Curva Peligrosa

  Curva glanced out the window. It’s Bee-lee. He must’ve brought Sabina home. I’d like them to meet you.

  When she turned around, the room was empty. But she could still feel his presence, lurking, watching, and she was sure she could smell his spicy shaving lotion, a brand he loved. She’d forgotten how shy he could be with strangers.

  Accompanied by a gust of freezing air, her face flushed, Sabina pushed open the screen door and burst inside, waving her camera at Curva. I took pictures of everything! she said. We’re going to use them to advertise the Center. And I helped Billie set up more exhibits. He even let me include the totem poles I made.

  Fabuloso! Now you can help me cook dinner.

  Sabina groaned. Couldn’t Billie help you? I need to check on the butterflies.

  Billie stood inside the doorway, shuffling his feet. I’ve gotta meet someone in town, he said. Maybe I’ll stop by later. After dinner.

  Curva asked, Who’s the hot date?

  His face flushed. Shirley. We need to talk business. What’s that strange smell?

  Curva laughed. My new perfume. You like, Bee-lee? She was sure she heard Xavier laughing, too. She said, Are you trying to change the subject?

  Billie raised his arms as if in surrender. Me? No. What’s the subject?

  You said you were meeting Shirley. What’s that bandito up to now?

  He has some ideas for promoting the Center.

  Ah, just what we need, no? More development. More people. More money. More of his oil wells.

  Sabina had heard her mother’s rant about Shirley enough times. She slipped past Billie and out the kitchen door, heading for the greenhouse. From her current height of five foot, it was clear she wasn’t going to take after Curva physically.

  Billie shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to leave. The way you talk, he said, the rez was a kind of Eden before we got rich. You forget what it was like for us. No money. Trapped by poverty. You don’t know about the complex Indian Act. It says how bands can operate and sets out rules for governing our reserves. It’s been used to control us since the late 1800s. We can now leave the rez, but the Act made it much harder in the past. Now most of us stay because we feel safer there. You have some noble idea that being poor and free of “progress” means everyone’s better off. You need to come down to earth. Get real, señora.

  Curva had never heard so many words come out of Billie’s mouth at one time—a veritable flood. And for once she was speechless as she watched her friend and lover slam the screen door and stride across the driveway to his truck.

  Xavier’s laugh caught her off guard and made her jump. So that’s Bee-lee, he said, standing at her side, resting a hand on her shoulder. She nodded, Sí.

  He stood next to her, and the two of them stared out the window, watching the dust rise from the dirt road. It picked up intensity as the truck gained speed, sending up puffs that resembled inscrutable smoke signals.

  The Gringo

  Snowdrifts piled up in the yard, creating a sea of white, occasionally broken by the tops of fence posts. Curva sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and staring at the map Kadeem had left, trying to make sense of the marks that had appeared there. Snow and freezing temperatures made it more difficult to do anything other than hibernate. Her wreck of a car seized up during the severe cold spells, and its heater barely worked. She became dependent on friends and neighbors to give her lifts into town when it was too cold to ride one of her horses. The frigid weather made her seize up as well.

  Her concentration scattered when she heard a vehicle’s wheels crunch on packed snow in her driveway. Her dog growled, part of a litter Dios produced with Diosa before he died. He looked so much like his sire that Curva ended up calling him the same name. Diosa was so heartbroken about her companion’s death that she had wandered off and is still looking for him.

  Curva glanced up, expecting to see Billie’s truck. He often stopped by on the way to the Center to have coffee with her—or to climb between the covers and play, especially on a cold day like this. But it was Shirley striding across the yard. He wore a green ski jacket and jeans, his Stetson planted squarely on his head. Dios growled menacingly at him. Curva felt like doing the same.

  Hey Curva, he yelled, Call off your mutt.

  Curva turned the map face down and opened the door. A rush of cold air blew past her.

  She yelled Dios, venido aquí. The dog understood her better in Spanish than in English. He loped towards Curva but lost his footing on ice that gripped the doorstep, sliding off. She bent over and wrapped her arms around him. Oh, you crazy animal, she said, imitating the way the dog stuck out his tongue and panted, barking a little herself.

  Then she remembered her guest and jumped up. Shivering in her caftan, she said, What are you doing here, señor? Shouldn’t you be checking out all your oil wells? There’s no money to be made here.

  You have me all wrong, Curva. I have more interests than money. Your greenhouse, for instance. You’ve never given me a tour, but I’ve heard lots about it and your hospitality. Aren’t you going to invite me inside? It’s freezing out here!

  Frowning, she gestured for Shirley to follow her into the warm interior, her flowery dress billowing behind.

  Tossing his hat onto a nearby chair, he strode over to the wood-burning stove at the center of the room and held his hands near the heat, turning them until the chill melted.

  Gliding to the table, she rolled up Kadeem’s map and slipped it into a nearby drawer.

  My greenhouse isn’t for turistas, señor. Anyway, there’s nothing to see. Just some plants and birds and butterflies. Nothing especial. Only of interest to me, I’m afraid. She crossed to the stove and added a log, adjusting the door afterward, brushing away some ashes.

  Why does everyone talk about it then?

  She approached one of the windows and stared at the snow, but the barren landscape depressed her—white everywhere, everything in stasis. She needed to view growing things to feel alive herself. That’s why the greenhouse was so essential to her. And it’s why she wouldn’t allow Shirley to exploit it.

  You’re not answering my question, Curva.

  She let out a big sigh: Don’t you wish snow came in different colors? I’m going to paint a rainbow on all of my windows so when I look outside I’ll see something besides white and grey.

  I’ve heard of looking at the world through rose-colored glasses, señora, but not a rainbow. You’re a strange woman. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the same chair that held his hat.

  Curva bristled: What do you want from me, señor? I didn’t invite you to stay.

  He got a bemused look on his face and said, You remind me of alligators I used to wrestle in Florida. I got kind of attached to them. They can be quiet for a while, and you think you’re safe around them. Then suddenly they strike.

  Curva howled, the sound rattling the dishes in the sink. You, an alligator wrestler? You do have other interests. But alligators—they can be deadly. Why’re you here if you think I’m dangerous?

  I like danger.

  But you think I look like an alligator? That’s not flattering.

  You don’t look like an alligator, but I wouldn’t turn my back on you.

  Nor I on you, señor. What is it about danger you like?

  Challenges make life more interesting. You know that, señora. They test you. That’s why I fly a plane. I never know what I’ll run into up there. Bad weather. Winds. The unexpected.

  Curva picked up another log, opened the door on the woodstove, and tossed it inside, sending sparks into the air. She went over to the counter and leaned on it: You weren’t wrestling alligators just for the fun of it.

  Shirley laughed: True. I made good money doing it. I also worked a few air shows. Parachuting and landing on selected targets. That paid pretty well, too.

&nbs
p; Am I just another target you’re trying to land on?

  Outside Dios growled and then barked. Curva went to the door and opened it, relieved to see Billie park his truck next to Shirley’s. Dios ran over to greet Billie, jumping up and licking his face. She felt like doing the same.

  Curva didn’t want to acknowledge that perhaps likes attracted—to admit she resembled Shirley in any way. Yes, she also was an adventurer. Still, her arrival in Weed had been very different from Shirley’s. She didn’t drop out of the sky in a fancy plane, looking to buy up a lot of land and mineral rights and then lord her power over everyone. Yet Curva would have been astonished if anyone suggested she also had changed the community and at a more profound level than Shirley did.

  But at the moment, Billie had never looked so good to her. He waved, slogging through the snow to her door. Time to get out the snow shovel, he said and stepped inside, kicking off his boots and lining them up on a mat next to hers.

  Sí, Bee-lee, I know. Shirley is just leaving. He’s on his way to check on his wells. Curva embraced Billie. He smelled like the woods and looked a little like a friendly pirate with his black eye patch. He wore a red plaid logger’s jacket and brown cords, and his long hair hung loose today. She looked forward to playing with it after Shirley left, braiding it, even intertwining it with her own.

  Shirley shook Billie’s hand and picked up his jacket and hat. Damn cold, he said, setting his hat squarely on his head and slipping into his coat.

  Looks like a Chinook is on its way, Billie said. That should warm things up for a few days.

  Shirley nodded: Can’t get used to them. Strange to see the land stripped naked after being covered with heaps of snow. See you around, Billie. And he stomped down the wooden steps, barely missing the ice patches. Dios nipped at Shirley’s heels all the way to the truck.

  Curva on the Old North Trail

  Hola, mi estimado Xavier,

  A moose came crashing into our camp two days ago. It would have trampled both Dios and me if I hadn’t aimed and shot right away. I had to shoot to kill. Between the eyes. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here to write about it.

  I spent the rest of the day skinning the animal and up to my shoulders in blood. I dry-cured some of the meat and saved a big hunk to roast over the fire that night. I still had a few potatoes left and roasted one in the embers with the meat. A salad of miner’s lettuce and berries. Delicioso.

  The smell attracted lots of curious neighbors. The squirrels stayed up in the trees far away from the foxes. I placed the leftovers on the edge of our camp for our friends to feast on. It was nice to have the company and it turned out to be a real party.

  I played for them and sang:

  La cucaracha, la cucaracha

  Ya no puede caminar

  Porque no tiene, porque le falta

  Marihuana que fumar.

  Even the deer, raccoons, opossums, and rabbits got into the music, bobbing their heads and tapping their feet. Who said animals don’t have rhythm? Soon the whole clearing was filled with a bunch of crazy fools dancing and singing and carrying on, and it wasn’t just the critters.

  Remember that mad Trinidadian Kadeem? He and his band turned up in wooden caravans pulled by horses. They’re painted all sorts of colors. Red. Blue. Green. Yellow. Purple. I like all the curly designs on them. I looked inside. So cozy! Cushions to sleep on. Built-in cupboards. Chairs. They’re more comfortable than a tent, and they don’t have to be set up every night. A real casa.

  I wish I’d known about them before I started this trip. It would have been much easier on me.

  I was so excited to see other humans on the trail I almost crushed them with my bear hugs. I learned the Trinidadians had traveled the trail for years before they found Berumba. They know it better than I do and have given me tips that will help me reach the Calgary Stampede.

  Today one of them walked alongside the wagons and played drums that hung from his neck. Boom boom. Boom boom.

  It sounded like the mountains were talking in a big booming voice. Enough to wake the dead. I heard the bones of former travelers now clicking underground in time to the drums, and I kept waiting for you to appear.

  Another visitor played a violin. The sounds were triste and made me cry buckets. It was like a human voice lamenting over many sorrows. The tears slithered along the ground down to the river and made it rise. Flowers have started to grow in their wake. I haven’t cried like that since you died. I don’t understand where all those tears come from. This body can’t hold so many.

  I won’t be listening to violins again anytime soon.

  The caravans overflowed with families and the things they were selling. Pots, knives, forks, and spoons they’ve made. Dishes with pretty pictures on them. Embroidered pillowcases and tablecloths and doilies—things I don’t care much about. Nails. Hammers. Saws. Rugs piled on top of the caravans. Even eggs. One cart housed a bunch of chickens. I could hear their screeching for miles. Their voices wondrously scattered chicken feed all over the ground wherever I looked. Chicken feed like snow.

  A couple of belly dancers moved to the music, one on each side of Kadeem. The women rotated their hips and shook their bare bellies. They left a trail behind them of purple silk. It was wound around their ankles and unraveled with every step they took. An endless stream of ribbon and a great trail marker.

  I want to do that dance more and show off my belly. It’s the best part of my body. A pillow for a man’s head and a little cave inside.

  Of course, Suelita refused to be left out of the party and also turned up. She showed the belly dancers a thing or two with her own bumps and grinds.

  I wanted to hear all the news from Berumba and she gave me an earful. Mi amiga, she said. You aren’t missing much. The town hasn’t been the same since you left. You’ve inspired some Berumbians to also explore the world, hoping to create their own Berumba elsewhere. Many have followed you north, you know. They keep hearing your music and can’t resist chasing it like a dog after bones.

  She roared and said, Oh no! Did you hear that? I can’t get bones off my mind. She patted Dios on the head. You know what I mean, don’t you, old fellow. Those bones are good even when they don’t have any meat on them. And she ran her hand over Kadeem’s paunch. He has a good one, you know. Hey, mi amigo. I’m talking about you.

  I never expected to see Kadeem look at a loss for words, but he was. He even got red in the face. But Suelita didn’t stop. She pushed herself between him and one of the belly dancers and took his arm. Kadeem and I are viejos amigos, Suelita said. We go back a long way.

  He stubbed his toe on some rocks and stumbled. Suelita caught him before he fell. See, he’s falling for me again! Hey Kadeem, don’t worry. I won’t leave you.

  I passed around the smokes and they all shouted Olé and puffed away. The vapors and laughter swirled around us like fog; the campfire made everyone’s eyes glow in the dark.

  I plunked and sang and they all joined in. Later I started a line dance that circled the clearing and everyone followed. They kicked out their feet and shook their bottoms. Even the animals got into it. It was hard at times to know the difference between animals and humans.

  I wished you were here. You always liked to dance.

  When I woke this morning, everyone had vamoosed, leaving only cold ash from the campfire and a few chickens that had wandered away. But the Trinidadian’s warmth has filled my bones and will keep me going.

  The Greenhouse

  Another batch of Monarch butterflies had hatched from the milkweed Curva kept inside their cage. When she opened the enclosure, they flooded the greenhouse, hovering over flowers, trying out their wings, exploring.

  It was a miracle.

  She watched them float through the air. Their orange wings, trimmed with black, resembled cathedral windows. The empty casings—soft green with gold spots—carpeted the c
age. Curva gathered them into a paper bag, planning to toss them in the compost later, and rotated her hips, practicing belly dancing moves she’d learned years earlier from Kadeem’s women.

  She also was keeping an eye on the four seeds she’d planted that Kadeem had given her. She checked the clay pots every day for signs of life and watered them regularly. So far nothing had turned up, though she sang all her favorite songs to them and moved the containers around the greenhouse, seeking the best possible light.

  She continued to mix a little dandelion wine into the soil now and then, hoping it would encourage growth and inspire the kernels, though seeds so old would not produce overnight. Dormant too long, they might not produce at all. Still, she remembered how lively they were when Kadeem had left them with her. That possibility gave her hope. As she stood there musing over the pots, it occurred to her the translucent chrysalis shells might promote development—a kind of fertilizer. Curva retrieved the shells from the bag and crushed them between her fingers, sprinkling them over the soil. Then she sang to the seeds again, a lullaby her mother crooned when Curva was a toddler:

  Mira la luna

  Comiendo su tuna;

  Echando las cáscaras

  En la laguna.

  Aquel caraco

  que va por el sol

  en cada ramita

  llevaba una flor

  que viva la gala

  que viva el amor

  que viva la concha

  de aquel caracol.7

  It makes me very sad to hear you sing that song, mi hermana.

  Curva jumped when she heard Xavier’s voice and then laughed. She said, You remember, sí?

  Xavier was wearing his white zoot suit again, his hair swept back into a ducktail. He said, Sí. We never squashed snails again.

  Maybe you didn’t. I do. They try to eat my bebés. Muerte! No more snails. Our madre didn’t like it when anything happened to her plants and flowers. She would forgive me.