and I opened my door, got out, and joined him by the shore. All these white wonderful birds, and my attention was fixed on Gauguin in his green duckling jacket. I remembered a story he had told me at the top of Talpa Mountain. Not a story really, because it had no ending. More like some heat you keep in your mind, the same as if an iron pressed only one place on your shirt.
It was when Gauguin was a kid, maybe ten years old. He loved to catch salamanders. Once in late September, he was out in the back yard of his grandmother’s Iowa farm with his head down watching for a salamander to appear. He was in full concentration and wandered out past the wheat field into an abandoned orchard. Suddenly, when he lifted his eyes from the ground, he saw a tremendous yellow light at the other end of the orchard, like the burning bush Moses saw. He thought something was on fire. Instantly he began running toward it. When he got close, he stopped short and sucked in his breath.
It was a rabble of monarch butterflies, thousands of them, all feeding on the rotting pears that hung from the branches or had fallen to the ground. The monarchs filled the entire tree and all the area around it. He said his whole boyhood was in that moment. Nothing was before or after. His body opened, and the frail yellow animals fed on his heart.
Darkness moved in on the Bosque. We became cold and went back to Betsy Boop, our white bird of flight. The road out of the Bosque was long, thin, and very flat. It ended at The Crane, a restaurant where everyone went for hamburgers and to look over their bird books to count how many different kinds of birds they had seen. Gauguin and I went in The Crane, too. There was a stuffed owl standing on a ledge over the front door.
We sat at a booth with spongy red cushions and leaned our elbows on the wood table carved full of messages. One said, “I’m from Oak-la-Coma.” I nodded at it and said to Gauguin, “This person doesn’t like where he comes from.”
Gauguin reached across the table. I felt his hot hands on my cold ones. He brought my hands to his mouth and blew on them.
I smiled at him and said, “I love you.”
“Me, too. It was a great day. Wish we didn’t have such a long ride home tonight. Are you going to get a hamburger?” he asked jokingly. We were both vegetarians.
I wrinkled up my nose and shook my head. “Let’s see a menu.” I ordered a grilled cheese, and Gauguin had green chile stew. We weren’t much up for talking. A young boy with a crew cut sat next to his father at the next booth. The father had a crew cut, too. I leaned over and whispered across the table to Gauguin, “I think they are from Oak-la-Coma.” Gauguin smiled and nodded. The waitress served us. My sandwich was on a white plate with potato chips on the side.
I was halfway through eating when I held up my grilled cheese and said, “Did I ever tell you about how I learned to make one of these?”
Gauguin bit into a flour tortilla and shook his head.
“It was Christmas vacation—I guess I was about fifteen—and my parents flew me down to Miami Beach where my grandparents were spending the winter. They were staying in a one-room efficiency with a roll-out bed and a small gas stove at the Carlyle Hotel on Collins Avenue. Everyone at the hotel was old. In fact, everyone in the whole Collins Avenue area was old. It was my first plane flight and my first time in Miami. The first night I was there, I called my parents long distance and cried, ‘I’m taller than everyone here.’
“To cheer me up, my grandmother walked with me the five full blocks to Wolfie’s. Wolfie’s was a fancy delicatessen with rotating cream cakes on display in glass windows. Grandpa stayed home. He never went out to eat. He drank two-day-old coffee black and ate stale white bread. He used paper napkins that were folded and refolded many times, because he could not waste anything.
“The waitress placed a full bucket of dill pickles and a
It was when Gauguin was a kid, maybe ten years old. He loved to catch salamanders. Once in late September, he was out in the back yard of his grandmother’s Iowa farm with his head down watching for a salamander to appear. He was in full concentration and wandered out past the wheat field into an abandoned orchard. Suddenly, when he lifted his eyes from the ground, he saw a tremendous yellow light at the other end of the orchard, like the burning bush Moses saw. He thought something was on fire. Instantly he began running toward it. When he got close, he stopped short and sucked in his breath.
It was a rabble of monarch butterflies, thousands of them, all feeding on the rotting pears that hung from the branches or had fallen to the ground. The monarchs filled the entire tree and all the area around it. He said his whole boyhood was in that moment. Nothing was before or after. His body opened, and the frail yellow animals fed on his heart.
Darkness moved in on the Bosque. We became cold and went back to Betsy Boop, our white bird of flight. The road out of the Bosque was long, thin, and very flat. It ended at The Crane, a restaurant where everyone went for hamburgers and to look over their bird books to count how many different kinds of birds they had seen. Gauguin and I went in The Crane, too. There was a stuffed owl standing on a ledge over the front door.
We sat at a booth with spongy red cushions and leaned our elbows on the wood table carved full of messages. One said, “I’m from Oak-la-Coma.” I nodded at it and said to Gauguin, “This person doesn’t like where he comes from.”
Gauguin reached across the table. I felt his hot hands on my cold ones. He brought my hands to his mouth and blew on them.
I smiled at him and said, “I love you.”
“Me, too. It was a great day. Wish we didn’t have such a long ride home tonight. Are you going to get a hamburger?” he asked jokingly. We were both vegetarians.
I wrinkled up my nose and shook my head. “Let’s see a menu.” I ordered a grilled cheese, and Gauguin had green chile stew. We weren’t much up for talking. A young boy with a crew cut sat next to his father at the next booth. The father had a crew cut, too. I leaned over and whispered across the table to Gauguin, “I think they are from Oak-la-Coma.” Gauguin smiled and nodded. The waitress served us. My sandwich was on a white plate with potato chips on the side.
I was halfway through eating when I held up my grilled cheese and said, “Did I ever tell you about how I learned to make one of these?”
Gauguin bit into a flour tortilla and shook his head.
“It was Christmas vacation—I guess I was about fifteen—and my parents flew me down to Miami Beach where my grandparents were spending the winter. They were staying in a one-room efficiency with a roll-out bed and a small gas stove at the Carlyle Hotel on Collins Avenue. Everyone at the hotel was old. In fact, everyone in the whole Collins Avenue area was old. It was my first plane flight and my first time in Miami. The first night I was there, I called my parents long distance and cried, ‘I’m taller than everyone here.’
“To cheer me up, my grandmother walked with me the five full blocks to Wolfie’s. Wolfie’s was a fancy delicatessen with rotating cream cakes on display in glass windows. Grandpa stayed home. He never went out to eat. He drank two-day-old coffee black and ate stale white bread. He used paper napkins that were folded and refolded many times, because he could not waste anything.
“The waitress placed a full bucket of dill pickles and a
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