The Antelope Wife
Page 20
To this end, she sets her mind.
In a how-to-get-him magazine article, she once read about a woman who greeted her man at the door wearing only plastic wrap. It is, she considers, a sort of miracle substance to Frank—he uses it all the time when he bakes. She thinks of getting a roll from the kitchen and making of herself the surprise. But then, the stuff itself is so clingy, so staticky, so dry and unwieldy and easily ripped that she doubts it will feel that good to make love dragging in its folds. She thinks of wearing only chocolate, or homemade raspberry jam, or sugar frosting, or peach. She thinks of lemon curd and cheesecake filling. Considers buttering herself and rolling in a bath of cinnamon. Or fluff, she thinks, go cheap maybe. Marshmallow fluff. Marshmallows. A bikini of tiny multicolored marshmallows. Frank can take his time eating them, but then, once she is naked, he will be stuffed full of stale marshmallows. Rozin’s mind drifts. Whatever they are. Are they made of marsh? Or mallow? She imagines preparing the cake, the thing itself, the cake from the recipe he has perfected. The blitzkuchen. Theirs. But then what? How will she wear it? How will they eat it? What if she makes a mistake? In her dream she sees them grind the cake to crumbs between them. Yes, and no. She will wear something else, or some lack of something. She comes full circle to the plastic wrap. Thinks obsessively about the way to devise her dress.
FRANK ISN’T CRAZY about his birthday. So he decides he’ll ignore it and give Rozin a party instead. She will plan something for him, sure—but he’ll do her one better by surprising her.
On a bit of cash register paper he makes a list of gifts and possibilities. Jewelry. Little luxuries. A private, exquisite dinner he can cook. A night of solitude in some remote place or just a camp-out on the kitchen floor. He thinks of her, what she will like, however, and then he thinks of her again, understanding what she really wants. After all, he’s heard her mention the party with longing, out loud.
Friends, family, reunited enemies, survivors of the last six months. They’d meet. They’d have a party—where . . . here. Frank looks around him. Here! In the house. Here, where the locust trees shed that fluttering shade, he will string lights. Speakers. He sighs, resigned to it. There will be music. Dancing. Beer. Kool-Aid. Pastries. Cake and barbecue. He’ll make the cake of cakes once more, again, from the refined recipe. They’ll all be there. It will be generous, big, loud, and best of all, a smile slowly dawns in him, exquisite, he will make it a surprise.
THE WEEK BEFORE, she panics. Thinks of buying him a watch. A name bracelet. Shoes. Something he can look at every day. Neither one of them mentions the birthday, and its avoided bulk grows between them—bigger and bigger like a twice-risen bread, and then a vast wild-yeasted dough. It doubles and redoubles itself—and the tipping load of it grows flimsy and the two grow shy. They can’t touch, retreat after work; isolated in their plans, they neglect each other’s company and brood. Make secret phone calls. Each cultivates a convincing memory loss. They mention little as the date approaches, then less, then nothing. It is as though they are both secretly adulterous.
The Birthday
The air is dusty and faintly golden, but the morning has been cold so that the scent of the lilacs newly blossoming hangs here and there in pockets of sweetness. All day, Rozin glances at the index card that holds her plan—the twins with Cecille, a supposed dinner out. After the store closes he will come home. She will be setting flowers in vases. Unwrapping candles. Sautéing mushrooms. Changing the sheets on their saggy double-bed mattress. As he nears the predictable end of his routine she’ll light the candles upstairs in the bedroom. Doff her clothes. Apply perfume. She will cover, or rather decorate, herself strategically with stick-on bows. Two bright pink ones on her tawny nipples. One below.
That evening, she does all exactly as she has envisioned. Last thing, she peels the waxy paper off the stick-on rectangle and applies the bows. The two pink. Below her navel, she smacks on a frilly expensive bow, white and silver, bought at a Hallmark shop. She pins her hair up and presses another tiny hot pink bow on over her ear, a white one on her shoulder. A tiny spice-brown bow on each earlobe. She wedges her feet into silver high-heeled pumps. Picks up a match, a sparkler, a cupcake. Nothing else. Her heart drums as she smoothes on her lipstick and touches an extra dab of perfume to each temple.
DOWNSTAIRS IN THE HOUSE, sliding through the front door from which Frank has removed the creak, and from the back alley through the wild yard, the wedding party guests come whispering, tiptoeing, sneaking childishly, huddling together. In the big room below, where the staircase from the upstairs gives out into the kitchen, there is a wider step, almost a landing, next to which Frank stands with his hand on the light switch. He has informed them all of the routine. When Rozin comes down the stairs and reaches the landing, placed almost like a small stage at the entrance to the kitchen, when she pauses in the gloom, he’ll hit the switch. They’ll all yell. . . .
WALKING DOWN THE STAIRCASE through the hush of the evening toward Frank’s voice, hollow at the bottom of the steps, Rozin is preoccupied with balance and timing. The heels are higher than she is used to. Naked but for the bows, she shivers. She comes down slowly so as not to stumble. That would ruin it all. She plans that she will stand at the bottom of the stairs, where light will catch the satin in the ribbons of the stick-on bows. In one hand, the cupcake with the sparkler in it. In the other hand, the match she will strike on the rough wood of the door frame . . .
THE SCRAPE OF the match, the flame, and her uncertain voice. Frank flips on the lights. The packed crowd shouts on cue. Surprise!
And everybody is surprised.
Rozin blinks. She stands, heels together, mouth open. She is naked, but for the trembling bows. The sparkler sparks on the cupcake she holds. For an endless moment, the party of friends and family stand paralyzed, gaping. Then Rozin stumbles backward, gasping, as Frank with extraordinary presence of mind whips a starched white apron off the hook behind him and drapes it over her. He bends close to her in concern. Face working, she waves him off. Tears sting his eyes. Nobody has the presence of mind to speak. The silence holds until it is broken by one solitary hiccup from Rozin. Huddled over the apron, the cupcake smoldering and smashed at the silver tip of her shoe, she hiccups again.
The party waits. The hiccups sound like the prelude to a bout of hysteria. Though she is no weeper, Frank nonetheless expects her to cry. Her shoulders shake. Her forehead is red in her hands. But when she lifts her face, her small laugh lights a string of firecracker laughs through the kitchen so that Frank’s own scratchy, hoarse, unfamiliar laughing croak is part of the general roar.
Chapter 21
Northwest Trader Blue
GRANDMAS GIIZIS AND NOODIN enter the early morning kitchen stealthily, hungry for leftover birthday cake. Knowing their habit, their love of sweets, the girls have risen to entrap them. Cally is already pouring coffee. Deanna is already cutting the remains of the twelve-layer chocolate raspberry cake that Frank nearly pulled off his ponytail in frustration to get right.
The grandmas accept the thick, uneven slices of cake and look at Cally and Deanna quizzically, with a slow and doggy quiet regard. Giizis takes a burning sip of hot coffee.
“You girls are up early,” she observes. “What do you want?”
Cally and Deanna shoot a look at each other, bite their lips. Each takes a huge deep breath. Cally elbows Deanna. She elbows her sister back.
“Nookoo?” says Deanna.
“Grandma?” says Cally.
“Eya’?” says Giizis.
“Eya’?” says Noodin.
“We want to know something.”
Giizis and Noodin shoot a look at each other, bite their lips, and each takes her own huge deep breath. They hope it will not be about those things that their mother should talk about. They hope they will not have to plan a menstrual moon-lodge ceremony or a berry feast or talk about the old ways and the new, regarding woman matters, not yet!
“About our names. We want to know.”
“How do we get them? What do we do? Do you know them? Mama said you dreamed them once. We tried to get her to tell us. She wouldn’t tell us. She said there had to be a ceremony. What ceremony. How does it go? Do we have to get married? We hate boys. They are so gross. Dogs are better. But Sweetheart Calico took her dog. And how do we get our names?”
The grandmas take big bites of unhealthy chocolate raspberry sugar cake, chew it, and enjoy the taste. Their smiles appear. A sunny moment of startling peace. In walks Rozin wearing her fuzzy pink bathrobe, yawning.
“Cake!” She frowns at the grandmas and is about to scold them about their blood sugar when the girls grab her arms. Before she even pours herself a coffee, they tell her that they have asked their grandmas to give them names. The names she would not tell them. They are gloating. Rozin turns her back and chooses a tribal college ceramic cup in despair. It is chipped. She thinks of smashing it in the sink.
“I was afraid this would happen. I never should have said anything.”
“Don’t be afraid,” says Cally.
“It will be all right, Mom,” says Deanna, and brings her the carton of half-and-half from the refrigerator.
“Thanks,” says Rozin. It is odd how girls know everything about your habits. They have been watching and learning all about you. They know that you cannot take your first sip of coffee without cream-milk in the cup. They know that after your first sip of black medicine water you are a better person.
“Yes,” says Rozin, after the first taste. “Yes, I guess it is time.”
The Names
There will be a feast and a ceremony later. But at this moment, the grandmas feel they should proceed. Before Rozin drinks enough coffee to change her mind. First, the grandmas fill two cups for Rozin and make her promise not to open her mouth until they are done talking. Then Giizis settles herself, pulling at her big soft T-shirt. Frowning into her coffee cup, she speaks.
FIRST OF ALL the old woman came to me. Our ancestor who was killed by the bluecoat soldier. “During my time I made such beautiful things,” she said. “I wanted my children and grandchildren to know they were loved. Other people see those special dresses, moccasins, leggings, or a baby’s first dikinaagan, and know that child is cared for. I made that cradle board real special. I copied into velvet the flowers we love, the wild prairie roses. You can eat them if you are hungry. Those sweet petals keep you going. But we didn’t need them, for here we had killed a lot of buffalo, and we had dried the meat before we were attacked.
“I saw the soldier shoot at children and I ran at him with a stone. But he killed me on the end of his gun. Not so easy, however, because I stared at him in his eyes. I stared him back in time, to when he was defenseless, before his birth. And then I put my spirit into him as best I could.
“That long moment passed. I looked at the distance. Over his shoulder, I saw the dog running off with my baby granddaughter, the dikinaagan strapped on its back. Oh, I was happy. They were getting away. I was filled with joy and nothing hurt me. I had given that child my own name, a very old name that goes back for many generations, and would be carried forward now. I cried out that name, and fell away and held the earth, and melted into the earth, and am part of everything now. My spirit guided the other spirits who died with me on that day, for I was named after the band of radiant light we travel.
“Why is it given to us to see the colors and the power and the imperishable message? We are so limited, so small. Gaagigenagweyaabiikwe, I cried, and put the name into the soldier’s mind so he repeated it and repeated it. He scratched it into the sand the first time he sat down—whiteman’s letters, a name never written down—and eventually he carved it into his arm. My name killed him eventually, though he died by his own knife, it is true. But our people had pity on his spirit. We helped him to depart this earth. As he walked the road to the next life, the letters never melted from his arm, they guided him. And now they are part of everything, too. They are the name I give you. Everlasting Rainbow. The footbridge that connects us with the other world.”
“OF COURSE,” SAYS Giizis, sipping her coffee, “it is very difficult to translate a real Ojibwe name into the whiteman’s language. So often, our names include movement, the stirring of leaves, the glint of light on water, the trembling of color. English is so limited.”
“We do our best,” says Noodin with a critical sigh.
“Ombe omaa,” says Giizis to Deanna, and she places her hands on her grandniece’s head and says the name four times. She makes Deanna repeat it. Then Cally and Rozin. She writes it down.
“Not gonna carve it in my arm. Now you memorize this.”
She gives the paper to Deanna and then nods at Noodin. “Mi’iw minik, my sister, ginitam.”
“THERE ARE THESE beads I love,” says Noodin. “Deep ones, made of special glass. Hungarian beads called northwest trader blue. In them, you see the depth of the spirit life. See sky as through a hole in your body. Water. Life. See into the skin of the coming world.”
Cally nods, lets a long breath out, impatient to see how this bead talk connects with her name.
“Just a second,” Noodin says, “I’m getting it all fixed in my mind. My brain is soaking up the sugar. I have to let the cells energize before I go on telling you.”
Noodin draws a deep breath and continues.
“When I was a child,” says Noodin, “I wanted beads of that northwest trader blue, and I would do anything to get them. I first glimpsed this blue on the breast of a Pembina woman passing swiftly. I saw her hand rise to the beads and then touch the blue reflection on her throat. Ever after, I knew I must have that certain blueness which was like no other blue. I scored my fingers making quill baskets and when they were finished I went to the trader and sold them. I looked behind his glass and wood counter at the hanks of beads hanging there on nails—beads the ripe silk of prairie roses. Silver beads, black, cut-glass white. Beads the tan of pony hide and green, every green there is on earth. There were blues there, sky blue, water blue, the blue of the eyes of those people who took our trees. The blue of old pants and the blue of mean thoughts. I searched for the blue of those beads I had seen on the Pembina woman, but that blue was different from all the other blues on earth. Disappointed at the trader’s cache, I spent my money on sweet candy. There would come a time I would see the beads I needed, but I already knew they could not be bought.”
Grandma Noodin stares at Cally, looking through her, figuring.
“During my motherhood, when I was rocking or nursing my baby,” she went on, softly, “I had a lot of time to think about this blueness. I could see it before me, how it appeared and disappeared, the blue at the base of a flame, the blue in a fading line when I shut my eyes, the blue in one moment at the edge of the sky at dusk. There. Gone. That blue of those beads, I understood, was the blueness of time. Perhaps you don’t know that time has a color. You’ve seen that color but you were not watching, you were not aware. Time is blue. Or time is the blue in things. I came to understand that my search for the blueness called northwest trader blue was the search to hold time.
“Only twice in my life did I see that blue clear. I saw that blue when my daughter was born—as her life emerged from my life, that color flooded my mind. The other time, my girl, was the day I found your name. Or dreamed it. Or gambled for it. Here’s how it happened.”
Other Side of the Earth
I was a new mother-to-be, pregnant. Picking berries, I felt sleepy and lay on the ground. It was so soft underneath the tree, the grass long and fine as hair. I put down my bucket to rest and curled in the comfort. While sleeping, I saw the Pemb
ina again—she came to me. I saw her as a tiny speck first, then bigger and bigger until she was down the road and standing right in front of me. Had those beads on. Still hanging from around her neck. They were made of that same blue I have described to you and I still wanted them with all my heart.
“Will you gamble for them?” the Pembina asked me, gently.
I told her that I wanted those beads but had nothing I could use to put down. No money. No jewelry. Just berries. She took marked plum pits out of her pocket, smiled, and right there we sat down together to gamble.
“You have your life,” she said gently, “and the ones inside of you as well. Would you bet me two lives in return for my blue beads?”
“YOU GAMBLED,” SAYS Rozin. “I believe it! That was me inside, you know!”
“Shut up, my girl,” says Noodin.
“You promised,” says Giizis.
I DIDN’T EVEN think twice but answered her yes. We started playing the game, throwing down the plum stones and gathering them up, taking turn after turn until the sweat broke out on my forehead. I beat her the first of three games. She took the second. I took the third and gestured at her beads. Slow, careful, she lifted the strand over her neck and then she handed them over.
“Now,” she said, “you have the only possession important to me. Now you have my beads called northwest trader blue. The only other thing I own of value are my names, Other Side of the Earth, Blue Prairie Woman before that. You have put your life up. I’ll put my names. Let us gamble again to see who keeps the beads.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve waited too long for these. Now that I’ve got them, why risk them?”
She gazed at me with her still, sad eyes, touched her quiet fingers to the back of my hand, and carefully explained.
“Our spirit names, they are like hand-me-downs which have once fit other owners. They still bear the marks and puckers. The shape of the other life.”