pitch.
“Look,” Anne touched Youngman’s hand. “When I get back we’ll go off for a couple of days alone.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Mostly the smell. Once inhaled, it seemed to work into the blood.
“Something Abner said yesterday.”
“Oh.” She could see them. Two Indians drunk under the sun. “That’s it?”
“Why don’t you just go to the mesa now and wait for the dance? If they want to see a lot of Indians, that’s the place to go.”
“They want to go camping.” Anne shook her head and put the van into gear. When she said nothing else, Youngman climbed out and shut the door.
He looked through the window. His black hair hung damp across his forehead. From the driver’s seat of the van, he seemed hardly bigger than a boy.
Anne could think of nothing else to say except that he was wrong. He was too bitter, too silent, too lean, too dark. Too Indian.
Youngman watched her drive to Selwyn’s and then went back into the hogan.
The dead were supposed to be buried before sundown. Youngman didn’t believe in that sort of stuff but Abner did and Abner, after all, was the dead man.
Youngman pulled up a floorboard where there was still a pool of water underneath and washed Abner’s hands and face. With the white paint from Selwyn’s, he decorated Abner’s arms and legs with dotted lines and over Abner’s left eye drew a half moon, the insignia of a priest. He combed Abner’s hair and strung feather fluffs to the hair, wrists, and ankles. He filled the dead man’s palms with cornmeal. Luckily, rigor mortis was past because he had to bind the fingers tight around the cornmeal. He rubbed the rest of the cornmeal over Abner’s face, which was difficult where the flesh was shredded. With his knife he cut holes into the white cotton sack so that it made a “cloud mask” for Abner’s head. Nothing went to waste in the desert, not even the dead; they were obligated to return as rain. After he wrapped Abner in the sheet, he bent and tied the legs into a kneeling position. Abner made a small corpse. Youngman carried him under one arm and a planting stick with the other out to the jeep.
Youngman drove about fifteen miles out of Gilboa until he reached a rise crowned yellow by paloverde trees. There he dug down through two inches of wet soil and three and a half feet of dry sand, laid Abner in the grave in an upright position facing east, and sat down for a smoke.
“Well, uncle, you should have some family here to say a few words. I guess you’re stuck with me. Frankly, I’d rather ask you some questions than give a speech. I sure as hell don’t know if you were a good man or not. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know how important that is.
“You fool them. Don’t come back as a cloud. You come back as a cactus, huh.”
Within the eyeholes of the cloud mask Abner’s lids were shut. A pink spot appeared on the mask around the cheek. As that spot blossomed, other spots grew. Abner was still bleeding.
“Hey, old man, you’re dead,” Youngman said.
Not only the mask was turning red, the sheet was as well. Points of rosy red that spread. Youngman didn’t have the nerve to lift the mask so he lowered himself into the grave and pulled open the sheet. All the wounds that covered Abner’s chest and arms were wet and running. Maybe the ride in the jeep opened the cuts, Youngman told himself. But dead cuts don’t bleed. He reached inside the sheet to Abner’s wrist, which was wet and cold and had no pulse. Then he saw Abner’s hand. It had snapped the string that had closed it and lay open on clots of blood-soaked cornmeal.
As the sun set, an evening wind followed, swaying the branches of the paloverde trees like yellow froth. Youngman filled in the grave and covered it with stones to discourage scavengers. On top of the stones he stood a planting stick, the symbolic ladder from the grave to the spirit world. Wind rattled the stick against the rocks.
“Relax, Abner.
“Look,” Anne touched Youngman’s hand. “When I get back we’ll go off for a couple of days alone.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what?”
Mostly the smell. Once inhaled, it seemed to work into the blood.
“Something Abner said yesterday.”
“Oh.” She could see them. Two Indians drunk under the sun. “That’s it?”
“Why don’t you just go to the mesa now and wait for the dance? If they want to see a lot of Indians, that’s the place to go.”
“They want to go camping.” Anne shook her head and put the van into gear. When she said nothing else, Youngman climbed out and shut the door.
He looked through the window. His black hair hung damp across his forehead. From the driver’s seat of the van, he seemed hardly bigger than a boy.
Anne could think of nothing else to say except that he was wrong. He was too bitter, too silent, too lean, too dark. Too Indian.
Youngman watched her drive to Selwyn’s and then went back into the hogan.
The dead were supposed to be buried before sundown. Youngman didn’t believe in that sort of stuff but Abner did and Abner, after all, was the dead man.
Youngman pulled up a floorboard where there was still a pool of water underneath and washed Abner’s hands and face. With the white paint from Selwyn’s, he decorated Abner’s arms and legs with dotted lines and over Abner’s left eye drew a half moon, the insignia of a priest. He combed Abner’s hair and strung feather fluffs to the hair, wrists, and ankles. He filled the dead man’s palms with cornmeal. Luckily, rigor mortis was past because he had to bind the fingers tight around the cornmeal. He rubbed the rest of the cornmeal over Abner’s face, which was difficult where the flesh was shredded. With his knife he cut holes into the white cotton sack so that it made a “cloud mask” for Abner’s head. Nothing went to waste in the desert, not even the dead; they were obligated to return as rain. After he wrapped Abner in the sheet, he bent and tied the legs into a kneeling position. Abner made a small corpse. Youngman carried him under one arm and a planting stick with the other out to the jeep.
Youngman drove about fifteen miles out of Gilboa until he reached a rise crowned yellow by paloverde trees. There he dug down through two inches of wet soil and three and a half feet of dry sand, laid Abner in the grave in an upright position facing east, and sat down for a smoke.
“Well, uncle, you should have some family here to say a few words. I guess you’re stuck with me. Frankly, I’d rather ask you some questions than give a speech. I sure as hell don’t know if you were a good man or not. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know how important that is.
“You fool them. Don’t come back as a cloud. You come back as a cactus, huh.”
Within the eyeholes of the cloud mask Abner’s lids were shut. A pink spot appeared on the mask around the cheek. As that spot blossomed, other spots grew. Abner was still bleeding.
“Hey, old man, you’re dead,” Youngman said.
Not only the mask was turning red, the sheet was as well. Points of rosy red that spread. Youngman didn’t have the nerve to lift the mask so he lowered himself into the grave and pulled open the sheet. All the wounds that covered Abner’s chest and arms were wet and running. Maybe the ride in the jeep opened the cuts, Youngman told himself. But dead cuts don’t bleed. He reached inside the sheet to Abner’s wrist, which was wet and cold and had no pulse. Then he saw Abner’s hand. It had snapped the string that had closed it and lay open on clots of blood-soaked cornmeal.
As the sun set, an evening wind followed, swaying the branches of the paloverde trees like yellow froth. Youngman filled in the grave and covered it with stones to discourage scavengers. On top of the stones he stood a planting stick, the symbolic ladder from the grave to the spirit world. Wind rattled the stick against the rocks.
“Relax, Abner.
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