Graphic the Valley

by Peter Brown Hoffmeister

  He sat back in his chair. His tie looked too tight, as if his neck was constricted. I turned to look at the tall one who stood next to me now, writing. He raised his eyebrows. His tie fit him better. He looked more comfortable.

  I said, “Why would I need an interpreter?”

  “Well,” the shorter agent said, “let’s try it from this angle. Where’s your social security card? Where’s your driver’s license? What’s your full name? What country were you born in?” He paused. He leaned forward again. “I said, what country were you born in?”

  “The United States?”

  “Really,” he said. “Do you have a birth certificate? And can you show it to me?”

  The taller one was writing faster now on the page just behind my head.

  The shorter agent said, “I said, can you show me your birth certificate?”

  I still didn’t say anything.

  He stood up. Walked to the wall and touched it where the names were scratched in. He said, “You have no rights here. You’re not a citizen here. We might keep you. We might deport you.” He shrugged. “We might let you go. We might let you walk out of here. But it’s up to us. Do you understand?”

  • • •

  There were no books in the cell but I got the newspaper each day with breakfast. The clerk handed me the San Francisco Chronicle and said, “Sorry there’s no TV, man.”

  I said, “It’s okay.” I was looking at the free oatmeal and bacon and juice and coffee and newspaper.

  I read an article about a well-known actress who had left her husband to sleep with a man who was twenty years younger than her. I read an article about a bond measure that would allow four businessmen to build casinos on private properties near San Francisco. I read an article about the link between the Tamil Tigers and the Chechen rebels, how they both trained and employed suicide bombers, sometimes children and women.

  That night, I was sitting on my bed in the cell when the feeling crept through my fingernails to the backs of my knuckles. It felt like caterpillars wriggling on the chrysalis. I tried to do another workout to make it disappear.

  Squats and lunges. Shoulder stands. Curls with the metal bed frame.

  The numbness lessened and I lay down. Went to sleep a little while after.

  • • •

  Day three. I scratched my name with my fingernail, chipping the first layer of paint. I used a different fingernail for the second.

  McKenzie came to see me.

  She said, “I didn’t tell them.”

  “No?”

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” she said. “I’m not sure how they knew.”

  “Knew what?” I said.

  She leaned in close to the bars. She said, “About the longhouses.”

  “What about the longhouses?”

  She said, “They told me you burned them.”

  “They did?”

  “Yes,” she said. “They told me that the night they arrested you.”

  “Oh,” I said. I didn’t say anything more because I didn’t know if they were recording what we were saying. In the TV show that I’d seen at Curry Village, they’d recorded every conversation.

  McKenzie said, “There’s going to be more building than I thought.”

  “How?” I said. “What do you mean?”

  She said, “They’re going to put two Twin Burgers and two Motel 4s in the Valley. One of each at each end. Four total.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  McKenzie drew the Valley on her hand with her finger. “Motel here at Bridalveil, and Twin Burgers here, north side. Twin Burgers here on the south side, and Motel 4 here, just past Curry. The sponsorship money is in the tens of millions, but Thompson isn’t worried at all. Everything will be double-priced. Their advisers are saying that they’ll recoup in fewer than five years.”

  “And this new superintendent?”

  McKenzie said, “He loves it. Says we can go from three million visitors a year to five million. New growth model for all of the parks.”

  I looked at the paint chipped under my nails. Gray, almost purple. I said, “Now you think it’s wrong?”

  “Well, that’s too much. Clearly,” she said. “So I’m driving to Los Angeles today to try and talk to my boss. I’ll see if we can slow everything down. But it doesn’t look good.”

  “Slow it down, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I don’t think it can be stopped. But we can slow it down.”

  I said. “That’s not good enough, but I guess that’s where we’ll start.”

  McKenzie leaned in close again. She said, “One more thing, and this is important: they haven’t charged you.”

  “What?” I said.

  “They haven’t charged you with anything.”

  I said, “I don’t know what that means.”

  “With a crime,” she said. “If they don’t charge you, you don’t have rights. No due process. No phone call or lawyer. They might keep you or let you go. They can make you disappear.”

  • • •

  Day six. I was reading a newspaper story about the homeless population growing in San Francisco. A sheriff’s deputy came to get me. The agents put me in a new room, a room with a table and two wooden chairs on either side. This looked more like the TV show I’d seen.

  The shorter agent said, “What would it look like if we were to let you go?”

  “What would it look like?” I said.

  “I mean,” he said, “have you ever left this Valley?”

  “Left this Valley how?”

  “Stop that,” he said. “Stop repeating my questions. You understand me perfectly well. Have you ever left this park? This national park? Yosemite?”

  “No,” I said, “I haven’t.”

  He pulled his pen out of his pocket and clicked it. “No?” he said. He pointed his pen at me and looked me in the eyes. We both looked at each other. Then he said, “You’re telling the truth. I can see that. I know these things.”

  The taller one scratched on the paper again. He still didn’t talk.

  The shorter one said, “But would you leave the Valley now?”

  I looked back and forth between the two of them.

  The shorter one said again, “I’ll repeat the question. Would you leave the Valley now?”

  I wanted to say yes, but I said, “No, I wouldn’t leave.”

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. He clicked his pen and put it in his pocket.

  • • •

  We’re at the campfire eating marshmallows. My father says, “You are a warrior.”

  My fingers are sticky with burnt marshmallow. I lick them. I look at my mother. She doesn’t say anything.

  My father says, “That’s why I came back, why I reclaimed this Valley.” He fumbles in the marshmallow bag. Pulls out two more.

  My mother’s family played tourists in the pines in 1929, blending in, waiting through the Depression, living out of their car. Her father fished three times a day for food, trout for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She told me the stories when I was little, and I didn’t forget.

  My father puts another marshmallow on my stick. He says, “You’re a warrior, and you’ll protect this place. Right?”

  I say, “Yes,” my hands sticky, the roasting stick hanging out over the coals.

  • • •

  Day eleven. I read about the storm in the paper. Snow on the cliffs, almost to the Valley floor, the Camp 4 climbing ranger worried about teams up on El Cap. He ordered helicopter rescues for everyone who’d filled out a permit.

  I knew Kenny hadn’t filled out a permit. I counted back, figured out how many days he’d been up there: thirteen. Maybe he’d decided to retreat early. Hopefully he’d run out of water.

  I called down the hall. I said, “Hey. Is somebody there?”

  No answer.

  I said again, “Is somebody there?”

  The unit buzzed, and the clerk came through the door. He said, “Yes?”

  I
said, “I need to log a missing climber report.”

  “A what?”

  “I need to log a missing climber report. My friend is up on El Cap.”

  The clerk had his hand on the door. It was halfway closed. He said, “On El Cap? You mean the big cliff, El Cap?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Up there in the storm, and it’s raging. He probably needs a helicopter rescue.”

  The clerk nodded. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll let people know. What’s his name?”

  “Kenny Cox. Cox with a C,” I said.

  “Got it,” he said, and started to close the door.

  “Quickly,” I said.

  He put his head back around the door. “What?”

  • • •

  “Quickly,” I said. “He didn’t file a permit, so nobody knows he’s up there. He’s on Tangerine Trip, and he probably needs a rescue immediately.”

  He said, “A tangerine tripped?”

  I tried not to be impatient with him. “No, no. On Tangerine Trip. The famous climb. The rock climb. Write it down. Kenny Cox is on Tangerine Trip. He needs a helicopter rescue. He’s probably halfway up at a hanging belay somewhere. He needs help immediately.”

  The clerk wrote it all down.

  Later, I looked at the cafeteria tray underneath my food in my cell, and wondered if the trays circulated the Valley, if all of the trays went somewhere central to be washed. Maybe Kenny and I had eaten on this tray before, maybe in the Lodge dining hall. I thought of Kenny’s dirty hands on a leftover waffle. His stained down coat. Orange with the one big, red mark.

  I couldn’t get the numbness to leave my fingertips that day no matter how many push-ups I did.

  • • •

  On day twelve, I made my workouts harder. One-handed push-ups. One-legged squats. I waited for the guard to come.

  “Did you file the report?” I said.

  “About the climber? Yeah, I did,” he said. “I filed it yesterday, right after you told me. They sent it down to Camp 4, to Search and Rescue.”

  “Good,” I said. “Thank you. Did you hear anything?”

  “About him? No,” he said. “Not yet. But they wrote it all down. I know they took it seriously.”

  “Okay, good,” I said.

  “No problem,” he said, and walked back down the hall.

  I lay on the floor with my shirt off. Arms outstretched. The numbness almost gone from my fingers. I could feel my hair beginning to grow again.

  McKenzie came on day thirteen.

  She looked small in her clothes, like she wasn’t eating well. “I was wrong,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I looked at her through the bars.

  She said, “I’m so sorry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She touched my hand. “Have they said what they have you on?”

  “Arson. Also, they questioned whether or not I’m a U.S. citizen.”

  “Can they prove that you’re not a citizen?” she said.

  I said, “Do they have to prove that I’m not, or do I have to prove that I am?” I shook my head. I kept thinking that they were listening to us, that they had the cell set up for recording. “But maybe I am one,” I said. “I was born here, and this is the United States, right?”

  She said, “Here in the Valley? You were born right here?”

  “Yes,” I said, “in a car.”

  She was holding my hand. “Have you told them that?”

  “No.”

  She said, “Why not?”

  “Because of my parents,” I said. I looked around for cameras but didn’t see any. I didn’t know where they could hide microphones.

  McKenzie was tapping her fingers on the bars. She said, “I’m going back to L.A. again. This will be my second time in three days.”

  I said, “How did that work before?”

  “Not well. My boss was gone on a business trip. I called him. We talked, but this needs to be something we meet about. I can be more persuasive in person,” she said. “He’s coming back to L.A. tonight, so I’ll drive there today. Give it one more shot.”

  The clerk opened the hall door and walked up. He said, “They want to talk to Tenaya again, so ma’am, you’re going to have to leave now.”

  I said, “Good luck, McKenzie.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really am.”

  The guard said, “Ma’am, it’s really time to go.”

  “Okay,” she said, and stood up. “Goodbye, Tenaya.”

  “Goodbye.”

  She started down the hall, then turned around. She said, “I’ll come see you as soon as I get back, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She left through the door and a deputy came back for me. The deputy unlocked my cell and let me out.

  The agents were waiting for me in the other room. They were both standing. The shorter one pointed to the chair by the table, the one I always sat in. I sat down. The taller one still had that pad of paper. I didn’t know why they kept doing this, always the same thing.

  The shorter one said, “This doesn’t mean much.”

  I waited because that wasn’t a question.

  He said, “But we’ll have to wait. Be patient.”

  I said, “Be patient for what?”

  “Right,” he said. “We’ll have you back in here soon.”

  I said, “In this room?”

  “In here,” he said. “And then you’ll let us know what else is going on.” He was clicking his pen again. I wanted to rip it out of his hand. My fingers were less numb each day now. Three good meals, lots of sleep, time to get strong.

  “Yes,” the agent said, “you’ll let us know the whole scope. Who else is involved…” He waved his pen around.

  I started to reach toward the pen but made my hand go back down to the tabletop. I spread my fingers on the Formica.

  “For example,” he said, “that McKenzie Johnston?”

  “No,” I said. “She’s not involved.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he said. “And this Kenny Cox?”

  The man behind me scratched for ten seconds then stopped.

  The shorter one looked at me. He said, “Maybe someone else too? We’ll figure it all out though. Gather more evidence. Then bring you back in. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I looked back and forth between the two of them. I said, “So I’m getting out?”

  They looked like campers who left out food to bait a bear. But I knew how that always worked out. I’d seen a bear break a man’s face with one tap of his paw, no effort at all, just a pat, and the orbital bone dented in an inch, the man’s face crushed.

  The agent said, “So we’re going to let you go for a little while, but we’ll have you back in a week. You’ll be required to check in every two days. Can you do that? Because if you don’t, you’ll be impeding a federal investigation. Do you understand what that means?” he said. He smiled.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “All right then.” He clicked his pen one final time. He said, “I guess that’s it. So if you’ll wait here, we’ll go notify the clerk.”

  They left the room and I sat for fifteen minutes alone in the room. I rubbed my hands over the top of my head where my hair was growing. In the last couple of days, it seemed to have grown a quarter of an inch.

  • • •

  I didn’t know which direction to walk as I came out of the building. I knew I was lucky to be out, and I wasn’t sure if I should go back to the caves at the Ahwahnee. I knew someone might be following me, or waiting there.

  McKenzie was gone. If I’d been released an hour earlier, she would’ve still been at the jail.

  • • •

  My mother is there with us, outside of camp, the day after it happened. I’m six. My mother is standing with her eyes closed while we dig the hole.

  The blanket, wrapped, lay off to the right, next to a tree, as if it holds belongings for a picnic, food and clothing. It looks so small, a family blanket ro
lled three times and folded at each end, less than three feet long.

  We take turns digging, my father and I, although my turns are shorter. The ground is rocky, and I can’t move much earth. Even the small Army Surplus shovel is too heavy for me. When the hole is deep enough to stand in, my father does all the digging and I sit on the ground next to him as he deepens the hole.

  My father walks over and picks up the bundle, holding it to his chest.

  I say, “Can I put her in?”

  My father looks at me, his eyes gray, more gray than brown.

  We both look to my mother but she isn’t looking at us.

  My father says, “Okay.”

  I hold out my hands, flat, palms up, elbows pressed to my sides, as if my father is about to load my arms with firewood. He rolls the bundle over my hands, into the right angle of my elbows against my chest. I pull my hands in tight, hold the bundle close, and my father slips his hands out from underneath the blanket.

  Even though I know it is not true, the blanket feels as heavy as I am, as if I am burying myself.

  • • •

  At dusk, I jogged back to the Ahwahnee caves, the sun dropping like a fire-sharpened stick. It was almost dark when I walked into camp, found my cave at the meeting of the two boulders, my sleeping bag moist from the ceiling drip. I lay down on top of my bag.

  After a while, I got up. Drank some water and peed. I thought about when I first saw what was inside the trunk of the car.

  My father and mother were down the hill, walking toward the river. That morning, I’d seen where my father had stashed the keys, and I waited all afternoon for this opportunity.

  I read my book until I was sure that they were gone. Then I lifted the rock, pulled the keys out, and walked over to the car. Seventeen years old, and I had never seen the inside of the car’s trunk.

  I slid the key in the slot. Turned it and the trunk popped, came open, and rotated on the hinges. Inside were stacks and stacks of money, rubber bands around each stack. I picked up one stack and counted it. Five hundred dollars in twenties. And all the stacks looked the same, more than one hundred of them rubber-banded.

  I remembered the story of Lower Merced Lake. The divers. San Francisco trips to sell bricks from the Lodestar fuselage. This was no river treasure.