Ivory and the Horn (48 page)

See, this Coyote he got in trouble again, this Coyote he’s always getting in trouble, you know that by now, same as me. And when he’s in jail this time he sees that it’s all tribes inside, the same as it is outside. White tribes, black tribes, yellow tribes, skin tribes. He finally understands, finally realizes that maybe there can’t ever be just one tribe, but that doesn’t mean we should stop trying.

But even in jail this Coyote he can’t stay out of trouble and one day he gets into another fight and he gets cut again, but this time he thinks maybe he’s going to die.

“Albert,” Coyote he says, “I am one crazy skin. I am never going to learn, am I?”

“Maybe not this time,” Albert says, and he’s holding Coyote’s head and he’s wiping the dribble of blood that comes out of the side of Coyote’s mouth and is trickling down his chin. “But that’s why you’re Coyote. The wheel goes round and you’ll get another chance.”

Coyote he’s trying to be brave, but he’s feeling weaker and it hurts, it hurts, this wound in his chest that cuts to the bone, that cuts the thread that binds him to this story. “There’s a thing I have to remember,” Coyote he says, “but I can’t find it. I can’t find its story….”

“Doesn’t matter how small they try to make you,” Albert he reminds Coyote. “You’re still Coyote.”

“Ya-ha-hey,”
Coyote he says. “Now I remember.” Then Coyote he grins and he lets the pain take him away into another story.

T
HE
F
OREVER
T
REES

If you understand, things are just as

they are. If you do not understand,

 things are just as they are.

—Zen saying

1

In the end, what she remembers isn’t her name, not at first, who she was or even how and where she lived her life. What she remembers is this:

When I was a child I had this ability to simply go somewhere. It wasn’t a good place or a bad place—just
another
place. I wouldn’t hide there, but when I was there, I couldn’t be found. I didn’t have to walk there, I’d just be there, in that ghost place.

Sometimes now I think it was a part of me, a piece of my mind where I’d go when things were bad. But then I remember: I went there when things were good, too.

2

Tasha never stops thinking, thinking. She’s a visual artist but her mind’s always full of words, scuttling around inside her head like mice in an old house when the sun goes down, the eyelids are drawn, the shutters fastened, the body still sleeping, but that secret part of her where the spirit candle bums the brightest is busy-busy, talking to itself, remembering, dreaming. She paints because of those words.

It’s like this: She sees colors for words, like a light mottled grey touched with soft green and purple for
whisper. Free
is a Prussian blue that goes on forever, acquiring a hint of violet just before it vanishes from sight.
Cacti
is a deep fuchsia, but
cactus
is a warm buttery yellow with streaks of olive green and greenish browns.
New
is the electric color of a kingfisher’s wing and
ford
is the coppery red of an old pen nib, but
Newford
is a grey with highlights of henna and purple.

Joe doesn’t pretend to understand. He looks at her art. He knows that her paintings are fragments of stories, conversations, essays, all chasing down those mice in her head, trying to put them into some semblance of order, but he doesn’t get the translation. All he sees is color on the canvas, random patterns that make no sense even after Tasha reads them to him.

But it doesn’t stop them from being friends.

They’re just friends. Good friends.

“I don’t want to exchange bodily fluids with you,” she tells him once. “It always spoils things.”

He wonders at the time if that’s how she really meant to put it, or if she just liked the way the words looked as she said them, but he understands what she means. Sex is good. Sex is fun. There’s no better place to be, he thinks, than in the middle of a relationship when most of the awkwardness is gone and you’re still crazy about each other. But one person always loves the other more, and the imbalance undermines the best of intentions and eventually it all falls apart. He’s seen it happen. He’s had it happen. Lovers have come and gone in his life, but Tasha’s constant. She’s not one of the guys, not even close. She brings out the best in him, the way a friend should, but too often doesn’t. Asks hard questions, but doesn’t answer them for him. Lets him work them out for himself. The way he does for her.

“Men always want to fix everything,” she tells him another time, “and I can’t figure out why. I’d settle for simply understanding things.”

Gets to where he knows exactly what she means. She talks about men, he talks about women, they’re generalizing, like you do, but they’re not talking about each other. It’s not that they’re sexless. The gender thing is there, it’s part of what endears them to each other, the insights they get into what each is not, but the attraction’s strictly platonic. Which makes it all the more confusing when Joe finds himself thinking not about her, Tasha, his friend, but about the curve of her neck and the way her hennaed hair lies so soft against it, how she fills her sweater and jeans with perfect contours that he wants to explore, palm to skin; soft, she’d be so soft, so smooth, like silk; touching her would be like touching silk, but warm.

He’d give anything to taste her lips, and all of a sudden everything’s way too complicated and he wants to fix what’s going on instead of understanding it.

3

To get to that ghost place, first I’d have to find the meadow. Summer growth slaps my knees as I follow the long slope up from the bottom of the hill where the hedge is an unruly thicket tangled up in heaps of gathered fieldstone. It’s been years since the slope was ploughed, but not so long that the forest has resettled the open ground. The weeds are never too tall, and there are always wildflowers in bloom, great stuttering sweeps of color that twist and wind in spiraling paths up and down the slope of the hill. Sometimes there’s a hawk, high up, floating in the sky, but I don’t see it right away, rarely look for the grey-brown cut of its wings against the blue. As I make my way up the slope, my gaze is always on the forest.

It’s a crown of trees on the crest of the hill, trunks and fallen snags slow-dancing around the granite outcrops, a hundred-acre wood, but Pooh doesn’t five there and I’m not Christopher Robin. I wouldn’t even want to be. I liked being a girl and I like being a woman.

Under the trees, the air is cool and dark and rich with the wet smell of old damp wood, of ferns and mushrooms and the moss that cushions my footfalls. Not far from where the edge of the meadow and the forest blurs, a natural spring bubbles up from a leak in the granite and trickles pell-mell through the leaf mold and around the stones. The water hurries with a jigging and reeling rush that’s long since cut a narrow cleft through the dark red earth as it ribbons its way down the slope. All the trees seem to lean down to listen to it as it goes by.

What kind of trees? I don’t know. I never had a name for them. They’re big, some of them. Bigger than redwoods. But gnarled like old oaks or elms. And kind. I can’t really explain. There’s a kindness about them. They always welcome me. I know they’re older than the stars, thick with mystery and wind-music rustlings and shadow. Written on their bark are the histories of ancient times, long lost, and a thousand forgotten stories that they must remember, but they always have time for me. Child, girl, woman. I only ever felt kindness in that hundred-acre wood.

Nim called them the forever trees.

4

So Joe’s redefined their relationship, but Tasha doesn’t know. She comes over that evening to watch a video with him and feels something different in the air. Innocent in a white T-shirt and snug jeans that make her seem anything but, she looks around his apartment to see what’s changed. The bookcase still stands on one wall, its shelves stuffed with paperbacks, magazines and found objects like a tattered slipper or a chipped coffee mug that have been there so long they’ve acquired squatters’ rights and would look out of place anywhere else. The sofa still faces the old cedar chest that holds Joe’s TV set and stereo. The same posters are on the wall, along with the small reproduction of a Hockney print in its narrow metal frame. The same worn Oriental carpet underfoot. The two beers Joe brings from the kitchen are given temporary refuge on the same apple crate that usually serves as his coffee table.

Nothing’s different, but everything has changed. Joe seems—not edgy, but he can’t stop moving. His usual stillness has dissolved, leaving behind the bare bones of nervous energy that makes his fingers twitch, his toes tap. Tasha tucks a loose lock of red hair back behind her ears and sits down on the sofa. She leans back, draws her knees up to her chin, smiles over them at Joe, who’s hovering about in the middle of the carpet until finally he sits down as well.

The video he’s picked is
Enchanted April
They’ve seen it before, but tonight the holidaying women don’t absorb him. He’s constantly stealing glances at her until Tasha begins to wonder if she’s got a bit of her dinner stuck to her chin or lodged in between her teeth. A scrap of egg noodle. An errant morsel of snow pea. She explores the spaces between her teeth with her tongue, surreptitiously gives her chin a wipe with the back of her hand.

When she puts her feet down for a moment to reach for her beer, Joe is suddenly right beside her. She turns to look at him, confused, their faces only inches apart. He leans closer. As their lips touch, all the clues Tasha hadn’t realized were clues go tumbling through her mind, rearranged in their proper order, the mystery solved, the confusion now embracing what had brought this change to their relationship—and how could she have missed it? But then she lets the confusion go away and enjoys the moment, because Joe’s a better kisser than she had ever imagined, and she finds she likes the feel of his back and shoulders as she returns his embrace, likes the press of his chest against her, especially likes the touch of his lips and the tingling that wakes in her belly as the tips of their tongues explore each other.

“This is nice,” she murmurs when they finally come up for air.

Nice
hangs behind her eyes, all chicory blue, like when the sun first pulls the petals awake, and speckled like a trout. The movie plays on, forgotten except for the flickering glow it throws upon their faces.

“It’s weird,” Joe tells her. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” The parade of his words kaleidoscopes through her. “It’s like we’ve been friends for what— eight, nine years?—and all of a sudden I’m seeing you for the first time, and I can’t believe that I’ve ever been the least bit interested in another woman.”

It takes Tasha a moment to separate the meaning of what he’s saying from the colors.

“Are you saying you love me?” she asks, not sure how she wants him to answer, for all that she’s been thoroughly enjoying the intimacy of the past ten minutes.

Joe gives her an odd look, as though he hadn’t thought things through quite that far. But then he smiles.

“I guess I am,” he says.

The words wake a warm flood of color in Tasha’s mind, a mingling of rose and pale violet like a coneflower’s bloom in the twilight.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“I’m not sure,” she says softly. “It’s all so sudden. It’s…” She can’t find the color to tell him what she feels because she’s not sure herself; she puts a hand behind his head and draws his lips back toward hers. “Kiss me again,” she murmurs just before their lips meet.

The words float in their colors through her mind but Joe doesn’t need the invitation.

5

I guess I have to explain everything, don’t I? Nim lives in the hundred-acre wood. At least I think she does, because that’s the only place I’ve ever seen her. Actually, I’m not even sure she’s a she. I just always think of her as female, but as I try to describe her I realize she’s asexual, androgynous. No breasts, but no body hair or Adam’s apple either. Her long curly hair is always filled with seeds and twigs and burrs, but it’s still soft as duck down. Skinny, she’s so skinny you’d think she was made of sticks, but her limbs are pliant. She’s the first person I’ve ever met who’s as double-jointed as me. Maybe more. And she hears colors, too.

“But not sounds,” she said when we’re talking about it one time. “Just words.”

Like me.