Tantric Coconuts

by Greg Kincaid

  “I offer a service. Repairing cars and trucks. It sounds like you are offering a service, too. Fixing souls. My service works because people know where to find me. I’ve been here for many years. I cannot operate a service out of an old bookmobile driving across America. People would not know where to find me.”

  Angel was not only nimble with her fingers but also quick on her feet. “My service will be like a tow truck. I will come to them.”

  Larsen was unconvinced. As much as he loved his daughter, he had no confidence in her ability to implement this plan. “Angel, when a car breaks down on the road, people know they must call a tow truck. When a man has a sick or broken soul, how will he know to call Angel Two Sparrow, Native American spiritual consultant?”

  “I am still working on that part, but I think the friends in my study group will help me.”

  “Those coconuts?” Larsen asked, wondering whether the crazy gene was dominant or recessive.

  Aunt Lilly had been very proud of Bertha—the bookmobile she had converted to her personal residence. When Angel was a young teenager, she spent a week with Aunt Lilly on the reservation living in the bookmobile. Lilly convinced her that it had magical qualities. It was not a hard argument to make, for every night Angel experienced vivid and unusual dreams. Aunt Lilly told her that Bertha was a dream catcher on wheels: a sacred place where the spirit world can enter our lives. Lilly assured Angel that someday the bookmobile would pass to her. It was the right and proper thing for an aunt to give her niece.

  It was not, however, Aunt Lilly’s passing that brought about the untimely transfer of Bertha the Bookmobile. It was the crazy gene. Larsen felt very guilty for not paying more attention. He should have known from his last visit two years ago that her condition was deteriorating. Larsen had driven a long way on the virtually abandoned road before he reached Lilly’s secluded driveway—not much more than a path of flattened grass cleared of large boulders. She was sitting proudly in a lawn chair near Bertha, holstering twin .45 caliber pistols while chanting some old Lakota song about White Buffalo Woman. There were man-sized wrinkles in the old woman’s face. Her brown eyes seemed unconcerned about focusing on anything in particular. She was wearing a strange vest of her own invention. She called it a harness. When Larsen asked her about it, she said, “My energy is low. I need the power of Mother Earth to revitalize my spirit.”

  Larsen looked down at his bandolier-sporting aunt. She smiled and it was apparent that she had eschewed the reservation dentist along with most everything else from the white world.

  It was unclear what was going on with her harness. A ripped and stained orange fluorescent hunting vest seemed to anchor the apparatus. There was a can of Skoal chewing tobacco peeking out of the front pocket like some shy marsupial. Duct-taped to the front and sides of the vest were various bones, wires, shotgun shells, fishing lures, and hawk feathers. Out of the back of her collaged jacket she had used a bolt to attach a green garden hose that snaked across the yard until it disappeared under a large boulder. Larsen did not believe that the earth’s energy could be so conveniently harnessed, but he respected that he did not know everything. “Have you tried coffee for your low energy, Aunt Lilly?”

  When she shook her head no, he inquired further. “Is your diet lacking?”

  “I don’t like coffee. Never did. My diet is fine.”

  Larsen rested his hand on his aunt’s shoulder. She held it softly and said, “Mother Earth has much healing energy. She gives her energy freely to those that can accept it. We are welcome to take what we need from her.”

  When Larsen tried to pull his fingers away, she squeezed his hand. “Would you like to charge? It’ll relieve your gas and perhaps you can also learn to be less uptight.” She patted his hand. “You seem tense.” She caught him with her steel-gray eyes. “The harness makes your heart chant.”

  Larsen had never “charged” before and, though he doubted its efficacy, he was not sure when he would have another opportunity. Besides, there was no one around to ridicule him for indulging his aunt’s crazy gene. “Yes, Lilly, I would like to wear your harness and charge.”

  The old woman rose. “Good. I’ll make us tea while you charge.”

  Larsen’s uncle Harry, who had been divorced from Aunt Lilly for several years, had counseled Larsen against the visit. “She’s packing heat, crazier than a rabid skunk, and twice as mean. Be careful of that she-wolf, No Barks. It does not like men.”

  When Lilly slipped off her harness and handed it to Larsen, he noticed bruises on her arm. When he asked her about the marks, she said, “Man trouble.”

  Later that afternoon, after he finished his visit with Lilly, he called his uncle, whom he barely knew, and they discussed whether it was safe for Lilly to live by herself, isolated in the remotest corner of the already remote, desolate, heartbreaking, and poverty-stricken reservation. Like most of the others in the rural part of the reservation, she had neither electricity nor adequate water. “I bring her food once a week,” Uncle Harry said. “She won’t spend her Social Security checks. She’s crazy, but what can I do?”

  Larsen hesitated but decided to confront his uncle. “She had bruises on her arm. Do you know where she got them?”

  “She probably fell. She drinks. Too much.”

  When Aunt Lilly had called him three months ago, it had surprised and embarrassed him. To the best of his knowledge, his aunt had never owned a phone. He had ignored the poor woman for too long.

  “Larsen,” Aunt Lilly began, “you have not come to see me in a very long time and I’m afraid that I am going to have to move. I want to give you my land, Bertha the Bookmobile, my dog, No Barks, and my new address at the women’s home in Pierre.”

  A gentle breeze blew open the gauze curtains, and Larsen wondered, as he peered out at the fields of wheat ripening under the summer sun, whether Aunt Lilly was thinking clearly. “Why do you have to move to Pierre, Aunt Lilly? Are you sick?”

  “No. The rez police came from Pine Ridge and took me away.”

  Larsen Two Sparrow became worried. “Why?”

  “I had a dream vision. My bear told me that your uncle Harry would come and try to take my home, my money, No Barks, and my land from me. So when I next saw him, I shot him. It was him or me.”

  Larsen wanted to believe that his aunt had slipped into some state of delusion, a natural by-product of the crazy gene, but still he asked, “Whom did you shoot, Lilly?”

  Her voice grew louder, like she thought Larsen was growing deaf. “Your uncle Harry. I shot him dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He didn’t move for two weeks. I’m sure.”

  “I see.”

  “Larsen,” Aunt Lilly continued, “will you take care of Bertha and No Barks? They’ve been good to me. No Barks is part wolf, but so am I. So is that daughter of yours. What do you call her?”

  “Angel.”

  “Yes, that’s what you call her. You’re a good human, Larsen. I want you to have these things. Now find a pencil.”

  She gave him the address for the South Dakota Women’s Prison in Pierre, and then the line went as dead as Uncle Harry.

  Now his only daughter was ready to leave in Lilly’s bookmobile to start this rather dubious enterprise as a spiritual consultant journeying across America. In the old days, his ancestors had hunted buffalo and families had stayed together, kept warm by the fire, and told stories. Now it had come to this: fixing old trucks, murders, runaway daughters, and crazy genes.

  He dug in his pockets until he found the keys. He hesitated. While Angel was old enough to make her own choices, he didn’t want to enable the bad ones. Crazy gene or not, he was proud of his daughter. Her spirit was unique and she loved the world in ways that most would not understand.

  Larsen took Angel’s hand and pressed the keychain to her palm. “I love you very much. I know it has been hard since your mother died. Take Bertha and paint her however you like. Put mountains on the side. I’ll put a toolbox toget
her for you. Get car insurance and, when you’re ready, you and No Barks go and see what you can find in America. Perhaps there is something there you can fix.”

  Angel hugged her father. “Thank you, Age. You’re the best!”

  After Larsen finished his lunch, he decided to write to Aunt Lilly at the correctional facility. He had talked to her twice since her incarceration. She was not able to make bond, so she would remain in Pierre until the trial, which was many months away. She did not like the court-appointed lawyer who tried so hard to convince her that dreams were not legal defenses. Larsen would tell Lilly about Angel’s journey and see if there was anything he could do to help her.

  3

  Anticipating his vacation foray into nature and the twelve-hour drive to New Mexico, Ted packed flea powder for Argo and car-sick medicine for himself. Before getting on Highway 56 to head southwest, he pulled into the Four Corners Convenience Station, filled the gas tank, and checked the oil and tire pressure. While the tank slowly filled, he adjusted the position of a piece of yellow ruled paper that was taped to the dash. At the top of the page, it read:

  What to do on vacation!

  According to several of the guidebooks he had purchased, Santa Fe, New Mexico, and its environs offered many excellent, canine-friendly activities, including hiking and superb fly-fishing. Also carefully detailed, below his list of activities, were directions and the names of several recommended RV sites along his route.

  List making and other precautions resulted in a late departure from Crossing Trails. Strong winds dropped out of an otherwise clear sky and pushed forcefully against the tall profile of the RV. The safe practice was to drive a little more slowly. By seven o’clock that evening, the sun was getting low in the sky and Ted was an hour behind schedule. Confusing Argo with someone who cared, Ted announced, “It’s going to be dark soon. We need to find the next RV park.”

  The old terrier lifted his jaw an inch off the floor, yawned, and went back to sleep.

  About fifteen minutes later the entrance to one of Ted’s approved campgrounds, Perfect Prairie RV Park, unexpectedly and without the least warning, sprang up in front of Ted. As he closed in on the entrance, Ted considered passing it, turning around at the next opportunity, coming back, and making a proper turn from the opposite direction. That was not, however, the choice Ted made. Instead he pushed the brake pedal hard and began his turn. The setting sun’s glare on his windshield made it hard for him to see far down the road.

  At about the same time a camouflaged, flying tanklike structure came barreling toward him.

  Panicked, Ted let out a “Yikes!” yanked the steering wheel even harder to the left, accelerated into the turn, and gambled that the strange vehicle would yield and the Chieftain wouldn’t tip.

  Angel was onto something big—driving seventy miles an hour in a decrepit bookmobile while doing meditations to the sound of Lakota drum music—when she realized that she too had missed her turn. Believing there is purpose behind all things, she just drove on. Adventure lay on the unknown road. This is how she found herself driving east in a very remote corner of New Mexico in Bertha the Bookmobile. No Barks was sleeping beside her on an old piece of buffalo hide that Aunt Lilly had used for a curtain to block out the glare from the western sun as it flared and disappeared behind the Black Hills.

  Angel, concentrating on the reduction of her alpha waves, was a bit slow to react to the lumbering vehicle that turned in front of her. When she noticed the Winnebago at twelve o’clock high, she applied her brakes hard. Bertha was as nimble as a Sherman tank. At nearly twice the weight of the Chieftain and with momentum at the reins, Bertha emerged the clear victor in the collision that followed.

  4

  When Ted finally brought the Winnebago to a complete stop in the first space off the highway, he was relieved (he was alive!) but frightened (how had this happened to him, the most careful of drivers?). He looked down at Argo and asked, “Are you hurt?”

  The Chieftain continued to rock up and down on its shocks like a young Marine doing push-ups. Suddenly something clanged to the ground. Ted unlocked the driver’s-side door and climbed out of the cab, anticipating seeing dead bodies strewn about the campground like autumn leaves. Fortunately there were none, so he focused on the property damage.

  There was a sizable dent in the right rear quarter panel. On the ground near the rear of the vehicle was the back half of the water tank, which had broken off from the chassis. It could have been worse, much worse. The sound of a poorly muffled engine caught Ted’s attention. The unusual vehicle that had just rammed him was slowly approaching from the highway. Having already wounded the Chieftain, Ted suspected, the driver was now going in for the kill.

  Angel pulled in behind the damaged RV and pondered the meaning of the personalized Kansas license plate, SHARK. This was a strange name for a land vehicle. Something her father had said came rushing back to her. She cringed as she heard his too-soft words in her head. She leaned forward, slapped the dash with her open palm, and said, “Buffalo dung.” She could not believe it. “I forgot the insurance.”

  If anyone was hurt, there could be serious trouble. She climbed out the cab door and cautiously approached the Winnebago, holding her breath and hoping that her business plan as a spiritual consultant was not about to receive a serious revision.

  She was expecting an elderly driver. Instead, a very frightened-looking young white man was circling about, dazed. He was neatly dressed and about her height. He was attractive in a frat-boy sort of way, with blue eyes and brown, neatly trimmed hair. He finally looked up at her. Though dazed, he asked, “What happened?”

  Angel took one look at the dented right rear quarter panel of the Chieftain and summed it up for him. “I think we had an accident. Are you and your family okay?”

  Ted looked back at the tall, dark-haired woman. “It’s just me and my dog and we’re fine. What I meant to say was what do we do now? Should we call the police? How about you? Are you hurt?”

  Angel put her hand just above her hip bone. “My lower back is a tad whacked and your RV is a bit dented.” Hoping to avoid the insurance quagmire, she tried to reach down and touch her toes but pulled back, wincing in exaggerated agony. “Maybe we should just call it an even swap—my bad back for your little dent?”

  Ted scoffed, “It doesn’t quite work that way when the accident was your fault.”

  “Mine?” Angel asked with her hands still on her hips.

  “Yes, I believe it was your fault. Ted Day is my name.”

  “I think you turned in front of me. Angel Two Sparrow.” She stuck out her hand.

  In lieu of a proper greeting ritual, Ted dug in his wallet and offered Angel his insurance card. “Have your agent call my agent. There’s no need for us to argue over it.”

  Angel casually rebuffed Ted’s offer as she walked away. “Never mind all that insurance stuff. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

  Ted shook his head and thought to himself, Grandpa, this is exactly why I don’t go on vacations. Beyond the constriction in his chest, Ted noticed another thing: there was something very unusual about this woman. He needed another look to complete the thought.

  He turned and watched Angel as she walked back to her strange vehicle and climbed in. One glance was enough. It was her clothing. While attractive, she wore a bizarre combination of things that had no business being put on the same body at the same time. It was much more in your face than wearing stripes with plaids. Black combat boots do not go with frilly lace, calf-high socks. Jean shorts are not to be patched with fluorescent yellow duct tape. He tried to remember the letters on the tiny wooden blocks strung on her necklace. It came to him: I-M-A-G-I-N-E. He found this word particularly irritating under the circumstances. When it came to driving and most everything else in life, knowing would always trump imagining. This Angel Two Sparrow (he wondered what kind of a name that was) needed to do less imagining and a lot more paying attention.

  Having seen enough to close
the book on Angel Two Sparrow, Ted looked back at his grandfather’s RV. For so many years his grandfather had kept it in nearly perfect condition. Now, as the new owner, on day one of trip one, he’d had an accident. Upset, Ted had a childish impulse to curse the vacation gods.

  Instead, he stomped back inside the Chieftain, slammed the door behind him, and, for Argo’s benefit, put a fine point on it. “Barely out of Kansas and our vacation is ruined.” Argo refused to participate in the rant. This was Ted’s problem.

  The more he thought about his dented RV and her IMAGINE necklace, the more frustrated he became. This much was clear: Angel was some New Age nutcase. As if this were a legal quandary that could be analyzed and resolved with sufficient analysis, Ted removed a pen and a yellow legal pad from a drawer on the left side of the sink. He listed his options, along with a candid assessment of each.

  1. Sue her for every dime she’s got. Bad option. She clearly has nothing. Plus, the accident was probably my fault.

  2. Return to Crossing Trails and never try a vacation again. Hold that one for now; come back later in case there are no better options.

  3. Fix the RV and try to go ahead with existing vacation plans. Remember what Grandpa said about finding adventure on the road.

  Not particularly fond of any of his options, Ted stopped pondering for a moment and instead thought about the necklace, picturing in his mind another word sculpted in the same crude script. He printed K-N-O-W-I-N-G! across the top of his legal pad.

  He laid his pencil down and sighed. He would go with option three. There was no sense in fighting it; the accident had been his fault. He’d be lucky if she didn’t sue him for hundreds of thousands of dollars for back surgery she didn’t need. He picked up the pencil as option number four came to him.

  4. Sneak out in the middle of the night and never deal with Angel Two Sparrow again. Hold that one too. It might be better than #3.

  Argo finally woke up and joined Ted at the small kitchen table, suddenly very interested in the calamity called Ted’s vacation. The dog wagged his tail and seemed to be coming back to life.