The Late Child (18 page)

“My God,” she said. “Look off there.”

Eddie insisted on getting out of the car at once—soon he was standing on the very edge of the mesa, a tiny boy looking out into endless space.

“There could be moons out there,” Eddie said, when he came back to the car. “Moons that are lost.”

“There could be,” Pat admitted.

Harmony had a bad fear of heights. Low heights, such as the height of the little platform she had been lowered to the stage on, when she was a leading showgirl, didn't bother her—there were so many lights shining on her then that she didn't even feel that she was high. She was just sort of swinging in lights.

But being on Third Mesa, with the wind pushing her toward that endless space, was very different from descending on a platform toward her familiar stage. Even though her five-year-old son had walked fearlessly over to the edge of the mesa and was standing there, a dot against the deep heavens, looking for lost moons, Harmony became so frightened, when she got out, that she didn't want to let go of the car door. Finally she did let go of the door but, after two steps, she lost confidence and grabbed the radio antenna, which bent but didn't break. She felt that she didn't dare turn loose of the antenna—she might be sucked away. She even felt afraid to open her mouth—the space might pour into her and blow her up until she was a balloon, floating far above the earth.

She clung to the antenna so tightly that her knuckles were white. It embarrassed her, that she was so scared when no one else was. Eddie and her sisters were walking along the edge of the mesa, pointing out sights to one another, not at all afraid. Behind her, near one of the little adobe houses, two young Hopi women were hanging out a wash, managing the wind expertly, so that the wet sheets and shirts didn't flap across their faces. They chattered happily as they dug the wet clothes out of a brown laundry basket.

Soon Eddie and Pat and Neddie were nearly a hundred yards away. The old village, Oraibi, was very small, just a few old houses, some of them stone. Eddie seemed to be taking his aunts on a long tour. Now and then Harmony saw them stop and stare off into the mesa. Sometimes they simply stood for many minutes, looking.

Harmony felt guilty, clinging to the antenna. She felt she should be with her son, sharing the experience with him. She was missing whatever he had to say, though perhaps he would say it again to her later. But she was too scared to take even a single step toward the mesa. Instead, she crept back into the car. She didn't look out the window again; she looked at the floorboard, which had the crumpled wrapper of a Butterfinger on it.

Eddie had eaten the Butterfinger the day before, just before he fell asleep on the drive to Tuba City. He was usually careful about litter, often lecturing his mother about putting things in the wastebasket or the dirty-clothes hamper or the dishwasher or her closet or the towel shelf in the bathroom, or somewhere. But this time he had faded very quickly and let the Butterfinger wrapper slip.

When Harmony looked out again, she saw Eddie and Pat and Neddie coming around the far side of the village. They were taking their time. A small dog was with them, walking beside Eddie.

Finally Harmony looked once more into the void that had frightened her so, when she got out of the car. She could not remember a fright so deep. She wondered if Pepper knew of her fear. Eddie thought there might be lost moons, out beyond the
edge of the mesa. Harmony wondered if there weren't lost spirits, too. She wondered if her daughter's spirit could be drifting somewhere in that space.

“Mom, why didn't you come with us?” Eddie asked, when he and his aunts got back to the car.

“We saw a ground squirrel and this little dog followed us,” Eddie said. “He licked my face.”

“Well, that's because he's friendly,” Harmony said.

Neddie and Pat took one look at Harmony and decided to let her be. But she was Eddie's mother, and he was not in the habit of letting her be.

“Mom, why didn't you come?” he asked. “I think we can see to the end of the world.”

“I was afraid I'd fall, Eddie,” Harmony said. It was a lie, though. She hadn't really been afraid she'd fall. She had clung to the radio antenna because she was afraid she'd jump.

The small brown dog stuck as close to Eddie as he could get. He looked up at Eddie often, and if Eddie moved he moved.

Eddie squatted down for a minute, to pet him.

“I don't think this dog even has a home, Mom,” Eddie said. “Maybe we should take it with us.”

“Oh, Eddie, I'm sure it has a home,” Harmony said. “It probably belongs to one of the families here.”

“But what if it doesn't?” Eddie asked. “It could be an orphan.”

“Well, it could be, but it probably has a home and a family that loves it,” Harmony said.

“I'll just go ask those women,” Eddie said, meaning the women who were hanging out the wash. They had almost finished. Eddie raced up the short slope to their house, the brown dog right at his heels.

“There's a little boy who wants a puppy,” Neddie said.

“I favor small puppies over large puppies,” Pat said. “Eddie might be right. That little dog might be an orphan. It was sitting there looking hungry, when we came up.”

“Pat, don't get his hopes up,” Harmony said. “It probably belongs to some little Indian family.”

But in a second Eddie came racing back, his face alight.

“It's an orphan, Mom,” he said. “Those women have never seen it before. They think somebody put it out on the road.”

“Eddie, are you telling me the truth?” Harmony asked.

Eddie's face immediately fell.

“You don't want me to have it, do you?” he said. “You think I made up a story.”

“No, I don't, Eddie,” Harmony said, quickly. She felt ashamed of herself. “It just seems odd it was here in the village if it doesn't belong to somebody.”

“A bad person put it out on the road,” Eddie said. “It's an orphan dog. Why can't we take it, Mom? It isn't very big.”

Harmony looked at the two Hopi girls. They had finished hanging up their wash and were watching Eddie and the little dog.

“Go ask them, Neddie,” Harmony said.

“Why can't
you
go ask them, Mom?” Eddie asked. “It would be my dog and your dog if you let me keep it.”

“I would go ask them, Eddie, but I'm afraid to get out of the car,” Harmony said.

“Why, Mom?” Eddie asked, surprised. “It's perfectly safe here. It's just a little bit windy.”

Harmony didn't say anything. She knew her fear was foolish; it embarrassed her that she had it. But she did have it.

“I'm sorry, honey,” Harmony said. “I know I shouldn't be scared, but I'm still scared.”

The two young Hopi women came walking in their direction, carrying their empty laundry basket.

“Hi,” Eddie said, as they were passing the car.

The Hopi women gave him the hint of a smile, but they kept walking.

“Mom, ask them …
Please
ask them,” Eddie said. “The puppy
might
be an orphan and he might die if we leave him.”

Harmony knew she had to do something—her son was almost in tears. She managed to open the door and get out, for a moment—she held on to the door.

“Excuse me,” she said, to the young Hopi women. “My son really likes this dog. Can you tell me if it belongs to someone here?”

The young women stopped. They looked very shy, now that they had been addressed by an adult. They didn't seem to want to raise their eyes, but finally the older girl looked up at Harmony.

“That dog just showed up today,” she said. “He don't belong to nobody here.”

Eddie's face lit up again. “See, Mom—it's just what I told you!” he said.

“Your little boy can have him, if he wants him,” the girl said. “Somebody put him out on the road.”

“Thank you,” Harmony said, getting back in the car.

The young women gave Eddie another shy smile.

“I'll take
very
good care of him,” Eddie told them. He picked the little dog up in his arms and let him lick his face.

“What do you think, Neddie?” Harmony asked.

“I think Eddie's got a puppy,” Neddie said.

No sooner had the car started than the little brown dog put his head on Eddie's lap and went to sleep. Eddie carefully stroked his head.

“I think he's tired from being an orphan,” Eddie said.

“What will you name him, Eddie?” Pat asked.

“I don't know,” Eddie said. “What do you think, Aunt Neddie?”

“I'd name him Buster,” Neddie said. “He looks like a Buster to me.”

“What do you think, Mom?” Eddie said. “What should his name be?”

“I'm just glad he came to live with us, Eddie,” Harmony said. “Maybe you can think of a name while he's asleep.”

Seeing the look of happiness on Eddie's face as he stroked the little dog made her want to cry. She had intended for months to take Eddie to the pound and get him a puppy, but she had let Jimmy Bangor talk her out of it. Jimmy's concern had been the wall-to-wall. Now Jimmy was gone and the wall-to-wall was bloodied to an extent he wouldn't have been able to live with anyway. Harmony felt guilty for having let a not-so-good boyfriend persuade her to deny her son a puppy for six months.

“Should his name be Jacques?” Eddie asked.

“No, it's an American dog,” Pat said. “Why should it have to carry around a stupid French name?”

“Why do you think Jacques is a stupid name?” Eddie asked, regarding his aunt sternly. “Haven't you heard of Jacques Cousteau?”

“Sure, I've heard of him, but that's no reason to name a dog after him,” Pat said.

“You can name him Jacques if you want to, Eddie,” Harmony said. “He's your dog.”

“No, he's his own dog,” Eddie said. “He's just my companion.”

They dipped and rose, dipped and rose, as the road wound to Second Mesa and then First Mesa. Eddie pulled the little dog into his lap and soon went to sleep himself. Harmony made herself look straight ahead, at the road. She didn't want to look south, into the great space that flowed on and on. The little Hopi villages they passed through looked very poor, except for the schools, which all looked new and well equipped.

“Why do people live here?” Pat asked. “This is a whole lot bleaker than the Oklahoma panhandle.”

They passed many Hopi, men and women, little girls, high school boys, walking along the rocky shoulders of the road.

“They must not make enough cars, in Arizona,” Pat said.

“I feel better, now that Eddie has a dog,” Neddie said. “You need to get a grip on yourself, Harmony. Eddie was upset that you didn't get out of the car and look at the scenery. He was afraid you were having a breakdown.”

“He was right,” Harmony said. “When do you think we'll get to Oklahoma?”

“Honey, we've barely started,” Neddie said. “It'll be a couple more days before we hit Tarwater.”

“Are there any nice men at home?” Harmony asked. “Maybe it's a mistake for me to move there.”

“It's a little late for that kind of thinking,” Pat said. “All your earthly possessions are in the trailer.”

“Maybe we should just turn around and go back to Las Vegas,” Harmony said. She felt her spirits sinking to such a low point that it was beginning to be hard to breathe. It seemed insane that she was in a car, going up and down a narrow, dippy road through an Indian reservation, with an emptiness to the south so vast that it looked as if it could swallow the world. She was driving away from the only town she had ever felt at home in, to go to a place she hadn't lived since she was sixteen. It was all because Pepper was gone. She had lost her mind when she heard the news and now was floating off in a direction that was likely to be the wrong direction. Why hadn't she just stayed where she was? Her sisters
suddenly seemed like aliens to her, women from another world, who knew nothing of the casinos and the shows that had kept life interesting for her, for so many years.

“You never have to be lonely, if you have the casinos,” she said. “There are always people in the casinos.”

“I'm loneliest when I wake up,” Pat said. “I doubt it would be any different if I slept in a casino. I'd still wake up lonely.”

“Does it happen if you're with guys?” Harmony asked, remembering all the men she had awakened with, in her lifetime with men. Many times she would wake up hopeful, only to have the man she was with wake up surly and spoil her hopefulness, sometimes for the whole day.

Denny, the criminal, had been particularly bad about that. If she so much as smiled at him when he wasn't in the mood for a smile he would look as if he wanted to slug her, and, once or twice, he
had
slugged her, over nothing at all, other than a look on her face that he didn't like.

“You didn't answer my question about the guys,” Harmony said.

“It depends on the guy,” Pat said. “There's guys I'd just as soon not wake up in the same county with, and then there's the sweet ones you can't get enough of.”

“I wonder if I would have been happier if I'd been a sheepherder,” Harmony said. “I wonder if that would have been better than the casinos.”

“Not for your complexion, it wouldn't have,” Pat said.

Then Harmony seemed to stop thinking for a while. Her mind became as spacey as the great space beyond the mesa. They drove for two hours, Eddie and his little dog sound asleep. They went beyond the mesas of the Hopi onto a long plateau, with great white clouds the size of battleships floating above it.

“I've been in North Dakota,” Pat said, apropos of nothing. “I wouldn't want to live there. Not enough to do.”

They stopped for gasoline in a town called Chinle. Harmony got out to fill their tank and check the oil—she always used self-serve.