Now Is the Hour (60 page)

Really? George says. What else did she tell you?

She was laughing when she died, I say.

For a moment there, I think George is going to go off again. But he doesn't cry. His chest gets big, and his eyes get wet, but he doesn't cry.

When he speaks, his lips are rubber.

It's a hell of a deal, he says. Being like you and me. Men loving men. I've hated it all my life. Tried to kill it. Nearly killed a couple women trying to kill it. I'm sorry for you, Rig. It ain't going to be easy.

I don't know, he says. Maybe I can help.

George takes a deep drag on the cigarette. The smoke goes up to the light bulb. The smoke on the light bulb is a whole new smell in the room.

The only thing harder than being born Indian, George says, is being born queer.

George reaches his arm out and takes hold of my shoulder. He pulls me into him like he did that morning, just two days ago, on the back of the feed truck. The bedsprings squeak. In no time at all, I'm sitting right next to George, as close to him as I was when we were dancing.

Under the bright light, all over on my shoulder where George's arm touches me, is a deep warm. My face up close, my nose, my lips, his starched white shirt, the smell from his armpit, buckskin and flint on the back of my throat, all the smells, that part of the tomato, Vaseline hair tonic, Old Spice, our breath, the cigarette back and forth, the circle of our talk. If this is queer, then queer is a prayer.

I didn't know that men could love other men, I say. Not until Granny said it. When she said that you loved me, as soon as I heard her say it, I knew.

I don't stop to think. I just go ahead.

I love you, I say.

George takes hold of my leg, lifts my leg over onto his leg.

I know, George says.

How do you know? I say.

At the Back Door, George says. The whole bar heard you.

Fuck, I say.

Then I'm laughing, but George doesn't laugh. Doesn't even crack a smile. George could laugh, but he never smiled. Granny died laughing.

My thumb is under George's suspender. I pull the suspender down.

George reaches up, puts the cigarette out in the blue glass ashtray.

You got any more smokes? George says.

In my jacket pocket, the plastic sack of joints.

No, I say. But I got these.

George picks up a joint, holds it in his hand, rolls it around between his thumb and third finger, drags the joint under his nose. His one eyebrow goes up.

He hands the joint back to me.

No thanks, George says. I quit smoking dope, George says. Quit drinking too.

When did you quit? I say.

Just now, George says.

You sure? I say.

I'm sure, George says.

How do you know? I say.

Thunderbird, George says. I was waiting and waiting and finally it happened. Thunderbird flew right through me and showed me what I was waiting for.

George takes his open palm and beats his palm once on his chest.

I felt Thunderbird right here, he says.

When? I say.

Just now, he says, in the kitchen with Granny.

George's face, something broken open about him.

George reaches over, opens the top drawer of the dresser, sticks his hand in, searches around, comes out with another pack of Camels. I open the pack because I want George to have both his hands. I tap out one cigarette. George's blue Bic lighter. The flame on the tip of the cigarette.

George inhales, passes the cigarette to me.

Praying.

Waiting.

Trusting.

Why you got that red tie tied around your head? George says. You going native?

My French inhale is long.

I might have run into Thunderbird myself today, I say.

George's eyebrows and his eyelashes and his hair are all the same color black. Except for the gold bars, his eyes are that black too.

An intent in your life to fold your life around, I say.

Then: You know, I say, I think today I was a warrior too. And this red tie came along just when I needed it.

I pass the cigarette to George.

Our fingers touch.

My hands are undoing George's red bow tie. I pull the red tie through his collar.

George and I look down at my hands. I've got the red tie stretched tight across from hand to hand.

I reach up, wrap the tie around George's head, tie a knot in the back.

George touches his forehead, touches the tie.

George's eyes, Granny's eyes. Jesus. They're looking way deep inside me.

Solitary warriors of love, George says. We meet at last.

The words sound true so I say them too.

Solitary warriors of love, I say.

The rest of the night, arms and legs draped over each other, everything half-undone, everything making so much sense, just across the wall
from death. Every breath is important, every word, every way we move, has meaning. Buckskin and flint on the back of my throat. Kisses like to burst my heart. George and I fall asleep like that, cuddled in together under the light bulb hanging down, in the back room of Granny's cabin, on George's skinny bed.

When I woke up it was morning, but not the next morning. I had slept through an entire day. I leaned up on my elbow and looked around. A square of sunlight was coming in a room. I was alone. On the other side of the door, the strange rolling sound of people talking Indian. Lots of people. I couldn't understand a word.

I put my clothes on. The door squeaked open, loud, just a crack when I pushed. That quick, all the Indians' voices stopped. Those I could see through the crack in the door were looking over at me. George was sitting at Granny's kitchen table. I didn't recognize him at first. His head was shaved. His red tie was still tied around his head.

George's black eyes. He lifted his chin the way truckers nod hello.

I'll be in in a minute, George said.

It wasn't long, and George brought me a cup of coffee with Sego Milk in it and two sugars and a blue plate with two glazed doughnuts on it. George didn't look too good. Big purple bags under his eyes. Plus he looked weird without his hair. When he handed me the cup and the plate of doughnuts, his hands were shaking something fierce. It scared me because all at once I felt like I didn't know him.

When George didn't look me in the eyes, when he didn't touch me, and when he sat down clear at the other end of the bed away from me, I was sure his heart had turned, and that I had become invisible to him.

The morning after. Or the morning after the morning after, and the days that followed, there was so much happening with George, I didn't know what was going on. I don't think George knew either.

George was rocking back and forth, staring at the piece of sunlight. Tomorrow we're burying Grandma, George said. Then there's the giveaway.

George just sat staring ahead at the patch of sunlight. I couldn't help it, I kept looking for some sign that he hadn't forgotten we'd said
love
out loud to each other. If he'd only look at me, I'd have an idea what was going on. But George wouldn't look.

Friends. George and I were friends.

We Indian people believe that when a person dies, George said, that every possession of theirs must be given away. That way their spirit won't want to stick around. What isn't given away has to be burned.

So if there's anything of Granny's that you want, George said, you best tell me.

Soon as George said that, I knew exactly what I wanted.

Granny's corncob pipe.

I went to speak, though, and my lips wouldn't say.

Instead I said: Does everyone shave their head?

No, George said. Only those who were closest to her. And people usually don't shave their heads. They just cut their hair off.

I reached up. I was real careful the way I touched him. Slow, like a friend, I laid my hand on George's head. The shine of it in my palm. The red tie.

I loved Granny, I said. Could I shave my head too?

That's when George turned to me, his black eyes with gold bars in them red all around his eyes like they were fire. George's trembling hand reached over and clamped down hard on my hand on my knee. What he said next, he said in one big breath, like if he didn't say it fast and all at once, he'd never get it out:

What happened the other night, George said, I was drunk. But I'm not drunk today. And if there's any time in my life I need a drink it's now. But I'm not drinking. My granny was all I had, Rig. My heart is broken. Those people in the next room are my uncles and aunts and cousins. They're here to help me. We're going to bury Granny in a traditional way, and that means there's going to be a lot of people around here day and night for the next couple days.

George took a quick breath, looked away at the spot of sunlight. When George looked back, he looked straight into my eyes. Nothing in between.

What we said to each other the other night, George said. Now in the daylight, hung-over as shit, it's all just as true for me. Every fucking word, Rig. Solitary warriors of love, George said, you and I. After all this time finally we've met. We've touched. I've kissed your mouth. And now I'll never be the same. Rig, it's been you I've been waiting for. Before you, I was dead and buried, and now there's life and I'm free. My God, Rig, you are beautiful. I know you got a life, George said. Things to figure out with your mom and dad and your girlfriend. I got shit I got to figure out too. All these years I've waited,
and now here you are, and I can't think straight. I can understand with the funeral and all that you'd want to leave. And I won't try and stop you. But I'm telling you right now. I'll do whatever it takes. I'll get on my knees and beg. Rig, please stay close to me, George said. At least till Granny's buried, until it's time we have to go.

As quick as George had started talking, that quick he stopped. Then he slapped his knees, stood up, and walked to the door. The door squeaked open loud. George stood at the door, between his world and me, then said to me: I'd like you to meet my family.

Then to the Indians in the next room: This here's Rigby John, George says.

I stood up, adjusted myself as best I could, put on my best Catholic boy smile, walked to the door. George reached his arm out and took hold of my shoulder. He pulled me in to him. My friend, my lover, the guy who was going to break my heart. I walked into the room.

Granny's body was no longer on her brass bed. The pictures on the wall were gone. There were people sitting on the bed. Indian people. Indian people at the table, and on the floor in front of the new refrigerator, by the armoire.

No one said hello, or how are you, or nice to meet you. They all just sat and looked at me. One man with one front tooth smiled so much I wondered what was so funny.

In no time at all I was sitting at Granny's table. In the high-backed chair that was my favorite place. On the table, there was Granny's pipe right where I left it, next to my porkpie hat.

George picked the pipe up with both hands. He kissed the pipe. George bowed a little forward, lowered the pipe up and down four times, then handed the pipe to me.

There it was. Granny's corncob pipe in my hands. Somehow George knew.

Thank you, I said. My voice was high.

George untied the red tie from around my head, then wrapped a green towel around my shoulders. The buzz sound of the clipper and my hair getting clipped. Brown and gold hair falling down. I held Granny's pipe, my pipe, close in, next to my belly.

All around me in the kitchen, Indians. Men and women, mostly old. The men wearing Stetson hats, western-cut pearl-button shirts. Levi's and silver belt buckles and cowboy boots spit-shined. Beaded pendants hanging around their necks. One guy, a younger guy,
his long hair in braids. The women with red, yellow, purple, blue, scarves around their heads. Shiny colorful shawls like peacock feathers. Flowered dresses. Turquoise earrings and silver bracelets and beaded chokers around their necks. Beaded moccasins. Everybody was smoking.

George got out the can of Barbasol, shook the can, then sprayed white foam across my head.

All the people in the room, when they got a load of me, just like that, life burst through. The sound coming from deep down inside them up and out. On their faces, wrinkles, squinty eyes, open mouths.

Such a weird sound, laughter.

George slapped some Old Spice on my head, retied the red tie around.

Then in front of God and everybody, George kissed me on the mouth. A kiss that stayed awhile, lips to lips. Then George was off again, and I didn't see him for the rest of the day.

By sunset, in Granny's kitchen, everything in the room was covered with food. On the counters, on the table, on Granny's sewing machine. On Granny's bed, the wedding ring quilt was gone and a piece of plywood lay on the bed. Set on the plywood were big pots of beef stew, plates of bread that looked like puffy tacos with sugar on them. On one plate on Granny's bed was a boiled cow's tongue. Lots of other pots with some kind of stews I didn't know. A big bowl of mashed potatoes. A big bowl of corn on the cob. On Granny's green enamel Majestic stove were a bunch of pies and cakes. On Granny's table, a basket full of candy bars and a big bowl of some kind of purple pudding. A coffee percolator plugged into the hanging-down light bulb. On the sink counter, paper plates and paper cups and plastic knives and forks and spoons. In the sink, on ice, cans of Shasta. In the refrigerator, the whole thing full of Cokes and Pepsis and Nehi Orange Crush.

Over by the door, next to a big plastic garbage can, sat an old man I didn't see right off. His black beret had a beaded navy blue and white pendant on it. He was leaning on a cane. It was the same old guy smiling with the one tooth.

Better to eat now, he said.

He nodded his head to the people outside the door.

When that crowd gets in here, he said, there won't be nothing left.

Then he pointed his cane at the green Majestic stove.