Moonlight Water (34 page)

—Navajo saying

 

Red made three trips from the van to get his guitar and the cans of paint into the alcove. He set his guitar case well off and took a long look at The Canvas of stone. Then he made a trip to the river to fill his pail with water.

Carefully, he positioned five-gallon cans of paint on slabs and water for cleaning brushes nearby. He propped his stepladder on The Canvas, being careful not to leave a scratch. He pried the lids off, and considered. He had five colors: sky blue, corn yellow, forest green, black, and scarlet. Two cans of blue because he pictured the entire figure of his Kokopelli basically as sky blue. One by one he let his two brushes sink into the blue, taking color even above the bristles. Why? He didn't know. He breathed in and out. He thought,
The single eye of the heart.

He picked up a brush and stuffed his pocket with paint rags. He'd decided not to do a chalk sketch. He wanted this painting to be like one of the breaks he used to improvise onstage in the early days, flying high, never knowing what would come next, taking wild risks in front of thousands of people and trusting himself, trusting
it
.

He steadied the ladder, set the paint can on the folding ladder shelf, climbed up, and quickly painted the figure of Koko in broad outline, two strokes wide. Red's arm and hand sailed over the rock without him, making huge lines, no detail, the shape of a man bent over, a hint of a skirt, arms supporting a clarinet-shaped instrument, and one foot kicking high in a dance. Done in a flurry and no time.
Time, what a silly idea.

He heard dance music in his head, and he laughed.

Now he changed cans and painted Koko's instrument, which Red heard as a high-pitched recorder, piping like a fife. The music took over his strokes. Scarlet, it called for. To the tune in his head, he sang, “Fife rhymes with life.” A half-dozen gestures and it was finished—he was a wild man—and Koko's music resounded through his head.

Now the headdress, which Red imagined as feathers curving up from Koko's hair.
Black,
the feathers must be like Ed's. One stroke with the brush turned sideways, one sideways stroke down, and each feather bristled.

Pipe, pipe, pipe, dance, dance, dance.

He moved the ladder to the opposite side of Koko. The sack Red imagined as the color of corn kernels. He outlined it on the rock against Koko's back without a thought.

He made a quick switch of paint cans and grabbed a smaller brush. Quickly, to the rhythm of Koko's melody he dabbed the sack full of green leaves, with Koko's fertility.
Play it, Koko.

Painting in a fetus flashed into Red's mind. It seemed like such a dumb idea that he slapped himself in the face with his green paint several times.

Something felt good about that. He jumped off the ladder, seized each of the other brushes, one by one, and slapped his face with whatever color was on it.
I want to be part of the painting.

He laughed ecstatically, stripped bare naked, and painted his own body, covering himself with spirals and his own handprints from head to toe.

Then he got the Martin D-28 out of its case and started to give Kokopelli a fine, strong rhythm backup. Easy. He'd been hearing the music for long minutes—or hours, who cared? Jumping in was irresistible.

Soon dancing was irresistible. He moved like a maniac, strumming wildly, his strap holding the guitar tight. He threw himself into the air, spun, and twice nearly fell when he landed.

Another thought hit him.
Maybe Koko is dancing, too.
He looked up. Koko—
yes, Koko is dancing! No, maybe it's me that's moving, and that makes Koko appear to jump around.

He tried to stop dancing to see for sure, and he thought,
Yes, Koko is dancing. The music carries us. Koko and I have sailed to far galaxies. Together.

*   *   *

Later Red came to, stark naked, evening shadows reaching into the alcove. He was getting cold.

He wondered how long he'd been out. He wondered when and why he had passed out.

He looked up at Kokopelli. Perfectly still.

He listened. Perfectly quiet.

He gazed at Koko for a long while. He grinned. It was a very, very fine Kokopelli.

Later, in the river, it was quite a cleanup job. Red scrubbed himself with paint rags and biodegradable soap and abraded his skin with sand until it was half-raw. After a while, he couldn't find any more traces of paint, but he hated to think what Zahnie might find in spots where he couldn't see well.

He shampooed his hair a half-dozen times.

He decided to ship the Martin to an expert in Marin County for a cleanup.
Honor thy instrument.

He put on his clothes, hauled his stuff to the van, and went back for a last look at Kokopelli.

Yes. Very fine.

He'd done what he came for.
Maybe I won't be back here again. Or maybe I'll come back a lot.

He took a long look at Koko, now silent and still.

“Hell of a jam session, man,” said Red. Sounds strummed distantly inside him, memories.

“Thanks.”

He went back to the world.

 

43

STRUGGLES AND UNCERTAINTIES

Don't face your house any direction but east, toward the sunrise. Good luck won't find the door.

—Navajo saying

 

Red said, “Let me tell you why we should get married. Really tell you.”

They were cuddled in Zahnie's small bed. She pulled back from him and gave him a look. She hoped it had oomph.

“Give a poor boy a chance.”

“Okay,” she said, putting on a half smile. She piled a couple of pillows up and leaned back. He did the same. “God, I wish I still smoked,” he said.

“Look,” he went on. “Out the window the sun is beginning to light the canyon.”

Pause.
He's stalling,
she thought.

“Every day it rises over the eastern rim, floods the western side with light, and gives your beautiful red skin a gold tint. I'd like to get used to this.”

Okay, get on with it.

“I want to stay forever,” he said. “I've found a family,” he said. “Like you said, I never had one, or not for twenty years.”

She said, “Keep going.”

“For ten years, I've been wanting children.”

She turned away from him, toward the window. She pretended to look at the sunrise.

“I like Navajos. Funny, spunky, resilient. I like Moonlight Water. Oddball, artistic, real. Damon and I have some good music going. The country has something for me, like Winsonfred said. Even the petroglyphs do.”

“Yada-yada-yada.”

He said, “Listen, I like me here.”

“Yeah, you need a home somewhere. Like playing music in Santa Fe.”

He reached across her, took her hand, and held it between her breasts. She liked the feel of that.
It's not you, dummy, it's me.

“My home is wherever you are.”

“Why? Really, why?”

“You don't care about whatever I used to be. You don't care why Georgia found me not enough. You don't care what I accomplished or what I messed up. You want to do things that need doing, and you want to know if I'll pitch in. You want to work hard, play hard,
live
. Now. In that way, Zahnie, you have become my life.”

I can't stand this.

She rolled over and looked at him. “I love it that you ask me to marry you.” She looked into his eyes for a long moment. Then she gave him a quick buss and got up. “But really, we cannot make it work. Not in the long run.”

She turned her back, stood up, and stepped away, so he couldn't see the feelings on her face.

*   *   *

Red went to the main house to play music with Damon. When he'd disappeared inside, Zahnie headed for the back door of Harmony House. She wanted one of Jolo's cinnamon rolls.

Georgia came out the door with two big wheeled suitcases. She left one and bumped the other down the steps toward her rental car.

“You leaving?” said Zahnie.

“It's time,” said Georgia.

“For good?”

Georgia smiled broadly, held an arm to indicate the countryside, and sang to the old tune:

“The rez is not my home,

“I'm a California gal.”

She pulled the suitcase to the car. Zahnie grabbed the other suitcase and followed her.

Georgia said, “Hey, thanks.” She popped the trunk open. The two women lifted the big suitcases inside.

Zahnie said, “Thank you, Georgia. You saved Harmony House, my home.”

“Me and Red,” said Georgia, and threw both arms around her. “Good-bye, Zahnie.”

Zahnie thought,
Well, she's Anglo—this is her way.

Finally, Zahnie pulled back.

“It's been a pleasure, really.” Georgia grinned hugely and said, “I wish you and Red happiness for as long as these skies are blue and the rivers flow to the ocean.”

“Thank you,” said Zahnie. “Do you think he's a good man?”

“As good as they come.”

“But he ran off on you.”

“I threw him out. We … His life was killing him, Zahnie. He had to go.”

Finally Zahnie couldn't stand it any longer. “I don't think we're going to be together.”

“Really?!” Georgia's astonishment sounded genuine.

Zahnie nodded.

“Tell me.”

“He'll run off. I wish he'd get it over with.”

“Zahnie!”

“Well, don't you think so?”

Georgia took her time breathing. “Zahnie, Red is at home here. I've never seen him so happy, so much at peace with himself. With or without you, he's staying.”

Pause.

“Do you belong with him?” Georgia shrugged. “I can't say. Only you can.”

“There are problems.”

Georgia studied Zahnie's face for a moment, then opened the car door and slipped in. Thoughtfully, she started the car and then looked up into Zahnie's face. “Maybe there are. But I don't think Red is one of them.”

She grinned and touched the accelerator. “Be happy, Zahnie!” she called out the window.

*   *   *

Red called it out to everyone at the dinner table. “Let's have a party. A big party—didn't you say parties here are for the whole town? A party to celebrate the grand opening of the Nizhoni Living Center.”

They all thought that was a terrific idea.

Then Red went looking for Damon, who was in a corner picking guitar alone. Red followed the sounds. They'd been playing Damon's songs every day, working out arrangements and the breaks and shaping them into an act. Red hinted that they could get some gigs in Santa Fe and Albuquerque. Actually, he was confident. His secret was out—Georgia said the band guys knew and were doing fine without him—and he still had contacts. The kid's songs were good, his singing great, and his looks the kind that made girls go crazy. And Red had more in mind. He felt like writing music, creating new songs with this kid.

Coming up, Red said, “Damon, let's rehearse, get it right, make it shine. We just got our first gig.”

“What's the gig?” Damon was stoked.

“Tell you after we try some songs out.”

So Red played his Fender Stratocaster and the two of them polished their performances of Damon's songs all afternoon. “Kid,” said Red, “we got the stuff.”

“I can't wait to get started. Let's move to Santa Fe.”

“This is my place, buddy. Santa Fe, or anywhere else you dream of, belongs to you.” Red told him about the big party. “It's important, and it's here. Now.”

Damon nodded, his eyes full.

“Listen,” said Red, “take the van and go to Montezuma City and get some stuff, will you? We'll need supplies.”

Damon took the list and zipped out in Red's van.

In the last hour before supper Red sat alone at Clarita's piano and pecked out melodies and filled in harmonies and wrote down lyrics. He didn't let anyone hear the lyrics.

*   *   *

The next morning Red led Damon into Tony's house, where Zahnie wouldn't notice them if she passed by. They put down drop cloths, spread out the butcher paper Damon had brought back, and popped the lids off paint cans.

*   *   *

That evening the talk at Harmony House was of Georgia, Red, Gianni, and the forthcoming grants. Everyone was happy, Zahnie thought, except Tony. And her secret self, torn and yearning and feeling strange, out of kilter.
Why am I so stupid?

While dessert was arriving—chocolate pudding, so Virgil wouldn't act up again—Clarita said, “Zahnie? Tony and I have agreed that he will be the director, with a salary of fifty thousand dollars plus room and board, when he gets back. In his absence I will act as director without pay. But I have a condition. That you pinch-hit as director as soon as the rafting season ends, and get paid half of Tony's salary for half a year.”

Zahnie didn't work in the winter anyway. She said, “Count me in.” She was surprised at the listlessness of her own voice.

As the group disbanded, Zahnie took Clarita aside and shared her difficult news. Clarita did not reveal that she already knew it. She also knew no Navajo woman would consider an abortion. It would be saying no to fate. To life.

Zahnie asked Clarita her questions, big questions. Clarita listened with an open heart and a painful sense of inadequacy.

They talked in whispers for a while. They weren't likely to be overheard anyway, because Red and Damon were making music at the grand piano. Clarita waited, her hand on Zahnie's arm, listening to the young woman circle and circle through the same uncertainties. Finally came the clear plea: “I don't want to raise a fatherless child again.”

Clarita looked across at Red and Damon and hoped that Zahnie would follow her glance. But Zahnie didn't, as far as Clarita could tell.