Curva Peligrosa

by MacKenzie, Lily Iona;

  The frenzied construction and all the oilfield activity made everyone move at a heightened pace. Many felt as if another tornado had hit, except this one built up the town instead of tearing it down. The residents barely had time to catch their breath before another house mushroomed on the prairies or an additional oil well came in. While Curva had stirred things up when she first arrived in the area, it was nothing compared to what Shirley had turned loose.

  The tornado and its aftermath had revealed one force of nature. Oil was another, and oil fever gripped Weed. The thick black goo could hardly be contained, threatening to overflow and flood the surroundings. But the townsfolk only thought of all the money it would bring in. They pictured themselves awash in riches.

  A few of the women still occasionally hightailed it to Curva’s casa for wine or brownies, an island of calm amid this flurry of action. Time stood still there, offering respite from the accelerated tempo that had gripped the townspeople. The geyser at the center of Curva’s greenhouse gurgled and murmured, its refreshing spray cascading twenty-four hours a day. The sound soothed those within earshot and slowed them down. But oil’s seductive power had more influence over them than she once did. Most neighbors resented her attempts to stop the frenzy that had taken hold of them, and Curva’s so-called supernatural abilities and magical presence receded. Shirley’s world had firmly established itself.

  Curva tried to ignore the mania that clutched her neighbors. It saddened her to see everyone so tightly wound. When she went to town, she hardly recognized the place any longer. New shops and houses had sprung up everywhere she looked—bakery, clothing, and shoe stores; banks; a movie house.

  The excitement also impacted Ian and Edna. Ian wrote ten children’s books in less than a year and found a publisher for them all, leaving him no time for the darkroom or Sabina. Edna built and opened a new school and became the principal.

  But Edna had other things on her mind than teaching. She struggled with her highly sexual nature that Curva had pointed out in her palm reading. Edna’s sexual urges themselves, never easy to keep under control, were worse now that someone had recognized and validated them. After Curva’s comments about Edna’s big Mount of Venus, her daily contact with sexually active teenagers made her more conscious of her own desire. So did being around the strangers in town, drawn by the boom. Handsome lads, they aroused Edna’s fantasies of slipping away into the fields with one of them on a warm moonlit night. But then she caught herself. What was she thinking? She was the school principal, though she wouldn’t be for long if she followed her urges. That Curva! She’d started all of this.

  To say that life had become more complicated for Weedites would be an understatement. None of these things were bad, per se. Who would argue that creativity and progress and new schools aren’t important? But few had extra time anymore to just hang out with one another. The focus was mainly on development, making money, and finding ways to spend it.

  Even the Saturday barn dances ceased. Residents were so possessed that they couldn’t unwind. They resembled Mexican jumping beans, moving erratically, or tops, spinning crazily, toppling over if they slowed down for even a minute. By the weekend, they were so exhausted that playing music and dancing didn’t attract them.

  In the midst of all these changes, Curva continued her daily routine. But she also regularly took the area’s pulse. Don Quixote had taught her that things aren’t always as they appear on the surface, so she studied what was happening around her for its hidden meaning, trying to discern the message it carried.

  She didn’t feel it was an accident when she came across a snake in the road or a dead animal in the fields. Each was trying to speak to her through its image and carried multiple meanings, as did the constantly changing pictures in the clouds. The snake alerted her to be on the lookout for someone underhanded, and, sure enough, Shirley had appeared at her place soon after. And the animal carcass communicated that something was dying, which coincided with the death of the Weed she had known and loved.

  Curva now also made wine from the fruits, flowers, and vegetables she grew, expanding her range, amazed at the process they went through to become spirits. Metamorphosis happened constantly. One thing changed into another form, like the clouds’ transmutations, the graceful way they shifted shape. Death appeared to be just another stage in an ongoing process, and she tried to understand the oil boom in that light. Yet it was difficult to believe Weed’s transformation was ultimately positive when her friends and neighbors struggled to keep up with all the upheaval.

  And Billie? He sent fat checks to all the tribal members—their share of the profits. The rest went into a trust managed by Billie’s assistants, Robin and Joe. The band now could afford to develop its community, and there was plenty of money left for the museum Billie had envisioned.

  An architect from the Cree Nation designed a structure that exactly fit Billie’s vision for the place. Located on the burial ground and called Ni-tsi-ta-pi-ksi Cultural Center, it resembled a giant teepee hovering over the land like a hydroplane, its profile visible for miles around. Totem poles Billie had taught other Blackfoot to carve guarded the periphery. The museum also honored the fossils found in the area, featuring them in glass cases, and there were many displays of indigenous life, past and present. A constant reminder to locals of the Blackfoot, the museum was lit up at night and glowed like a flaming arrow on the plains.

  The Weedites may not have liked the way this structure stood out, but they didn’t have any say in its construction. They had to put up with it. Still, the place did attract visitors. That meant more money for the shopkeepers and restaurant owners. And the townspeople themselves were drawn to it. By pressing a button in the Vision Quest Theater, they could begin a mini-quest that would mimic a real one. Billie hoped it would inspire others to undertake their own adventures. They also visited the Old North Trail exhibit. After leaving Ni-tsi-ta-pi-ksi Cultural Center, they felt they had made a journey to another time and place, not just to view a collection of dinosaur fossils and Indian artifacts that Billie’s people had collected from all over the province and beyond.

  At Curva’s urging, Catherine Hawkins talked her husband into exploring the place. So did Inez, Sophie, and Curva’s other friends. They all met at the museum one Sunday and bought tickets from a tribal woman who wore her traditional dress. They muttered to one another about the high cost of entry as they shuffled inside. Light from a round skylight at the massive teepee’s top flooded a slightly raised circular platform. At the platform’s center stood a carved wooden sculpture of a Blackfoot warrior aiming his arrow at the sky.

  Sophie was the first to speak: Holy cow, this place is amazing. Look at the stairs! They circle the interior.

  In a daze of light and skyward movement, they climbed past glass display cases of female and male headdresses; glowering animal masks; intricately beaded ceremonial costumes; horned buffalo war bonnets; beaded leather moccasins; powwow dancers’ porcupine headbands; warbonnets; and more. Catherine gasped at the exhibit of a white woman in a nun’s garment. The nun stood behind a desk and glowered at students lined up in front of her. When Catherine pressed a button, a voice described the Christian boarding schools many tribal children had to attend that caused them to reject themselves and their communities. Catherine shook her head and said, I didn’t know this happened. She looked around at her friends to see how they were responding, and they, too, had shocked looks on their faces.

  The group continued past exhibits that included hunting and gathering tools, weapons, photos of early reservation life, as well as teepee replicas and their contents. Inez blurted out, Billie oversaw all of this, you know. The women nodded at each other, impressed that he could recreate such realistic settings and inhabit them with equally realistic-looking replicas of tribal people. It made Billie a kind of magician.

  Images the Weedites saw at the cultural center haunted them for days, even turning up in thei
r dreams. The Blackfoot history had also partly become theirs. Though they hated to admit it, the museum now was an integral part of everyone’s consciousness. It also drew as much attention as Curva’s greenhouse, resembling something from outer space suspended over the earth.

  The Blackfoot’s development plans didn’t stop with the Ni-tsi-ta-pi-ksi Cultural Center. They also wanted their own university. Faculty would teach their language and other subjects not normally found in publicly funded colleges: indigenous food and cooking; tribal music and dancing; totems and carving; history and rituals. Math and science, incorporated into the other classes, would be hands-on subjects.

  The Weedites could no longer ignore the Blackfoot. They weren’t just “injuns” on the reservation. Their money was as good as anyone’s. No longer poor outcasts, they too were becoming movers and shakers.

  Curva on the Old North Trail

  Hola, mi estimado Xavier,

  The wild animals I’ve met on the trail have taught me mucho. I watch them interact with each other. No one is telling them what to do or how to do it. They follow their noses. And what noses they have! They know everything about me before they even see me just by sniffing the air.

  I’ve been trying to train my nose to be more like theirs. Now when I’m in town I push away any thoughts I have and just smell people. Some reek of goodness; they know what’s right for everybody. Others give off a dusty odor; they’re already in the grave. My nose tells me many things.

  I think dreams are noses. They sniff out things I wouldn’t know any other way.

  One day a woman at a rooming house in Elko, Nevada, started talking to me. She seemed very friendly and wanted to know all about my travels. We sat on the porch at night and talked and smoked and drank vino. You know how I am after a little vino. I blabbed about things I wouldn’t have told other strangers. I talked about my time in Berumba. I told her of hombres I’ve met on the rodeo circuit. Bone-hard hombres who don’t know how to make love. She nodded her head and seemed to understand what I was saying. I told her of times I stole food from stores because I didn’t have any dinero and almost got thrown in jail.

  I even told her about the hombre I lived with for a while in Wyoming. I met this guy at the rodeo they held once a year. He was the clown and protected us riders once we got thrown. He ran around the ring in his baggy clown clothes and big red nose, waving off the horses and bulls. Muy peligroso.

  I ended up saving him from a bull that chased him all over the ring. I kicked the horse I was riding with my boots, and we cut in front of the bull. The clown had time to duck into a chute. His name was Mike and he’d grown up on a nearby ranch. Such an ordinary name and an ordinary man. But we had many laughs together, especially when he found out I was a woman. He helped me become human again, and he didn’t tell my secret. I’d become like an animal myself after spending so much time with them. I hardly knew how to act with people.

  Yet I finally had to leave him. You and the trail called to me, and Mike didn’t want any part of it. He wanted kids. That’s all he could talk about. Getting married and having niños. Being tied down by a familia wasn’t what I wanted. So I said adios to him. He wasn’t in the cards for me.

  A woman needs other women to talk to sometimes. It’s too much to carry these things all by ourselves. You’re not a woman but it’s why I scribble all over these pages to you. I feel someone is listening to me, and I can read these pieces of paper when I get lonely. Being on the road so much makes it hard to make amigas.

  But this time I had said too much. The woman at the rooming house wasn’t an amiga. My dream nose showed me why.

  I dreamed she was standing on a stage in the town square and telling mucha people all the stories I told her. The dream turned out to be true. She was a bartender and my stories soon came back to me from people she served drinks to. Yak yak yak. That’s all she did. She was not mi amiga. Foolish Curva. I trusted her but she was just a gossip and needed some fuel for the fires she starts.

  I got out of that town fast.

  The Magician

  Curva was sitting at the kitchen table, studying the blank parchment Kadeem had left her, when Xavier strode into the room, wearing a magician’s hat and a black cape that swirled around his legs. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the sunlight, resembling a dark keyhole.

  She glanced up when his shadow fell across the table. Mi hermano! Why are you wearing that crazy outfit? She gestured towards a chair: Sit down, sit down. Maybe you can help me with this map.

  Xavier flung the cape back over his shoulders, revealing the scarlet lining, and leaned over the table. Map? I see no map. Maybe my eyesight is going. Is that why I can’t see Sabina? Where is she?

  No, no, there’s nothing wrong with your eyes. Sabina is helping mi amigo Bee-lee at the Center. Look, Xavier, Kadeem gave me this paper. You know what crazy ideas he has. He said I must make the ink visible if I want the secret to immortality. Any tips?

  Xavier laughed and said, Why not sprinkle a little of your vino on the page?

  Bueno, bueno, idea magnífica. I like, Curva said. She jumped up and descended into the cellar, returning with a jug of vino. You want some, mi hermano?

  Sí, I could use something to warm this heart of mine. It’s gotten too cold.

  Curva poured two glasses and handed one to him. Salud, she said.

  Gracias, señora.

  So formal?

  So proper, mi hermana. You should be treated with respect, he said, standing up and bowing.

  Curva studied Xavier, not sure if he were serious. The tall magician’s hat he was wearing seemed a little large on him and covered his ears. She smothered a laugh, reminded of when he was a boy and would wear his father’s sombrero, the brim nearly touching his shoulders.

  Where did you get that outfit? Curva asked.

  He smiled. I can’t tell you all of my secrets. I get around, you know.

  I can see that.

  Xavier offered a chair to Curva. At your service, señora. She gave a mock curtsey and sat down. He joined her. They sipped their vino, relishing just being together again. Curva filled the silence with a torrent of words, describing all the growth she was witnessing in her greenhouse, except for the four pots that held the kernels Kadeem had given her. Nothing’s happened yet, she said. I guess they don’t want to be reborn. But my butterflies: Olé! They’ve left their cocoons and some are on their way to Mexico. Very exciting!

  New life? Sounds good. But immortality? He swilled his glass of vino and held it out for a refill. Very tasty, he said. Not like death. People have to accept death, mi hermana, before they’re ready for immortality. You should know that!

  Curva poured him more vino and topped hers off. I don’t agree, she said. Immortality beats death.

  Xavier shook his head. You’ve paid too much attention to Ernesto Valenzuela Pacheco. I remember him spending hours seeking something to extend life. But death got him first. It’s still the gateway.

  Xavier got up, walked over to the fridge, and opened the door, sniffing at its contents like a dog. Are you saving these leftovers for anyone?

  Sí, for you. I knew you’d be back.

  Xavier grabbed a bowl of tortilla soup and carried it to the table. Curva watched the cape sway as he crossed the room, mesmerized by the movement. You still haven’t told me why you’re wearing that getup, she said.

  He shrugged: You know me. I’ve always loved magic. Death is all about sleight of hand. Making things disappear. You’re a magician too!

  Not funny, Xavier.

  It’s true, don’t you think? Death is a magician. Now you see someone; now you don’t. Here today, gone tomorrow. You’ve heard all the clichés.

  Curva pointed at the stove. Don’t you want to heat the soup?

  Xavier shook his head. Not necessary, he said. I’ve grown to like cold things.

  That�
��s not funny either, Xavier. Don’t magicians make things reappear too? Can you do that? Can Death?

  Look at me. I’ve reappeared, he said. He lifted the bowl to his lips and guzzled its contents. Then he set it on the table, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  Does that mean I’ll also come back when I die?

  I can’t tell you everything, mi hermana. I’ve sworn to be silent about these matters. It’s the condition for me making these visits. There need to be some mysteries, don’t you think?

  Well, here’s a mystery for you, Curva said. Help me with this map.

  Xavier picked up his glass of vino and used it to wash down the soup. Muy bueno, he said. Más.

  Curva gripped the jug and refilled both of their glasses. A few drops fell on the parchment.

  Look! Xavier said. He pointed at a spidery brown line that had surfaced there. I was right.

  They both bent over the table and watched the damp area begin to talk to them visually. Fragments of words appeared. Xavier dipped his fingers in the vino and flicked more of it onto the paper. Additional letters crept across it.

  Can you understand what they say? Curva asked.

  Nada. It’s all Greek to me.

  Maybe it is Greek, Curva said. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? A scroll appearing in an old pottery container on the desert? Ancient Greeks could have left it there.

  If you mix a Greek and a Mexican, what do you get?

  A mutt, Curva said.

  Or else Kadeem.

  Curva laughed. He’s a Trinidadian.

  The same thing, he said. Xavier was studying the letters. Do you know anyone who speaks Greek?

  Kadeem does. The fox. He must have known all along I would need him to interpret.

  The gravel scattered in the driveway, and Curva heard a vehicle come to a stop.

  Xavier looked startled. Company?