Curva Peligrosa

by MacKenzie, Lily Iona;

  Her voice shaking, she asked, Why has it taken you so long to visit me?

  He stood there, staring at her, his eyes still the same hazel shade, except now they were darkened by sorrow. He said, I was trying to protect you, mi hermana.

  From what? she said, turning away, afraid to look too deeply into their depths. I don’t need your protection, Xavier. As you see, I’ve done well for myself.

  Sí, muy bien. I’ve done well too, don’t you think?

  I didn’t think being dead was an achievement.

  Xavier laughed: For some it might be.

  You didn’t answer my question. What were you protecting me from?

  Me! I thought it would make you too sad.

  But I’m sad anyway. A visit would have made me feel better.

  So I’m here at last. Do you feel better?

  Si. Mucho. Tell me about where you’ve been all these years, mi hermano.

  He twirled and did a modified soft shoe. I’ve been busy performing in Hades. Singing. Dancing. They need mucho entertainment. I’m a popular guy there.

  Curva looked puzzled: Hades?

  Si, Hades. You know I was never a believer. So they love me in Hades. I can stay there forever if I want. It’s better than the alternative.

  Hell?

  Si, that place. They don’t let you leave the pit. Xavier looked around: It’s been a long time, no?

  Manuel and Pedro cawed, Long time, and Dios crept back into the room, sniffing Xavier’s trousers. Xavier opened cupboards, the dog at his heels, examining the contents within. He took a fat book from its shelf, studied the cover, and asked, Who is this Don Quixote?

  A muy famous knight. He’s a little loca but he makes me laugh.

  I need some laughs. Maybe I’ll read it.

  He put the book back on the shelf and looked inside the fridge. You live well here, mi hermana. Plenty to eat. May I? He gestured at a covered bowl.

  Si, she said. But why are you visiting now?

  He said, I’ve been starving for too long, Curva—for food, for you. I knew it would hurt you to see me again, but I couldn’t stay away any longer.

  The lights flickered several times before going out. Curva could barely see Xavier’s shadowy form by the fridge. He didn’t seem to notice they were in darkness and took the bowl, placing it on the counter by the sink. Curva lit the kerosene lamp she kept on the table for emergencies and joined him.

  ¿Las cucharas? He motioned at the cupboards.

  The spoons are in that drawer, right behind you, Curva said.

  Xavier opened the drawer and laughed. Baby chicks were hatching there, eggs swaddled in wool she’d taken from the sheep. Curva held the lamp above them.

  Look! Xavier said, pointing at a tiny beak poking through one of the creamy white shells.

  They both stared at the new life cracking the casing, creating a zigzag in the egg’s surface. They smiled at each other and then roared with laughter.

  The tension Curva was feeling at this surprise visit began dissolving. They were young again, caring for the animals her parents kept on their land—a cow, some chickens, a few pigs, and, of course, cats and dogs, all strays.

  It was difficult to absorb: This was her brother prowling her kitchen, back from the dead—back from somewhere. How had he escaped his fate and appeared in her kitchen as if he had been alive the whole time? She wanted to pelt him with questions, but it didn’t seem the right time to do it. His appearance reinforced her notion that life didn’t necessarily end with the body’s death. What more she could learn from him, only time would tell.

  For now, he was here, and he was hungry. Famished by the looks of him. His clothes hung from his lanky frame, several sizes too big.

  Curva took a pan from the pantry and cracked her chickens’ three-yoked eggs into it, scrambling them. They reminded her that she and Xavier were both born of one egg. Some were fertile; some were not. She lit one of the burners and shook the pan back and forth until the eggs were set. Then she slid them onto a plate, found a fork in one of the drawers, and set everything on the table, next to the image she had created in the dust.

  Xavier ate as if he had a bottomless hole to fill, inhaling the eggs and bread she gave him. It didn’t take long for him to empty the contents of her fridge and cupboards. He gobbled everything in sight; if there had been more to eat, he would have finished that, too. She felt as if a strong prairie wind had struck her, leaving her breathless.

  He put the dirty dishes in the sink and asked, You live alone?

  Sí. But I have muchos visitantes. And I help care for a friend’s niño. She didn’t mention that Victor sometimes felt like her own or that she had a daughter herself. It might be too much for him to digest after all they had once shared both inside and outside of the womb.

  You look the same, Curva. Are you still my best girl?

  She wanted to say yes. Yet it had been a long time since they’d sworn their loyalty to each other as teenagers and experienced so many intimacies together. It had seemed normal then to curl up in each other’s arms and pour out their hearts.

  Much had happened in the meantime. Curva had known many men, not just Xavier. A couple of them she’d even loved. These romances taught her the difference between fondness for a sibling and ardor for a mature adult lover. No longer innocent, she couldn’t in all honesty answer affirmatively.

  Curva moved away from Xavier: I’m your sister, Xavier. I can’t be your girlfriend anymore.

  He frowned and clenched his fists. The lights came on, flooding the room and chasing away the shadows. Now there was no place to hide.

  He moved closer to Curva and said, I thought we made a promise to each other.

  I’m no longer your best girl. We were too young to know any better. Our parents were gone. We were all we had. We did things we shouldn’t have done.

  And you have someone better now?

  No, I’ve grown up.

  And I haven’t?

  You died.

  Curva couldn’t bear the stricken look on Xavier’s face. It was as if he hadn’t known he was dead till she told him. Under the electric light’s glare, he shrank to the size of a six-year-old, the same boy who’d clung to her in the night after a bad dream. Someone was chasing me, Curva. A bad man. He wanted my head. Curva had held him in her arms, crooning in his ear till he again fell asleep.

  And then Xavier left as suddenly as he had arrived. The yard lit up mysteriously when his shade passed through it, and the coyotes yowled in unison. Dios sniffed the air. Manuel and Pedro screeched, Gone.

  Curva glanced at what was left of the image she had unconsciously made in the dust on her kitchen table. The outline resembled Xavier’s face. At one time she would have been overjoyed by this strange phenomenon. She would also have been thrilled by his visit. But she felt his appearance had an ominous cast to it. Having the dead turn up wasn’t the problem; she welcomed that. Yet she didn’t welcome a brother who was stuck in the past and still wanted to be her future.

  Curva & Billie

  Ecstatic moans vibrated Curva’s greenhouse glass, causing the whole structure to levitate. The townspeople had grown so used to strange things generating from her nursery that they ignored the latest phenomenon, though they couldn’t overlook for long the relationship that was blooming there.

  Nor could they ignore the spectacle of Curva and Billie fornicating in Billie’s tent trailer near the Indian remains, another trysting place. There was even some discussion among the more conservative Weedites of apprehending the couple for lewd behavior, but they didn’t have grounds for such a charge. Whether inside or outside Billie’s trailer, the couple had their rights. Yet everyone wondered how the two of them could bobble like that surrounded by the dead. It seemed unnatural somehow. Bizarre.

  Yet for Curva and Billie, it was the most normal thing to do,
especially during the warm fall nights. The weather begged them to be outside, under the moon in all its transmutations, making an offering of themselves to the ancestors, to the gods, and to the night itself. The earth clung to their naked bodies, and for days afterward they found stray pieces of dirt they’d missed while bathing. Curva put some in her mouth and chewed, certain she could taste Billie’s seed, the slightly salty flavor embedded now in the rich soil.

  It wasn’t just Billie and Curva’s outrageous behavior that caused consternation among the locals. They were still reeling from having Blackfoot burial bones in their midst. The idea that an Indian community had once thrived on this land made them feel less clean, less Caucasian. Indians had been invisible to them for so long, even though they lived nearby, it was difficult to make the shift and actually see them. Were they human? Yes, of course. But were they Canadian? That rankled.

  Many Weedites had either immigrated to Canada, acquiring citizenship themselves, or were the offspring of immigrants. But the Indians just assumed they belonged there without proving it by passing citizenship tests. It wasn’t right. Nor was it right for their ancestors’ bones to reside near real Canadians’ remains. It was too intimate. Like being married, for God’s sake.

  Unaware of her neighbors’ concerns, on the night after Xavier’s visit, Curva popped into Billie’s tent trailer at the burial ground. She undressed and, stooping a little, rubbed her erect nipples against Billie’s naked chest. Do you mind me being taller than you, Bee-lee, she asked.

  He shook his head, his tongue following the path of darker skin around her teats: It just gives me more of you to enjoy.

  It doesn’t make you feel less of a man?

  He looked up at her, puzzled. Does it make you feel less of a woman?

  No! she laughed. I feel more mujer. There’s more of me!

  Billie shrugged, his hands stroking her breasts, and said, Height isn’t what makes a man. Or a woman. It’s how you act in the world. Your deeds. I know a lot of tall men who aren’t manly.

  We’re getting too serious, Bee-lee. See if you can catch me.

  Curva ran out the door, and, giggling like kids, the two chased each other, naked, around the burial mounds, careful not to step on the ancestral remains.

  Did he catch her? You bet.

  Leading her back to the trailer, Billie took longer than Curva to disrobe, still bashful at having a woman see him in the nude. His sisters had teased him when he was younger because he was scrawny. Now, whenever he exposed his body, he could still hear their shrill laughter, and it made him self-conscious.

  Don’t be shy, Bee-lee, Curva said, and they lowered themselves onto the sleeping pad, its coverings rumpled. Billie kissed her from head to toe, stopping at times to savor a particularly tender spot—the back of her knees, the curve of her elbow, the bushy area covering her cunt. Curva groaned with pleasure and shivered. You scare me, Bee-lee, she said. You make me feel good all over, not just in my concha. I think you really like women. A lot of men don’t. They just want to chingarse.

  After sex, they huddled together. Curva nuzzled his neck and entwined her legs with his. Fully relaxed, Billie’s fingers combed her tousled hair, and he told her about the vision quest he had undertaken at thirteen and his disappointment at not experiencing a major revelation. He felt he’d failed at becoming a real man. Stroking his arm, she corrected him. No, no, Bee-lee! Your art is filled with visions. The animals you recreate live in the wood you carve. I’ve heard them breathe and growl. They’re alive!

  He hadn’t thought of his art that way and thanked her, though he had his doubts. And so did his father, who still visited Billie in dreams, wearing the ceremonial dress he had worn as chief. Dropping in from the land of shadows, he couldn’t let his son forget who really was the leader.

  That disclosure led to Curva telling Billie about Xavier and his visit. Billie didn’t seem surprised her dead brother had made an appearance. I see my father all the time, he said, adjusting the black patch on his right eye and caressing it. I guess my father still thinks he’s chief. Maybe he is chief in the shadow world. Or maybe he’s trying to prepare me for the next life.

  Curva said, Maybe Xavier also is preparing me for the next life. Do you believe there’s life beyond this one? She played with Billie’s ponytail, twining it around her index finger.

  Billie nodded. Death doesn’t stop the dead from being part of the community. They think they can help us from the other side.

  But your father isn’t helping you. Tell him to vayase, Curva growled. You’re the beeg chief now. But I’d like to know how these dead people travel between worlds. Do you think they understand?

  Billie sat up. No. They just act the way they always did in life, pursuing what they want. That powerful impulse propels them, dead or alive. You don’t know my father. He’s not so easy to get rid of, especially now that he’s dead.

  Si, sometimes the dead don’t know when to die. Maybe it’s so boring where they are—the place you call the shadow world—they have to leave and visit us. That Xavier. I think the only reason he wanted to see me was to fill his stomach!

  Curva laughed, though it sounded more like a growl. Then that turned into one of her belly laughs. It gathered resonance and echoed over the plains, ricocheting between the Rockies and landing on the other side, knocking loose some rocks and scaring a herd of mountain goats.

  She rose and slipped on her clothes, flicking away a feeling of being watched. Curva shuddered as a sudden breeze swept through the tent, reminding her of Xavier’s earlier visit and suggesting he wasn’t far away.

  Curva on the Old North Trail

  Hola, mi estimado Xavier,

  I’m now in America, but there was no sign saying Hasta la Vista Curva, and no one in the States said welcome señorita. I guess I crossed at a secret place. No federales saw me.

  It took me mucho tiempo to get here. At least five years. Maybe more. You know me: I have trouble keeping track of time.

  I wandered into a town that had a good rodeo—Las Cruces. Lots of prize money. It’s in a place they call New Me-he-co, but there are lots of gringos who only speak inglés. It’s hard to get used to the language and for them to understand me. In the shops, I tried out a lot of the words I’ve learned from reading Don Quixote. I even strung together some of them. I was buying grain for the road and said, “Too much sanity may be madness—and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!”

  Everyone laughed at me. I cursed at them in Spanish, and some Spanish Americans clapped their hands. They understood me.

  This is a different world from what I left behind. No mariachis. No fiestas. I cannot understand these people, Xavier, and they make no attempt to understand me. On the trail, the animals and I speak the same language. We are simpatico.

  People here seem muy serio. I need to hear your laugh again, Xavier. You have the best laugh, so big and round and hearty. Just to hear it makes me laugh too.

  There are lots of rodeos in the States, but American charros don’t like competing with a woman, and I’m sure they would hate losing to one. So I’m already getting a name for myself, busting broncos as Xavier. I can thank you for putting lots of money in my pocket. I can make enough to take me a long way on the trail.

  I did run into some trouble at one of the contests. I was in the chutes, getting ready to ride. An American cowboy ran his hand over my crotch. He must be one of those men who love other men. What a shock it was for him to find no polla, but he couldn’t make a fuss. Charros don’t like hombres who love hombres. We exchanged surprised looks that said everything.

  What a relief it is to compete in sharpshooting contests. I can be myself then. People come just to see Curva Peligrosa do her tricks. They say I handle a gun like someone named Annie Oakley. I say I only do what comes naturally.

  The Calgary Stampede is my goal. Everyone says it’s the biggest
rodeo around. Then I’ll leave the trail for good and quit competing. Buy myself a little farm. Stop pretending I’m you.

  But it will be hard to leave the trail for good. Life on it is simple and pure. Like Berumba when we first arrived. I have little sense of time passing except for the changing seasons and nightfall. I don’t want to live in clock time, anyway, just counting off the days and years I have left. Why remind myself I’ll join you one day in the same place? But if you’re there waiting for me, I won’t dread it so much.

  It’s always a shock entering a town and seeing how other people live. Or don’t. They get married. Have kids. Work. Most of the women stay home and take care of bambinos and drink tea. But they don’t have aventuras grandes that let them know they’re really alive. They don’t have mucho to look forward to except more more more of the same.

  I met one woman in Las Cruces when I was buying supplies for the trail. I was dressed as Curva then. She saw all the bags of flour, sacks of dried beans, and other things I’d bought and asked if I had a restaurant. I said no. I just have a hermano with a beeg appetite. Her eyes got the size of tortillas and she watched me pile everything onto the travois.

  On the trail I feel I’m in a cocoon like the butterflies I love. I can feel myself changing every day from the girl who was so inocente into a mujer independiente. I hardly recognize myself.

  What will I be when I leave it?

  I bought a goat in Las Cruces so I can have goat milk. It also obligingly chews through the bushes that often bar my way. I call it Don Quixote. I like the sound of that name, and Don Quixote is an old goat anyway.

  I thought I saw him and Sancho yesterday on their beat-up horses. I tried to catch up with them, but they kept disappearing in the trees. I finally gave up and read more of their stories last night so I could meet them in my dreams. I hope to see you there too, mi hermano.