I am a proud Cherokee, don’t take away my land.
Don’t take away my land, this here is Cherokee land.
I’m a proud Cherokee, don’t take away my land,
You mean old white man.
I got a bottle full of wine, some rum and whiskey too.
I’m a-gonna get drunk on rum and whiskey, too.
I’m a-gonna get drunk, and I’ll show you what I’ll do,
You mean old white man.
When your train comes to town, you better go away.
You better go away, you took my land away.
I’m a-gonna get drunk, you better go away,
You mean old white man.
George wrote the lyrics in his notebook. When he was finished he asked what key it was in. “It’s like a folk song?” he asked. “Is it played on acoustic guitar?”
“I think so. I don’t know.”
“Sounds like a folk song,” he said.
He set the notebook down and looked up to the ceiling, then back to the floor. “Rosemary’s in the woods with some guy,” he said.
I sat up in bed. “In the woods?”
“She goes there to draw. She draws in the woods.”
“But with a guy?”
“She draws naked people,” he said. “I’ve seen her drawings. She draws naked men and women. Do you want to see them? I know where they are in her room.”
“Why do they go to the woods?” I asked.
He pulled on his lower lip, staring at the floor.
“George,” I said.
“To draw, to draw,” he said.
I went downstairs and put on my coat. As I walked by the kitchen window I saw Rosemary and a boy standing outside in the backyard. She was holding her large sketchbook and they were talking. I stood there watching them for a moment. Rosemary was saying something. The boy laughed and then Rosemary laughed. Then they started to walk toward the woods.
I slipped out the back door and followed them. I stayed back and entered the woods far behind them, taking the winding path around a stand of trees to an area where I could stay secluded and watch. They didn’t know I was there. I crouched next to a bush, among a scattering of leaves and twigs, and watched Rosemary sit cross-legged on the ground with her sketchbook in her lap while the boy sat across from her, resting against a tree. I saw the boy slumped forward, grinding his boots into the dirt while he waited for her to take out her pencils and get comfortable. I saw Rosemary’s dark hair spilling down her back. I saw the way she was sitting there staring at him before she ever started drawing. Watching her, I was struck with a feeling of betrayal, or maybe abandonment for whatever reason, and I found myself feeling overly anxious and confused.
Then she started drawing him, and I leaned forward to rest my elbows on a stump and watched. I was very still and quiet. The boy said something to Rosemary, but I couldn’t hear what he said. They talked for a moment, and I heard her say, “Be still, you idiot!” Then they fell quiet again as she stared at him and began drawing. He had not taken off his clothes, but I imagined he had. And I imagined Rosemary had, too, so that they were both naked and alone, unaware of any other presence. In that space of time, while she drew, I entered both Rosemary and the boy and allowed them to move the way I wanted them to. I moved his body to meet hers. His body was spindly and pale. Rosemary’s skin was dark against his. He crouched down to kiss her navel and she laughed. And I, too, laughed as they collapsed to the ground in the gray light suffusing through the cold afternoon. The bitter cold never bothered them, not in their sudden passion.
And I heard their unmistakably human cries, full of pleasure, thin in the dusty sky. I heard Rosemary’s voice, full of wonder, strange and mysterious, cries that rang out against the branches. And I thought about this for what seemed like a long while, sitting there resting my elbows on the stump, and everything around me felt incongruous and warm. I turned away yet still desired her. The air filled with the sweetness of fruit, and I could not contain myself from the dizzy exhaustion of the moment.
I slipped quietly away. I walked back to the house and found Agnes inside, smoking by the window. The ashtray was filled with cigarette butts. She snubbed out her cigarette and tried to smile.
“What’s she doing out there?” she asked me.
“Who?”
“Rosemary. Didn’t you see her?”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh. I saw her with her sketchbook, drawing some guy. That was all.”
“They’re still there? Why did you leave?”
“Bored, I guess.”
Agnes sighed with pain, as if she were feeling ill. She looked worried. I had no idea why, and I didn’t ask.
I went upstairs to the bedroom and started reading one of the books Rosemary had given me. Momaday’s bio on the back cover said he was from right here in Oklahoma. I really liked the book and that he was an Indian like us.
George was sitting at his desk, drawing something using colored markers. He sometimes designed his own greeting cards and handed them out at school. He’d memorized a number of his classmates’ birthdays, as well as several teachers’, so he always made sure to give them a part of himself. The drawings were usually abstract symbols with letters or numbers signifying something about their relationship. I found it fascinating, really. Whenever he worked on a project like this he remained quiet and focused, which I liked because I was able to read in peace.
Soon I heard a car start outside. I looked out the window and saw Rosemary sitting in the passenger’s seat of the boy’s car. The car pulled out of the drive and drove away. I set the book on the windowsill, put my coat on and went downstairs. Agnes wasn’t in the living room or kitchen when I walked by, but I could smell the cigarette smoke in the air. I went outside and walked all the way back to the woods, to the spot where Rosemary had been drawing the boy. I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to be there or what I hoped would happen. It felt colder now. The wind swelled, and I saw snails crawling in the dirt while branches all around me trembled. Among all this, I felt Rosemary’s presence.
A radiant blue, chilly afternoon, I stood silently watching her from the kitchen window while she sat on the back patio with her friend, Nora Drake. Nora, who avoided eye-contact with me, always. Nora, who Rosemary later told me assumed I’d developed a crush on Rosemary that was creepy and borderline dangerous. She laughed it off, thankfully. As I stood at the window I saw them both sitting in plastic chairs at the patio table, both drinking from cans of soda and talking about something that was making Nora burst into laughter every so often. Rosemary was wearing sunglasses and a black sweater with blue jeans and black shoes. An old pair of tennis shoes rested on the patio by her feet, and on the table there was an opened photo album they were both flipping through, looking at photos. For a while I watched, oblivious to whether anyone could’ve been in the room or standing near me. Rosemary had both hands placed on the album and was leaning in close to Nora, saying something that seemed of great importance, when the phone rang. It was Liz, calling to ask how things were going.
“The school said you’re doing well,” she said. “I’m glad to hear that. Are you doing okay?”
“I like it here,” I said. “They’re nice people.”
“And the two others? Are you getting along with them?”
“I like them.”
“That’s good,” she said. “I wanted to remind you that your mother’s hearing is next month. I’m going to request supervised visits if she’s released.”
I didn’t say anything. It all felt too heavy over the phone, thinking about my mother being released and returning home.
“You think she’ll be released?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. There’s always a chance she will be.”
After we hung up, I watched Rosemary and Nora walk to Nora’s car and drive away.
While they wer
e gone, I went upstairs and snuck into Harold and Agnes’s bedroom. I looked around on the dresser for something to pick Rosemary’s lock with, but I couldn’t find anything. I stepped into their bathroom and looked through Agnes’s makeup, where I found a hairpin. I carefully went out and down the hall to Rosemary’s door, where I eventually picked the lock. It was something I’d done at our house in Cherokee County whenever my mother was working and I wanted to snoop through her room for cigarettes. I didn’t sneak in to steal anything. I wanted to look around for something, but I had no idea what it was.
Thinking back on it, this was the first time I’d seen her bedroom alone. Her room was a place of mysterious elements, and I felt wildly alive as I searched through it, from wall to wall, shelf to shelf, corner to corner. There, objects became whole, and I slowly felt deep within myself a desire I couldn’t understand. It was confusing, really, I wasn’t sure what I was feeling.
Her room, unorganized and cluttered, in no specific order. There were cassette tapes and teen magazines. Her music collection was eclectic if not popular for the time: Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, Joni Mitchell, Johnny Cash—along with various mixes she had titled such as “Mix for Jessie” and “Mix for Holly” and “Mix for DMH.” Her books were shelved in no discernable order. Dirty clothes were scattered on the floor. Like a lunatic I got down on my hands and knees and searched under her bed, where I found two bins. I slid them out and went through both, which were full of random items, including old bracelets and rings and necklaces, some photos of her as a child with a thin woman in bell-bottom pants and long, dark hair—her mother, I assumed—along with a nail file, nail polish, beads, hair clips, buttons, one golden earring, an old spiral notebook with blank pages, and a cigarette lighter.
There were also colored pencils, markers, colored chalk, and watercolor paint. There were scraps of paper full of doodles and scribbles—on one page her signature was written repeatedly in various colors; on another, the name “Nora” was written several times, in cursive, more carefully than her own name. I found one pink mitten. I found a greeting card with a picture of two kittens pawing playfully at each other; inside the card, which read “You Are Purrrfect!” someone had added, “I miss you,” in ballpoint pen, the handwriting surely female—but there was no signature. The card smelled of raspberry, maybe, or lemon. There were also some blue and red ribbons, first and second place in an art show. I found a T-ball medal and a soccer ball keychain. All this, under the bed.
In one of the notebooks I discovered a medical form of some sort:
NORTHRIDGE NEUROLOGICAL INSTITUTE
COMPREHENSIVE PROGRAM FOR EPILEPSY
AUDIO-VISUALLY MONITORED EEG REPORT
Blackwell, Rosemary
E0293794573
INTERPRETATION:
The recording showed two events during monitoring. Both events indicated that the patient experienced no epileptic episodes or numbness of sensations in the head and body. There were also no delayed responses. The patient was able to mumble excessively at various points of time and also respond to the EEG technologist.
Two events were reported:
Event #1 was logged at 0932 and indicated that the patient was lying in a supine position without any facial activity or noticeable movements of the upper or lower extremities. The EEG technologist logged a response at 0938 as the patient responded by mumbling something unintelligible. The patient was also able to open her mouth in response to the EEG technologist, as well as nod her head. There was no verbal response except for the excessive mumblings. At 0941, the EEG technologist logged this event as a nonelectrogenic (pseudo) seizure.
Event #2 was logged at 1126. Patient was lying in a supine position and began moving lower extremities in response to the EEG technologist. The patient’s only facial activity was a slight opening of the mouth before mumbling. The patient managed to mumble incoherently during this event. The EEG technologist noted extreme facial activity during this mumbling. This event, unlike the first, was not logged as an electrogenic (pseudo) seizure. The EEG showed an awake background pattern during both of these events and indicated that no epileptic episodes had occurred.
I wasn’t sure if this meant Rosemary was epileptic or what. I found some writing in the notebook, in purple ink:
Last night I asked too many questions about things like mice. Our house has them and Mom has traps scattered everywhere! Mom sits in the living room studying Zoology or something from the community college. She went into a long explanation about how mice had been used in genetic experiments to aid in scientific studies. She once bought me an encyclopedia set and went through it with me whenever I asked questions like this, but mostly I just looked at the illustrations and pictures. I like to look at Michelangelo’s statue of David. Ancient tombs. All the diagrams of bodies. The human body. I wonder what my body will look like when I die?
The last line, underlined. Where was the rest? The other pages from this entry had been torn out, but a few pages later I found this strange list:
What I learned from juvenile detention:
All the guards wore jeans rather than slacks so their keys wouldn’t slide out of their pockets whenever they sat down on the couches. “Code ten” means an emergency, and “delivery” means the police had brought a kid in. Staff never wore any necklaces. Maybe they thought someone would try to choke them. A few boys peed on the floor in the bathroom. Guards working the night shift checked on us every 15 fucking minutes. Prostitution is worse than I thought. Most of us participated in weekly Bible studies. I think I was maybe the smartest person there. A boy had to be treated for lice. One night he barked like a dog to get the staff to think he was crazy so he could get out of detention and go to the hospital for a mental evaluation. It sucks. The reason I had to squat and cough during the intake was because some residents try to smuggle in drugs or money in their assholes. That’s what a staff member told me anyway. I never saw a fight. Staff counted all the pencils and silverware. Maybe they thought we would stab someone or screw with the locks. Nobody tried to kill anyone. Nobody tried suicide.
Other pages were ripped out. There was no other writing—only this. What had she done to get locked up? I put the notebook back in the bin and slid it under the bed.
The room was like a treasure-house. I crawled from the bed to the mahogany bookshelf. I crawled from the bookshelf to the closet, where she kept her clothes and shoes. I went through her dresser drawers, through T-shirts, socks, pants, undergarments. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. The room lit up like stained glass. I saw blues, greens, yellows, and reds. I wanted to touch as many things of hers as possible. I touched her comforter, her pillows. I touched her clothes and the wooden handles on her closet doors.
Her closet was filled with clothes on hangers. I ran my hand over her shirts and pants, over her blue jeans and skirts. Shoes were scattered about on the floor. Sweaters were folded on a shelf above. On one of the hangers I found a black button-down cardigan sweater. I took it off the hanger and put it on. The sleeves were a little long, but it fit well, I noticed, as I leaned in close and looked at myself in the mirror above her dresser. I put on my eyeliner, using short, brief strokes beginning at the inside corner of my eye and ending at the outer corner. I drew upwards at the outer corner toward my eyebrow to create a cat eye. I did this with both eyes, then I sat on the bed, hugging myself in her sweater.
I fantasized about Rosemary being naked on the bed. I thought about sticking an object inside her and fucking her with it until it hurt her. I thought of making her bleed. But this never aroused me. I was never sexually attracted to her in this way, yet I liked thinking about her in that sort of pain. I thought of her aching. I thought of watching her fold over the bed, blood running down her legs.
From the bookshelves, the nightstand and dresser, and from the corners of the room, I noticed little figurines and dolls watching me. The dolls were antiques in faded white dresses, wit
h closed mouths and dark eyelashes. Their eyes stared at me. The little figurines—the porcelain matador on the bookshelf, wearing a green hat and holding his red cape, the white rabbit standing on hind legs, and the two matching clowns wearing baggy green and blue pajama-like outfits, their faces painted white and their noses red, both holding a black top hat with rabbit ears protruding out—all were watching me. They had watched me rummaging about the room on my hands and knees. I wanted to break all of them, shatter them to pieces.
When I stood I saw my reflection in the mirror above her dresser. I saw a couple of Polaroids hidden underneath some music magazines. They were photos of Rosemary. One revealed her lying in bed with her face turned into the pillow. You couldn’t see her face. She was in only her bra and underwear, her wrists and ankles tied with rope. In the second one she was more in a fetal position, crouched with her wrists tied behind her back. I was neither aroused nor bothered, though I liked that I could see the bones of her spine in one of the photos.
I replaced them underneath the magazines and went over to one of the dolls and touched its hair, which felt coarse and stiff. The doll stared at me with big eyes. With a finger I poked around on its body: the eyelashes, the nose, the mouth, all the delicate parts.
The day lumbered on without her. Harold was gone, Agnes was running errands, and George was particularly quiet, staying to himself downstairs until he finally came up to the room and, without saying anything, began writing in his notebook. I started writing myself—a letter to my mother, but I stopped after a few sentences, writing only: Dear Mom, guess what? School’s going ok. I started daydreaming about her life in jail and what she did all day, eating and sleeping in her cell. I wrote: I’m not sure what to think about anything. I’m not even sure who I am. School is weird sometimes. Who are these people? I miss you.
Then I heard a car door shut outside. I went to the window and peered out. Rosemary got out of Nora’s car and walked to the door. My breath left a circle of fog on the window.
Where the Dead Sit Talking Page 6