hear the restless movements of those in the hearing room, the shocked whispering. He stammered and stuttered through his opening statement. An attorney from the Department of the Interior began to cross-examine him and somehow trapped Peter into contradicting himself. Everything seemed involuted, unreal. Peter’s testimony, although sympathetic, turned out to be damaging. He practicallyconceded that this particular band of Paiutes were squatters on someone else’s land. Under a patent issued in 1914 by the old General Land Office and under the Desert Land Act, the land had been sold to a non-Indian who claimed it was unoccupied. Peter knew this was illegal. But because he did not have his wits with him this day, he was unable to prove it.
When the hearing was over, he walked out red-faced. A senator on the Senate Indian affairs subcommittee who was sympathetic to the Paiute cause glared at him. The people who had retained him were hostile, tight-lipped. The few Paiutes who were there simply stared at him. He knew he would remember those hopeless, hurt faces for a long, long time.
He walked out onto the street. He swayed dizzily. He knew he could not travel back to Los Angeles, not now. He was just too tired. He had to sleep.
He found a motel and checked in.
First, he had the Baby Dream. He was in a quiet room, a child’s nursery, late at night. There was a white crib, pink blankets. And the sound of a baby’s cry. He picked up the baby and held it. He could feel the fretful child’s hot cheek against his and smell the odor of feces and urine, and then she appeared in the doorway, wearing a nightgown, staring at him, looking upset, and it was Marcia….
Next, almost immediately, the Cliff Dream. It was night, and he was on a grassy knoll just at the edge of a cliff, and below, in the valley, you could see the winding river and the myriad lights of a city on both banks. He was with Marcia and both of them were naked, and then they sank to the grass and she spread her legs for him, and he was on top of her….
And finally, the Automobile Dream again.
The same as before, to the last detail. It was an open car, and they were going very fast. They could see the branches of the trees flash by overhead. The sky was clear and spattered with stars. Themoon was a thin crescent. Around her neck the woman with the red hair wore a red scarf. Her hair was flying in the wind, and there was a look of ecstasy on her face. He could hear her singing, but he could not identify the song. The motor hummed and purred. The ride was smooth, without vibration. He had the illusion that soon they would take oft as though they were on an airport runway. Soon they would leave the ground and fly over the trees and toward the stars. Then the girl’s eyes were closed, her head thrown back. She was still singing, but the words were lost in the wind.
But again, as before, it was the car itself that enchanted him. Long and low and sleek. Large curving fenders. Black broadloom carpeting; red leather upholstery. Burled walnut-grain instrument panel. The color-indicator speedometer. He noted the mileage on the speedometer gauge: exactly 18,342 miles. Although from his position at the wheel he could not see the outside, he knew what it looked like.
His passenger continued to sing, oblivious to everything. Her eyes closed, an ecstatic smile on her full, red mouth.
He stepped on the gas. The speedometer needle changed color. From yellow to red. Sixty. Seventy. They were flying now. They were really flying….
He awoke. He had slept through the whole afternoon, and then the night. He dressed, had breakfast, and drove out to the airport.
On the plane he began to think about the Automobile Dream. It was beginning to obsess him. Of them all, it was the most detailed, the most specific. He could literally
see
that car. It was almost frightening how clearly he could see it. And the exact mileage. Eighteen thousand, three hundred and forty-two miles. How
When the hearing was over, he walked out red-faced. A senator on the Senate Indian affairs subcommittee who was sympathetic to the Paiute cause glared at him. The people who had retained him were hostile, tight-lipped. The few Paiutes who were there simply stared at him. He knew he would remember those hopeless, hurt faces for a long, long time.
He walked out onto the street. He swayed dizzily. He knew he could not travel back to Los Angeles, not now. He was just too tired. He had to sleep.
He found a motel and checked in.
First, he had the Baby Dream. He was in a quiet room, a child’s nursery, late at night. There was a white crib, pink blankets. And the sound of a baby’s cry. He picked up the baby and held it. He could feel the fretful child’s hot cheek against his and smell the odor of feces and urine, and then she appeared in the doorway, wearing a nightgown, staring at him, looking upset, and it was Marcia….
Next, almost immediately, the Cliff Dream. It was night, and he was on a grassy knoll just at the edge of a cliff, and below, in the valley, you could see the winding river and the myriad lights of a city on both banks. He was with Marcia and both of them were naked, and then they sank to the grass and she spread her legs for him, and he was on top of her….
And finally, the Automobile Dream again.
The same as before, to the last detail. It was an open car, and they were going very fast. They could see the branches of the trees flash by overhead. The sky was clear and spattered with stars. Themoon was a thin crescent. Around her neck the woman with the red hair wore a red scarf. Her hair was flying in the wind, and there was a look of ecstasy on her face. He could hear her singing, but he could not identify the song. The motor hummed and purred. The ride was smooth, without vibration. He had the illusion that soon they would take oft as though they were on an airport runway. Soon they would leave the ground and fly over the trees and toward the stars. Then the girl’s eyes were closed, her head thrown back. She was still singing, but the words were lost in the wind.
But again, as before, it was the car itself that enchanted him. Long and low and sleek. Large curving fenders. Black broadloom carpeting; red leather upholstery. Burled walnut-grain instrument panel. The color-indicator speedometer. He noted the mileage on the speedometer gauge: exactly 18,342 miles. Although from his position at the wheel he could not see the outside, he knew what it looked like.
His passenger continued to sing, oblivious to everything. Her eyes closed, an ecstatic smile on her full, red mouth.
He stepped on the gas. The speedometer needle changed color. From yellow to red. Sixty. Seventy. They were flying now. They were really flying….
He awoke. He had slept through the whole afternoon, and then the night. He dressed, had breakfast, and drove out to the airport.
On the plane he began to think about the Automobile Dream. It was beginning to obsess him. Of them all, it was the most detailed, the most specific. He could literally
see
that car. It was almost frightening how clearly he could see it. And the exact mileage. Eighteen thousand, three hundred and forty-two miles. How
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