The Healing

by Gayl Jones

  What are you talking about?

  I motion for her to read. It is only a short paragraph. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed it if Joan had gotten to the recording studio earlier. After I’d read the sports section, the horseracing page, I’d thumbed through the entertainment section, and then through items of world news. That’s when I saw the little paragraph, hardly a paragraph. She reads it in clumsy haste, then gives me a blank look.

  Did you know what you were financing? I ask. Did you know they were using the money you got from the Schacter contract—I suppose that’s the money you used—to buy weapons? So they could try to take back their country?

  Joan says nothing.

  I thought you were financing them so that they could stay over here in this country, maybe hire themselves a good immigration lawyer, not to try to mount some kinda idiotic little coup. I mean, I thought that you were just helping them to stay here. You coulda hired them that good immigration lawyer I told you about. That woulda made more sense.

  Joan says nothing.

  They were all killed. Except Sandovar. But he’s been detained. And you know what that means.

  Joan says nothing.

  I didn’t know it was that. If I’d known that you were such a fool as that. Why didn’t you tell me it was that? Did Jamey know what you were doing?

  No. Jamey would’ve talked me out of it. He’s like you.

  I thought it was like with Abio and Carolina, helping them get political asylum or some shit. That you were just helping the refugees. That sorta fool, but not this other sorta fool.

  Maybe we could hire someone—you know those mercenaries we saw on television—who can go into the country and get him out. You know, like the ones we saw on television who were training those people how to defend themselves. You know, Nicodemus—

  Nicodemus?

  That’s his name, Nicodemus Sandovar. He’s your lover and you don’t know his name.

  Oh. But he’s not my lover.

  Anyway, his family’s still at my farm, his wife, his boy and girl. We could hire someone to go into the country, you know. . . . find out where they’re detaining him and—

  Stupid. Stupid. This ain’t the movies, girlfriend. This ain’t the movies. You’re just stupid. Putting on your Quixote act.

  When Castro returned to Cuba, he only had a few men in a boat. When he marched into Havana, he only had a few men.

  Sandovar ain’t Castro.

  There must be mercenaries who do things like that that we could hire to free Sandovar.

  Yeah, you could just hire you your own fucking private army, huh? Well, that takes more bucks than you got, darling. You ain’t a big enough star for that.

  What about that man you were telling me about, that Josef, if he’s so rich. What about some of his security people?

  Naw, that’s bullshit. I don’t even see Josef, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell him about some bullshit like that. I told you I know some fools in South Texas who are into some illegal shit with illegal aliens, helping illegal aliens. I can give you their names, but even they don’t get into bullshit like that.

  It’s not bullshit. I thought of asking Isabel Kong for help, you know, but if she’s the gangster that they say she is, I might get myself into more trouble. Or she might think she’d get herself into more trouble, you know, than just the rumors about her. And Little Lady’s a musical prodigy, I call her Kongapoo, a magical prodigy, you know, at one of those ritzy musicians’ academies, and. . . . Anyway, these people you know, are they mercenaries?

  Naw, they ain’t mercenaries. They’re just regular people who believe in freedom, free borders, you know. A few rumheads among them, but otherwise they’re regular people. They’re mostly working in the border towns, you know, and it’s not shit like that. They’re not mercenaries, they’re just ordinary people.

  How’d you meet them?

  They’re more friends of Norvelle’s actually. I met them through Norvelle. He met them, well, he usedta be a guide for different African groups, you know, when they’d come to this country. I first met him when he was escorting some group of African Baptists. I told you he’s a medical anthropologist. Well, he speaks different African languages, so some of these sanctuary movement types when they had this group of African refugees from some little country got in touch with him once to do some interpreting, ’cause he was supposed to be the only one in this country who knows how to speak this certain African language, so he took me with him when he went down there to South Texas. Anyway, I don’t much keep in touch with them myself, ’cause they’re originally friends of Norvelle’s, you know, except this one woman’s got a little cantina-style restaurant in Cuba, New Mexico, usedta help transport some of them illegal aliens. When I first met her I thought she was an illegal alien herself, and then Norvelle said she was helping to transport them. Things got too hot for her in South Texas, I think, so she moved to New Mexico. It ain’t that commando-type bullshit, though.

  We don’t know how many there were. That’s just how many they reported there were. Maybe the others can get Sandovar free.

  Just stupidity, Crazy fool. This ain’t TV.

  But they did something. They did something. They did something.

  They tried to change the world and make it better. They didn’t just whine like all you. . . . They acted. That’s why I admire Isabel Kong, if all the tales about her are true. They try to make her into a gangster, but she helps the Chinese. She didn’t become the great artist she imagined she’d be, and maybe she doesn’t have her idealisms like when we were in school and is more cynical, but she’s a better woman. They say all idealists become cynics. Anyway, she’s a better woman than she might have become if she’d just become that great artist.

  Stupidly. I don’t mean Isabel Kong, I mean you fools.

  Well, they’re real people, real everyday folks, not pretenders, like us. And the best you could imagine for your Sandovar is a cockfight.

  A good cockfight. And at least we won.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  How we met, Joan and I. Birds glowing. On the wall, a tapestry of birds of paradise, I awoke, curled up on somebody’s sofa. There were people in the room. Partying people, show business people, holding drinks and paper plates and some near the stereo dancing. A couple near the stereo dancing to Miles. Should you dance to Miles? Can you? Near me a couple was sitting, Man and woman talking. The man gets up to refresh the woman’s drink. The woman says hi. Where am I? I ask. Where are you? But before she answers he’s back with the refreshed drink and they’re talking. I’m standing. Hangover.

  Vaguely remember a bar. I’d Just come back from Tanzania. On my way to Saratoga, Vaguely remember a bar. Where am I? Who brought me here?

  Can I have a tequila, please?

  Sure thing.

  So whose party is this anyway?

  Damn if I know. A party. I know a coupla the musicians. There’s a famous fashion designer. A famous artist. But damn if I know. They just sent me over.

  Who’d I come with?

  I don’t know. Scan the room. The man in the braids? Chinese? No, he’s too dark for Chinese, But they have dark Chinese. In the mountains? Norvelle once showed me some.

  Wait for someone to look at you with familiarity, like they know you. The stereo in the corner. All the other men could be my Norvelle. Shades and variations.

  Who’d I come with?

  Damn if I know.

  How’d I find my way here?

  Hello.

  Did I come with you? Hi, I’m Joan Savage.

  Savage or it was Eagleton, No, my own name Eagleton. I’m Harlan Eagleton. She has this full-lipped smile. I like her already. Scar near her nose, or a wrinkle.

  Do you know whose party this is?

  Some party, huh.

  She hasn’t the foggiest either. Her first New York party. Friends brought her. Friends of friends of friends of friends.

  So you, are you an artist too? You look . . .
/>   I told her.

  Say what? Cosmetician? You mean makeup artist?

  Naw, I work in a beauty parlor.

  She laughed and then she cheered. It’s about time I met somebody real for a change. Not these muckedymucks. A real gal.

  But I. . . .

  Come over here I want you to do my makeup. . . . I wanna see how good you are.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-FOUR

  In Saratoga, in a hotel room, I sit with Nathaniel. The old jockey. Paradise. We’re watching TV. We’re sitting in his rocker/recliners, the kind that massage you. A Brazilian actress is talking about a new Brazilian film, called Pixote.

  . . . because we have so many problems to solve before art, though art is my life . . . so many people living terrible lives . . . but art is my life . . . I wanted to go with them. It was a difficult choice. A difficult choice. But I come from an old artist family. I’m a dancer first and a singer and I make humor . . . Ele esta louco por ela . . . Sim. Sim. Sim. Sim . . . I don’t want to make only one thing in my life . . . I want to know all the mystery, make all the mysteries that my art can do . . .

  Suppose they’d allowed Joan to go with them? I ask. I think she’d’ve been that foolish. Playing revolutionary. Well, she could play revolutionary, but for Nicodemus Sandovar and the others it wasn’t play.

  So where’s she now?

  Back in the studio, recording her new CD. Something to do with refugees or some shit.

  And what about you? Where are you?

  I don’t answer.

  Paradise pours me another glass of champagne, bought with our winnings, then he pours himself a new glass. We all meet as strangers, and mostly stay strangers, even when we think we know each other. It’s funny, I was thinking of you, though, and then you appeared.

  Speak of the devil, huh?

  Or think of her. But I know better than that. All I know is it’s better to love, it’s better to love. . . . What do you think?

  Norvelle once told me that there were certain African folk tales that never gave you an answer; they only left you with a dilemma. Dilemma tales, he called them. What else had he said about them? They were a way of learning. They were another way of learning. What had I learned? I’d just grown fatter, as Joan had said. But Joan. What had she learned? She’d started singing more revolutionary songs. But I don’t think she’d really learned anything. Maybe she thought if she got really good, got famous enough, she could hire her private army—free Sandovar or some others. I don’t know what the fool imagined.

  More champagne, please. Tell me your whole story.

  No one ever tells their whole story. What’s the name of Joan’s new CD?

  Siamo del medesimo paese. I told the fool don’t everybody know Italian.

  What does it mean?

  Siamo del medesimo paese. We’re all from the same country. Siamo del medesimo paese. We’re all from the same country.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-FIVE

  In the storage room, Mother and I open boxes of new supplies. Grandmother Jaboti has ordered a whole box of Royal Crown and Mother complains that only the old-time women still use Royal Crown, that modern women put on light conditioners and texturizing creams.

  Did you ever believe her turtle stories? I ask. I mean when you were a little girl and she first told you.

  She puts several jars of hair dressing on the shelf before she answers. Yeah, I suppose I did. I suppose when I was a little girl I did. Little girls like to believe fantasies like that. I even imagined that I was a Turtle Woman transforming myself to free myself from the tyranny of others.

  She puts several more jars on the shelf. But I’m a grown woman now and not so foolish. I’m a grown woman now and got my own grown girl.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SIX

  Harlan, Harlan, exclaims Josef, giving me both his hands and ushering me into his house, I thought I’d see you in Saratoga, he’s saying, still holding both my hands.

  I tell him that I didn’t go this year, that I don’t gamble anymore, that there are no longer any horses that I want to bet on.

  Not even mine? he asks.

  No, not even yours.

  Come on. I want you to see someone.

  I expect to meet his wife, but when I walk into the living room, there’s Joan curled up on the sofa.

  Your Joanie, says Josef. You made me a fan of hers, and so I invited the two of you. I thought it would be a pleasure. Joan’s not dressed in her stage clothes, but looks like any ordinary woman in ruffled blouse and straight skirt. Except the edges of her hair are lavender.

  Well, what’s it to be? Joan asks, rising. Champagne, Manhattan, Screwdriver?

  I’ve got to go check on one of my Thoroughbreds, but you girls can catch up on old times. And to Joan, he said something about some proposal she’d made to him. I’ll consider your proposal, he said. At least, I might know some other people you can submit it to. Had he invited her here or had she invited herself? Was she still on that old chestnut about trying to free Sandovar?

  Did you know he was married? Joan asks, handing me a Screwdriver.

  Yes, I knew. I told you I knew. I told you about his wife, and how he hadn’t sent for her because of the dangers.

  No, you didn’t tell me.

  Yes, I did. Why didn’t you tell me he’d invited you here? When I spoke to you about that new contract. They sent it to me and I told you I’d be forwarding it to you. You could have told me he’d invited you here.

  Then you’d not have come.

  No, because I’d figure you’d got someone new to play games with.

  I used to admire you. I mean in the beginning. Poor girl makes good and all that. I admired you so much, your will, your determination to better yourself, and still keep some integrity, a little integrity. And I liked the way you ran things, the way you seemed to belong anywhere you decided. Like when I first met you at that party. If you’d told me you were an artist I’d have thought so. You could have told me you were anyone and I’d have believed you. I used to think you were real, not an imposter like everyone else. Not a pretender like those other jokers.

  You’ve always thought me a rogue.

  No, not in the beginning. And even if you are sort of a rogue, you never really pretended to be anything else. I forgave you my ex-husband. After all, he’s my ex, and I believed you. I believed in you.

  I sip the Screwdriver. And now I will tell you the truth of it. Josef has gone out to check on one of his Thoroughbreds, like I told you, and left us alone together with drinks. But it is not intoxication. It is not insanity. It is Joan holding the knife. She has come up to the chair, in the living room, looking as if she is bathed in light, and there is something sparkling. Suddenly the knife is here and casually she drives it in. This is the truth of the story. Not Nicholas’ tale, but this one. The knife bends even before Nicholas gets to the chair to grab her arm, and save me. I think it has struck bone and bent. But it’s struck not where any bone would be.

  I thought you were a real person, she says. But you’re not even a human woman, you’re not even a real human woman.

  This is the truth of it. The knife fell out. I put my hand to the wound and it healed. Nicholas came to save me, and Joan stood there raising her arms to the ceiling in disbelief.

  And when you discover you can heal yourself, that you simply put your hand to a wound and it heals, you soon discover you can heal others. First a horse suffering from a fractured phalange, and then a Turtle Woman.

  But Joan, though she witnessed the first healing, didn’t believe it then and claims not to believe it now, no matter how many wounds I cure or bones I straighten.

  I still listen to Joan’s music, though. Joan’s new music, the music of revolution, the musk of refugees. And if I happen to be healing folks in a town she’s playing in, I’ll go sit in her audience and applaud, I still believe in her.

  But me? She thinks I’ve set myself up as a healing woman just so that perhaps my husband Norve
lle will leave the Masai woman and start following me around. But that’s baloney. That’s pure baloney. Let Norvelle follow that Masai woman to Kingdom Come for all I care.

  EPILOGUE

  Is it her? Yeah, that’s her. She don’t look like no healing woman to me. You sure she can heal? She healed herself first, then a horse and then a woman who looked like a turtle and I have read testimonies of peoples that say she done healed them. Don’t look to me like she could heal a flea. What’s that she wearing? Aw, girl, come on and let’s go introduce usself.

  Mizz Eagleton, I’m Mizz LaPorte and this is Mizz Bryce. Church sent us out to welcome you. That all you got? Travel light, don’t you?

  I let her carry the overnight case while I hold onto the CD player, its earphone stuck in my ear. Listening to Joan.

  Mr. Nicholas is already at the house, says Mizz LaPorte, glancing back at me. He say he your witness to the healings.

  Yes.

  What’s that you listening to?

  The gospel.

  That’s real nice to carry it around with you. Plenty of the young folks does that, but it ain’t no gospel they listens to. It’s that rap. Ain’t that nice? Music, our preacher says, cures the soul. But I know some of that music don’t cure nobody soul. This modern world-stuff.

  Ain’t it the poet that say it music the greatest good we have below, and all of heaven that mortals know. The greatest good we know, and all of heaven we have below. Musk or love.

  Della gives me a conspiratory look, then says, We done advertised you all around, you know, so we’re expecting a real capacity crowd. But I bet you always do draw a capacity crowd, don’t you? You know you’s the first healing woman that I met. Do you think he’ll follow you till you become human?

  Say what?

  Them that follows you say that you really heal and it ain’t just rumor.

  To tell you the truth, I’m not the sort of woman I’d imagined I’d become. . . . .

  Preacher say that some people secretly prefer their flaws to their virtues, because they mistakenly think that it’s virtues that make people the same, but flaws that distinguish them, that give them character. Preacher say that them is the sorta people that is enamored of they flaws, and them is the hardest peoples to free from they sins. ’Cause what they love best about theyselves is they flaws. They cultivates them. But if you is a true healing woman, he say you can heal some of them peoples. To one whom much is given, much is required.