Animal Dreams
Page 77
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"You did? Doing what?"
"Working. I'll show you."
"Who's Maxine Shorty?"
"My aunt. I'd like you to meet her but she's down visiting at Window Rock for the holiday."
Loyd was full of surprises. "I'll never get your family straight. How'd you get a Navajo aunt? Are Navajos and Pueblos all one big tribe or something?"
Loyd laughed rather hysterically. It occurred to me that this redneck Apache former cockfighter must find me, at times, an outstanding bonehead. "The Pueblo people were always here," he explained patiently. "They're still building houses just like this-the Rio Grande Pueblos, Zuni, Hopi Mesa. Not in the cliffs anymore, but otherwise just the same. They're about the only Indians that haven't been moved off their own place into somebody else's."
"And the Navajo?"
"Navajos and Apaches are a bunch that came down from Canada, not that long ago. A few hundred years, maybe. Looking for someplace warmer."
"And this is now Navajo tribal land, because?"
"Because the U.S. Government officially gave it to them. Wasn't that nice? Too bad they didn't give them the Golden Gate Bridge, too."
The truck crunched over frozen sand. "So the Pueblo are homebodies, and the Navajo and Apache are wanderers."
"You could look at it that way, I guess."
"What are you?"
"Pueblo." There was no hesitation. "What are you?"
"I have no idea. My mother came from someplace in Illinois, and Doc Homer won't own up to being from anywhere. I can't remember half of what happened to me before I was fifteen. I guess I'm nothing. The nothing Tribe."
"Homebody tribe or wanderer tribe?"
I laughed. "Emelina called me a 'homewrecker' one time. Or no, what did she say? A 'home ignorer.'"
He didn't respond to that.
"So how'd you get a Navajo aunt?" I asked again.
"The usual way. My mother's brother married her. Pueblo men have to marry out of the clan, and sometimes they go off the pueblo. The land down here stays with the women. So my uncle came here."
Maxine Shorty's farm, which she inherited from her mother and would pass on to her daughters, was a triangle bordered by the river and the walls of a short side canyon. We parked by the line of cottonwoods near the river and walked over the icy stubble of a cornfield. A sad scarecrow stood guard. It occurred to me that the barrenness of a winter farm was deceptive; everything was there, it was still fertile, just as surely as trees held their identity in the shape and swell of their bare winter twigs.
"Has it changed much?"
I meant it as a joke, I saw nothing that could have changed, but Loyd looked around carefully. "Those little weedy cottonwoods have grown up along the stream. And there's a big boulder on that slope, you see the one with dark stripes? That used to be up there." He pointed to a place in the canyon wall, visible only to himself, from which the boulder had fallen. Most men, I thought, aren't this familiar with the furniture in their homes.
"So what did you do here?"
"Worked our butts off. Weeded, picked corn, grew beans and watermelons. And had to carry a lot of water in the bad years."
"Were those peach trees here?" I asked. A weathered orchard occupied the steep upper section of land.
"They're older than my aunt. The peach trees go way back. They were planting orchards down here three hundred years ago."
"A canyon of fruit. Like Grace."
He inspected the trees carefully, one at a time: the bases of the branches, the trunks, the ends of twigs. I didn't know what he was looking for, and didn't ask. It seemed like family business. On this land Loyd seemed like a family man.
"And did the people that lived up in the cliffs grow corn and beans too?"
"That's right."
"So how come this canyon's stayed productive for a thousand and some-odd years, and we can't even live in Grace for one century without screwing it up?"
It was mostly a rhetorical question but Loyd considered it for a long time as he led me along a path up the talus slope to the back of the box canyon.
"I know the answer to that," he said finally. "But I can't put it in words. I'll have to show you. Not here. Later on."
I felt sadly let down, though it was closer to an actual promise of revelation than I'd gotten in nine years of watching Carlo's eyebrows. I could wait for "later on."
At the top of the slope was another ancient dwelling, this one mainly just ruined walls. The floor plan was clear. It interested me that the doors all lined up, I suppose to admit light to the interior.
"Working. I'll show you."
"Who's Maxine Shorty?"
"My aunt. I'd like you to meet her but she's down visiting at Window Rock for the holiday."
Loyd was full of surprises. "I'll never get your family straight. How'd you get a Navajo aunt? Are Navajos and Pueblos all one big tribe or something?"
Loyd laughed rather hysterically. It occurred to me that this redneck Apache former cockfighter must find me, at times, an outstanding bonehead. "The Pueblo people were always here," he explained patiently. "They're still building houses just like this-the Rio Grande Pueblos, Zuni, Hopi Mesa. Not in the cliffs anymore, but otherwise just the same. They're about the only Indians that haven't been moved off their own place into somebody else's."
"And the Navajo?"
"Navajos and Apaches are a bunch that came down from Canada, not that long ago. A few hundred years, maybe. Looking for someplace warmer."
"And this is now Navajo tribal land, because?"
"Because the U.S. Government officially gave it to them. Wasn't that nice? Too bad they didn't give them the Golden Gate Bridge, too."
The truck crunched over frozen sand. "So the Pueblo are homebodies, and the Navajo and Apache are wanderers."
"You could look at it that way, I guess."
"What are you?"
"Pueblo." There was no hesitation. "What are you?"
"I have no idea. My mother came from someplace in Illinois, and Doc Homer won't own up to being from anywhere. I can't remember half of what happened to me before I was fifteen. I guess I'm nothing. The nothing Tribe."
"Homebody tribe or wanderer tribe?"
I laughed. "Emelina called me a 'homewrecker' one time. Or no, what did she say? A 'home ignorer.'"
He didn't respond to that.
"So how'd you get a Navajo aunt?" I asked again.
"The usual way. My mother's brother married her. Pueblo men have to marry out of the clan, and sometimes they go off the pueblo. The land down here stays with the women. So my uncle came here."
Maxine Shorty's farm, which she inherited from her mother and would pass on to her daughters, was a triangle bordered by the river and the walls of a short side canyon. We parked by the line of cottonwoods near the river and walked over the icy stubble of a cornfield. A sad scarecrow stood guard. It occurred to me that the barrenness of a winter farm was deceptive; everything was there, it was still fertile, just as surely as trees held their identity in the shape and swell of their bare winter twigs.
"Has it changed much?"
I meant it as a joke, I saw nothing that could have changed, but Loyd looked around carefully. "Those little weedy cottonwoods have grown up along the stream. And there's a big boulder on that slope, you see the one with dark stripes? That used to be up there." He pointed to a place in the canyon wall, visible only to himself, from which the boulder had fallen. Most men, I thought, aren't this familiar with the furniture in their homes.
"So what did you do here?"
"Worked our butts off. Weeded, picked corn, grew beans and watermelons. And had to carry a lot of water in the bad years."
"Were those peach trees here?" I asked. A weathered orchard occupied the steep upper section of land.
"They're older than my aunt. The peach trees go way back. They were planting orchards down here three hundred years ago."
"A canyon of fruit. Like Grace."
He inspected the trees carefully, one at a time: the bases of the branches, the trunks, the ends of twigs. I didn't know what he was looking for, and didn't ask. It seemed like family business. On this land Loyd seemed like a family man.
"And did the people that lived up in the cliffs grow corn and beans too?"
"That's right."
"So how come this canyon's stayed productive for a thousand and some-odd years, and we can't even live in Grace for one century without screwing it up?"
It was mostly a rhetorical question but Loyd considered it for a long time as he led me along a path up the talus slope to the back of the box canyon.
"I know the answer to that," he said finally. "But I can't put it in words. I'll have to show you. Not here. Later on."
I felt sadly let down, though it was closer to an actual promise of revelation than I'd gotten in nine years of watching Carlo's eyebrows. I could wait for "later on."
At the top of the slope was another ancient dwelling, this one mainly just ruined walls. The floor plan was clear. It interested me that the doors all lined up, I suppose to admit light to the interior.
