CHAPTER 28
Hope Is Bulletproof, Truth Just Hard to Hit
As Minty Fresh drove back to Las Vegas he thought about what Sam had said: "You have a mother, don't you?" And the question set Minty Fresh to thinking about a phone call from his mother that had changed his life.
"You're the only one left can do something, baby. The others are too far or too far gone. Please come home, baby, I need you." (Even when he had to duck to pass through her front door she still called him "baby.") That tone: he'd heard it in her voice before, when she was tugging at her husband to get him to stop strapping her youngest. But he hadn't gone back for her, had he? It was a call deep with duty and silent pride that brought him home. He went back for Nathan.
Nathan Fresh had never been home when any of his nine children were born. He was a sailor, and as far as he knew, when you came home from sea a new child would be waiting for you. The others grew an inch or two at a time, and the shoes that one was wearing when you left would be on the next one down when you got home. He loved his children, foreign creatures that they were, and trusted his wife to raise them - as long as they could line up, snap to, and pass inspection when he came home. And although he was gone most of the time, making the high seas safe for democracy, he was a presence in the house: photographs in crisp dress whites and blues stared down from the walls; commendations and medals; a letter once a week, read out loud at the supper table; and a thousand warnings of what Papa would do to a doomed misbehaver when he got home. To the Fresh children, Papa was only a little bit more real than Santa Claus, and only a bit more conspicuous.
On the ship, Chief Petty Officer Nathan Fresh was known only as the Chief: feared and respected, tough and fair, starched, razor creased, and polished, always in trim and intolerant of anyone who wasn't. The Chief: did you notice that he was black? only five foot five? barely 130 pounds? No, but did you see his eyes, like smiles, when he was showing the pictures of his kids - when he was telling tales of lobbing shells the size of refrigerators into the hills of Korea? Did you ever mention retirement to him? That's a frost, that's a chill.
Minty Fresh, the youngest of nine, the one born with golden eyes, knew the chill. "He's not mine," Papa said - said it only once. Minty stayed out of Papa's way when he could, wore dark glasses when he couldn't. At age ten he stood six feet tall and no amount of slouching would roll Papa's resentment off his back. His place in the family was a single line at the bottom of a letter - "Baby's fine too" - far enough from "Love, Momma" to deny the association. At night, by flashlight, he wrote his own letters: "My team is going to the state championships. I was voted all-conference. The press calls me M. F. Cool, because I wear tinted goggles when I play, and sunglasses during interviews. The colleges are calling already and sending recruiters to the games. You'd be proud. Momma swears you're wrong." In the bathroom he watched the letters go, in tiny pieces, around the bowl, down, and out to sea.
Minty Fresh left for the University of Nevada at Las Vegas the week after high school graduation, the same week that Nathan Fresh took his mandatory retirement from the navy and came home, to San Diego, for good. The coach at UNLV wanted Minty to lift weights all summer, beef up for the big boys. The coach gave Momma Fresh a new washer and dryer. Nathan Fresh put them out on the porch.
The day before the first game, when UNLV was going to unleash its secret weapon on the unsuspecting NCAA - a seven-foot center with a three-foot vertical leap who could bench-press four hundred pounds and shoot ninety percent from the free-throw line - M. F. Cool got the call. "I'm on my way, Momma," he said.
"My father needs me," he said to the coach.
"When we brought you up from nothing, gave you a full scholarship, put up with the goggles and the shades and the silly name? Gave your mother a washer and dryer? No. You won't miss the season opener. You're mine."
"How touching," Minty said. "No one has ever said that to me before." Perhaps, he thought later, stuffing the coach in that locker had been a mistake, but at the time a few hours in seclusion, among socks and jocks, seemed just what the coach needed to gain some perspective. He broke the key off in the padlock, tore the M. F. Cool label off the locker, and went home.
"He's been gone four days now," Momma said. "He drinks and gambles, hangs out at the pool hall 'til all hours. But he always came home before. Since he retired, he's changed. I don't know him."
"Neither do I."
"Bring him home, baby."
Minty took a cab to the waterfront and ducked in and out of a dozen bars and pool halls before he realized that Nathan would go anywhere but the waterfront. There were sailors there, reminders. After two days of searching he found Nathan, barely able to stand, shooting pool with a fat Mexican in a cantina outside of Tijuana.
"Chief, let's go. Momma's waiting."
"I ain't no chief. Go away. I got a game going."
Minty put his hand on his father's shoulder, cringing at the smell of tequila and vomit coming off him. "Papa, she's worried."
The fat Mexican moved around the table to where Minty stood and pushed him away with a cue stick. "My friend, this one goes nowhere until we get what he owes us." Two other Mexicans moved off their barstools. "Now you go." He poked Minty in the chest with the cue stick and Nathan Fresh wheeled on him and bellowed in finest chief petty officer form.
"Don't you touch my son, you fucking greaseball."
The Mexican's cue caught Nathan on the bridge of the nose and Nathan went down, limp. Minty palmed the Mexican's head and slammed his face into the pool table, then turned in time to catch each of the two coming off the bar with a fist in the throat. Another with a knife went airborne into a Corona mirror, which broke louder than his neck. Two more went down, one with a skull fractured by a billiard ball; one, his shoulder wrenched from its socket, went into shock. There were seven in all, broken or unconscious, before the cantina cleared and Minty, dripping blood from a cut on his arm, carried his father out.
Momma met them at the hospital and stood with Minty as Nathan came around. "What are you doing here, you yellow-eyed freak?" Minty walked out of the room. Momma followed.
"He don't mean it, baby. He really don't."
"I know, Momma."
"Where you going?"
"Back to Vegas."
"You call when he sobers up. He'll want to talk to you."
"Call me if you need me, Momma," he said. He kissed her on the forehead and walked out.
She called him every week, and he could tell by her whisper that Nathan was home, was fine. It made him fine too - not M. F. Cool, just M.F., the one who handled things. All that was missing was the feeling of being needed, essential, bound to duty.
Sam had said, "You have a mother, don't you?"
Minty steered the limo off the next exit, across the overpass, and back on the highway, headed back to King's Lake.
-=*=-
It had taken Steve, the Buddhist monk, only a half hour to put the car back together. When Sam tried to figure out a way to pay for the repairs, Steve said, "All misery comes from desire and connection to the material. Go." Sam said thanks.
Now he was driving the Z into Utah. Calliope was asleep on Coyote's lap. Coyote snored. Sam passed the time trying to figure out how long it would take to get to Sturgis, South Dakota, the location of the rally that the Guild was going to. About twenty hours, he thought, if the car held together. From time to time he looked over at Calliope and felt a twinge of jealousy toward Coyote. She looked like a child when she slept. He wanted to protect her, hold her. But it was that childlike quality that frightened him as well. Her ability to dismiss facts, deny the negative, to see things so clearly, but so clearly wrong. It was as if she refused to accept what any reasonable adult knew: the world was a dangerous, hostile place.
He brushed a strand of hair out of her face before looking back to the road. She murmured, and came awake with a yawn. "I was dreaming about sea turtles - that they were really dinosaur angels."
"And?"
"That's all. It was a dream."
Sam had been thinking about it too long, so there was anger in his voice when he asked her, "Why didn't you call me before you went after Lonnie?"
"I don't know."
"I was worried. If it weren't for Coyote, I would have never found you."
"Are you two related?" She seemed to be ignoring his anger. "You look a lot alike. He has the same eyes and skin."
"No, I just know him." Sam didn't want to explain, he wanted an answer. "Why didn't you call me?"
Calliope recoiled at his harshness. "I had to go get Grubb."
"I could have gone with you."
"Would you have? Is that what you wanted?"
"I'm here, aren't I? It would have been a hell of a lot easier if I didn't have to chase you across two states."
"And maybe you wouldn't have done it if it was a hell of a lot easier. Would you?"
The question, and her tone, threw him. He thought for a minute, looking at the road. "I don't know."
"I know," she said softly. "I don't know much, but I know about that. You're not the only man that ever wanted me or wanted to rescue me. They all do, Sam. Men are addicted to the wanting. You like the idea of having me, and the idea of rescuing me. That's what attracted you to me in the first place, remember."
"That's not true."
"It is true. That's why I had sex with you so soon."
"I don't get it." This was not at all how Sam had expected her to react. His brief moment of self-righteousness had degraded into self-doubt.
"I did it to see if you could get past the fantasy of wanting me and rescuing me, to the reality of me. Me, with a baby, and no education, and a lousy job. Me, with no idea what I'm going to do next. I can't stand the wanting coming at me all the time. I have to get past it, like I did with you, or ignore it."
"So you were testing me?" Sam said. "That's why you took off without telling me?"
"No, it wasn't a test. I liked you, but I have Grubb to take care of now. I can't afford to hope." She was starting to tear up. Sam felt as if he'd just been caught stomping a litter of kittens. She took Grubb's blanket from behind the seat and wiped her eyes.
"You okay?" Sam asked.
She nodded. "Sometimes I want to be touched and I pretend that I'm in love - and that someone loves me. I just take my moments and forget about hope. You were going to be a moment, Sam. But I started to have hope. If I'd called you and you had said no, then I would have lost my hope again."
"That's not how I am," Sam said.
"How are you, then?"
Sam drove in silence for a while, trying to think of something to say - the right thing to say. But that wasn't the answer either. He always knew the right thing to say to get what he wanted, or had until Coyote showed up. But now, he didn't know what he wanted. Calliope had declared wanting a mortal sin. Talking to a woman, to anyone, without having an agenda was completely foreign to him. Where was he supposed to speak from? What point of view? Who was he supposed to be?
He was afraid to look at her, felt heat rise in his face when he thought about her looking at him, waiting. Maybe the truth? Where do you go to find the truth? She had found it, let it go at him. She had laid her hope in his hands and she was waiting to see what he would do with it.
Finally he said, "I'm a full-blooded Crow Indian. I was raised on a reservation in Montana. When I was fifteen I killed a man and I ran away and I've spent my life pretending to be someone I'm not. I've never been married and I've never been in love and that's not something I know how to pretend. I'm not even sure why I'm here, except that you woke something up in me and it seemed to make sense to run after something instead of away for a change. If that's the horrible act of wanting, then so be it. And by the way, you are sitting on the lap of an ancient Indian god."
Now he looked at her. He was a little out of breath and his mind was racing, but he felt incredibly relieved. He felt like he needed a cigarette and a towel - and maybe a shower and breakfast.
Calliope looked from Sam to Coyote, and then to Sam again. Her eyes were wider each time she looked back. Coyote stopped his snoring and languidly opened one eye. "Hi," he said. He closed his eye and resumed snoring.
Calliope bent over and kissed Sam's cheek. "I think that went well, don't you?"
Sam laughed and grabbed her knee. "Look, we've still got twenty hours on the road and I'm going to need you to drive. So get some sleep, okay? I don't trust him at the wheel." Sam nodded toward Coyote.
"But he's a god," Calliope said.
"'As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;/They kill us for their sport. "
"What an icky thing to say."
"Sorry. Shakespeare wrote it. I can't get it out of my mind this week. It's like an old song that gets stuck."
"That happened to me once with 'Rocky Raccoon. "
"Right," Sam said. "It's exactly like that."
CHAPTER 29
Shifting
Sam drove through the day and into the night and finally stopped at a truck stop outside of Salt Lake City. Calliope and Coyote had been awake for the last few hours, but neither had spoken very much. Calliope seemed embarrassed about talking to the trickster, now that she knew he was a god, and Coyote just stared out the window, either lost in his own thoughts or (Sam thought this more likely) absorbed in some new scheme to throw people's lives into chaos. From time to time someone would break the silence by saying, "Pretty rock" - a statement which covered the complete observational spectrum for Utah's landscape - then they would lapse into silence for a half hour or so.
Sam led them into the truck stop and they all took stools at a carousel counter among truckers and a couple of grungy hitchhikers who were hoping to cadge a ride. A barrel-shaped woman in an orange polyester uniform approached and poured them coffee without asking if they wanted it. Her name tag read, Arlene. "You want something to eat, honey?" she asked Calliope with an accent warm with Southern hospitality. Sam wondered about this: no matter where you go, truck-stop waitresses have a Southern accent.
"Do you have oatmeal?" Calliope asked.
"How 'bout a little brown sugar on that?" Arlene asked. She looked over rhinestone-framed reading glasses.
Calliope smiled. "That would be nice."
"How 'bout you, darlin'?" she said to Coyote.
"Drinks. Umbrellas and swords."
"Now you know better'n that - come into Mormon country and order drinks." She shamed him with a wave of her finger.
Coyote turned to Sam. "Mormon country?"
"They settled in this area. They believe that Jesus visited the Indian people after he rose from the dead."
"Oh him. I remember him. Hairy face, made a big deal about dying and coming back to life - one time. Ha. He was funny. He tried to teach me how to walk on water. I can do it pretty good in the wintertime."
Arlene giggled girlishly. "I don't think you need any more to drink, hon. How 'bout some ham and eggs?"
Sam said, "That'll be fine, two of those, over easy."
Sam watched Arlene move around the counter, flirting with some of the truckers like a saloon girl, clucking over others like a mother hen. She snuck a cinnamon roll to a scruffy teenage hitchhiker with no money and asked after him like an older sister, then moved across the counter and found the kid a ride with a gruff cowboy trucker. One minute she was swearing like a sailor, the next she was blushing like a virgin, and all the customers who sat at her counter got what they needed. Sam realized that he was watching a shape-shifter: a kind and giving creature. Perhaps he was meant to notice. Perhaps that was what he needed. She was good. Maybe he was too.
He turned to Calliope and caught her in the middle of losing a bite of oatmeal down her chin. "We can do this," he said. "We'll get him back."
"I know," she said.
"You do?"
She nodded, wiping oatmeal off her chin with a napkin.
"That's the scary thing about hope," she said. "If you let it go too long it turns into faith." She scooped another bite of cereal.
Sam smiled. He wished that he shared her confidence. "Did you ever go to South Dakota with Lonnie? Will we be able to find them?"
"I went to the big summer rally, not this time of year. They don't camp with the other bikers. They rent land from a farmer in the hills. All the Guild chapters stay together there."
"Could you find it again?"
"I think so. But there's only one dirt road leading in there. How will we get Grubb out?"
"Well, I guess just walking in and asking for him isn't going to work."
"They usually have guns. They get drunk and play shooting games."
Coyote said, "Wait for them to go to sleep, then sneak in and count coup."
"They don't really sleep," Calliope said. "They do crank and drink all weekend."
"Then we will have to trick them."
"I was afraid you'd say that," Sam said. He spun on his stool and looked out the windows of the truck stop to the gas pumps, where a black stretch Lincoln was just pulling away.
-=*=-
Sam woke up in the passenger seat. The Z was parked sideways on the side of the road, the headlights trained over a pasture. The driver's seat was empty. Coyote, who was curled up in the tiny space behind the seat, growled and popped his head out between the seat.
"What's going on?"
"I don't know." Sam looked around for Calliope. It was raining out. "Maybe she stopped to take a leak."
"There she is." Coyote pointed to a spot by the barbed-wire fence where Calliope was standing by a young calf, working furiously on something at the fence. A mother cow stood by watching.
"The calf's tail is stuck on the barbed wire," Coyote said.
Sam opened the car door and stepped out into the rain just as Calliope finished untangling the calf, which scampered to its mother.
"It's okay," she called. "I got him." She waved for him to get back into the car. She ran to the car and got in.
"Sorry, I had to stop. He looked so sad."
"It's okay. Pasture pals, right?" Sam said.
She grinned as she started the car. "I thought we could use the karma balance."
Sam looked for a road sign. "Where are we?"
"Almost there. We have to get going. There's been a car behind us for a while. I got way ahead of it, but I felt like it was following us."
She pulled onto the road, ramming through the gears like a grand prix driver. Sam was peeking at the speedometer when he saw a colored light blow by in the corner of his eye. "What was that?"
"The only stoplight in Sturgis," Calliope said. "I'm sorry, guys, it sort of snuck up on me. The Z goes better than it stops."
"We're here already?" Sam said. "But it's still dark out."
"It's a few more miles to the farm," Calliope said. "Sam, if a cop saw me go through that light can you take the wheel? My license is suspended."
Sam checked his watch, amazed at their progress. "You must have averaged ninety the whole way."
"I had to go to jail the last time they caught me. Three months. They taught me to do nails for vocational training."
"You did three months for a traffic violation?"
"There were a few of them," Calliope said. "It wasn't bad; I got a degree. I'm a certified nail technician now. In jail it was mostly LOVE/HATE nails, but I was good at it. I would have had a career except the polish fumes give me a headache."
Coyote pulled Grubb's blanket out of the hole in the back window and looked through. "It's clear. There's a car behind us but it's not a cop."
The sleeping town was only a block long - a stoplight with accessories. Calliope drove them through town and turned south on a county road that wound into the Black Hills. "It's a couple of minutes up this road to the turnoff, then about a mile in on a dirt road."
Sam said, "Turn off the lights when you make the turn. We'll drive halfway in and walk the rest of the way."
Calliope made the turn onto a single-lane dirt road that led through a thick stand of lodgepole pines. The road was deeply rutted, the ruts filled with water. The Z bucked and bottomed out in several places.
"Keep it moving steady," Sam said. "Don't hit the gas or the wheels will dig into the mud. Christ, it's dark."
"It's the trees," Calliope said. "There's a clearing ahead where they camp."
Sam was trying to peer into the darkness. To his right he thought he saw something. "Stop." Calliope let the Z roll to a stop. "Okay," Sam said. "Hit the parking lights, just for a second." Calliope clicked the parking lights on and off.
"That's what I thought," Sam said. "There's a cattle gate back there to the right. Back the Z in there so we can turn it around."
"Giving up?" Coyote said.
"If we have to get out of here fast I don't want to have to back down this road." He got out of the car and directed Calliope as she backed the Z in and turned it off. "We walk from here."
They got out of the car and started down the road, stepping between the puddles. The air was damp and cold, and smelled faintly of wood smoke and pine. When the moonlight broke through the trees they could see their breath.
Calliope said, "Wait." She turned and ran back to the car, then returned in a moment with Grubb's blanket in hand. "He'll want his wubby."
Sam smiled in spite of himself, knowing the girl couldn't see his face in the dark. Never face heavily armed bikers without your wubby.
Coyote and Cottontail
It's an old story. Coyote and his friend Cottontail were hiding on a wooded hill above a camp, watching some girls dance around the fire.
Coyote said, "I'd sure like to get close to some of them."
"You won't get near them," Cottontail said. "They know who you are."
"Maybe not, little one. Maybe not," Coyote said. "I'll go down there in disguise."
"They won't let any man get close to them," Cottontail said.
"I won't be a man," Coyote said. "Here, hold this." Coyote took off his penis and handed it to Cottontail. "Now, when I come back into the woods I will call to you and you can bring me my penis." Then Coyote changed into an old woman and went down to the camp.
He danced with the girls and pinched them and slapped their bottoms. "Oh, Grandmother," the girls said, "you are wicked. You must be that old trickster Coyote."
"I'm just an old woman," Coyote said. "Here, feel under my dress."
One of the girls felt under Coyote's dress and said, "She is just an old woman."
Coyote pointed to two of the prettiest girls. "Let's dance in the trees," he said. He danced with the girls into the woods and tickled them and made them roll around with him laughing. He touched them under their dresses until they said, "Oh, Grandmother, you are wicked."
"Cottontail, come here!" Coyote called. But there was no answer. "Wait here for your old grandmother to return," Coyote told the girls. He ran all over the woods calling for Cottontail, but could not find him. He went over that hill to the next one and still no Cottontail. He was excited and wanted very much to have sex with the girls, but alas, he could not find his penis.
Finally the sun started coming up and the girls called, "Old Grandmother, we can't wait for you any longer. We have to go home."
Coyote stalked the hills cursing. "That Cottontail, I will kill him for stealing my penis."
As he walked he passed three other girls coming out of the woods. They were giggling and one of them was saying, "He was so little, but he had such a big thing I thought I would split."
Coyote ran in the direction the girls had come from and found Cottontail sitting under a tree having a smoke "I'll kill you, you little thief," Coyote cried.
"But Coyote, I pleasured the three many times and four times I made each of them cry out."
Coyote was too tired from tickling and dancing all night to stay mad. "Really, four times each?"
"Yep," Cottontail said, handing Coyote his member.
"I feel like I was there," Coyote said. "You got a smoke?"
"Sure," said Cottontail. "Are you going to need your penis tonight?" Coyote laughed and smoked with Cottontail while his little friend told the story of his long night of pleasuring.