There can be few experiences
worse than this: you stroll up to
someone you haven't seen for a few weeks, and ask brightly, "How's
tricks?" The
answer you get is "Eagle is dead."
It happened
this morning when I made my way over to Brenda's, looking for
drying room for my crop. There were a couple of other trucks in
the drive,
which I assumed meant she had some early cleaning to do, and these
were friends
from the Bay Area here to earn their stash. How could I know they
were here for
last rites?
Quickly I made
my way through to Brenda. She was standing beside the window
that looked on their flower garden, staring out at the flowers that
Eagle had
planted. In her hand was a full tumbler of what looked like straight
bourbon.
"I still
don't believe it," she said, absently pushing her hair back.
"My poor
Eagle. She only went into Redway three nights ago, to get us some
ice
cream. She never made it back." Taking a gulp from her glass,
she shook her
head. "She must have been trying to avoid a deer or something.
She went off the
road between Ruby Valley and Briceland...at that place where part
of the road
is washed away. But she knew about that..." Her voice trailed
off, and I moved
to touch her hand. Before I could, she turned and looked at me,
her eyes dark
circled. "Anyway, we found her at about three in the morning.
The truck had
rolled all the way down. Her neck was broken. At least it was quick."
I reached out
to put my arms around her, but she pushed me gently away and
walked into the kitchen.
Her friend Artemis
came up behind me. "That's what she's been doing for three
days now. Drinking bourbon and standing in the kitchen, staring
at the stove."
"Eagle
was a great cook," I offered, meaning to clarify Brenda's obsession.
I
was, as usual, misread.
"Men!"
Artemis snorted. She went out on the porch to leave me alone with
my
sister. I thought of following her, to try to explain, but I decided
to hell
with it. I would be tolerated, even in this time of crisis. Being
understood
didn't matter now.
Brenda and I
talked through the rest of the afternoon.
I don't remember
too much about what...Eagle, and our childhood, and my trip to
San Diego, mostly. At about four, I got her to eat some canned soup,
which she
looked at ruefully. Eagle did not approve of canned anything.
"You know,
she wanted to quit last year," Brenda said quietly. "Eagle
wanted to
spend a few years baking on a beach somewhere in the tropics. But
I kept
telling her, 'next year, Honey.' If we'd gone when she wanted, she'd
still be
alive."
"Brenda,
no guilt trips, okay?" I tried to sound firm, like a big brother
should. "If it was Eagle's time to go, then no matter where
you were...it could
have happened in the Caymans just as easily as here. You're the
one who
convinced me there was something to Karma, and people's stars, and
all that,
remember?"
She nodded soberly.
"Oh yeah, I know that. I mean, I really know it was Eagle's
fate...in my head. It just hasn't reached my gut yet. I feel guilty,
and I
think I need to right now. Maybe it's a way of mourning." She
leaned back in
her chair and looked at the ceiling. "To you, she was just
an overweight broad
with a moustache. But, Larry, she was my love..."
How could I
show her I had some appreciation of their relationship? I searched
my head. "She was a great cook," I said.
For the first
time since I'd arrived, Brenda smiled. "My God, Larry, leave
it
to you to say the perfect eulogy. But it's okay. I love you and
I do know what
you mean...and I'm glad you're here.
With that she
sent me away. She and her women friends were about to get into a
ceremony over Eagle's ashes, and I definitely was not invited.
Brenda said
one more thing as I was getting into my truck which has me
wondering. "I have something going around in my head that I
want to talk to you
about. Give me a week, okay?" I nodded, knowing this was no
time to prod her.
You would think
that dealing with my own temporary insanity, plus my sister's
grief would be enough for one week. No way. I had another crisis
to face before
suppertime this day.
Towards evening,
I was sitting in front of my tent, scratching Spiro behind the
ears and trying to imagine what it would be like to take a truck
down one of
those cliffs the way Eagle had done. It would be quick; no time
for lingering
regrets, no time for self-recrimi\=nations like "I should have
exercised more,"
or "I should have worked less." It'd all be over in a
few seconds. Looking at
it that way, I knew Eagle was lucky. Maybe she would have liked
some more
years, but I bet anything she wasn't regretting the way she went.
Wherever she
is.
I don't have
a very well thought out system of belief about the Hereafter. It
leaves me always stumped for an answer when someone asks me what
my religion
is. When the Army demanded to know, so they could put my choice
of last
services on my dogtags, along with my bloodtype, I took the easy
way out and
just listed "Jewish." It was only part of the truth.
The thing is,
I don't think Judaism includes a place for women like Eagle. A
woman Rabbi is problem enough. I know the Judaic heaven doesn't
include a place
for Eagle to float around for awhile until she decides if she wants
to be
reborn into the body of a chef in a classy French restaurant or
an Olympic
swimmer. (I hope she takes her moustache with her. I have to admit
it suited
her.) As I remember, the Hindus and Buddhists are more into that.
But I'm not
either one of those. Whoever or whatever, I do think that Eagle
is now floating
in some misty place, drifting on a Heavenly surfboard in a warm
cosmic sea,
waiting to be born again as other-than Eagle. On the other hand,
I have no idea
why we should get born and die only to get born again. But I never
could figure
out why God made that covenant with Abraham, or why Jesus had to
hang on a
cross for all the sins of the world. Wasn't there an easier way?
If you were an
omnipotent God and you had a "Dearly Beloved Son", couldn't
you, in all your
omnipotence, figure out a better way to clean up the mess here on
earth? For
that matter, in your omnipotence, why did you let the place get
so messy in the
first place?
Kiki once told
me that I should just classify myself as a humanist and be done
with it, since that covers a hell of a range. Which brings me to
the moment
about two hours ago when she rattled up the driveway in Bertha.
To put it mildly,
I was pleased at the warmth of our reunion. She kissed me and
hugged me and kissed me some more, and then hauled off and hit me
for not
letting her know where I was, and then kissed me some more, and
then really got
mad at me for my running off without a word, leaving her, John and
Reg to take
care of my plants and of Spiro.
It struck me
that I didn't have the words to tell her and the guys how grateful
I was for what they had done for me in my absence. It's no little
thing to take
on some goof-offs patch in the Fall, just because he's your friend,
or your
lover. I tried to spill all this out to Kiki, aware at the same
time I'd
fail. I always manage to sound about as sincere as Richard Nixon
when handing
out thanks. But try I did. Then she punched me once more before
we settled in
for some serious cuddling. I learned earlier never to make a move
on Kiki when
steam was coming out of her ears.
We were entwined
like a couple of strands of spaghetti, with my nose buried in
her woodsmoke smelling cloud of hair, when she nailed me with the
final blow
of a battering day.
"Larry,
I have a confession to make. A very serious confession." Due
to her
mouth being buried in my chest, the words were a little muffled.
"Another
cowboy?" I asked, feeling forgiveness drip through my mellow
soul. At
that moment, I could have forgiven anything.
No, nothing
like that." She lifted her head a little.
"Stay there,"
I said. "I like the way your talking tickles the hairs on my
chest."
"Okay."
She took a deep breath. "Okay. See, I found your manuscript
while you
were gone. And I added my own chapter to it. Things from my perspective,
sort
of what I was feeling when I didn't know where you were. And how
much I loved
you.
While I was
trying to absorb that revelation, she slipped out of my arms and
ran out to Bertha. She was back in two seconds, bearing a pad of
lined school
tablet paper tied with a violet ribbon. She laid the tablet tenderly
on the
cot, and standing over me, instructed firmly. "Now, take care
of this. It's the
only copy in the world. And it's my gift." With that, she turned
on her heel,
got into her car, and sped into the night. Leaving me bemused, and
hungry.
I opened a can
of beans and sat down by my lantern, the pad of paper on my
lap. I finished reading it just a while ago, and started to write
the
following:
Kiki, would
you be interested in forming a more or less long term relationship
with a guy who, does not look too much like Tom Selleck? This is
a weird way to
propose, I know. I always pictured doing it, if I did it at all,
in a more
conventional mode. Like over a steak dinner, by candlelight (that
I've got
plenty of) with a bottle of good wine to lubricate my vocal cords...
There, that
ought to do it, and I think I will add her chapter to my
journal. It's not bad, for an amateur. No wait, I'd better take
that back! It's
terrific! It's just what the book needed. Oh God of Israel! Don't
strike me
dead for being a terrible liar!
