Читать книгу Little Red War Gods - Patrick PhD Marcus - Страница 10

Five years before meeting Alvin at the Boar’s Head pub in Ireland, eighteen-year-old Archer, on a whim, decided to visit his estranged twin Keane the day before leaving for college at the University of Wisconsin. He stopped at McDonald’s on the way, knowing that Keane wouldn’t have thought of such things as his brother’s need to eat. When Archer arrived for the first time at the rented shabby A-frame, Keane immediately insisted they blast away at the local pine trees with his pistol grip police riot shotgun; it had been a gift from the police commissioner’s equally angry son.

“Fire.”

“Fire.”

“Fire!”

“Fire!”

Archer watched Keane reload while he massaged his fingers. He rubbed harder yet when Keane clumsily dropped a round that was meant for the chamber. Empty boxes of cartridges, empty shells, live shells, all cluttered the ground. Keane didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t notice how sickly green branches now hung grotesquely, or the way whitish patches balded an otherwise majestic black trunk. “This is the mind of my twin brother,” Archer thought. “We are standing in it. For all his secretive pride, he exposes himself. Stupid pot head.”

Keane talked about his business, bulk pot, and how discretion was the better part of valor. He went on and on about how their father hadn’t raised them to be men. Archer held his tongue.

At dusk, Archer’s car rolled down the gravel road, emerging from the thick woods onto the cool black county highway; he pushed the accelerator and gripped the wheel. He tore along, the band “Tool” ratcheting his effort, pulsing his thoughts: eyes of a deer, hidden cop, keep going faster, nothing for me to stop.

The next day, Archer was already six hours into his sixteen-hour drive to Wisconsin when his identical twin received an unexpected phone call. Keane, for his part, was still sprawled lazily on a crap-brown segmented sofa. His brown shirt and brown pants blended him into the couch in a chameleon-esque way. Begrudgingly he answered the vibrating cell. The call was from a number he wasn’t familiar with.

“Hey.”

“Hello, dear. Is that you, Keane?”

“Who’s this?” He sounded casually annoyed.

“It’s your grandmother, dear. I am so sorry if I am interrupting you.”

Grandmother Rood usually only called on holidays; Keane was genuinely flummoxed to hear her voice. The mystery surrounding her call caused his nerves to jangle. “Hello, grandmother,” he said, trying to sound normal, thoughtful, loving, but his eye caught the swirling smoke in the bottom of his bong and he remembered he didn’t really care. Grey and thick, honeycombed with black, the smoke swirled and swirled its endless swirl around its round glass home.

“Dear, I am so proud of you for graduating from high school. I know your father is, too. I only wish I had been there.” She talked quickly as she always had, only now her soft voice croaked with disease. She’d been diagnosed with lung cancer two months ago. Keane nodded, not realizing he hadn’t replied verbally. High school had been a joke. There was nothing to be proud of. He’d graduated by the absolute skin of his teeth.

“We have always loved you—”

“I love you too,” Keane said, interrupting her. His sentiment was genuine. Keane did love her. She was the one he loved the most.

“I know. I know you do, and that is why I have a request of you.” Her voice had taken on a serious tone. “I need your help. I need you to visit me.”

“Grandmother?”

“You have a car. I am sure your father made sure of that.”

“Yes.”

“Take what is important to you, some music you like, your clothing.” Her voice was straining now. “Keane! I wish to see you one more time. I have something for you. Something I should have given you a long time ago.” Keane felt a twang of pain thinking of her throat cancer. She had smoked all those years, West Virginia Slims.

“Okay,” he said, for the sake of the conversation, still unsure of what she really wanted.

“This isn’t about pity for my condition. I’ve had plenty of that, mostly from myself, though I’ve lived the life I wanted. If your grandfather were still here he would find some way to laugh about it. You remember your grandfather?”

“Of course I remember him, Gans. He was the best. Everyone loved him. No one would forget him.” It was the truth, yet Keane found himself speaking faster than he usually did.

“Leave as soon as you can. I will be in my garden on Sunday. The weeds are terrible. If I don’t answer the door, just come around through the fence and find me. We’ll have a steak if you can get the grill going.” Her voice was beginning to sputter. “I have to rest now. Your grandfather would be so proud. I love you very much.” With that, she hung up.

“I love you, too,” Keane said into the ether, before taking a huge hit on the bong. Impossibly, his pallor looked even whiter and more drawn beneath his spiky hair.

Keane spent several hours convincing himself that driving to Tucson, Arizona, from upstate New York would be tantamount to insanity. Besides, what would his customers do for their shit? Find some other dealer and forget all about him! Going was impossible. Keane, satisfied with his decision, let the delicious smoke rise out of his mouth and toyed with one of the hookah’s tendrils that had wrapped itself around his fingers.

Slinking the way she did when she wanted something, Nascha pulled herself onto the couch next to Keane. A wolfish looking black German Shepherd, she nuzzled his chin, whimpering. He pushed her away, laughing, “You’re going to ruin my high.” Nascha persisted in her bid for attention. Gently she bit down on his hand, slowly increasing pressure until their eyes locked.

“Nascha! What the hell,” Keane barked, trying to pull his hand free. For a second she didn’t let go, relenting only when Keane pulled back with more force. “Go bother the squirrels.” Frustrated, Nascha headed outside, pushing open the screen door with her nose. “Good,” Keane said after her.

That’s when the howling began.

Nascha’s howling sounded eerie, sad, lonely and mournful among the regal pine trees. Keane tried to ignore her, but she was unrelenting.

“Nascha!” he screamed, choking as he inhaled too deeply.

The howling persisted.

“Have it your way,” Keane said spitefully, turning up the volume on the TV. After about 15 minutes, Keane had reached his boiling point. If he heard one more howl, that would be it for one of them. “Owewhoooooooo!” Springing up, Keane flew through the rickety screen door only to see Nascha sitting in his Green Nova’s passenger seat looking for all-the-world as though she was ready for a long ride. Keane laughed uproariously at the sight, his anger abating. Nascha cocked her head in his direction, her howling punctuated with a quick, excited bark of approval. “Alright, you little bitch, we’ll go visit Gans, but on one condition—I drive.”

The next morning, after packing a few gym bags with clothing, a few bags of pot, a .44, his pistol grip shotgun, a few personal items, rolling papers, a laptop, and several artifacts from his family’s travels, Keane and Nascha set out. One of the artifacts, a small stone statue, which had come to Keane in a very curious way, held his attention for much of the first day’s drive from its sideways perch on the dash. Keane finally thrust the idol into the back seat.

For three days they drove, eating crap, getting high, and playing together at rest stops. They slept in the car to save money. Keane had ample cash tucked under the passenger’s seat, but his practical side told him that it might be hard to replenish in a town where he didn’t know a soul other than his grandmother. And, as cool as she was, he didn’t suppose she had the right connections for any real dealing.

Of all the country they’d driven through, only the desert interested Keane. When the exit sign for the road where his grandmother lived appeared, he felt more like he was starting an adventure than finishing it. Turning off the freeway and driving several miles into a Tucson subdivision, Keane parked his car in front of 4548 Feltgen Drive. He sat in the car for a minute’s reflection. Though it was hard to reconcile, he couldn’t deny the happy anticipation he was feeling. “Okay, girl. Let’s go see your great grandmother.”

As Keane walked up the short sidewalk to her well-groomed, rust colored, Spanish Colonial spread, Nascha trotted beside him. He remembered that Gans might be out back gardening.

In a deferential way, he knocked at the door.

No answer.

Keane knocked a second time, louder, saying “Hello.”

No answer.

After waiting a moment longer, he walked around to the side of the house as instructed and entered the backyard through a partially open wooden gate. The large black hinges looked like sweaty licorice in the rising summer heat. He pulled at his t-shirt front to keep the sweat from soaking through. He chided himself for bothering, knowing that he must reek and his clothing was already dirty and stained.

“Gans, it’s me. Gans?” he said, moving forward, almost out of the side yard and into the back yard. The area was smallish, surrounded by a six-foot high stone fence. This time he heard a noise: light footsteps. He turned the corner, catching sight of someone entering the home through a screen door.

“Gans!” he called loudly, almost a yell. The figure froze for a split second, then seemed to almost leap forward and disappear inside. Keane’s heart started to pound; the figure definitely wasn’t his grandmother. Turning around, he raced back the way he’d come with Nascha nipping at his heels, ready for a good game. “Nascha!” As he emerged from the gate he saw the back of a female figure already halfway down the lawn, moving quickly.

“Stop!” Keane yelled, searching his experiences for the right course of action.

She froze. As did Keane and Nascha, in unison, some thirty feet away. Keane was momentarily shocked that the stranger had complied. As the woman turned, Keane’s first thought was that she was young, cute as hell, and definitely American Indian, with long, thick, flowing black hair parted down the middle hanging over rich, dark red skin. Keane immediately regretted not changing or showering.

“I am sorry,” she called to him, turning to leave.

Keane hurried forward. Hearing his approach, the girl stopped and turned to wait for him. She was wearing well-fitted jean shorts and a white sleeveless t-shirt. He guessed she was eighteen. “Do I have the wrong house?” Keane asked. “I’ve just arrived after driving four days from New York.” He looked at his dirt streaked Nova with its bug crusted windshield and grill as if to say, “Can’t you see what I’ve been through?”.

The girl said nothing, her only response a look of increased concentration.

“I am looking for my grandmother, Virginia. She’s supposed to live in one of these houses. I think this is the right address,” he said, gesturing to the number on the front entryway. Keane was on the verge of asking more questions when the girl finally spoke.

“You are Keane?” The question floored him. “And you must be Nascha.” She leaned forward from her hips to rub Nascha’s ears. Nascha usually hated strangers, but seemed happy enough to lean against this one’s slender legs and enjoy a good scratch.

“Yes, I am. So, you know my grandmother. It’s good to meet you. Is she home?” Keane would have kept going, mechanically firing out word after word, but her slight hands closing around his forearms instantly stilled his tongue.

“Come with me,” she said, turning and leading him around the house. Keane and Nascha followed without question. Her grip was firm, a contrast to her soft fingers and hand. “Are you thirsty?” She asked.

“No. I’m fine,” Keane replied. “Just tired. It was a long trip.”

“Please have some water. It will cure your fatigue.”

Keane nodded in acceptance, his lips pursing.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to an ornate metal bench adorned with several small, blue vinyl cushions. “I will be right back.”

“Thank you,” Keane said, bowing his head slightly, still smiling. Sitting, he watched her enter the home; it was a nice view, a very nice view. Nascha made her way under the bench to lay on the small round river rocks directly beneath Keane and pant against the heat. The backyard was pretty, a blend of flowers, grasses, and huge cacti.

As the girl returned with a large glass and a large bowl of ice water for Nascha, she motioned for him to stay seated with a free finger. Keane took a long drink, as did Nascha, who emerged to fill her gut with the welcoming, cold water. Keane hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was. The girl slowly lowered herself onto the bench next to him, neither of them saying anything as he drank longer and longer swigs. When the glass was empty she reached for it and placed it on the ground behind her.

“Thanks.”

She nodded, politely looking away.

The last thing in the world he expected to find at the end of his destination was a cute girl his age. And for the life of him, big time drug dealer and all, he couldn’t find a word to say, unless you count “thanks.”

“Sooo. What’s your name?” he finally managed.

“It’s Megan.” She tilted her head inwards, bringing her hand up to pull her hair back from her face. Her eyes seemed more open than any he’d seen, with cheek bones that cut high and away from her nose, leaving the occipital area nearly flat at the bottom instead of concave. The effect was very dramatic.

“I guess you already know my name,” Keane said, flustered.

“Keane. I have something to tell you.” Megan’s foot stirred the river rocks.

Keane waited expectantly, having become totally absorbed by what she might say. He reached out to touch her knee, then pulled back.

“I am sorry that I ran from you.” As Keane tried to brush off her apology as unnecessary, she stopped him. “Your grandmother befriended me just weeks ago. She bought a necklace from me at my aunt’s roadside store, and when I saw her again that night, just by chance, she invited me to sit with her in her garden. I do not know why I accepted her invitation, but I did. We became fast friends over the last two weeks. During this time, I came to call her Shima, mother. I am a Navajo. I live with my aunt and uncle on the reservation.”

“She’s great, isn’t she?” said Keane, with a touch of familial privilege.

Megan was sitting on the very edge of the bench, her posture, face and voice all animated. “Keane, will you pray with me?”

“A prayer?” Keane said. His features formed a “no.” He did not trust religion, but wanted to believe in this girl. Megan got to her feet and pulled Keane after her. He did not resist.

“Hold out your arms,” she said, beginning to chant, the words in Navajo gliding through the vibrations of her low hum. Her voice sounded incredible to Keane, rich in its depth, like young boys and girls singing together in a church choir.

“Sage,” she whispered, producing a tightly bound spindle of the herb, a bitter but soothing smoke pouring from its tip. He wasn’t sure when she’d lit it. Megan waved the sage around his arms and down his body, her hands spreading the smoke further like a bird’s wings. “You can keep your eyes open.”

“Okay.” Keane opened his eyes but found he couldn’t keep them open.

“Tell me about your grandmother. Tell me the way you knew her.”

“Gans had thick silver hair. Not the thin hair you usually see on old ladies. She had style.” He could see her in his mind so clearly it was as though she stood before him. “She loved Dewar’s and Virginia Slims. She was a singer and a dancer when she was young. She wore lots of white and sat with her legs crossed and her back straight. She liked everything nice and neat. I can still remember the dirty limericks she taught us:

There once was a man named Crocket

Whose balls got stuck in a socket

His wife was a bitch

And turned on the switch

And his balls went up like a rocket.”

Megan laughed.

“We had so much fun when we visited Gans and Pops in Kansas City. She was so beautiful. Perfect.” Suddenly, Keane’s mind closed for a moment—then burst open—full of light and sound.

“I died, from my cancer, just hours ago. I will always love you. Don’t be afraid.” As Gans spoke the last sentence with Keane’s tongue, her words moving purposefully through his mouth, Keane, in shock, understood it could only be her spirit communicating through him. His own spirit marveled. Keane fell to his knees as tears sprung from his eyes. He was bawling, experiencing a mixture of pain, fear, and excitement. What had just happened wasn’t possible. Suddenly, more words streamed from Gan’s spirit, only this time they resonated in Keane’s subconscious so that only he could hear.

When it was over, he asked, “Did you hear that?” He grabbed Megan’s arms, searching her face for understanding. “What was that voice? It was so beautiful. I must be fucking crazy.” His body shook. “I think my grandmother is dead. I think she talked to me.”

Megan looked surprised, concerned and relieved all at the same time: surprised to hear Shima’s voice again, concerned that a spirit was present, and relieved she’d not had to tell Keane herself that Gans was dead – Megan had discovered her body only minutes before Keane’s arrival, securing the sage from her car so she could purify the residence before she called the authorities.

She knelt without thinking, putting her hands on his shoulders to comfort him. She definitely hadn’t expected this from Keane, Shima’s grandson or not. The ability to channel a spirit, something she’d not even seen a Navajo do, something her father had spoken of with reverence, regret and fear, was a rare ability indeed.

“Gans said she couldn’t wait any longer, and wished us well, and I am to call you Doli,” Keane said as he wiped at his nose, which ran annoyingly.

“I am so sorry,” Doli said, crying, her mind reeling. When she heard her Navajo name, a name Keane could not have known, she shivered before the power she now recognized. This smelly mess of a boy was an old spirit from their lands. Could such a thing be possible? Shima had said Keane was “meant to live amongst the Navajo with a girl like you.” Megan hadn’t had the heart to tell Shima that her grandson wouldn’t like the harsh life they led on the reservation. All the same, she decided it was cute that Shima would try to make such a big set-up, and she was flattered Shima thought so highly of her. Now she understood Shima’s matchmaking in an entirely different way: Shima knew her grandson had a connection to the sacred lands of the Navajo, but did that mean a connection to her? As if by way of confirmation, the shadow and swish of a hunting hawk broke the lighted landscape in all its hues. It was an omen for the birth of a powerful family.