvelle he contributes monetarily to the cause, I mean those people who are helping the illegal aliens in South Texas, because Norvelle’s that sort, but he doesn’t go run around South Texas with those fools or fool with any of those illegals.
But I got me good hiding places, she said. Survivalists usedta own that farm before we bought it. You know what paranoids they are.
I seen you with one of those survivalist manuals in that collection of books you got. And you talking about them being clowns.
I didn’t say clowns. I said fools, I didn’t even say fools, you said fools. One of the survivalists had that book in the attic, so I just read it, you know. I got another list of books I want you to order for me though.
Encyclopedia of Saints The Marathon Monks of Mount Hiei, or The Running Buddhas All of the Women of the Bible The Priestess Tradition of the Ancient World: Spritual Empowerment The Ethiopian Jews Beauty in History The Politics of Beauty Aristotle: On Man in the Universe Prehistory and Protohistory Archeology, Ideology, and Naturalism L’Égypte Images of Ireland The Cambridge Encyclopedia of China Ireland Havana (for you since you claim to be Afro-Cuban) The Unofficial Guide to Disneyland Emerson’s Essays The Wisdom of Confucius Natural History of the Intellect (for Jamey because of his “quest for ideas”) The Rhetoric of Science; Inventing Scientific Discourse (a copy for me and Jamey) Who Stole Feminism? The Third World and the Quest for Political Ideas Japan The Myth of the Explorer A Social History of Ireland China, Korea and Japan; The Rise of Civilization in East Africa Castles India; Land of Dreams and Fantasy The Complete Guide to Growing Nuts Impressionist Cats The Beauty of Horses (for you) The Turtle; A Natural History (for you, on account of that confabulatory tale you told me about the turtle) The Elephants (you should send this to Norvelle c/o his editor) Animal Minds The Herb Garden Cats, Cats, Cats The Cats’ History of Western Art Japanese Gardens Medicinal Plants Chinese Cooking for Beginners (for you, because you’re getting fat, girl) North African Cooking Cats: Arts, Legend, History Fake, Fraud, or Genuine? Comic Book Artists (they’ve got a profile of one of Jamey’s favorite comic book scenarists, Martin Tage, you know the inventor of Guadalcanal, you know the first African-American woman comic book heroine) How to Repair and Restore Dolls (I need a hobby) Politics or Culture? Rumor Has It; A Curio of Lies, Hoaxes, and Hearsay (do you think you’d like this book?) The Creation of Feminist Consciousness Sanctuaries of the Goddess Da New Album (this is a tape not a book; a new rap group) German Architecture (the book which has the chapter on gables and metalwork) African Architecture (for Norvelle c/o his editor? or maybe you should read this, that shit you told me about preferring the tourist hotels to the primitive huts in the bush) Slavery as Salvation: The Metaphor of Slavery in Pauline Christianity Disney Animation Art Mary Cassatt Leonardo da Vinci Start Sculpting: A Step-by-Step Beginner’s Guide to Working in Three Dimensions (I think this is the title of Catherine Shuger’s book; if not make sure you order the one by Catherine Shuger) The Painting of T’Ang Yin Drawing and Painting Animals Court Arts of Indonesia Mask Making (remind me to tell you about Jamey’s Korean maskmaker friend) The Encyclopedia of Origami and Papercraft Yasuo Kuniyoshi’s Women (Jamey’s Women?) Actors as Artists African Art Joan Miró Music and Technology The Irish: A Treasury of Art and Literature Dalí Singer-Songwriters Elvis (for Cayenne? She doesn’t sound crazy to me) Mozart Classical Music A Beginner’s Guide to Opera (for you) Sculpture You Can Eat (I know this is Catherine Shuger’s book) Frida Kahlo And the book about that Cuban woman you know the one who was with Castro during the Revolution we saw her on television And the new Amanda Wordlaw novel, the one I showed you in that book review I don’t remember the title but the book reviewer describes it as a “picaresque-jazz-impressionist-neo-slave narrative novel.” I told you about the pícara didn’t I?
Anyway the women in the book are suppose
dly not pleased with others’ ideas of who they are and are constantly redefining themselves their own ideals or possibilities of womanhood. Not Don’t Let Cowgirls Fool Ya or her early novels this one ain’t just an American book but the heroine travels not just among different classes but among people of different nationalities and political persuasions it suggests more improvisational techniques and has sort of a modified frame and an open-ended resolution that’s why she calls it picaresque, you know the techniques in those novels, like Lazarillo de Tormes, anyway all the men in it have the same name and the narrator sorta reminds me of you she calls it picaresque but it differs from the true picaresque because the true picaresque hero or heroine satirizes others while the heroine of this book satirizes herself more than others do you still think she’s a confabulatory author even Jamey thinks so he saw me reading so many Amanda Wordlaw novels that he thought maybe I’m Amanda Wordlaw in disguise I think it’s Catherine Shuger myself writing under a pseudonym. . . .
What did James say? I sponged her face with witch hazel, then rubbed in aloe cream. Then I put on some wrinkle cream, I just put the wrinkle cream on her forehead, though.
It’s my farm and my notion, she said. What can he say but yes? What can Jamey say but yes? He’s my Jamey and I’m his even though we’re divorced. Like what Carolina said about having a great allegiance to each other. I thought she shoulda said love, but maybe what she says is good itself. I still have a great allegiance to my Jamey. But I ain’t a pawn in no man’s game. You others can be, but not this bogger.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
In the hotel room, while Joan is sleeping, I turn on the videotape. A Vietnamese woman is talking. She speaks with a deeper voice than most Asian women I’ve heard. Mostly the Asian women have high-pitched voices, while the men have low-pitched voices. But this woman has a low-pitched voice, almost like a man’s.
I covered my mouth and my baby’s mouth, she is saying, but those whose mouths weren’t covered. . . .
I begin to think of another Asian woman, a Korean. My father, I told you, was in the Korean War and after the war he stayed in Korea and settled with a Korean woman. He wrote my mother a letter telling her simply what had happened. He did not give any philosophy behind what he did. He did not rationalize. He did say that Korea seemed a better world to him than America. I was just a small child, but I thought that if Korea was such a better world, he could have brought us all to Korea, that it seemed like a selfish thing for him to stay there with that other woman he spoke of. But still I loved him. And even though I was a small child, I thought I could understand what he meant when he said that for the first time he could feel some power and control over his life. He felt in charge. Perhaps I understand what he meant. Had she read the letter to me, because being a small child, she’d thought I wouldn’t understand it?
And the Korean woman? She never spoke of her or of him after reading that first letter, but whenever she’d see an Asian woman on the street or on television, she’d stare like crazy, as if wondering if that was her. She wouldn’t look at her with hatred, but fascination. Was she like this one? If he’d chosen her, could she be a bad woman?
. . . . but if our mouths hadn’t been covered we would have suffered the same as the others.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
I don’t know if she spends her days waiting for him to come back like the women in the storybooks and songs do. I don’t know, for it is never spoken of. He had fought in the Korean War and after the war was over, he stayed there. What else I know about him I guessed on my own, or learned somehow. By osmosis. Jack B. Eagleton his name, the B. standing for Booker. So my name’s Harlan Eagleton. Harlan T. Eagleton, but I do not tell anyone what the T. stands for, because I don’t think it’s a name that anyone should be given. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s Harlan Truth Eagleton. Named for Sojourner Truth, not Truth itself. I know people named Sojourner but not Truth. I do not question. But when I dream, I dream of strangers coming to the door. I’d go to the door always expecting to be surprised by a stranger who’d turn out to be my father, returned from Korea. And when my mother started taking in those little Christs, whom my grandmother called bums, giving them soup and clothing and a warm gathering place, I used to stare at them all, thinking maybe one of them was actually Jack B. Eagleton in disguise.
Look at that little girl how she looks at everyone.
Can’t take her eyes off you, man. She must think you her daddy.
Something must be wrong with that girl. Come here, Possum.
When my mother wasn’t holding soup to them or goodwill clothing, she’d be silent, watching them as if they were the most interesting people in the world, or listening to their conversations. What they spoke of, their stories, I could never seem to remember, or didn’t want to, stories about poor men, though one poor man always spoke of railroads.
My grandmother wouldn’t listen to their stories at all. She’d put the bums to work. Here’s a broom, John Henry, go out and sweep off the sidewalk. There ain’t any trains around here.
Woman, you ain’t got no fellow feeling. And my name ain’t John Henry. I’m Mr. Hauberk. I might resemble John Henry, being a big robust man, but my name’s Mr. Hauberk.
I’m a woman, but only one man can “woman” me, Mr. Hauberk, if that’s your true name. I’ll Mister you if you want to be a Mister. And a big robust man like you oughtn’t to be no bum. And naw I don’t got no fellow feeling if fellow feeling means that you’s a fool.
She handed Mr. Hauberk the broom.
And who might that have been might I ask? The man to woman you. He held the broom like a staff and leaned toward her.
Say what?
The man to woman you. Who’d have the nerve to woman you? Who’d have the nerve to woman a woman like you?
She cracked a tiny smile at him, and then she shushed and shooed him.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
When I return to the hotel, Joan’s talking to Sandovar and two other Haitians. At least I figure they’re Haitians, since they’re with Sandovar. I halt in the door, then say hello to the men. Sandovar looks embarrassed, then he and the other two men stand up, their hats in their hands. They’re wearing khaki pants and shirts and them sandals that look kinda like huaraches. You know them sandals that them Mexican peasants wear. Or them American tourists, a lot of them like to wear them huaraches in Mexico. Sandovar ain’t in Haiti, but here in il paese dell’abbondanza. Nor had I remembered him as a small man. Here in America he looks like a smaller man. Or maybe here I just judge other men by Nicholas, One of the little saints?
What? I ask. What’s going on?
Nothing, he mumbles. The other men shake hands with Joan, and say something in French to her, you know that Creole French, and nod toward me. They go out the door.
So what’s this? I ask Joan. What’s Sandovar doing here? What’s all this? I didn’t know you knew Sandovar. When we were in Haiti you wouldn’t even come over and be introduced to him, when we won that cockfight in the Iron Market. When we saw you in the Iron Market, you were too hoity-toity even to be introduced to him. Some Haitian peasant. I ain’t calling him a peasant, but that’s how you’s looking at him when we saw you in the Iron Market, like some Haitian peasant. So what’s this?
Joan’s silent. She reclines in her chair, looking imperial. Or impervious.
What are you up to now? I ask.
I’m just helping Sandovar, she said simply. I met him again. In fact, I didn’t even know it was Sandovar until he showed up at the hotel. He knows Abio and Abio told me about him. They were at the farm and saw this group of Haitians being detained, and Abio said he knew one of them, that Sandovar is actually sorta a poet, you know, a poet of the people–type poet, you know, a peasant poet and told me about him, and this mutual friend went to the detention camps, and then managed to get Sandovar and the others released and when we met we realized we already knew each other. They’re all exiles. I’m helping th
em.
You’re sending them to your farm?
She nodded. The government wants to send them back to Haiti, but they don’t want to return. Some American poets who know of Sandovar tried to get him out of detention, but some of his peasant poetry is considered anti-American, you know. I don’t think they shoulda even told the people that he’s a poet, you know, and that ain’t his profession actually. We managed to get them out of detention, but. . . .
What are you doing? I mean, a university professor and his wife is one thing, Abio and Carolina, but they ain’t going to let you get away with this. What are you trying to prove anyway? How are Carolina and Abio, by the way?
She picked up the phone and dialed. Come l’hai trovato? Tell him meglio l’uovo oggi, che la gallina domani . . . Ti verro a trovare . . . Ah, non ha orecchio per la musica.
Then she put the phone down and said, They’re fine. The university is being a bastard with them, like I suspected. And they’re still trying to sweet-talk Carolina, telling her that she shouldn’t have any problem herself with immigration. But she won’t abandon Abio. If he’s deported, she’ll be deported. Isn’t that ideal? So they still need me.
You’re crazy.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
I’m in Memphis in a rented car parked across the street from the Presley mansion, Graceland, watching Norvelle’s sister, Cayenne. I don’t know if crazy women remember, but when I step out of the car and go to greet her she reaches out her hand to shake mine.
Harlan, she says. It’s wonderful to see you, Harlan Truth.
I don’t know how she know my middle name. I figure Norvelle musta told her, but I don’t ever remember having told even Norvelle my middle name. I ain’t told you Norvelle’s own name, have I? Norvelle Goodling. Needless to say I don’t use his name. Or rather, didn’t use it when we were married. Harlan Truth Eagleton Goodling? Or even Harlan Goodling? Or even Mrs. Goodling? Even Norvelle, when he first started submitting his articles to journals, everyone thought his last name a typo.