Falling Through Space Page 14

  The days run away like wild horses over the hills, a poet wrote. It is that keen ecstasy which ends as summer ends. Time to open my closet and look things over. Move the dark clothes a little closer to the front. The black wool suit, the tweed jacket, the cocktail dress. Serious clothes. Not these cotton rags I pull on in the morning and dust the piano with on my way to bed at night.

  There is a roadrunner living on my roof. He moves from the old hickory tree at the back of the house to the hickory in the front yard. This is a well-established pathway, having served generations of squirrels. We knew he was in the neighborhood. Several people had sighted him. I myself had seen him once, running beside the fence line in the direction of a wooded lot behind the houses. There has been a plethora of development in our town. The wildlife is doing the best it can under the circumstances.

  It was my lifelong devotion to the theatre which led to my discovering that the roadrunner was living on the roof. An eight year old named Aurora and an eight year old named William were in the bathroom putting on clown makeup for a clown show. “Will you put up the tent cover so the show can go on in case of rain?” they asked me. “Of course,” I answered. “Anything for art.”

  I went outside and began to drag a set of steel tent poles along the concrete porch. The noise startled the roadrunner from his afternoon nap, and he came tearing down across the roof. He spread his six-foor wingspan and flew the length of the porch, amazing my Bavarian daughter-in-law, who clutched the baby to her breast, believing she had seen an American eagle.

  Where will the roadrunner go when the leaves turn yellow and carpet the concrete porch? Perhaps he will still find a way to live in my yard. Perhaps he will go back down the hill and live in one of the houses the greedy contractors are building in the flood plain that used to be a woods and a pasture. People in my neighborhood have watched with great interest as the new drainage ditches have failed to carry away the water when it rains. Surely no one will buy a house built on the lowest place in ten square miles. Perhaps they will. Human nature is very strange and hard to understand. Perhaps I will turn into a social critic now that fall is near. I will go down there and put up a sign that says, DON’T BUY A HOUSE HERE UNLESS YOU WANT WATER IN YOUR BASEMENT.

  What will I do now that fall is coming? The children have all gone home. I can’t hide behind my grandmother plumage any longer. I have a book to write. And one that will be published in September. That should be enough for anyone. But this time of year is insatiable. It wants vastness and adventure. Some hard use. Learn the Chinese language. Build a cathedral. Do yoga. Study Zen. Stop desiring anything. Anger, Greed, Pride, Fear, Desire, the five daughters of Maya, King of Darkness.

  Hurry up, fall is always saying. Time is growing short. We don’t have forever. Except I don’t believe that. We have whatever we decide we have. Weeks spent with children pass like hours. Months spent writing a book seem like a weekend. Hours wondering what to do next seem like eons. Minutes waiting for someone are a well-known eternity. The main thing is to keep moving. Keep the pace that children keep. They rise from sleep and move into a day like sunlight. They burn until they fall. We are tilting on our axis. We are tilting further from the sun. Cold days and long nights are waiting. Exciting. I will shake out my sweaters and my high-heeled shoes, get airline tickets to northern cities, get a flu shot, get ready.

  Enough of all this leaf, flower, bole. Enough of watching my neighbors water their lawns. Fall is the time for flowering. Gather in the sheaves, take the goods to market. I want to see Angel Corella dance at the American Ballet Theatre. I want to fly to London and see Richard III. I want to work all morning and exercise in the late afternoons and watch the senators fight on C-Span. In short, I am waking up, here at the end of summer, in the temperate climes, on the planet earth, in the only world there is.

  I got out my Ansel Adams engagement calendar to see what I was doing this time last year. I had written on August 17, “You must change your life,” Rainer Maria Rilke. Last fall I was passionate about that. I stopped taking estrogen. Not for any medical or scientific reason but because I was tired of thinking about it. Since then I have learned that the estrogen I was taking is derived from mares who are deprived of water to make the urine stronger. It was bad karma to take that stuff and something in me knew it.

  Also, I threw away my papers. I have no interest in some graduate student wasting her time going through the zeroxed copies of drafts of my books.

  Next I suffered through the very last booksigning I will ever do. I am writing books to be read, not to be collected as souvenirs.

  I won’t have to look far to find other interesting junk to divest myself of this year. I have plenty of fears, dumb habits and insidious little prejudices I could pitch into the fires of autumn. The eight year old named William has a campground in his backyard with a ring of stones for building fires. Sometimes his parents let him cook his dinner there. The next time I see his smoke I will write down some stupid things I keep doing and take the paper over and burn it on his fire. On that day I will officially declare that summer is over.

  A Southern Christmas

  I WONDERED if I should begin this piece by saying, my brothers spent the morning with their wives and the afternoon with their mistresses. But that was later, after we were corrupted by prosperity. The Chrisrmas I want to write about was long ago, in a time of innocence and war.

  Chrisrmases everywhere and in all times are fraughr with danger and with sadness. It is the winter equinox. The festivals of all cultures at this time of year are meant to bring light to the darkness of winter. This is what the Jesus myth is all about. The birth of hope. If winter comes, can spring be far behind. Or, as the poet Wallace Stevens wrote, “One must have a mind of winter to behold the junipers shagged with ice, and have been cold a long time, not to think of any sadness in the sound of the wind.”

  I have always had a mind of winter. I have always looked askance at the efforts people make to cheer themselves up. I think this is because I loved the preparations for Christmas so much, when I was a child, that the letdown when it was over was more than I could bear. Later, when I was part of a theatre group, the same thing would happen to me at the end of a play. We would be producing Tiny Alice, by Edward Albee, let us say. We would build a fabulous set, rehearse the play forty times, perform it ten times, then it would all be over. The curtain would fall, the audience would go home, we would read the reviews, fini.

  The Christmases I most vividly remember took place during the Second World War, when my southern family was living in small towns in the midwest. My father was an engineer in charge of building airfields for the United States Air Corps. There was not much stuff in the United States during the Second World War. Most of the rubber and sugar and steel and gasoline and manufactured goods were being used to fight Germany and Japan. Everyone was a conservationist and a recycler. No one would have thought of wasting anything or complaining because there was no sugar. The only new household goods that we acquired for several years were black blinds to pull down during air-raid drills. I was very proud of those blinds and was reasonably sure they would keep my night light from guiding German bombers to Seymour, Indiana, but not certain that they would. I would have felt better if we could have taped them down with adhesive tape.

  It was in this atmosphere that my eighth Christmas came. For many weeks secrets were being kept in every corner of our small stucco house. My mother’s beautiful cousin, Nell, whose husband had been killed in the war, was staying with us. Across the street our neighbors’ house had a gold star in the window and a black wreath on the door. Their son had died somewhere in Europe. The neighbors on the other side had two sons in the navy. My brothers and I were the only children on the block.

  I was making my older brother, Dooley, a book that had the schedules of all the nightly radio programs glued to the pages, along with some cartoons from the Sunday funny papers and a patriotic poem I had written. I was gluing the things to the pages with glue made
from flour and water. While it worked well as an adhesive, it sometimes obscured part of the writing. I wasn’t worried. Dooley and I knew the radio schedules by heart anyway. I knew that at six o’clock on Monday night The Inner Sanctum would come on, and I could either go on and listen to it and have bad dreams all night, or not listen to it and have dreams about a terrible story I imagined it telling. The theme of the stories was usually along the lines of MURDER WILL OUT.

  So I was working on my present for Dooley and spending Saturday afternoons shopping at the five and ten cent store trying to decide what to buy my mother and my baby brother with the small amount of money I had saved from my allowance. I finally bought my mother a tiny little terra cotta planter made in Mexico. She still has it and keeps it proudly on a shelf beside her leather-bound editions of Shakespeare and Cervantes and Milton.

  Dooley was keeping his door locked and giving me knowing looks. He knew it drove me crazy to keep secrets or have secrets kept from me. He knew that by the twenty-second of December I would start trying to cut deals with him, offering to tell him what I had for him in exchange for information about what I was going to get. I was pretty sure I didn’t believe in Santa Claus but my parents were so adamant in their belief that I always began to waver as the time drew near.

  The spirit of Chrisrmas was so rich and strong that year even I was subject to its power. And with good cause. In the weeks preceding Christmas Eve, my mother and my cousin and the women in our neighborhood were preparing a surprise for me that I would remember all my life. In the dark of winter, in the darkest months of the Second World War, in the face of their mourning, these women were spending hours every night making me a doll’s wardrobe the likes of which I have never seen again.

  A wealthy contractor my parents had for dinner one night had sent my father a fabulous doll for me. He had thought I was cute I suppose, or else he was just as sad and burdened that winter as the rest of the United States. I remember his face the night he ate with us and the sadness in his hands and eyes as he talked to me. Perhaps I had shown him the book I was making Dooley. Perhaps he liked little messy red-headed girls who never combed their hair and slept with a night light to make up for listening to Inner Sanctum.

  Anyway, he had mailed this fabulous doll to my parents to give to me, and my mother and her friends had decided to make a wardrobe for the doll. Out of the scraps of old clothes they had fashioned a complete wardrobe. There was a light blue wool coat trimmed with real leopard fur. There was a leopard hat. There was a nightgown with lace and a matching robe. There were knitted slippers and a dark red jersey dress for afternoons. There were aprons and a sunsuit. There were cotton underpants and several petticoats.

  The doll had come dressed in a black and white checked taffeta evening dress and silk stockings and evening shoes. She had black hair and black eyes and little breasts and a lovely smile.

  The other present I received was a toy washing machine with a wringer. It was an exact model of the one my mother had hooked up in the basement of the stucco house. When she used the machine it was my job to stand by with a broom to knock her down in case she got electrocuted.

  At our house the children’s presents from Santa Claus were never wrapped up. They were left beside our stockings during the night, and as soon as we woke on Christmas morning we would run into the living room to see “what we got.” My family was much too excitable to have a routine that was any more structured than that.

  I slept in my room part of the night. Then I slept in-between my parents for a while. Then I slept on the foot of Dooley’s bed, a boon that cost me five cents or ten poker chips on ordinary nights. Sometime during that night I may actually have been asleep for awhile. As I said, the spirit of Christmas was very powerful that year.

  At dawn I ran down the stairs with Dooley right behind me. And there was the doll. She sat on my mother’s slipcovered sofa in all her fabulous beauty. Her wonderful clothes were lying all around her. It was a present for a king’s child. I could not even touch it. I could not even scream. Off to the side was the washing machine.

  Dooley was running his hand up and down the barrel of a BB gun and watching me happily. He had known all along. Only eleven years old and he had been able to keep a secret of this magnitude.

  My mother appeared with my father and my cousin behind her. I sat down on the floor and began to undress my doll. Off came the evening dress and the stockings and the shoes. On went the underpants, the jersey dress, the coat and hat. Off came the underpants and coat and hat and dress, on went the nightgown and the robe. This went on for half an hour while Dooley cocked and uncocked the BB gun and the baby woke up and was brought into the room and given his toys and my father read the Christmas cards from our distant relatives out loud. My mother went into the kitchen and made scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast with lots of rationed sugar. At ten o’clock I put my doll into a stroller and went to pay calls on the neighbors who had helped make the wardrobe. I strolled my doll from house to house. I went inside and had conversations and ate cookies and examined Christmas trees.

  The day wore on into afternoon. My mother and father and the baby went to sleep for a nap. I played with my doll a while, then I had an idea. I took the toy washing machine down to the basement and set it up beside my mother’s. I filled it with soap and water. I took the new doll clothes and began to stuff them into the washing machine. I was almost finished and was just stuffing in the blue wool coat with the leopard collar when my mother came down the stairs and found me. She began to cry. I had never seen my mother cry except at death but now she cried like a child. She didn’t get mad. She didn’t yell. She just began to take the precious clothes, now soaked in soap and water, and rinse them carefully in the sink, crying as she did so. “Don’t worry,” she was probably saying. “We will fix them. It will be all right.” Of course it wasn’t all right. Most of them would never be the same again.

  But in the end it didn’t really matter. What mattered were the hours the women spent making them. The wonderful surprise and the stupid, crazy thing I did that afternoon.

  By January and February and March, as spring came and the tide of war turned in Germany, over their bridge tables and when they met on the sidewalk in the afternoons, the women began to tell the story. The more they told it, the funnier it became. It’s still a pretty good Christmas story.

  A Delta of Three Rivers

  DRIVING IN the Delta in the early morning fog, pale yellow light, skies of clear blue above a thousand shades of green. Or, driving in the late afternoon, the sun spreading red beams across the land, or in November, when the picked cotton fields are rows of black crosses.

  As I drive I pray for good weather for the farmers, picturing them driving into town to borrow money from the bank, in winter, with their ties knotted at the neck and their hats in their hands. So much depends on weather in the Delta but the rains usually come. Good weather is more usual than floods or drought in this blessed land.

  My Delta is a flat alluvial plain that stretches from Greenville, Mississippi to Yazoo City. I drive through this country nine or ten times a year going from my home in Arkansas to the Mississippi coast where my grandchildren hold my heart hostage.

  I have a three hundred mile drive before I reach the Delta, from the North Arkansas hills to the Arkansas Delta and across the Mississippi River on a bridge that is twenty miles from my mother’s home. Then the heart of my journey begins. As soon as I cross the bridge, I turn onto Mississippi 454 and take a winding two lane road past a house built on top of an Indian mound. The mound is fifty feet high and still fat and strong after many years of carrying the house and withstanding rains. I continue on to Highway 1, the famous road that runs beside the levee. Beside the road are fields, then thick stands of trees, then the levee. Behind the levee is the Mississippi River, bringing rain and melted snow all the way from Minnesota. I love to drive beside the river. I was taught to think I was the richest girl in Christendom because I lived so near the river. The r
iver belonged to us because we could go and look at its power and its beauty. My uncle lost an eye when he fell into it from a barge. My father and great uncle helped build the levee, my grandfather’s farm had been flooded in the 1927 flood. Even a little fat, red-headed girl like me was part of the majesty of the river, simply from proximity. The British feel about their royal family the way people in the Delta feel about the river. There are smaller rivers and lakes and bayous where they fish and swim, but the Father of Waters is another thing.

  By the time I have gone fourteen miles on Highway I and come to the turnoff into the Delta, I am a different person than the one who crossed the Greenville bridge. I become a child again in the delta, filled with the wonder of earth and sky and solitude. There will be very few cars or houses from now until I reach Yazoo City. I turn on Mississippi Highway 12 and the best part of the trip begins. For the next 34 miles I can drive a hundred miles an hour without endangering a soul, myself included. Many bugs will pay with their lives, and I will use up a tank full of window washing fluid but, aside from that, the worst thing that can happen is I’ll have to slow down for a combine or go off into a cotton field. This land is as flat as a table top. The road is a straight line to Hollandale and then Belzoni. There used to be only cotton fields here, bordered by stands of hickory and oak, cypress and gum and holly and ash and elm, reminders that this land was all woods until white and black men followed the Indians and began to clear the trees. Now there are also rice and soybean fields and catfish ponds, rectangles of brown water surrounded by wildlife, cranes and flocks of egrets like white tulips. They are fat, happy birds, living on easy pickings, ponds brimming with captive fish. A man I know who works for the Fish and Game Commission has been trapping beavers for the farmers in the Delta. He caught a beaver last year that weighed ninety pounds from feeding on rice and soybeans. I wonder how big the egrets will become now that they don’t have to do a thing but catch fish in catfish ponds.