Tribes (9 page)

"I too am sorry."

She smiled, her automatic reaction to everything. I knew why Willard had fallen in love with her: such innocence and beauty. Unattainable.

She picked up my books and handed them to me. "How are things going?"

"They progress," I answered. "In a good way, I mean. Fine. Really." No one had ever told her that Willard had been in love with her. I wanted to say: Remember those phone calls where someone kept hanging up? That was Willard. But I bit my tongue. Better for her not to know. Still, in my mind Marcia and Willard were forever linked.

"Well," she said, "gotta go."

"Wait," I said. "Do you remember Willard?"

"Willard?"

"Willard Spokes. Will."

Her face showed no recognition. Then: sadness. "Oh...yes. He was the one who...yes. I remember him. He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?"

"A good friend," I said. "I—I just wanted to be sure people remembered him."

"I do. He was a quiet guy. A nice, quiet guy."

I nodded. "Yes. He was."

"Well, see you," she said, walking away.

"Yes, in the future," I answered, watching her until she was lost in the crowd.

Memory. Somewhere in the coils of her brain Willard still existed.

thirteen

READING MAMMOTH ENTRAILS

"Ready for your 'igh tea, Perky?" Elissa asked in a faux British accent.

"I certainly am," I said. We'd decided to stroll around the schoolyard during break. Stopping at a set of old swings, we performed our impressions of human pendulums.

"I did some reading about this weird tea thing," she continued. "We learned it from the Brits. But we're mixed up, as usual. A high tea isn't a high-and-mighty, hoity-toity event. It really means 'It's high time we had a spot o' tea and something to eat.'" She dug her feet into the sand, stopping herself. "You're daydreaming again," she accused.

"I'm in the zone," I admitted. "Attuned to the potential of the universe. Just waiting for a revelation to hit."

"Or a truck," she said.

"Don't you have days like that?" I asked. "Where the world feels...unreal?"

"I worry about you," she said. "Every day is real for me."

"Never mind," I said. "Obviously my brilliance astounds you."

"You are in a different world," she teased. "I hope you can still tell time. The High Tea starts at four-thirty. Why don't we meet outside the school?"

"Sure," I said absently. "I'll be there."

We soon returned to our classes, learning nothing new. At precisely 2:27 p.m. I climbed the stairs to Groverly High's top floor, passing the soft-drink machine where Justin had threatened me. My shoulders tensed. By the fourth floor the tightness had doubled and my palms were moist. I breathed using my stomach muscles, aiming to restore calmness. I entered the fluorescent glow and squinted down the long, shadowy hallway.

It took considerable willpower to move my legs. As I got closer to the trapdoor spittle gathered in my throat. I stopped underneath, mesmerized. How had Willard climbed to the roof? Had he moved a chair to this very spot? Had he used his opposable-thumbed hands to pull himself up?

A scratching came from the other side of the door. The hinges rattled. Then I noticed that the padlock was open.

Perspiration gathered on my forehead. "I remember," I rasped. An ice age came and went. "I remember you, Will."

One final long scratch.

I hurried on to Mr. Verplaz's office. On the door hung a sign:

All words spoken inside this room will remain here.

It was intended to instill trust, but I felt grief for all those trapped words. I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead and knocked.

"Come in," Mr. Verplaz said gently, sounding as if he were waking from a potent dream.

I opened the door to a closet-sized office. Mr. Verplaz sat behind an antique wooden desk, his hands touching in a gesture of prayer. He was a forty-year-old ascetic with tanned skin, a hawk nose and small, round-lensed glasses. His eyes were spectacular, the oversized orbs of a well-groomed lemur, evolved to soak up moonlight.

School shaman. Truth seeker. Witch doctor.

"I said
come in,
Percival."

I closed the door and stepped over a collection of scrunched-up papers by the garbage can. His office hadn't changed since Willard's death. A forty-watt bulb still hung from the ceiling. The shade was pulled. Light bad. Darkness good. Where dreams come from. Folders lay scattered across his desk. A half-empty jar of lollipops sat precariously close to the edge. Books were piled on the floor. All a symbol of the chaos of the universe.

Mr. Verplaz pierced me with his mystical eyes. "Please sit down. It's good to see you."

I sat on the leather chair, which suddenly reclined at a sharp angle; I became an astronaut waiting to test gravity's bonds. We had walked on the moon. Our footprints would be there for millennia.

Pencils were stuck in the ceiling. When would one fall?

Mr. Verplaz cleared his throat. "Now, I'm not upset, but I'd like to understand why you missed yesterday's session."

"I...I forgot." I knew at once the shaman would recognize my statement as a lie. He surprised me with nodding acceptance.

"You are an exceptionally intelligent young man," he said quietly, as if letting me in on a great secret. "Do you know why you're here?"

"I was in a fight, so Groverly's patriarch ordered me to attend."

Mr. Verplaz smiled. "Are you angry with Mr. Michaels?"

"No."

"Then tell me, what is the real reason you are here?" This was another tool of Homo shaman therapist—a skin bag stuffed with questions.

"Apparently, the Teacher Tribe is concerned about my behavior."

"Do you understand why?"

"They are hired to assimilate me. It's their duty. Even if it is the last week of school."

"What's your favorite color?"

It took me a moment to process the question. "Gray."

"Why?"

"It's the color of the volcanic sediment surrounding Lucy's remains."

"Lucy?" He scratched his head, confused. I lost some respect for him.

"Yes, Lucy.
Australopithecus afarensis
," I explained.

"Do you mean the ape fossil?"

"She was
not
an ape but an ancestor of humans. You are confusing her with the 'missing link' between ape and man. She is on
our
side of the divide. I'm surprised you're not aware of that."

The corners of his mouth curled into a grin. "You know a lot about human history, don't you?"

I nodded.

"What's the worst thing that's ever happened?"

"Ever?" I repeated. "Through all time?"

"Sure, all time."

"Easy. When Australopithecus climbed down from the trees and walked upright."

His smile disappeared. "Why?"

"Hiroshima."

"Explain."

I gathered my thoughts. The walls of this office would not be able to contain these words, but I decided to release them anyway. "In 1945 a crew of hominids piloted the
Enola Gay
, a B-29 bomber constructed by hominids. It carried a four-hundred-and-eight-kilogram atomic device built by another group of scientist hominids. They called the device Little Boy. They dropped this bomb on Hiroshima, a city full of Japanese hominids. Ten square kilometers were flattened: a hundred thousand unsuspecting hominids perished immediately. Another hundred thousand later succumbed to burns and radiation sickness."

Mr. Verplaz was speechless. He leaned forward, as though trying to get a clearer picture of me.

I continued. "Why didn't they flatten Mount Fujiyama instead? Wouldn't that have conveyed the same message? But they targeted Hiroshima, a city founded in the sixteenth century, then returned three days later and flattened Nagasaki. Just think of all the genetic lines—the years of evolution it took to create those specific human beings—all gone in a flash that reduced their DNA strands to nothing."

Mr. Verplaz had crossed his arms and shifted slightly away. I slid my chair closer.

"Pretend we could go back to that lush jungle where
Australopithecus afarensis
Lucy
sits in a tree, minding her own business. What if we told Lucy that when she climbed down and stood upright, she would begin a process in which her offspring's offspring would climb into the cockpit of the
Enola Gay
? Would she stand upright? Or decide to stay in that tree for another five million years, leaving the world to the apes and chimpanzees?"

Mr. Verplaz adjusted his glasses. "So mankind doesn't deserve to exist?"

"It's not my job to judge."

"What is your job?"

"To observe. To take notes."

"For whom?"

For my father.
Verplaz had nearly dragged the words out of me.

"For future anthropologists," I said carefully. His luminous, hypnotic eyes stared. He saw secrets. He truly was a shaman, descended from the great shamans who guided our tribes through dream worlds. I sensed his spirit surrounding me. I was in his bear cave.

"You were about to say something else."

I shook my head.

"How's your relationship with your mother?"

"She's loving, understanding and nurturing. And I..."I wanted to use the word love but it was too vague, its meaning slippery. Instead: "I try to be a good son."

He loomed closer, now peering directly at me. His ancestors had once read mammoth entrails. His magico-religious powers were fine-tuned to the point of omniscience. "What about your father?" he whispered.

"He died long ago."

This startled Mr. Verplaz. He blinked and squinted at a paper, presumably the profile of Percival Montmount, Jr.

"Your father's dead?" the shaman said with disbelief. "I'm sure I would have read about it in the papers."

"I assure you, he has passed on."

"Are you comfortable talking about it?"

"Of course. Death is part of the life cycle. My father was bitten by a beetle in the Congo and infected with black Azazel sickness."

"A beetle bit him? Do they carry infections?"

"Did I say beetle? I'm mixing him up with Darwin." My thoughts were jagged, broken. "It was a tsetse fly."

"When did he die?"

"Three years ago."

"What kind of man was he? Warm? Aloof?"

I tapped my foot on the floor. Stopped. "He traveled frequently."

"Did you like him?"

"Of course. He was my father, I...I loved him. He was an excellent storyteller."

"What kind of stories?"

"About adventures in the field."

"Can you give me an example?"

I nodded eagerly. "Once, when my father was in New Guinea exploring some ruins, he found an ancient emerald ax used for sacrifices, a priceless, one-of-a-kind artifact that belonged to a long-extinct tribe. He knew this one discovery would bring him fame.

"He couldn't escape the thoughts of glory: He saw himself in front of the cameras gripping the sacrificial weapon. He set out to bring it home. For two nights he was plagued by nightmares, and on the third day he discovered he'd come full circle and was back at the ruins again. He tried heading in the opposite direction. Same result. Finally he restored the ax to its sacred place and was able to find his way back to civilization. He never told anyone but me about the ax."

Mr. Verplaz leaned on his elbows; the desk creaked. "Were your father's stories true?"

"What?"

"Did he tell the truth?"

"Of course." Anger had crept into my voice. "Of course," I repeated quietly.

"Are you on any meds?"

"No." My foot tapped hard now. Bipedal motion. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe.

"I think you should see Dr. Skein. She's a psychiatrist. I hope you aren't offended by this suggestion."

"I would thoroughly enjoy the opportunity." Skein was another variation of his tribe. Her territory was the coiled layers of the brain.

The bell rang, indicating the end of our session, but Mr. Verplaz held me with a look. I wasn't sure what he wanted. Finally he dismissed me with a nod. Partway out the door I stopped, realizing I had a spiritual question for him: "Have you ever heard a voice in the school attic?"

"What kind of voice?" he asked, clearly alarmed.

"Oh, nothing," I said, stepping out the door. I closed it behind me.

All words spoken inside this room will remain here.

The statement was false. The words Mr. Verplaz and I had shared buzzed around my head like dragonflies over some Mesozoic swamp. I walked quickly under the trapdoor and down the stairs. The school was deserted, but the students' pheromones and discarded skin cells clung to the walls. The buzzing words followed me home and into my room.

Then I forced them out through my pen in perfect order. The day's events. Observations. Interpretations.

There was a knock at my window. I ignored it. It became more insistent. I carried on with my work. I missed the Graduation High Tea and the accompanying rituals. My article took precedence.

Later I grew vaguely aware that my mother was sitting on my bed in the lotus position.

"Perk?" she said.

I kept writing.

"Perk, what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to finish an article."

"Are you okay?"

"I am feeling incredibly self-actualized, Mom. Top-o'-the-world, in fact."

I jotted down another sentence.

"Will you please stop?"

"When I'm finished," I informed her.

I'm not certain when she left.

Sooner than I expected it, morning light brightened my room. It was important to keep writing. At last the words quit buzzing in my ears and I slept. After four hours I woke up, my mind precise. Focused. Omniscient.

fourteen

THE PRIMITIVE WITHIN

I waited for Elissa in the center of what used to be our front lawn, seated cross-legged on top of Ogo, a giant rock. Three years ago, Mom had terra-formed this square space into a rock garden, ripping out the lawn, while feeling guilt over the death of every blade of grass. She then brought home stones from her various spiritual trips, planting them alongside the rosebushes, vines and sunflowers. The stones had been infused with ancient spirits, so she'd asked each one its permission to bring it here.