The Same River Twice (10 page)

I am unable to walk quietly along the crackling floor of fallen leaves. Birds and animals drift away. Flattened leaves mark a common trail, while kicked leaves turned damp-side up indicate fresh tracks. A heron is poised upriver, leaning like an Eskimo fisherman waiting hours with a spear, as if the wait itself is more important than the hunt. A helicopter seeking crops of marijuana churns the sky. The startled heron lofts awkwardly from shore, stick legs dangling like twin contrails. Trees along the river are so splashed with autumn color that I imagine the pilot has dumped paint from the chopper.

In ancient Mesopotamia agricultural societies worshiped the goddess. Female priests used the serpent as their symbol. Its habit of shedding a skin was physical evidence of birth and rebirth, the moon's ebb and growth, the sow and reap of crop. Fierce nomads eventually arrived from the desert, hunting tribes ruled by men with male deities. They took the land and created the myth of the Fall to punish women for their power. We have been killing snakes ever since. Mother Earth became Papa Sun. Jesus performed the dream of many men—he broke a hymen from the inside out and took up with a hooker. Women want a friend as mate. Men want a virgin in public and a whore in the bedroom, both named Mary of course.

My mother raised the children and took care of the house, as Rita's mother did. Our fathers held employment, carried out the trash, mowed the yard. Life was very simple. Both of our mothers were unhappy.

I am dead set against day care, but know I'll lose, because Rita won't give up her career. She's been at it fifteen years, caring for the mentally ill. She doesn't want to be like her mother, and I don't want to be my father. This opens the possibility of caring for the baby myself. I can wear it on my back in the woods, sleep less, quit drinking, and write while it naps. I will teach it what little I know. Electric pumps that fit the breast are used to stockpile mother's milk. Our freezer will be full of hard milk waiting for the thaw of an infant's scream.

We recently babysat a one-year-old girl as a dry run for our future. She slept on her side, arms and legs poised like a relief sculpture of a small running person. Upon awakening, she fouled her diaper with such vehemence that I actually gagged. I have seen men fill their veins with heroin. I've witnessed a limb-losing accident with a bulldozer, and the chilling aftermath of a gunshot wound. Nothing has ever quite roiled me like that diaper leaking around each chubby leg, obscuring genitals and streaking the belly. Rita calmly changed the baby, amused by my sensitivity.

Women are stronger, more ruthless in battle. Ancient Greeks feared even the ghosts of Amazon warriors, and built shrines to them for future control. Women invented language through application of sound to meaning. The earliest writings are by women, receipts for the sale of land in what is now Iraq, If childbearing were left to men, our species would have moldered because males could never accommodate the pain. We can barely get through hangovers and football games.

A kingfisher rattles its cry in midflight above the river. I watch it dive for a blue gill that is evading a larger fish by staying motionless just below the surface. The bird and the big fish attack the blue gill at the same moment. The big fish opens its mouth and the kingfisher stabs it through the palate. The bird is flipped into water and after a quick thrash, the big fish hauls it deep. A minute later the bird floats to the surface, still alive but so bewildered it is drowning. I know that scavengers will take the eyes first.

Humans have risen so fast that no one knows what's natural anymore. Rita works. I stay at home. She shops and cooks, I chop wood and take care of the car. She is a professional and I'm what's known as handy. We're not husband and wife, we're not our parents, and we're not some new breed of postmodern couple. We are a pair of mammals with a wide range of tolerance for each other.

The river flows at half-mast to mark the end of autumn. Dislodged leaves cover the seam of earth and water, blending the edges together. Paleolithic men considered women divine due to their inexplicable ability to create life. I know now that I've had a hand in it, but it doesn't make me feel much better. Routine activity betrayed the kingfisher, just as pregnancy is a breach of sex. I understand the bird's disbelief. I would trade my imagination for its wings.

T
he stillness of the desert at night pressed against every pore. In the inexplicable silence, I could hear blood coursing my veins, the steady rhythm of my heart like an oil derrick working without pause. I had no idea how hot it would be, how foolish my undertaking. After two days, my hair had paled and my skin was red. I'd bought a belt canteen but it was too small, only a quart. I decided to travel at night and sleep during the day, embedded in my sleeping bag, which turned wet and heavy from perspiration. At a diner I stole packets of salt and began eating it raw to replace my sweat.

Rides were few but they were usually very long. People drove at incredible speeds. Many carried water, a rifle, shovel, and CB radio. Two drivers referred to me as vulture bait. One told me the best place to sleep was on the sunset side of the huge red stones that poked from the land like petrified monsters. Afternoon heat, he said, was ten degrees warmer than the morning, a difference that could kill you sooner.

After three days of moving past dry lake beds, I traversed the Tehachapi Pass and began a descent, finally meandering north through the San Joaquin Valley. I woke from a nap in a ditch. With no clouds or pollution, the sun seemed to glow from the earth. Birdsong flowed through the air like a waterfall. I lay on my back and chewed a weed, watching bees tip blurred wings to my friendly flag. We were allies against the heat just beginning its afternoon grind. A ride was not important.

I dozed until a car rattled onto the shoulder, a dirty white coupe, scuffed at the corners. My mind groped the curious state between sleep and vigilance that stained reality like a minor hallucination. The driver's gray face was puffy as old dough. He hid a bald pate with long strands combed across his head in thin black lines. Heavy spectacles magnified his eyes, I got into the car and asked why he'd stopped.

“God's will!” he said. “You look harmless, that's all.”

Road saviors were a common ride, the pious doing their duty to the downtrodden. The driver gave me long looks of appraisal before getting down to business: Was I a spiritually enlightened young man, or what? I mentioned a fault or two, admitted to confusion and the need for improvement. This standard patter encouraged a driver to discuss his faith. The devout were good for meals, but first the claptrap, as predictable as diarrhea. Occasionally they gave me money.

Al was a missionary who'd been questing after the ideal outpost for years, discarding each for various reasons. Some communities were so downright evil he'd be over his head. Others were too clean, better suited to a novice, Al was most frustrated by the places that contained a rival mission.

“It's there waiting for me. Maybe today. You will be with me, Chris. Think of that! It's God's will that we are brought together this day.”

I asked what had started his expedition.

“Why, Armageddon of course! The prophecies are being fulfilled, my friend. Men and women live unmarried and sex is on TV. Grocery stores have electric machines that read invisible numbers. The Antichrist lives in Nevada.”

“Are you scared, Al?”

“Of course not!” he shouted. “I am saved. I just want to live long enough to see the Lord burn the sinners where they stand. Then he will take the rest of us to heaven. I pray it happens before I die so my neighbors will know I'm not a sinner. People who are already dead get taken straight from the grave and nobody knows if they're sinners. But when Armageddon comes and you're alive, everybody can see!”

He pounded the road atlas between us, then brandished it like a warrior's shield. We were moving north through dense groves of citrus. The air held a sweet tang.

“Adam and Eve were the downfall and it was Eve's fault. She was weak and that's why all women are weak. They can't help it. You should learn from Adam's lesson not to pay attention to women. See what happened with Eve!”

“Uh, what, Al?”

“Sex, sickness, and insects.”

“Insects?”

Solemn now, he licked saliva from his lips. Wind snapped his hair like a metronome.

“Heaven has no insects! All flowers and no smog. Fresh fruits and vegetables. A paradise! Everything so pure that our body can digest seeds, stem, and core. That way there's no urination or defecation. No need for toilets at all. Think of that!”

I asked about the devil, and Al babbled for miles about his habits. Once a man knew God, old Lucifer worked on him extra, singling him out for special attention. A simple bedtime prayer drew the devil quick as a gnat. He'd make paint fall off your house and send you drunken workmen. You'd cut yourself shaving every morning if you didn't pray first. He showed me proof—a network of tiny white scars the size of ringworms on his neck.

According to Al, insects were Satan's private little terrorist force. The Garden was bugless until Eve screwed up, but now the devil dispensed bee stings and mosquito bites. Flies fornicated on the formica. The day Al converted, a band of termites chewed his attic rafters in half and dropped the roof around the chimney. As a countermove, he began raising spiders.

“They eat insects like candy. I got some pedigreed for six generations. The good ones are in the back seat.”

I peeked in the back. Nestled among frayed religious tracts were several jars. I stared out the window at the fruit trees, smelling lemon scent mingled with manure. Streaks of sky peeked through the gray haze. I studied the map and asked him to drop me off at the San Joaquin River a few miles away.

“After Armageddon,” he said, “the earth will be smoky and black! Great chunks of landscape burnt to cinders. Every insect killed. God, my friend, is like a giant exterminator sparing only spiders and Christians. Think of that!”

“What about survivors, Al?”

“None! I don't mean to scare you, Chris, but God won't give sinners a break!”

At the river Al asked me to pray with him. We bowed our heads to the dashboard. Frayed stuffing leaked through a crack in the plastic.

“It's me, God. Your servant, Al. I want to ask my favor of the week. Give this young man a ride. Let him wait no longer than five minutes. And one more thing, God. Please bring Armageddon as fast as you can. I beseech you to bring it before I die. Now is fine, Lord. Amen.”

I left the car, surprised by his humdinger of a prayer. Al reached into a cardboard box and passed me a small jar containing a purebred spider. Breathing holes were punched through the metal lid.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don't trust men who smoke a pipe.”

He ground the gears of the old three-on-the-tree and lurched along the highway. The white car scudded into the quivering heat lines and disappeared around a bend. I opened the jar in the dusty grass. The spider walked to the edge and poked a leg out. It faced the world for a few seconds before crawling back into the safety of its glass chapel.

Quite suddenly I was alone with the land, out of the valley and against the river. Shadows darkened the trees as the air cooled. My hackles went higher than a cat's back. Early crickets sounded ominous, like warning sirens. A muddy feeling in my skin sent me reeling, jerking my head in all directions. Insects were everywhere.

Exactly five minutes later a rental truck spewed gravel on the shoulder and veered to a stop. The orange door bounced open, disgorging a bearded giant dressed in black. He wore a leather vest over a T-shirt emblazoned with a faded American flag; a towering silhouette with the voice of a rusty rake.

“Where you headed for, boy?”

“North.”

“Drive a truck?”

At my nod he spun like a soldier and clambered into the cab. I followed. He cursed, gauged my reaction, and cursed again as introduction.

“My name's Chris.”

“Wi'er.”

“Like winter and summer?”

“Like loser.”

A fence flowed by the window, tracking my attention. I should have kept the spider. A few miles later Winner cursed and spoke.

“Awake two days straight since getting laid.”

“Mmmm.”

“In the backyard on a picnic table. Preacher's daughter.” Winner laughed, a chain saw hitting an embedded spike. “Had to strap a two-by-four across my back to keep from falling in. She worked my kickstand all night long.”

Winner had left at dawn with a half-gram of crystal Methedrine that was beginning to wear off after thirty-eight hours.

“What're we hauling?” I said.

“My scooter. Going home to take care of Mama. Scooter took a fall same day she broke her hip. Have to leave this truck outside of town and ride in. Won't look right me coming home in a truck. Got to be on my scooter.”

“Sure, Winner. Just like I got to be on my thumb.”

His grin exposed battered teeth. “Ya fucking A!” he screamed, and backhanded me across the chest.

As I struggled to breathe, Winner withdrew a revolver from under the seat and fired out the window. The sound roared against my ears. He winked at me, kissed the shiny wooden grip, and tucked the gun away. The truck cab stank of cordite. Sweat trickled down my sides and I took long, careful breaths. The pistol shot had ignited the final flecks of speed twitching through his body. An extended monologue ensued, difficult to follow at times, littered with laughter and an occasional backhand to my chest. When I saw one coming, I exhaled ahead of impact.

For the past six years Winner had been “in the field” packing grease-soaked weapons in aluminum boxes. Some caches were in caves, others down a well, or simply buried. All over the nation, guns and ammunition lay snuggled in the earth awaiting World War III. Winner was one of many soldiers laying siege to an awful future. He reported the sites to his superiors twice a year, once in Ohio and again in a bayou town of Louisiana.