The Blue Between the Clouds (6 page)

ELDON SIMMONS

BORN
1923

DIED
1934

THE GLORY OF THE LORD SHALL ENDURE FOREVER
.

YOU ARE THE GLORY, MY SON
.

Two Moons looked at me. Neither of us could believe that old Simmons had a son.

“I never thought about dyin',” Two Moons said.

“Me neither,” I said. “I s'pose we will someday. Die, that is, I mean.”

“Yeah, I s'pose,” Two Moons said.

“Maybe it's like flyin',” I said. “Pa says flyin' took him to the heavens almost—every time he flew it was like he left his body behind and lived with the angels of the sky.”

“Grandfather says that when brave warriors die they become eagles,” Two Moons said.

I cleared some of the brush away from the grave and carefully put the board back. When I stood up he was there, standin' right in my face. His pocked cheeks and stinkin' breath were inches from my nose. I 'bout jumped out of my skin. It was old Simmons.

Me and Two Moons froze. We were too frightened to move.

“So you come back, son,” said old Simmons. “Who's your friend?”

We didn't answer.

“You taken to the Indians now, huh, son?” he said. “Suits me fine, but your ma would throw a fit.”

Old Simmons laughed and laughed. He put his hand on my shoulder. It was like a huge paw, cracked and stiff.

“I still got your room, son, just like you left it,” he said. “Bring your pal along too. You had your breakfast, boy?”

Two Moons didn't answer. We followed the old man back around the pond and up through a tunnel of brush. We were too scared to even talk. Old Simmons was even crazier than Emmett. It was a different kind of crazy too, the kind that makes the hair stand up on the back of your head.

The trail steepened and the brush thinned out. Finally we stood at the edge of his garden. There were a few small apple trees that had been pruned. The branches lay on the ground. The garden had been turned over, but nothin' was planted yet. It was still too early in the year.

“I missed you, son,” Simmons said. “I missed you powerful bad. But I kept prayin' for the Lord to return you to me, let me see you grow until the day I die. It ain't right for a pa to see his son gone before he dies himself.”

I guess when his son died, it made Simmons confused, the way a sow gets when you take away her piglets. The old man thought I was his son Eldon, returned from heaven to be with his pa. I'm tellin' ya, it was the most scared I have ever been.

We crossed the yard and he opened the back door for us. We stood in the kitchen and couldn't believe our eyes. On every wall, every piece of furniture, there were pictures cut out of magazines and pasted two or three deep, even on the ceiling. They were all of boys about my age with blond hair and blue eyes. The spookiest thing about it was they looked like me, every one of 'em. No wonder the old man was confused.

Simmons led us through the kitchen and into the parlor. The hall was plastered with pictures. On top of the piano there was one framed photograph. It must've been his boy. There was melted wax all around the frame, on the piano, on the floor. The picture was floatin' in a river of wax. I moved closer and looked at the photograph. My face was reflected in the glass, and for a moment, I really thought I was old Simmons' son.

It was about this time that Two Moons figured out what was goin' on.

“Don't y'all have some chores to do, Eldon?” Two Moons said.

I was surprised at being called Eldon.

“Uh, yeah,” I stammered. “Pa, you want me to go on out and clean up them branches from the apple trees?”

“What a boy,” Simmons said. “Always pleasin' his papa. Naw, we got plenty of time for that later. I was thinkin' maybe we could go up to Salt Creek and do a little fishin'. Probably won't be much runnin' yet, but we could at least get us some lunch. Your pal can come along too, if you want.”

The scare was goin' away then, and I figured fishin' was better than sittin' in his parlor and talkin' about the good ol' time I never had. So we went fishin'.

The old guy loaded some gear into a beat-up Plymouth. Two Moons and me climbed in the backseat while Simmons fell into the front. When he turned the engine over, a scraggly hen flew through the window and landed right in the old man's lap.

“Uncle Sam here likes fishin' almost as much as I do,” Simmons said.

Two Moons and me tried to laugh, but I think we were too busy tryin' to figure a way to get out of there. I mean, the old man had some feelin's we ain't never seen. You don't just up and run off when a man thinks you're his son. Be different if he whupped us. Then if we runned off he might figure out it was the beatin' that caused it all. But the man was takin' us fishin'. What could we do?

“Let's go at her from the north side today, boys,” he said, scratchin' the chicken's head. “Uncle Sam and me about fished out that south side.”

We bumped along in that old car right up next to the reservoir. Then old Simmons climbed out and sat on the fender with his fishin' pole. He put a few salmon eggs on the hook and cast the line out into the water.

“Ain't nothin' but God take you away from this world and never bring you back,” the old man said, starin' at me.

“I wish I was your son,” I said. “You're a good pa.”

Old Simmons didn't look up. His chin was kinda tremblin'. He raked his hand through his dirty hair and stared out at the water. Me and Two Moons baited our hooks and sat on the car. It was a beautiful day. The sun was gettin' hot for the first time that spring. The water was smooth and clear, and the sky stretched out like a blue field. It was as if we were standin' between two worlds. The fish in the lake dodged and swam like they were callin' us, while the clouds were like one huge open door. I wished right then that the three of us could fly away, roll and loop, dive deep into the water, then turn around and burst into the sky and be lost in it forever.

We caught seven small fish that day, just enough for lunch. Old Simmons fried 'em right there beside the car. We stayed there until the sun started to set. We skipped rocks and even went skinny-dippin' with the old man. Funny, though, he never really swam. He just walked out until the water was up to his waist and splashed himself. He says he does it every Sunday except when the water is froze.

“You know how to swim?” I shouted to him.

“No,” he shouted back. “No, I never learned. I never learned Eldon either. I wish I had. I wish…”

I couldn't hear the rest of what he was sayin', but by the look on his face I knew the story. The old man was there when his son drowned. Wasn't nothin' he could do about it. Maybe he blamed himself. Maybe he'd been waitin' for his son to come back to forgive him.

He didn't say much the rest of the day. Just kinda looked at the sky a lot. By the time we got back to his place it was dark. He walked with us to the pond and we stood under the sycamore tree.

“Wouldn't be a bother if you stopped by again,” Old Simmons said.

“I think I'd like to wander by sometime,” I said. “How 'bout you, Two Moons?”

“Sure,” he said. “Kinda like it up here.”

The old man smiled so big you could see his black teeth, what he had left of 'em. Then he turned and walked through the tunnel of trees toward his dark little house.

7

MAN WITH NO EYES

All the way home I thought about old Simmons. He was trapped, tethered to this town like an old dog. He spent every day layin' in the sun, waitin' for his boy to come back and lead him away. I just had to find a way to get into the air, fly away from this place.

Anyway, it was awful dark when we got home. No moon that night, and some storm clouds rolled in so there weren't any stars, either. You could hardly see your hand in front of your face. When we got back to the house, the bats were out. More than we had ever seen. They were flyin' all around the barn and down by the holdin' pond. Now, me and Two Moons love to play baseball. And with the weather turned the way it was we should've been playin' every evenin' after school. But we got to thinkin' about flyin', and we had us a plane, so we didn't even consider some baseball. That is, until we saw the bats.

“Two Moons,” I said. “Be a good night for some hittin' practice, don't you think?”

Two Moons smiled. He knows a good idea when he hears one.

“I'll go fetch a lantern,” I said. “You go find a good board.”

It wasn't long before we were standin' on the bank of the holdin' pond. I stood ready with the board, like a batter waitin' for a pitch. Two Moons was ready with a handful of pebbles.

“Okay,” I said. “Give me the first pitch.”

Two Moons lobbed a pebble toward me. A small bat swooped down and went after the pebble like it was a box elder bug. I swung madly, but the bat was too high.

“Strike one,” Two Moons said.

I tapped the side of my shoe with the board, waiting for the next pitch.

Two Moons eyed me, then lobbed another pebble. A bat swooped down and I swung hard. Just before I was about to knock that bat deep into center field, he moved. I hit nothin' but air.

“Strike two!” Two Moons hollered.

“I can count,” I said, straightenin' my shoulders and tappin' my shoe again. I stood with one foot out of the batter's box, glarin' at the pitcher.

Two Moons lobbed another pebble. It was going to drop right next to me. Inside pitch, I thought. Out of nowhere a bat flew right into my chest and fluttered in my face. I swung madly and backed out of the batter's box. I stumbled in the loose sod and fell down.

“Brush-back pitch!” I yelled. I don't think Two Moons heard me, though. He was laughin' too hard. He kneeled down on one knee and tried to catch his breath.

I got up and stood in the batter's box again.

“Get up,” I said.

Two Moons brushed himself off and delivered another pitch. I waited, but no bat went after it.

“Ball,” I said.

Two Moons pitched again and I watched a big, gray bat swoop down out of the sky and go after the pebble. I stepped toward the bat and swung as hard as I could.

“Strike three!” Two Moons hollered.

I dropped the board and walked out to the pitcher's mound.

“Your battin' average is goin' down,” Two Moons said.

“It's early in the season,” I said.

Two Moons spit on his hands and grabbed the board. I lobbed a pebble toward him, but it was too high. A bat swooped down and went after it before it was close enough to hit.

“Ball,” Two Moons said.

I pitched a slow, inside pitch. Two Moons stepped back, and quick as a light flash a black shadow darted after the pebble. Two Moons swung and clobbered that skinny little bat. The thing took off like a line drive halfway across the pond before it splashed down.

“Home run!” Two Moons shouted.

“Double at best,” I said.

Two Moons laughed and laughed. I threw a handful of pebbles at him, but he didn't care. He loped around the bases like Babe Ruth.

That's when Pa came out.

“Boys,” he said. “I need to talk to the both of you.”

There was somethin' serious about the way he said it, not like we were in trouble or anything, but concerned like. We walked over to him and the three of us sat down on the back porch.

“I just got word from your clan, Two Moons,” Pa started. “They need you to come back to the reservation tomorrow. Your grandpa died this morning. I'm sorry to be the one to tell ya, son.”

Two Moons isn't one to show much sorrow, but deep inside he started to sing a mournful song. Pa and I could barely hear it, but I'm sure it was as loud as the roar of spring runoff to Two Moons. You see, that's how the Navajos show sadness. By song, not by tears.

“I want you to take somethin' with you, Two Moons,” Pa said. Then he led us around to the front of the house to where the truck was parked. Tethered in the bed of the truck was a good-sized sheep.

“You're like a son to us, Two Moons,” Pa said. “I want you to take this sheep to your clan.”

Pa hugged us both and started to walk away, then he called me to his side.

“You know, son,” he said. “With Two Moons' grandpa dead, there's a good chance he'll have to go live with that sister of his in Bozeman.”

“I know, Pa,” I said.

I didn't want to admit that Two Moons would have to leave, but I had feared it for some time. I knew he would have to move to Bozeman soon and there was nothin' I could do about it. Maybe the clan will want Two Moons here, I thought; besides, we haven't heard from Little Crow for some time now. Maybe she doesn't want him anymore. It was hard to think about, so I put it aside for a time and thought about the funeral.

Now, I didn't know a whole lot about Indian ways then, only what Two Moons had told me. When someone dies, the whole family, or what they call the clan, comes together for four days of mournful singin'. They all bring some kind of gift, food or money. Somethin' like that. They burn all the dead one's personal belongings except for his medicine bag, then they dress him in new clothes and bury him in his house beside a horse they kill for his journey in the hereafter. No one is allowed to say the dead person's name or his spirit will stay behind and haunt the village.

Two Moons started up the stairs.

“We have a long journey tomorrow,” he said.

The next morning, Pa was up early. He would drop us off at the reservation on his way to the mine. We got dressed quickly, and Ma handed us some biscuits on the way out the door. She was cryin' and hugged Two Moons.

“Your grandpa is with the angels now, honey,” she said. “He's sittin' at the feet of the Lord.”

“Come on, boys,” Pa said. “We'll be late.”