Henry S rustles his papers. “Uh, let’s see. Oh, yes. Describe an intimate moment that you and the subject shared.”
“Well, if by intimate, you mean physical--”
“Not necessarily,” says Henry S briskly.
“I was there when Rose’s daughter was born.”
“Good,” says Henry S, making a note. “And?”
“And we shared personal information--about boyfriends and lovers, stuff like that.”
“Yes.” Bob-bob.
“She held my head for me once when I was sick, drunk after my boyfriend and I split up. She stayed up all night, taking care of me. I threw up on her shoes.”
Henry S wrinkles his nose. “That’s not exactly what I’m looking for.” His wire-rimmed glasses flash a little, reflecting the glow from a nearby cluster of faded chili pepper lights.
I must have dozed off for a while, because when I woke up, it wasn’t morning yet, but the room was no longer dark. Blue-grey moonlight came through the slats of the window blind, striping my arm and the blankets like those uniforms prisoners wear in old movies. Rose was breathing deeply and regularly, but when I turned toward her, I saw that her eyes were open. Her left arm was bent up above her head, and she was staring at the raku mask that hung on the wall near the foot of the bed.
“You’re still awake?”
“Yeah.” She shifted and yanked on the covers a little.
I stuck one leg outside the blanket to cool off. “It’s hot in here.” My pillow had worked its way down between the mattress and the wall. I pulled it out, swatted it into fluffiness, and tucked it behind my head, pressing it into the curve at the back of my neck. I closed my eyes again, but I could imagine the stripes of moonlight and shadow as they lay across my face. “My god, I was sick,” I said. “I can’t remember ever throwing up that much. Sorry ‘bout your shoes.”
“That’s okay. They’re only Italian leather."
I started to laugh, but that made my stomach hurt again, so I stopped and lay quietly, trying to breathe evenly. I was just about asleep again when Rose spoke softly, as if from a long, long way away. I wasn’t even sure she was talking to me. Her voice was like a voice in a dream. I didn’t open my eyes.
“My family stayed right here in this house one time. I was about ten. It used to belong to the Imperial 400 Motel next door. They rented it out by the night to families that were too big to stay in the regular rooms. My aunts and cousins and I stayed here for a couple of days while my folks looked for a new place to live. Can’t remember why we had to leave the old one. I slept in this bedroom--maybe even this bed--and I remember waking up about 4:30 in the morning. There must have been a full moon, because the room was pretty light, like it is now.”
Rose stretched both her arms up over her head and slowly brought them down on top of the blanket. “What woke me up was this strange noise. It was kind of like a flute--a tonette, we used to call them in school--and it went from a long, low tone to a higher one, and a higher one, ’til it reached a note so high--it was almost like a musical scream, if there is such a thing. I couldn’t imagine where it was comin’ from. All I could think of was that someone in the next room or maybe next door must be playing some kind of flute. It was so eerie. I lay there for the longest time, listening to it, feelin’ kind of enchanted. Almost afraid. Then, just when the tone got so high I didn’t think it could go any higher, there was this terrible booming noise in the distance--walls crashing together, buses colliding, a big noise like that. Then nothing."
I waited, but she didn’t say anything more.
“Well, what was it?”
“I didn’t get up to see. I fell back asleep, I guess. When I woke up later, I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed it or not. Nobody else said anything about it.”
“Did you ever find out what it was?”
“Sure. You’ve heard it.”
“I have? I haven’t heard anything like that here.”
“Sure you have. It’s the trains. When they sort the trains over in the railroad yard, the hump yard. They ease the cars down this incline. The retarders--brakes--make the screaming flute sound, and the boom is the release of the pneumatic controls.”
“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard that. But not in the middle of the night.”
“It was the weirdest sound I’ve ever heard.” She yawned and turned to face me. “In the morning,” she said, her voice low, like she was telling me a secret, “I got dressed and walked across the street to the campus. It was really early. Nobody was out yet. The dew was really thick on the grass, and the air was so fresh, and the trees were so still, like they were waiting for the day to begin. Everything was just waking up. I remember thinking how beautiful and still and green it all was."
I put my hand outside the covers and felt for her hand. Her long, cool fingers were smooth in my palm, like well-polished silver.
“I wish I could have been there, too,” I whispered. Rose didn’t say anything, and soon I was back asleep.
“How would you characterize the subject, in relation to yourself?” Henry S’s pen hovers over several small boxes. Reading upside-down, I can see choices such as “Spouse,” “Friend,” “Neighbor,” and “Co-worker.” I don’t see one that says “Beautiful Dark Soul” or “Sister Spirit” or even “Mentor.”
“She was my best friend,” I say.
Henry S bobs his head and makes his final note.
[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
